by Derek Hansen
The Matildas scored another hit as they continued their devastation. Friedrich felt himself lifted up into the air, borne on a cushion of noise, then he was falling. He opened his eyes but they could make no sense of what they saw. Then he felt pain, sudden and blinding. He felt his head strike metal and all the air was forced from his lungs. He fought for breath and fought the pain and fought for understanding. Someone was shaking him and it made the pain worse. He opened his eyes and someone was screaming at him. He could tell he was shouting by the way his face moved and the effort that he put into making his lips move. He tried to concentrate and focus on the face above him, the face of the man who was shaking him and hurting him.
‘Can you walk?’
What? Friedrich listened but the voice came from so far away it was hard to hear.
‘Can you walk? Wake up! Wake up!’
The shaking was becoming annoying. Couldn’t the soldier see that he was burned and dying?
‘God in heaven!’
Friedrich felt himself being lifted up. He grabbed hold of the arms that lifted him and forced his legs to work.
‘Good! Good! Now walk … walk!’
Friedrich walked, the arms holding him, steadying him.
‘Jump!’
Friedrich nearly laughed. Walking was manageable, jumping was out of the question. Besides the ground was so far away, so very far away.
‘Jump! Do you want to burn here?’
Friedrich launched himself into space and the ground rushed up to meet him. He shut his eyes. But once more the arms closed around him. How could they be both above and below him?
‘Try and stay on your feet, Herr Hauptmann. We will help you.’
We? There was more than one? Friedrich became aware that the sounds around him had come much closer. The medic wasn’t shouting any more. He could hear engines and screams and shouting and explosions and slowly it dawned on him that he wasn’t dying, that he was only wounded.
‘Thank you,’ he murmured.
‘Ah … good! Just keep walking, sir. We’ll hitch a ride when we can. More Panzers are coming and we are expecting further air support.’
‘Where are you taking me?’
‘Field station. You are very fortunate. Most of the other wounded on the half-track were killed.’
What other wounded? Why were they killed? Nothing made sense. His head began to thump and the pain made him screw up his eyes. He vomited and his legs gave away, but the steadying arms held firm.
‘Am I burned?’
‘Head wound.’
Head wound. Yes. That’s what it felt like. Head wound. Like … like … yes! Like Zybrowka vodka and Christmas!
Friedrich missed taking part in Rommel’s breakthrough to Rouen which helped clear the way to cross the Seine into the heart of France. Instead, he sat in a French hospital which had been taken over and let himself be nursed back to health. Shrapnel had gouged bone from his skull as it ripped a furrow through the flesh above his left ear all the way to the back of his head. But no metal had penetrated through to his brain, nor had his hearing suffered permanent damage. Indeed, the doctors’ main concern seemed to centre around the after-effects of concussion. He’d been severely concussed, and his headaches and bouts of vomiting were a constant reminder of the fact. Still, he felt a fraud, sitting in hospital surrounded by others far more seriously wounded than himself. He fetched them drinks and wrote letters on behalf of those whose injuries prevented them from writing themselves. He was staggered to learn the intimate detail some soldiers included in their letters and wondered how the censors would react. But he paid particular attention to the tank crews who came in with burns. The worst cases were moved on to special centres, but the ones he saw horrified him enough. The poor men never had a waking moment when they were free of pain, and cried out for medication. But like everything else in Germany, that too was rationed, and the men had to wait for nightfall when their allocation of morphine would allow them to drift off into troubled sleep. He could so easily have been one of them.
Friedrich was temporarily out of the war, but he was not out of mind. Rommel had taken note of the young Hauptmann who had calmly called in the enemy strengths and made suggestions until his tank, like those around him, had taken a direct hit from the British artillery. He’d decided the young officer was worth hanging on to. Friedrich was unaware of it at the time, but it was a decision that saved him from the Eastern Front and confrontations with the mighty Russian T–34 tank. It did not save him, however, from further confrontations with his nemesis, the lumbering Matildas.
Helmuth Carl Eigenwill was born into a loving family and a Germany flushed with success in the last week of September 1940. He was pink and plump and radiated good health. Although rationing had limited the amount of protein, fresh milk and vegetables available, Christiane had not wanted for anything. Her family and friends had spared nothing in scavenging on her behalf. And what they hadn’t been able to find on the black market or via their Quellen, their sources of supply, they obtained by visiting Little Pillnitz. The bureaucrat had not yet been born who could outwit farmers, besides which, the farmers of Saxony had successfully understated their productivity and deceived a succession of rulers for centuries, and were well versed in the art. The farms around Little Pillnitz kept the Schiller family supplied with eggs, milk, cheese and butter so Christiane and her unborn baby had never gone without.
In the months leading up to the birth, Christiane had adapted to her new responsibilities and become a zealous Ehefrau. Throughout summer she’d followed the German custom of bottling and pickling whenever particular vegetables or fruit were plentiful. The transition astonished her family, but no more so than the quantities she set aside. It had made them wonder whether she was expecting one child or an entire army. She’d dried trout fresh from the streams and salted down what extra rations of pork she could get her hands on. Christiane had already experienced one winter of rationing and knew that the second would be worse. She was determined that there’d be plenty of food in her stores in case Friedrich came home for Christmas. He’d missed the birth of Helmuth and the christening, and had yet to see his son in the flesh. She was sure that somehow he’d make it back to Dresden for Christmas. Then they could discuss setting up a home of their own. Her father was dead against it and had offered them a floor to themselves which they could turn into an apartment. It made sense. Christiane would have her own home but also have her family around her whenever she wished. But she wanted more. She was impatient to leave the nest and establish her own. She felt sure Friedrich could make her father see reason.
But it was not to be. Friedrich remained on duty throughout Christmas and then in January, instead of tucking into Christiane’s hoard of food to help ward off the hard European winter, he was sent with Rommel to North Africa to rescue the Italian army. Christiane had to face the awful reality that her husband might not be lucky twice, and that he might die without ever seeing his son, or holding him in his arms. But surely, now that France had fallen, Britain would sue for peace. She comforted herself with that thought. Hitler had consistently out-manoeuvred the British and he would do so again. In the meantime, they’d get by as best they could.
Chapter Sixteen
The war came to the Villa Carosio in February 1941 when Signor Mila was sent home to convalesce. He had been fortunate enough to be in the vanguard of the Italian withdrawal from Benghazi following the capture of Tobruk, and even more fortunate to escape with his life. The Italian forces hadn’t expected any opposition, but General Wavell had got wind of the withdrawal and ordered the Fourth Armoured Brigade to intercept the retreat. They cut across 270 kilometres of desert south of the Benghazi promontory in just thirty-three hours to take up position ahead of the Italian column. Guido Mila had barely made it past Beda Fomm when the British opened fire. The raggle-taggle formations of the retreating Italian forces had made easy targets for the British tanks hidden in the rough terrain well back from the road. The Italians
panicked. Tank commanders fired at every puff of dust up ahead of them. Unfortunately, one of those puffs of dust was being thrown up by Guido Mila’s tank. It took a direct hit from a 47-millimetre shell fired by an M13/40 tank belonging to his own unit.
Guido had been sitting on top of the tank with some infantrymen, taking his turn to cool down when the British tanks opened fire. He still hadn’t figured out what was happening when his tank had been hit. He was thrown clear by the blast, but not before flying shrapnel and motor parts had torn through his legs.
In a battle where three thousand British soldiers and twenty-nine tanks captured more than twenty thousand prisoners, a hundred tanks and two hundred field guns, Guido Mila was lucky to escape at all. He was picked up by a carro veloce, a small machine-gun carrier, which was fast enough or ineffectual enough to escape the attention of the British gunners. He was taken to Agheila where the army surgeons were too busy organising their own withdrawal to Tripoli to attend him. Instead they loaded him onto their plane and took him with them. In hospital at Tripoli, surgeons with more time and better facilities mended his shattered bones and stitched his torn flesh together again. He had that to be grateful for.
Guido was wounded on February 6, but it was March before Signora Mila received the news. Even then, it wasn’t an official advice but a scrawled, heavily censored letter from her husband which gave no clear indication of his injuries, other than that they were severe. A pall descended over the Villa Carosio immediately. Already in Ravello and Menaggio, women had been widowed. Others whose husbands and fathers were still listed as missing in action waited desperately for news of their capture. With more than one hundred and fifteen thousand Italian soldiers captured in a few short weeks by General Wavell, there was no shortage of families waiting for word. Guido arrived home unannounced in early April in an ambulance from Milan. His arrival coincided with the first warm weather of spring. Everyone took that as an omen that the worst had passed and that things would now only get better.
Life at the Villa Carosio had changed enormously for Cecilia. She no longer polished silver, made beds other than her own, or washed dishes. She was the Count’s companion. She’d put aside her loathing and accepted her fate as the price she had to pay for the privileges she enjoyed. She ate her meals with him, cared for him when his illness left him helpless, and took away his loneliness. And behind closed doors, she allowed him his weakness.
But both were fast reaching a time in their lives when change is accelerated. At fourteen, Cecilia was no longer a young girl and there was no hiding the fact. For a while, the Count had been fascinated to observe the changes taking place in her body, but the truth was, the more she became a woman, the more his interest waned. One day he ceased stroking her altogether and, from then on, the only times he touched her were acts of genuine affection. However, he still liked to look at her sitting naked beside him as she read. He insisted that she wore only her dressing gown while she read and, in the course of reading to him, allow it to slip slowly from her shoulders and fall away. Perhaps it was the last futile sin of a man yielding to age, or perhaps he simply admired her beauty. Why not? His statues were ample evidence of his love of the human form. Either way, Cecilia always pretended she was one of his marble statues, just like those posing endlessly and unfeelingly in the gardens outside.
Naturally her position accorded her many privileges, but Cecilia was cautious in exercising them. She treated her elders on the staff with due deference and Signora Mila with the utmost respect. Every day after school she reported to Signora Mila even though both were aware that it was no more than a courtesy, for the Count’s wishes overruled any instructions the Signora might give. Yet each of them recognised the necessity for it, because it was a way for Cecilia to confirm her acceptance of the Signora’s position in the household, and to honour the promise she’d made her. Besides, there were the rare occasions when the Count left the Villa Carosio to attend to business in Milan or to stay in his apartment in Rome. At those times, Cecilia put herself entirely at the Signora’s disposal, and gladly helped her friends go about their chores.
Throughout it all, Cecilia faithfully reported each twist and turn in the war to her Count, as recorded in the Milan newspapers. While Italy had taken a hiding in Greece and North Africa, the undeniable truth was that the Axis forces were winning the war, and the newspapers reported it that way. The Count had given up listening to the radio, preferring to have Cecilia read the newspapers to him, and he’d grow impatient as he waited for her to return from school. He was as addicted to her reading as he was to his medication and, of the two, there was no doubt that Cecilia was the more efficacious. But his real addiction was to Mussolini.
While most of Italy was becoming increasingly disaffected with Mussolini, the Count still revered him. There was no set-back that he could not interpret as a strengthening of Il Duce’s position or a further reflection of his greatness. He was their Julius Caesar, their Alexander the Great, their Hannibal. He was a man of destiny who would restore Italy to a position of power. The Count never tired of telling Cecilia how, after his factories in Milan had been occupied by workers, he had supported and secretly helped finance Mussolini; and how he laid the blame for the collapse of the old order squarely at the feet of the communists. They threatened to destroy everything his family had achieved and built up over centuries, and even his very existence. By occupying his factories, the communists had created an implacable foe. So he’d turned to Mussolini in his outrage and the two had joined forces against the common enemy. The Count had become a valued adviser, adding subtle spin to Mussolini’s policies.
Cecilia learned to share in his excitement and his pride. She became his willing accomplice for, on numerous occasions, it had been her hand that had penned the Count’s letters to Mussolini. It was her good fortune that she also wrote as clearly as she read and in one reply, Il Duce himself had actually complimented the Count on her writing. The Count had asked her to read that letter to him and, when she reached the part where Il Duce had complimented her, the Count had leaned across, put his spaghetti-thin arms around her and hugged her.
Cecilia had felt flattered and very pleased with herself, but she’d quickly realised that that was not enough. She had to be overjoyed, speechless, and teary-eyed. Just like the Count. It wasn’t so much a compliment Il Duce had given her but an endorsement. There was no praise higher than Mussolini’s. He was a paragon and a pillar of strength. He was everything the Count wasn’t.
It’s hard to say whether the return of the wounded Guido Mila changed things, or whether things would have changed anyway. The Count allowed Guido time to settle in, then called the staff together formally to welcome him home as a hero. They decorated the reception room with streamers and a banner, made a cake iced with his name and set out wine glasses for toasts. Cecilia was one of the few who had never met Guido and was eager to see the man whose name had dominated conversation for the past month. She felt strangely excited, perhaps because after reading about so many heroes in the past few years, she was now going to meet one.
In later years, the old women would claim that the damage was done then, but they would be wrong. Cecilia felt no hot flushes nor did she go weak at the knees when he was wheeled into the room. She stood at the Count’s side as they sang the fascist hymn, the Giovinezza, and saw only a man who looked to be the very epitome of what a good father and husband should be. He had a strong face and a gentle manner. His muscles had wasted and lost their tone through disuse. Nevertheless Cecilia could see that he was solidly built. But it was his eyes that held her. They were just like her mother’s, sad and weary beyond measure. She saw none of the pride and certainty that heroes are supposed to have, and there was not even a hint of immortality. She saw a strong man made vulnerable, and her heart went out to him. She wanted to help him and care for him. When the Count made his speech, she was pleasantly surprised to learn that she’d be given the opportunity. The Count magnanimously decided to offer him her s
ervices.
‘Cecilia can read to you like she reads to me,’ he announced. ‘And care for you like she cares for me. You have fought our battles, for Mussolini, for Italy and for us. The least we can do is take care of you now. Cecilia is better than any nurse I have ever had.’
Guido had looked across at Cecilia as if noticing her for the first time. He glanced up at the Count and then back to her. His eyes locked onto hers. ‘Thank you. You are most kind.’ He smiled at her and to her surprise she found she was blushing.
The Signora and Carmela would probably have been happier to have had any nurse other than Cecilia, but what could they do? The Count had decided, and probably thought his gesture unselfish and generous. At least they could reason with Cecilia. It wasn’t that they didn’t like her, because clearly they did. It’s just that they thought their hero deserved better than to be ministered to by someone who was not only in league with the Count but … well, tainted. They waited until the Count had retired for the night and Cecilia had finished reading to him, then approached her.
‘Cecilia,’ Signora Mila began, ‘please don’t think us ungrateful or that we doubt your capabilities as a nurse. Indeed, you know that we have only the highest regard for you. You are like another daughter to me.’ She hesitated as she picked her next words carefully, aware of the possibility of them being repeated to the Count. ‘The fact is, Cecilia, you are not my daughter, Carmela is. And Guido is Carmela’s father as I am his wife. It for us to give him the love and care he needs. We are his family. It is us who he must turn to, not strangers. He has had enough strangers. It is us he needs!’ The Signora put her arm around Carmela and held her tightly. ‘It is us he needs. Do you understand?’