by Derek Hansen
Cecilia blushed at the thought of the nights she’d lain in bed pretending to be asleep, and watched while Anna and Stefano had made giggling love on the bed opposite. But what the Signora had said was true. She hadn’t known that Carla and Antonella had sheltered deserters, and no one had any reason to enter her room except herself. All the same, she had reservations. The two women next door might take in deserters for the occasional night, but who knows how long a sick airman might remain?
‘The cook is also sympathetic and so is Roberto.’ The Signora set about allaying Cecilia’s concerns. ‘Guido also had a word in their ears while he was here. The only people we have to fear are the old goat himself, Signor Calosci, Andre and Piero the handyman. Perhaps we don’t have to worry about Piero because he keeps so much to himself. Nobody has asked him where his sympathies lie, and even if someone did there’s no guarantee he’d answer. The others, however, are a different matter. Signor Calosci and Andre have been with the Count for years. They are totally loyal to him and to the fascist cause. Give them half a chance, they’d shoot any deserter on sight. And anyone who helped them. But Cecilia, they have no reason to go anywhere near your room. I doubt they even know where it is. Besides, they have no reason to suspect anything. After all, only a fool would seek refuge in the Villa Carosio.’ The Signora’s face once more broke into a taut smile. ‘Well, Cecilia, what do you say?’
Cecilia saw the wonderful irony of the Villa Carosio sheltering escaped prisoners and deserters. She understood the cleverness of the Signora’s appeal to her. Yes, this would be a cunning way of exacting revenge on the Count. But she also saw the danger and could imagine the Count’s fury if he ever found out. Nothing could save them then. He would have them shot. She hesitated, but the Signora’s assurances had quieted her instincts for self-preservation, and the temptation to humiliate the Count as he had humiliated her was irresistible. One day it would all come out. The war would end or—heaven forbid—they would be caught. Either way, the Count would not escape humiliation nor the contempt he deserved.
‘Signora, I have never turned away anyone who needed my help.’
‘Good girl!’ Signora Mila squeezed Cecilia’s hands tightly.
‘But Signora, promise me this. Please don’t involve me any more than you have to. I spend more time with the Count than anyone except Signor Calosci, and his suspicions are easily aroused.’
‘You have my word. Oh, and Cecilia, when you help serve those preening fascists the Count invites to his dinners, try to keep the smile off your face.’
As it turned out, sheltering the sick pilot proved more complicated than anyone had envisaged and the Signora’s assurances seemed paper-thin. By the time they’d sneaked him into the house, along the corridor and up the narrow stairs to Cecilia’s room, he was practically unconscious. They laid him down on Anna’s bed and listened to his laboured breathing. It was obvious his lungs were severely congested.
‘He will die unless we help him cough up the phlegm,’ said the Signora. ‘We will have to take turns. Roll him onto his stomach. That’s it. Now, watch carefully, I want you to beat on the back of his ribs like this.’ She began to pummel the airman’s back firmly and rhythmically. The airman’s body spasmed and he coughed wetly, dislodging dense mucus onto the floor. ‘Cecilia, you’d better fetch a pail, and let us hope for all our sakes that he doesn’t make too much noise.’
Cecilia ran off downstairs, ignoring the house rules. She was under no illusion as to the risks she ran. She’d helped the old Count clear phlegm from his chest on hundreds of occasions and he’d made enough noise to wake the dead. What chance did they have of not waking Signor Calosci or Andre?
For the next twenty-four hours they could not leave the young airman alone for a second. When he wasn’t coughing or choking on phlegm, he was calling out in his delirium. Someone always had to be there to muffle the sound. Carmela helped Cecilia to look after him before and after school when the absence of the other servants would be most noticeable, and took over when Cecilia was called away by the Count. They bathed his forehead and pummelled his back, and prayed to God that no hostile ears were eavesdropping. Perhaps it was the danger they shared that brought the two girls close together, because for the first time they opened up to one another.
Early on, Cecilia had made overtures of friendship to Carmela but her advances had always been rebuffed. Even when they sat together on their Sunday expeditions to church in Menaggio, the silence between them was rarely broken and then only through necessity. Carmela was never rude to her. They’d co-existed in polite détente, separated by status. But it hadn’t taken long for Cecilia to realise that the Signora was as much a victim and slave to circumstance as her own mother, and both wanted the same thing—a better life for their daughters. Surely this common goal should have brought them together but the reverse was the case. As the two girls began to confide in each other, the truth emerged.
‘I always wanted to be your friend,’ Carmela revealed. ‘I hoped you’d help me with my reading and maybe we’d do our homework together. But whenever I suggested it, my mother refused point blank. Usually when I want something badly, I can make my mother change her mind. But when it came to you, my mother was adamant. She went out of her way to discourage any friendship between us.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh, Cecilia, you must know! Gradually, my mother revealed the nature of your relationship with the Count. I was horrified, but at least I could understand why my mother kept us apart.’ Carmela lowered her eyes in embarrassment.
‘You understand, but I don’t,’ snapped Cecilia bitterly. But of course she did. This was no shattering revelation to Cecilia, but to hear confirmation put so matter-of-factly was a bitter pill. What she didn’t understand was why she must always bear the shame for the sins of others. It didn’t make sense. Surely people realised that what the Count did had nothing to do with her. The Count was one person, she another. The Signora of all people should know that. Yet once again she was an outcast, damned by association.
‘I’m sorry, Cecilia, really I am.’ Carmela could see that she’d hurt Cecilia and was anxious to make amends, to show sympathy and demonstrate that they were on the same side. But if Cecilia was wise for her age, Carmela was anything but, and the words that tumbled from her mouth, however well-intended, were ill-considered. ‘Is it … is it really awful?’
The airman stirred and opened his eyes. He looked upwards at the two girls and smiled weakly. He attempted to speak but this triggered another bout of coughing. The girls quickly rolled him over so that he lay on his stomach with his head over the bed. Carmela began to pummel his back with the heels of her hands. The airman gagged and brought up more dense gobs of mucus. Perspiration lathered his face and tears ran from his eyes. Meanwhile Cecilia went to the window as she often did to make sure the coast was clear. Her blood froze.
‘Wait!’ The urgency in her voice was unmistakable. Carmela stopped as if shot. The colour drained from her face and her eyes flared. Even the airman managed to control his reflexive coughing.
‘What is it?’
The handyman, Piero, was standing directly beneath the window staring up at it. Cecilia calmly met his eye and waved. He ignored her and kept staring. She began to unbutton her tunic, stopped, waggled a finger at him in admonition, and drew the curtains. She held her breath and peeped through the tiny gap between them. Piero was still staring up at the window but his face was strangely twisted. Cecilia had no reference but she could swear he was smiling.
‘What is it? Tell me!’
‘It’s Piero,’ said Cecilia levelly. ‘He heard.’
Whether Piero heard or not he never let on. But how could he not hear? He was standing directly below the window. He couldn’t have helped but hear the airman coughing. What could they do? No one dared confront him in case there was doubt and they served only to confirm his suspicions. It was like living with a time bomb that could explode at any moment without warning. Unfortunately the youn
g British pilot was still too ill to be moved, and they had no option but to carry on as they were.
So Cecilia continued to care for her patient and, in between times, she read to the Count, sitting naked inside her unfastened dressing gown in front of the open fire in his stuffy, shuttered bedroom. Some people would have found the tension too great to bear, but not Cecilia. When she was with the Count the airman ceased to exist. Instead she slipped into the old game of reading but not absorbing the filth he gave her, and pretending her beautiful young body was no more or less than one of the statues in the garden. When Cecilia had explained to Carmela the strange rituals that passed for intimacy with the Count, Carmela could not comprehend how she could remain so remote and aloof. But Cecilia had become a chameleon, and only one person would ever again catch a glimpse of her true self—the Oberstleutnant.
‘Lucio, what are you doing? You can’t break the story there.’
‘I can, Neil. I can break it wherever I like. It is my story. I have decided it is time for coffee so it is time for coffee.’
‘But what about the young pilot? Did he escape or what? And what about Piero?’
‘Lucio, you don’t have to answer any of this.’ Milos reached across and took his arm. ‘You are quite right. It is your story. You determine when and how it is told. Last week we overstepped our rights as an audience in forcing you to continue. We won’t do it again.’
‘That’s okay, Milos. If someone can organise our coffees, I don’t mind answering your questions.’
‘Gancio’s already taken care of it. Now, what happened?’
‘For what it’s worth Neil, the young airman recovered. When he was strong enough he was helped over the border into Switzerland. What happened afterwards, I’ve no idea. Maybe he made it back to England and came back to bomb us. Who knows? Over the following months Cecilia helped shelter many deserters and escapees. And Piero, if he’d guessed what was happening, he elected to keep the information to himself. The point is that Cecilia had allowed herself to be directed along a most dangerous path, one that for the duration of the war would put her life in constant danger. Why? Yes, it was an opportunity for her to get revenge on the Count, but I can’t believe that was the main reason. I believe she did it because someone asked her to. Because someone needed her help.’ Lucio’s voice became unsteady and thick with emotion. ‘The truth is, she was neither fascist nor anti-fascist, but a child caught up in grown-ups’ games wanting only to please and be accepted for who she was, not what other people made her. She risked her life as calmly and as matter-of-factly as she made beds or polished silver. Fifteen years old and she’d already buried her emotions to the point where very little could reach her, let alone touch her. If Piero had reported them to the fascists or squadristi, I believe she would have faced the firing squad with the same equanimity.’ Lucio paused momentarily, all life drained from his voice. ‘I’m told that this reaction is common among victims of sexual abuse and that, my friends, is the real tragedy. She no longer valued herself beyond her usefulness to other people.’
The table fell silent. Neil looked away awkwardly, as did Milos and Gancio. Lucio seemed unaware of the tears that welled up in his eyes and turned the rims red.
‘Perhaps so, Lucio. But when you think about it, Cecilia has always avoided confrontation and done everything in her power to accommodate the needs of others. Go back to the beginning, even before her father raped her. Look how she took on all those household chores to accommodate her mother and keep the peace. Perhaps her desire to please was ingrained in her from birth.’ Ramon could not see the distress on his friend’s face but he could sense it and so, having said his piece, cautiously set about changing the subject. ‘Now Lucio, may I inquire, will we be hearing more about Colombina today?’
‘Yes, Ramon, I will tell you more about Colombina.’ Lucio’s weariness was now clearly evident. ‘But first, I must also take you back to Germany, to Christiane. This story is taking longer to tell than I ever imagined. I apologise.’
‘Lucio, there is no need to apologise. You hold us all in the palm of your hand, no?’
‘Nevertheless, Milos, I would rather you were in the palm of someone else’s. I wonder sometimes how I will get through the next few weeks. Soon my story will run on its own momentum as it accelerates to its terrible climax. In the meantime I must supply you with all the necessary background so that you can make your final judgement.’
If Ramon had been the storyteller, they would have suspected trickery, more of his storytelling theatrics. But Lucio had always worn his heart on his sleeve and his distress was genuine. His audience became concerned, both for him and for where the story was headed. They recalled Ramon’s cautions and Lucio’s denials, and began to review the story in their minds and speculate on its conclusion.
Maria arrived with the coffee and grappa. Gancio helped her serve it. As he sat back down he put his arm around his fellow countryman’s shoulders.
‘I’m glad now that you’re telling this story for very selfish reasons. It is strange. We had to come to Australia to discover that our pasts are somehow entwined. It is possible you may clear up some things that have always troubled me. It seems they have also troubled you. That’s why I don’t understand why you didn’t leave things as they were. Why are you telling this story?’
‘You have your reasons, don’t you, Lucio?’ All eyes turned to Ramon. ‘A few weeks ago, you accused me of testing our friendship, of placing our lunches in jeopardy. Well, I suspect Lucio is about to test our friendship again, indeed, test it to its limits. I am tempted to walk away now. But just as Cecilia could not refuse a request for help, I cannot abandon a friend on mere suspicions. Lucio, you can take that as a warning.’
Lucio did not respond. The friends sipped in silence while they waited for him to begin the second instalment. If Ramon had cause to question the audience’s attentiveness before, he had no reason now.
Chapter Twenty-one
By Christmas of 1941, Hitler had every right to curse Mussolini. The rescue of the Italian army in Greece and the subsequent action in Yugoslavia to protect his access to the Balkan oil fields had delayed his onslaught against Russia by five weeks. Those five weeks were to prove critical, as winter set in just as the German army was knocking on the door of Moscow. However, the mood in Germany as the new year began was still optimistic. They’d made massive gains in Russia and everyone expected the advance to recover its momentum with the thaw. Stories of the appalling hardships and suffering by the soldiers at the front had not yet received wide currency. Besides, they were doing so well in other theatres. Rommel was on top in North Africa, and the U-boats were causing havoc in the North Atlantic. The Allied bombing was the one major negative, though it still hadn’t achieved the intensity or level of accuracy whereby it seriously disrupted the German war effort or caused significant loss of morale. On the contrary, the bombing had the effect of bringing people together with a singleness of purpose, and hardening their defiance. Bomber Command should have realised that. The same phenomenon had occurred at the height of the blitz on London.
Friedrich was given leave to fly home in late February 1942. After attack and counter-attack, both sides were grateful for the easing of hostilities, to lick their wounds, and garner what reinforcements they could. At last Friedrich could go home to see his son and hold him in his arms. In true soldierly fashion he took his comforts. He forgot about the war and immersed himself in domesticity. Nothing else mattered. His universe became defined by Christiane, Helmuth and the Schiller family. But if he’d hoped for a repeat of the joyful Christmas of ’39, he was destined for disappointment. The eldest of Christiane’s two sisters, Lisl, had married a young doctor in his final year at Dresden’s Medical Academy, and moved in with his family at Wuppertal-Barmen. Ernst had enlisted and been accepted by the Panzer Korps on his eighteenth birthday and been sent to Weimar for training. So it was a subdued household, though nevertheless precisely the tonic that Friedrich needed.
> But the nights cast a shadow that neither Christiane nor Friedrich could ignore. No matter how tired they were when they went to bed or how tender their love-making, Friedrich always awoke panic-stricken, believing he was on fire. The first warning would be a strangled scream, then Friedrich would sit bolt upright and furiously beat at his chest and legs. Christiane learned to throw herself against him, trapping his windmilling arms, and smothering him with kisses and soothing words. Then she’d wipe his brow and hold him tightly to her until sleep once more claimed him. But often sleep was no more than the commencement of another cycle, which would end inevitably in another imaginary conflagration. Christiane was stunned and wondered what horrors could instil such fears in a man as strong-willed as her husband.
Yet she also felt a little disappointed in him. The war hadn’t ended as quickly as she and her father had thought it would. But it was only a matter of time. How could it possibly continue? Her father was certain that Hitler would soon call a truce and sit down with Churchill, Stalin and Roosevelt to redraw boundaries. The other powers would welcome the opportunity for peace. She couldn’t understand why Friedrich didn’t share her optimism.
In the summer of ’42, the tide of the war turned conclusively against Germany. The Russian counter-offensive began which would result in the disaster of Stalingrad, from which the German army would never fully recover. In North Africa, despite the fact that his Panzers were heavily outnumbered by British tanks, Rommel once more had the Allies in full retreat. The Desert Fox out-thought and out-manoeuvred the British so comprehensively that, had the Führer even obliged with half of the reinforcements and matériel he requested, they would have seized the canal. But yet again Rommel had been forced to halt, and his advance lost its impetus. Meanwhile, fresh reinforcements poured in to shore up the British defences at El Alamein.