by Derek Hansen
Inevitably, Kesselring heard about his conduct and sent for him. He could hardly accuse an officer who had repeatedly distinguished himself under fire of being a coward. Equally, his Panzers were too few and too precious to be risked in the hands of a suspect officer. He had no choice but to relieve Friedrich of his command and recommend a transfer out of the Panzer Corps. Friendly sources within the OKH passed the transfer request on to Gottfried who was finally able to use his influence.
Friedrich was appointed garrison commandant in the small northern Italian town of Menaggio. The previous commandant had had the misfortune to be shot by terrorist snipers from the Gruppi di Azione Patriottica while pausing to admire the Duomo in Milan.
When Friedrich read his transfer papers, he could hardly credit his good fortune. He would be near Milan, a city he’d come to love as a boy. His only regret was that his parents had been recalled to Germany because of the GAP terrorists. He couldn’t remember if he’d ever been to Menaggio but he seemed to know a lot about it. Then he remembered the Italian soldier who’d held his arms steady on the pain-filled flight from Tunisia. He smiled at the recollection. Perhaps they’d meet again after all.
Friedrich took over command of the Menaggio garrison in March 1944. Although he was well away from the front he was hardly out of the action. Following Mussolini’s arrest, the Germans had moved swiftly to secure the Italian armed forces and all boys approaching conscription age. They’d given them a simple choice; fight on alongside the Wehrmacht; join volunteer labour forces in Germany; or be sent to a concentration camp. Only diehard fascists chose to fight on. Most resigned themselves to the deprivations and misery of the concentration camps rather than assist the Nazis. Others elected to fight back instead. These once-reluctant soldiers of fascism now had something to fight for that they could believe in. What they lacked in order and discipline they made up for in passion. They fought for themselves, their families and an Italy free of Mussolini. Though hopelessly outnumbered by the Germans, they showed a degree of courage and commitment that had not before been in evidence. But as fast as the occupying German forces had moved, they hadn’t moved fast enough. Many soldiers and village boys had anticipated the round-up and those who could had fled to the forests and hills to join the partisans. Where once they’d been little more than an irritation, the partisans rapidly became a significant force to contend with. The will to fight that had been absent through the earlier years now manifested itself in patriotism, and a fierce determination to rid their country of their old allies.
Friedrich had hoped his job would be little more than policing the local population. Instead he found he had a full-time job keeping supply routes open to Switzerland and supplies flowing, safe from partisan harassment. None of his previous experience equipped him for the type of hit-and-run tactics the guerrillas employed, nor had he ever before had to contend with a population that was largely hostile. He needed to understand how the partisans organised themselves, their command structure, their numbers, and where they acquired their armaments. The local militia and the Gestapo were able to help him, with information extracted during interrogations of prisoners. But in addition to hard facts he needed local knowledge. What did the partisans do for food and shelter? Where did they hide in winter? Where and when were they vulnerable? How did they communicate? Clearly their activities were governed by three factors: climate, terrain and opportunity. Friedrich wanted to know how they interacted so that he could anticipate their moves and get ahead of the game. He realised that if he failed to take the initiative the partisans would rule the hills and he’d spend the rest of the war chasing their shadows. He began making inquiries among local dignitaries. Inevitably, they led him to the Villa Carosio.
Lucio paused for a coffee and much needed rest. Gancio heard the familiar hiss from his espresso machine and glanced up. Maria was learning.
‘Bravo,’ said Milos quietly. ‘I was wondering how you would bring Cecilia and Friedrich together. Well done.’
‘Yes, well told.’ Gancio spoke softly but grimly. ‘But Lucio didn’t bring them together. He’s not God. All he is doing is telling what happened. If I thought for one second that he was responsible, I would poison his food and watch him choke.’
‘Jesus, Gancio, I thought you were the pacifist. I thought you were the one who wanted us all to forget the past. Forgive and forget. Now you’re talking about murdering poor Lucio.’
‘He was speaking figuratively, Neil, just as you are speaking facetiously.’ Ramon paused reflectively. He sensed everyone at the table was waiting for him to go on. ‘But you talk about murder as if it were something that couldn’t possibly touch you. Murder is what this story is all about, Neil, and murder isn’t selective. Very few people who are murdered expect to be, and very few who commit murders ever expect to become murderers. Given the right circumstances, most people are capable of murder, even you. Either directly or as an accessory. What do you think, Lucio?’
‘Isn’t Colombina proof of that? If someone as nice as Colombina can be pushed to commit murder, anyone can.’
‘Anyone?’
‘Yes, Ramon, anyone.’
‘Even me?’
‘For God’s sake, Ramon, what is your game?’ Milos made no attempt to hide the exasperation in his voice. ‘Lucio said anyone, and anyone includes you, unless you’ve put yourself above the rest of us mortals. Given the last story you told and the fact that you are Argentinian you can hardly claim exemption. I must say that you are beginning to irritate me. You said earlier that you were prepared to let Lucio get on with his story without further cross-examination. Now either include us in your game or keep your word.’
‘I apologise, though why I should apologise to fools is beyond me. Nevertheless, I apologise.’
‘Then let Lucio continue his story. I think now we all accept that his story is true, no? And it is also obvious to those sensitive enough that the telling is both difficult and painful. We owe it to Lucio to help, not hinder him.’
The men sipped their coffee in silence.
‘I’m still not convinced that those two wogs haven’t cooked up the whole bloody thing,’ said Neil at length, but he was ignored.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Cecilia had become accustomed to meeting German officers. Since the daring rescue and reinstatement of Mussolini, the Count actively courted them. He forgot that he’d blamed them for the collapse of the Italian army, and had accused them of failing to provide promised weaponry and support. Instead he greeted them as saviours. He discovered in the Germans the discipline and sense of purpose he’d hoped to find but never did in the fascist armies. They were like supermen and he couldn’t imagine how they could possibly be defeated. They were his last hope of a bulwark against communism.
The Count entertained the German officers and the senior fascists with lavish meals. He had lambs and calves specially slaughtered, trout netted, and wild fowl shot. He opened his cellars generously. Even if his guests sometimes found his company tedious, the food more than compensated.
Cecilia was never invited to join the company. Instead she liaised between the cook and Signor Calosci, helping prepare each course and serve it. Sometimes she’d catch the officers eyeing her as they speculated on her relationship with the Count, and her possible availability. But she didn’t get to know any of them, no matter how often they came. When the previous commandant of the garrison was assassinated in Milan, all it had meant to her was a hastily cancelled dinner and a spare chair the following week. Cecilia was happy with the arrangement. They were her enemies even though she could never acknowledge it. Then everything changed.
Cecilia waited until Signor Calosci had introduced the new commandant to the Count, who had in turn once more expressed his admiration of the German military and his gratitude for Il Duce’s rescue. She stepped forward with her tray filled with glasses of wine, expecting the Oberstleutnant to help himself without acknowledging her any more than he would any other servant.
‘Aha … you must be Cecilia.’
Cecilia nearly dropped the tray in surprise. She looked up into his face and for the first time felt the warmth of his smile. His eyes weren’t cold and distant like all the others but twinkled with amusement. Yes. He was playing with her, not cruelly or cynically, but in a way that was both friendly and charming. Encouraged, she smiled back. ‘Yes, I am Cecilia.’
‘I met your father the other night. He is very proud of you.’
Her father was proud of her? How could he both disown her and be proud of her? She looked up sharply at the Oberstleutnant to see if he was taunting her but he seemed genuine enough.
‘Will you be joining us for dinner?’
Cecilia was embarrassed. If the Count had wanted her to join them at the table, he would have made his wishes clear. She laughed. ‘No. My job is to help serve dinner not eat it. What would I do among so many important men?’
‘But I insist. Count d’Alatri, could you oblige me by inviting this charming young lady to join us for dinner? I’m sure you can find someone else to do her job. After months of talking only to other soldiers, this is an opportunity I cannot let slip by.’
‘Of course.’ The Count was only too happy to oblige his latest guest. ‘Cecilia, run along and change into something more suitable. Tell the Signora to find someone to take your place.’
Cecilia went straight to the kitchen where she found the Signora, Antonella and Carla with sleeves rolled up, helping Signora Fiorella prepare the dinner. She relayed her instructions.
‘Dear God! We are short-handed enough. Carla, find Carmela. Tell her to come and help here in the kitchen. I think she’s in the cellar fetching wine for Signor Calosci. Antonella, you take Cecilia’s place. Go change into something more appropriate. Signora Fiorella, can you look after things on your own for a few moments? I need to have a word with Cecilia in private.’
The cook threw up her hands. ‘Yes! All go away! How am I supposed to cook dinner anyway, without proper help? It’s already spoiled. Just go. How can I possibly spoil what is already spoiled?’
‘We will only be a moment. Cecilia, I want to talk to you while you change.’
They left Signora Fiorella fuming in the kitchen and climbed the narrow stairway to Cecilia’s room. Neither exchanged a word until they’d closed the door behind them. Signora Mila sat down on Anna’s old bed and ran tired hands down her face.
‘Dear God, Cecilia, when will things get back to normal?’ She waited until Cecilia had pulled her uniform up over her head, then leaned forward secretively. ‘Do you realise what an opportunity this is? Guido would give his right arm to have friendly ears at that table! You know the sort of things they discuss in there. You could find out when convoys are coming. You can find out which ones are heavily protected and which ones aren’t. You can find out when and where the next rastrellamento will be. Imagine that, Cecilia! If we can find some way to tell Guido when and where the Germans and the Blackshirts are planning their next sweep, they can set up an ambush or make sure they’re on some other mountain. For once the partisans will have the advantage. Think of it, Cecilia!’
Cecilia did. Helping hide deserters was one thing, but the Signora was asking her to become a spy and inform on the Germans. She hesitated. It sounded dangerous, but what really were the risks? After all, she’d only be repeating what they’d said. Besides the Signora was right. The information would be invaluable to Guido and could save many partisan lives, even his. She thought of how pleased he’d be with her and her mind was made up. Cecilia waited until the Signora had helped her on with her dress before answering.
‘I will do what you ask.’
‘Good girl, Cecilia. Guido will be so proud of you. I am proud of you!’ She hugged Cecilia and kissed her. Then her voice became serious. ‘You realise what you will have to do? You will only be invited back to the table if the new commandant wants you there. You have to make him want you. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Signora. I understand. And Signora … I have conditions.’
‘Conditions?’
‘Yes. It is too much to expect me to betray my father or Alfredo and Elio. I want an undertaking from Signor Mila that he will do everything in his power to see that they are not harmed if they are caught up in an ambush. Similarly, if they are captured.’
‘That is reasonable.’
‘Also they should take care not to shoot the new commandant. If he is killed, I will lose my place at the dinner table.’
‘That makes sense.’ The Signora smiled. Yes, if Cecilia’s information proved fruitful, they’d make sure the commandant survived any engagements. That made sense. But as for her father and brothers well … they were soldiers. They’d just have to take their chances along with everyone else.
‘Signora, what if the commandant doesn’t want me? After all …’
‘After all nothing! You are beautiful. Of course he will want you. You don’t need a pretty dress or makeup. Just touch him with your eyes. That will do it. The new commandant will fall at your feet. Look! You are blushing!’
The Signora’s accusation made her face blush even brighter.
By the time Cecilia returned downstairs, the guests had already taken their places at the dinner table. Cecilia gasped when she saw the one available chair. They’d placed her between the Count and the new commandant. Of course they would.
‘Ah, Cecilia … you’ve rejoined us.’
The new commandant stood as Signor Calosci held her chair for her. He was the only one who did. She smiled and did her best to conceal her nervousness.
‘Would the Signorina care for some wine?’
It was Signor Calosci treating her like she was one of the guests. If the Count had turned communist she couldn’t have been more surprised. She was aware that everyone at the table was watching her. She looked up at Signor Calosci and he smiled. Barely perceptibly, but a smile nonetheless. Could it be? Was that old dried stick actually proud of her? Dear God! ‘Thank you, Signor Calosci.’ She looked at the bottle he held. ‘That is my favourite Pinot Grigio.’
The Count laughed delightedly. ‘You see how well I treat my staff? This is her favourite Pinot Grigio!’
‘It is a pleasure to share the table with a connoisseur.’ The Oberstleutnant raised his glass to her. ‘I have never tasted a finer Pinot Grigio myself.’
Cecilia raised her glass to her lips and sipped. There was no doubt in her mind. She’d often had a glass of wine with the Count at mealtimes. It was certainly the finest she’d ever tasted. She forgot all about spying and concentrated on the more urgent matter of fitting in, winning over the Oberstleutnant, and controlling her racing heart. She gained respite once the food arrived. Signora Fiorella had done them proud and it was far too good to be ignored. The guests gave it their full attention and commented only upon its excellence. But between courses, the Oberstleutnant gave Cecilia a lesson on how to extract information.
He began by telling an anecdote, then attaching a question to the tail of it as if it were a logical progression. Often he posed his questions in a way that suggested naïvéte on his part. The Count and the other guests fell over each other in their race to provide the answers. Cecilia sat alongside, mesmerised. In no time at all he’d established the estimated size and nature of the partisan bands roaming around the hills between Como and Switzerland. His questions revealed things that Cecilia never knew. The communist Garibaldi and socialist Matteotti bands tended to operate further south around Milan and were more or less controlled by their political parties. The same applied to the Actionist groups, which were second only in size to the Garibaldi brigades. The Christian Democrat Green Flame bands operated to the north and east of the lake. In between were groups like Guido’s, that owed allegiance to no political party and whose sole commitment was to free Italy from fascism and the hated Germans.
The Oberstleutnant probed unobtrusively but insistently, switching his questions from guest to guest until there was competition for his a
ttention. He probed for weaknesses. How did they get their arms? Who kept them supplied with ammunition? Where did they get their explosives from? What type of explosives did they prefer, and what weapons? Where did they get their food supplies from? He mixed his questions with anecdotes from Spain and North Africa. He was witty, charming and deadly.
Cecilia listened and waited for an opportunity to make a contribution. She knew that if she remained silent her first dinner would also be her last. But what could she contribute without appearing uninformed or foolish? It occurred to her that she wasn’t expected to contribute but just laugh at the witticisms and look beautiful. Perhaps later there’d be an opportunity for talk. But that wasn’t the custom. The Count’s guests usually made a hasty exit as soon as the meal was finished, before the Count had the chance to launch into one of his anti-communist harangues. Her one chance lay in the hope that the new commandant was too courteous to allow her to be ignored through the entire meal. She turned in her chair so that she intruded further into his line of vision when he addressed the Count. If he was a gentleman, he would have to acknowledge her sooner or later. He did.
‘Gentlemen, I feel I have monopolised conversation enough. This young woman joined us at my request and we have ignored her.’ He turned to her. ‘Please accept my apologies. Put soldiers together and we inevitably discuss the war.’
‘Put any two people in Italy together right now, Herr Oberstleutnant, and you will find they inevitably discuss the war as well.’ Cecilia smiled but she could see that the commandant was taken aback. The table fell silent and she could sense the Count’s disapproval. ‘I have discussed the war with the Count since the beginning of hostilities and I am as interested in the subject as anyone else. You asked some interesting questions, Herr Commandant, but you have missed perhaps the most important issue.’