by Derek Hansen
They drove along the northern side of the lake, past Porlezza and the bridge which had earlier halted Dietrich’s SS troops, and into partisan territory. He wished he had a spotter aircraft to warn him of any ambush, but they had other priorities. All he had was his eyes and a soldier’s instincts for trouble. They scanned the hillsides and searched into shadows, but found nothing. The convoy ground on and began the steep descent towards Lake Como. He allowed a little optimism. Perhaps his convoy was too well protected to tempt the partisans. Perhaps he’d over-estimated their strength.
The first he knew of the attack was a blast from the rear as the partisans attempted to immobilise and isolate the heavy armoured car. Then a shell from a Panzerfaust, fired in haste by an over-excited crew, ricocheted off his carrier’s armour plate. Almost instantly his forward machine-gunner returned fire. He turned his attention to the convoy and his mouth fell open in surprise. The canvas covers on the convoy trucks as well as those on his troop-carrying trucks shredded before his eyes. Mortar and machine-gun ripped them apart from within. Then there were soldiers everywhere, his and Dietrich’s SS. Now he knew what the convoy was carrying and why it was so heavily guarded. This time Dietrich had used himself and his troops as bait. He watched in admiration as Dietrich’s troops bled around the ends of the convoy and charged up the slopes to outflank the partisans and prevent their escape. Once they had them pinned down, their mortars would range in and massacre them.
With no convoy to protect, Friedrich jumped off the tray of his troop carrier and ordered his troops to engage the enemy head on, to pin them down while Dietrich completed his encirclement. At first they met little resistance and soon learned why. The partisans had begun their withdrawal the instant the SS had revealed themselves. Many had escaped before the encirclement was completed and were being fiercely pursued by the SS. But the partisans were expert in hit and fade and carried lighter arms and less equipment than the SS. The pursuits would end in countless hastily arranged ambushes and rear guard actions until the SS called off the chase, and the surviving partisans made good their escape. But their numbers would be severely depleted.
Those who had reacted too slowly realised their fate and began their fight to the death. Friedrich engaged them with light arms until he’d brought his machine-guns and mortars up into position. The partisans were in a hopeless position, but if any attempted to surrender they failed to make their intentions clear.
When Friedrich realised that their fire was no longer being returned he ordered his men to cease. He called out to the surviving partisans in Italian, telling them to throw down their arms and show themselves. Fewer than ten were able to comply and, of these, three were wounded. Friedrich was shocked by their ages. Some were old men, others mere boys. He advanced slowly, his gun at the ready. His men came with him, checking the dead and wounded. He heard a gun shot and looked up. SS troops were moving back down the hill towards him, shooting the wounded as they came. His prisoners raised their hands even higher and moved nervously towards him for protection.
‘What’s this?’ he heard Dietrich ask. ‘Prisoners? We don’t take prisoners.’ Without warning he opened fire on the prisoners with his machine pistol and his men did likewise. It was all over in an instant. The partisans crumpled into bloody heaps one on top of the other. Friedrich was speechless.
‘Cease fire!’ he yelled. ‘My God, what have you done? Those men had surrendered. They were my prisoners!’
‘Correction, they were my prisoners,’ said Dietrich coldly. ‘My prisoners, taken as a result of my ambush.’ He smiled. ‘You were obviously mistaken. We don’t take prisoners. There is no point. Being a partisan or aiding them or withholding information about them is an offence punishable by death. I would have thought you’d be aware of that.’
‘They were soldiers who had surrendered,’ said Friedrich through gritted teeth.
‘Soldiers? The only soldiers I see are soldiers of the Reich. The rest are partisans. Partisans are not soldiers but terrorists. Now, let’s see how many of these terrorists wish they hadn’t got out of bed this morning.’ He looked for his sergeant-major. ‘Hauptscharführer! Start counting.’
It was almost noon when old Mentore Parente put down his tools and eased himself out from under the old Fiat he was repairing. He’d heard the rumble of trucks and crawled out to see them pass by. He stood there watching silently as truck after truck filled with German soldiers drove past. He was curious as to why the soldiers were singing at the top of their voices and why their canvas covers were pulled down. That was unusual these days. They’d be sitting ducks for snipers. To his surprise an armoured troop carrier pulled out of the convoy and ground its way into the square. He recognised the Oberstleutnant first, then noticed the SS officer. They appeared to be arguing.
‘Why are we stopping here?’ Friedrich was clearly irritated.
‘We are stopping here, Friedrich, because I am thirsty and I’d like a cup of coffee. I think you should join me. It is time we recognised that we are both fighting on the same side.’
Friedrich gritted his teeth. Now that they were of equal rank, Dietrich had taken the liberty of calling him by his Christian name. ‘You won’t get coffee here.’
‘Then, Friedrich, we will drink whatever it is they do have here.’ He turned to his corporal. ‘Rottenführer! See that our coffee is not interrupted!’
‘Herr Obersturmbannführer!’ The corporal ordered all the soldiers except the machine-gun crews off the truck and positioned them around the square. Dietrich strode casually over towards the café, and sat down at the table closest to the counter. Friedrich joined him. Dietrich looked for the waitress and found her standing nervously behind the bar. He smiled with satisfaction. Yes, she was the one who’d served him on his previous visit and chatted to his men. Everything was falling nicely into place. He called out to her in German.
‘Two coffees, you understand. Not the slop you usually serve. I want real coffee. Or I’ll add your worthless body to the heap up the hill.’
‘Un momento, Signorina,’ Friedrich interrupted before she had a chance to move. ‘She doesn’t speak German, certainly not enough to understand what you said.’ Friedrich turned to the girl and ordered in Italian. ‘Two coffees. And you’d better find some real coffee beans. My colleague here has his heart set on real coffee. Do you understand?’
Giuseppina Cerasuolo nodded, too terrified to speak. She understood all right. She’d even understood most of the German. It was one of the conditions of her employ. She had to understand German so that she could speak to the German soldiers who stopped by. It made the café popular and helped pay her wages. So she studied the language and practised daily on her customers. She was surprised the Oberstleutnant wasn’t aware of it. The SS officer certainly was. She’d waited on his table the last time he’d come to Ravello. But of course, on the few occasions she’d served the Oberstleutnant he’d come with Cecilia and they had always spoken Italian. It was a point of pride with him. She raced off to find the owner and to beg for some cherished coffee beans. The owner’s wife, who had heard the exchange, was waiting for her out the back. She gave Giuseppina half a cup full of beans and ushered her back out into the bar.
‘You see, Friedrich, what can be accomplished when you are firm with these people? I wonder how many cups of slops you’ve had here for want of a little show of strength.’
‘None actually,’ said Friedrich, ignoring the insult. ‘I normally drink tea. Today I will drink coffee to oblige you.’
To his credit Dietrich laughed. Why wouldn’t he? Just when he thought he held all the aces he’d been handed another. Friedrich wasn’t aware the girl spoke German. An unexpected bonus. He could afford to be a little generous.
‘So, Friedrich, what did you think of my little strategy?’
Friedrich waited until Giuseppina had finished grinding the coffee beans before answering. ‘I can’t deny that it was effective.’
‘Effective? No, Friedrich, it was more th
an effective. We left one hundred and thirteen corpses on that hill. And that doesn’t include the ones my men killed higher up. You can add at least another thirty to the total. When was the last time you killed one hundred and forty-three partisans?’ Dietrich began laughing. ‘And all you can say is you think my strategy was … what was the word you used? … effective!’ He laughed again.
Behind the counter, Giuseppina listened in horror. What were they talking about? One hundred and forty-three partisans killed! She could hardly comprehend the number or the scale of the tragedy. Now she understood what the SS officer had meant when he said he’d add her body to the heap on the hill. She mumbled a quick prayer for those killed and crossed herself.
‘My men contributed their share.’ Friedrich was determined not to allow Dietrich to claim all the glory. They’d fought bravely with great discipline and deserved recognition for that. ‘They engaged the partisans head on to give you time to outflank them. You may have also noticed that my strategy in respect to setting up machine-guns and mortars within each truck was identical to yours.’
‘Yes, that is fair.’
Dietrich’s unexpected generosity stunned Friedrich and put him off balance. It was so out of character. What was he playing at?
‘Our strategies were not quite identical, Friedrich, although the principle was the same. You set up mortars, we didn’t. I had the top of my trucks covered with three layers of canvas and pulled tight to deflect their blasted petrol bombs. However, I wasn’t convinced our mortars could penetrate them. Nevertheless, you are to be congratulated. And so is your Italian whore.’
‘What do you mean? Are you talking about the Count’s companion?’
Giuseppina froze, her ears tingling, fixed on the conversation.
‘Companion … yes … not the word I would use to describe her but it will do. Remind me, what is this companion’s name?’
‘Cecilia.’
‘Yes, Cecilia.’ Dietrich smiled. ‘Well, Cecilia is also to be congratulated for the part she played.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We have Cecilia to thank for setting up our ambush. You told her and she told the partisans who she knew would be unable to resist a nice, fat convoy before the wicked SS troops arrived. Yes, Cecilia is to be congratulated.’
‘Dietrich that is preposterous!’ Friedrich glanced up at Giuseppina but she seemed preoccupied with making their coffee. What was Dietrich playing at? Whatever his game was, he decided to end it. He didn’t realise that the game was already over and won. ‘Besides, this is no place to be discussing such things.’
‘Then we’ll change the subject.’ Dietrich smiled innocently. He’d achieved what he wanted. ‘How’s Christiane?’
‘Christiane is dead.’
Dietrich briefly lost his composure. His jaw dropped open. ‘Dead?’
Giuseppina lost the rest of the conversation in the spluttering of the espresso machine. But she’d heard enough. The partisans had been betrayed and she knew who had betrayed them. Dear God! One hundred and forty-three dead! More than one-third of the partisans dead! Her hands shook with anger. She put both coffees on a tray and carried them to the table. The men ignored her and seemed oblivious of the fact that her shaking hand had spilled coffee into their saucers. She retreated to the furthest end of the bar to wait until they left or ordered another coffee. She’d heard enough. Her head spun. She didn’t want to hear any more.
She watched as the men finished their coffee. Friedrich left a few lire behind to cover the cost. She waited until all the soldiers had boarded the truck and it had begun to move out of the square. Then she called the owner’s wife and burst into tears.
‘What’s the matter, girl?’ demanded the owner’s wife anxiously. ‘What did they say?’
Giuseppina only cried harder.
‘What’s wrong with Giuseppina? What’s happened?’
Giuseppina looked up through her tears to see who the newcomer was as more curious women crowded into the little bar. It was the girl from the Villa, Carmela.
Chapter Forty-four
Cecilia turned away from the troop carrier as it ground its way down the hill, using its lower gears to check its momentum. It wasn’t just to avoid getting dust in her eyes but to make it easier to ignore the inevitable whistles and shouted obscenities from the soldiers. She waited for the dust to settle before continuing up the hill. She heard a robin call to its mate and stopped to watch them flitting and darting from branch to branch. She couldn’t remember when she’d ever felt so happy or so much at peace. When the Signora had released her from her obligations to the partisans she’d lifted a massive burden off her shoulders. That was one pretence she no longer had to sustain, a lie she no longer had to live. Furthermore the Count was dying. He grew weaker by the day and was rarely lucid for more than a couple of hours a day. She no longer had to play the role of ardent fascist. She still pretended to take his dictation but these days his rantings were less coherent than ever. Instead, she dreamed of the exotic places she’d run away to with Friedrich. Brazil, Argentina, America. Most of all, she wanted to go to America, if only America would have them. But first the war had to end and before that, she had to ensure that it ended satisfactorily for her. She wondered whether Father Michele would already be at the church hearing confessions or still in the rectory. She thought she’d try the church first. If he wasn’t around she could kneel and say a few prayers while she waited for him. It did no harm to be seen to be pious. Besides, she now had a lot to thank the Holy Mother for.
As she strolled down the lane alongside the church, she heard the sound of women wailing and keening coming from the square. She frowned. What could the problem be? Slowly it dawned on her that the convoy had been due that morning and an icy shiver ran down her spine. Had something gone wrong? She quickened her step. The keening grew louder. She saw the women gathered by the cafe and spotted Carmela. She hurried towards her.
‘Carmela, what’s wrong?’ she cried. ‘What’s happened?’
‘You! You have the nerve to come here and ask us that. You bitch! You betrayed us! You murderer!’
Cecilia stopped in her tracks, stunned. Bitch? Murderer? What did she mean? Other women took up the cry.
‘Murderer! Murderer!’ The women started to move towards her, but one had a better idea. She pulled a half-brick from the decaying wall of the panificio and hurled it at Cecilia. It hit her on the side of the face and she stumbled. Another brick followed, and another. Cecilia reeled back under the blows. She saw old Mentore Parente screaming at the women to stop and tried to run to him, her mind struggling to comprehend what was happening. Why were they doing this to her?
‘Murderer! Murderer!’ The women chanted, spurred on by one another, their accusation gaining conviction with repetition.
‘Stop it!’ Cecilia screamed, but a rock caught her full in the face and she fell. Blood streamed from her nose and mouth as she curled up into a ball to protect herself from the missiles. Bricks and stones pounded into her body, her arms and her legs. One penetrated the protective shield of her arms and thudded into her head. Mercifully, she lost consciousness.
‘Murderer! Murderer!’
The hail of rocks and bricks continued and they began to pile up around her body.
‘Stop it! Stop it. In the name of God stop it!’ Father Michele and Piero charged through the crazed women knocking them flying. Father Michele fought his way to Cecilia’s inert body and stopped. He looked up at the now sullen women. ‘Oh dear God! What have you done? What have you done?’ He stood guard over Cecilia, defying them as Piero bent down and picked her up.
‘You stupid women!’ Piero glared at them, his eyes awash with tears. ‘You stupid, ignorant women! You’ve killed her!’ He turned in a circle so that he could hurl his accusation at all the women, so none could escape his condemnation. He saw Carmela, still with a rock in her hand. ‘You!’ he hissed. ‘You of all people should know better. Cecilia is the bravest woman in all of Ital
y and you have killed her! Out of my way! Out of my way.’ Piero wept openly as he carried the lifeless girl away, propping her head in the crook of his elbow so that all could look with shame at her face. The women moved back to clear a path for him but the café owner’s wife stood firm.
‘You’re not going to desecrate our church by taking that traitorous bitch in there!’ she spat.
Piero lashed out with his boot and knocked the woman flying. ‘I wouldn’t dishonour her by taking her into your church! It is you who have dishonoured it! You have turned it into a house of murderers!’
‘No, Piero!’ the priest rushed up alongside him. ‘Please carry her into the vestry so I can administer last rites.’
‘No, Father. You tend your flock. They need you more than Cecilia does. You try to forgive them because I’m damned if I will. Go! Cecilia has no need for you or any of us any more. Go!’
Piero walked away down the lane with his torn and broken burden, then looked over his shoulder to make sure he hadn’t been followed. When he saw the lane was clear, he broke into a run. He knew something no one else did. Cecilia had groaned when he’d picked her up.
Piero left the road and ran into the meadow. He ran into the thicket along the trail the shepherds used. He could feel Cecilia’s blood seeping thick and warm onto his arms, urging him on. He ran uphill until his own blood pounded in his head and his old, tired legs threatened to give out. But he had no choice. He reached the old farmhouse and kicked on the door. The woman who opened the door took one look and dragged him inside. She ran to the stables to fetch the fugitive Piero had hidden there the night before. He was another Jew on the run from the Nazis, but not just another Jew. He was also a doctor.
Piero lay Cecilia down delicately on the bed and fell to his knees, not entirely from exhaustion. Piero, the man who had turned away from God and the church for the duration, wept as he began to pray for her life.