by Derek Hansen
In the Church of San Pietro, Father Michele listened to the women’s confessions. Those waiting their turn knelt in silent prayer or sat numbed in disbelief at the magnitude of their sin. As he heard confession after confession, it began to dawn on Father Michele that the information Cecilia had been given was deliberately misleading. It occurred to him that the Oberstleutnant had also been misled. But that didn’t forgive the women for what they’d done. They’d jumped to conclusions and seized upon the opportunity to unleash their pent up resentment and jealousy and also their hate. Absolution would not come easy for any of them. But he had other worries. If the story was true about the massacre, he knew that many of the women he now berated would need his comfort and prayers. A car had already gone to investigate.
In the Villa Carosio, Signora Mila listened in horror as Carmela tearfully told her story. Her first thoughts were for Guido. Had he survived? Had he escaped? Was he wounded? He’d survived this long, surely he couldn’t die now! That would be too unfair. Then her thoughts turned to Cecilia. It was inconceivable that she would betray them, not after all the risks she’d taken in the past. But then she thought of how she’d treated Cecilia over the previous months and her growing attachment to the Oberstleutnant, and was no longer sure. But stoning her to death on suspicion! Dear God, and Carmela had been part of it! The Signora forbade Carmela to return to the church and ordered her to her room. She put her head in her hands and squeezed her eyes tightly shut. Sweet Mother of Jesus, where had everything gone wrong? She little realised that her action might have just saved her daughter’s life.
In the inadequate, little farmhouse above Ravello, Maddalena slumped in her chair. Old Mentore Parente sat opposite her unable to meet her eyes. It didn’t matter. She saw nothing and her mind took in nothing, concerning itself only with what was happening within. Her darling Cecilia, gone, stoned to death by women she thought were her friends. The loss stripped her life of all meaning and the emptiness inside her knew no walls. Her life was over as surely as her daughter’s. She no longer had the strength even to cry.
‘Maddalena …’ Mentore said softly. ‘Maddalena …’
His words penetrated her fog-bound mind and she looked up.
‘Maddalena, let me take you to Father Michele. Please. Please Maddalena. I am no help to you and I won’t leave you alone. Let me take you to Father Michele. Perhaps he can explain.’
Someone could explain? Father Michele could explain? Suddenly she wanted to know why. Why? But what answer could there be for the unanswerable? What could Father Michele say that could make sense of what had happened? She could listen, she could hear him out. Maybe he might help her understand.
‘Help me up, Mentore,’ she said. ‘I will hear what the priest has to say, though I’d be surprised if God himself could find an explanation.’
Old Mentore hastened to take her arm and helped her up the crooked pathway to his Fiat.
Ravello was not an isolated village quarantined from the rest of the world. Word of the massacre and the stoning of Cecilia filtered down the mountain from shepherd to shepherd, bystander to bystander, house to house. It was couched in terms of stunned disbelief which could only add to its credibility.
Dietrich waited patiently. News of the massacre of the partisans swept like wildfire through the streets of Menaggio, fuelled by bragging soldiers and the gloating of the Blackshirts. Women congregated in the churches and in the square desperate for news of their menfolk, anxious to learn who still lived and who had died. Dietrich primed his men to come to him the instant they heard of any new developments. He was pleasantly surprised at how little time it took.
The news about Christiane’s death had rocked him back on his heels but had done nothing to make him change his mind. He would savour this day for a long time to come. He’d get revenge, not only on the partisans, but on Friedrich for the humiliation of his last dinner at Prager Strasse. Nothing would stop him from taking his revenge in full. He marched up to Friedrich’s quarters, barely able to keep a smile from his face. He knocked briefly and pushed the door open.
Friedrich was sitting at his desk writing out his report. He spun around at the rude interruption. ‘Obersturmbannführer! What is the meaning of this? How dare you?’
‘I have come to report another casualty,’ he said casually. He leaned arrogantly against the table and put his boot up on a chair. ‘You want your report to be thorough, don’t you?’
‘Just make your report and go!’
‘If that’s what you wish. It seems our conversation in the café was overheard. The girl Cecilia has been killed. It seems that half of the women in Ravello had fathers or brothers in the partisans.’
‘Cecilia … killed?’ Friedrich was stunned. His mind refused to accept the information. But Dietrich was relentless.
‘Yes. Killed. The women stoned her to death in the square. Very biblical, don’t you think? Really, Friedrich, you are careless with your women.’ He grinned as he watched the blood drain from Friedrich’s face. He spat on the floor and sauntered to the door. ‘I told you at Prager Strasse that I would get even with you.’ He took one more look at Friedrich, saw his face crumple in agony, and left.
Friedrich didn’t move, not for some time. His capacity for pain and grief had been exceeded. Slowly his brain began to function once more and he reached for the phone. He rang the Villa Carosio and asked for Signora Mila. He needed confirmation. The moment he heard her voice he got it. She told him about the stoning, omitting any detail that would allow a glimpse of Cecilia’s other life and any mention of the part Carmela had played. She said she was sorry, but Friedrich’s heart had hardened beyond the reach of any expressions of sympathy. He hung up, buttoned his tunic as he walked to the door, and shouted for his Hauptmann. He had fought his war according to the rules, allowing whatever shreds of decency and fair play his war would permit. But there was no decency in this war, no honour and no forgiveness. He buckled on his holster containing the favoured but superseded Luger semi-automatic pistol and went downstairs. The men were already waiting for him in the truck.
Chapter Forty-five
Old Mentore Parente gathered up the bricks and stones into a pile as he waited for Maddalena to come down the steps from the church. He looked accusingly at the shame-faced women as they entered and left. A few had gathered at the foot of the steps, perhaps to wait for Maddalena and express … what? Their condolences? Perhaps to apologise? They would be the lucky ones with no losses to mourn, no dead hero to keen over.
His ears picked up the sound of the truck labouring up the hill from Menaggio. Vehicles were his interest and his distraction. He always stood at the front of his garage to see what passed by. But this time he heard the sound and ignored it.
The breva had sprung up but there was no warmth in the wind. It created little whirlwinds in the dust and ruffled the black hems of the women’s skirts, and carried the voices of grief from house to house. Old Mentore was so involved with his thoughts he didn’t look up again until he saw the Oberstleutnant’s Lancia Aprilia pull into the square with the truck close behind it. He looked up at the church steps just as Maddalena appeared. He wanted to call out to her, to tell her to go back inside, without even knowing precisely why. But it was all too late. He watched in horror as the men spilled off the back of the truck and began to grab every woman in sight. He saw the Oberstleutnant, looked him in the eye and knew there was no hope.
‘Out of the way, old man,’ he hissed, ‘unless you want to be shot as well.’
Old Mentore staggered back out of the way, his eyes shut, unwilling and unable to witness any more tragedy. What else could go wrong on this most terrible day? He heard Maddalena curse and Giuseppina cry. Then he heard the explosion of rifles which made martyrs of eight women and a war criminal of the Oberstleutnant.
The silence hung heavily over the table as Lucio finished speaking, each man aware that the time had come. Lucio looked at each of his friends in turn, wondering who would be first
to break the ice. No one was prepared to meet his eye.
‘Perhaps we should have coffee first,’ said Ramon finally. ‘It will give us time to reflect. I heard Maria pour five cups so I assume they are for us. I would not refuse a glass of grappa either. Goddamn, Lucio, I may never forgive you for this!’
‘Ramon, that is enough!’ Milos turned to the blind man. ‘No one forced you to come here today. You came of your own free will because Lucio asked for your help. You knew the temperature of the water before you came. Don’t complain now because it is too hot. Frankly, I am disappointed in your attitude. I expected more from you.’
‘I am sorry, Milos, but I am not accustomed to aiding and abetting murderers.’
‘Colombina is not yet a murderer and may never be.’
‘Yes, but it is us who will determine that.’
‘Yes, it is us who will determine that. All of us, me included.’ Lucio interrupted to cut short the argument. ‘Let me begin by thanking you all for hearing me out and for coming today. By coming you have indicated your preparedness to help my mother-in-law and to help decide the fate of Friedrich Eigenwill. That is the act of true friends. I know I have imposed upon all of you, but now that you are aware of the circumstances I’m sure you understand that I had little choice.’ He leaned back to allow Maria to serve the coffees. ‘Perhaps I should venture the first opinion.’ He took a sip of his coffee. ‘I assume from your silence that you all agree.’
The friends all shifted forward in their chairs like conspirators, their whole being focused on Lucio’s words. He didn’t keep them wondering where he stood for very long. The trial of Friedrich Eigenwill had begun.
‘Let me say right from the start, that had Colombina sought my opinion alone, the Oberstleutnant would now be dead.’ He paused and looked around the table. The first vote had been registered and, even though the men knew the nature of the deadly game they were playing, Lucio’s verdict had taken them aback. ‘Of course, there are mitigating circumstances. Friedrich suffered horribly. He lost his wife and his child in the most appalling circumstances. Then he was led to believe that he had also lost Cecilia, killed in the cruellest and crudest possible way. I was tempted to accept a plea for temporary insanity, that he acted while the balance of his mind was disturbed. But on reflection I chose to reject that. Friedrich is a true Teuton. Everything he does is considered. Under the stress of battle he was always in control of himself. He has a very logical, ordered mind. I have not the slightest doubt that Friedrich knew exactly what he was doing when he ordered those women shot. It was hardly a spur of the moment reaction. Rather, it was a premeditated act of revenge. Of revenge!
‘This leads me to another point. I don’t regard his actions as a war crime. On this I am of the same mind as Colombina. It was not a reprisal for the actions of the partisans but the act of a vengeful lover. Therefore it is not a war crime but murder. You can say he was under duress, but what about his victims? Most of them had gone to the church to pray for husbands and sons and brothers killed in the morning’s ambush. They too, were suffering. But they didn’t take up weapons and order the deaths of eight innocent Germans. To me, the Oberstleutnant’s personal losses do not mitigate the barbarity of his crime. He is guilty of the premeditated murder of eight innocent women. My vote says that he should be made to pay, and pay in full.’
‘My vote says he has already paid for his crime many times over.’ Gancio looked around at the others. ‘Does anybody object if I go next? No? Okay. I have said from the very beginning that it does no good to rake over the past. I think it is outrageous and disgraceful that we should even presume to sit in judgement on this man for things that happened half a world away in another time. To say that the shooting was murder and not a war crime is patently ridiculous. Of course it was a war crime! If there was no war the situation would not have arisen. There would be no partisans, no informers, no sympathisers, no ambush. And Friedrich would not have had an army of soldiers at his disposal to kill anybody. It was a crime of war in the time of war. This sort of thing went on every day in occupied countries and virtually all of the instigators have gone unpunished. Unpunished by courts, that is. I believe that Friedrich has served out nearly fifty years of punishment. When he ended the lives of those women he virtually ended his own.
‘All his life since, he has been on the run, waiting for a Colombina or a Guido to find him and inform the authorities. I know the sort of life he has had to lead and I believe that Friedrich has been punished enough. He will have regretted his action every day of his life. He has suffered the consequences as have other people. People like my aunt.’ He paused and looked around the table. Diners around them chatted and laughed and rattled their cutlery on plates but at their table you could have heard a pin drop.
‘I wondered when you’d get to that.’ Neil smiled wryly but got no response.
‘Guido was a hero at a time when Italy was full of them, and my aunt was a villain at a time when Italy couldn’t find enough. Nothing was clear cut after the war. A lot of people waited until the end was inevitable before racing off to join the partisans. They stole the glory from the true heroes, and zealously condemned anyone who had even a whiff of taint about them. My aunt’s father, Guido Mila, never got the recognition he deserved.’
‘No!’
‘Yes, Lucio. There were times in your story when I wanted to scream out and correct you, but it was your story not mine. My father’s brother married Carmela. You have also told my aunt’s story. Think about that! After the war, she was blamed for the stoning of Cecilia. Why not? Giuseppina Cerasuolo was dead and nobody could remember—or didn’t want to remember—who had cast the first stone. Even Guido had difficulty forgiving her but ultimately stood by her. Perhaps because of his own shame at having taken Cecilia for a lover. Perhaps he felt in some way responsible. Whatever, it was because of Carmela that the Signora and Guido never got the recognition they deserved.
‘Those who believed Cecilia was a saint spat at my aunt whenever she walked past them. Those who were ambivalent about Cecilia’s role wouldn’t forgive her either. And those who believed Cecilia had betrayed the partisans for the sake of her German boyfriend were too ashamed of what had happened to forgive her. They all blamed Carmela for the shooting that followed. They saw that as a natural consequence. Strangely enough, nobody blamed the Oberstleutnant. In their communal guilt they found one of their own to blame. They found Carmela. It wasn’t fair, but nothing in war is fair. She became an outcast and because her parents sheltered her, they became outcasts too.
‘They left the Villa Carosio, but not before the Signora took her promised revenge on the Count. As he lay dying, she told him all about how they had sheltered deserters and prisoners of war. But mostly she told him how his darling Cecilia had betrayed him. He was going to die anyway but that was what killed him.
‘They moved across the lake to Ravenna and finally to Bellagio. My uncle had fought alongside my father as a partisan under Guido, and also had Cecilia to thank for his survival. Some say he married Carmela as a kindness to Guido, to repay him for some incident or another or as a vote of confidence in his daughter. But I know better. I have visited their house enough to know the truth. He married my aunt because he adored her. He was the best thing that happened to her. He brought love, kindness and hope at a time when she had no reason to expect any. Sometimes he came home at night from the café with his nose spread across his face because somebody had said something derogatory about her. But he never wavered. He protected her honour and he still does. Gradually things settled down and they were able to live a normal life. But even to this day they are not free from covert looks and dark mutterings. I tell them to leave Italy and its bitterness behind and come to Australia but they won’t hear a word of it. Till the day my aunt dies, she will carry the scars of the events that took place in the square at Ravello. And so too, my friends, will Friedrich Eigenwill. He has served his sentence. Nearly fifty years of it. It is time to forgive. And f
orget. Let him have a little peace before he dies.’
‘Bugger him!’ Neil looked dismissively at Gancio. ‘The bloke’s a cold-blooded murderer. Does anybody doubt that he ordered the soldiers to shoot those women? No? Has anybody produced evidence to suggest that he didn’t? No! It doesn’t matter that he committed his crime nearly fifty years ago, he should not be allowed to get away with it. He should thank his lucky stars that he’s got away with it for as long as he has. The way I see it, we can report him to the war crimes tribunal or whatever, but by the time they gather enough evidence to bring him to trial he’ll be pushing up daisies. Christ, he’s got to be over eighty now.
‘No, I believe the old bastard should be made to face his guilt and be made to face his executioner. I believe it is time Colombina cooked him another kraut meal and laced it with cyanide. He’ll die horribly, knowing why. That is justice.’
‘That is barbaric!’ Milos turned to Ramon. ‘My friend, do you mind if I go next? I can’t let Neil get away with his nonsense.’
‘If I let you go next, mine will be the casting vote.’
‘But if you go next, Ramon, I may not even have a vote. If you don the black cap then the trial is over and Friedrich is condemned. At least hear my argument.’
‘Dear God …!’
‘Do I take that as acceptance?’
‘Yes! Get on with it!’
Lucio heaved a sigh of relief and immediately hoped nobody had noticed. Things were working out perfectly. He fought back his excitement.
‘No one doubts that Friedrich ordered the deaths of those unfortunate women, but it happened against a background of greater atrocities. The lives of ordinary men and women were devalued. I don’t want to raise the whole issue of the deaths of millions of Jews in concentration camps. That is a monstrous issue in itself. Rather I’ll confine my comments to the subjects that have been discussed.