“So, in essence, Mr. Montalti, you’re telling me that your family turned to Durand in those circumstances because you’d already had prior business dealings with him.”
“That’s correct, Inspector. And also because, thanks to him—and this was very important for us—the money obtained for the villa was paid out mostly in Switzerland, to a trustee of ours. I think you can understand, Inspector, that at a moment like that, the physical and economic survival of our entire family hinged on such things.”
“Yes, of course I understand. What is truly surprising is that someone was able, in the middle of a war—and on top of that, in the middle of the German occupation of northern Italy—to buy, in Italy, a great quantity of priceless antiques and export them abroad, across borders that were under very strict surveillance. But what kind of man was this Durand, anyway?”
“An exceptional man, in his way—or, better yet, exceptionally clever. We knew we could count on his cleverness, and indeed the whole thing was organized to perfection. There wasn’t the slightest snag. I’ve always maintained that that man must have had some very important connections, friends, and protectors in Italy and all over Europe.”
“Apparently so. And so you felt grateful to him, or at least so it seems to me.”
“It would be more accurate to say that our interests and his happened to coincide at that particular moment, to the satisfaction of both parties. Most probably if we’d turned to someone else, I wouldn’t be here talking to you now, and neither would much of my family. I was little more than a lad at the time, but I remember him quite clearly, with his reddish mustache and his tall, lean figure always dressed in gray. He would look over our things, our precious objects, one by one, taking notes all the while. I still remember the wooden smell of the straw-filled packing crates in our garage. The whole thing took many hours, the time I saw him in Milan.”
“And after that you saw him at Villa Regina. Was it for the same sort of business?”
“Yes, in a way, because it again involved money. The circumstances, however, were quite different.”
The man remained silent for a few moments. None of the other people with him—however many there might be in the room he was calling from—uttered a word.
Stefania was beginning to grasp what it was in the man’s words that interested her, but she realized that it was best not to force things. And so she said, in a sympathetic tone:
“I’m sorry if this reawakens painful memories for you. If you prefer we can continue another time.”
“No, there’s no need, but I thank you for your tact. For a certain period of time Villa Regina was a sort of way station, a temporary depot for the crates that were going over the border, while we waited for the right moment to conduct the operation. Things went on in this way for a while, then I think some problems arose, or at any rate crossing the border became more difficult. At that point the last things to come out of our house in Milan, which by then were almost exclusively furnishings, were simply abandoned inside Villa Regina—some in the second-floor rooms, others piled up in the attics.”
“But what point was there in bringing all those things to Villa Regina? It still belonged to you, and it would not have been difficult for someone to find them there if they’d wanted to.”
“Your observation is correct, Inspector, but you have to bear in mind that a portion of the furniture sold to Durand at some point had to remain in Italy, because it had become too dangerous to take things out. And if everything hadn’t come to a head so suddenly, the flow would probably have continued.”
“Even so . . .”
“At a certain point things changed radically. We ourselves became the ‘objects’ to be exported, and the antique furniture faded into the background.”
“Meaning that you were forced to expatriate?”
“By the start of the war some of us had already moved to Switzerland: the grandparents, my aunt Regina, other close relatives, some cousins. The youngest kids were sent to study in the finest Swiss boarding schools. At that time crossing the border into Switzerland, with car and luggage, was basically child’s play. Others, however, had remained in Italy despite the difficulties and hardships. For years many had thought they could get by inside their own country. But that turned out to be a grave error of judgment.”
The tone in which Montalti had said “their own country” did not escape Stefania’s notice.
“And did Villa Regina figure as well in your expatriation plans?”
“You needn’t worry about speaking openly, Inspector. You can call it an escape, since that’s what it was. I, along with my mother, my sister, and two cousins more or less my age, was already up at the lake by the start of the winter of ’43. We’d been expelled from the Italian schools. Things quickly got worse. Without warning, my father and his brother came to us one evening. It was night, I remember it well: they told us straight out of the blue to put on our mountain hiking clothes and get ready. We could bring only what would fit in a backpack, no more.”
There was no longer any sound at the other end. Stefania, too, was holding her breath.
“The villa was in total darkness and silent. We all gathered in a room on the ground floor that faced uphill, one of those that give onto the park. We waited a long time and then, at a certain point, we distinctly heard sounds of footsteps and subdued whispers. Someone tapped lightly on the windowpane. Through a secondary door, a man I had never seen before came in: tall, well built, in boots and hunter’s jacket, with a rifle strapped across his back. He exchanged a few words with my father, then signaled to us to get up and come with him. We all went out in silence and single file, and headed towards the property’s boundary wall, in back, where there was a secondary exit with a small gate that was never used. This second exit gave onto a dark path. Waiting there outside for us were three other armed men. They gestured to us to remain silent. They brought some wooden crates inside the gate, hastily arranging them in the woodshed.”
“I assume they weren’t antique pieces . . .”
“I doubt it. But actually we were all in a kind of trance. We didn’t know why those men were bringing in those crates. Everything happened very quickly. Once the crates were hidden behind a stack of firewood, they bolted the woodshed shut and two of them came with us. The third, the youngest, remained on the property. The last thing I remember about Villa Regina was that gate in back and the bolt that locked it. I have not been back there since.”
“The man who came to get you was Remo Cappelletti, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, Inspector. Obviously there weren’t any introductions or niceties and everything happened very quickly. My father told us to be good and do everything he told us to do.”
“Then when happened?”
“Cappelletti told us to follow him. None of us must talk. We walked for a long time, for hours, in silence and the blackest night, going always uphill to boot. I think he’d decided to take a roundabout route to avoid the town. We passed villages and woods and mountains, and at the first light of dawn, after having made only two very brief stops of a couple of minutes each, we reached a clearing with a few huts and stables. There we encountered other men who were waiting for us. They exchanged a nod of understanding with Cappelletti and set us up in a hayloft. For me it was sort of an adventure, in a way. Before that I had never slept in a farm cottage before.”
“What sort of impression did Cappelletti make on you?”
“A decisive man, surely. During the entire journey he said barely a few words. And he addressed only my father. As soon as he’d set us up in the cottage, he disappeared back into the woods. Probably someone had stayed behind nearby, on guard, a short distance away. But we didn’t see anybody. We holed up in the cottage for many hours, almost a whole day.”
“Were you able to tell where you were?”
“It’s impossible to say, though through the apertures in
the hayloft you could see part of a lake in the distance. The cottage was on a small grassy slope, but everything else was a succession of very green, dense woods. I think there must have been a torrent passing somewhere in the area: I could clearly hear the rushing waters, though far away. Otherwise there wasn’t a soul anywhere. Late that afternoon a girl came with some bread, cheese, and a pail of milk. She was very tall, with an angular face and red cheeks and a rather graceless way of moving. She didn’t say a word, either. My father later told us she was Cappelletti’s daughter.”
“Was she a pretty young girl with dark hair?”
“Pretty, I really wouldn’t say, Inspector. Young, yes, but as tall and big as her father and just as brusque. She told my father we had to remain in hiding. She would come back and get us as soon as darkness fell.”
“And what happened next?”
“At around nine thirty or ten o’clock, Cappelletti and the two armed men from the night before knocked at the door. We went out with them, and our journey resumed.”
“Where were you headed?”
“We didn’t know. We walked in the dark, always uphill, and sheltered by the woods, always in silence. That night we didn’t go as far as the day before. Our pace slowed down because we were no longer following an actual path, but walking along the forest bed, between the roots of the trees, behind our guides. Long afterwards my father said that we crossed the border at San Primo that evening, pointing out the exact spot on a map.”
“Then what happened?” asked Stefania.
“At some point Cappelletti finally signaled to us to sit down and wait in silence. There were fewer and fewer trees. By the first light of dawn we began to glimpse stretches of green, open meadows. Cappelletti kept an eye on his watch by matchlight. He went up to my father and under his breath indicated a place to him, repeatedly making the ‘two’ sign with the fingers of his hand. My father turned to me and my uncle and told us to get up and quickly cross the field in front of us. He embraced me and told me to run as fast as I could. We mustn’t stop until we’d passed a row of trees just visible in the distance. There were about two hundred meters in the open, maybe more. Past the trees, down a path hidden from view, we would find a car waiting for us. I remember the exact moment my father kissed me on the forehead and then patted my uncle on the shoulder. And then it was all over, at least for that time.”
“What do you mean, it was all over?”
“The two of us crossed the border, and five minutes later my mother and sister crossed as well. Then my two cousins, and finally my father. We found the car, as we’d been told. Cappelletti had done a good job. And that was it. It was over, and we were in Switzerland, safe and sound.”
“Did you know the man who was waiting for you with the car?”
“He was the same man that Durand had sent to our home in Milan to pick up the most valuable items. A right-hand man of his, obviously.”
There was a pause of silence, which Stefania was the first to break.
“Signor Montalti, I realize I’m taking advantage of your cooperation, but it’s important to me and to the investigation I’m carrying out. Two more things. Let’s go back for a moment to the sale of Villa Regina. How did this happen, considering the circumstances?”
“Do you mean how could we conceive of ‘selling’ something that we had to leave behind when we escaped?”
“Exactly. I’m interested in knowing who could think seriously of buying something from you that, practically speaking, no longer belonged to you, since you didn’t know if or when you would ever be able to regain possession of your properties in Italy.”
“My father and his brothers were thinking the very same thing when Durand asked them shortly thereafter if they wanted to sell Villa Regina. He was offering a price that was less than one fifth of its actual value. They, however, decided it was an opportunity they shouldn’t let get away, if only because Villa Regina would be expropriated in one way or another just the same. After all, it went a lot worse for many of our Jewish acquaintances. Many of them lost everything. They were unable to save anything except their own skins. That was how my father decided to accept Durand’s offer. What was needed most at that moment was money: for the most basic necessities, and to help others of us try to get out of Italy. Like my mother’s family, for example. The ones who did get away managed to do so thanks, in part, to the money from Villa Regina, in a sense.”
“When did you learn that Villa Regina had been occupied by the Germans?”
“Months later, even though I don’t remember that detail very clearly. You probably also know that the villa, at least at first, was requisitioned by the government and granted to a few local Fascist leaders who settled there for a while with their families.”
“Actually I didn’t know that detail.”
“From what we were told, the regime’s police raided the villa just a few hours after we fled.”
“A close call, then. Was it only a lucky coincidence?”
“My father told me he’d been informed by a person he trusted. That was why he came to us that way, in the middle of the night, and told us to get ready to flee. At the time we didn’t know that both my father and my uncle had already been living for some time under false names in Milan, and that our house had already been assigned to other people, along with everything inside it. In short, Inspector, when my father was told that Villa Regina had been occupied, he thought again that it was a good thing he’d sold it, or, at least, a lesser evil. But this, too, in retrospect, was a serious mistake. But the times being what they were, it was very hard to know what the future would bring. Everything seemed as if it would end in a great catastrophe. One thing is certain, however, and that was that Durand didn’t make the same mistake. It’s possible he knew—as so few did at that moment—what might happen not long thereafter.”
“Wait. I’m afraid I don’t quite understand what you just said to me, Mr. Montalti.”
“Think about it, Inspector. Imagine a prominent person, well placed in the right milieux, in the closed circles of economic and political power in Europe and outside. . . . Anyone at that moment of history had the means to see that the war was lost by then. The Third Reich and the Fascist regime were on life support. It’s natural that some people were already thinking of the future, of war’s end, of reconstruction. Once the war was over, the large properties would be returned to their legitimate owners or their heirs, perhaps damaged but none the less considerable. Many of the Jews who got away, in fact, had means and acquaintances that helped them to recover what had been taken from them.”
“And so?” Stefania asked, still not having fully grasped Montalti’s line of reasoning.
“And so it’s better to buy when the price is low while it’s still possible, in order to resell as soon as the price goes back up—it’s a basic rule of economics. Obviously one had to have the means to do so, but that certainly was not a problem for Monsieur Durand.”
Stefania realized that the conversation had already gone on too long and she didn’t want to overdo it. She still had a couple of other things to ask him and figured that she had the time to settle everything calmly. And so with a tone of conviction, she said:
“Yes, that’s quite clear. But you keep referring to Durand. Wasn’t it the Cappelletti family to whom you sold Villa Regina?”
“Of course, and the deed of sale will attest to this, but the money came from Durand. While Cappelletti had enriched himself with his smuggling operations, he didn’t have that kind of money available. But he was the ideal person for Durand: trusty, resolute, and anything but stupid, endowed with that quintessentially peasant shrewdness that certain people of the lake area possess. Cappelletti immediately realized that Durand might represent his big break, the key to a leap forwards in the quality of life of his whole family.”
“I get the impression you don’t think very highly of either one of them.�
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“On the contrary! There is no doubt in my mind that Durand was a genius in business, and the fact that Cappelletti represented his armed force was perfectly logical. Neither of the two had a great deal of scruples. But don’t misunderstand me, Inspector. They weren’t scoundrels. Durand needed a lieutenant, a trusted person capable of managing, on his own, the transfer of antique pieces out of Italy and across the border. Who better than Remo Cappelletti, one of the most famous smugglers in the region? And at that time Cappelletti exported goods just as skillfully as he imported them. Let’s just say that everyone, on both sides of the border, was a client of his. The rest just came naturally, what can I say? The circumstances were favorable, and the two men were very good at not missing opportunities.”
“So who else?”
“Victims of political persecution, Jews like us, deserters—people who wanted to get out. Anyone who was in a position to pay became a client of Cappelletti’s enterprise. And then there was the weapons business.”
“Weapons?” Stefania asked in surprise.
“Of course. Weapons destined for the partisan struggle, however strange that might seem to you. My father told me that Durand had excellent business relations in the United States as well. The weapons may have come from there, but we’ll never really know. My uncle, perhaps under the influence of his excessive passion for spy novels, used to say that Durand was actually in the pay of the Allied military secret services.”
“What a pair, those two.”
“You can say that again. Cappelletti, by staying in Italy, controlled Villa Regina and everything that was in it. By that point it already belonged to him and to Durand, even though nobody knew yet. And while he was supplying Fascist officials with chocolate, at the same time he was letting weapons destined for the partisans into Italy. In short, he did business with everyone. Though his masterwork was clearly something else.”
Shadows on the Lake Page 14