by Mick Hare
Robert was in between Schirach and a young commando in the rear of the lead vehicle. Lily was in a similar position in the second of the three vehicles that now made their way through the dampened streets of Rome back towards the heart of the city. Robert was too deep in thought to pay much attention when his vehicle came to a shuddering halt.
The driver leaned out of his window and yelled at someone ahead on the street. After that things happened so quickly Robert only retained a sketchy memory of events. The first thing he was aware of was the sound of gunfire and glass bursting all over him. When he looked at Schirach a red bullet hole had appeared in the centre of his forehead. Out of the back of his head there was a bloody cavernous mess. Turning to his other co-passenger he saw another red bullet hole, this time where the man’s left eye had been moments before. Then he heard a wild blaze of continuous gunfire. Keeping his head down as much as he could, all he saw was the driver of the vehicle slump over the steering wheel as he was hit in the neck. After an eternity of gunfire, which rose to an insane crescendo, an equally insane silence fell upon the scene. In a moment two men dressed in the garb of Italian merchant seamen wrenched open the rear doors of his vehicle.
These were Italian Partisans - the true Italian heroes of the war. Robert held out little hope of explaining to them that he too was an enemy of the Germans. He expected to be shot. All he could do was raise his hands and show them the binds that held him. But then a truly surprising thing happened. One of the men leaned in and pulled the blue cravat away from his face. Robert found himself looking into the eyes of a dirty, unshaven Andrew Trubshaw.
“Come on, Colquhoun,” Andrew said. “We need to get moving if we’re to get you out of here.”
Trubshaw then surprised Robert. He handed his machine gun to one of his men and drew his pistol from a shining, brown, leather holster.
“But before that there is one more task to perform.”
Robert watched in astonishment as Trubshaw walked towards the scene where the second vehicle had come to a halt. To his horror he watched Trubshaw approach Lily as she was being pulled from the back seat. As he approached he raised his pistol and pointed it directly at Lily’s temple.
Robert screamed, “No!” His animalistic cry was enough to make Trubshaw pause and turn to look at him.
“Andrew!” gasped Robert. “No – you’ve got it wrong. She’s one of us. Don’t shoot her. I know she started out with them. But you’ve got to believe me. She’s turned. She’s with us.”
Trubshaw exhibited a reluctance to believe Robert. His pistol remained hard against Lily’s temple and he was obviously contemplating pulling the trigger. He had spent so many months longing for this moment. He had been humiliated by her successful deception. He felt personally responsible for the deaths her activities had led to. But here was Robert, who had worked alongside her for all these months, pleading for her life. Slowly he lowered his pistol.
“You are a very lucky woman,” he whispered into Lily’s ear.
Lily, shaking with shock and fear was dragged to join Robert and the whole group ran into the Roman night.
Seventy-two
The Montevideo slipped through the Straits of Gibraltar and headed south-west into the open Atlantic. Gran Canaria was the first scheduled stop on the seven week journey. Friedrich lay in his cabin. He would not survive the journey. Severe hypertension was compounded by the guilt that assailed him for his years as a clerk in Munich. Two days out from Buenos Aires he would succumb to a massive stroke. He was not sad. He had played his part in helping Robert and Lily and he truly had no desire to begin a new life in a new world.
Robert and Lily were on deck. The sea was black ahead of them. To their starboard side no lights revealed the position of Gibraltar, although the lights of Fascist Spain could be seen. The white surf that was pierced by the ships bow attracted Robert’s gaze and he realised as he looked further ahead into the black, Atlantic night that he was thinking of O’Shea. Somewhere out there, two days ahead of them, O’Shea was standing on a similar deck cutting through the same surf.
“Your frown tells me are thinking things you have no need to.”
Lily put her arm inside Robert’s and leaned against him. He kind of smiled. He did not mind her demonstrating affection. It only reminded him that he felt none. He turned and looked at her the way a camera looks at a subject. Pulling her to him he kissed her and felt the curves of her warm body against him. With her he could master this pretence. Deep inside he hoped she was practising the same self deception. Without her there would be nothing – not even pretence. He made do with what he had.
“I know what you are thinking,” she said. “It is not so bad. Perhaps it is what we need to keep us going. I don’t fool myself that we are starting anew. Life’s not like that for you and me anymore. We are outside of normal life.”
Robert wiped away a moist bead from below her right eye. He did not interrupt her. He was thinking of Grete and her children and wondering if they were safely on their way to Palestine. He thought about Martha and a baby girl who would never know him. He thought about a dead child too.
“O’Shea gives us purpose." Lily continued. "And when O’Shea is done with there will be plenty of work to do in Argentina if this shipload of Nazis and Ustashes is representative of the traffic flowing between Rome and South America.”
Robert pulled her to him and looked out over her head to the white face of the moon. He saw the expressionless visage riding over the waves as a reflection of himself. He wondered if it would be enough.