In Love and War

by Alex Preston

They sip their coffee.

  ‘I wonder,’ he begins, ‘the people who do this kind of thing all the time, the Richard Hannay types, how much they’re in it for the thrill? Waiting around for a secret assignations. Being terribly hush-hush. Generally feeling like a Buchan novel.’

  She is silent, watching the boats as they approach.

  ‘Because it seems rather a flimsy thing to build your life upon, this kind of frisson, don’t you—’

  ‘Shut up, Esmond.’

  ‘Right-o.’

  ‘If you have to speak, speak in Italian. But better, don’t speak.’

  He looks down the beach, up towards the road, where only the waiter stands, watching them, coolly complicit. A gust of wind showers them with a fine sting of sand.

  ‘Right-o,’ he says quietly.

  The boats pull up on the shoreline a few hundred yards to the north and one man walks briskly along the beach towards them. He’s wearing a dark blue sou’wester and oilskin and puffing on a cigarette, a red glow each time he inhales. When he reaches them he squats down in front of Esmond. He has amused blue eyes, a square jaw peppered with stubble.

  ‘Shoot out your arm and let’s have a dekko,’ he says, looking swiftly up and down the beach and then peeling apart the plaster cast. He takes out the papers and gives them a brief, frowning glance before slipping them inside his oilskin. ‘Think they’re kosher?’ he asks.

  ‘They look real enough,’ Ada says, sitting up as straight as her deck chair will allow. ‘Ristori stole them from the Regia Marina headquarters in Livorno. Could be a plant, but I’d bet they were real.’

  ‘Good work,’ the man says. ‘You know Bailey, don’t you?’ He looks at Esmond again.

  ‘Yes. Very well.’

  ‘Bloody good egg. We sprung him from a camp in Sicily in August. He’s in Spain now, on a job, but he’ll be back in the UK before long. Deserves a rest after what he’s been through. More or less ran our game in Italy until they picked him up.’

  ‘Your game?’

  ‘Can’t stay, I’m afraid. Eyeties I’m with are awfully skittish. Cheerio.’

  He pulls his hat down and sets off back up the beach. The rain has eased and there is sunlight on the sea as the two boats pull out and head northwards. They sit for a while longer and then Ada stands and stretches.

  ‘Shall we go for a walk?’

  They follow the Englishman’s footsteps down to the tide-line. Ada shucks off her shoes and socks and walks barefoot, stepping over wormcasts and the bubbles of oily seaweed.

  ‘Aren’t you cold?’ Esmond asks.

  ‘I love it. I love winter. It’s worth a little pain to feel like this.’

  Esmond takes his own shoes off and they walk together, looking up at the dark windows of holiday houses, hotels, restaurants. They herd wading birds ahead of them along the beach; Esmond spots oystercatchers, sanderlings, dunlin.

  ‘There’s nothing so depressing as a holiday resort in winter,’ he says.

  ‘But we have it to ourselves.’ She takes his hand and he feels the ridge of the ring on her wedding finger. He remembers slipping Bruno an envelope of cash to take to Bernard Berenson at I Tatti in exchange for the small and ancient gold band. Esmond had given it to Ada one evening, as they’d sat out on the terrace with one of the last bottles of wine from the Keppels’ cellar, and a rich dusk had fallen over the countryside. He’d told her he loved her, that as soon as the war was over, he’d marry her, that he’d never met anyone so admirable.

  Now he takes her in his arms on the beach, aware there must be eyes watching them from the slumbering town, but not wanting to miss this, their toes icy in the surf, his cast heavy on her shoulder. Sun ranges across the sea, now blue and sparking green. He kisses her and she pulls him urgently towards her. A spray of sand and salt water covers them, and he is suddenly aware how far from safety they are, how alone. They break apart, pulling their socks and shoes back onto pale blue feet. Esmond hooks his cast back in the sling, and they make their way up to the train station.

  8

  It is not until the beginning of December, when, en route to Malta, three Poeti-class destroyers are intercepted by Royal Navy corvettes off Lipari and sunk, that they see the fruits of their mission. Bruno, the Professor, Antonio Ignesti and Tosca Bucarelli come to L’Ombrellino to congratulate them. Esmond and Ada are in the kitchen with Tatters when the four appear at the bottom of the terrace, coming up the stone steps by the swimming pool. An unlikely gang – the Professor, slightly stooped, a bottle of wine in each hand, stumbling every so often on the icy gravel, Bruno swinging a whole cured ham, scarf furled around his neck like an undergraduate, Antonio with one arm around Tosca, the other heaving a shopping basket full of pasta and cabbages. He is sturdy and shaven and she blonde and childlike beside him. Tatters gallops down to greet them, speechless with joy at their coming, bouncing up and down until he is tickled and fed a chunk of ham by Bruno.

  They sit in the kitchen around another perilous fire, snow falling thickly outside. Corks are pulled from bottles, a pan of water set to boil on the stove, ham and salami sliced on the sideboard. There is an air of quiet satisfaction, of having done something meaningful for Europe, for humanity. The wireless is brought down to the kitchen, and they listen to the news on Radio Vaticana. It is possible, as 1942 runs out of breath, to feel better.

  The Allies are on top in most places. Rommel is stuck in Tunisia; the Germans stewing in Stalingrad; the Japanese fading at Guadalcanal. The American war machine is gathering: their bombs fall constantly. Malta – absurdly, it seems to Esmond – stands firm. And here in Italy the Professor tells them of Mussolini’s son-in-law, Ciano, uttering rebellious murmurs in Rome as more and more Alpini are fed into the maw of the Eastern Front. Slogans have begun to appear on the streets of Florence. Viva Il Duce and Credere, Obbedire, Combattare are replaced by Non Mollare! and Ricordiamo Matteotti.

  The Professor raises his glass. ‘To Esmond and Ada,’ he says, grinning. ‘And to Oreste Ristori, the madman.’

  ‘And to me,’ Tosca says. ‘It’s my twentieth birthday today.’ Esmond hugs her, Bruno uncorks a bottle of spumante, the Professor beams soppily as Ada serves out bowls of ravioli. Tatters settles down in Bruno’s lap and begins to snore as they talk about the war.

  After eating, they go to stand in the drawing room where Esmond lights another fire, burning more of the vine branches that fill the bothies beside the villa. Firelight plays on their faces as they lounge on divans, the Professor sprawled in an armchair, Tosca and Antonio beginning to dance as Ada winds up the gramophone. Bruno is by the window smoking a cigarillo, looking down over Florence.

  The Professor swirls the flat wine in his glass. ‘All wars are civil wars,’ he says woozily, ‘because all men are brothers.’ Dusk has fallen and the city is a mass of shadows under the hills. Esmond goes to stand beside Bruno.

  ‘You did well,’ Bruno says. ‘Ada told me.’

  ‘It was a test, I suppose?’

  ‘It was a success. That’s all that matters.’ Bruno breathes out smoke against the window. ‘Those ships might have made the difference for Malta. Malta might make the difference to the war. Everything is connected, especially at a time like this.’

  They are silent for a while. Bruno turns towards him and Esmond watches his thin profile in the glass.

  ‘We must all choose sides, you know,’ he says.

  ‘I have.’

  ‘You’re doing the right thing, certainly. Do you want a cigarillo?’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Esmond sees the flame flare in the window. Two heads bend inwards and two red points separate. The Professor leads Ada in a stately waltz beside Antonio and Tosca, the glow of firelight behind them.

  ‘It’s important to do the right things for the right reasons. To have ideological certainty to back up your actions.’ Bruno’s voice is soft. ‘Do you see what I mean?’

  Esmond swallows the last of his champagne. He feels oddly nervous.

 
; ‘It’s extraordinary,’ he says. ‘Stalingrad. I mean horrifying, but also terribly moving. Ada and I listen to Radio Moscow in the evenings, when they broadcast in English, and the way the Russians are laying down their lives, that kind of ecstatic self-sacrifice. They have something we don’t.’

  ‘Noble, isn’t it?’ Bruno turns and smiles. A beat. ‘You’ll want to rescue your fiancée from the Professor. She’s beginning to look desperate.’

  Esmond and Ada stand at the door a few hours later and watch the four of them stagger down the path towards the swimming pool. They wash up together, then make their way to bed, bundled against the cold. Esmond has found an old tweed jacket of George Keppel’s that he wears to sleep. They have talked about bringing the mattress down to the kitchen, but Esmond says there’s something medieval about the idea, and they like the cool light of mornings in the studio, the view down over the city, the sense of sleeping away from a sordid day in the city’s life.

  In bed that night, he waits until she is asleep and crawls along the floor to light the stubby candle in front of the triptych. He thinks of the Italian sailors on the boat, imagines the shock of the torpedo blasts, the way the air would have been sucked out of the cabins, how quickly they went down. He wonders how many of the men on board read poetry, how many had a novel they were working on, or a girl like Ada waiting at home. He wonders how many were locked in each other’s arms, in the snug of a hammock below deck, when the torpedoes struck. He’d heard that drowning was an easy way to go once the first lungful of water was drawn in. He looks up at the face of Mary Magdalene and finds himself mouthing something close to a prayer.

  ‘You don’t believe in God now, do you?’ Ada, wearing a thick jumper over one of Alice Keppel’s nightdresses, is raised on her elbow, watching him.

  ‘Of course not,’ he says.

  ‘I like having the paintings here, but not if they’re making you superstitious. I won’t be with a religious man.’

  ‘I was just thinking about the sailors, about how they died.’

  ‘You can’t have those thoughts. We’re at war. Now blow out the candle.’

  He does so and lies beside her, looking up into the darkness until it is almost dawn, then gets up and takes Tatters downstairs. He lets the dog out into the garden and goes back inside. He sees, by the fire, a red leather book. Il Manifesto del Partito Comunista. He opens it and begins to read – ‘Borghese e Proletari. The story of every society up to this point is a story of class struggles.’ He hears Tatters scratching at the kitchen door. He smiles, closes the book. The dog, with a proud little wag, deposits a baby rabbit on the mat, still weakly twitching, its back broken. Tatters looks up at Esmond with jubilant eyes, then turns tail and rushes back into the garden, barking joyously. By the time they eat breakfast, there are six, soft, motionless pouches of fur curled up on the mat.

  ‘I’ll cook them for lunch,’ Ada says, smiling.

  9

  The early months of 1943 bring deep snow and silent, frosty mornings. Esmond had thought that, after the success of their first job, missions for the Resistance would be delivered into their lives in regular, manageable manila envelopes. Instead, apart from frequent visits from Bruno carrying cryptic messages for the W/T, the months of snow and ice pass much as before at L’Ombrellino.

  Abroad, though, it is a different matter. Esmond and Ada lying rapt as the good news registers from the Vatican, Moscow, London. The wireless on the table in their bedroom is almost never off. When the German 6th Army surrenders and the Battle of Stalingrad is over, Esmond wakes Ada and they listen together to Radio Moscow playing the Internationale. She looks up at him with a sleep-fogged grin. Even the eyes of the three martyrs seem to soften at the news. The music stops and they hear the voice of the Russian announcer, breaking every so often with emotion as he reads a report of the final battle. They understand almost nothing of what he says but the hopeful relief. They make love then, pressing their cold bodies together, and she’s crying when she comes. He kisses her mole and tastes salt.

  The foul weather, which has cut off the mountain passes, keeps the partisans to their hideouts in the hills. The rag-tag members of the Resistance spend the winter planning, discussing. Esmond makes a night-time foray down into the city to pick up a package from the Professor at the university. He hides it in the bottom of George Keppel’s wardrobe until a Chetnik Serb, who grins at him through his thick black beard, comes to collect it.

  There are more and more Nazis in Florence; the Professor tells of Bach and Beethoven in the city’s churches, Furtwängler and von Karajan flown in to give gala performances. After the concerts, the Germans congregate at the Paszkowski Bar in the Piazza Vittorio Emanuele or at the Braunhaus – a rococo apartment near the German Consulate on the via dei Bardi – where they serve beer from Munich, bratwurst and Wiener schnitzel. Red and black swastika flags hang from the windows and, most evenings, the sound of Hitler’s voice giving long, jagged speeches is heard until the cheers of the men inside drown it out. The locals stand with their ration cards in the street below, half-crazed with hunger.

  They follow news from the ghetto in Warsaw hopelessly, helplessly. Reports come to them in stuttering bursts, like rifle fire over the radio waves. They hear of the Waffen SS entering on the eve of Passover, the bodies suspended from the clock tower. They hear of members of the Resistance hiding in sewers and culverts, brandishing Molotov cocktails and pilfered weapons. For a moment, just as the first warm sunshine brings buds and birdsong to the garden, there is a window of optimism, as the Nazis retreat. Then silence for a month. In May, when the rebellion is finally crushed, the ghetto torched, the members of the Resistance shot and hanged, Ada stays up in the bedroom, looking at the triptych, her eyes very cold and very clear. Esmond brings her tea and books, sits on the bed and rubs her feet between his hands. She comes downstairs again once she hears that Lampedusa has fallen. A piece of Italy is in Allied hands. Bruno is carrying two bottles of Chianti with when he comes to see them that evening and they sit out on the terrace and toast the fall of Fascism.

  In July, a Wednesday arrives with no visit from Bruno. Ada is sick and so they spend the day lying in bed listening to the BBC report the British landing on Sicily. The Germans haven’t had the time to reinforce the Italian mainland; it is thought that the country will fall in a matter of weeks. Ada leans over the side of the mattress and vomits into a metal bin. Every so often, Esmond goes down to the bottom of the garden to check for Bruno. As night falls, he makes a final trip down to the copse with Tatters and sees the blonde head of Tosca bobbing through the trees towards him.

  ‘Where’s Bruno?’ he asks.

  She is out of breath and sits down on one of the chairs beside the pool. ‘Bruno is fine,’ she says. ‘They have Maria Luigia, though.’

  ‘Who have her?’

  ‘The Blackshirts, Carità,’ she says, scowling. ‘She was found carrying forged passports. She’s been taken to the Murate. Bruno thinks we’ll be able to spring her. I think he’s crazy.’ She circles her finger by her head.

  ‘Is there anything we can do?’ he asks.

  ‘Sit tight,’ she says. ‘I must go now.’

  Bruno comes up to see them the next day. Ada is still sick, and so the thin, tired-looking man comes to speak to them in their bedroom.

  ‘You have the paintings up here. Very gothic,’ he says when he walks in. ‘And a pistol beside the bed. I’m impressed.’ He looks down at Ada, who has a sheen of sweat on her forehead. ‘Are you all right?’ he asks, cocking the matchstick in the corner of his mouth.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she says. ‘It’s just an infection. The water in the well isn’t as clean as it was. Is there news of Maria Luigia?’

  He stoops to stroke Tatters, who has wandered in at their feet. ‘She’s being held while they try to extract information from her. She’s a strong woman, though. I’d rather it were her than almost anyone else. The bastards will torture her, I’d imagine, but she’ll do well.’

&
nbsp; Bruno leaves and they sit listening to the radio. Neither of them feels like eating. Night falls and it is hot in the room, even with the windows open. Both of them are sweating and each time Esmond drifts into a shallow sleep, he sees Maria Luigia’s plump, friendly face, a shadow looming over it. He wakes with a start, three, four, five times. Finally, Ada turns and puts her arms around him.

  ‘Darling, I’m pregnant,’ she says.

  10

  The first they know is the ringing of the great bell – La Vacca – in the Palazzo Vecchio. They are down by the pool, dangling their feet in the water, trying to get cool in the airless evening. Esmond gets a kick of pleasure each time he thinks about the baby. He feels at once braver and more nervous than ever before. Ada is still sick, drained by the heat, irritable. ‘The baby is not the most important thing,’ she says with a frown, whenever he drapes moony fingers across her belly. Now frogs swim in the pool, pesto-thick with weed and algae. The dodos seem almost alive, so shrouded are they with moss and lichen.

  The bell begins to ring just past seven in the evening. It rings for half an hour without stopping and soon there are pistol shots from the town below them. When the bell stops, they catch distant cheers echoing up the hillside. At once, they look at each other and hurry up to the bedroom. Esmond tunes the radio to the BBC. The announcer – it is Alvar Lidell – speaks in a voice of quiet wonder. The Fascist government of Benito Mussolini has been overthrown in a bloodless coup, he says. Marshal Badoglio has announced that Italy will continue to fight alongside its German allies. Former Prime Minister Mussolini has been sent into exile on the island of Maddalena. There will be a further address by King Victor Emmanuel and Prime Minister Badoglio tomorrow at twelve hundred hours Greenwich Mean Time.

  Esmond and Ada stare at each other open-mouthed.

  ‘What does it mean?’ she asks. ‘Is it over?’

  ‘The war?’ he says. ‘Not yet. It can’t be. The Germans are still here.’