In Love and War

by Alex Preston

  ‘We need to leave now,’ Ada says, crossing to the window and looking down onto the square.

  Rossi clears his throat. ‘My wife,’ he says. The slim woman steps forward from the shadows. Esmond sees that despite being quite young – she must be forty or so, he reckons – her hair is ice-white. ‘My wife,’ Rossi repeats, ‘is on Rabbi Nathan’s list.’

  Ada nods. ‘We’ll have to take her too.’

  ‘It’s ridiculous,’ the woman says, slightly shrill. ‘I’ve never been to the synagogue. I subscribed to a charity drive Nathan Cassuto was holding for Jews in Russia ten years ago. We got talking and I told him that my parents were Jewish. I’m an Italian, though. I go to church, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘It’s better that you go,’ her husband says.

  ‘Can I take a suitcase?’

  ‘A small bag,’ Ada says. ‘something you’d take shopping. You can’t draw attention to yourself.’

  Rossi and Levy embrace. ‘Good luck, old friend,’ Rossi says. He then takes his wife in his arms and places a long kiss on her lips. They pull apart, and it is painful to observe, and Esmond averts his eyes. He can see Rossi standing watching them as they make their way slowly down the stairs, Levy leaning on Esmond’s shoulder. At the bottom of the steps, the old man apologises.

  ‘It’s my asthma. I was gassed in the war.’

  It is bright in the square when they step outside. Esmond feels exposed, singled out by the light. The four of them hurry past the tanks. The Germans have gone but Esmond can make out a group of Blackshirts on the other side of the square. Ada stops to look in a shop window, taking Levy by the arm.

  ‘Be natural,’ she says. ‘We’re going for a walk with our aunt and uncle. Assume you’re being watched at all times.’

  Esmond holds out his arm to Signora Rossi. He can feel dampness spreading under his shirt, sweat gathering on his face. He is gripped by a sudden fear that, if they are stopped, he’ll forget all of his Italian. That he’ll stand there mouthing uselessly, his brain an empty phrasebook. Rossi’s wife gives his arm a little squeeze. ‘She’s pregnant, your wife,’ she says. ‘It’s very brave. Of both of you I mean.’

  There are guards on all of the bridges. The Ponte alle Grazie is manned by Blackshirts; on the others, a pair of Germans stand at either end in khaki, regular soldiers for whom this is just another day. They smoke when they think they aren’t being watched, chat, look at the flowing river.

  ‘We’ll take the Santa Trinità,’ Ada says. She and Levy are walking a few yards behind Esmond and Signora Rossi. ‘There are more guards on the Ponte Vecchio and anything else takes us too far out. Have you got the key to the church on you, Esmond?’

  He feels in his pocket. He still has the key to his digs at Emmanuel, a heavy iron one that opens the front gates at L’Ombrellino, some dimly remembered doors and cupboards in Shropshire. Now he holds up a brass Yale attached to a tasselled fob. ‘Here it is.’

  ‘Levy’s going to need to rest before we go up to the villa. Perhaps we should wait there until night,’ she says. They are on the via degli Strozzi. At the corner of the via Tornabuoni, Esmond sees Pretini leaning against a wall, reading a copy of La Nazione. The hairdresser gives an almost imperceptible nod as they pass. Ada and Levy drop further back as they approach the bridge.

  His heart hammering in his head, Esmond leads Signora Rossi past the first pair of German guards, who are talking in broken Italian to a Blackshirt smoking on the parapet wall. Two nuns are walking over the bridge ahead of them; a group of contadini drive a mule in the opposite direction. It is loaded with corn and moving irritably over the cobbles. Esmond is holding his breath. Signora Rossi swings her shopping bag casually. He looks back once and sees that Ada is having to help Levy, who leans heavily on his stick, pausing every so often. They, too, have passed the first set of guards.

  Now Esmond and Signora Rossi reach the first of the buttresses that jut out V-shaped into the water. He can see the second pair of guards over the gentle arc of the bridge. One of them has his helmet off. His hair is the same colour as Esmond’s; he can’t be far out of his teens. The other guard is older, darker, obscured by the shadow of his helmet. Now they are at the second buttress and the bridge is sloping downwards. Esmond’s heart is beating so hard it seems to shudder the air around him. He dare not look back at Ada. He is hurrying without realising it. They are level with the guards. The younger one suddenly smiles, raising his arm in the Fascist salute towards Esmond. Signora Rossi hesitates for a moment and then moves on. Esmond returns the salute.

  ‘Sie sind Deutsch?’ the guard asks. Esmond thinks quickly.

  ‘Mi dispiace, sono italiano.’

  The guard points to his own head. ‘I capelli,’ he says, laughing. Esmond forces himself to laugh back.

  ‘Auf Wiedersehen,’ he says, and then walks on, hurrying to Signora Rossi. It is only when they are outside the gate of the church that Esmond bends down and pretends to tie his shoelace. Looking back along the via Maggio, he sees that Ada and Levy have also been stopped by the guards. Ada is speaking to the older German, who hasn’t taken off his helmet. She is smiling, shaking her head. Esmond opens the wicket gate and motions Signora Rossi inside.

  ‘Hide yourself,’ he says. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’ She steps into the dark entrance porch and Esmond shuts the door quietly. He walks back up towards the bridge.

  The younger soldier has disappeared and the other has his rifle pointed at Levy and Ada. Esmond feels the gun in his waistband. He thinks of the easy shots he’d missed while out with Tatters, then catches sight of the swell under Ada’s tunic and draws the revolver out, hidden under the lapel of his jacket, walking towards the bridge. Ada has seen him; her eyes brighten. He takes a deep breath. At that moment, horn blaring, a Kübelwagen screeches around the corner from the Borgo San Jacopo and comes to a halt between Esmond and the bridge. In the passenger seat is the young blond soldier, excitement on his face. In the back is an SS officer. Esmond steps into the shadow of a building. The guards from the other end of the bridge now hurry to join the group. Ada holds out her documents to the SS officer, who inspects them coldly. He then says something to Levy, who shrugs.

  For a moment, he thinks they’re going to let Ada go. She says something which makes the SS officer smile; the young soldier lets out a laugh. The officer goes to the car and speaks into the radio there, waiting. He comes back out and rejoins the group, still in apparent good humour. Then he barks out an order and Levy is bundled into the car. Apologetically, the SS man takes Ada by the elbow and helps her in. He goes around to sit in the front seat. Esmond stands on the Lungarno watching as the Kübelwagen pulls away. He sees Ada’s face at the rear window, looking urgently outwards, one hand pressed to the glass. He watches the car pull over the Ponte Vecchio and out of sight.

  Dazed, he walks back to the church and lets himself in through the wicket gate. He is still gripping the revolver in his pocket, he realises, as he goes into the dark church and sits at a pew. He places the gun on the wooden seat beside him and slumps forward, his head in his hands. ‘Signora Rossi,’ he calls out. ‘Signora Rossi, they got them. You can come out, but they got them.’

  18

  They wait in the church until darkness has fallen and the street outside is empty before they make their way up to L’Ombrellino. A German patrol car comes past at one point, its searchlight shining into the surrounding gardens. Esmond forces Signora Rossi over a fence and down behind a laurel bush. They crouch against one another as the rumbling car with its sweeping beam stops. The sound of German voices, footsteps, a match being lit. The car begins to move again, its searchlight flickering against house-fronts further down. They wait for a few minutes, breathing the same air, then rise and continue the climb up the hill to Bellosguardo.

  When they’re inside, Esmond rushes straight to the bedroom and the W/T.

  ‘Penna, come in Penna.’ It is several minutes before a reply.

  ‘Esmond, I’m so so
rry, Esmond.’

  ‘You know?’

  ‘We know.’

  ‘What’s going to happen to them?’

  ‘Levy will be on the train with the rest of the Jews for Germany tomorrow. We’ll do our best to fish him out.’

  ‘But Ada?’

  There is the crackle of static. Then, in a graveyard voice, ‘They’ve handed her over to Carità.’ Esmond staggers into his chair. ‘It’s not as bad as it might be,’ Pretini says. ‘If they knew she was Jewish, they’d have taken her to the camp by the station with Levy. It means her identity is holding up. Carità will interrogate her, knock her about a bit, no more.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘At the Villa Triste. You sit tight and I imagine she’ll be out this time tomorrow. She’s a tough one, your Ada.’

  He cannot sleep. He paces up and down the floor of the drawing room. Signora Rossi sits upright on a divan, watching him. He imagines going down to the Villa Triste with his gun and shooting his way in. He wonders if Alessandro would come with him. But the other members of the Resistance are planning their raid on the German train the following afternoon. If he does it, he’ll have to do it alone. Several times he shouts out, kicks at the furniture, sobs. He feels madness stammering at the edge of his mind, and all his mind can hold is the memory of Ada’s green eyes, stretched impossibly wide. Finally he slumps down in an armchair.

  Signora Rossi makes him a cup of tea, pulls up a footstool beside him and sits. She takes his hand in hers and strokes it, not speaking. He can’t choke down the image of Carità’s pudgy face, his wide nostrils, his schoolboy’s shorts with their fat, hairless knees. Tatters comes into the room and curls up in his lap, begins to snore. They are sitting like that, Signora Rossi holding his hand, Tatters grumbling quietly, Esmond hunched and hopeless, when the sun comes up.

  He waits by the radio all day. He knows he mustn’t call Pretini or the partisans at Monte Morello. All efforts will be centred on the rescue attempt. There’s nothing he can do for Ada. Signora Rossi sits reading Chekhov in the drawing room. She makes a lunch of pasta and beans, but he can’t eat. As darkness falls, he’s standing in front of the triptych. He has tuned the wireless to Radio Moscow. The news in English at 7 p.m. speaks of the Anglo-American bombing raids on Berlin, thousands of tonnes dropped on the already blazing city, lines of refugees spidering out into the countryside. The Allies now hold most of Southern Italy. They have broken through the first of Kesselring’s defensive positions above Naples and are at Monte Cassino, approaching the Gustav Line, beyond which, Rome. They will not arrive, he reasons, in time for Ada.

  It is very late when he finally hears Pretini’s voice over the W/T. He’d been dozing on the bed wrapped in George Keppel’s tweed jacket, not wanting to sleep but eventually sinking into a series of rapid nightmares. ‘This is Penna, come in Esmond.’

  ‘Esmond here.’ He waits, as if the world has stopped. Then he hears Pretini sigh and his heart sinks.

  ‘It was a catastrophe. A fucking catastrophe from start to finish. They’d been warned of our plans. The train was preceded by a Krupp K5. It blasted the truck from the tracks then started shelling the hills. There were snipers, several heavy machine guns, at least a hundred soldiers with the carriages. We had no chance. We lost two Serbians. Elio took a bullet in the shoulder.’

  ‘And the train, it’s gone?’

  ‘Gone. I’ve had Rabbi Cassuto here all afternoon. Two hundred young men taken today. He fears another round-up later in the month.’

  ‘And Ada?’

  ‘No word, I’m afraid.’

  19

  On Tuesday morning Bruno arrives at the villa. He’s riding a red Moto Guzzi, goggles down around his neck when he comes to the door. He holds onto Esmond’s hand for a long time when he sees him. ‘We’ll go in and get her,’ he says. ‘I promise you, if she isn’t out by Friday, we’ll blast our way in there.’ Esmond nods. ‘She’ll be all right,’ Bruno says.

  Signora Rossi hugs Esmond on the steps of the villa and then climbs up behind Bruno with her shopping bag on her lap. She puts her arms around him and he pulls up his goggles. Bruno waves as he drives through the gates and out into the road. Esmond stands on the gravel in front of the villa listening until he can no longer pick out the engine from the other sounds in the air. The house is silent and cold.

  He can’t face waiting alone by the radio for another day and so goes out for a run. He and Tatters pound along the cypress-lined hillsides, past the Arcetri Observatory and the Torre del Gallo, along towards San Miniato. He feels if he can keep running, can keep up hammering his feet and heart and breath, then he might never have to face losing Ada. He realises, as he stands, exhausted, on a hilltop beside an abandoned shepherd’s hut and looks down into a valley where the first mist is gathering beneath the trees, that he was tested on the bridge and that he came up short. He should have saved Ada, should have held a gun to the SS officer’s head until he let her go. He reaches down and flings a handful of shingle into the valley.

  When he gets back to the villa it is almost three. He is drenched in sweat, already cooling on his brow. Tatters is panting at his feet and goes immediately to his bowl of water which he laps in rapid strokes. Esmond hears Pretini’s voice on the radio. He takes the stairs two at a time.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘We have Ada.’

  He looks up, up to the bright sky. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘At the Careggi Hospital, by the university. She’s officially still under arrest, but we have people near her. We’ll get her out.’

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘She’ll live. She’s conscious.’

  ‘When can I see her?’

  ‘That wouldn’t be wise, for you to be down there. My friend, the doctor, wants to keep her overnight. In the morning they’ll tell the guards that they’re taking her for surgery and bring her up to L’Ombrellino in an ambulance.’

  ‘Tomorrow, then.’

  ‘Yes, tomorrow.’

  He clumps back downstairs, searches the shelves in the drawing room until he comes upon a book of Hopkins’s poems and sits reading all afternoon and well into the night. He hears nothing more on the radio but finds some consolation in the poems. ‘Not, I’ll not, carrion comfort, / Despair, not feast on thee,’ he repeats the lines to himself, remembering how Leavis’s voice would rise into the mad eaves as he read. He takes the book with him to bed and by the time he turns out he has all of the ‘Terrible Sonnets’, each hopeful-hopeless line, by heart (a phrase which gains sudden new truth). He drifts off to the echo of: ‘I can; / Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.’

  20

  The ambulance arrives just after eight next morning. Esmond has been up since before dawn. He realises he has been allowing plates to pile up in the sink, dirty clothes to fall across the room. He sweeps the floor of the drawing room, scrubs the sideboard in the kitchen, changes the sheets on their bed. He even dusts the triptych. By the time the doctor comes up the steps and rings the bell, the inside of the villa is gleaming.

  ‘I am Morandi,’ he says. ‘I have your friend.’ Esmond looks out towards the ambulance parked on the gravel. ‘She will need some care. Normally I would not have wanted her to leave so early, but these are special circumstances, no? She is still losing blood. Rather a lot of blood. Will you help me get her inside?’

  Ada is trying to step from the back of the ambulance, her face lifting towards the light. Her cheeks are heavily bruised and one ear is bandaged. Her left hand is wrapped in plaster. Esmond rushes towards her. ‘Ada!’

  ‘You shouldn’t be walking,’ Dr Morandi says.

  They sling her between them and carry her up to the bedroom, where she lies down in obstinate obedience, burrows beneath blankets, and pulls the sheet up over her head. They go back downstairs and stand by the ambulance.

  ‘She needs to stay in bed indefinitely. Plenty of water to drink and change the dressings every day. Here’s a bag with bandages, some
pills to help with the pain. You mustn’t be surprised by the amount of blood. It’s normal. She’s given birth, you know. In all but name.’

  ‘But–– the baby?’

  ‘I’m sorry. At twenty weeks, there was no chance. We didn’t even try.’

  The doctor gets back into the ambulance and pulls away. Esmond stands in the driveway for a few moments, overcome by a heaviness so complete it almost crushes him. He goes up and sits beside the bed, watching the slight rise and fall of the covers, sending all his love and pity towards the hidden, sleeping figure, so as not to think of himself.

  When he pulls back her clothes that first night, he cannot believe that a body that looks like this can live on. There is barely a patch of skin that is not broken or bruised. The bruises are like clouds at sunset: billowing purple, magenta and yellow. One on the inside of her thigh is exactly the colour of the water in the pool – spring-green. The fingernails of her left hand are missing and the wrist is broken. When he changes the dressing on her ear, he sees that the lobe has been ripped away from the skin. He bathes it in iodine and she winces. Her stomach is soft, the skin there like a balloon as it begins to deflate. They look down at her body together, and there is fascination alongside the horror.

  She first speaks to him on the second day, when he and Tatters come up the stairs with a bowl of soup. The dog lies looking up at her as Esmond spoons it between burst lips. When it is finished, she says ‘Thank you,’ very softly. He is amazed that she hasn’t cried. While she is sleeping, he sits at the table in the kitchen with his head on his arms, or throws himself on the divan in the drawing room and sobs and howls, Tatters pressing a rough tongue against his cheeks.

  On the third day, she sits up and fixes him with her green eyes. Her voice when it comes, is unchanged, surprising him. ‘After they got rid of the baby––’