And then a tall, dark, shabby English officer had knocked on her door and had recognized her immediately. ‘It’s you,’ he’d said without thinking. What had that meant? And then it occurred to her that perhaps he knew something about Nico – what else could it mean? Cara did not want more soldiers in the house, and neither did she, but there was something about this officer and his men that seemed unthreatening, despite their weapons and his blood-soaked shirt. They were all filthy, and they smelt, but then the whole town smelt – of refuse, dung, stale urine and sweat. And they were British: they weren’t Fascists or Nazis. What was more, she told herself, they would protect her from Camprese. He wouldn’t like it, her housing big, battle-scarred soldiers, and that was as good a reason as any to let them stay. In any case, she knew she had no choice. The British, like the Germans, could requisition anything they liked, yet the officer had offered to walk away, to find somewhere else, which suggested he had a good heart, that he would not try to violate her late one night.
So she had let them in.
Within a couple of hours, the rest of the battalion had arrived, with the promise of the civil-affairs team reaching them the following morning. Echelon trucks lined the main road, the via Vittorio Emanuele, which ran the length of the narrow town, while outside in the square there were several Jeeps and a fifteen-hundredweight truck, which had somehow managed to navigate along the narrow, winding road that led to the church. The troops had been billeted, most in municipal buildings at the centre and edge of the town, the companies had their headquarters in houses around the tiny square, while the Sicilians watched this sudden activity with expressions of febrile anticipation. The arrival of a battalion of nearly five hundred men had transformed the town.
At Francesca Falcone’s house, Tanner was having a bath. She had lent him and his men a large tin tub, which they had taken outside. Drawing water from the well, and using his own soap, Tanner had stripped to his underpants and scrubbed himself, cleaning off weeks of grime and dust, sweat and blood. He had shaved too, heating a small amount of water in a mess tin. Trahair, meanwhile, was washing Tanner’s and his own shirt and trousers in petrol, an old desert trick. The fuel got rid of the worst of the grime and, once dried, made them smell a little better.
As he sat there, on an upturned wooden box left by the Germans, his body drying alongside his clothes in the last of the evening sun, he heard Francesca call from the balcony outside the kitchen.
He smiled. ‘Sorry, miss,’ he said, ‘not very decent I know.’
‘Do you want me to have a look at your wound?’
‘That’s kind, but the MO will be back shortly. He’s attending to some of the other men, then he’ll be here.’
‘My father was a doctor,’ she said. ‘I’m a good nurse.’
‘In that case, thank you.’
‘Come up when you’ve finished shaving.’
Sykes, who was cleaning his weapons by the sheds, whistled. The others laughed.
‘Goodness, Jack,’ said Macdonald, who was now having a bath, ‘you’re a fast mover, aren’t you?’
‘’E’s a bit of a ladies’ man, is Major Tanner,’ chuckled Sykes. ‘Don’t know why but they always fall for ’im.’
Tanner ignored them. It never paid to rise to Sykes’s ribbing.
‘Here, sir,’ said Brown, ‘do you think she’s got a sister?’
‘What are you suggesting, Browner?’ said Sykes. ‘That if she did you’d somehow have a chance?’
‘I’m good-looking,’ said Brown. ‘I’m young. I’ve got prospects.’
‘Really?’ said Sykes. ‘I think you’re confusing yerself with someone else.’
‘I’m more interested in getting some decent scoff,’ said Phyllis.
‘Siff, do you think about your stomach all the time?’ said Brown.
‘No,’ muttered Phyllis. ‘I’m just sick of bloody rations, that’s all.’
‘ ’E wants some Eyetie ice-cream.’ Sykes grinned. ‘Some bellissimo gelato, that’s what you want, ain’t it, Siff?’
‘I’d bloody love some,’ admitted Phyllis.
‘Then you’re in luck, my son,’ said Sykes, ‘cos this town’s got an amazing ice-cream shop. Some bloke was telling me when we first got here.’
‘Really?’ said Phyllis, his face brightening.
‘Oh, yes. You see, the Eyeties might not have much bread or pasta or anything, but they do still have ice-cream. What d’you think they’ve been living off all this time? Ice-cream is a treat to us, but over here it’s like, well, it’s like eating bread an’ dripping.’
‘Well, I want to find the place,’ said Phyllis.
‘Oh, Siff, you’re so bloody gullible,’ said Browner.
Phyllis’s face fell. Everyone laughed.
Tanner, having put on his still-damp denims, went into the house carrying his shirt.
‘Hello?’ he called.
‘Here, Major,’ said Francesca, emerging from the kitchen.
‘This is good of you,’ he said. ‘It does hurt, I’ll admit.’
‘What happened?’
‘It was only this afternoon, a couple of miles away. We were trying to clear a German outpost and there was a sniper taking pot-shots. He nicked me as I dived for cover.’
‘You were lucky.’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you get him?’
Tanner nodded.
She had put a Gladstone bag on the table, which stood open alongside a small dish of warm water. She took out some cotton wool, moistened it and began to dab at the wound. Tanner flinched. ‘It’s not the first scar, I see.’
‘This war’s been going on a long time.’
‘Too long.’
‘I agree.’
They were silent a moment, then Francesca said, ‘Earlier, when I opened the door, you said, “It’s you,” as though you recognized me. What did you mean?’
Tanner had been thinking about this, about what he should say, and whether he should mention the Italian officer. There had been another photograph, he remembered. She was his sister, he thought. She has a right to know. He flinched again as she applied some iodine.
‘Well?’ she said. ‘If you want me to dress your wound, you’re going to have to tell me.’
Tanner sighed and rubbed his brow. ‘You have a brother, miss?’
‘He was killed,’ she said.
‘Do you mind me asking when?’
‘Three weeks ago. He was a captain in the Napoli Division. Officially, he is still only missing. We had a telegram and nothing more. If you know something, please tell me.’
‘What was his name, miss?’
‘Nico. Niccolò Togliatti.’
Tanner nodded. ‘Then it was him. I’m so sorry, miss.’
Francesca let out a small cry, and put her hands to her mouth. ‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘Tell me.’
‘We were attacking his positions,’ said Tanner. ‘It was dawn, first light. We’d won, almost, and I came face to face with your brother. He surrendered to me, miss. We talked, but then shells started falling down on us. It was our own guns, the barrage ordered by our battalion commander. I lost one of my very best men and one of my oldest mates was badly wounded. Lots of men were killed. I was blown God knows how far, but when it was over, I found your brother. There wasn’t a scratch on him. Not one, I swear. He looked like he was asleep. At peace, I suppose. And because I’d been talking to him not ten minutes earlier, I wondered who he was and looked in his breast pocket – it’s where soldiers usually keep their most precious belongings. Italians are no different. I saw his name, and I saw a picture of you, miss. There was another one – four of you, I think it was, and that was when I guessed you and he were brother and sister.’ He paused. ‘I wish it could be different, and I wasn’t the bearer of this news.’
Francesca was quiet as she applied a bandage. Outside the men were laughing. Further away, guns could be heard in the distance; the battle had rolled north, past this corner of Sicily. But here,
in this room, the air seemed suddenly very still.
‘Sometimes,’ she said at last, ‘I dared to hope that he was still alive, but I knew he was gone. Now I know what happened.’
‘He wouldn’t have felt a thing, miss,’ said Tanner. ‘I’ve seen some terrible things, and for many, death is a long and horrible process. But his … Well, as I say, he looked at peace.’
‘I believe you. I don’t know why. I don’t even know you. But I do believe you.’
‘It’s the truth.’
‘But why did your commander order the guns to fire on his own troops?’
‘Because he was a murdering bastard, miss,’ said Tanner. ‘A bad man, who, thank God, has gone.’
‘He was killed too?’
‘No, he was arrested by our Military Police. I got his job.’
‘You’re done,’ she said.
‘Thank you, miss.’ Tanner stood up and put on his shirt. ‘I’m sorry about your brother and I’m sorry we’ve invaded your home. It’s not too late for us to move, you know.’
‘It is all right,’ she said. ‘You are not Germans.’
‘Did they treat you badly?’
‘Not at first. They were mostly young men, like your boys. It was their commander. He – he tried to dishonour me.’
‘The bastard,’ muttered Tanner. ‘He tried but didn’t succeed?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘I hit him here.’ She pointed to her crotch. ‘And I stabbed him in the arm.’
Tanner tried to suppress a smile.
‘He was not laughing, I can tell you,’ said Francesca.
‘Well, I can promise you have nothing to fear from me or my men. They’re good lads. All the officers are honourable. We’ll look after you.’
She smiled. ‘How long will you be here?’
Tanner shrugged. ‘I don’t know, miss. A day or two. Maybe longer.’
‘Francesca,’ she said. ‘You can call me Francesca.’
‘And you may call me Jack.’
‘Thank you for telling me about Nico,’ she said. ‘I know it cannot have been easy.’
Tanner smiled and left her.
The Germans were found early the following morning by a sapper party and some C Company men as they cleared the road north to Belpasso. Twelve of them, all shot and left lined up on the side of the road. Among them was an officer, who had had his penis cut off and placed in his mouth. With the heat, the bodies already stank. Identity tags and papers were collected and then they were buried, by the side of the road, in a long, makeshift grave.
Their identity tags and papers were delivered to Battalion Headquarters and given to Tanner by Lieutenant Cartwright.
‘They did what to him?’ said Tanner. They were in Dr Togliatti’s old surgery, now the battalion office.
‘They cut off his old chap,’ said Cartwright, ‘and shoved it in his mouth. I nearly retched, I can tell you.’
‘Jesus, who the bloody hell would do such a thing?’
‘It wouldn’t be any of our lads,’ said Cartwright. ‘We only got here last night and those fellows had been dead longer than that.’
‘Eyeties then,’ said Tanner. ‘But why?’
He found Francesca and told her.
‘What were their names?’ she asked.
Tanner looked at the papers. ‘Not sure.’
‘The officer was called Kranz,’ said Cartwright. ‘Leutnant Albert Kranz.’
Francesca gasped. ‘He was the one who—’ She stopped. ‘They were here. They were billeted here.’
‘The thing is, Francesca,’ said Tanner, ‘they must have been killed by Italians. I know they’re the enemy, but people can’t go around murdering Jerries like that. And butchering them, for that matter. If we do that, we’re no better than the Nazis.’
‘Talk to Salvatore Camprese,’ she said.
‘The bloke who thinks he’s mayor?’ said Tanner. Camprese had presented himself the previous evening.
‘Yes,’ said Francesca. ‘He knows everything that goes on here. But I do not want to speak to him.’
‘He’s with the civil-affairs people,’ said Macdonald. ‘Let them do the interpreting.’
‘All right,’ said Tanner. ‘Let’s go and see him now.’
The town hall was an ornate belle-époque building, with palm trees outside, overlooking the war memorial.
‘Municipio,’ said Tanner, reading the marble plaque beside the main door. ‘This is it.’
He had brought with him Sykes and Captain Masters, the intelligence officer, and now they strode in. To the left of the hall, in a large, light, high-ceilinged office, Camprese was sitting behind his desk and talking to three British soldiers.
‘Buon giorno, Maggiore,’ said Camprese.
‘Morning,’ said Tanner. Then, to the others, he said, ‘Are you the civil-affairs lot?’
‘Yes,’ said a neat young captain, with a trim gingery moustache and spectacles. ‘Captain Bullmore. I’m the CAO for these parts.’ He offered a hand. ‘Major Tanner, I presume.’
‘You presume right. How d’you do?’
‘Very well, very well,’ said Bullmore, then turned to his companions. ‘These are Sergeants Lewis and Lavery of 302 Field Security Service.’
‘And which of you speaks Italian?’ asked Tanner.
‘We all do,’ said Bullmore.
‘And are you staying here permanently?’
‘Good gosh, no,’ said Bullmore. ‘I’m going to be running Misterbianco, Belpasso, this town and as far as Sferro. This is just a courtesy call, really, to speak to Mayor Camprese and see what’s needed. I’ll be leaving Sergeant Lavery here, though. He’ll be your liaison with Camprese and the townspeople.’
‘One FSS bloke? Is that all?’
Bullmore pushed his spectacles back up his nose. ‘We’re quite stretched, I’m afraid, Major. I shall be based at Misterbianco but I’ll come over here as often as time permits.’
‘So, in your absence, who will be running the civil affairs of the town?’
‘Mayor Camprese, liaising, of course, with me through Sergeant Lavery.’
From the other side of the desk, Camprese beamed genially.
‘But I thought he was a Fascist,’ said Tanner. ‘That’s what I was told.’
‘Out here in the country, Major, Fascism was often worn very lightly. Camprese has been put forward to continue as mayor – no longer wearing the Fascist badge, obviously – and this has been approved by AMGOT.’
Tanner sighed heavily. ‘All right, then. Can you ask him if he knows anything about the twelve Germans we found murdered to the north of the town?’
Bullmore repeated the question. Camprese shrugged and muttered something.
‘The Germans were not popular. There was a lot of anger towards them. People blame them for the suffering here.’
‘Does he know who killed them?’
Another shrug.
‘He says the men of the town don’t like their girls being chatted up by Germans.’
‘Christ,’ said Tanner. ‘We’re not going to get anywhere. He might be mayor, Bullmore, but that doesn’t give him the right to play vigilante.’
‘You probably won’t think it’s my place to say this, sir,’ said Bullmore, ‘but I’d let the mayor take care of things his way. We’re going to have a hell of time trying to distribute enough food, and you front-line troops have enough to worry about fighting the enemy. I agree, no one should be murdering anyone, but Sicily is different from England.’
‘All right,’ said Tanner, ‘but I haven’t been fighting this war just so little dictators like him can pile even more misery on the people we’ve been trying to liberate. Let him play lord of the manor, but while I’m here, he needs to watch it. If I catch him murdering anyone else, I’ll string him up without a second thought.’
It was not until later that afternoon that Tanner had a chance to speak to Francesca again. He and Sykes had brought her some rations – tins of condensed milk, fruit, stew and some chocolat
e for Cara. Seeing them in the kitchen, he knocked on the door.
‘Jack, hello,’ she said. ‘And Sergeant Major Sykes, isn’t it?’
‘Call me Stan.’ He offered Cara the chocolate. Her face lit up as she eagerly tore off the foil.
‘A few tins,’ said Tanner, as he and Sykes placed them on the table.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Peaches in syrup. I have never tried such a thing.’
‘They’re not bad,’ said Sykes. ‘With a drop of condensed milk they’re even better.’
‘I want to ask you something, Francesca,’ said Tanner. ‘This Camprese bloke. We grilled him a bit this morning and he said the Germans had been chasing the town’s girls. Is this true?’
‘No, it is not. Kranz tried to dishonour me, but they barely left the houses, those men. They had no time. You should know that Camprese wants me to marry him. He argued with Kranz about it, and threatened him. I heard it.’
‘But you don’t want to?’ asked Sykes.
‘No. I despise him. He’s a bully. He doesn’t love me, just wants me as a prize.’
‘The bastard,’ muttered Tanner. ‘So he murdered them. And that’s why you told us to talk to him?’
‘Yes. As soon as I heard of it I knew it would have been him. You will not get him or anyone else to admit it, though. I would have killed Kranz myself the other night, but Camprese had no right to do what he did. It was not his vendetta. He would not see it that way. Killing those Germans was a way of telling the town that he is still in charge. Mussolini may have gone, but Camprese is still king here. It’s a warning too.’
‘Don’t mess with me,’ said Sykes.
‘Exactly. These so-called “men of honour”, it’s pathetic. There’s no honour. Only misery. You British should stop it. The Mafia ruined Sicily once already. They ruined my family.’
‘How?’ asked Tanner.
‘My father was a successful doctor in Palermo. He had some very rich clients, old aristocratic families, and they enabled him to take on a number of less well-off patients. He looked after the poor. My father was a good man. We had a nice house, with views of the sea and the mountains. All was right with the world. But then the Mafia asked him to join them. He knew a little about the Honourable Society, that it was corrupt and unfair, and that one day they would ask him to do something that would compromise everything he believed in. It would be a Faustian pact. He knew that so he refused.’
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