CHAPTER 20
STEFANO
Stefano is dreaming. It is one continuous war inside his head when he goes to sleep each night. Fire features the most, and he wakes breathless to the reality of his memories: faces in the fire, bullets whizzing past him, running in terror, and living on air, on little else for several nights. The adrenaline was high, and he was luckier than some, completing his missions before madness set in. But his dreams now are perhaps the delayed and resultant madness: nightmares that are disturbed with faces of people he loves, people dead, people still living, and all driving him forward for different reasons.
He had helped Rosalind clean up and carried Michal, who had fallen asleep on the floor beneath the table, back to the bedroom at Erich’s. He’d tucked the boy into bed once again. Stefano had bent over him, whispered good night, and touched his soft cheek. He smelled like pine, not the mixture of soil, smoke, and ash where the boy once slept. Then Stefano had waited there, watched him fall back asleep returning once more to the bedroom at the front to get some hours of rest.
Sometime in the night he wakes to a grumbling sky and the boy, beside him again, curled into his back and sleeping deeply. Stefano sits up at the edge of the bed to grip the sides, willing the images from his dreams to disappear. Thunder sounds nearby, distracting him suddenly, and the house shudders in anticipation of another storm. A squall sends the curtain flying wildly up to the ceiling.
He steps near the window, where spots of rain cool his bare chest and bursts of light capture the coiling silver river. As he begins to draw the window closed, movement in the woods to his right gives him pause. He waits several moments to catch the movement again, but when the woods are once more scattered with light, the trees appear alone.
Though Stefano is certain he didn’t imagine something there. He is used to watching for people. He checks that the boy is still sleeping soundly, and he waits for the noise of thunder before stepping out onto the creaking stairs, then onto the ground floor. He can see Erich’s bed at the back of the room and sees that there is something there: a lump, the shape of a person. He holds his breath and waits for the next flash of lightning to confirm that it is nothing but bundles of linen and cushions.
Stefano walks to the front door, a black space in front of him, his arm outstretched until he touches the door. He runs his hand down the wood and feels cautiously for the handle. Impatience will get you killed, Fedor had told him. He turns the handle slowly, one small twist at a time, then steps into the night and shuts the door the same way he opened it. Once it was skill; now it is habit.
Another wind gust and a burst of rain announce that worse is to come. The thunder steps noisily downriver toward him as he reaches the entrance to the wood, and he treads carefully along the slippery path.
He can smell the water, smell the dankness of the soaked roots that fester in the murky shallows as he emerges from the wood to stand at the edge of the embankment. There is movement of something shapeless and white below him as the rain begins its tirade against the world.
A lightning strike across the river exposes someone shirtless, standing in the shallows. Stefano switches on his torch, and Georg turns toward it, eyes wild, staring and unfocused. He releases a bundle of cloth into the water and puts his arms across his face to block the light.
“Moni in the water!” he shouts.
Stefano looks past him to Rosalind, who lies still, floating just beneath the water’s surface. Georg turns back once more to Rosalind, and Stefano sees that he is attempting to push her deeper underwater.
“Georg! No!” calls Stefano, who drops the torch to rush down the embankment to the shallows. He pulls at the arms of the other man, but his initial attempts at forcing Georg’s hands away from Rosalind are futile, and Stefano then throws several punches. He is unprepared for the strength of Georg, for his inability to feel. Georg finally releases her but turns his attention, reaching for Stefano’s throat with both hands and pressing his fingers into his windpipe. Knowing he has only seconds, Stefano’s only defense is to lash out wildly at his assailant’s face with both fists.
When Georg loosens his grip slightly, Stefano uses the moment to lunge at him, pushing him backward into the water alongside Rosalind. They tussle for several moments in the dark water until, with one arm finally pulled free, Stefano thrusts his elbow upward and into Georg’s face, forcing him to release his hold.
Stefano stands up quickly, drenched and out of breath, to wait for the other man to come at him again. They each stand braced in the shallow water, and a blast of light from the sky reveals Georg, a savage beast, teeth gritted and fists clenched. At first it seems he will charge, but part of Rosalind’s nightgown rises up from the water, distracting him, and, under the shaft of light from Stefano’s fallen torch, Georg looks toward her floating body.
Thunder splits open the night above them, and panic spreads across Georg’s face. As if awoken from a dream, he releases a loud whining noise like an animal in pain. The noise continues, louder, piercing through the sounds of rain slapping the water, as he scrambles up the embankment to flee into the wood.
Stefano dives across to where Rosalind has floated to deeper water several yards from the embankment, her face rising just above the surface. He kicks backward, dragging her above him, until he reaches the shallows again and then carries her limp body up the embankment to lay her on flat ground.
Stefano turns her on her side to empty the water from her lungs. Growing up beside the sea, he had witnessed several near drownings and one unsuccessful attempt at resuscitation. Rosalind is still motionless as he turns her on her back to breathe air into her mouth.
She coughs slightly, and as he attempts to sit her up, she retches. Moments later when the spasm has eased, he carries her back to the house and rests her gently on the sofa. He shuts the front door and ignites the oil lamp on the wall above her, the light revealing Rosalind’s ashen face and eyes that loom large with shock. Her hair is saturated, stuck flat to her cheeks and neck, and a puddle of water has formed at her feet. She has wrapped her arms around herself and stares back at him, trembling, but she is not yet present, her mind attempting to make sense of the event that just occurred.
Stefano takes the throw that hides the worn fabric on the back of the sofa and wraps it around her shoulders. She doesn’t move, tiny and timid beneath the rug, as thunder recedes farther down the river.
In Georg’s attic bedroom there is no sign of him, nor in the rest of the house. But Stefano’s instinct has already told him that Georg isn’t inside. He locks the front and back doors.
He fills the kettle and places it on the stove, notes the puddles he has created on the floor from his clothes, then retrieves a towel from Rosalind’s bathroom to pat off the excess water from his body.
When he sits down beside her, Rosalind doesn’t acknowledge his presence, but her eyes find something else to focus on in the room, a space of wall that reflects her blank thoughts. He slides the rug away from her and gently rubs her back and shoulders with the towel, then more gently her head. With his fingers he combs the hair away from her face. She doesn’t move away or ask him to stop. Her trembles taper, and he wraps the rug firmly around her shoulders.
“How are you feeling?”
“My throat is sore,” she says, placing her hand at the tender area.
“What set him off?”
She shakes her head. “Nothing. I just woke, and his hand was over my mouth. He carried me to the river and then . . .”
The kettle whistles, and Stefano returns to the kitchen to pour hot water for tea.
“He has never been like that before,” she says, almost in a whisper. “The rage so directed . . . I have always managed to control him.”
“He is dangerous, Rosalind.”
“If you knew him before the war, you would know that this isn’t who he is. This is not the same Georg.”
“What is he taking?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
/> She sits up straighter as he approaches the sofa, and she reaches for the cup he brings her.
“You are giving him a drug. What is it that makes him so erratic?”
“It is his brain injury from a bullet, and it is no concern of yours,” she says.
“It became my concern when I pulled you from the water.”
She puts the cup down on a small serving table beside her, her eyes wide and clear again.
“I appreciate what you’ve done, but I don’t need your advice. You know nothing about me, about Georg.”
“He was deranged out there and with a strength that doesn’t match his appearance. I believe it is the drug the Germans gave soldiers to make them feel invincible. I fought with some who were taking it, even after they were told not to—”
“You have no idea what it is like to see the person you love shattered, broken from battle, disoriented . . .”
“Was he already addicted before he went to battle?”
“What? . . . I don’t know . . .” She shakes her head. “Yes.”
“Erich said he was dangerous, and now I have to believe it.”
“Be quiet about Erich.” She stands up, and the rug falls to the floor. “You know nothing about Erich either! Perhaps it is him you should worry about.”
She stumbles when she stands up to walk away. He reaches out to catch her, but she raises her hands to stop him as she rights herself. In the kitchen she puts her palms flat against the table, bows her head, and tries to steady her breathing.
“I’m sorry,” says Stefano. “I know it isn’t really anything to do with me, but you could have died.”
She lifts her head slightly but doesn’t turn to face him.
“You cannot imagine what it was like to see him return from war a ruined man—half a man. If you had seen him before, if you had known him, you would know why it is that I want to look after him in this way. He is worse when he is off the drugs. It is impossible to live with him without them.”
“And is it Erich who gets you the drugs?”
“Of course! Erich has access to anything,” she says, the pain in her throat distracting, throwing away her guard.
“What are you giving him?”
“Opiates to sedate him and help him sleep, and the other you just talked about reverses the first to lift his mood . . . They stop him from hurting himself.” She pauses and closes her eyes. “Though lately the second is making him unpredictable.”
“How often?”
“As he needs it . . . every few days. I’ve been stretching it out for longer since it is nearly all gone. It is perhaps the reduction that is the problem also.”
“I think you are killing him slowly if he doesn’t kill you first.”
She puts her hand over her mouth and closes her eyes, the memory of what happened causing more pain.
“Rosalind, I can help you,” he says gently.
“No one can help me.”
Stefano steps close to comfort her, but she moves away toward the door.
“I can’t leave him out there,” she says, her voice firm again. “I must find him. He will be feeling wretched. He will remember what he did. Despite his mind, he remembers things between the lapses. He has lucid moments when he knows what he is, what he has done wrong. That is the sadness.”
She reaches for the door handle.
“He called you Moni when I first approached him in the water. I presume he means Monique.”
She stops and turns.
“As I said, he is confused.”
“Is he angry about something?”
She appears annoyed at the questions, shakes her head, and moves again to leave.
“Stay here then. I will find him,” he says, his hand against the door to block her exit.
“He won’t respond as well to you, not in this state.”
“After what I’ve witnessed, he may not respond to you either.”
She lowers her eyes, aware suddenly that he speaks the truth.
“If he comes back in the meantime, don’t answer the door. Keep it locked.”
Stefano hears her turn the key in the lock as he leaves. He walks first through the wood to retrieve his torch that still sits on the embankment casting an eerie band of light across the river, then along the track toward the secret hut. The rain is lessening as it follows the streaks of light now appearing in the distance.
Stefano finds Georg in the hut, holding the patchwork. He doesn’t flinch this time from the bright light that shines directly into his eyes.
“Are you here to kill me?” he says, morbidly calm.
“No,” says Stefano gently, pointing the torch away.
“It is probably best,” says Georg, turning to him, eyes wide, glassy, but the way he has focused on Stefano, there is awareness as well. “I have nothing now.”
“You have much, Georg.”
“I want to be alone,” he says, and then he closes his eyes and appears to end the conversation.
“I will leave you then,” says Stefano.
“She’s out there somewhere,” Georg says suddenly.
“Who?” asks Stefano.
He doesn’t answer.
“Are you talking about Monique?”
Georg is silent.
Stefano crouches in the doorway to be on the same level. He is eager to read more of Monique’s letters, to learn more about her. There are things here that haven’t been said, that Rosalind has kept to herself, and Erich, too.
“Do you remember her?” says Stefano. “Do you remember seeing her here?”
He waits, but there is no response.
“Do you remember what just happened?”
“You should leave here,” Georg responds.
Stefano reluctantly moves to step outside.
“I don’t want to be here,” Georg says, his voice strangled, desolate. “Earlier tonight, you said that you would help me.”
“Yes,” says Stefano.
1943
Stefano passed the letter to Toni.
“What is this?”
“I have been called back. I have to report for duty next week.”
Toni looked at Stefano curiously. “What do you want me to do about it?”
“That is what I have come to talk to you about. I am not going. I am defecting like you, and I will also have to go underground.”
“That is good, my friend,” said Toni, patting him on the back.
Though Stefano knew he could no longer fight on behalf of Germany, he still had some reservations about his defection from the army. With the streets full of suspicion and treachery, he was worried about his mother and sisters. He wondered if they would be in danger not only because of what he was planning to do, but also because of the activities that Il Furioso had been involved in so far: the antigovernment messages and the stockpiling of weapons, along with the possibility that someone outside their group would betray them.
Outwardly, Il Furioso was displaying its loyalty to the new Salò government to allay suspicion, the group’s members pretending to be excited by news of Germany’s successes to others they spoke to in the streets. Privately, they were on edge, and relieved to have not been betrayed during the initial roundup of Mussolini’s traitors. But time was another enemy. They would have to make decisions swiftly: either to break away from Verona and make the journey southward to fight alongside the Allies, or to join the resistance in the North.
Alberto was regularly in touch with the north and west alpine partisans who had formed after Mussolini was returned. Alberto would report on the successful activities of some, as well as news of those who had been caught and slaughtered. If the resistance was to win any fight, they would need more men.
“I have been ordered by Salò to go to the Eastern Front, but I cannot fight against my own brothers, the Allies,” announced Fedor angrily at the following night’s meeting. “We have to do something. We have to commence our own fight against the regime. I believe that we must join our northern brothe
rs in the mountains.”
“I agree,” said Stefano. “But we also have to think about our families. Remember, they are searching for dissenters everywhere. We were lucky that our names were not revealed during the mass executions. There are some out there who have heard of our true loyalties, and soon it will not be safe for anyone here to leave their doors.”
Nina had been sitting quietly, listening, until then. “Mamma and I can take care of ourselves while you fight. Or maybe we can come with you.”
“No!” said Stefano. “It is too dangerous, Nina. You must go south. The churches are helping people through. You must convince Teresa also if you can.”
“You know that she will not leave here. We do not speak much. But regardless, I am not going without you and Toni!”
“I agree with Stefano,” said Toni, catching the indignation in his wife’s eyes.
Two days later more Veronese who had links to the resistance were publicly executed. Fury and outrage kept building within their group, and like an active volcano, Il Furioso was ready to burst. This sad news only strengthened the decision to fight alongside the partisans. With their defection to be shortly noticed when they did not report for duty, Stefano and the rest of the group had moved to Conti’s to hide temporarily, since Conti had not been conscripted and was unlikely to be tracked. From there they planned their trip to the Alps to join other members of the resistance. Stefano would do this for his cousin, in his honor, and he would make his father proud. He did not want an Italy run by Germany.
And there was no choice now but for their families to leave for the South.
“I’m afraid this has to be,” Toni said to Nina. “You cannot stay here, and you cannot join us, not with our baby.” And though Nina had objected, her protests were weaker now. She knew she couldn’t put the baby in danger, and her going north with the group would be a hindrance to the espionage work they were contemplating.
Radios had been banned completely, and news could only come through Conti’s and Fedor’s contacts, if they weren’t shot first.
The Road Beyond Ruin Page 22