Edward looked at the cemetery again. ‘Did anyone – were there any survivors here?’
Francesco smiled. ‘Just one. Christina Casalini.’
As he heard her name spoken, he felt the gulf of half a century recede. His mind reeled – with shame, with elation, with a rush of different emotions that made him feel suddenly light-headed, and for a moment he thought he might faint. ‘Christina,’ he said. ‘Good God.’
‘She still lives in Montalbano. Christina Bonelli she is now.’
‘Bonelli?’ Edward breathed in deeply and put his other hand on the gate.
‘Yes, Bruno Bonelli. Do you remember him? He was a partisan. He died, though. Let me see, oh it must have been five or six years ago now.’ He put an arm on Edward’s shoulder. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, yes, I’m fine. I’m just a bit shocked. I never knew –’ He stood up again. ‘I wonder – do you have her address? I’d like to see her.’
‘Of course. I’ll take you there now if you like.’
‘Would you? Would you, really? I’m not stopping you from doing other things?’
Francesco waved a hand. It would be a pleasure, he assured Edward. They drove on to the remains of Cortino. Francesco hung up another wreath and then they drove back to Casiglia where Edward collected his car. As he followed Francesco back down the mountain towards the Setta Valley, he realised he’d never been to Montalbano before; not once in all the time he’d been living in the mountains.
She lived in a small house in the heart of the village. At first she did not recognise him and then her face lit up and she flung her arms around him. ‘My God, it’s Eduardo!’ she cried. ‘Even with that moustache I know it’s you! You’ve come back!’ Edward tentatively put his arms around her too. She looked so different: the long, dark hair had been permed and dyed amber; she had filled out, too. Eventually she pulled away and looked at him, dabbing her eye. ‘I’m sorry – I’m crying,’ she said, ‘but I’m so happy to see you! I can’t believe it – after all these years! I thought you were dead. We all did.’
‘I found him at the cemetery,’ said Francesco. ‘Quite by chance. He’s staying here a week,’ said Francesco.
‘A week? Where? Here – in Montalbano? Is your family with you?’
It startled him that she should presume he had one. ‘No,’ he said, ‘It’s just me. I’m staying in Bologna.’
‘Oh my God,’ she said, clutching her hand to her mouth. She ushered them in with her hand, then excusing herself, rushed out of the hallway. Edward could hear her sobbing from a room at the far end of the house. He looked at Francesco, who said, ‘It’s the shock. Hold on – I’ll talk to her.’
For several minutes, Edward stood in the hallway, wondering what to do. Perhaps I should leave now, he thought. For a moment he felt rooted with indecision. ‘Christina,’ he called out eventually, and gingerly stepped forward down the hallway until he reached her kitchen. She was sitting at the table, Francesco crouched beside her.
‘I’m sorry,’ Edward said. ‘I didn’t mean to –’
‘No, I’m being silly,’ said Christina. ‘It’s just been so long. After all these years. So unexpected; it’s the shock.’
‘I know,’ said Edward.
She wiped her face, and stood up. ‘This is very rude of me.’
‘No, no,’ said Edward. ‘It’s quite all right. I – I didn’t know you’d survived, Christina. I never knew.’
‘I was the one who got away.’ She sighed. ‘I’m sorry, I haven’t even offered you a seat or a drink or anything. Come through here, where it’s more comfortable,’ she said, leading him back down the hallway and to a sitting room. ‘My God, Eduardo, I still can’t believe it’s really you.’ She lightly held his arm. ‘We have so much to catch up on – I barely know where to begin. How about with a drink? Coffee? Water? Grappa?’
‘A glass of water would be lovely, thank you.’
‘Francesco?’
‘Nothing for me, thank you,’ he said. ‘Look, I’m going to leave you two now, but Eduardo, will you call me? There are a few other people I think you’d like to meet. Here,’ he said, handing Edward his telephone number.
‘Of course.’ He thanked him profusely. ‘This is just wonderful. I’m so pleased I stumbled upon you like that.’
After Francesco had gone, Edward was left for a moment in Christina’s sitting room while she went to fetch him his water. He scanned the photographs on the mantelpiece. There were recent family pictures: a baby, a wedding. A picture of what looked like Bruno in later life. A faded old photograph of Federico and Isabella. But none of Carla.
Christina came back in and having given him his glass of water, sat down on the sofa opposite him. She wiped her eyes again, then said, ‘Why now?’
He looked at her quizzically. ‘You mean why am I here in Italy?’
‘Yes – after all these years. After the war we tried to contact you. We sent God knows how many letters, but we got nothing. No reply at all. It was as though you had vanished from the face of the earth. They tried again when they renamed half the streets in Veggio. You know there’s a street named after you?’
‘So Francesco told me.’
‘And now suddenly here you are. Why?’
Edward looked at his hands, rubbed his chin, then said, ‘Um, because –’ He stopped, paused a moment. ‘I’m sorry – truly, I am.’
Christina softened. ‘All right. I know, Eduardo, tell me everything. I’ve got all the time in the world. Start at the beginning. Tell me about your life for the past fifty years.’ She wore lipstick and a heavy layer of foundation. There were a number of rings on her fingers and a gold locket around her neck. The contrast with the girl he had known – the stick-like girl in a dirty cotton dress and men’s work boots – was so great he could hardly believe it was the same person. And yet it was unmistakably her, he realised.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll try.’ He told her briefly – about going back to England, eventually leaving the RAF and becoming a teacher; about marrying Cynthia and having Simon. About the quiet life he had led for fifty years.
‘Just one son?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Because you chose it that way?’
Edward nodded.
‘But why?’
It was none of her business, and yet he wanted to tell her. We’re like strangers, he thought; and yet she was a link to his former life, just as Lucky had been. ‘I didn’t really want another one,’ he told her. ‘I think Cynthia would have liked more, but – well, it was selfish of me, really.’ He sighed, and looked up at the ceiling. ‘But it didn’t seem right, somehow.’ He rubbed the corner of his eye, breathed deeply once more, then said, ‘I always thought my children would have been Carla’s children. I loved my wife – I loved her very much, but I don’t think I was ever in love. It’s a terrible thing to admit, and I’m not at all proud of myself, but I was in love with Carla.’ He put his hand to his eye again and felt in his pocket for his handkerchief. ‘I always have been. When I came back from the war, I knew I could never replace her. Cynthia offered companionship and friendship. She was very different from Carla. I thought I could forget about it – about Carla, about you all. I thought I could forget about the whole war.’ It surprised him that he was confessing this to her, ‘I lost a great friend over Malta, as well, you see. That had been a great blow.’
‘I remember Carla telling me about it,’ said Christina.
‘So I just wanted to put it to one side and get on with my life. Make the best of things. But the truth is, I haven’t made a very good job of it. Not a single day has gone past when I haven’t thought about Carla.’
‘Oh, Eduardo,’ said Christina. She smiled at him kindly and touched his knee with her hand. ‘It’s not what Carla would have wanted, you know. You should have grieved properly, not bottled it up all these years.’
‘I just feel so angry,’ said Edward. ‘Angry that the life I should have had – we should have
had – was taken from me.’
‘Well, you shouldn’t be. You should be thankful for the life you do have, for the wife you married, for your son, for your grandchildren. For your friends.’
Edward rubbed his forehead. ‘I am – I am. But I’ve always wondered what would have been – what should have been. My son – well, Simon and I have always had a difficult relationship, and I suppose, if I’m honest, it’s because I’ve always felt that he should have been someone else.’
‘Carla’s son.’
Edward nodded. He shifted in his chair and looked down at his hands. ‘Um, this is difficult,’ he mumbled, suddenly ashamed at what he had said. ‘I really shouldn’t be bothering you with all this.’
Christina sighed. ‘I think it’s good to talk about these things. Not bottle them up. You know, Eduardo, it’s funny, but I hate seeing people argue. If I see an argument in the street it makes me sad. There’s no point being angry – none at all. I think about Carla too – and Mamma and Papa, and about Gino. About my cousins and the hundreds who were killed – I think about them every day, but I’m so grateful for what I’ve been given. I was blessed with a wonderful husband, four beautiful children and six grandchildren – six! Can you believe it! And really, there is much to be thankful for. I lost Bruno a few years ago and, you know, I miss him terribly. He was a lovely man, as you probably remember.’
‘I do,’ said Edward. ‘Very well.’
‘And I grieve for him, but I still have fun. I love my children; I adore my grandchildren! But life is for living. Only God knows why, but I was spared that day, and ever since then I have been determined to make the most of the life I’ve been given. I’m sixty-seven now and I hope I have many more years ahead of me. I’m looking forward to them. Eduardo, you should be enjoying your life too. You’re still a handsome man, even with that moustache of yours.’ She grinned mischievously at him. Edward found himself smiling. ‘You should get yourself a wife – or a girlfriend,’ Christina continued. ‘Have fun. You’ve let what happened to you in the war become an albatross around your neck.’
Edward nodded. She was right; he could see that now. For a moment he knew he could not speak. He looked away, and then recovering his composure, said quietly, ‘I don’t want to feel this way.’ He looked down at his hands. ‘You know, it’s funny, but I’ve never spoken about Carla to anyone. Not once until now.’
‘Why not?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m not sure I can quite explain. But I suppose I thought that if I never talked about her then I wouldn’t think about her either.’
‘But you said you do think about her every day.’
‘I know, I do. I have done all my life. It didn’t work, but by then it was too late. I didn’t feel I could suddenly confide in Cynthia. I thought it wouldn’t be fair to tell her that I still mourned for the love of my life. And no-one but Cynthia would have understood.’
‘So why now? Why are you suddenly here after all these years?’
Edward sighed once more. ‘It was the fiftieth anniversary of VE Day. My nightmares started coming back – they had never gone away, not entirely, but they had begun to trouble me again. Usually they were about being with Carla, and then I’d be watching the massacre again – watching it all from the top of Monte Luna. And then my grandson wanted me to come up to London to see the celebrations. I thought it would lay matters to rest, but it just stirred old memories even more. I began visiting some of my old haunts: my childhood home, the base where I’d first flown from in England during the war. Last month I even went to Malta.’
‘Italy was the last stop on your journey.’
‘Yes.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s getting late,’ he said. ‘I must get back to Bologna – I’m not very good at driving in the dark these days.’
Christina smiled.
‘You’re here a week, you say?’
‘Yes. Until Saturday. I’ve a few days left.’
‘Well, perhaps we could meet up again. Let me give you my number and then you can call me.’
Edward nodded, then said, ‘Well, are you free at all tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow – yes, I think so.’
‘Would you let me take you out to lunch? Only if you’re free. Don’t change any plans.’
‘I tell you what,’ said Christina. ‘Let me meet you in Bologna. I need to go, so I’ll catch the train up in the morning.’
‘It’s running again, then.’ He smiled.
‘Oh yes, very efficiently. Actually, the Americans repaired it before the end of the war. We can have lunch and then perhaps you could drive me back. I’d like to show you the memorial.’
‘Sounds perfect.’
‘But first, let me give you something. Wait here a moment.’ She stood up and disappeared. He could hear her searching for something upstairs, then a couple of minutes later she came back down the stairs. ‘Here,’ she said, ‘this belongs to you.’ In her hands was the tin model Gino had made him for his birthday.
‘Gino’s plane!’ he exclaimed. ‘My God, it’s Gino’s plane.’
‘A little rusted, but otherwise it has lasted well.’
‘Where did you find it?’
‘At Cà Serra. Bruno bought the place and rebuilt it after the war. We were up there walking around it one day and I suddenly spotted it by the barn behind the house. Quite by chance.’
‘I must have dropped it during the battle. I had it in my pocket.’ He looked at her. ‘Thank you, Christina. I mean it. I can’t tell you how wonderful it is to see you – to know that you’re alive! It’s been so good to talk to you like this.’ He laughed. ‘What a day it’s been! And now this,’ he added, turning the plane in his hands. ‘I’ll take better care of it this time. I won’t lose it again.’
Italy – August, 1995
Edward slept well that night and woke the following morning feeling better than he had in weeks. Seeing Christina had lifted his spirits enormously. She was a palpable link to Carla, the one person in the world who truly understood the loss he had been harbouring all these years. Now, on this beautiful sunny August morning, he was anxious to see her again. There were so many questions he wanted to ask her, questions he had not thought of the day before when he had been struggling to think straight; too much had happened. His mind had been reeling from the shock of one revelation after another. But everything was different now. The burden of grief for what had happened on Monte Luna was no longer one he had to carry alone. The loneliness he had felt had gone.
Standing before his bathroom mirror, he decided to shave off his moustache. He couldn’t really remember why he had grown it in the first place. It had been after the war, before he’d left the RAF. It had instantly made him look older, but then he’d felt a lot older than his twenty-five years. He’d felt ancient. But Christina hadn’t liked it, and he’d minded about that for some reason he couldn’t quite put his finger on. When he had finished and padded his face dry with a towel, he smiled. A face he had almost forgotten stared back at him.
‘Eduardo, you look much better!’ said Christina as she met him in the foyer of his hotel. ‘I mean, of course, I recognised you yesterday, but you look much younger again now.’
He rubbed his top lip and smiled. ‘It feels odd not having it any more.’
‘How old are you now? Seventy-something?’
‘Actually, I’ll be seventy-three next week.’
‘Of course! The Ferragosta!’
Edward smiled. ‘So, you see, giving me Gino’s plane was like being given a birthday present all over again.’
Christina laughed. ‘Well, you look much younger than seventy-three. You look more like the person you used to be.’
Small talk as they ambled through the streets of Bologna: a discussion about where they should eat; the weather; the sights of Bologna. Edward sensed that Christina was more relaxed too; they’d both had time to get used to each other’s existence again. But only once they had found a restaurant, and had sat down and ordered did Edwa
rd finally ask her about the rastrellamento.
‘Will you tell me what happened, Christina?’ Edward asked her. ‘How did you survive?’
Christina sighed. ‘Yes, Edward, I will. I think you should know.’ She nodded gently to herself as she collected her thoughts, then eventually she said, ‘Well, it was morning. A bit before nine o’clock. After we left you and Papa and Uncle Orfeo, we went to the church, as you suggested. There were already a number of others there. About a hundred and seventy of us, I think, nearly all women and children, although Nonno was with us and there were a few other old men and women. Father Umberto was trying to keep us calm and I think we were, to be honest. I suppose I was frightened, but more for what was happening outside – to Papa, and to you and the others – to our homes. I don’t think I ever thought the Germans would do anything to us. I don’t think any of us did.’ It had been about nine o’clock in the morning when they’d heard troops banging on the door of the church with their rifle butts. There had been just three of them to start with. ‘They just told us to get out of the church – they didn’t say why,’ said Christina. ‘Father Umberto went off with some of them – more had appeared by this stage. They led him into the trees and then we heard a shot and realised they’d killed him.’
‘We saw that,’ said Edward. ‘I was with your father and Orfeo on the top of Monte Luna. We saw it. We saw it all.’
‘I think that was when we started to get really worried. And we were horrified about what they had done to Father Umberto.’ They had then been ordered to walk and were led to the cemetery. Even then, Christina had had no idea what was happening. It was only when they started setting up the machine gun that they began to realise the Germans meant to kill them. ‘I can’t describe to you what that was like,’ said Christina.
‘Don’t feel you have to,’ said Edward. ‘I mean it. Please don’t feel you have to go on.’
‘No, no, it’s all right. I want to tell you.’ She smiled at him. ‘Honestly, Eduardo, I’m all right.’ She carefully took a sip of wine, then said, ‘Anyway, one woman panicked. She started shouting for her baby then ran towards the gates. They shot her. I think the rest of us were too shocked to scream or shout very much. I remember feeling paralysed with fear. We all held hands. Mamma clutched Gino to her, I was holding her hand and Carla’s. I can’t remember who Carla was standing next to – Nella, I think.’ They stood there for several minutes. ‘More than five, I would say,’ said Christina, while the Germans got ready.
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