The Villa Triste (9 page)

‘We have an ambulance,’ she murmured, ‘and a driver. To get them up to Fiesole. To the monastery.’

The monastery was being used as a rest and recuperation home for soldiers with shell shock and worse. The truth was, many there would never recuperate. If they were lucky, the best they might get was a little rest.

‘From there the trail goes into the mountains,’ she said. ‘Remember?’

I did. It was the start of the Via degli Dei, the pilgrims’ trail we had walked one summer with Papa that led all the way over the Appenines and down to Bologna, and the Po Delta beyond. From there, there were any number of routes north, to the Alps and Switzerland.

I looked at Issa. She glanced at me, then back down at the fish.

‘There are roadblocks,’ she muttered. ‘We need someone, a nurse, who can explain why the patients are being moved.’

I felt a cold that had nothing to do with the mist or the evening. It blossomed in my stomach and feathered upwards towards my heart. I nodded before it could reach my mouth and seal my lips.

That night, we sat down to dinner with three frightened, cowed-looking boys who had been sleeping for the better part of a week in our cellar. Mama’s English was fluent and Issa spoke a few words. I could not say a word to them, or understand what they were saying. But they were someone’s brother, someone’s friend, and for all I knew someone’s fiancé or husband, too. Any one of them might be Lodo, or Enrico, or his friend Carlo. That I had felt angry with Issa for bringing them into the house, that I had blamed her, and them, for my own fear, filled me with guilt. For their part, they had been told of the plan. All through the meal I was aware of them watching me carefully. Summing me up. Trying to decide if I could keep them alive.

Issa had decided that it was best to move them in the late afternoon. Dusk was coming down earlier and earlier. Once in the mountains, they would walk at night. She wanted to make as much time as possible, get well away from Fiesole before they had to seek cover at daybreak.

It was not until she said this that I realized she would be going with them, guiding them along the Via Degli Dei, over the pass and beyond the fortifications the Germans were building. Once on the other side, she would hand her ‘parcels’ on to a group from Modena who would get them to Novara, then hand them on again. When she told me this, she joked that she had become a postman. I did not ask her if Rico would be there too. Or how long she would be gone. Already I understood that it was better if I didn’t know.

By the next morning, I had realized that Issa’s plan was not quite as simple as she thought it was. We had decided that it would be best for the ambulance to come to the house. To try to move three POWs through the streets, either to the hospital or to some other rendezvous spot, was simply too dangerous. Instead, we would put the story about that Mama had slipped on the stairs, fallen, and hit her head. She would stay out of sight for a few days and then ‘return’ from the hospital. With no staff in the house any more, that would be easy. More difficult would be pilfering the supplies to transform the three boys into invalids.

Thanks to my new job, I had access to bandages and the like. But I could not simply put them in a shopping bag and walk out with them. Or could I? I’d lain awake pondering this, and decided that was exactly what I would do. I sometimes stopped at the early market, so it was not entirely unusual to see me coming or going with a rucksack. That solved, I moved on to the two stickiest points – the papers that I should be carrying to transfer my ‘patients’, and how I myself would get away early without arousing suspicion.

I began working on the second problem the moment I arrived at the hospital. For once, I eschewed the small amount of powder and lipstick I normally wore. Having been awake all night, it was not too difficult to look pale and a little glassy-eyed. Around mid morning, I began to cough – not much, but regularly. By lunchtime, the senior ward sister was eyeing me suspiciously. An hour later, she told me to go home.

I protested that it was only a bit of a cold. That might be, she said. But if we were to have an outbreak of influenza, as everyone now feared, she would need all of her staff fit. She could not afford for me to become run-down. By two o’clock I was on my bicycle, pedalling back over the bridge with a bunch of carrot tops sticking out of my rucksack, rolls of gauze and a box of bandage clips beneath.

The papers were folded into a slit I had made in the hem of my old coat. Early that morning I had slipped into the records office and removed three sets of forms. It would not take me more than twenty minutes when I got home to fill them out with fabricated names and injuries and forge the Head Sister’s signature approving the patients’ transfer to the monastery in Fiesole.

Up until that point, to my surprise, I had found the project almost fun. Our family had always played games, especially charades, and I had allowed myself to think that this was just more of the same. Nothing but play-acting. A dare. A climb out onto the roof above the loggia. It was not until I found myself holding Papa’s pen, sitting at his desk and signing the Head Sister’s name, that I felt the first cold wash of fear.

I think that if I could have put the pen down then, torn the papers up, changed my mind and run away, I might have. But, of course, it was too late. Issa was gone. She would have clothes, boots, and jackets waiting for the men in Fiesole. In the meantime, Mama and I dressed each of them in a set of Enrico’s oldest pyjamas. Then I tried not to let my fingers tremble as I wrapped bandages around their heads and hands. I tried not to look into their eyes as I fastened the clips and Mama dabbed white powder on their cheeks.

At just before four o’clock, the ambulance backed into the drive. Papa stood by the open doors appearing to fret. When we pulled out of the gates a few minutes later, I realized I had been holding my breath.

The driver was a young man with pale, long-fingered hands and the sort of face that is old before its time.

We came down the hill and crossed at the far bridge, avoiding the Lungarno with its display of spider flags, and drove slowly towards the Porta al Prato. I did not ask the driver’s name, and he did not ask mine. In fact, as if by mutual agreement, we did not speak. Imprisoned in our own little pockets of fear, we sat ignoring each other.

The evening was clear. Twilight was dropping slowly over the city. At the Fortezza da Basso we saw a formation of Blackshirts. They looked like nothing more than children, baby-faced boys dressed up, playing at being murderous men. After they had passed, marching across the road in front of us, my companion spat, a sharp vicious gesture of contempt.

The roadblock came approximately a mile after we left the city, just as the hill began to climb. I suppose the driver knew it was there; he shifted downwards, slowing on the corner, but I did not see it until we were almost upon it.

The barrier was lowered. There was a sentry box on either side. I don’t know how many men I thought there would be, but I was surprised when only one stepped out into the road, waving a torch. We drew slowly to a halt. I stared through the windscreen, hypnotized by the beam of light, my hands clutching the leather wallet that held the papers. Then I felt a touch on my shoulder. The driver’s fingers. Even through my uniform cape they were bony and hard. His eyes met mine.

‘Go,’ he mouthed, and I opened the door.

Outside, the night was crisp. It had not been more than half an hour since we had left the house, but already it was considerably darker. The German soldier who walked towards me seemed huge, like a pillar of granite in his grey uniform.

‘Signorina.’

I jumped at the sharp click of his boots. When I looked up, I was surprised to see that he was handsome. And young. Probably no older than I was. I forced myself to smile as I opened the wallet.

He examined the papers carefully, holding them in one gloved hand, his torch in the other. Then he looked at me.

‘To the monastery, in Fiesole?’ His accent was heavy and hard to understand.

I nodded. Issa had warned me that I should not say too much. But to say nothing at all would have been equally suspicious, as if a deaf mute had been sent to escort invalids.

‘Allied bombing,’ I said. The first thing that came into my head. ‘Two are burns victims,’ I added. ‘Not much more than boys.’

He considered this for a moment, then nodded, and it occurred to me that perhaps he had little Italian, not much more than the few words he’d spoken. So I said it again in my schoolgirl German: ‘Allied bombing.
Brandwunden. Schrecklich
.’

He smiled, and I realized that it was not because he liked the idea of burnt flesh, but because he was hundreds of miles away from home and I had used his language, even a few pathetic words of it.

‘My name is Dieter.’

He still had not given me back the papers. I smiled. Issa had told me to wear my best lipstick. Not red, she had warned, but pink. Girlish. Nurse-ish. What she meant was coquettish.

‘Caterina,’ I replied, and the odd thing was, it never occurred to me to lie about my name.

‘Caterina. Nurse Caterina.’

He smiled again. His mouth was generous. He had very white, even teeth. He looked at me for a moment, then he stepped towards the back of the ambulance.

‘I must ask you to open the doors, please, Nurse Caterina,’ he said in German, and my mouth went dry.

When I did not move immediately, he cocked his head slightly and motioned.

‘
Verstehen Sie?
’ Do you understand, he asked. ‘I must see your passengers.’

‘
Ich verstehe
.’

I nodded with what I hoped was cheerful efficiency. My German vocabulary was limited, but I thanked God that what there was had not entirely deserted me.

‘They are feeling bad,’ I said as loudly as I dared. I did not know if any of the men in the ambulance spoke a word of German, but I wanted them to be prepared when the doors opened. ‘In pain. Weak. They have drugs, for sleeping. You understand?’

Dieter nodded, still smiling. Perhaps he did not notice that my legs had stiffened, that I was having difficulty moving.

‘I promise you, I will not disturb them more than necessary.’

I smiled, nodded, and left with nothing more to do, reached for the door.

The handle stuck. Dieter put his gloved hand over mine, and pulled it down. He was standing so close that I could feel the warmth of him, his breath on my cheek.

The driver had kept the engine running. A white trail of exhaust wound itself around Dieter’s black boots. I stepped back as he shone his torch into the ambulance. Its beam lit the stretchers, two on either side, one above the other like children’s bunk beds. The bright light caught the still shapes, the grey blankets, the mounds of feet and bandaged paws of hands. It lingered over the pale moon faces, lips drawn, eyes closed.

Then one set of eyes popped open. One of the Americans. Caught in the beam of the torch they were round as marbles, staring and terrified. Dieter moved the light away.

‘
Arme Jungen
,’ he said, poor boys, and closed the door.

He ushered me back to the front of the ambulance, folded the papers, and clicked his heels again when he handed them to me.

‘Signorina Caterina,’ he said, ‘it has been a pleasure. I hope we meet again.’

This time, my mouth was too dry to summon any words. All I could do was twist my lips into what I hoped was a grateful smile, and nod.

He waited as I slid into the front seat, then closed the door for me, and walked to the barrier. His hand was resting on the lever that raised it when he stopped.

I felt rather than saw the driver tense, heard the sharp intake of his breath. I knew he would be armed, that somewhere, in a pocket, or shoved down between the seats, he would have a pistol. Dieter was walking back towards us. One of his hands had disappeared into the pocket of his greatcoat.

Beside me, there was a rustle of clothes.

‘Don’t,’ I murmured. ‘Wait.’

Dieter leaned down and tapped the window with the black fingers of his gloves.

This time, his face was solemn. When I rolled the window down, there would be a straight shot to his jaw, his neck, his forehead. I didn’t dare glance at the driver. The glass squeaked.