Birmingham Rose (29 page)

Falcone stopped talking for a few seconds. Rose looked at him and saw him take several deep breaths.

‘The whole place was in chaos. The bombs blew thirty-three of them to pieces and wounded a great many others. The Germans were there within minutes and we heard gunfire in the streets. While we were escaping, scuttling like rats to our cellars where we hid, the SS were rounding up civilians, door to door, dragging out anyone they could find and loading them on to their trucks.

‘The mathematics was the same. That night they took at least three hundred and thirty people – from the gaols, ones they had pulled out of their homes – almost anyone to make up the numbers. Ten Romans for every German soldier.’

His breathing became shallow as he talked, and he was having difficulty taking the air in.

‘The orders came direct from the Führer. They drove them to the catacombs, the Ardeatine caves. You must have heard of them. The German soldiers who took them had been drinking. They were blind with drink, taking it like an anaesthetic. Blind enough to lead the prisoners inside, five at a time. They had lit torches so that the shadows shuddered in the caves. Then they made the people kneel and shot them in the back of the neck. It went on until dawn. The last ones had to climb over the dead to be shot. Then they sealed up the cave and blew it up inside.’

Falcone’s shoulders were heaving so violently that Rose thought he might vomit. His strong frame was shaking with the horror of those memories. Through chattering teeth he said, ‘It was inaccurate. The German commander was very angry. They shot five too many.’

Rose fetched a blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders. He trembled under it as if he had a fever. She handed him some water, and when his hands were shaking too much to take the cup from her, she raised it to his lips herself, so moved she could not speak.

When he was a little calmer he said, ‘I haven’t talked about it before. It’s made it come alive again.’

‘Could you not tell Francesco?’

Falcone shook his head. ‘Francesco was part of my life when I was a different person. I did not know what destruction I was capable of. I can’t bring myself to speak of it to him, or Margherita, though she is so kind, so well-meaning. Although they work in this place and it’s hard, their lives have been smooth until now. They haven’t even known the suffering that you’ve known. I find I can talk to you.’

‘I think Margherita is suffering now.’

‘Of course,’ Falcone corrected himself.

Their eyes met again with the peculiar tenderness which communicated itself between them, the more so after their shared confidences.

‘I knew I should have to tell someone, or such memories would corrupt me even more.’

Though it was the small hours of the morning they continued to talk for the rest of the night. When Falcone had recovered he seemed eager to listen. In those hours Rose talked more than she had ever done, disclosed more about herself than she ever had to anyone in her life. She found herself telling him about her family, about Diana, about Lazenby’s, and finally about Alfie. And Falcone talked more about his father, of his rather distant respect for him, and of the little he could remember of his mother. He tried to explain his motives for entering the priesthood, a point on which they could not even begin to agree.

‘To be a priest is the highest service you can give to God,’ he told her. ‘If you were a Catholic you would understand.’

‘Just because I’m not a Catholic doesn’t mean I’m stupid,’ Rose replied heatedly. ‘I just can’t see the good of you wasting all you’ve learned by going off and saying prayers all day.’

‘I feel strongly that my life has become corrupted. As a priest I can dedicate my life to the truth. To repentance. Perhaps even to holiness.’

‘But why not as a doctor?’

‘This is my calling now,’ he told her. ‘I feel sure of it.’

After they had talked and argued through the night, the light gradually seeped over the city as dawn broke. They saw daylight round the edges of the shutters, and after a time, Magdalena appeared looking surprisingly fresh and rested.

‘I will sit until they wake,’ she said. ‘You go and sleep.’

Falcone thanked her. ‘But first I want to go out and see what damage they did last night.’ He looked at Rose. ‘Do you want to come?’

Early morning light washed over the weary, battered city. Already, as they set out through the smoky air towards the sea, people were coming in the opposite direction carrying pails of shellfish which they could try to sell for a few lire. Voices echoed through the streets and children squatted to relieve themselves among the refuse. They crossed the Via Speranzella and headed for the square. One of the narrow side streets behind the Via Toledo was completely blocked by rubble where buildings had collapsed, making it impossible to pass or even see much light along it. People were digging frantically among the rubble looking for loved ones. Somewhere a dog was howling.

The dead were already being laid in rows away from the rubble, to be loaded on to carts. Among them were several children, and into their cold arms the survivors had thrust huge, pink plastic dolls, their gaudy splendour probably far superior to any toy the children had possessed when alive.

Falcone gently steered Rose by the elbow back in the direction of Il Rifugio. ‘It was a mistake to come,’ he said. ‘There’s only so much any of us can do, and the authorities are doing their work. We should sleep.’

‘I don’t want to sleep,’ Rose protested. ‘I haven’t come here to sleep.’

‘Sleep!’ Falcone commanded as they climbed the stairs. ‘We don’t want any martyrs here. You must sleep!’

‘Who d’you think you are, Gracie Fields?’ Madge demanded, astonished.

Rose had walked into the dormitory singing. All the ATS girls were getting ready for an Easter dance to be held in the ballroom at the palace. The contrast of all this colourful gaiety with the doleful Italian Holy Week was striking.

‘She’s in lo-ove!’ Willy sang as she rubbed cream into her already perfect skin. ‘I never thought I’d see you looking this half soaked over a man, Rose!’

‘That Tony’s obviously doing something for you that no one else can,’ Madge teased.

Gwen, looking up from flattening out the skirt of her floral dress, said with a bright smile, ‘Are you two really getting serious? I’m so happy for you. I’ve never felt so good in my life as I have since I met Bill. It’s marvellous, isn’t it?’

Rose just smiled and unfastened her uniform belt.

‘Oh heavens, why are you always so flipping secretive?’ Willy asked, frustrated.

Rose looked round at them all, bewildered. Was it so obvious? Had she changed so much that they could read it in her face? ‘There’s not a lot to say really,’ she told her inquisitive room mates. ‘Tony and I are just very good pals that’s all.’

She knew she had changed. She also knew that she was in love with Paulo Falcone. It was as if the feelings that Tony had stirred in her had found their completion in him. She did not think what this might mean for the future. Falcone determined to become a priest and herself engaged to Alfie. It made no sense. While the war, the agonizing crawl of the Allies towards Rome continued, it was not possible to contemplate the future. For the moment the newness of her experience of passion – of her excitement at the thought of seeing him, of the way they could confide in each other, and the expression in his eyes when they rested on her – these were enough. She was also rather enjoying the way Gwen, Madge and Willy were all jumping to the wrong conclusions.

The dance was already warming up when they arrived at the palace ballroom. Rose walked in beside Willy, who was wearing a shimmering emerald green strapless evening dress, her blond hair fastened immaculately on her head. Willy always looked very pure, freshly washed, every line neat and crisp. Beside her Rose felt dark and rather gypsyish. Willy was immediately surrounded and taken off by a circle of admirers.

Tony was waiting by the door for Rose. ‘I say – what a stunning dress,’ he told her. ‘Is that one of the signora’s creations?’

Rose nodded, smiling, and Tony was startled by the ecstatic glow of her face. The plain, close-fitting black dress she was wearing was not cut from expensive cloth, but Signora Mandetta had tailored it perfectly to the shape of Rose’s curving figure. She had brushed her hair up into a simple knot at the back, and the smooth, unfussy style emphasized her large brown eyes and the fine shape of her face.

She danced with Tony for as much of the evening as she could, though other partners frequently tried to cut in and split them up. Rose’s radiant looks and Tony’s admiring, affectionate expression gave all the impression of two people who were strongly attracted and perhaps falling deeply in love.

The ballroom was huge, its beautiful floor inlaid with brown and white Carrara marble, the walls and ceiling encrusted with rich gold ornamentation, and warmly lit by lamps suspended from wall brackets and crystal chandeliers which hung on long chains from the ceiling. The centre of the ceiling was covered by a vast mural of what looked like courtiers, dressed in rich reds, blues and greens. At one end of the room was a low, red-carpeted dais on which a low gold throne upholstered in maroon cloth usually stood. Tonight it had been shifted to one side to make room for the band.

‘You’re not really the impoverished little child you’ve told me about, are you?’ Tony teased Rose as they danced, holding each other lightly. ‘You’re really an Italian contessa in disguise.’

‘Oh, if only!’ Rose laughed. ‘You don’t reckon I’d be driving for the British army if I was do you?’ Her eyes wore a mischievous expression. ‘How’s Lewis?’

‘For heaven’s sake keep your voice down. He’s fine, thank you, since you ask. And we’re all right too – together I mean – if that was your next question. We haven’t fallen out or anything.’

‘Good,’ Rose replied, rather taken aback by his flustered response.

During the next dance she could not resist murmuring to him in a low voice, ‘It’s tonight, by the way.’

‘What is?’

‘The first drop.’

Tony nearly stopped dancing altogether on hearing this. ‘You’re going to Naples – tonight?’

She nodded serenely back at him, as if they were talking about a day’s pleasure trip to Sorrento or Capri.

‘I’m driving the midnight shift over. Then I’m off. Sorry to desert you.’

‘But what about the truck? You’ll be so late back.’

‘Oh, I’ve got it OK’d – special delivery. They don’t ask too many questions as long as it’s back for work the next morning.’

‘I’m coming with you,’ he said heatedly. ‘You can’t go wandering round the countryside at night on your own. Let alone in Naples. God knows what might happen.’

‘No you’re not, Tony,’ Rose said, still smiling, and rather enjoying the sense of danger inherent in discussing her plans while surrounded by all these people. ‘Henry and his mates are meeting me. And then Francesco, or someone else from the refuge.’

To his puzzlement, Tony was sure he noticed a blush seep across her cheeks.

‘They’ll carry the stuff in. I’ve got to do this on my own.’

At half past eleven Rose said goodbye to him and slipped out of the ballroom to go and change. Twenty minutes later she had signed the truck out of the compound for the shift drive and was on her way to the palace again carrying a group of signallers and other administrators.

‘Thanks Rose!’ they called as they jumped out. ‘Sorry you’re missing the dance.’

She backed the truck up and then drove along the sweeping curve at the front of the palace. Turning into Caserta, she took the road for Naples.

Henry had briefed her that afternoon a fortnight ago at Il Rifugio. He had given her details for ‘the drop’ as he insisted on calling it. He gave her a plan of where to find the supply depot in Naples.

As she sat in the cab her mind ran over the instructions again. From the yard behind the depot to the Via Toledo and as near as she could get to the Via degli Spagnoli. Her mind kept leaping forward to delivering what she had picked up. Who would come to help fetch it in? And what if the truck was raided while they were doing it? Who would come to help? Would Falcone come? Would she see him? She forced her thoughts back to concentrate on the driving.

She left the sleeping town of Caserta and headed out across country. It was a dark night with no moon, and the lights of the truck were half muffled by blackout shields throwing the light down on to the road. It was fairly warm, and she was not chilled by the air rushing past the open sides of the cab. She drew a couple of squares of chocolate out of her bag and sat chewing them. Cadbury’s, all the way from Birmingham. It was so dark that the truck created its own little world of light and she could not see anything other than the road immediately ahead.

During the journey to Naples she passed only a couple of
contadini
who were trudging wearily along at the side of the road, another with a mule and cart and, at one terrifying moment, an army Jeep coming towards her. But as it rushed past she realized it was an American one. They pipped their horn briefly and sped on towards Caserta.

Approaching the outskirts of Naples, she pulled up for a moment to study the map again. Following the northern road from Caserta into the city she memorized the main junctions of the first part of the journey. It was not too complicated, though it was an area she was not familiar with. She looked at her watch. A little after one o’clock. She had got there even faster than she expected. So long as she didn’t get lost she should arrive just about on time. Suddenly aware of all the darkness around her now she was not moving, she hurriedly pushed down on the clutch and pulled the long gear lever into first.

The road came into the city from the north-east, and she found herself muttering the directions out loud as she went along, very nervous now, every fibre of her body awake and alert. She could already smell the city, that fetid, urine-soaked smell. Supposing she got lost and let them all down?

‘Turn into the Via don Bosco,’ she told herself. And then she kept saying ‘don Bosco, don Bosco’ until she had found the turning and was looking out for the next one. She had to take a turn off to the left, which seemed an impossible task in a strange street with no lights. A church on the corner, Henry had said. Not a big one – need to keep your eyes peeled. Once along that road she should find herself eventually in the Piazza Nazionale. After driving in frustration down several streets which might or might not have been a continuation of the same one, she saw the square open out in front of her. It was already one-fifteen. A few more turnings and she would be there.