In Love and War (28 page)

‘Why not go for Carità?’ Esmond says. ‘Or Alberti? Why go for this Gobbi? I’ve never even heard of him.’

‘Because he’s easy and he’s official,’ Bruno says. ‘He lives on his own in an apartment on the Lungarno Soderini, just upriver from Antonio’s. He’s regular, leaves his place on the dot of seven-thirty every night and strolls up to a restaurant near the
Ponte alla Carraia. We’ll hit him on the evening of the first of December.’

‘We want to get Carità as much as you do,’ Alessandro says. ‘But he’s heavily guarded. He’s a paranoid fucker and we’ll need to plan carefully. But we’ll get him, never fear.’

‘Fine,’ Esmond says, looking across at Ada, who is sitting still, listening. ‘At least we’re doing something.’

The next day, they hear nothing from Pretini. They had been expecting the Jewish families to arrive, but when evening comes and there is still no news, Esmond calls down to the salon. There is no response, just the dull buzz of static. It is dark outside. They have not yet had dinner. He radios through to the partisans at Monte Morello and Maria Luigia answers.

‘They’re all down in the city,’ she says. ‘Carità has Penna. We shouldn’t speak any more. The Germans will be listening in. Goodbye.’

A little after midnight, the doorbell rings. Esmond and Ada are both in bed, neither asleep. They go downstairs together, Esmond looking through the shuttered window beside the door before opening it. Antonio and Tosca are standing on the doorstep. He is shaggy-headed, exhausted-looking; she is as neat as usual, but agitated.

‘Carità raided the salon this morning. Pretini had no chance,’ she says as they follow Esmond into the kitchen. ‘They found the two families in the rooms at the back, handed them over to the Gestapo, hauled Pretini and his assistant, Giacomo, off to the Villa Triste. At least we found out where the leaks have been coming from. There was a priest with Carità, a Father Idelfonso.
He’s been hanging around the monasteries and convents, picking up news from the monks. Unworldly bastards don’t know any better and reveal everything. One of them must have told him about Pretini. Now we just have to hope that Pretini’s able to keep his mouth shut about the location of the camp.’

Esmond places a bottle of grappa on the table and Tosca pours herself a drink. ‘He’s tough. There’s nothing to worry about there. And we’re still going to take Gobbi down,’ she says, gulping and pouring another. ‘We need to prove they can’t scare us.’

On Saturday morning, the twenty-seventh, Ada and Esmond stand in the garden with their binoculars trained down on the streets around the synagogue. They see nothing, they hear nothing, and they feel useless and cut off now that Pretini is no longer on hand to keep them up to date with news from the streets. It is only on the Sunday evening, when Gino Bartali pulls up on his bicycle, his peaked cap and racing colours bright even in winter, that they learn.

Bartali tells them that SS Captain Alberti brought specially trained commandos over from Trieste to manage the round-up. Jews were hunted down in all corners of the city: in the convents, in the hospitals, in the empty galleries of the Bargello where several had been hidden by Professor Rossi. Eight Jews in their seventies were taken from a care home in Novoli and rolled in their wheelchairs to the slatted train at Santa Maria Novella station.

Carità had led gangs through the streets of the Jewish quarter breaking windows, entering houses and looting. What they didn’t steal, they destroyed. They found six grubby-faced children hiding in a cellar and Carità led them up to the station himself, waving the train off as it chugged slowly out of Santa Maria Novella station. That train would eventually, after agonising stops on windswept mountain passes, long waits at empty platforms whose lamps swung yellow light into blackness – all
of this seen through slats no wider than a finger – end up at Auschwitz-Birkenau. The last man who stepped onto the train at Santa Maria Novella that Sunday morning, holding himself very tall despite the weight he must have felt, was Nathan Cassuto, the city’s youthful Chief Rabbi.

Bartali also gives them a message from Bruno. They are to meet at the side of Santo Spirito at six-thirty the next evening. Esmond should bring his revolver.

It is cold as they make their way down into the city. The trees have dropped their leaves on the lanes and there is damp squelching beneath their feet. It had rained earlier in the day and now there is a fine mist. The lights of the town look smudged. Esmond is wearing George Keppel’s ulster, the revolver snug in one pocket.

As they reach the first houses, he hears the drone of aeroplanes overhead. They look up as searchlights slash across the sky. The anti-aircraft guns crackle over Fiesole but the planes surge on, through the air and mist.

The red coal of a solitary Toscano burns in the shadows behind the facade of Santo Spirito. Esmond and Ada walk along to the right of the church where they find Bruno attached to the glowing cigarillo, Elio and Alessandro beside him. ‘We’re waiting for Antonio and Tosca,’ Bruno says. Esmond stands back and looks up at the darkened windows of St Mark’s. He picks out the French windows of his old studio, the rooftop terrace where he’d spent his sweltering days three summers ago. This is his seventh December in Florence, he realises. He asks Bruno for a smoke and lights it, brightening them all for a moment with the flare of his match. Five earnest, eager faces.
A few minutes later, Antonio and Tosca arrive. They gather around Bruno.

‘Elio’s going to make the hit,’ Bruno says. Esmond has noticed before that, when they discuss death, they speak like characters in a trashy American novel. He gives a little smile in the darkness. ‘We’ll get him in front of San Frediano, at the Piazza di Castello. I’ll be waiting around the corner. If Elio misses, I’ll go after Gobbi.’

‘I won’t miss,’ Elio says. He looks very young in the dim light, Esmond thinks. His round glasses reflect the Toscano.

‘There are guards on both bridges – the Vittoria and the Carraia. We need to have them covered. Make sure that Elio can escape. If they come near, we shoot them, is that understood? Antonio and Tosca, you take the guards on the Ponte della Vittoria; Esmond and Ada, you’ll be on the Ponte alla Carraia. Alessandro will have the Moto Guzzi to get Elio away afterwards. Listen, Ada, here’s a gun for you.’ He hands her a small Beretta that she places quickly in the pocket of her jacket.

The seven friends look at each other for a moment and then, without speaking, make their way in separate groups up towards the river. Esmond hears the engine of the motorbike start and then fade into the distance. He and Ada wend their way through the streets directly behind the Lungarno until they come to a small passageway leading to the riverfront. They lose themselves in shadows and look over towards the bridge. The two German soldiers are smoking in the mist, waterproof jackets over their uniforms. There is no traffic on the Lungarno. They can hear the river slapping against its banks every now and again, the sound of the Germans talking. Esmond looks at his watch. It is twenty past seven. The revolver is heavy in his pocket.

They hear the bells of Santo Spirito chime seven-thirty, those of San Frediano answering a few moments later. Ada places a
swift kiss on his cheek. ‘It’ll be fine,’ she says. They wait. The breeze over the river swirls the mist like a brush through grey paint. They wait for the sound of Elio’s gun. Five minutes pass, now ten. When the bells toll quarter to eight, first Santo Spirito, then San Frediano, Esmond gives Ada’s hand a squeeze.

‘You stay here,’ he says. ‘I’m going to wander along and see if I can see anything.’

‘Be careful.’

He walks in the darkness thrown by the buildings, his hand in his pocket, his fingers wrapped around the cold metal of the gun. He stops for a while at the midpoint of the Lungarno, where he can see both sets of guards. The two on the Ponte della Vittoria are sitting down on the stone wall playing whist, holding their cards inside their jackets to shield them from the rain. He stands there, watching, for another ten minutes. He wonders how long Bruno will wait before giving up. He decides to make his way along to the piazza in front of San Frediano. He keeps himself hidden against the dark bulk of the buildings, stepping out into the street to avoid the cone of light beneath a streetlamp. As he’s there, in the middle of the road, he hears a door slam shut ahead of him.

He scurries further along, pressing against the damp stone of the next building. He sees a man walking towards him, hands in the pockets of an overcoat, stopping for a moment to light a cigarette and then walking on. The bells of Santo Spirito begin to strike eight. Suddenly, appearing through the mist behind the man, a figure, running, a gun glinting in the streetlight. The assailant lets out a high cry, audible over the bells, holds the pistol out straight-armed, and then nothing. Esmond watches with horror as the man turns around to face his pursuer. Elio looks down at his gun, pulls at it and slaps it against his knee in frustration as the man turns again and begins to run lumberingly down the Lungarno away from Elio, towards Esmond.

In the seconds it takes for San Frediano to ring out – a single peal and then eight deep notes – Esmond has drawn the revolver from his pocket and stepped from the shadows. The sprinting Colonel Gobbi doesn’t see him until it’s too late. He stumbles into Esmond’s arms, the cigarette falling from his mouth. Esmond holds him up with his left arm and relief passes across the man’s face.

‘
Aiuto,’
he says,
‘c’è un pazzo qui—
’

There have been five strikes of San Frediano’s bell above them. On the sixth, Esmond pushes the revolver up into Gobbi’s ribs and flicks off the safety catch. The Colonel’s eyes open very wide. On the seventh strike Esmond pulls the trigger, again on the eighth. Gobbi slumps forward, giving a tight spasm. Esmond lays him down carefully in the shadowy lee of the building, looking towards first one bridge, then the other. The guards have heard nothing over the sound of the bells. Elio is still standing in the road, watching. He walks slowly towards Esmond. Together they look down at the slumped figure. Then Elio shakes his head, as if awakening from a dream.

‘You need to go,’ he says. ‘Run to the piazza, Alessandro will look after you.’

‘No,’ says Esmond. ‘I’m not leaving Ada again.’ He starts back along the Lungarno towards the Ponte alla Carraia. Elio runs to keep up with him. ‘You need to get rid of the gun,’ he hisses.

Esmond shakes his head. ‘I’m fucked if I’m caught either way. I’ll keep the gun.’ They have almost reached the passageway when, ahead of them, the light of a German Kübelwagen appears, sweeping from side to side along the Lungarno.

‘Quick,’ Elio says, trying to drag Esmond back the way they have come.

‘No,’ he says again.

Ada is standing in the shadows of the passageway, her skin
dimly glowing. ‘Quick,’ Esmond says. The three of them move down the passageway in single file, coming out on the Borgo San Frediano. Esmond tries to lead them back towards Santo Spirito, but Elio hesitates.

‘Wait,’ he says. Esmond feels an urge to wipe Elio’s glasses, misted with rain. ‘They’ll find the body any minute. There’ll be Germans crawling all over the place. We’ll never make it all the way up to the villa.’

‘What about Antonio’s place?’ Ada says.

They walk swiftly along the road, again in the shadows. The rain is starting to drum the street, casting a misty scrim before them. Just as they turn up towards the Ponte della Vittoria, there is the sound of a police siren. Soon, a second joins it. ‘They’ve found the body,’ Elio says. They begin to run. When they reach the river, they look along to see half a dozen searchlights illuminating the Lungarno. Soldiers are spewing across the bridge from the north, their feet rhythmic on the cobblestones.

Outside Antonio’s apartment, they pull the bell and wait. Nothing. One of the German Kübelwagens is moving up the Lungarno towards them. ‘Fuck,’ Elio says. Esmond looks along the river and sees two figures moving quickly, keeping just out of reach of the searchlight that is oscillating first one way, then the other, on top of the car. The figures run across the traffic circle at the bottom of the Ponte della Vittoria and come stumbling up to the front door of the building. Antonio fumbles with his key-ring, gets the key in the latch and the five of them spill inside. Esmond slams the door shut with his foot. They hear the slow rumble of the car pass by, and then they are all laughing, breathless, staggering up the stairs.

‘I need a drink,’ Elio says.

‘What a blast. Wowee!’ Tosca spreads happily back on the wall on the first landing.

Esmond takes Ada’s hand and they come up last of all. She kisses him at the doorway and they go inside.

‘It was horrifying, but distant,’ he’s saying, much later, as they sit by the window, a bottle of limoncello on the table in front of them. ‘As if it wasn’t me pulling the trigger, but me in a novel, a film. Do you see what I’m getting at?’ Tosca is curled asleep in an armchair in the corner. Antonio is cooking at the small stove in his kitchen. Elio is staring out into the night, watching the lights move along the Lungarno.

‘We did it, that’s what matters,’ Elio says. ‘The bastards will take us seriously from now on.’

An hour later, they are all drunk and dead tired. Elio is slumped across the table, sleeping. Antonio insists that Esmond and Ada take his bed and stretches out on the floor by Tosca’s feet. Their faces together on the pillow, Esmond tries to recite ‘God’s Grandeur’ to Ada, but falls asleep somewhere in the first line. They are woken every so often by police sirens. In the night, winds blow away the clouds and they wake to a dawn that is bright and still.

Bruno arrives at the apartment just after seven. Elio, rubbing his eyes, answers the door. Antonio is curled in the chair with Tosca in his lap. Esmond and Ada get up slowly and take turns washing in the sink. Bruno is sitting at the table with a cup of coffee. His face bears none of the triumph that Esmond had expected.

‘Well done last night,’ he says grimly. ‘We did what we had to do.’

‘But––’ Esmond sits down opposite his friend.

‘But Alberti and Mangianello convened a special court in the
night, after they found out about Gobbi, I mean. It was decided they should send a strong message to the Resistance. Five prisoners are being executed over in the Cascine this morning.’

‘Not Pretini––’ Ada says. Esmond’s eyes dart to the window and the park.

‘No, not yet. It would seem they think they can get more from him. But Oreste Ristori is one of them.’

At ten o’clock sharp, the soldiers begin to arrive in the park across the river. The shooting range is swept of fallen leaves and then a Black Maria pulls up. Five men are dragged out, their hands cuffed. There is no crowd, just a group of Blackshirts and a single man in a dark suit who begins to scream and swear at the prisoners. Antonio comes back with a pair of binoculars. ‘That’s Gobbi’s brother,’ he says, touching the focus ring. ‘I’ve seen him around.’ The five men are tied to posts in front of the shooting range. ‘Alberti is there,’ Antonio continues, ‘and Mangianello.’ Now an ambulance with a lightning flash on the side pulls up.

‘That’s––’ Ada begins.

‘Carità. Yes.’ Antonio says.

Gobbi’s brother continues to shout at the five prisoners, the harsh notes of his voice coming across the still waters of the river. ‘Can you make out any of the others?’ Bruno asks. ‘Let me look for a moment.’ He takes the binoculars. ‘There’s Luigi Pugi, Gino Manetti. I don’t know the other two. They’re not even partisans apart from Oreste. Just anarchists rounded up because the Germans don’t want troublemakers on the street. This is appalling, it’s criminal.’

As the men are tied to their posts, Carità steps from the ambulance and embraces Alberti and Mangianello. Bruno points out Piero Koch, once as infamous in Rome as Carità in Florence. He is hunched and long-limbed, like a spider. Esmond watches the Blackshirts struggle to tie their ropes around Ristori’s enormous
belly. Gobbi’s brother’s voice rises higher as Carità, Koch and three other Blackshirts take their positions facing the men. Over the harsh cries, though, another sound drifts out. Ristori is singing. As the
Banda Carità
raise their rifles to their shoulders, Ristori leads the five prisoners in the
Internationale
, although only Ristori’s voice can be heard over Gobbi’s brother’s screams. Esmond reaches his hand out in the air towards the man, towards the voice.
‘C’est la lutte finale / Groupons-nous et demain / L’Internationale / Sera le genre humain.’
Five shots. Five bodies slump forward, Ristori’s heavily enough that his ropes break and he tumbles into the sand. Esmond thinks of Mercedes Gomez, mud-streaked in a jungle clearing, the pictures on Ristori’s mantel, the things for which we live.

Tosca is crying and Ada sits with her. Bruno shakes his head, lowering the binoculars. Elio’s face is set hard. Esmond, still looking down over the five bodies, their five murderers, sees Shelley sitting in the same park a hundred and twenty years ago, writing ‘Ode to the West Wind’. Very quietly, to himself, he mouths: ‘O Wind, if Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?’