Alex Preston - In Love and War

Every day the Resistance grows. We hear of sabotage attacks on railway convoys, bombs planted at factories, ammunition dumps ransacked or destroyed. With so many Italian troops abroad, the security forces are making do with veterans, cripples, recently released prisoners. Carità and his squadristi are away in Greece, so the deserters and Communists, the assorted anti-Fascists have the run of the city, putting to use the bomb-making and sabotage skills they learnt during the war in Spain. The Professor is optimistic: he sends Antonio Ignesti, Giuseppe Martini, Giuliano Gattai — names already taking on a lustre of heroism — on daring missions to collect refugees heading over the mountains, to procure boats in Ligurian harbours. They confab with their northern friends, the union leaders in the Fiat and Piaggio factories in the Piedmont. And all the time Bartali pedals that cycle of his, covering hundreds of kilometres each week, passing where others may not pass, returning to the doe-eyed Adrianna with his cheeks flushed, his brow stiff with ice.

I had a letter from my mother, mainly asking what had happened to the advertising revenue. She’s beginning to sound like Mosley’s puppet. Rudyard, she wrote, has been sent to North Africa, now they’re talking about Greece. He’s already been promoted, leads a band of sharpshooters, a hero in the making. I haven’t answered her. The truth is I’ve allowed Maria Luigia to use her place at the bank to siphon funds from the broadcasts. It’s not much, not enough, but it’s a start. I’ve been on a new round of visits to the major advertisers. I’ve been trying to persuade them to keep up their contributions despite the pressure of the war. How important it is for them to let the world know it’s business as usual in Italy. No luck so far.

Bailey’s got a dog — Tatters. Energetic Jack Russell-y little thing with a snowy beard. Turned up at the church one morning in January, half-starved, tail chewed by rats. I chose the name — from Ulysses , the whole dog-God thing. I believe in one dog.

The noises in the building have lost their spook since I found out about Dino and the rest. I like wandering through the warren of small rooms and passageways and staircases in the palazzo now. Often I run into Dino chasing mice with his catapult, or come upon his father reading in an empty room, armchair to the window, winter light on a serious-looking novel. There are others, passing through on their way to safe-houses in the hills, stopping for nights between Rome and Turin, or between the coast and the mountains. Young men with devil-may-care moustaches, sallow skin. They sit in close huddles looking at water-stained papers and smoking. I rather want to join in, but they barely seem to notice me. It’s almost time to start recording today’s programme. I must cut this disc and bury it. Cheerio.’

12 . A-Side:‘An Address to the People of England’ by Benito Mussolini (35′ 42″)

B-Side:‘As you can see, as you may have heard, we broadcast a message from Il Duce himself this morning. I’ll save you the trouble of listening. The Italians, he says, with their German allies, will drive the Brits out of Africa, batter us for daring to intervene in Greece, and altogether warm our heels to Battersea Bridge. His English isn’t terribly good, so it was actually Pavolini reading, doing his best Mussolini-speaking-quite-good-English impression. It’s funny, madness in any other job is weeded out and treated. In politics it’s classed as fortitude.

Something dreadful happened last week. I was out at a concert of the Maggio Musicale. It was hosted by Gerhard Wolf, the new German Consul. Bailey appeared at the door of Orsanmichele asking someone to come and fish me out. Gently, holding the newspapers but not allowing me to read them, he told me about articles in the Manchester Guardian and the Daily Herald linking me to William Joyce, calling me a traitor and accusing me of waging “a one-man propaganda war on behalf of Fascism”. You can imagine — I was undone. Denounced at home. Furtive abroad. I felt like P. G. Wodehouse. Bailey saw the positive side immediately — how this strengthened my cover, how it would be well received in Rome. He tried to cheer me up. Tatters in my lap all evening — he could tell I was sad, good fellow.

The war follows its coarse, careless path. It feels as if, slowly, the Germans are gaining the upper hand. Rudyard, according to my gaolbird mother, has been evacuated from Greece, pushing out from Piraeus in a fishing boat with a bunch of his wounded comrades. They made it to Crete and there’s talk of him getting a King’s Commendation at the very least.

Dino and his family have gone to America. I was sad to see it. They made me promise to look out for their son and write when the war’s over. Ada and I are now experts at forging passports, visas, emigration forms. Maria Luigia brings photos, paper and card, and for a chilling tale of extradition or escape we can have you a thick wad of documents within the hour, no questions asked. Bailey has been visiting a man named Moses Ricci, Mayor of Casoli, site of the largest concentration camp in the country. He thinks that, with the correct emoluments, Ricci will agree to transfer a number of the foreign Jews in his care to a ship at Pescara. Ada and I may travel down to help arrange it. Life is full and dangerous. I am continuing to make my broadcasts, to act the good Fascist. Just now, I am preparing to have the German Consul speak about Beethoven. He’s a kind, clever man, but his delivery is a little dry. I am sipping a glass of Chianti in preparation. Bis bald, Zukunft .’

13 . A-Side:‘Italy in 1950 — A Speculation’ by Niccolò Arcimboldi (37′ 50″)

B-Side:‘I must be quick. I think this’ll be the last of these. In fact I’ve no idea what’s going to happen. There was a raid on the church this morning. I have an appointment with the Quaestor — the chief of police — at eleven. He’ll grill me about how much I knew of Bailey’s clandestine operations. I’d been at Ada’s the night before; when I turned up at the church, the security police were already there, Carità with them. He’s back from Greece with a new ugliness about him. He’s gained weight, his bare knees are now invisible beneath folds of skin. His hair is longer, the white tuft curling into a question mark above his head. He’s a centurione now, still in shorts, but with medals on his chest, polished silver eagles on his epaulettes. Tatters wouldn’t stop barking — Carità landed a kick at him, but still he yipped and snapped until I shut him in the studio. Bailey was very cool about the whole thing. The police had arrived during the morning mass — only Gladys Hutton in the congregation. Goad was serving, holding a chasuble in the shadows, and managed to sneak out, up and into the apartments. He warned the four young Sicilians living on the fourth floor: they escaped over the rooftops.

Then he went to Bailey’s room, picked up the map of Florence, as many papers as he could carry and threw them in the kitchen fire. The W/T radio he brought back down and hid in the sacristy. Bailey forced the thugs to wait in the entrance hall as he filled in the details of the congregation in the service register, and then, underneath it, wrote Chaplain Rev. F. J. Bailey arrested — sent to concentration camp. Goad is coming with me to the Quaestor. I don’t know what’ll happen now. I must bury this disc, find Ada, make sure she’s safe. I’m scared, whoever-you-are — pray for me.’

He wakes with a rising feeling in his chest. An arm draped across him, a gold ring on one finger. The heavy warmth of Tatters on his feet. The dog wakes too and patters around sniffing, looking over eagerly at Esmond. Ada sighs and withdraws the arm, turning over and nesting the sheets between her legs. He stands and crosses to the window, opens a crack in the shutters to see the city, the spires, the dome of the cathedral, all glowing. The sun along the hillsides of Fiesole. Tatters sits behind him, clearing a cone-shaped space in the dust with his tail.