Alex Preston - In Love and War

Picture, Esmond says, Filippino arguing with Botticelli, desperate to stop him carrying out all three of his Simonetta-inspired masterpieces. Finally his old master leaves with Diana and Actaeon , sobbing, saying that he must make his peace with God. That only in the kind cruelty of Savonarola’s words can he escape from the despair that has hunkered over him since Simonetta, coughing blood, left the world. Filippino watches from the window as the painting burns. That evening, he begins the triptych. He doesn’t sleep until the three paintings are finished.

Now we see him, ten years later, dying in the airy bedroom of a house overlooking the Piazza della Signoria. Only forty-eight. The triptych is at the end of the bed — Esmond points towards it — hanging there, watching over him just as it watches over us. Out of his window he can see the massive form of David moving by. One of the last things he did was to vote on where Florence should house its new masterpiece, sculpted by the man who would go on to be the true inheritor of Lippo’s title, the greatest painter in Florence — Michelangelo. The triptych is his own monument, a relic of those sinister days when it seemed as though Florence would fall.

As he dies, he feels himself being soaked into the triptych. These paintings, he realises, are enough. They may not have the surface beauty of Primavera or the grace of his father’s work, but they tell the truth, and that is what matters. To an echo of applause as David is set down outside the Palazzo Vecchio, Filippino drifts deeper into the paintings, feeling the tendons and sinews of his own body coil around those of St John. He begins to disappear. Now his wife is here, mopping his brow with a damp cloth, his son, another Filippo, mouthing words he cannot hear, grasping his hand. As if lifted on a cloud he looks down on himself, on his family. He dies with the triptych before him and tendrils of love pouring out from his beatless heart into the still, soft world.

*

He tells the story of Filippino over and over, becoming more inventive with each iteration, knowing that the brighter the images he offers Ada, the more she is able to leave her own suffering. It’s not a happy story, but it begins to gather a life, and helps to heal her mind, just as his careful ministrations heal her body. After a fortnight, she rises from the bed. The scar on her ear has become infected, an indignant red; her wrist remains in its cast, the nails do not grow back; otherwise she is as recovered as she’ll ever be. In silence, Esmond helps her to dress, pulling the old tunic with its scent of lavender over her head, lacing her shoes. When they are finished, they stand facing each other, and she takes his hands and leans forward to kiss him.

*

Esmond puts in a call to Pretini on the W/T that afternoon. It is the twenty-third of November. ‘Ada is up and about,’ he says. ‘We’re ready to help again. To do whatever we can.’

A little after nine that evening, there is a ring at the front door. Pretini is with them, and the Professor and Elio, his arm in a sling. As Esmond and Ada are greeting their guests, a motorbike pulls into the driveway with its front light off. Bruno and Alessandro skip up the steps to the door and soon they are all in the drawing room, a fire roaring in the grate. The Professor has brought brandy and a lasagne made by his wife, which they heat in the kitchen. Ada is distant but composed. The men are careful with her, take care to let her know that she is included in their plans but not unthinkingly. After they have eaten, Bruno passes around a box of Toscanos. Pretini looks first at Esmond, then at Ada.

‘A second wave of round-ups this weekend. They’re trying to grab every Jew in the city, this Judenfrei dream of Mangianello’s. We’ve been attempting to get as many as possible out, but the Germans are breathing down our necks. The convent at Prato was raided last night. Six nuns arrested for harbouring Jews, although Cardinal della Costa marched down to the Stadtskom-mandatur immediately in full sacerdotal dress and had them released. We’re going to send two families from the Oltrarno up to you tomorrow. They’re holed up at the back of the salon at the moment, but there simply isn’t room for them.’

‘There are too many who need our help, too few of us to give it,’ the Professor says. ‘The best we can do is warn them and hope they get away. I have spoken to Rabbi Cassuto. He’s aware of the dangers. He’s tough, for such a young man.’

Esmond nods. The fire has died down and he adds another vine branch to it.

‘We need to take the fight to the enemy,’ Bruno says, slapping his hand on his thigh and making Ada start. ‘It’s not enough to simply react. As the Allies approach — and they will, soon, Monte Cassino is only a temporary hold-up — we need to make the Fascists feel like they’re under attack from within and without.’ He throws his cigarillo into the fire and puts a matchstick in his mouth, which he moves from side to side as he thinks.

‘So what do we do?’ Esmond asks.

‘We attack. Our first target is Gino Gobbi. A Colonel in the MVSN. He’s in charge of the Blackshirt squads rounding up conscription shirkers in the hills. We have information that he’s planning to lead a more serious attempt on Monte Morello just before Christmas.’ He knocks back his glass of brandy. ‘We’re going to get him before he does.’

‘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.’