Alex Preston - In Love and War

‘Please come down as soon as possible,’ Bruno says. ‘We need help.’

An hour later, a man pulls into the clearing in front of the cave on his motorbike. Esmond recognises the British agent they’d met with on the beach at Forte di Marmi. The man nods in Esmond’s direction.

‘Wotcha,’ he says, grinning. ‘Wondered if I’d see you about.’

The next morning, Esmond, Bruno, Elio and the British man, Creighton, set off towards the city in the bus. Bruno lets the heavy vehicle coast down the slope. There are now regular aerial drops of fuel from the Allies, but Bruno seems to enjoy sending the bus whistling down the mountainside with its engine off, spraying gravel over cliff-edges, dodging pot-holes and fallen rocks. The four of them are dressed in sand-coloured Wehrmacht Feldbluse and peaked caps. Esmond has a rifle slung across his midriff. Bruno sports two holsters, each holding a Walther PPK. Creighton is sitting beside Esmond at the back of the bus, polishing his revolver.

‘I’ll do the talking,’ he says.

‘My German’s pretty good,’ Esmond says.

‘You look fifteen. And the German doesn’t need to be good, it just needs to be authoritative.’

They continue in silence for a while. Esmond notices it feels strange to be speaking English.

‘So you’re SOE — what is that? Army? Secret Service?’

‘The less you know, young man,’ Creighton says, smiling softly, blue eyes darting out over the countryside. ‘We’ll have a good chinwag when the war’s over. We should get together with old Bailey in London. Have a sherbet or two.’

They take a circuitous route through the north of the city and into Le Cure until they come to the via dell’Agnolo. They park in front of the gates of Santa Verdiana, the former convent, now with a chain on the gate, glass shards cemented to the top of the walls, guards leaning on their guns in the courtyard.

‘Are we ready?’ Creighton says. The four men walk out of the bus and up to the gates. Bruno is carrying a silver-topped stick and raps on the wood. Elio, like Esmond, has a rifle cradled in his arms. A black door at the side opens and a white-bearded guard peers out at them.

‘ Dov è la Direttore? ’ Bruno barks. The guard ushers them through. They wait in the courtyard, listening to the sound of crockery in a kitchen somewhere, a woman singing on one of the prison’s upper floors. After a few minutes, a kindly-looking woman in a grey suit comes to meet them.

‘Can I help you?’ she says, taking in their uniforms.

‘ Sprechen sie Deutsch? ’ Creighton asks, giving a small and patronising smile.

The governor shakes her head doubtfully. ‘ Ein bißchen, ’ she offers up.

Creighton switches into Bavarian-tinted Italian. ‘We’re here for the political prisoners.’

‘Which ones?’

‘All of them,’ he says, flatly. ‘They’re being transferred to the SD holding cells at San Marco. We have a new female interrogator.’

The governor looks hesitantly from Creighton to Elio. Elio nods briskly. ‘ Auf einmal! ’ he shouts, shaking his rifle in the woman’s direction.

‘My colleague is lacking patience,’ Creighton says. ‘Do excuse him. We can of course bring our new interrogator here. We might see what she got from your other prisoners, make a day or two of it.’

‘That won’t be necessary. We have five politicals at the moment. Please wait here.’

A few minutes pass and then two women wander blinking into the yard, accompanied by a female guard with a truncheon. Soon after, Tosca walks out. She is limping and doesn’t meet Esmond’s eye when he looks towards her. Finally a pair of older women appear, accompanied by the governor.

‘These last two are Royalists. I’m not sure you’re interested in them.’

‘Oh, we’re interested in everyone,’ Creighton says, smiling. ‘But you should have one more.’ He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a piece of paper. ‘A certain Nella Ferrari. Ring any bells?’

She nods. ‘Oh yes, but she’s already gone. All of the Jews went last night. The Ferrari girl tried to protest and I must say her documents looked in order, but the men were very insistent.’

‘Were they Germans?’

‘No. Italian. Centurione Carità — perhaps you know him?’

Creighton smiles at her again. ‘We must improve our communication with our Italian comrades,’ he says, bowing. ‘You have been most helpful, direttora .’

They load the prisoners into the bus, first asking the guards to remove the handcuffs.

‘They won’t try anything with us,’ Creighton says, winking.

Only when they’re sure that they aren’t being followed does Bruno turn northwards towards the mountains. Esmond sits stunned as they make their way through the suburbs and out into the wide fields of the plain. Everyone is silent apart from the two Royalist ladies who chatter busily in the back. Tosca reaches over and puts a small hand on Esmond’s shoulder. When they reach the clearing, they get out and stand disconsolately on the grass. Creighton comes and puts his arm around Esmond.

‘I’m awfully sorry, old chap,’ he says. ‘Let me get on the blower and see if I can find out what happened.’

Ten minutes later and Esmond is sitting, sobbing silently. He holds his revolver in his hand, flicking the safety catch on and off, breathing unsteadily. Tosca is leaning against Antonio, her eyes bright with tears. Elio and Bruno are awkwardly silent. Creighton shakes his head.

‘There’s simply nothing we can do. The train is already in the Salò Republic. It’s out of our reach. Listen, mate,’ he says, putting his arm around Esmond’s shoulder again, ‘she’s got a sporting chance, she really does. There’s six months of this war left, if that. She’s in good health. The Germans are losing heart. I’d back her, you know.’

Now that Ada is gone, she is everywhere, her name hymning in his mind. He yokes the thud of his heart to those two syllables: A-da, A-da, A-da. He sleeps in her sleeping bag, deep dreamful sleeps, the painting of Mary Magdalene beside him. He lives like a pilgrim, barely listens to the news, doesn’t want to know what is happening at Monte Cassino, in the Pacific, in Britain, is scarcely aware of preparations for the invasion of Europe. Ada is all the points of the compass for him, all the map of the world, all the war. In saying her name, he draws up a hard and secret energy, and he fights as if she were there, at his shoulder, urging him on. He plants bombs on the railway lines alone now, riding down on the Moto Guzzi and coming back with a steady expression. Every explosion is like an offering. He and Bruno kill two German guards they find lying smoking in a field not far from the turning up towards Monte Morello. It is easier than killing Gobbi, he realises. This time he pities the men, but his mind is too full to dwell on them.

He is silhouetted against a pale dawn sky, cresting a hill on the motorbike. The saddlebags are plump with explosives, a Sten gun stiffens his back. He’s wearing a long leather jacket and silver goggles. He passes before a dark row of cypresses, through an olive grove, is obscured by a crumbling Roman wall and then emerges, a wind-whipped cigarillo in his teeth. He knows the goat-tracks of these hills as he once knew the streets of Cambridge, of Shrewsbury, of Florence. At night, before sleeping, he rehearses his route, laying the tracks over the swell of hills like a lattice, then growling the Moto Guzzi towards its destination: an arms silo; an aerodrome; a railway line.

Dawn still hasn’t broken over the mountains when he comes into the village of Sant’Ellero. Pine trees line the road as he freewheels the motorbike down the hill and parks in a lay-by. The station crouches below him, further down is the Arno, which is narrower, faster-flowing here by its source. The Florence — Rome railway line meanders like the river, unexpected tributaries shooting off. He lifts the saddlebags from the bike and scrambles down to the tracks.