Winter unfurled slowly into spring. At Easter, Saffy launched a new show and announced that, for the first time next August, the Benvoglio family, who usually preferred to take their holidays in the mountains during September, would indeed be going to the seaside. They had rented a villa in Sardinia, something far bigger than they needed. She planned on photographing in the mountains, and thought it would be a good idea if Pallioti joined them. For at least a whole week. If not the month. When he objected that he didn’t think he’d be ‘much good’ at the seaside, she told him not to be ridiculous. When he said that he thought he might have forgotten what to do, exactly, on a holiday, she pointed out gently that that was the point.
They finally declared a truce. But he did find himself, as the days grew warmer, stopping at windows filled with especially beguiling things to be used by little boys at the beach.
He had just finished one such browsing session and was on his way into the office when he passed a newspaper kiosk and came to a dead halt. Containing, along with football schedules and movie reviews, both celebrity gossip and a running commentary on who was last seen wearing what, the city weekly had been published the night before. A stack of the papers lay in bundles on the pavement. Donata Grandolo’s face stared up at him. There was a black rim around the photograph. Above it, in bold letters, the headline read, Philanthropist in Her Own Right, Beloved Widow of City Banker Dies Peacefully at Home.
The street stopped around him. It fell away, disintegrating like a picture made of iced sugar. In its place was the beautiful room, the crack and snap of flames, the shimmer of a shawl the colour of a dragonfly’s wing. Around it all, the scent of flowers, warm and sharp at once, rose in a cloud of whispers.
Pallioti swallowed. He took some coins out of his pocket, watched while the paper seller snapped the string and handed him a copy. Then he walked on, clutching the sheets of newsprint. But he did not read, or even look at them. He was too busy following the figure of a girl as she vanished ahead of him, weaving through the crowd in her men’s clothes and heavy sweater, or hurrying around the corner, coat open over her nurse’s uniform, white band with a red cross stitched around her arm.
In his office, he read the piece. It didn’t say much. Her family had announced her death yesterday. Her heart had stopped beating sometime during the previous night. She was eighty-two years old, survived by two daughters, two sons-in-law, three grandchildren and many great-nieces and great-nephews. The funeral would be held at San Miniato.
Pallioti folded the paper and put it in the bottom drawer of his desk. He had two meetings that morning. Enzo was investigating what looked to be a major new fraud case. And he was scheduled to have lunch with the Mayor.
It wasn’t until he came back, stepped into his office at just past three o’clock, that he found the letter. It was lying squarely in the centre of his blotter. The envelope bore simply his name, no address. He did not recognize the handwriting, but he knew immediately who it was from.
Picking up the thick, creamy envelope, Pallioti stood, weighing it in his hand. He looked out of the window. It was a clear, perfect May afternoon. Small white clouds formed, then puffed away. When he was a child, he had been told that clouds like that were moved by the beating of angels’ wings.
He stepped out of his office. Guillermo looked up. When he saw the envelope, he frowned.
‘I don’t know how that got here, Dottore. I assume Security cleared it. It was here when I came back from lunch.’
Pallioti nodded.
‘I hope it’s not – perhaps you shouldn’t open it. I’ll take it down and have it scanned. Or call Security. Morons.’
Guillermo was reaching for his phone, but Pallioti shook his head.
‘Don’t worry, Guillermo,’ he said. ‘It’s fine.’
‘Well, how do you know? Dottore, it could be—’
‘It’s nothing,’ Pallioti said. ‘Nothing. Just a letter from a ghost.’
In the piazza, tourists and pigeons flocked. The flower seller had set out a new row of bright tin buckets. Red, yellow, and the deep purple of the first irises splashed against the paving stones. Under the loggia a mime artist, dressed in a white bed sheet and wearing a crown of laurels, stood on a plinth. As Pallioti walked by, he turned, Dante with a hand outstretched.
The bench was in the far corner. People rarely found it, because it was in the shade and almost behind a not-very-good statue of someone from the Middle Ages whose name, if it had ever been known in the first place, was now forgotten. Pallioti brushed a few crumbs away. Then he sat down and opened the envelope. The small red book slid into his hand. He slipped it into his pocket, and extracted the letter. It was several pages. The paper was from Pineider, engraved in discreet grey with her initials. This time the ink was dark blue. The letters were firm, and did not waver.
My Dear Friend, she had written.
I hope I can still call you that. I believe I can, despite our differences – which were not so much differences really, were they? – as the fact that, in this instance, we were cast as adversaries. I can’t think of a more worthy one. In another time we would have been the best of comrades. Perhaps more. But time deals capricious hands. We play what lies before us.
If you are reading this, it is because I am gone. And you will have guessed by now, I think, who I am. Or rather, who I was.
You were right, of course, about almost everything – and certainly about the important things. I wanted to tell you. Truly, I did. And I wouldn’t have minded, if it was just myself – how much can an old woman mind spending time in jail? And I am sure they are far nicer now than the Villa Triste. But, you see, it isn’t just me. I have my daughters. Sons in law. Grandchildren. My family. They are the jewels of my life. Cosimo left them in my care, and it would not do to have their mother and grandmother behind your bars. Forgive me that.
As for the rest, as I said, you were almost completely right. I thought you would like to know the whole story – something tells me that you don’t negotiate well around the blank spaces – and to be honest, I would like, for once, to tell it. So I’ll start, as all the best storytellers recommend, at the beginning. Or rather, where you left off.
The knock came only a few minutes after Caterina wrote those last words. She was barely in time. She ducked into the bedroom, saying she had forgotten something, and did not do a very good job of hiding her little red book. Not that it mattered. I would have found it anyway. I always did. Caterina was never much good at concealing things. I was the great liar in the family.
You must understand though, and this is important – my sister was wrong. She was not careless or a coward. She was one of the most careful, bravest people I have ever known. Enrico and me, there was something the matter with us. Some sort of genetic flaw. We never felt fear. About anything – whether it was falling out of a tree, or being caught on the loggia roof, or dying of cold in the mountains. Physical danger annoyed us, but it didn’t frighten us.
There’s no courage in that. There’s no courage in facing things that do not scare you.
Cati, on the other hand, was afraid of everything. Of the dark. Of mice. Of Papa driving his car off the road in a rainstorm. Of Mama slipping on the ice in winter. Of breaking her wrist, or ankle. She would never use skates or go skiing when we went to the mountains for Christmas. Mostly, she was afraid of losing things – places, homes, people. I think that’s why she became a nurse, to keep us all in one piece. Fix us if we broke. So her courage – her courage was extraordinary. I never thought twice about entrusting my son to her. I believed in my sister absolutely. I still do.
And that is one of the reasons I had to do what I did. It wasn’t just Mama and Papa and Rico and Carlo and those other boys who died. It was Cati, too – all the years, her whole lifetime, knowing her, that she spent believing it was all her fault. Blaming herself for what happened. But, as you would say, I am getting ahead of myself.
Watching her walk out of that door, running to the window to see Cati and my son getting smaller and smaller and finally turning the corner and vanishing – I have done difficult things, but I believe that was the most difficult. Harder than looking down at dead faces in a trench, no matter how beloved, because they were dead. I could join them, but I could not get them back. Cati, on the other hand – I could have knocked on the glass, leaned out and shouted. I could have run after her. I could have just lifted a hand, breathed a word, and she would have stayed. So, finding her book. You can imagine. And how can I ever thank you, my dearest friend, for returning it to me?
I left Milan only days after Cati left. There was no point in my staying. They had some use for my special skills in Bologna, and I wanted to be in place when the storm hit. We all knew the fight would be coming over the mountains, and I felt closer to home there. Or at least, I knew I could get home. Cati was right. Back then, I could walk the Via degli Dei blind-lucretia fold. Perhaps I could still do it now. It saddens me that I’ll never have the chance to try again.
If you’ve seen the Red Cross and the CLN reports, you’ve probably sorted out what happened that April. They were right in so far as they went. I was on a sabotage unit – I just didn’t die. And Cati’s book was turned in to a field hospital – she just wasn’t with it. Word had been passed to me by then that she was safely in Naples. This is how it happened.
We had been sent to Anzola, six of us. I did not know the people I was working with very well, not like Florence – for all the good that did me. Units had formed and re-formed, so many were getting killed. Our job that week was to make absolutely certain that the railway line to Modena was destroyed. The Allies had finally broken through the Gothic Line. But for all their bombing, it was not going quite as planned. They didn’t just roll down to the Po sweeping the Germans before them. The fighting was hard. You back rabid dogs against a wall and they have nothing left to do but bite. Our job was to be certain that the train line could not be used either to evacuate or to reinforce the Germans. Of course there was air support. Like you cannot imagine. That, my friend, is hell. But still someone had to be certain the targets were actually hit – and that they were beyond repair. And to do something about it if they weren’t.
There were a lot of abandoned farms and houses by then; anyone who could had run. In any case, we had found a house not far from the railway line – which looking back on it was stupid, but we were so tired. We had been working flat out for five days. There were still Fascisti around, a few, enough to be dangerous. And Germans, of course. A whole retreating army of them. And deserters. They were all angry, and defeated, and terrified. They’d shoot anything that moved.
The house we found was locked. Pathetic. And human. The key was outside in the barn, under the edge of a trough, wrapped in oilskin. We used it instead of breaking a window.
We got there just after daybreak. We intended to wait until dusk, then make our way west, destroying signal points, sabotaging track, bridges, anything we could find. There was no cellar. We stayed downstairs, and fell asleep immediately.
It must have been just after noon when I woke up. It was very still, but I could hear something. I thought at first it was a baby crying – perhaps in my dreams it had been – then I realized it was a dog, whining. It’s amazing how universal that sound is – the sound of fear and loneliness. I thought it had to be the family’s and that it had been left behind. I got up and went into the kitchen, and I saw it at the window. It had jumped up on an old trough that was against the wall in the yard, and was looking through the glass. It had white front paws and they were very dirty. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that.
I couldn’t get the window open, so I went through the pantry, and out into the yard, and I had just picked it up. I was standing there, holding this little dog, petting it, trying to make it stop shaking, when I heard it – the noise of the first plane. I looked up, but I couldn’t see anything. And then it was there, all of a sudden, right above me.
I didn’t run, I dived. Afterwards, I thought I was dead.
My head was ringing. I couldn’t hear, and I couldn’t really see. There was rubble everywhere: stones, beams, earth. Plates – I remember a blue tin plate. And the dog. The dog was there. It was huddled against my stomach, as close as it could get, as if feeling me could somehow keep it alive. Then there was nothing. I must have blacked out. I’m sure I did, because the next thing I knew it was night.
The stillness was exquisite. There were stars. The dog was still next to me. It’s amazing how comforting the presence of another living creature can be, how much you want to know there’s any other heart that beats.
I lay there, feeling almost happy. I know that sounds strange, but I was watching the stars. I could hear Papa pointing them out to me, showing me Orion’s Belt. The Pleiades. Making me spot the Pole Star, so I would never be lost. Then the dog licked my face, and began to whine again. The noise was like a reel, pulling me in – and in that moment, I knew that if I did not do something, I would die.
I knew I was hurt, but I did not know how. I could hear Caterina’s voice quite clearly, telling me not to move until I knew what was wrong. So I began testing myself, every bit – asking it if it still existed. Hand. Finger. Foot. Toes. Knee. Then, one arm – but not the other. I tried to roll over. It felt as if my left arm was being ripped off. I must have screamed. I’m sure I did. It probably terrified the dog. Thank God, there was no one else to hear. After that it took me a while to understand. Then I did. My arm was pinned under what had been, I suppose, a beam from the pantry ceiling. I couldn’t move it at all, and I knew quite quickly – my brain knew – that I had to. My brain understood that if I lay there, either someone would find me – someone who would kill me – or I would die slowly and very horribly of thirst and exhaustion and gangrene.
I reached over and tried to pull it. That was a mistake. But there was a little motion, just a bit. After my head stopped reeling I remembered that I had been wearing a jacket, a man’s hunting jacket, and at some point, I’m not sure when, it occurred to me that if I could get out of it, I might get free. I might be able to slip my arm through the sleeve like a casing. So that’s what I did. It must have taken me an hour, but I managed.
After I was up, I knew I had to keep moving. So I walked. The dog came with me. We crossed the tracks, what was left of them, and headed straight for the mountains. But we didn’t get far. I collapsed in a barn. And this is when the second of my nine lives – third, if you count the shooting at the Pergola – was saved.
The family was still there, at the farm the barn belonged to. They had lost their son in the Monte Sole debacle, so they took one look at me, and knew. For a month those kind people kept me and the dog. They splinted and bandaged my arm. They fed me by hand, like a baby with a spoon. They moved me once, the day after I arrived, when the remnants of the Jäeger division came staggering through. That was when they gave me the gun. The Sauer. Their son had given it to them. He had taken it from a dead German officer. In the end, it didn’t save his life, but it might have saved mine. They came into the barn once, sat and rested there for an hour or so. We could hear them speaking German right below us, the dog and I. I hung onto him, but he didn’t make a squeak. If they heard us, heard the straw move, they must have thought we were rats, or been too tired to care. We huddled in that loft two days and nights – listening to the sound of broken men and whining engines, the endless tramp of defeat.
By the time I was well enough and ready to start walking, it was June. When I left, the family insisted I take the gun. The dog and I walked at night. The Degli Dei is beautiful under the moon – if you have never walked even a piece of it, you really should. It was summer. We slept in the huts, or in the woods. Those kind people had given me a satchel and food. It took me six days to get to Fiesole. It was dawn when I stood there and looked down on Florence.
The rest, you more or less know. Or guessed. I didn’t plan it, incidentally. I didn’t plan to be dead or to become Donata Leone. I was going to go to San Verdiana and find my mother. Then I was going to take her to Naples, and join Caterina. It wasn’t until I got to the town hall – I needed papers: everything, you see, had been in the jacket – that I realized what had happened.
I had a string leash for the dog – I had given him a name by then, Piri – and we were standing in a line like everyone else, all refugees with nothing, and there were lists, posted on the walls, of the dead. I saw Mama’s name first. She had died in San Verdiana in the winter of 1944. Then I saw Caterina’s name, Caterina Cammaccio. And mine – Laura Bevanelli.
At first, I panicked. I thought something must have happened in Naples. Then I looked again, and it said that Cati had been in Bologna, and that’s when I understood. She wasn’t Caterina Cammaccio by then anyway – Caterina and Isabella Cammaccio had been vaporized, transported to Ravensbrück. (If you escaped, as I told you, they still put you down as ‘transported’. They weren’t about to admit that people got away.) So I knew at once what it was. The CLN had listed me as dead because someone had come looking for our group, and been to the farmhouse, and found the jacket. The red book had been found in the inner pocket where I kept it, and whoever found it had turned it in to the Red Cross in case my family came looking for it. But it was Cati’s name in the front. That’s why she was listed as dead, too.
I stood there in the line, and I thought about it.
I’d thought and thought, of course – in Verona, in Milan, in that barn – about what had happened on Via dei Renai. And I suppose if I am honest, you are right – part of me did go back to find out. But I had no idea who it was who had betrayed us, or what they might do. And as I thought about it, with Mama gone and Cati safe, suddenly it seemed better, safer, to be dead.
They say your life does not change in a split second. But mine did, then.
I was only a few people from the table where they were taking names. A few moments later, I stepped forward, and when I did, I said ‘Donata Leone’.
And that was it. Everything was over. And everything else began.
I know what you will ask. My son. I did love him, I assure you. More than anything. But I also wanted him to be safe. And free. And believe me, I knew Caterina was the best mother anyone could ever have. I understood that she had probably already heard that I was dead. Lodovico would have used all his contacts with the Allies and the Red Cross, and they would have found that I had been killed on 17 April. And I knew Cati and Lodo wanted to go to America. He had been told they could – that was the other reason he sent for her. So I understood that the chances were good by then, in late June, that they were already gone. (Cosimo found out later. They sailed for the United States on a hospital ship at the end of May.) Try to understand this: I wanted them all to have a life. The best life they could have. And I knew, always – but especially by the time I could have done it, after I married Cosimo – that if I went to find them, if I even contacted them, Caterina would insist that I take my baby back. She would give him up. After everything else she had lost, she would lose her child. And he would lose his mother. I would take the one thing I had given both of them.
I couldn’t do it. It wasn’t right. So I let them go. I know my son had a wonderful father, and an even more wonderful mother. One who never, even for a moment, gave him up.
I found a flat. A garret, really. And I got a job quite quickly, in the kitchen of a restaurant, such as it was. Florence, remember, had been liberated for almost a year. I peeled vegetables. I washed dishes. Mostly, I stayed out of sight. But you were right, I was worried about being recognized. And so I changed. I had kept my hair short. It was easier. I kept it dyed, dark. Again, I practised walking differently. I chose clothes I would have hated. I changed the way I spoke. I stayed away from the places I had known as a student and away from my parents’ house – that was the hardest thing, and I confess, a few times at night, the dog and I climbed up the hill and watched. And then we became thieves.
I remembered that Cati had written about Mama burying their jewellery in the garden. I knew the house was empty, because I had been watching it. So, finally, one night, I climbed in through the hedge. My friend, how you would have laughed. I didn‘t know exactly where the things had been buried, so I was like a demented mole, digging under every special bush I could remember while Piri, bless him, stood guard. It took me three nights, three journeys back to find it, but finally I unearthed the oilskin packet. Over the next year, I sold almost everything. Even Mama’s aquamarine. I kept Papa’s watch. I gave it to Cosimo. He was wearing it the day he died. And Caterina’s engagement ring. I used it as my own. You saw it a dozen times on my hand, and commented on it at least once, I remember.
In the end, I didn’t get much money for the pieces. I had to pawn them, and you can imagine, in those first years after the war, how that market was flooded! But what I got made things better for Piri and me. Mainly because we found a safer place to live. I spent some of it on having my hair properly done – I completely changed how I looked. And I bought some proper clothes.
I only ever met two people who recognized me. The first was Signor Cavicalli – although, I confess, I do not know which one! You were right, of course. He and his brother were the twins of the family Carlo and I took through the mountains on the last run we made in the winter of 1943. The one Caterina paid so dearly for. It was a hard slog, that trip. And dangerous because our parcels were so ill-equipped and cold and tired. Carlo carried the little girl much of the way on his back, and I was afraid for the young woman, who was not well. But they survived. All of them. And as you said, you don’t forget that. Signor Cavicalli certainly didn’t. He spotted me, in the marketplace, one afternoon. He was a young man by then. Probably starting at the University, and thin and stringy as a bean. But I recognized him at once, as he recognized me. Our eyes met. We said nothing. Just stood for a moment in the crowd, remembering, until his friends called to him, and he gave a little bow, and turned away.
The other person who recognized me was Emmelina’s niece. It was some years later, when my oldest daughter was a baby. I was carrying her, stepping out of a shop, and I looked across the street and saw a woman watching me. At first, I couldn’t place her. But she knew me. I understood that at once. Both of us had changed so much. Both of us had seen each other last as young women. Then I realized – it was Emmelina’s niece. We stared at each other for a moment, then we smiled, and went our separate ways. All I can say to you is that I knew, absolutely, that any secret I had would always be safe with both of them.
I listened, and I learned, and when I found out what Cosimo was doing, I applied for a job at the bank. I got one, eventually, as a secretary. And then I heard that Cosimo was asking for volunteers, for employees to give their spare time to help with paperwork, and with tracing people for Remember The Fallen. So I volunteered. I didn’t throw myself at him. But I made myself useful, and I got into the papers. Reams and reams and boxes and boxes of them.
At first, I didn’t care all that much about the work – about rehousing, and buying books and clothes and tracing families. That came later. At that time, in the beginning, I had only one thing in mind. I was hunting. I didn’t know for what. I just knew that there was a smell. You were completely right about that. When I finally saw those pages from the Villa Triste, the entries that ‘proved’ everyone had been executed, I was disap-pointed. Not because of the other two – but because of Massimo. I knew, I had always known, that there was something wrong about him. He was a bastard. A pompous, vain, bullying bastard. I enjoyed killing him. I’m sorry, but I did. But that was yet to come.
Cosimo and I fell in love. Not like I had loved Carlo. There is no love like that first great love – and of course it never lasts long enough to be difficult. With Cosimo it was different. He was a wonderful man. And in case you are wondering, I told him the truth. About everything. Before we were married.
We were happy for almost fifty years. More than anyone deserves. Perhaps some part of me never stopped looking, never stopped checking papers, names that might have been connected to JULIET. But it wasn’t an obsession. It was just there, like the stiffness in my arm – something I lived with. I had two beautiful daughters. I had a beautiful life. Even Piri lived to be a very old dog. He is buried in our garden. When Cosimo died, I was very sad. But that was natural. He was ten years older than me. Our time comes. And we had been so blessed.
And then, one night, two years ago, I was watching television. I don’t usually. But this was the sixtieth celebrations, and we had been invited, because of Remember The Fallen. We would never have thought of going – you’ll understand why – but I was curious. So I poured myself a glass of wine, and was looking through a book my daughter had sent me, and I had the television on, when I heard that voice. I heard Massimo.
There’s a bray he has. A laugh. It’s hateful.
I looked up. I almost spilled the wine. And there they were. Right in front of me. Massimo, Beppe and Il Corvo. Three dead men with medals on their chests.
The strange thing was, I didn’t even have to think about it. It was as if it had been waiting inside me for all those years. I knew exactly what I had to do.
I suppose I had kept the Sauer for just something like this. Perhaps even for this. Funny, how your mind works when you’re not even aware of it.
*
I thought about it, through the autumn and winter – you were right about that too – not because I was wondering whether I was going to do it, but because I knew I had to get it right. There was something else as well, another reason. I couldn’t think of doing anything until Cosimo died. I couldn’t risk getting caught and being taken away. He was very ill by then. He couldn’t have managed without me. I owed him that – to be certain I was with him at the last.
In the meantime, though, I began to plan. I studied maps, paying special attention to back roads. I swam more, exercised my shoulder and my hand. I even went hunting once or twice with my son-in-law. He won’t have missed a box of ammunition.
I killed Trantemento first. I watched the building for a while. As you said, no one ever notices old women, and it gave me a chance to get used to wearing my old coat and carrying a dreadful huge old bag. Then, on 1 November – I was happy about the rain – rain is good cover, people do not look at other people when they are hurrying in the rain – I slipped into the house and went straight upstairs.
All I had to do was knock on his door. And do you know the strange thing? He recognized me. At once. I think he even knew why I’d come. I would simply have shot him if he made a noise. But he didn’t. He didn’t say a word. When I told him to get down on his knees he looked almost relieved.
As for Beppe, I had done my homework. I knew when he was likely to be home and alone. It was me who suggested the hotel in Apulia for our family holiday, and with so many people it was easy to get away for a few hours. I rang him from a bar earlier that day. I didn’t want any record on my own phone, of course, and I was careful not to give a name, just to say I thought my husband had known him in the partisans. That was enough. Plenty, actually. He didn’t just invite me in, the poor fool had set up a pretty table in the garden.
I didn’t even try anything like that with Massimo. I always knew he would be the most difficult, the one most likely to fight. He had no conscience, you see. He was an arrogant, bullish man. Nothing in him but righteousness.
You had pushed me a bit, but it was hunting season, and I thought he would go out. He usually did. I was prepared, if I had to – if he hadn’t gone hunting that morning – simply to go to the house or the stables and shoot him. I had to finish it, you see – before you did. But in the end, that wasn’t necessary. My daughter has a country house not too far from Siena, and last autumn I started watching him. For all his security cameras, he made the most basic of mistakes. He became a creature of routine. I knew the back roads around the property and I had found a place to watch the front gates. I left just after dawn and got down there at first light. After I saw him leave it only took me a few moments to circle to the back of the woods. I was waiting for him when he got out of the car. I called his name, and when he came towards me, I shot him. I couldn’t fuss with the salt, make him kneel or eat any of it. There was too much of a risk that he might have got to his gun, so I had to compromise, be content with putting a bit in his mouth and his pockets. Thank you, incidentally, for the compliment about the gloves. They were my son-in-law’s, an old pair that went missing over a year ago. I wore them over my own and even practised firing in them. I couldn’t afford to miss. After he was dead, I simply slipped them off and put them on him, and arranged the body.
I tied up the dog. Then, finally, I dropped the gun. And it was over.
There is one more thing. Your Eleanor Sachs. Or Faber, as I believe she now calls herself. Fabbianocci did, indeed, mean something to me. It was Lodovico’s last name.
I thought long and hard, but in the end, I did not contact her. It’s selfish, I suppose, but I wanted what time I had left with my own daughters, undisturbed. Although Cosimo knew everything about me, my daughters know nothing. Cosimo always said it was my choice as to what and when I told them. I never did. We fought the war to end the past, not to live in it forever.
You will see that I have not left Cati’s book for them to come across, or burnt it – as I admit I considered doing. Instead, I am returning it to you, along with two other souvenirs. I trust your judgement, my friend. Do with them what you think best.
I have never been able to find out where Mama was buried, but I did go to see Carlo, and Papa, and Rico one more time after that morning in Siena. I wanted to tell them what I had done, and that, finally, they were free.
I took them a last bouquet. All roses. If you visit, you will find a card there – probably a bit worse for wear by now. But if you can still read it, you will see that this time it was not from Remember The Fallen, but from me – Issa.
Or if you prefer, Il Spettro.
Pallioti sat for a moment, staring at nothing. The letter lay in his hands, the envelope on the bench beside him. He reached down to pick it up, to slip it into his pocket beside the little red book, and realized that there was something else inside. Two other souvenirs.
Turning it up, he tapped the bottom. A ring fell into his hand, a small familiar cluster of rubies, and a photograph.
The photo’s paper was brittle with age. Pallioti held it up gently, grasping the corner between his finger and thumb. On the back, in faded ink, were the words Issa and Carlo, 10 May 1944.
Turning it over, he saw that the figures had faded. They appeared slightly ghostly, as if they, too, were finally leaving. But he could still make them out. A girl with cropped hair wearing a man’s trousers and shirt stood in front of a tall, fair boy. His bare arms, sleeves rolled up, were looped around her shoulders. Looking up at him, she was laughing. A meadow stretched around them. Behind them, mountain peaks rose into what must once have been a bright blue sky.