FIFTEEN
It was morning peak-hour in Rome, and the busy traffic street noises were drowned by the wail of sirens. Nervous pedestrians were constantly turning their heads to discover the cause, for the war had come violently to Rome and other cities in Italy. German troops were pouring in from the north, as the rumoured possibility of an Italian surrender to the Allies became likely. All over the country resistance fighters were gathering to combat the increasing presence of their former allies, while groups like the one Beatrice and Luigi Revira had joined were trying to prevent the Jewish pogrom that had been ordered by Berlin. But the sirens that morning were not German troops in pursuit of the resistance, they were a convoy of Italian army cars forcing the rush hour to give way.
There were four cars, their sirens now suppressed as the two leaders came to a halt opposite a coffee lounge. The target was a neglected building across the street with FOR LEASE signs on its windows, and here the other two cars turned off to cover the back exits. With armed soldiers running to stop possible escapes, the main force swarmed past what had been the reception desk on the ground floor. One elevator was immobilised, the other occupied, the stairs now fully blocked with troops as they were joined by three men in plain clothes, Luca Pascoli in charge of the raid with Salvatore Minnelli, and their informant, the owner of the building who silently led them and their team to the abandoned offices of the defunct magazine on the top floor. The owner had been arrested and interrogated, until confessing it was here that meetings of the group against anti-Semitism had regularly taken place. Not only taken place, but a meeting was actually underway at this very moment, according to the information forced from him.
The trap was shut: Luca was calmly confident. This secret group had been operating from here over the past year, hindering attempts to round up Jews, and the owner had been persuaded to change sides or serve a very long term in gaol. Pascoli gestured total silence to his squad. He could hear the murmur of voices, both men and women inside. They had all possible escapes blocked, and he felt entitled to enjoy a moment of anticipation before the ultimate triumph.
He and Salvatore had been after this group for almost a year, ever since Italy’s allies in Berlin had demanded they do their duty, and round up all Jewish escapees from Germany. Himmler, the Reichsfuhrer, was furious at the lack of action and demanded the Campagna concentration camp be filled to capacity. From there they would be transferred to secure destinations like Buchenwald and Belsen. Hitler himself had taken Mussolini to task at the passive approach of Italians on the Jewish question. Even the Italian army, he fulminated, contained Jews.
This morning’s raid would change all that. Luca would be rewarded with a promotion. Salvatore was secretly hoping his wife’s lover would be caught in this raid. He had no hard evidence, but suspected that some army officers were involved in this. At the same time he shied away from the possibility that Beatrice could be a part of the group they were about to arrest. He knew her capacity for causes, and her anti-Nazi opinions, but surely she wouldn’t be rash enough to be involved in this alliance. Despite their broken marriage, he hoped not. Arresting his own wife would bring awkward questions; even if he could prove innocence of her activities since their separation, it would not enhance his status.
That was when Luca Pascoli gave the agreed signal. In a flash his men used a battering ram to smash the door open, brandishing guns and shouting to all those inside they were under arrest. Salvatore led the charge.
Then everything stopped. They all froze as they realised the room was completely empty. There was nobody in it to arrest. Just a large disc on a machine playing some sort of recorded radio drama, with the male and female voices they’d heard still speaking.
On the other side of the street, at a quiet table in the back of a coffee shop, Luigi read his morning copy of La Stampa while watching the uniforms return empty-handed. He saw the squad cars filling with disappointed troops and driving away. The only three people in mufti were an angry and frustrated Pascoli and Salvatore, along with the wealthy owner of the shabby building, the man who’d been prepared to betray them. It was Luigi who’d suspected his disloyalty, and found out in time to call off their meeting and set up the recorder. He waited until they had all gone, then paid the bill, left a tip for the waitress, and went home to Beatrice.
When she heard the door she managed to stop trembling, and ran to hug him. “Who was it?”
“The owner of the building. Don’t worry, he’s only got a phoney list of our names.”
“Don’t ever take risks like that again, my darling.”
“We had to find out. There’s other news. Luca Pascoli seemed to be in charge…and I hate to tell you, but you were right about your husband.”
“It’s no surprise. I had a feeling about it. He was always an anti-semite, just as he was a secret Blackshirt for most years of our marriage. I was the idiot who never realised it.”
Carlo stood watching the last of the prisoners-of-war leave after Thompson’s dismissal, aware of Gianni’s face expressing his mystified concern as the door was shut. The huge mess hall felt larger with just the three of them, Tiffany Watson, her short-tempered husband, and himself. The pair took seats at the long table without inviting him to do the same, so he had no option but to remain standing. He felt inwardly provoked by this casual discourtesy. Remembering what the truck driver had said about vineyards, could this be anything to do with them finding out his family had owned one? Would he be forced to work on it? Why was he singled out like this? Carlo waited for some further outburst from Thompson, but it was the wife who broke the awkward silence.
“We were told you’re an artist,” she said, her voice moderate and not like her husband’s harsh accent. Carlo’s moment of astonishment delayed his reply.
“A painter,” Thompson said as though the word artist needed clarifying.
Their knowledge was like a shock, for he could hardly believe one of his three mates had revealed this to Thompson. Yet who else could it have been?
“Cat got your tongue, has it?” he asked with his customary hostility.
“I’m a student artist,” Carlo replied, speaking directly to his wife. “I was just surprised that you knew this.”
“One of the marine guards on the ship told my husband, who was in Sydney the day after you docked,” she said. “He went on board and saw your portrait of the ship’s captain.” She glanced at her husband and then gave Carlo a fleeting smile. “Tommo thought it was very good.”
“Let’s get to the nitty-gritty,” said Thompson impatiently. “Don’t want him getting more big-headed than he is already, babe.” He turned his gaze back to Carlo. “The thing is, the wife wants you to paint her picture. Forget we had a brush at the station, that’s history. She’s keen about it and I’m agreeable. We might even cough up a few quid if it’s any good. Well…what do yer say?
“I don’t know. I’d like to think about it,” Carlo answered, and knew it was the wrong reply as soon as he’d spoken.
Thompson’s face started to flush. “What the fuck does it mean— yer don’t know? Why don’t yer know, and what the bloody hell is there to think about? I mean, she wants a bloody picture, so don’t stand there like a spare prick at a wedding. Get on with it. No friggin’ need for any thinking, as far as we’re concerned.”
“Tommo,” his wife said, “it might be best if you let Carlo and me discuss it.” She looked at him for confirmation. “It is Carlo, isn’t it?” When he nodded, she said, “You’re busy with the place, pet. Why not leave it to us?”
“I don’t like his tone, sweetheart.”
“I don’t see much wrong with it,” she tried to say, before he interrupted.
“Well I bloody do! We can’t have flamin’ Eyeties carrying-on as if they own the fucken joint.”
“But he wasn’t really…” she tried to say, but he interjected again.
“You’re too easy-going, babe. After all, he’s nothing special. Just a bloody dago who couldn’t fight, picked the easy option and surrendered. He don’t bloody-well know, he says. Don’t you realise that’s like telling us to get stuffed? I’m not taking that shit from anyone.” He was talking to his wife, but kept his eyes fixed on Carlo, speaking about him as if he wasn’t even there.
“Why the hell doesn’t he know? And why should he think about it? I’ll be the one who thinks—I think I’ll stick him on a harvester and make him work till he fucken drops. Either he does your picture, just the way you want it, or he’ll wish he never spoke like that. Think about it, will he? Be buggered if I’m gunna stand bullshit like that from a wop!”
It was time to take a chance, Carlo thought, to gamble on the wife, who seemed sensible. This raving and fractious loud-mouth was almost out of control. Rude, interrupting whatever she said, as if only his opinion counted.
“Of course I have to think about it,” Carlo summoned a tone as brisk as he could get; anything else was a waste of breath in response to an insensitive oaf like Thompson. “Because that’s what artists do. They don’t just slap colours on a piece of canvas—they think about it first! That’s what I did when I painted the ship’s captain, and the same when I painted a second portrait of him—so he could give it to his secret girlfriend in Liverpool. And I went through the same process when I painted pictures of his officers and half the crew.”
At least he’d shut him up for a moment, and his wife was keenly watching, her eyes flickering between him and Tommo, as if she’d never seen anyone talk back to this thug before. Carlo knew he had to keep going while the bully was still silent.
“I’m trying to point out, Mister Thompson, a simple fact that eludes people. No painter says ‘yes’ to an assignment without thinking. I’d be a fool to take on the portrait of a good-looking woman like your wife, without giving it proper thought. It would be an insult to her. She deserves better. Please…” he said, as Thompson seemed about to interrupt, “no artist takes on such a project without discussion. Not between you and me—but between me and Miss Tiffany, if I can call her that. There’s only two of us involved in this, the painter and the portrait—that is, if you’ll stop making threats, so your wife and I can have a serious heart-to-heart without interruption.”
He stopped then, feeling sure he’d overdone it; any moment the ex-boxer might reply the only way he knew, by swinging punches. He was saved by a gust of laughter from Tiffany that drew the attention of them both.
“Did the captain truly have a girlfriend stowed-away in Liverpool?” she asked.
“He certainly did, Miss Tiffany,” said Carlo. “Even showed me a photo of her, as well as a snapshot of his wife.” He improvised on this fiction, hoping she was smart enough to catch on—and to his relief she did.
“Probably asked you who was the best looker of the two, did he?”
“How did you guess?” Carlo asked.
“Women’s intuition,” she replied. “Made you the judge, the old rogue. So who was the prettiest, Carlo?”
“It was a close contest.” He could see Thompson frowning, but he was at least listening to this exchange. “I had to be tactful. After all he was the captain. So I said the wife won—in a photo finish,” he added, remembering this racecourse phrase he’d learned in England.
“Photo finish!” Thompson exclaimed. “Where’d you latch onto that?”
“At the races in Hampshire,” Carlo said, improvising quickly and hoping Thompson would misinterpret it, which he did.
“Trust the Poms. Bloody POWs at the races. That sure as hell won’t happen here, sport.”
“I don’t think he meant…” Tiffany started to explain and again was not allowed to continue.
“Hang on, luv, while we get this sorted.” He turned to eye Carlo. “Well, you got a fucken lot to say for yer’self, but it’s up to the wife.” He looked at Tiffany with a shrug. “Do you really wanna go on with this shit, doll?”
“I might,” she said cautiously. “I’d at least like to discuss it.”
“If you’re sure,” he answered, with a visible lack of enthusiasm that she seemed not to notice.
“You’ve got a busy afternoon with those elite vines, Tommo. While you take care of that little matter, we can have a serious talk about portraits.”
There was something about this remark that made Thompson grimace at her, as if trying to convey a message. Like some kind of warning. ‘Or am I imagining things?’ Carlo wondered. ‘With this bastard,’ he thought, ‘anything is possible.’