That Saturday in May of 1941, the sun kissed the west coast of Italy. Not a cloud in sight, but for the clouds of war. Germany, it was presumed, was preparing for a cross-channel explosion of men and machines. At the same time, it was now known, they were putting the final touches upon Operation Barbarossa, for their march through the Soviet hinterlands. The newspapers reported that England was preparing for the worst, beseeching their neighbors from across the ocean for more machines and munitions, if not a full commitment of manpower. America had one eye on what was happening in Europe, the other on the Rising Sun. Despite its pretense at neutrality, everyone knew that it was only a matter of time, now that the presidential elections were over, and the world was becoming more and more embroiled in a cauldron of destruction.
Mac and Carla were not yet touched by any of this directly. The young lovers were consumed with each other, and their day at the beach. They proceeded up the Etruscan Coast to the city of Populonia, with its beautiful view of the Gulf of Baratti, its flat sandy beaches, and its gently sloping grade to higher ground, miles away. Mac got out his camera, taking photographs of Carla, with the gentle beaches in the background. He took many pictures from the Populonia Watchtower, both to the north and to the south. If Carla sensed what he was up to, she had yet to say a word.
Mac did more of the same at Pisa, at Torre del Lago Puccini, and at the beaches south of Viareggio. Carla posed her way through some of the best possible Allied landing sites on the northwest coast of Italy, all gently sloping sandy beaches, with seemingly enough draft water to accommodate some kind of landing craft.
Mac and Carla entered the city of Viareggio, in northern Tuscany, on the coast of the Tyrrhenian Sea. Viareggio, a seaside resort of over sixty-thousand inhabitants, was known as being the home of the famous Carnival of Viareggio, with its paper mache floats parading down the “Passeggiata a Mare.” The beautiful and colorful grand hotels and homes along the sea, made the place one posh party, with fancy boats, famous fountains, and cocktails on the verandas. Giant palm trees lined the streets, their fronds bending in time with the sweet salt breeze from the sea.
Mac parked the car near the beach, by the “Fountain of the Four Seasons” near Beppe Domenici, in front of one of the grand hotels along the Passeggiata. He opened the door for Carla, reaching over her to grab his Leica, swooning to her perfumed scent.
“Come, Bellissima! Let's take some pictures. Maybe we can get someone to take us together!” said Mac.
“Oh Mac, that would be lovely. Let's get one in front of the fountain!” pleaded Carla.
As Mac posed Carla in front of the fountain, two older men in Blackshirt walked over to assert their pseudo-authority.
“What are you doing?” asked the Squadrista, with his belly straining at the buttons of his Blackshirt.
“I am taking pictures of my girl, sir. She is beautiful, no?”
The two older men both squinted at the girl next to the fountain, then looked back at Mac, who was smiling and nodding his head.
“She is beautiful, no?”
“Yes, she is beautiful, but this area is restricted. No photography! Are you American?”
“Sir, I would have you know that I am counsel to Pope Pius; I work at the Vatican, down the hall from His Grace!” exclaimed Mac, not answering the question.
“Oh, I am sorry, sir,” said the Squadrista, “How that is relevant? You still can’t take pictures here!”
“Mac, let's go; it's ok.”
“The lady, who is the sister of Alberto DeFelice, Signore Ciano's right-hand man, just wanted a remembrance of her trip to the seashore. I would hate for her to tell her brother that she was disappointed by his Squadristi here in Viareggio,” Mac whispered in the man's ear.
“Oh, no, no, that is alright!” said the Squadrista, now suitably impressed. “Take her picture, then move on.”
“Listen, could you do me a big favor? The girl wants a picture of the two of us together,” said Mac, shrugging his shoulders at the Squadrista. “I would hate to disappoint her. Maybe, you could take the picture of us?”
“What?” yelled the Squadrista.
“Yes, we will stand on the beach, so you do not get any of the background in the frame. Beach is beach, right?”
“I suppose! Oh, Madonna! Hurry up!”
“Carla, come dear, this nice gentleman is going to take our picture together. We will get the water in the background.”
The Squadrista took the young couple's picture; both close in, and far out, as requested by Mac.
“Thank you, Signore. What is your name? I want to tell her brother how helpful you have been to his sister. I am sure Signore DeFelice will be so happy.”
“Passetti, Luigi Passetti! You got it?”
“Yes, Signore, I will remember you, for sure,” replied Mac, as he and Carla walked down the Passeggiata with the camera.
“Mac, you are crazy!” whispered Carla. “The Squadristi are not to be fooled with!”
“What do you mean,” smiled Mac.
“I know what you have been up to, my love. And now you involve the Squadristi. You are too much! You better give me some of those pictures of us together.”
“I will,” laughed Mac. I need pictures of you to take home with me, to show my family. I wish I had thought to take some earlier, this morning!”
“Oh, Mac! You are a beast!” she smiled, lightly slapping his face. “You want to see that again, there will have to be a ring on this finger,” she continued to laugh, holding out her left hand. “I got it out of my system,” she said, kissing him on his cheek.
“After what I saw today, trust me, you will have your ring.”
“After what I saw, trust me, I am going to make you give me one, and soon!”
They both laughed as they promenaded down the Passeggiata to the bathhouse, where they changed into their bathing suits. They spent the early afternoon on the beach at Viareggio, bantering, basking, and bathing in the cool salt water. It was a day neither would soon forget, as both believed it would have to suffice for quite a while.
“I love you, Mac,” cooed Carla, as they picked up to leave.
“I love you, kitten,” responded Mac, pleased with his new name of affection for Carla.
Mac put his hand behind Carla's back, guiding her in front of him.
“You’re terrible, Signore Martini,” said Carla, as she caught him checking out her rear again.
“Always, kitten, always!”
The following weeks went too quickly for Carla, not quickly enough for Mac. She said she could not bear the thought of being without him, he could not wait to get back, so he could talk to Alberto, with a ring in his pocket. His mother had always told him that he could use her mother's wedding ring at the appropriate time, which he had hoped Carla would find charming. He thought it nice to express his love to her with the ring of his Irish grandmother.
They were standing on the tarmac at Ciampino Airport in Rome on the twenty-fourth day of June 1941, neither fully grasping that Mac could be back in New York in less than forty-eight hours. The Dixie Clipper was scheduled to leave the following morning from Lisbon, landing in Port Washington the morning after that. Mac and Carla held each other tightly, as the propellers began to warm up, Mac with a tear in his eye, Carla crying.
“I will be back real soon, kitten,” said Mac. “I promise!”
“You better, Mac. You better! I cannot live without you! Besides, it is hot, and I want to go to the beach again,” winked Carla, with her brother and sister-in-law standing too closely nearby.
“We have the pictures we took, to get us through. I can’t wait to show my mom your naked ones,” whispered Mac in Carla's ear.
“Oh, stop, Mac! I am nervous enough already! I know you didn’t take any of those. Did you?”
“Are you sure?”
“Go, get out of here, before they leave without you!”
“I love you, Carla,” said Mac, as he turned up the boarding stairs.
“I love you,” she mouthed, as the engines grew louder.
Mac stood at the top of the stairs, waving goodbye to his new life, his girl, and her family. He was still thinking about their morning on the secluded beach, which was probably Carla's intention, as the airplane thrust down the runway, on its way to Lisbon.
That evening, Mac found himself in the Spy Bar in Lisbon, catching up with some of his fellow compatriots, a single malt in his hand. Ian Fleming once again was there, with his martini, shaken, not stirred. They discussed what had been happening in the Soviet Union over the past week, Mac not letting on that he had known it was coming for months now.
The newspapers were reporting that Operation Barbarossa was now in full swing, having started that past Sunday, June 22, 1941, with the Germans attacking both in the north, in an all-out dash for Moscow, and in the south, across the Caucasus, in a run for the Russian oil reserves at Baku. They were moving swiftly across the Russian terrain, but were already beginning to bog down, less than a week later. The further into the country they attacked, the longer their supply lines. The Russians, it was reported, hoped to keep the Germans occupied until winter, and then they would drive their troops back across the frozen tundra to where they came from, and on to Berlin.
The following morning, Mac went to the docks of Lisbon, not to the airport, to catch his plane back to America. He was still a little hung over from the night before, his exploits confined to the Casino until the early hours of the morning.
The Dixie Clipper stood proud in the water, its four engine props beginning their warmup. The airplane looked more like a boat than an aircraft, resting on its stabilizers, instead of landing gear, holding it upright in the water. The plane, a Boeing B-314, would take on twenty-two paying passengers, three captains, and a crew of six others, to ensure the comfort of the flying wealthy. Two stewards, dressed in formal white short jackets, with gleaming brass buttons, worn over white vests, white shirts, and a black tie, greeted the passengers as they boarded the aircraft off the end of a dock. The interior of the plane sported cushy gray tweed cloth seats, four across, with an aisle down the center of the plane. The seats had tremendous legroom, to accommodate their opening up into beds, for those passengers inclined to sleep. On the other side of the bulkhead wall, there was a formal dining room, the tables already fully dressed and set with the finest silver Pan American could find, if not yet the bone china. Beyond the dining room, there were restrooms, and two full dressing rooms, one for men, one for women, for those who wished to change into something more comfortable during the twenty-four-hour flight.
When Mac boarded the plane, he was surprised to be seated next to William Donavan, on his way back to the States, after the attack in Russia. They exchanged pleasantries, as the seaplane began its turn into the wind, to line up its takeoff among the boats in the harbor. As the engines roared, Mac grabbed his padded armrests, while the plane picked up enough speed to lift itself deftly off the water, and into the sky. Mac could not relax, watching the Lisbon skyline disappear into the sunrise, until Captain Sullivan came down from the control room to smoke a cigarette, and visit with the passengers. His calm, cheerful manner inspired great confidence in Mac, but an early single malt from the steward, and a couple of Lucky Strikes, certainly helped.
“First time on this puddle skipper, I take it?” asked Wild Bill Donavan, as he was affectionately known.
“Yes, sir, there is nothing but water below us! Golly!” exclaimed Mac, as he looked out the window of the turning plane.
“Come, Mac, let's get something to eat,” said Donavan, pointing to the dining room. “I am famished. Besides, I want to hear how the hell you got that Fuhrer Directive on Operation Barbarossa. That must be the coup of the war so far!”
Mac joined Donavan in the dining room, with the white pressed tablecloths, the bone china, and the finest silver Pan American could find. The food, they were told, was from the finest restaurants in Lisbon and New York, as they were handed a paper menu, embossed with the fare of the morning meal. The two men selected the smoked salmon, with onions and capers, on toast points, along with fresh squeezed orange juice, and Italian coffee.
During the twenty-four hours it took to get to Port Washington, with a refueling stop in the Azores, the two men got to know each other very well. Donavan regaled Mac with tales of espionage, while Mac related his interaction with Sara Mandakovich, with Pope Pius XII, with Il Duce, and with the Origos. Both men were fascinated, Donavan mostly by himself. They entertained each other across the Atlantic, neither man catching more than a catnap before the sun rose again, and Manhasset Bay was beneath them. They found out that they would both be in Hyde Park on Monday for the dedication, as the plane landed in the Bay, and drafted to the public pier in downtown Port Washington, or as F. Scott Fitzgerald referred to it, the East Egg.
The two men got into a cab headed for New York, riding in silence, clearly having run out of things to say to each other after the long trip. The Queensboro Bridge was crowded with morning commuters, the midtown streets busy with those on their way to work. Mac was happy to be home, but he already was missing Carla, and his newfound home back in Rome.