The following morning, Grandma Carmella sent Mac off with a dishtowel full of bread, along with a handful of sliced dried salami, and a generous wedge of provolone cheese. His cousins loaded him up in their rusted-out, mud encrusted farm truck, heading out on the dusty roads of Palombara Sabina. In a conspicuous Italian peasant way, they meandered through various checkpoints manned by German soldiers toward the province of Siena, interrupting their singing of Italian folk songs to present their papers to the disinterested guards. Mac had a cousin's papers for the trip, but no one seemed particularly interested in a truck full of Italian peasants. Mac directed his cousins west through miles of bucolic countryside to the foot of a pebbled driveway blocked by a rusted iron chain, between two crumbling cement pillars. A tarnished bronze sign announced “La Foce,” as it was affixed to the cement by rusted metal bolts, suggesting the hardening of the times. His cousins dropped Mac off at the foot of the pebbled driveway, the tall, untrimmed arborvitaes blocking their view of the old stucco villa beyond. Mac kissed the men on each cheek, returned the papers he had been provided, and started up the driveway with a wave.
Mac found Antonio Origo himself clipping greenery along the driveway with a long set of old pruning shears. Antonio looked up as he heard the approaching man crunching on the stone driveway underfoot, a look of astonishment coming slowly to his face.
“Tommaso! We thought you surely were dead!” said Antonio, crossing himself. “Oh Madonna! Come! Come! Iris will be beside herself when she sees you!”
Antonio led Mac through the ancient front door of the villa, as he called out to his wife.
Iris hurried into the room from the kitchen, a red apron cinched snuggly around her shapely waist, her dark hair perched wistfully upon her delicate head. The dishtowel in her hand, and the wonderful smells, told Mac that perhaps he was in time for lunch.
La Foce was dressed for Christmas, which was soon to come. Boughs of pine festooned across the stone fireplace mantle, a big tree in the corner of the living room covered in German glass ornaments. Amaryllis plants were strategically positioned around the cozy formal areas, along with poinsettias, or as they call them in Tuscany, Stella di Natale. Red and green was everywhere, blasting the Christmas colors across the fresh white stucco interior of the comfortable Italian residence.
“Mac! Madonna!” yelled Iris, as she crossed herself, and bent at the waist in shock. “You are here! What are you doing here?” she exclaimed, running up to hug Mac after composing herself.
It looked like Iris had aged ten years since Mac last saw her less than two years before, the war having taken its toll. Her hair was turning gray; her posture had begun to stoop at the base of her spine. Antonio was almost completely gray now, but he still appeared to be robust, and healthy.
“Your home is lovely, Iris. I almost forget that it's Christmas. A sight for sore eyes, for sure,” sighed Mac.
“We put our tree up on December 8th, the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, Mac. I know the Church still frowns on such demonstrations, but I feel it is not Christmas without a tree. So, what are you doing here?”
“I am hopefully on my way out of Italy, home to Carla and our child.”
“How are you going to get out of Italy, Mac?” asked Antonio. “It is not so easy, my friend.”
“I’m not sure, just yet” responded Mac pensively, as he looked down at the hewn lumber floor of the living room.
“Well, you came to the right place,” exclaimed Iris excitedly, as she gave her husband an expressive look.
Antonio looked back at his wife, shaking his head in agreement, as he started to speak.
“We have been helping to secret lost Americans out of the country for months now, Mac,” said Antonio. “You will stay here until we figure this out.”
“We have the room to hide you in the meantime,” added Iris. “We will give you in one of the houses on the property. Half of our people have run away, anyway. We have room. Come! Sit! You will eat with us! And drink! I want to hear your stories!”
Mac was led to the dining room table where they had eaten what seemed like during another lifetime. Iris put out a feast of dried meats and cheeses fit for a king, while Antonio broke out a bottle of his own vintage.
“Thank goodness I saved the wine,” laughed Antonio. “The Germans have taken everything they can get their hands on. There is no more livestock, no more fresh vegetables. We live on what we have managed to keep in the wine cellar below the villa. Lots of cheese and dried meats; and plenty of my wine, of course,” laughed Antonio.
“It's a good thing you could not get rid of it,” chided his wife. “And to think I was mad about it at the time.”
“So, Mac, where have you been?” asked Antonio. “We were worried about you when we did not hear. Ambassador Phillips was recalled long ago, which you probably know already. We are here, alone. My wife passes as Italian, and we both know how to soothe our German guests. They would never think that we were getting Americans out of the country from La Foce. But it is an enormous estate, lots of places to get lost, or to fit in. Hopefully, this will all be over soon. We hear the Americans are halfway up the boot at this point. We only hope that our beautiful country is not being destroyed in the process.”
“I’m afraid that's inevitable, my friend. What is not destroyed in the march north is burned by the Germans as they retreat, or so I could discern by the rumblings of the guards at Chieti. I understand that the fighting is bitter. No one gives an inch without tremendous bloodshed and loss.
“Like any war, I suppose,” said Antonio. “No one ever seems to learn. Many lives lost, and for what? No one cares what is destroyed. Europe has gone through this repeatedly, and yet, here we are again. When will it stop? Probably not until Hitler and Mussolini are dead, and buried, I would imagine.”
Well, the Germans have seemed to draw the line just south of Rome,” replied Mac. “They are dug in for a fight to the death. I can’t believe that Mussolini got ousted by the King, and put in jail, no less. And, then what? The Germans save him and put him back in power in the north? Incredible! How long will that last? It seems his days are numbered, from what I hear.”
“We hear the same, Mac,” responded Iris. “If the Americans catch him, he will face a firing squad. If the Italians catch him, he will be hung for sure. He deserves whatever he gets, that pig. He ruined our beautiful country, and for what, so he could be Il Duce! No, “Il Disgusting” is what I say!”
“Well, I will be glad to be out of here. I’ve had enough. They had me imprisoned in Chieti, for almost six months. I thought I would never get out. It was disgusting, as you say. As bad as it was, though, it was not like what the Germans are doing to their prisoners, their own people. The whole world has gone mad! I just want to get home to my wife.”
“Well, Mac, we have been successful in getting Americans across the mountains to Switzerland, or to Corsica, through Nice. Both are very dangerous, but you look Italian, and speak the language. You will pass as a paisan.”
“We will have to get you papers of some sort, and go from there,” exclaimed Iris. “It takes time, both to get the papers and to arrange for passage. You will have to be patient, my friend. Most guys get caught because they are not careful. Better to be with your family later, than not at all.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right. Balsieri, from my office, is trying to get in touch with someone who can fly me over the Alps. I told him to send word to you if he is successful.”
“Mac, that is dangerous,” said Antonio. “Not only the flight, but the asking around, and involving Iris.”
“I am sorry, Antonio. Balsieri will be discreet. I doubt that he will be successful, anyway. I will do it your way. Please!”
“It will be fine, Mac,” said Iris. We will show you to a peasant cottage after lunch, where you can stay. I will get everything in the works.”
“Thank you, Iris, and thank you, Antonio. I appreciate whatever you can do. I have a friend in Nice, who I am sure would take good care of me. She and her husband own the Palais de la Mediterranee. The Goulds, Florence and Frank. She is good with the Germans, which allows them to keep their hotel and casino going, despite what is going on. She will get me out. She is Parisian, but she grew up in America. Great people!”
“We know Florence and Frank,” offered Iris. “Spent some time on the Riviera. They’re fixtures. We have stayed at the Palais and seen her sing. Quite a piece of work, that woman, but she gets things done, from what I hear.”
“Let's see if you can get me to Nice. I will take it from there.”
“Nice is overrun with Germans,” said Antonio, taking a sip of wine.
“I know, but they are there to have a good time. No one pays much attention to the war while on the Riviera. I was there on my honeymoon, remember? The Germans were there to play, not to be Germans. I should be alright there until I can figure out what's next.”
“You will still need papers to get across the border. I will have them done for you. I will use your address in Palombara Sabina? No one will check if the papers are good,” said Iris.
“Perfect. I used my cousin's papers to get this far, but I gave them back. No one really scrutinized them at the checkpoints. Just a bunch of Italian peasants passing through.”
“Well, you have to be cautious,” intoned Iris. “The border guards are not to be fooled with. They are German, and they are ruthless. They will arrest you, and ask questions later, if they are at all suspicious.”
“I understand. That's what happened to me in Salerno. I was arrested, and then questioned as to what I had done. They had no clue, apparently. They beat me to get me to tell them. I didn’t say anything. I certainly don’t want to go back to prison, particularly not a German one. I’ll be careful.”
The old friends spent the rest of the afternoon drinking wine and telling ribald stories. Mac entertained the couple with stories of his president, and of Carla, and their escapades on the secluded beach not so far from La Foce. Antonio had his bride blushing, and hitting him, with stories of their own time of the beaches of Tuscany.
Antonio gave Mac peasant clothes to wear, so he would not stand out. Mac was taken to a secluded cottage on the property, fashioned of brown stucco, with no electric nor running water. There was no glass in the windows, only heavy shutters to keep the winter winds from rushing in. It was a simple cottage, with a bed, a dresser, and a place to sit. Nothing else really mattered at that point. Food would be brought to him when he was not dining at the villa. There he would remain until Iris could make arrangements to provide him with papers and to secure his transportation to Nice.