THIRTEEN
Lucia
October 7, 1943
Lucia stood on the rooftop terrace of her building, unpinning laundry from the line with shaking fingers. She’d barely slept all week, and she felt it now, from her brain to her toes. Was she being impulsive? Reckless? She pinched the last clothespin. There had been a break in the rain, enough for the October sun to dry her best dress and the slip to go under it, grazie a Dio. She only had an hour to put it on, deposit Matteo with her father, and accompany her mother back into the mirrored halls of her old life.
As she dropped laundry into a basket, she glanced at the lemon tree in its pot, branches reaching toward the sky, roots concealing jewels. A memory flitted through her mind, unbidden: she saw herself, six years ago, gloved and laughing with a trowel in her hand. Carlo sprawled on a near by bench, his brown eyes bright. He cupped a glass of wine in one hand, swirling it.
“Why do you want to grow a garden up here?” He smiled, teasing. “I hear they sell excellent lemons at the market, amore mio. Oranges, too.”
She’d pursed her lips and moved the dirt around with her trowel. “You won’t tease me next summer when you’re drinking fresh limonata.” She picked the little tree up, scowling at its roots, and Carlo laughed.
“Here,” he murmured, setting down his wine and taking the trowel. “We’ll plant it together. And then someday we’ll sleep in its shade and remember when we were newly married and you wanted a garden in the heart of the city.”
Lucia hoisted her laundry basket, and the memory disintegrated. Her life was so different than she’d imagined. Nothing she’d planned had come to fruition. Not even the lemons on that stunted tree.
She thumped down the stairs, wondering what Carlo would say if he knew what she was up to. Would he, the anti-Fascist, approve of her now? She used her hip to nudge her apartment door open. Could anyone approve, when she could barely articulate her own plan? It had come to her in a burst of inspiration, but now she worried it was foolish. In an hour, she would go out with her mother to circulate among the German elite. Hate burned in her chest as she imagined them, reclining in hotels after a day spent arresting and murdering innocent people. First, she planned to look them in the eye, never letting them know she saw the devil beneath those uniforms. Then she would listen. For what? She didn’t yet know. But if she heard anything that might interest the girl who’d visited her apartment, and the shadowy resistance behind her, she’d pass it along.
It was something, Lucia thought as she shook out her dress over the kitchen table. Matteo looked up from his drawing, solemn. “This is a scary dog,” he explained, pointing to the creature on his paper. “See his big teeth? And mean eyebrows? A guard dog.”
Lucia sighed, eyeing the movement of Matteo’s pencil as he bent to add more teeth. She had to do something. That was all she was sure of now, in the wake of Noemi’s murder. She could offer the resistance her position as a daughter of the Fascist elite. She could offer them her eyes and ears. She glanced at Matteo’s skinny arms, busy over his paper.
She would find a way to fight for a future where those arms would never carry a rifle.
An hour later, Lucia and her mother crossed Via Veneto. The Hotel Excelsior, immense and glowing yellow in the setting sun, loomed over the street. Lucia followed her mother, curls bouncing, staring up at the cupola gracing the building’s corner. The hotel, around the corner from her parents’ house, had always been favored by the Fascist elite. This was not Lucia’s first time crossing its threshold. Nonetheless, as they passed through the brass double doors into the grand entrance, her breath caught. She paused on the checkered floor, taking in the crystal chandeliers and the people drifting under them, everyone wearing fine clothes, faces bright in laughter. Uniforms, both German and Italian, peppered the crowd.
“Come along, Liebling,” Nonna Colombo whispered, her smile glittering in the light. “Remember: you’re a widow from now on. And you don’t have to mention Matteo right away, either.”
Lucia followed her mother, the words she held back searing her throat. Matteo was her son, her reason for breathing—not a shameful secret. She would indeed keep him secret tonight, but only because she’d keep her boy as removed from the Nazis as possible. She swallowed her anger and smiled at a couple lounging on plush chairs, glasses of wine balanced in their palms. As far as she knew, she actually was a widow. That might be the only truth of the night.
Across the hall, more couples danced to the music of a live band. Everywhere there seemed to be food: antipasti circulated, little plates sat on tables, forgotten, and fine cheeses and prosciutto floated into smiling lips. How could there be all this food within these walls, when across Rome the people went hungry? Her anger flared, always reliable.
“Shall we fetch a glass of something, Lucia?” her mother said, jarring her thoughts. She nodded, forcing a smile, and her mother’s wrinkles deepened. She placed her thin fingers on Lucia’s elbow, digging in as she leaned close with more whispered guidance. “Darling, don’t forget to speak German with our guests. Your fluency will elevate you.”
Lucia had to look away. Guests? How could her mother think this way? Her eyes fell on a table full of food, and she thought of her purse. Could she sneak something home for Matteo? Some meat and cheese? At the end of the night, she’d try.
Nonna Colombo lifted her jeweled fingers, snapping, and two glasses of wine appeared in their hands. Lucia took a long sip, steadying herself. Her mother recognized a friend, exclaimed in delight, and glided across the room.
The wine, bloodred, trembled in Lucia’s glass. She stared at it for a half second before she understood: she was shaking. She took another sip. What was she doing here? Her eyes darted from uniform to uniform. Wehrmacht. Luftwaffe. She was playing the fool again. Who did she think she was? A single mother, that’s who. A woman apparently doomed to struggle, no matter how hard she tried. In reality, she couldn’t do anything of substance to fight anyone.
She drained her glass and glanced from her mother to the door. She would simply leave, abandon this misguided venture and go back to hiding in her apartment until the world changed without her help, for better or for worse.
She was looking for a place to set her glass when a trio of officers sauntered toward her. Santo cielo. Two wore SS uniforms, and one was Luftwaffe.
“Piacere,” the Luftwaffe officer said, his accent thick. “Come sta?”
The younger of the SS officers chuckled at the halting Italian words, and the taller, older one looked to the ceiling.
“Forgive my colleague’s language,” the older man said, speaking competent Italian. His eyes, taking her in with unmasked interest, were the weak blue of a winter sky. “Shall I get rid of these young pups?”
Lucia nodded. If only there was a way to get rid of all three of them. She was stuck now. She’d have to play a role until she could excuse herself politely.
The tall officer turned to the others and switched to German. “Go and get us some drinks. A good wine for the lady.”
When they’d left, he grinned, but his eyes remained strangely solemn. “I’m Hauptsturmführer Hans Bergmann. You?” He extended his hand.
She hesitated before gripping his fingers and pumping once. “Ich bin Lucia Colombo.” Hauptsturmführer—wasn’t that like a captain? She raised her chin, swallowing bitter bile, pretending she was pleased to meet him. “We can speak German if you prefer it.” Had he ever raided a home? Killed an innocent citizen?
“Ah, you speak German?” The Nazi sucked a breath of air through his nose, brightening. “You look fully Italian.”
Lucia shook her head, and her curls bounced against her neck. “My mother’s German, in fact.” She gestured toward Nonna Colombo, who was laughing across the room, blond head tipped backward. “Her parents were Bavarian.”
“It appears she’s enjoying herself,” Bergmann murmured. He reached into his breast pocket and fished out a cigarette.
“My mother loves a party.” Lucia paused while he lit his cigarette, sucking air until the tip glowed red. She pulled her gaze from the ember to his eyes.
“How long have you been in Rome, Hauptsturmführer Bergmann?”
“Nearly a month.” He still stared toward Nonna Colombo, again taking a quick breath through his nose. “Your mother is here without your father? Doesn’t he, too, love a party?”
Was this stranger judging her parents? She placed her empty glass on a tray as it floated by. What did it matter? She judged her parents, too. She shrugged, cocking her head. “He usually accompanies her, but he’s been quite busy. He’s a Fascist official, you see. Like you, he has his hands full at the moment.”
“Ah.” Bergmann nodded, blinking his blond eyelashes. “Yes, I imagine your Duce’s loyal followers may not be in the mood for revelry at the moment. But they should be, with the excellent news pouring in from the south.” He inhaled and the cigarette smoldered.
She watched the ember brighten and fade while he puffed, and something glowed in her own chest. Maybe the idea that led her here wasn’t so foolish. She tipped her head, feeling the air on her neck. It had been years since she’d charmed a man, but it was coming back to her. She’d once been good at a party, sociable, able to work herself through a crowd to whatever position she desired. Could she trick this man into divulging secrets? She smiled. What was there to lose? She’d flirt with the devil if it would contribute to his downfall.
“You think the news from the front line is excellent?”
“Certainly. It’s only a matter of time before we drive the Allies back into the sea.”
“Right where they belong, if you ask me.” She laughed. She’d pretend she was the person she’d once been, years ago. Before Noemi. Before Matteo, before Carlo. Before Piero died.
The younger men appeared with fresh glasses of wine. The Luftwaffe officer opened his mouth to speak, took one look at Bergmann’s glare, and beckoned his friend off toward the dance floor.
“Let’s toast.” Bergmann held up his glass. “To the future of your country, which is once again in firm hands.”
“A tremendous future, indeed.” They clinked glasses. “Tell me, Hauptsturmführer. Where were you before Rome?”
“Oh, Paris for nearly two years, but I’m coming now from a brief post in the east.” He took a long drink, clearing his throat. “I expect to stay in Rome for the foreseeable future.”
“Paris! I haven’t been in ages, of course. Such a lovely city.” So, he’d been part of the occupying force in Paris. Now he was in another occupied capital. What did that mean?
“And what do you do here, day-to-day?” She reached for his burning cigarette, plucking it from his fingers without breaking eye contact. Was it a suspicious question? He watched while she inhaled slowly, filling her lungs. It burned, but she laughed.
“It varies,” he said when she replaced his cigarette. “I’ve been procuring labor for the war effort, managing subversives—things like that.”
“Subversives. You must mean people foolish enough to break the law?”
“Some of them break the law. Others simply don’t belong. It’s the same role I occupied in other cities, but the job is exceedingly difficult here. Half of Rome is hiding the other half. I’ll have to outsmart your countrymen, I’m afraid, to make much progress.”
“Remember, my mother’s people are Bavarian. I consider my countrymen to be those of my ancestry.” Anger spread through her stomach, hot and nauseating. Half of Rome is hiding the other half. She saw Noemi, propping fugitive soldiers up with pillows and blankets, tending to their wounds. She flashed a lidded smile, baiting him. “I do hope you punish these subversives when they’re caught.”
He grinned. “With satisfaction.”
She snitched his cigarette again, pulling acrid smoke into her lungs to obscure the fury in her eyes. Could she really use this man somehow? Perhaps she was again being foolish, overestimating herself, but she yearned to try. She yearned to spy on this monster and toss whatever she gleaned to the resistance, striking him where he never expected it. She was meeting the girl from the underground in the morning. What would she think of this idea?
“Tell me.” She put his cigarette back in his fingers, her eyes watering from the smoke. “How is it that you speak such lovely Italian, Hauptsturmführer Bergmann?”
He inhaled, a quick uptake of air. “I lived in Florence as a student. Years ago, studying Renaissance art, of all things.”
“Oh, Rome will astonish you, then. Do you practice art yourself?”
“No. My teachers claimed that I didn’t understand it. Perhaps I didn’t—it was my mother who wanted me to be an artist. Thankfully, I’m no longer so susceptible to suggestion.” His pale eyes met hers. “But I’ll enjoy Rome nonetheless, particularly once we’ve cleaned it up.”
She didn’t know what he meant by that. “Yes,” she said, nodding as if in agreement. “Rome has lost a bit of its luster. Your mother—is she happy to hear you’re in Italy again?”
“She’s dead.” He said it flatly, his eyes on the dance floor.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s quite all right. We weren’t close.”
She looked away, watching couples spin and laugh to the cadence of the live band.
“You must tell me about yourself, Lucia Colombo. You have no . . . connections?”
“I’m a widow.” She smiled, nerves gathering. What if he asked about children? She couldn’t tell him about Matteo. She glanced around the room. Did anyone here know her, aside from her mother? She’d been out of society for years.
“I’m sorry to hear of your loss,” Bergmann murmured. “Did he die a soldier?”
She nodded, leveling her wide eyes on his. “He sacrificed everything to his ideals. But I’ve been lonely in the years since.” She’d gamble: Nobody here knew her anymore. Her mother surely never spoke of Matteo to her friends; her son-in-law and grandson were sources of embarrassment, after all. Lucia would keep her secret.
Bergmann’s hand landed on her elbow, and she forced herself not to jolt.
“Would you care to dance?”
“I’ve been hoping you’d ask.”
She set down her glass, and he took her hand.
“I can’t tell you how agreeable it is to speak German with an Italian woman. The best of both worlds, ja?”
She laughed, her palm moist in his. “The best of both worlds, indeed.”
They passed a group of aging women, and her mother caught her eye. Nonna Colombo winked, smiling in approval, and Lucia’s heart smarted under her laughter. She hadn’t seen anything like that smile in years. How long had it been since her mother had approved of her? Lucia could only imagine what she’d say if she knew the truth of her motives, the wild reason she’d come tonight. She glanced over her shoulder, holding Nonna Colombo’s blue gaze for two steps. Then she returned the wink.