SEVENTEEN
Lucia
November 1, 1943
Nonna Colombo glanced at Lucia as they approached the door to Salon Borghese, smiling with pursed lips. “I’m impressed you thought of this,” she whispered, threading her arm through Lucia’s. “Fabrizio works wonders. Even the wives of German officers see him now.” She winked. “But there are plenty of unmarried officers. Like Hans.”
Lucia nodded, but a storm whipped up in her interior as they stepped inside. She glanced at the half-dozen women before her, in various stages of beautification, and forced herself to smile. Did they realize that the rest of the city was hungry? Did they know how their lovers terrorized people, shooting and beating and arresting whomever got in their way? She touched her curls, as if contemplating a hairstyle, and inside she seethed. She thought of Lidia, running from the Nazis while her entire community was captured. Of Lidia’s husband, parents, and father-in-law, whom she and Francesca had been unable to find. The trouble with these women, well fed and content in their salon chairs, was that they didn’t care.
“Is everything all right?” A woman with a German accent stared at her. Lucia blinked, shaking herself from her anger. She met the blue-eyed gaze of the woman who studied her under a head full of curlers.
“Everything is lovely,” she replied in German. She adjusted her mood like someone might straighten a crooked picture on a wall, forcing it even. For the next several hours, she would pretend she was the girl she’d once been. Carefree. Charming. Able to play a role.
A wide-shouldered man strode over, extending his arms to his new arrivals. “Frieda and Lucia Colombo?” He paused before them, pulling each inward to kiss their cheeks. He smelled of vanilla and cigarettes and carried himself like a dancer.
“I am Fabrizio. Benvenute.” He looked at Lucia for a second too long, eyes bright over his arched nose.
She stiffened.
“I understand you’re going out tonight?” he continued, smiling gallantly. “Where to? The Hotel Bernini? The Savoy?”
“The Excelsior,” Nonna Colombo said, drifting to an empty chair, her satin gown shushing as she walked. She settled before a mirror, appraising her reflection. “My Lucia is just getting back into society. Make her look splendid, won’t you, Fabrizio?”
“Sì, sì, it’s what I do.” He cupped Lucia’s elbow to steer her. “If you’ll come with me, per favore. There’s a seat in the back, preferred by clients who wish for quiet. I’m afraid it’s the only open chair at the moment.”
“Quiet sounds lovely.” She allowed him to steer her away from her mother and the other women wafting about the salon. They rounded a corner to a narrow alcove with a chair and a mirror. It wasn’t exactly a separate room, but set apart enough for her purposes. Lucia dropped into the chair, and Fabrizio leaned close, shaping her curls while he spoke in a low voice.
“We have Gianluca in common, sì?”
She nodded, her heart in her throat. It was official: she was part of the resistance.
Fabrizio stared at the mirror, meeting her reflected eyes. His voice was so low she could barely discern his words. “Come each week, and I’ll pass along what I hear. The wives of Nazi leaders multiply daily, and they love to talk to their hairdresser.”
“Fabrizio!” a woman called from the main room. “My curls are set!”
“Brava!” he called back, his expression transforming from solemn to animated, as if someone had poked him with a pin. “Just one moment!”
He lowered his voice again. “When you come, you must insist on this alcove. Sì?”
She nodded. “Capisco. And I have this for you.” With shaking fingers, she pulled a copy of Italia Libera from her purse. He lifted his shirt and stuffed it, without comment, into his undergarments.
“Grazie, signora. Now listen.” He placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing as if to underline his whispers. “The people you’re circling are dangerous. Capisci? Befriend who you must, but look over this shoulder”—he squeezed once more—“always.”
“Capisco,” she whispered again. She pictured Bergmann, with his dead eyes, and cringed. What had she gotten herself into? Matteo’s face replaced Bergmann’s in her mind. He was giggling, freckled nose scrunched with mischief, and her heart clutched. Was she endangering him by being here, playing a role? The thought made her panic a bit. No. She’d keep her boy out of all this. He’d be her carefully guarded secret.
Fabrizio’s black eyes caught hers again in the mirror. She was struck by the idea that he understood somehow; that he sensed her divided heart.
“I’ll be back in a minute to do something magnifico with your hair,” he said in a regular voice. “Let’s get you ready for a night out.”
“You don’t seem yourself tonight,” Hans Bergmann said from his lounge chair on the other side of the coffee table. They were in the Excelsior, angled toward each other under the glittering light of a chandelier, struggling through a third encounter and their first real date.
Lucia shook herself from the words echoing in her mind. His words. I’ll enjoy Rome nonetheless, particularly once we’ve cleaned it up. Had he meant the Jews? Was he involved in the raid on the ghetto? She met his stare and found his blue eyes locked on her face, examining her. He sniffed, as he did a hundred times a night, and she hardened. What would she give, right now, to ask him why he sniffed all the time—was it a cold? Allergies? A nervous habit? Was he so absorbed with himself that he didn’t see how repulsive he was?
She tipped her wine, glancing at the liquid, and gave him a full smile. “I’m just a little tired. But I’m thrilled to be out, and to see you again.”
He nodded as if she’d checked a box, and she sipped her wine. Was he repulsive? If she’d stumbled upon him, knowing nothing, would she think so? No. He just looked like a man, square, tall, and very blond, with a restrained manner. But she knew now that he didn’t always restrain himself. He’d had something to do with arresting the Jews—she smelled it on him, like rot. She blinked, recalled the women and children huddling in the rain, and struggled to swallow her wine. It was why she was here, doing something. What she was able to do wasn’t yet clear, and that irritated her, too.
He leaned back, examining her.
“You know?” she said, crossing one slim leg over the other, “I’m not sure what I’ve eaten today. Perhaps I’ll feel more myself with a little something.”
“Ah yes.” He sat up. “You must keep up your strength.”
He stood, and she reached out to squeeze his hand as he passed, murmuring, “Danke.”
With the seat across from her empty, Lucia exhaled. She’d take a few bites of whatever he brought, and when he wasn’t looking, she’d tip the rest into her purse for Matteo. Satisfaction pinged her heart. She hadn’t foreseen it, but this position would allow her boy to eat good food once in a while. For a child who seemed to weigh half what he should, it was a gift.
She lifted her eyes to the chandelier. Did Bergmann like her? She needed to make sure that he did, but tonight her heart wasn’t in it. And yet, perhaps she didn’t have to work too hard to secure his interest. Bergmann stared at her as if adding up her parts: long legs, slim waist, breasts, dimples, curls, correct lineage. It all equaled one satisfactory woman. She dropped her gaze to the chair across from her and stilled.
His briefcase. She’d seen it with him last time, too. What did he carry in that slim leather case? I’ve been procuring labor for the war effort, managing subversives—things like that, he’d said. She thought of the many Jews in hiding across Rome. Did he have files on them, to hunt them down? And the labor sweeps were happening with increasing frequency. Just last week, the Germans had cordoned off a neighborhood outside the city walls, gathering all able-bodied men, aged fifteen to seventy, to build their fortifications. What if people could be warned?
Bergmann appeared, weaving through a cluster of people across the room. She smiled up at him as he neared.
“Hauptsturmführer Bergmann, would it trouble you if I called you Hans?”
He grinned as he sat, and for a second he seemed surprised. “Not at all.” He met her stare. “I’d be pleased to think our acquaintance is progressing.”
“Oh, Hans.” She leaned forward and placed a hand on his arm. “I feel exactly the same.”
They shared a long, smiling gaze, and one thought rebounded in Lucia’s mind: she would find a way to steal that briefcase.
When Bergmann walked Lucia home, it was dark. He breached the gap between them, taking her hand, and she had to force herself not to pull away. At least her parents’ house was close. Their footsteps echoed. It was after curfew, but she’d be unquestioned walking home with him. Yet he was only going as far as the home he thought she inhabited, her parents’ apartment, the place she’d be expected to live as a single woman. It was difficult to say which was worse: walking the rest of the way alone after curfew, or walking with him.
He stopped before the building’s door and turned, staring into her eyes. She held his pale gaze, fighting nausea. He expected her to kiss him. She thought about the briefcase dangling from his right hand and reached up on tiptoe, grazing his cheek. At the last second he turned, pressing his lips to hers like a hungry leech. She forced herself to hold still. He let go, and she dropped away. How long before he’d expect more? Could she convince him she was a traditional woman, chaste until marriage? Of course, he knew she’d already been married.
He smiled stiffly. “Can I see you next week?”
She mustered a grin. “That would be grand.”
“Perfect—meet me at the same time and place. Until then, good night, my dear.” He tipped his head, pivoting abruptly, and strode away.
Lucia wavered in the street, catching her breath. Santo cielo. Had she ever liked a man less? She watched him turn a corner before hurrying off herself, spitting his taste into the bushes.
The city was quiet and dark, all of its light smothered by the blackout. She slunk through it, threading along alleys and narrow streets toward home. The unrelenting fall rains had actually relented for a bit, and clouds skated over the moon, dropping shafts of pale light. When she crossed open streets, she could see her breath.
She was eager to return to Matteo. He’d be asleep when she got home, in his own bed thanks to her mother, who’d had an uncharacteristic flash of kindness after the salon. “I’ll take him home and fix him something to eat,” she’d said, and a strange smile climbed all the way to her eyes. “It’ll be better for him to sleep in his own bed, Liebling. He was afraid the last time he stayed over with us.” She’d winked, adding, “Heaven knows your father can fend for himself and make his own dinner, once in a while.”
It was strange with Nonna Colombo lately. Lucia gripped her handbag, heavy with precious antipasti smuggled out for her child, and glanced up and down another moonlit street. It was almost as if her mother loved her. Her dates with Bergmann seemed to have thawed something in her, which only made Lucia freeze harder. If her mother knew the truth, that fragile love would evaporate like mist on a hot day.
A noise broke into her thoughts. She tightened, stepping again into a strip of shadow. Had she imagined it? She didn’t turn or alter her pace, but she stopped breathing. Listened.
There it was again. The soft echo of a step.
Lucia’s heart pounded as she walked faster, staving off panic. All she could hear now were her own footsteps, her own sweeping breath, but she knew. Someone was following her. Could it be Bergmann? Oddio. Or what if it was someone he’d sent? Was he suspicious of her? She replayed his kiss in her mind, his abrupt goodbye, and fear flooded her soul. She had to find a way to escape. To hide.
Despite herself, she glanced back at the dark alley. It appeared to be empty. Could she have imagined it? She pulled up a map of the city in her mind, zeroing in on where she was. She saw the entire alley, its exact contours snaking between wider streets. She would take the next left, away from home. Whoever was trailing her couldn’t know where she lived. Should she hide and try to see who it was?
Up ahead, another moonlit street unraveled, and she strode toward it. Faint steps, intermittent, sounded in her wake. It was nearly nothing. In normal times, it could have been a cat, slinking along a wall. An echo. But now, in Rome after curfew? It was someone, after her.
Lucia crossed the silvery street, walking quickly, and ducked into the shadow of a narrow alley. She turned, pressing against the building, watching the open expanse. If whoever was following her thought she hadn’t noticed him, he’d pass through the moonlight momentarily.
Two more shaky breaths, and there he was. A long figure looked up and down the empty cobblestones, ducked, and jogged across. As he neared, the moon cast its light on his face, tracing his brows, shadowing under his jaw, falling on his shoulders.
Lucia dropped her handbag. She was staring at a ghost.