The Black Brigades and their wives and others loyal to Mussolini are pleasant enough to me, but I don’t want anything to do with them. I know what their husbands are doing to the free people who do not want their country to turn into another Germany. I know that whole families were slaughtered mercilessly when Italy was split. When I do see Erich, he tells me stories, perhaps on purpose, about the punishments for disloyalty, the public hangings to avert reprisals from partisans that hide in cities and the mountains nearby. He has become vile, Papa. I cannot tell you how much. He is so different from the boy I met at the river, but perhaps he was always that way. This has brought out his true nature. And you must also wonder why I carried his child. I have come to the conclusion that the child was meant to be. It is the only way I can justify Vivi’s existence.
The first friend I made here was a woman who had lost most of her family. She does my laundry, and we talk often, and she helps me with my Italian. I make her stay and have tea with me, and I pay her extra, which she is embarrassed taking. She is a small woman, a little older than I am. She said she has suffered at the hands of the Germans. But at least I have her to talk to. We struck up a friendship, and she said she would convince her friends to see me, to invite me into their group.
It took several weeks for an invitation to arrive from them, just before Vivi was born. They didn’t trust me. I think they had me watched and found out that my husband came rarely. They thought that I was spying for Erich. Of course, I didn’t tell them he had asked me to keep an eye on things here, as if I owed him something. But I owe him nothing. He treated me abominably, Papa, and I can’t forget that.
Then finally Teresa came and took me to meet her friends. They were very suspicious and talked about my growing belly. The women in the group started to care for me, and I wonder now if it is the child that has made my life better, my acceptance here greater. Perhaps that was part of Vivi’s purpose.
There are people here who are not as they first seemed. The women and their husbands appeared to support the war. But it is not true at all. They hate the Black Brigades, who puff out their chests, grinning like morons, and carrying their guns as if they are always about to shoot someone just for fun. Some of the women flirt with them, pretend that they are loyal, but they scowl behind their backs.
I thought I was so alone here, but now I know I am not. I have befriended a group of men and women who are responsible for destroying vehicles and supply routes of the German army. They are no small crimes and carry the penalty of death, but some Italians are also punished for much less, for simply refusing to salute a guard. Murder is a given if you do not respect and comply with the new way of government, the German way.
And I have to tell you something else, Papa. I have been passing on information, learned from conversations with Erich, to the resistance. And on the rare times I am invited to a social function with other members of the Nazi Party, a tiny piece of information slips through. I know where they are looking for partisans and where they are not looking. I have given money for food, medical supplies, weapons, and new identities, contributions that have helped several Jewish families escape to Switzerland and enabled those who wish to remain here to continue the fight. The liberation of Rome by the Allies has given them confidence.
It is dangerous what I do. I have heard what they do to “traitors.” The very fact that I am putting this in writing puts me in danger, but I feel it must be recorded, that you need to understand things should anything happen to me, should you somehow, by a miracle, get to read my letters if I am gone. And I pray that it will be me in person who tells you everything, but if it isn’t, then these letters will tell you about my life.
But there are always challenges still. I am not always trusted because of my marriage to Erich. Teresa said that while most trust me, there are still some who believe that I am a double spy, and that I am passing on information to my husband. Teresa knows the truth, as do most, so I will ignore their doubt and continue doing this.
Erich rarely comes home now. He is busy. There is so much partisan activity. He goes from west to east to meetings and to camps. It is a relief that I do not see him, and then it is a relief when he does visit briefly and I learn something new to pass on to the resistance.
When Vivi was born, he did not want to touch her. But as she grew, he became more interested. Though I don’t like him touching her. I am very possessive of her, and I do not want his ways to rub off on her. I do not know what the future holds, but I do know that when this is over, I will take my daughter away, and Erich will not see her.
Erich asks me about my day. And I tell him what I want him to hear. That people are good. That people are loyal to Hitler and Mussolini and the countries that will one day rule alongside each other.
I have become a very good liar, Papa.
I hope you are proud of me.
I hope that when this madness is over and you have Vivi on your knee, we will share the stories and you will tell me more about Mama, and that Vivi will get to grow up, sharing with her grandfather the same childhood years that I missed with you.
In the meantime I will hide this letter with the others where Erich will never find it.
Loving you, as always—more, if possible,
Monique
CHAPTER 27
ERICH
Erich notices that Stefano’s German is not so good now, under pressure, his accent far more distinguishable. It’s the nerves; they force one to falter, to revert to who one really is.
The sight of Stefano has again put doubts in his mind. The same doubts and reasons that first drew Erich. He had to be certain of things, of facts. It is his nature. And it was Stefano also, something about him.
Rosalind had met Erich on the pathway back to the river house that morning on her way to see him, to tell him what she had witnessed. She was raving and emotional, something he found hard to deal with. Erich was grateful that at least she did not reach the town and draw unnecessary attention. When he said nothing in response, at first wondering if he should just take the buried documents and leave immediately, she reminded him that he and Georg were close once, that he had a commitment to him, that he must not forget him, and she had opened the lid of something that had been closed for some time. She said that he owed Georg and her, and in some part of his mind, he does. But overriding those feelings of loss and her talk of commitment were also her feelings of revenge. She wanted Stefano punished. Rosalind was of the opinion that the shooting of Georg would prove fatal, or that it was unlikely she would see her husband again.
Erich did not want to kill again. He did not want to murder this man in particular. He likes him, he admits only to himself. But Rosalind is right; there are things about Stefano he feels compelled to know, and if her suspicions are correct, then killing may be necessary. And Erich is curious whether there was any connection between him and Monique, whether he had something to do with the missing body.
After meeting with Rosalind, he had then found Stefano on the floor at her house, on his side, sprawled slightly, his mouth open, frown lines under curls of black. He touched Stefano’s neck.
“What did you give him?”
“Sleeping drugs ground and blended into his tea.”
“It was more than the usual dose, yes?”
She nods.
“And what do you want me to do?”
“You must find out what he knows. It is your job.”
“It was my job.”
She jumped as the second, louder word leaped at her.
“You have to help me! You have your life still. You have your daughter. Now without Georg, I have nothing. It is the least you can do. Find out what he knows about us. He is hiding something. He was expecting the Russians.”
“How do you know?”
“It was the Russian words he used. Everyone used that term when we were lining up. I learned that line. And they seemed . . .” She was looking for the right word. “Comfortable.”
“As if they knew him?”
“Yes.”
Rosalind had then offered something else that would guarantee Erich’s assistance.
“Georg was clutching this in his hand,” she said, passing him a small photo. “He didn’t get it from my house. This is a recent picture.”
Erich looked at the image, disappointed, though he didn’t show it.
“I will tie him in the barn, and we will wait for him to wake up,” he said decisively. “It may be several hours.”
Erich has not yet told Rosalind about the empty grave. Perhaps he never will. She would fall to pieces. She would see things that aren’t there.