“Then I went to the address. That is the end. You know the rest. I care nothing about her. I thought she would make interesting company, but she was, how do you say, superficiale . . . shallow, and there are plenty more out there. From the look of things, it was not meant to be.”
Stefano can tell that his facial expressions and body language are being studied. He must appear open, naive even, but still guarded. It is obvious that Erich is used to playing mental games, and Stefano must rise to the challenge, remain strong.
“It is a nice bedtime story, but it is only that. I am used to liars, Stefano. I am used to people who believe they are cleverer than I am. But I believe your intention was to catch me. You were drawing me out, weren’t you, into a trap that you never got to set up. Those Russians came too early, didn’t they?”
“You may not always be right. Everyone makes bad judgments. You are making one of them now. You obviously made one about your wife—”
Stefano does not see it coming, the punch to the side of his jaw, and the blade slips from his fingers.
20 March 1945
Dearest Papa,
I only have the briefest time to write to you. With most of Italy now liberated by the Allies, it is only a matter of time before they reach here. But it is becoming even more dangerous for me. Although I have been on their side, helping fight against the Italian regime and the Nazis, I am told that it will not necessarily make me safe. I have a German child, and my husband has been responsible for the capture, interrogation, and ultimate execution of many. I will have to leave here soon.
Italian soldiers in the street are still saying that Germany and Italy are winning and that Mussolini will reclaim the South. They continue to lie to the people, but I believe my sources.
My husband sent me a telegram to say he was heading back to Berlin for reasons he didn’t say. It is like that with him always. We have separate lives. He stays near the camp; he stays close to his crimes and comes here sometimes to see Genevieve. A handful of times I have had to attend events with him, to show that he is human perhaps, even though I do not think he is. He is smart, calculating. But he feels nothing for me; that much I can tell. I only hope that if it comes to it, he feels something for Vivi.
I have helped many through our operations. I have passed information. One man, Cosimo, has been here hiding. I have to say, Papa, that I have never felt anything like I feel for him. He has been here a week now. We have spent so many hours talking. I admire his bravery, his support for the Allies. It is hard to explain love, but the pain in my chest that we will soon be parted, me to Germany and—
CHAPTER 30
ERICH
Stefano sits on the floor, perspiration on his forehead, his lip bleeding. He was not expecting it. That was always the best part of the job for Erich. The surprise, when they did not see a punishment coming, which rids the prisoner of any self-importance.
There has been only a handful of times where he used such a method on a prisoner. Mostly, he has been a spectator. He left it to others, though later it gave him some satisfaction, some way of releasing a frustration, an anger that grew larger over the war years.
The last months on the run have at least given him cause to think of the future, to know that all is not lost. That others are there hiding still with the words from Goebbels’s final dedication to the führer ringing in their ears. “We feel him in us, around us.”
“Why have you brought me here to this,” says Stefano, “if you are so certain I want to kill you? Why didn’t you just kill me when I was tied up in the barn?”
There is something Erich is going to say, then he changes his mind. He cannot say for sure. First it was to be far away from the Russians in case they returned to the river houses. But now that he reflects, it is Stefano also, he concedes. There is still something about Stefano that attracts him that he cannot admit openly, that he has been fighting to admit, even to himself.
But this should have been over with. He should have killed him on the first night he found him. He should have known better, trusted those first brief seconds when Erich had seen something fierce and hateful in his eyes before Stefano had time to hide it. Stefano was never on the side of Germany. They are still at war. He can see that now.
“I needed to know what you are doing, who you are working for. How much you know of people in hiding. It is my job to study people, to know.”
“It was your job.”
“You are wrong, Stefano. There are still many of us out there loyal to the führer’s cause, though circumstances have stalled the inevitable. Germany will be strong again one day, and I plan to help make it that way in time.”
“You should forget that fantasy, go back to your family. Or I could still help you leave Germany through my contact in Italy. I know that is what you were hoping for. We can put this event behind us.”
“Please spare me your tricks. I know what you are doing, filling me with false hope about your contact that doesn’t exist.”
Stefano is undeterred.
“There is no enemy to fight, Erich, no greatness in Germany. We are all equal now, and there is no more war on the horizon. Only the people who matter should be on your mind like they are on mine.”
And somehow these words reach Erich, and he looks at the marks on the wall near the kitchen. He remembers the day the marks were made. There are names written there, in children’s writing, and a measurement beside each one. Stefano follows his gaze. He sees things quickly, watches for them, like Erich.
“Was this your house?” asks Stefano, and Erich is thinking then, remembering.
“Yes,” Erich says, unreserved, wishing suddenly to give Stefano something before he is killed. To make him understand, view the world through his eyes.
“This is where I grew up. This is where I watched my mother work hard every day and my father design his machines. This was once a place of wonder, now . . .”
The sounds of the trucks rush through his mind. He had entered the wood, and he knew he could run fast enough to reach the other side before they had left their vehicles. But he stopped because it felt cowardly to leave his mother alone with his younger siblings. I should be there, he thought. He stopped to watch from behind the trees and wait for the trucks to leave. They would find nothing there, no papers linking him or his father. His mother was safe, he thought, and he would return to her.
And then he had heard the sound of a pistol being fired, the noise from somewhere in the house. He waited in the forest. He heard their loud Russian voices, their boots on the stairs that led to the children’s bedrooms. And then there was laughter and the Russians calling to one another. They left quickly then and climbed back into their trucks. Erich did not wait for them to reach the road but ran through the back door.
“It was here where I realized that I was on my own to fight. That I would have to survive and start again, but also to keep the hopes of my mother alive—”
“Not your father?”
He turns to Stefano. He is thinking he might hit him again because he has reminded him that his father was not like him. They were two very different people, and his father knew this, perhaps had known it all along.
“My father hated politics and hated being drawn to one side, I realize now. He did not see the world through Germany’s eyes. That was his downfall.”
Stefano looks away.
“You don’t believe me.”
“I find your conclusion confusing,” says Stefano. “It sounds like he knew what was coming before you did.”
Claudine flashes in his memory.
“My father had a brilliant mind, but he was emotionally weak. He hanged himself the day that Claudine, my sister, was executed for distributing anti-Nazi leaflets, for turning against us.”
“You must concede that Hitler led your family and the rest of Germany over a cliff.”
“Hindsight tells us where we went wrong. It is the case here,” Erich says dryly, refusing to concede anything. “We can learn from it.”