She told everything she knew about Erich to Fedor, who passed it on to his brother-in-law in the Soviet army, also keen to capture Erich Steiner and other SS who had so far evaded them and believing that most had left Germany by then. But they now had some idea where Erich was, and their plan would have to be clever in order to capture him. Stefano would find him and her daughter, he told her. Monique said that Rosalind was the key to unlocking the mystery of his whereabouts. Fedor had tattooed Stefano’s arm, along with several others, during their time in the resistance campaign to prevent the Allies or other partisans from mistaking them for the enemy in the final months of chaos and misjudged loyalties. And Stefano fit the picture of a broken, weakened man returned from a German concentration camp, eager to be home. He had begun his quest, his head full of revenge, for his mother, sister, and friends and for the treatment of Monique. He was not sure, if it came to it, whether he could bring Erich in alive.
On the morning that Rosalind gave Stefano the drug in his tea, Erich was meant to be there, to be captured, after Stefano had sent Michal to the town the previous day to deliver a written message, with just a date and a time and coordinates, to the postmaster, who was a spy for the Russians. And although Stefano wished Erich dead, had dreamed of it, the Allies wanted him alive, wanted information, and wanted him put on trial. A fate that would likely see him hanged.
He thinks of Michal. Did he use him? Perhaps it was in his mind: something to help his purpose, the boy a guise. But he did not expect to care the way he did. This is something not even war can remove from his heart.
On the night Stefano spent in Rosalind’s room, he had crept out to dig up the tin that he had seen Erich bury on the hilltop. He had taken it to Michal, woken him up, told him that he must stay at the house for his own safety and watch over the tin until Stefano came to collect him in the morning. To not come out of the house if he heard any gunshots, and in an emergency to deliver the tin and another message.
Stefano is not excited about the future. It is not the word to use, but there is something now that he can build from: a family pieced together from different puzzles that will form a new one, a new future, a patchwork of their own design.
March 1945
Stefano was in the secret cavity at the base of the wall that had been cut out and then replaced with a door. One might have seen the line around the section, the point of difference from the rest of the wall, except that the bed in front concealed it.
Stefano opened the door slightly to listen better once Erich had retreated from the partitioned area and entered his daughter’s bedroom.
He climbed out of the enclosure and out from under the bed. He stood at the curtains, his gun ready. This was his opportunity to kill the man who he believed had taken the lives of his mother and friends and most likely Nina, too.
Monique stood there, staring at the room that Erich had entered, her hands twisting together. She turned then, looked directly at the parted curtains, directly into his eyes. She shook her head.
So much of him wanted to burst through and put a bullet in Erich’s head, a knife to his throat, but he honored her wishes and vowed that there would come a time. He retreated back under the bed and into the wall. He did it without sound. He had been sitting at the table opposite her. She had been reading aloud the letter she was writing.
When she got to the part about her feelings, he had reached across the table and held the hand without the pen, but they were suddenly interrupted by sounds from the stairwell, evenly spaced, fine leather shoes making a soft shuffling sound at each upward step. He’d had just enough time to hide.
When he heard Erich leave, Stefano had emerged immediately. Monique raced straightaway to check on Vivi.
“I should have killed him,” he said.
“No. Not here, not with Vivi. He may have told someone he was coming here.”
“And we could have disappeared before they got here.”
“Who knows who else he had waiting outside to collect him. Erich always has insurance.”
She was right. There was too much risk. But there was something else about Erich’s goodbye, as if he were certain he wouldn’t see her again.
“I’m not feeling good about this,” Stefano said, looking around the apartment and wondering what Erich had seen, sensed. “He sent you a message and then turned up anyway. It is strange. You said he always has insurance. Perhaps this time it was the message to let people think he wouldn’t come here.”
Stefano could see from Monique’s trembling hands that she was uneasy about his visit also. It was quiet outside. Too quiet. The sight of a Nazi vehicle in a quaint cobbled street sent people indoors.
Monique went to speak, but Stefano put his finger to his lips. He thought he heard something and stopped to listen. A rustle outside, clothing perhaps, trousers brushing together, faintly audible, followed by a creak of the floor and silence. He sensed there were people there, waiting.
Stefano pointed to Vivi’s room to send Monique there, but as she walked past the front door, it burst open and two men appeared, the one in front leading with his gun only inches from her. Stefano fired into the first man, hitting the intruder in the shoulder, just before the intruder fired his gun. The injury skewed his aim upward, causing his bullet’s release into the ceiling, and plaster rained on them from above. Monique rushed forward toward the bedroom with Vivi, while the injured man turned his attention fully onto Stefano. The second intruder, also armed, retreated back outside the door while Stefano emptied several bullets into the first.
Ignoring the pain in his leg, and the first man down, Stefano charged outside and crashed into the second assailant, standing on the landing of the stairs, before he had time to raise his weapon. Stefano threw himself down upon him, attempting to wrestle the gun free. The man head-butted him, the sudden pain not enough to halt Stefano, but the wound in Stefano’s leg was now weeping fresh blood.
As both fought for the gun, Stefano pushed the barrel of the assassin’s weapon into the man’s neck, crushing his windpipe. The assassin grabbed Stefano’s wrists to pull him away. He was strong, and Stefano could not maintain the hold. The assassin twisted both Stefano’s arms and was able to turn him on his back to lie above him. The barrel of the gun was forced into Stefano’s throat, and he could feel himself weakening.
A burst of gunfire and the man suddenly slumped forward on top of him, blood spurting onto Stefano from the assassin’s head wound. Monique stood behind, holding the weapon belonging to the first man.
They had come badly prepared, like so many working for the Nazis’ underground. He was relieved that it wasn’t the SS.
Taking the assassins’ guns, they hastily packed a bag, which included the letters she had written to her father. The sound of gunshots had drawn others, and the Gestapo was certain to arrive soon.
Monique picked up Vivi, who was now wide awake and clinging to her mother, and they ran to another house to call Fedor. With the car’s lights off, Fedor drove Monique and Stefano to an abandoned villa in Garda, at the base of the mountains that led into Austria.
They were guided to a small sitting room at the front of the house. A tiled floor led to large glass doors and a balcony with views of the dark lake and mountains, and the only lights shone from houses across the water. There were two mattresses on the floor, on either side of the room, where others had spent nights on the run, and several woolen blankets, a lamp, and a small gas cooker, along with some provisions. Stefano was able to swap his bloodied shirt and clean the assassin’s blood from his skin.
It was decided that they would stay there only until early morning, when someone else would guide Monique and her daughter northward, and she and Stefano would part ways.