away from Rome. Isabella was exhilarated by the closeness of the Anglo-American armies. Maybe this awful war would be over soon, Vicenzo could return, and their life together could begin in earnest.
When the broadcast was finished, she retuned to a music station, and picked up one of a stack of letters she had collected that afternoon from her house. It was from the director of a film she had shot a couple of years earlier. It had been mothballed for some time but was now to get a cinema release. Isabella felt conflicted about it. She was happy, of course, that her work would be shown at last. But it seemed inappropriate somehow to get pleasure from something quite so superficial, when all around her was death and destruction.
She slipped a knife beneath the flap of another envelope. The handwriting seemed familiar. As she removed the letter, she saw it was from her friend Mimi in Genoa and was dated December.
Dear Isabella,
I write to bring you terrible news. Daniele, my darling husband, was arrested five days ago. He was picked up at the hospital by German soldiers. He has not returned home since. I have been quite desperate, as you can imagine. I went to the hospital, then to the police station, and initially no one could tell me anything. Finally, I have discovered he has been sent to a prison camp. I had hoped at first that it would be here in Italy, but it seems he is on his way to a camp in Germany called Auschwitz.
Isabella, I know you are close to the authorities. I beg you to help us. Please, is there anyone you could speak to? Our happiness, our lives, are in your hands.
Your friend,
Mimi
Isabella stood up and walked across the room to the fire, suddenly needing its warmth. Mimi was under the impression that she had friends in high places. Little did she know that one of Isabella’s contacts had recently been executed. The only high-ranking official she still knew was Karl Wolff. Would he help her friend? There was no art or jewellery to bribe him with; Daniele and Mimi were not rich, and, most significantly, Daniele was Jewish.
Isabella agonised all evening about how she could help him. All she could offer Wolff was her body, but would that be enough? He might sleep with her and then betray her.
She slept fitfully, but as she watched the dawn, she made a decision – she must at least try to help her friend.
That morning, Isabella took great care over her appearance, doing her hair and make-up meticulously, as if preparing for a part. She put on an elegant woollen dress and, because it was still so cold and snowy outside, wore her best fur coat and matching hat with warm boots. Walking briskly through the parkland surrounding Villa Borghese, she stopped at the gallery hoping Wolff might be there. Negotiating with him there would be easier than in his hotel, but she checked in all the rooms, and he was nowhere to be seen.
She continued down Via Veneto to Hotel Flora. She knew he’d had a room there when they had last met. She paused on the pavement outside the hotel, considering the step she was about to take. Perhaps, she reasoned, Wolff would be away, and she would be able to write to her friend and explain that she had tried to help Daniele but there was nothing she could do.
Isabella took a deep breath and pushed through the glass revolving doors. The lobby was filled with German officers; they stared at her lasciviously as she walked towards the reception desk.
‘Is Karl Wolff staying here?’ she asked.
The young man inspected the hotel register. ‘Yes, signorina. The General arrived a couple of days ago.’
Isabella’s heart began to race. ‘Would you call him, please?’ she said nervously. ‘Tell him that Isabella Bellucci is in reception.’ Perhaps, she hoped, he would come downstairs, and suggest they have coffee, and then she could ask her favour. She waited nervously while the reception clerk dialled his number.
‘He has asked that you go up to his suite.’
Isabella felt a wave of nausea. For a second, she contemplated leaving, there and then. But instead, she breathed deeply, and crossed the lobby to the lifts. On the third floor she walked along the silent carpeted corridors towards Wolff’s room. She stood outside his door, feeling sick and light-headed, her mouth dry, her heart thumping. If she went inside she knew what