grand Hotel Excelsior which dominated one side of the piazza.
Livia was familiar with the hotel. When she had been at boarding school, her mother used to take her there for lunch. Boldly, she pushed through the revolving doors and walked confidently into the dark panelled lobby. It was just as she’d remembered, smelling of beeswax polish and cigar smoke, except it was no longer filled with elegant couples meeting for coffee and drinks. Now the plumped sofas were occupied by leading Italian Fascists and German officers. She walked calmly through the lobby, as if heading for the ladies’ room. She recognised a couple of Fascist leaders as she passed through, Alessandro Pavolini among them.
In the ladies’ room she made notes of everything she’d seen; she brushed her hair, and walked confidently back through the lobby and out into the piazza, before hurrying towards the Ponte Vecchio to finalise the arrangements for her transmission that afternoon.
The premises she would use that day belonged to Signor Casoni, a wealthy merchant who owned a row of shops along the Lungarno selling luxury clothing and jewellery. He was an old friend of her father’s, and did his best to support the work of the Pd’A. When she arrived, she was shown to his office on the first floor. He was sitting at his desk, filling in the pages of a leather ledger.
‘Livia!’ he said, standing up and greeting her. ‘How are you? How is your father?’
‘He’s well, thank you. We’re very grateful to you for allowing us to use your office today. I’ll be back with the radio transmitter about two o’clock,’ she told him. ‘Will that be all right?’
‘Of course. We close at one o’clock for lunch, so there’ll be no one about. Come to the side entrance and knock three times. I’ll let you in.’
Leaving his office, she hurried past the Uffizi, heading towards the university. She slipped breathlessly into her seat in the lecture theatre.
‘Where have you been?’ whispered Elena urgently. ‘You’re late.’
‘I had things I had to do for my father,’ Livia replied evasively.
Elena shrugged. ‘You’re always busy these days.’
‘Please don’t be like that,’ Livia whispered, trying to placate her friend.
They sat in silence for the rest of the lecture. When it was over, they stood up and filed out of the theatre.
‘I’m meeting Cosimo in a moment,’ Elena said as they walked down the grand staircase with the other students.
‘Really?’ Livia replied. ‘Can I come? I’ve not seen him for days.’
‘I know… he told me.’
Livia sensed her friend’s resentment. She wondered if Cosimo shared Elena’s feelings. Livia knew he would have liked to see her more often, but they were both so busy, so involved with their work.
The two girls waited in the large marble-floored hall for him to arrive. Livia checked her watch anxiously. It was already one o’clock. She still had to get back to the apartment, collect the radio and get to Signor Casoni’s by two.
Cosimo arrived eventually, loping along unevenly. He looked genuinely delighted to see her. ‘Shall we all go and have a coffee?’ he asked eagerly.
‘I’m really sorry,’ said Livia. ‘I’d love to, but I can’t stay.’
‘You always have to be somewhere else these days.’ Elena sulked.
Cosimo touched her arm. ‘Don’t be like that,’ he chided. ‘I’m sure she’d stay if she could…’
Elena turned away impatiently.
‘I really am sorry,’ Livia said again to Cosimo. ‘But I’ll see you both soon – yes?’
Cosimo kissed her on the cheek. ‘Take care,’ he murmured.
When she got to the doorway, she looked around. Cosimo and Elena were standing with their heads close together, deep in conversation.
Back at the apartment, Livia collected the transmitter that was hidden in her room. She packed it into a raffia shopping basket and covered it with a cloth, hoping she looked like an ordinary girl on her way to the market. As she opened the door, Lombardi was waiting, predictably, on the landing.
‘Good afternoon, Signor Lombardi,’ Livia said cheerfully, ‘it’s very cold today… better to stay indoors, I think.’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ he replied gruffly and retreated inside, closing the door reluctantly.
Livia ran downstairs and out into the street, heading towards the safe house. Her route took her past Café Paskowski. It had now become the meeting place not only for Carità and his band of followers, but also for the Gestapo. In the summer months, the café’s tables and chairs spilled out onto the piazza, but in the depths of winter, the customers were crammed together inside.