‘I can’t leave without you,’ he said desperately. ‘Come with us.’
‘No! I’ll keep them occupied downstairs, and give you a chance to escape. Get up the ladder onto the top terrace – from there you can cross over to the neighbouring roof. I’ll send the family after you. Be quick.’
She rushed to the family’s room, and threw open the door. ‘You have to get out,’ she whispered. ‘There are Germans downstairs, pounding on the apartment door.’
Jacob picked up Matteo, and the family ran outside onto the terrace. Livia pointed to the fire escape.
‘Go up there – Cosimo is waiting for you.’ She took the baby from Sara and Jacob clambered up the ladder, pulling Matteo and Sara up behind him. As Livia handed the baby up to him, she whispered: ‘Good luck, all of you.’
She ran back down the stairs, shutting the secret door behind her. As she pulled the coat rack in front of it, the apartment door gave way and three men wearing tan raincoats burst in, carrying pistols.
‘You have a radio transmitter here,’ one of them shouted in Italian, with a strong German accent. ‘Where is it?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Livia replied calmly. She could hear her colleagues in the sitting room whispering, presumably concealing the folded maps and messages.
‘Don’t lie to me, we have been monitoring you. We know there’s a transmitter here. Show me!’ the German demanded.
Livia looked him in the eye and shrugged her shoulders. ‘I still don’t know what you’re talking about.’
She felt a slap across her face. It was so hard, she almost blacked out. She was pushed into the sitting room, where her colleagues were already standing with their hands on their heads. Livia raised her arms, and while one man stood guard, the other two ransacked the apartment.
A minute went by, then two. She thought of Cosimo and how far he and the family might have got in that time. Had they escaped? Suddenly she heard the coat rack being dragged across the hall floor and the sound of boots clattering upstairs.
Moments later, they were back in the hall, brandishing the transmitter. ‘Who does this belong to?’ one of the policemen asked her.
‘I have no idea,’ she said defiantly. ‘I’ve never seen it before.’
He slapped her face again. ‘This apartment is owned by Giacomo Moretti. Is it his?’
‘No.’
‘Where is he?’ the policeman asked.
‘He’s not here,’ she replied.
‘Who were you transmitting to?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ She was determined to keep them talking as long as possible.
‘We found evidence of people living upstairs – where are they?’
‘They left.’
‘Without their clothes?’ one of them asked, incredulous.
‘They took what they needed.’
‘What are their names?’
Livia hesitated, desperate not to give any clue to the heritage of her erstwhile house guests.
‘Maria and Angelo,’ she said. ‘They’re cousins of mine. Their flat was bombed, so they came to stay with me.’
The officer shook his head in disbelief. ‘Take them to Gestapo headquarters,’ he instructed his two companions.
The group were bundled into two cars, and as they drove towards Via Cavour, Livia was in no doubt what lay ahead.
Thirty-One
Rome
May 1944
Isabella woke early, the sun streaming through her bedroom window. She had slept fitfully after her interrogation, in spite of being exhausted. Her immediate thought was of Vicenzo. He was being held captive by the Fascist police and she had to do everything she could to save him. Although she was aware that her phone was probably being monitored, she decided to risk a call to Salvato Cappelli, a journalist friend of Vicenzo’s. He was also a communist and a member of the Resistance.
‘Salvato, I must speak with you – it’s urgent. Can you come to my house?’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’ll be there in an hour.’
It was the first day of May, and very warm. They sat outside in the garden, in the shade of a large pine tree, as Isabella recounted her experience of being interrogated by Pietro Koch.
‘I can’t believe you got out of there in one piece,’ said Salvato. ‘That man is very high up in the Fascist Police – he’s got the most appalling reputation for cruelty. Are you sure you’re all right?’
‘Yes, I’m fine. He didn’t hurt me. He was almost pleasant at times. I think, perhaps, he’s a fan?’
‘Ha, well you were lucky. Few people get out of Pensione Jaccarino without being tortured – either mentally or physically.’
‘Is that where he took me? I was blindfolded for the journey, so I really have no