to meet me,’ she said, climbing in beside him. ‘I didn’t book anywhere for lunch. I thought I’d leave the choice to you.’
‘Of course,’ he said, a hint of a blush spreading up his smooth cheeks. In some lights, Isabella thought, he was almost handsome.
He pulled up and parked outside an elegant restaurant called The Belvedere. Isabella had been there before the war, but these days it was filled with senior German officers. Anxious that Karl Wolff might be there, she scanned the restaurant as they walked in. To her relief, he was not there, but she was aware of the officers’ eyes following her lasciviously, as she sidled past them on her way to the table.
They studied the menu, and Koch ordered white wine. Isabella took a sip before asking if she could make a phone call. ‘I promised I’d let Mamma know where I was,’ she said.
‘If you must.’ He was clearly irritated.
She went to the back of the restaurant where a pay phone hung on the wall. To her surprise, Koch followed her. She dialled Vicenzo’s number, knowing Luciana would be there. ‘Mamma,’ she said, looking nervously over her shoulder at Koch, who was staring glumly at her.
‘Yes, Isabella,’ Luciana replied.
‘I promised to let you know I was here safely. We’re at The Belvedere,’ she went on cheerfully, ‘it’s lovely.’
‘Thank you,’ replied Luciana, putting down the phone.
‘I know,’ Isabella said, pretending to continue the conversation. ‘I’ll be good, see you later.’
The lunch was excellent. Restaurants serving senior military personnel always had the best of the rations. Isabella, waiting nervously for the lawyer, made polite conversation.
‘Have you always been a policeman?’ she asked.
‘No, I joined the army originally.’
‘Why did you leave?’
‘It wasn’t political enough. I joined the Fascist movement – I admired its coherence.’
‘Its coherence? I suppose I understand what you mean,’ she said, looking constantly towards the door, hoping for the arrival of the promised lawyer. ‘In my world – the world of art,’ she went on, ‘we try not to think about politics.’
Koch snorted derisively. ‘Everything is about politics,’ he said.
‘Perhaps, although the films I made were not political. What I mean is that there are “higher” things than politics. Where would the world be without painting, or film for that matter? Vicenzo, for example, is a great artist on film. Far more talented than I.’
‘Why do you insist on continuously bringing this man into our conversation,’ he interrupted. ‘He’s beneath contempt; I despise him.’
‘Then why not release him?’ she asked, leaning towards him over the table. ‘You know that if the Germans take him and torture him, he will never get out alive.’ She reached across the table and took his hand. Koch trembled visibly at her touch. Isabella lowered her voice until it was seductive, sweet and gentle. ‘Please, Pietro… for me?’
He studied her heart-shaped face, her white skin, her soft red mouth. He withdrew his hand slowly, and swilled back his wine.
‘I’ll think about it,’ he said.
Isabella rang Luciana as soon as she got home. ‘What went wrong?’ she asked. ‘I kept Koch talking as long as I could, but the lawyer never turned up.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Luciana said matter-of-factly, ‘we changed our minds about bribing Koch. It might have inflamed him and made matters worse for Vicenzo.’
‘I see,’ said Isabella, repressing her fury at being left in the lurch.
‘What did he say, anyway?’ Luciana asked. ‘Will he help us?’
‘I don’t know,’ Isabella replied. ‘I begged him to release Vicenzo and he said he would think about it.’
‘I suppose that’s something,’ Luciana said curtly, and rang off.
Isabella felt both betrayed and deflated. Luciana clearly thought she had failed. It was as if all her efforts had come to nothing.
Thirty-Two
Northern Italy
June 1944
Livia was sitting at the back of the bus with her eyes closed, still wearing the summer dress she had been arrested in a few weeks before. The bus suddenly lurched, wedging her up against the wheel arch, and sending a sharp pain through her body.
A girl seated next to her touched her arm gently.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked. ‘You’ve been so quiet on the journey.’
‘Yes,’ replied Livia weakly. ‘I’m OK.’
‘I noticed you keep your eyes closed all the time.’
Livia turned her face away, as tears trickled down her cheeks.
‘I’m sorry,’ said the girl, ‘I don’t mean to pry.’
‘No, it’s all right,’ Livia replied. ‘It’s nice of you to ask. My eyes hurt. When I was being interrogated, they shone a bright light in them for so long, my eyesight’s been damaged. For