arrived in Milan, they went straight to Mauro’s friend, Dario.
‘I think we should go immediately to City Hall,’ he explained as they hurried along the street. ‘The authorities may already be looking for you. Come up with some new names and I’ll vouch for you. There are so many displaced people, the clerks don’t really bother to check.’
‘What name will you choose?’ Livia whispered to Valentina as they sat in the waiting room of the grandiose hall.
‘I’ve always rather liked the name of Paola, Paola Ricci. What about you?’
‘I could be Laura, that’s a nice name.’
‘What about a new surname?’ asked Valentina.
‘De Luca,’ said Livia. ‘It’s the name of my boyfriend, Cosimo.’
Thirty-Three
Rome
June 1944
Isabella woke with a knot in her stomach. Koch had taken to calling her every morning at half past ten, and she dreaded it.
‘How are you today?’ he would ask, like a fond lover. It was both inappropriate and disconcerting. A few chaste meetings did not constitute a love affair, and yet he treated her, at times, as if she were his mistress.
She would reply as dispassionately as she could, ‘I’m fine thank you, and you?’
‘I’d be happier if I could see you,’ he purred one particular morning. ‘Perhaps we could have lunch again?’
‘I don’t know, maybe,’ she said, hoping to discourage him.
‘I’ve still got your director friend locked up in Pensione Jaccarino, you know. The Germans keep demanding I send him for questioning at their headquarters at Via Tasso, but I’ve managed to fend them off – up till now. I’m only doing it to please you.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘you know how grateful I am.’
‘Grateful enough to have lunch with me?’ he pressed.
She realised she had no option but to agree if she was to keep Vicenzo out of the hands of the SS.
‘I’ll send a car at twelve-thirty – be ready.’
The car took her not to a restaurant but to Pensione Jaccarino, Koch’s own headquarters. Isabella was horrified at the idea that Koch thought it was a suitable place for them to have lunch. She knew that somewhere in the building people were being interrogated and tortured. It was possible that Vicenzo himself was suffering at that very moment. Isabella resolved that when she saw Koch she would beg him, on her knees if necessary, to release Vicenzo.
She pushed through the shabby half-glazed doors into the lobby. The receptionist looked up as Isabella came in. ‘Wait here please, signora,’ she instructed.
Isabella sat on the hard chair in the waiting room, feeling irritated and uncomfortable. She gazed out into the sunny street, wishing she was anywhere else in the world but there. Suddenly, there was a piercing female scream, followed by a man’s agonised roar. The sounds were repeated, echoing from somewhere in the building – the basement, Isabella thought. She leapt to her feet.
‘Sit down please, signora,’ said the receptionist.
Isabella did as she was told, but it was impossible to ignore the terrible agonised sounds coming from the bowels of the building. The receptionist, on the other hand, appeared unconcerned.
Eventually the screams ceased, and were replaced by an eerie silence. What had happened? Isabella wondered. Were the unfortunate people unconscious, or dead?
Finally Koch appeared. He looked flushed, fine beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. There was a speck of blood on his white silk shirt.
‘I’m afraid we’ll have to postpone lunch to another day,’ he said coldly. ‘But I will take you home.’
Koch drove in silence, apparently brooding on something. Isabella was relieved when he drew up outside her house. She climbed hurriedly out of his car.
Early the following morning, Isabella received a phone call from a man with a German accent. ‘You are required to report to Via Tasso this morning at ten o’clock.’
Via Tasso was the headquarters of the SS in Rome. Isabella was terrified, wondering who she could turn to for help. The obvious person was Koch, and she was on the verge of dialling his number when the phone rang.
‘I’ve just heard,’ Koch said. ‘Kappler, Head of the SS, wants to see you. You have to go, I’m afraid, but go alone and keep calm. I’ll be there, waiting for you in the car outside. Your fate,’ he added wistfully, ‘is in God’s hands now.’
Isabella was shown into a squalid windowless room. Just a desk separated her from her interrogator. Plump and balding, Kappler had large sweat marks spreading from his armpits. He motioned her to a chair opposite him. There was a lamp on the desk, and as