been organised into four divisions by the Tuscan Committee for Liberation – the CTLN – a temporary government made up of all the anti-Fascist parties, which had divided the city into four sections. Each group had established a first-aid point, a food supply and a weapons cache. Between them, they had nine hundred shotguns, one thousand pistols and hand grenades, but only enough ammunition to last for one hour.
With her new identity as ‘Laura de Luca’, Livia had effectively disappeared – as far as the authorities who ran Villa Triste were concerned. But still, when she went out on patrol, she worried that she might be recognised by one of her torturers from Carità’s vicious gang. Fortunately, her appearance had changed radically in the two months since her arrest. She was no longer the fresh-faced student. Her face, though still striking, had lost its youthful bloom, and its angularity was emphasised by a pair of round wire-framed glasses. She had lost weight, and her once willowy figure, was now emaciated.
There was little food to eat, and when the Germans turned off the gas supply, cooking became impossible. Livia and Cosimo set up a small brazier on the roof terrace and in the evenings, as the sun set over the Duomo, they barbecued whatever they had foraged that day, sometimes sharing their meal with Massimo Lombardi.
‘It’s good of you to invite me again,’ the old man said as he struggled up the steep staircase to the attic.
‘It’s our pleasure, Massimo,’ Livia replied, pulling out an old metal chair for him to sit on and pouring him a glass of wine.
‘What’s that cooking?’ he asked expectantly.
‘Rabbit.’ Cosimo turned the pieces on the grill. ‘It was donated by a friend.’
‘Delicious,’ said Massimo, rubbing his hands. ‘My wife used to make a very good rabbit dish.’ He smiled at Livia.
‘What happened to your wife?’ Livia asked. ‘If you don’t mind me asking?’
‘She died over twenty years ago,’ he answered, sipping the wine.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Livia. ‘I had no idea.’
‘I still miss her,’ he went on, ‘and my son...’
‘Your son?’ Livia asked. ‘I didn’t know you had any children.’
‘Oh yes, Antonio. He was a lovely boy – clever, very intellectual. I thought he would become a lawyer like your father, but before he went to university, he went off to fight against the Fascists in Spain.’ He mopped his eyes with an old handkerchief. ‘Tragically, he never came back.’
‘You must miss him terribly,’ Livia said, taking his hand.
‘I do, I do…’
‘Livia!’ Cosimo interrupted their conversation. ‘I’m sorry, but you must come over here. Look.’
Down below, a pair of German soldiers were patrolling Livia’s narrow cobbled street. They were being followed by two partisans.
‘They’re stalking them,’ Cosimo whispered.
They watched, fascinated, as the pair of partisans shadowed the soldiers, ducking into doorways whenever the soldiers stopped.
‘They’re going to take them,’ Cosimo said, excitedly.
Over the next few minutes, the partisans drew closer and closer to the two soldiers, before suddenly launching their attack. One plunged his knife into a soldier’s back, who collapsed dramatically to the ground, before rolling over and reaching for his gun. The partisan swiftly kicked the weapon out of his hand, and stabbed him again in the chest. Meanwhile, the other partisan had grabbed the second soldier from behind and efficiently slit his throat. In a few brief minutes the two Germans lay dead on the pavement.
‘Yes!’ said Cosimo triumphantly.
Suddenly two other fighters appeared – a girl and a man. They ran towards their colleagues, pushing a stallholder’s cart partially filled with onions. While the men kept a lookout, the girl quickly stripped the soldiers of their uniforms and stuffed them into a large holdall. She then picked up their guns and ran away up the street. The remaining three fighters hauled the men’s bodies into the cart, covered them with a blanket, redistributed the onions, and headed off towards the Arno.
‘They’ll dump the bodies in the river,’ said Cosimo with satisfaction.
The following morning, Livia and Cosimo set off to make their usual patrol. They had been assigned a section of the city that ran from the Ponte Vecchio, west along the north bank of the Arno, back up past Santa Maria Novella and the market, and east via Piazza San Marco. Their job was to note the positions of sharpshooters, military hardware and possible explosives – information they would pass on to the Allies.
As they crossed over Via Cavour, Livia glanced up the street towards the Gestapo headquarters, where she had been