river, her hands held piously together, her head modestly bowed, her habit concealing trousers and a pistol. Anyone with a keen eye would have wondered at the number of clergy out and about that afternoon.
She and others from her team carefully noted the placement of wiring, and quantity of dynamite fixed to each of the bridges – there was enough to blow them sky-high. To their relief, the historic Ponte Vecchio appeared to have been excluded, but the buildings at either end were festooned with sticks of dynamite, meaning that even if the bridge survived, access would be impossible.
Soldiers patrolled the area closely, and as she and her colleagues walked along the Arno, eyes reverentially lowered, it became clear that defusing the explosives would be impossible. Livia returned to the apartment and transmitted the depressing information to the Allies. After that, all everyone in Florence could do was wait.
Later that evening, Livia, Cosimo and Giacomo crept up onto the roof terrace. It was a fine warm evening and the night sky was filled with stars. At ten o’clock, the first explosion ricocheted through the city. Livia would describe it later as feeling like ‘an earthquake’. Clouds of dust and smoke filled the air and even up on their roof terrace half a mile away from the explosions, Livia, Cosimo and Giacomo were forced to retreat back down the staircase to the apartment to escape the acrid smoke and fumes.
The explosions went on throughout the night, but at dawn Livia crept back up onto the roof terrace. She looked down and saw the street littered with pieces of stone and mortar from the dynamited bridges.
She went back downstairs to find Cosimo cleaning his pistol at the kitchen table.
‘I think we should go out and see what’s happened,’ she said.
‘All right, I’ll come with you.’ He slipped his gun into his belt, and pulled on his jacket.
The pair ventured out, picking their way across the rubble-strewn streets. As they approached the Arno, the stench of dynamite and smoke nearly overwhelmed them. Creeping closer, they saw that the Ponte Vecchio had miraculously survived, but all the other bridges to the left and the right had been destroyed. They were just tangled heaps of stone, metal and smoking timber.
Over the next couple of weeks, the Germans continued to hold the citizens of Florence hostage. But in spite of being ordered to remain indoors, people crept out of their houses after dark, searching for food and water for their families.
The partisans meanwhile fought bravely back. Marco made contact with Allied troops on the south side of the Arno, going through a secret corridor that ran above the Ponte Vecchio. He brought back a telephone line laid along the passage. Now, with links to the Allies, and with German troops withdrawing north of the city, the Resistance began to kill off any remaining German soldiers.
Livia, who until then had never killed anyone, hit a sniper stationed on a rooftop. As his lifeless body fell to the street below, she stood over him as he lay crushed on the cobbles. Young, fresh-faced and dark-haired, he could have been her brother, she thought. But he was her enemy, and now he was dead, and she was glad.
Within two weeks, the Allies had built a bridge across the river, and set up their headquarters in the Hotel Excelsior. Meanwhile, the Germans, positioned in the hills behind Florence, began to rain down cannon fire onto the city. Fortunately, there was only minor damage to the city’s historic buildings. Within days, any remaining German troops had fled, their hilltop gun emplacements overrun. The Germans had been defeated and the battle for Florence was finally at an end.
In September, came the celebrations. Livia, Cosimo, Elena and all their partisan compatriots lined up in the courtyard of Fortezza da Basso. Sitting to one side, in the audience, were Giacomo and Luisa with other members of the Pd’A council. As General Hume, the Allied Commander, arrived to make the inspection, the American flag was raised beside the Italian Tricolour.
After the ceremony, Giacomo came over and shook Cosimo’s hand and hugged his daughter and Elena. ‘I think a drink is called for,’ he said. ‘Where shall we go?’
Cosimo, Livia and Elena looked at one another. ‘Café Paskowski?’ Cosimo suggested.
They chose a table outside on the piazza, and Giacomo ordered sparkling wine. They sat in the evening sunshine and chatted and laughed and shared their memories.
‘I have something I would like to say,’ Giacomo said, standing