on. ‘I miss the old days when Mussolini was firmly in charge and we all knew where we stood.’
Wolff nodded supportively.
‘There’s a sense that one doesn’t know who to trust anymore,’ she continued. ‘There’s so much secrecy and confusion. I hate it.’
‘Secrecy?’ he asked gently. ‘In what sense?’
‘Oh you know, people who are working against the government behind the scenes. Anti-Fascists, I suppose you’d call them.’
‘Partisans you mean?’
‘I suppose so,’ she said uncertainly. ‘I’m not really sure I know what a partisan is.’
‘Someone who is fighting against the government,’ he explained calmly, ‘someone who seeks to overthrow legal authority.’
‘I see. Well, yes, I suppose partisan is the word. I don’t understand why people are so anti-Mussolini. He’s done such a lot for this country and supported my industry. I wish we could just go back to the way we were.’
‘It must be very difficult for you,’ he said. ‘Very frustrating – as an artist.’
‘It is!’ She was warming to her sense of injustice.
‘Now, these partisans…’ he began, refilling her glass, ‘… have you met any? Here in Rome, perhaps?’
‘Oh no, I don’t think so.’ She took another mouthful of wine. She knew Vicenzo was on the left and was therefore anti-Fascist. Did that make him a partisan? She realised she must say nothing that might endanger him. Her head began to spin. ‘As you say, I’m just an actress, what do I know about it?’
‘Oh, I think you know more than you realise.’ Wolff looked deeply into her eyes. ‘I sense there is something you wish to tell me – am I right?’
Her mother’s advice came back to her: ‘…all it would take would be a word from you…’
‘It’s only that,’ she faltered, ‘I’d hate to be responsible for getting someone into trouble.’
‘Of course you would,’ he said kindly. ‘But think of it this way – if someone is innocent, they will come to no harm. On the other hand, if people are trying to cause trouble, they need to be stopped – or you get anarchy. You wouldn’t want that, would you?’
She shook her head. ‘There may be someone in Florence.’ The words tumbled out of her.
‘Ah, Florence! Another beautiful city,’ Karl’s voice took on a dreamy quality. ‘One of my favourites, although it’s not as beautiful as Rome.’ He poured more wine into her glass.
‘I don’t know Florence at all,’ said Isabella. ‘I’ve never been there, can you believe it?’
‘Oh you should go. We could go together and visit the museums and art galleries.’ Wolff leant forward. ‘Now you must tell me, who in Florence might be working against us? I can assure you that if they are innocent no harm will come to them.’
Isabella felt a flicker of anxiety, but her head was spinning and she just wanted the questions to stop. ‘I don’t know any names or anything.’
He paused, waiting for her to fill the silence.
‘She’s a student I think,’ she went on tentatively. ‘Students, they’re not living in the real world, are they? I could have been a student – I was very academic at school. But I had to go to work in the film industry at sixteen. I don’t think students understand what it is to work hard all your life to make something of yourself.’
‘I agree,’ he said. ‘It’s obvious to anyone how intelligent you are. It must be very frustrating to feel that one’s work is not appreciated anymore, particularly when you have worked so hard.’
‘It is!’ replied Isabella, relieved to get the conversation back onto neutral ground. ‘I feel completely redundant, if I’m honest. There’s no work here anymore. I don’t know what I’m going to do.’
‘Just indulge me a moment longer,’ Wolff cajoled. ‘This student in Florence, do you have a name?’
Isabella felt light-headed, as if she might faint. She thought about Vicenzo and how he had laughed at her that night in front of his friends; of how he had told them about the bright, fiery young girl called Livia.
‘Livia,’ she murmured, not sure if she had actually said the name out loud.
‘Livia,’ Wolff repeated gently. ‘Do you have a surname?’
‘No, but I think her father is a lawyer – a liberal lawyer. He’s an old friend of someone I know… someone who is completely innocent.’
‘And who is that?’
‘Vicenzo Lucchese…’ The name was out before Isabella realised what she had said. She felt mortified.
‘Well done,’ Wolff said, patting her hand. ‘Your loyalty does you credit. It will not be forgotten.’
The following morning, Isabella woke with a terrible headache.