The apartment felt strangely quiet without her mother there – although it was a relief not to have to conceal her radio activity. After she and her father had eaten, she went up to the attic to monitor the BBC broadcast. The roof of the Duomo was lit by a brilliant red-ochre sky, with starlings performing their evening ritual, swooping and diving over the rooftops. Livia found it hard to believe Florence had been overrun by such a hostile enemy. Down below, the streets were silent, as Florentines retreated to their houses, fearful of the German soldiers policing their beautiful city.
Livia switched on the attic radio and tuned into Radio Londra, making notes from the news bulletin as usual. The news was followed by the ‘V’ signal of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, announcing that evening’s coded messages. ‘The hen has laid an egg’, ‘The cow does not give milk’. She carefully noted them, handing them to her father along with her news summary for the partisan paper.
‘That’s very good,’ said Giacomo. ‘I’ll put it in the paper on the second page. It’s going to press tomorrow. Could you take the text to the printer first thing in the morning?’
‘But you always go to the printer,’ she replied.
‘I do normally. But I have so much to do before the conference next week. Can you do it?’
‘Of course,’ she said, ‘I won’t let you down.’
‘I know,’ he replied.
The following morning, Livia woke early and hurried to the printer’s offices, checking constantly that she was not being followed. The office was in an unobtrusive building down a small side street. When she was confident there was no one else around, she knocked on the door.
‘I’m coming, I’m coming.’ The disembodied voice from inside was deep and gruff. ‘Who’s there?’ he asked warily.
‘Livia,’ she said. ‘My father, Giacomo, sent me.’
She heard bolts being slid back, and the door swung open to reveal a short stocky man, his hands covered with printer’s ink.
‘Come in,’ he said, peering out into the street. ‘You weren’t followed?’
‘No… no one saw me,’ she reassured him.
The tiny room was dominated by a black metal printing press. There was a large table at one end covered in blocks of type.
‘I hope I’m not too late for L’Italia Libera,’ she said hurriedly. ‘I’ve got one more story for the paper.’
The printer sighed. ‘I’ve got the layout all organised,’ he said irritably, nodding towards the letterpress blocks. ‘And I’ve got another job coming in at lunchtime.’
‘I’m so sorry, but my father was rather insistent.’
‘All right. Give me the text then.’
‘He told me to tell you it’s for the second page,’ she said, handing over her typescript.
‘It’s the latest news, I presume.’
‘Yes, from Radio Londra.’
‘I’ll have five hundred papers printed by lunchtime. Will you be back to collect them?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know where to take them?’
‘I do – 28, Via Paganini.’
The printer nodded. ‘Bring a pram, or something you can hide them in.’
Livia spent the afternoon in the tiny apartment on Via Paganini with two other members of the Pd’A. Their task was to find ways of disguising the newssheets, so they could be safely distributed – putting them into innocent-looking envelopes, slipping them inside regular newspapers, or even hidden within the covers of Fascist hand-outs. These would then be delivered over the next few days to prearranged drop-off points. She returned home to find her father working, as usual, in the dining room.
‘Did it go all right?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘I didn’t run into any soldiers, fortunately, and the papers are all ready for distribution.’
‘Well done.’ Giacomo smiled at her. ‘I think it would be useful if you took the copy to the printer every week for me, from now on. I can get others to collect them and organise the distribution.’
‘I don’t mind doing it,’ Livia said.
‘No, I have something else in mind for you.’
Livia was intrigued.
‘Tomorrow afternoon there’s a meeting of the Pd’A staffettas. I’d like you to go and meet them all.’ He handed her a piece of paper with the address.
The meeting was held in a tall ornate building near the railway station. Livia knocked on the impressive double doors. They were opened by a girl with striking red hair. ‘Come in,’ she said, peering outside into the street. ‘You’re alone?’
‘Yes.’ Livia thought she looked familiar. ‘I know you, don’t I?’
‘Yes, I’m in the year below you at university. I’m Rosa.’
She led Livia down a stone staircase, lit only by oil lamps. The smell of burning oil was soon overwhelmed