said playfully, standing back and admiring him. ‘I know what it is, you aren’t using your crutches.’
He laughed and raised his trouser leg, revealing a wooden foot inserted into his shoe, and above it the beginnings of a jointed metal ankle. Livia bent down and touched it. ‘Can you really walk on it?’ she asked, gazing up at him.
‘Of course.’ He walked a few faltering steps with the aid of his stick.
‘Well done,’ she said, applauding him. ‘I’m so proud of you.’
‘I’m lucky to have a father who is a doctor and could pull some strings, otherwise I don’t know how long I’d have had to wait.’
‘Let’s go and make use of it. We could go to our favourite place for coffee; I want to hear all your news.’
They went to Café Paskowski and sat at a table outside in the sunshine.
‘So,’ she began, ‘what’s been happening?’
‘To me, very little. I’ve been stuck here getting my foot fitted, nothing else. What about you? How did you and Elena get on?’
‘Most of the time we lay in the garden or went for walks. And my mother got us making jam. If I’m honest, I think Elena was a bit bored. She went home after a couple of weeks.’
‘I hear you had an interesting visitor.’ Cosimo smiled playfully.
‘Who do you mean?’ Livia had sworn Elena to secrecy about Vicenzo’s visit and was irritated that she had obviously broken her promise.
‘A famous film director?’ prompted Cosimo casually.
‘Oh him, well, he’s just an old family friend. Nothing more. I don’t know why she bothered to mention it.’ There was an awkward silence as the waiter put down their coffees. Livia decided to change the subject. ‘My grandfather had a stroke.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Cosimo took her hand. ‘Is he all right?’
‘He’s getting better. My mother tried to convince me I should stay with her to care for him. Fortunately, my father found a professional nurse.’
‘That was lucky,’ he replied. ‘I can’t imagine you as a nurse, somehow…’
‘No.’ She sipped her coffee, unable to think of anything else to say. It was as if there was suddenly a barrier between them. It wasn’t only her annoyance that he knew about Vicenzo’s visit, it was also that she couldn’t share the main focus of her life – her work for the Pd’A.
‘Look,’ she said, squeezing his hand, ‘I can’t stay much longer. I’ve got a lecture in ten minutes, but let’s meet for lunch.’
‘Of course,’ he replied cheerfully, but Livia could see he was disappointed.
A dog barked nearby. Livia looked up and noticed a group of men dressed in black on the other side of the piazza. She recognised the uniform of the Banda Carità, a local unit of the Italian Fascist police, headed by Mario Carità, a man with a reputation as a sadistic torturer. They were walking purposefully towards the café.
Unnerved, Livia drained her coffee cup, and stood up. ‘Let’s go.’ She put a couple of coins onto the little saucer with the bill.
Cosimo struggled to his feet, clutching his stick.
Suddenly the policemen were upon them. ‘Livia Moretti?’
‘Yes,’ she said, turning to face them.
‘You are under arrest. Come with us.’
Her arms were pinioned behind her. Cosimo tried to pull her away, but one of the policemen shoved him, and he fell awkwardly onto the ground, revealing his prosthetic foot.
‘Keep out of this,’ said the officer. ‘Were you injured fighting for the Fatherland?’
‘I was in Russia, yes,’ said Cosimo.
‘Then our argument is not with you,’ said the officer, helping him to his feet. ‘Go on your way.’
They began to drag Livia, kicking and screaming, across the square.
‘Go to my father, Cosimo,’ she yelled over her shoulder, ‘and tell him what’s happened.’
Livia was bundled into a police car and driven through the streets of Florence, finally arriving at an anonymous cream stone building on Via Bolognese. Known locally as ‘Villa Triste’ – the sad house – it had at one time been used by the army, but was now the headquarters of the Fascist police. She had heard rumours from colleagues in the Pd’A about what might happen if you were picked up by the police and taken there.
She was pushed into a featureless waiting room, with off-white walls and a tiled floor. There was an officer behind a wooden desk, but he scarcely looked up from his work, as she sat down nervously on one of the wooden chairs. Looking around, she noticed an ill-lit corridor leading off the waiting room, with doors on either side. She