his sincere apologies to you. He is desperately sorry, Livia – “distraught” was the word he used – that you should be dragged into this. To end up in the hands of a sadist like Mario Carità… it doesn’t bear thinking about.’
‘Is that who interrogated me?’ asked Livia. ‘Carità himself?’
‘Yes. I don’t understand why he didn’t torture you. He has a terrible reputation.’
‘So I’ve heard,’ said Livia, sipping her drink.
‘Your arrest will make life more difficult for everyone, particularly now you have to report to Villa Triste each day. You must be very careful. They will be watching us all, including Vicenzo. I think you should withdraw from the Pd’A for your own safety.’
‘No, Papa,’ Livia said immediately. ‘I still want to help.’
‘Livia—’ Her father reached across and took her hand, his eyes filled with tears. ‘When you were locked up in that terrible place, I thought it would break my heart. The realisation that I had brought you into danger was unbearable.’
‘But it wasn’t your fault,’ Livia protested, ‘it was this crazy woman, whoever she is.’
‘As it turned out, yes. You were lucky – but it might just as well have been your work for the Pd’A. You must stay out of it now. If anything happened to you, I could never forgive myself – and your mother would never forgive me. Thank God she’s not in Florence and doesn’t need to know what’s happened.’
Livia knew it was pointless arguing with her father. A better strategy would be to appear to comply and his attitude would gradually soften.
‘Have you seen Cosimo?’ she asked, changing the subject. ‘He looked so frightened when I was arrested.’
‘Yes, he came to find me straight away. I’m sure you’d like to see him.’
She nodded.
‘We’ll go and see him now – would you like that?’
‘Thank you, Papa.’
‘And tomorrow we will try to get back to normal. I have a lot of work to do, preparing for our first Pd’A conference here in Florence.’
‘I’d like to come,’ said Livia.
‘No, you will not come,’ he said firmly. ‘You will report to the police and go to your lectures. For the next few weeks, or months, you will be the perfect student and the perfect citizen, do you understand?’
Seventeen
Rome
September 1943
The Germans had taken over Rome. Their troops were permanently billeted in the park surrounding Villa Borghese, and their military high command now occupied the luxury hotels nearby on the Via Veneto. The senior officers began to host glamorous receptions, inviting leading Italian Fascists and their supporters.
One morning, Isabella received an invitation to a dinner dance to be held that evening at Hotel Flora.
‘I’m not going,’ she said to her mother, throwing the invitation down on the breakfast table. ‘It would be a betrayal.’
‘Of whom, exactly?’ asked Giovanna.
‘Vicenzo, and the people of Rome,’ she replied grandly.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ her mother said. ‘Look, the Germans are running things now, Isabella. You need to keep them on side. You must go.’
Early that evening, Isabella was lying upstairs on her bed, idly listening to the radio when her mother bustled into her bedroom.
‘It’s six o’clock already,’ Giovanna said. ‘That reception starts in an hour and a half.’
‘I already told you, I’m not going,’ Isabella replied petulantly.
‘You are going,’ her mother insisted, selecting three evening dresses from Isabella’s wardrobe. ‘And, more importantly, you’re going to look like a movie star.’
She draped the dresses over the sofa.
‘Say what you like,’ said Isabella, swinging her legs out of bed, ‘I’m not going.’ She walked through to the bathroom and slammed the door. Fifteen minutes later she emerged, her hair arranged and her make-up immaculate.
‘You’ve changed your mind then?’ her mother muttered smugly.
Sighing, Isabella picked up one of the dresses – a full-length silver sheath.
As she slid into it, she admired her reflection in the cheval mirror. She had lost weight in the previous few months, and the dress, cut on the cross, skimmed across her hip bones elegantly.
‘I won’t enjoy it,’ she said gloomily to her mother.
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Giovanna rummaged in Isabella’s wardrobe. ‘There will be food and drink and dancing. Why shouldn’t you enjoy it?’ She turned and gazed at her daughter. ‘You look wonderful in that dress. Wear these.’ She threw a pair of silver sandals onto the bed alongside Isabella’s white fox-fur wrap.
The lobby of the hotel, only recently an elegant meeting place for well-to-do Romans, was now packed with Germans in uniform. They stared at Isabella admiringly as she walked towards the ballroom. The last time she had been there