she had helped Gianni. What was disturbing was the idea that Wolff appeared to be implicated not only in the theft of the Jewish gold, but of artworks too. Perhaps she had been wrong about him. He was not an honourable man after all, just an opportunistic thief. She had been wrong about so many things and it seemed that her faith in the SS Commander had been misplaced. She may have rescued Gianni’s father and she was glad, but had she ‘supped with the devil’?
Eighteen
Florence
November 1943
The air was crisp and cold, the sky a cloudless blue, as Livia stepped out of Villa Triste into the autumn sunshine. Her registration at the offices of the Fascist police that morning had gone without a hitch, and instead of forcing her to wait, she had been able to sign the book and leave after just ten minutes. In spite of the pressures of the war, and the burden of having to report to the Fascist headquarters each day, she felt a momentary lightening of her soul as she walked past the Duomo, its cupola gleaming in the morning sunlight. The doors to the cathedral were open and she could hear the priest intoning to the congregation. Outside, passers-by chatted, people stood at polished bars in cafés ordering their morning coffee, and all around her, men and women hurried through the streets on their way to work, or to queue up in shops.
Suddenly, over the everyday hubbub of people’s voices, came the sound of engines. Rumbling at first, but growing louder and louder. She looked up instinctively, and within minutes the sky was filled with planes. Moments later, hundreds of paratroopers floated down towards the city. Shopkeepers, waiters, housewives and businessmen ran excitedly into the streets, thinking it was the Anglo-Americans. But as the first troops crashed to the ground, it soon became clear to everyone that these were German soldiers occupying their beautiful city and not Americans coming to their rescue.
Within hours, German tanks and armoured cars were rumbling down the streets. Florence had been taken over.
Over the coming days, people became used to being stopped and interrogated at random by German troops, while their officers monopolised the best cafés and restaurants, forcing out the regular customers.
‘We’ll have to find somewhere else to go,’ Livia said gloomily to Elena one afternoon, as they walked towards Café Paskowski and found it filled with senior members of the Gestapo.
‘I don’t see why we should have to move.’ Elena glared at the officers behind the windows. ‘It’s our place, not theirs. I hate them.’
‘We all hate them,’ Livia replied pragmatically. ‘But I’d rather not sit next to them.’
Livia took Elena’s arm, and led the way to a smaller, less grand restaurant on the other side of the square, and ordered coffee. They sat outside and stared glumly at their favourite meeting place. Small talk suddenly seemed irrelevant when face to face with the enemy. Besides, Livia had no small talk. Her thoughts were dominated by her work with the Resistance.
Two months after her arrest by the Fascist police, and her father’s admonition that she should steer clear of any work for the Pd’A, Livia had slowly reintegrated herself. She was, once again, monitoring Radio Londra broadcasts and writing articles for the paper. She had even persuaded her father that she should be allowed to go out on patrol with her fellow staffettas.
‘They need me, Papa,’ she had pleaded. ‘And I can’t help them by staying at home.’
He had finally relented, and she was now happily immersed in her important work, fitting in her university course when she could. But, inevitably, this had led to a sense of distance from both Cosimo and Elena.
Now, sitting opposite each other at the café table, neither Elena nor Livia felt like making conversation. They sat in silence, sipping their coffee and glowering at the Gestapo officers on the other side of the square.
‘I found a copy of the underground paper, L’Italia Libera, this morning,’ whispered Elena eventually. ‘It was wrapped inside a Fascist leaflet – just left on a doorstep.’
‘Really? Was it interesting?’ Livia asked innocently, for she had never mentioned her involvement with the paper to her friend.
‘Very,’ said Elena.
‘I hope no one saw you reading it.’
‘Of course not,’ Elena replied irritably. ‘I’m not stupid.’
‘No, of course you’re not… sorry.’ Livia reached across the table and squeezed her hand.
‘Anyway,’ Elena continued, ‘the point is, there was an awful story in the paper about Jewish citizens in Rome being