soldiers slapped the priest’s face.
‘Bitte,’ she begged, grabbing the soldier’s arm, ‘tu ihm nicht weh... don’t hurt him.’
He shook his arm free and scowled at her.
‘Please,’ she said to the priest, ‘we must tell them you don’t know anything about Jews. Deny they were ever here.’
He looked fearful for a second. ‘Will they believe that?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said desperately. ‘But I’ll try…’
As she explained the priest’s innocence to the soldiers, they glared at him, their fingers twitching over the triggers of their guns.
‘Es ist die Wahrheit,’ she insisted nervously. ‘It’s the truth.’
‘Er kommt mit uns,’ they shouted, pointing at the priest.
‘They insist you go with them.’ Livia took his hand again and murmured into his ear, ‘You must say you knew nothing about it, that your duty is to the Catholics, they might believe you.’
The soldiers dragged the priest across the piazza, while the crowd looked on helplessly.
At Villa Triste, the priest was pushed roughly into the waiting room. He tripped and fell onto the tiled floor.
Livia helped him back onto his feet. ‘I’m sorry,’ was all she could say.
He took her hand and kissed it. ‘Bless you for saving them,’ he whispered.
‘But what about you?’ she asked, fighting back tears.
‘I have the Lord,’ he replied.
As the priest was pushed aggressively down the corridor towards the interrogation rooms, an officer turned to Livia. ‘You may go,’ he told her.
She stumbled tearfully out of the building into the street and joined the crowds walking towards the Duomo.
Nineteen
Rome
November 1943
In the days that followed Isabella’s meeting with Karl Wolff, she was haunted by the words Vicenzo had used to describe her: ‘fantasist’, ‘infatuated’. She squirmed at the memory, cursing her weakness. Not only had she put Vicenzo’s young friend in danger, but she had brought him to the attention of the authorities. Even saving Gianni’s father gave her no comfort – it could not make up for the damage she had done to the person she cared for most in the world.
Every morning she resolved to visit Vicenzo and admit her sin, to warn him of the danger she had placed him in. Each time she drew back, fearful of his reaction. He must hate her, she realised. But finally, one cold day in November, she could put it off no longer. She dressed hurriedly, and left the house before either her mother or aunt were awake.
Arriving at his villa, she was surprised to find the dogs snoozing on the porch. Vicenzo normally kept them inside in the winter months. She knelt down and stroked their soft fur, taking comfort from the way they rubbed the tops of their heads against her palm.
‘Good boys,’ she murmured. She cradled them in her arms, realising this might be the last time she ever saw them. Once Vicenzo knew what she had done, he would never want to see her again.
Her heart pounding, she knocked on the door. Unusually, he opened it himself. He was barefoot, and wearing just a robe. His face fell as soon as he saw her. ‘Oh it’s you,’ he said harshly. ‘You’d better come in.’
The dogs followed her inside and nuzzled her hand as he led her through to the sitting room. She sat down nervously on the sofa, the dogs lying peacefully at her feet. Vicenzo stood in front of the fireplace, glaring at her.
‘I’ve come here to apologise,’ she said eventually.
‘Have you?’
‘I have done something terrible. I hardly know how to tell you.’
‘Go on.’ His black eyes were flashing.
Her mouth was dry; she stroked the dogs’ heads, desperately trying to find the words.
‘I’ll help you, shall I?’ He spoke so softly, she could hardly hear him. ‘For some inexplicable reason, you informed on a young woman I have known all my life – an innocent girl, just twenty years old – and told inexcusable lies about her.’
Isabella’s eyes filled with tears; she began to sob.
‘Is that all you can do?’ he asked. ‘Cry like a child? Do you really have nothing to say?’
‘I thought you loved her,’ she admitted. ‘I was mad with jealousy. I met someone at a dinner, a German officer. I didn’t say anything terrible, I just mentioned that she might…’ She paused uncertain how to go on. Whatever she said, it was inexcusable.
‘Might what? What exactly did you say?’
‘That she might be a partisan,’ she blurted out miserably, ‘that she might be influencing you.’
He put his head in his hands, and exhaled deeply. He walked across the room and stared out of the window.