Читать книгу The Sweet Hills of Florence - Jan Wallace Dickinson - Страница 10

CHAPTER 3

Rome 1943

Et tu, Brute

The doctor was gone and the injection was beginning to work. Ben was quiet now, stretched out on the sofa, almost asleep, his breathing raspy but regular. He was not at all well. The strain of things was wearing him down. Clara smoothed his forehead but he brushed her hand aside. His ulcer was playing up – his breath smelled of vinegar. She had told him not to go to Libya and the ulcer was the result. This heat was not helping. July was all very well and fine when you could go to the seaside but it was hell when you were confined to the city. She opened the doors to the courtyard a little wider and closed the external shutters to keep out the sun. The bars of light through the shutters set sunbeams dancing off the colours of the marble flooring. They had not made love for days. How she wished they could, just once, lie together in a bed, naked, and fall into sleep afterwards. It would be so good for Ben. It was the only position they had not tried – that of husband and wife. Ben was often in a hurry and at times he liked to leave his boots on. He liked fast, violent sex and she was adroit at exciting him to exhaustion, but sometimes she wished for a calmer, quieter moment.

She longed to be free. Memories of the summers, of last summer, had faded to sepia. They swam openly at Castelporzione, surrounded by a swarm of security men like a school of jellyfish. Her favourite two-piece swimming costume with the tie between her breasts had not been out of her bureau drawer once this summer. A shiver ran right through her. Perhaps she was unwell too? They would not be going to the seaside this month. Ben’s constipation was getting worse and he was not good at bearing pain. Women were much better with pain. Look at the pain she herself had borne – menstrual pain, miscarriages, and yes, the pain Ben inflicted at times. He was always sorry afterwards.

He was gloomier each day and was losing confidence in himself. In recent times, requests for his photographs had dropped off sharply. Where once, every classroom and home had a photograph of Il Duce on the wall, people seemed less interested in their leader now. That hurt Ben. What, he said, are things coming to? The more fearful and apprehensive he felt, the louder he shouted and the angrier he got. Or the quieter and more withdrawn he became. Depression, her father said. The more pain he suffered, the more often his doctor gave him the injections and the more injections he had, the more timid and distressed he became. Claretta said a whole rosary for him last week – not that he knew. He had no patience with such things. She was worried silly about him, and about herself.

She crossed to the gramophone but did not lift the needle – unfriendly silence echoed about the room. Mounting the steps to the windows, she gazed into the internal courtyard as if hoping to see open fields. From a box with gold paper, she popped a chocolate into her mouth and then regretted it. She poured a lemonade from the tall crystal jug on the sideboard, watching the beads of condensation turn to prisms of light. She opened and closed one of the pile of unread books and threw it down. She made three paces through the room. The clock in the corner tick-tocked the minutes by, then the hours.

There was to be a meeting of the Grand Council this evening. The full Council. Clara’s sources had reported rumours the army was conspiring against Ben – perhaps it was about that. How dare they. Even the members of the Grand Council of Fascism treated him in a manner they would once not have dared. Clara’s network, developed with great application over much time, was usually reliable. There was even a whisper the King had lost faith in his Prime Minister. The King! Without Ben, that Frenchman would not even be in power. Ben said he had called the meeting himself, but would not discuss it any further, despite her inveigling. He must be about to put a stop to all this nonsense. The war was lost, but they could not blame Ben for that. The whole city heaved with unrest.

Clara had urged Ben to act, to quench the rumours and plots and counterplots, but he seemed at one moment decisive and the next, completely indifferent. A fortnight ago, when the Allies landed in Sicily, his only comment was, ‘The situation is delicate but not worrying.’ She was doing the worrying. She was on alert all day and all night. She did not know from day to day, whether her Lion would roar or plead. One day he was utterly dependent upon her and the next there would be more talk of the closed cycle and rejection. She knew much of this was owed to pain and anxiety and, perhaps, to the treatment for syphilis when he was young, though he denied that. At times he hardly knew what he was saying and Clara knew she had to be strong for him – the worse he got the more she loved him.

What about her own health? Her pulse raced at the slightest word, the slightest frown from Ben. She lay awake at night, unable to get enough air into her lungs. She was very tired. Only this morning she found three grey hairs at her temple and she was certain there were deeper lines around her eyes, lines that had not been there before. If only this dreadful war would end and they could have babies and be happy. Perhaps somewhere quiet, somewhere in the countryside. Well, perhaps not, Ben hated the country. He loved to talk about his country origins and his peasant ancestors but he could not wait to get back to the city whenever he was forced to visit the country.

There were no visits to the country now. For long periods they did not leave the room, and the world outside was becoming a fading memory. Clara left Ben snoring gently and went home to her family.

At precisely fifteen minutes after five in the afternoon, Mussolini arrived at the Quirinale, atop the highest of Rome’s seven hills. The graceful building was backlit by the sapphire sky of early evening, the lamps glowing against the warm sandstone of its walls. He arrived deliberately late for the meeting he had called for 5 pm. His chin jutted and he took the stairs with a violent stamp. The Grand Council of Fascism was his own creation and only he could call a meeting. Yet, here he was, summoned to attend as if he were no longer the one who governed. It was an outrage and they would pay dearly, those traitors who thought they could undermine his authority. Clara was right. He should have listened, but he would attend to them now. There would be no more of this insubordination. It was not to be tolerated.

At least he had had the presence of mind to take control once a meeting was inevitable. He was wearing his formal militia uniform and had ordered them all to wear full black ceremonial dress. He puffed his chest out, thrusting his jaw forward like his old self, but he knew he was too thin now. Rage was not good for his ulcer, which was clawing his guts, but he could not control it.

At the door to the chamber, he turned to his aide. ‘Are we walking into a trap?’

Inside the chamber, he strode to the front, carrying his heavy file. Frowning sternly, he thumped down the file, placed his fists on the table on either side of the document and began his oration. This would bring them to heel.

Mussolini’s voice rose and he made good use of all the quotations he had prepared. Many of the men in the room tensed forward in their seats, holding their breath. As he expounded his version of the war and the quandary of the present, they glanced from one to the other, eyebrows raised, at first surprised, then incredulous. Then, one by one, they exhaled loudly and relaxed into their seats, realising that the Duce of old was no more and that Mussolini had absolutely no idea what he was talking about, no grasp of the war. They had never heard, one said later, such woolly, rambling and inconsequential nonsense. They knew then they had made the right decision. Even those like Ciano, who had been difficult to persuade into this dethroning, were now convinced.

Mussolini droned endlessly in the late afternoon heat, at last concluding lamely, ‘The dilemma now is, war or peace? Surrender now or resistance to the last?’

He dribbled to a halt. A blowfly buzzed itself against the window until it fell dead. The air congealed and settled upon the listeners, who awoke from their torpor and, avoiding each other’s eyes, shuffled papers in embarrassment, shook heads. Whispered conversations sputtered back and forth, then Dino Grandi, Count of Mordano and President of the Chamber, rose to deliver the resolution he had drafted. In a long and ardent speech, lasting an hour and replete with every accusation, every sin committed or omitted, he put the motion that Mussolini resign forthwith and hand authority to the King, the Government and the Parliament.

The others waited, not even shame-faced: Farinacci, Bottai, Federzoni, and yes, even his son-in-law, the ingrate – though Count Ciano did look mortified, his face the colour of suet. For more than twenty years these men had done his bidding, shared his victories, been the beneficiaries of his largesse. There had been grumbling and complaining and muttering behind the scenes from time to time, but they had always obeyed him implicitly and not once had one of them ever dared to openly question his authority. They seemed as surprised as he to find themselves here this evening, and for a few minutes the atmosphere was strained. The chamber was mute. Then a spate of accusations spewed over him. Sharpened questions flew at him from every direction, assertions shouted, aspersions cast, all inhibition tossed aside. He thought of Caesar.

No longer did they cower before his great desk in the vast Mappamondo salon of Palazzo Venezia. Once, they would have had to walk the long, long length of that salon, from the door at the far end to his desk, before which no-one was ever asked to be seated, but was left to stand for the whole of the interview. Now it was as if Mussolini were the defendant in the dock.

‘You have imposed a dictatorship on Italy that is historically immoral!’

Did Grandi have froth at the corners of his mouth? His sweaty face was that of a stranger. It seemed a long time ago, that Grandi had written to him, ‘My life, my faith, my soul, are yours.’

Mussolini thought he might faint. It must be the heat. He tugged at his collar – his face felt florid and sweaty and his breathing was ragged. It was important, however, to speak with authority. ‘I think we will take an adjournment until tomorrow. As you know, my health is poor and I am feeling unwell.’

An exchange of astonished glances arced around the room. Grandi stood. ‘We have been kept here on many occasions until five in the morning to discuss some trifle you thought was important.’

He made it plain that they would be here all night, if that was what was required. They would allow a short adjournment and then recommence.

They were there all night. Exhaustion, reaction and fear had set in by the time Mussolini, still nominally chairing the meeting, put the motion to the vote. It was carried by a majority. The reign of Il Duce was over.

His voice feeble and tremulous, Mussolini leaned on the desk as he rose to speak. ‘We can go. You have provoked the crisis of the Regime. The meeting is over.’

It was two o’clock in the morning. Most left hurriedly, guilty and shaken by what they had set in motion. A few stalwarts remained for a desultory discussion of retribution against the rebels. Mussolini’s heart was not in it. He was too tired to care.

Clara woke early to the summery Roman morning, anxiety weighing upon her like a winter eiderdown. Kicking herself free of the damp sheet, she lay wondering what terrible thing had happened – she had faith in her instincts in these matters. She rang for her maid and ordered a cup of tea. Kneeling quickly, she crossed herself and muttered a plea to Saint Rita. Then she slipped an arm into her organza negligee, hesitated, pulled it off and tossed it onto the back of a spindly chair where the pale green gossamer fluttered softly in the breeze from the open window, a butterfly settling. Better to dress immediately and face whatever had occurred at the meeting.

More meticulous than ever in the choice of her ensemble, she chose a light cream cotton suit with short cap sleeves, a narrow peplum and a lace collar. She loved that skirt for the way it hugged her bottom and thighs and flared at the knee – though not too showy. High-heeled, tan summer shoes with open toes and a handbag to match, she put aside with the clothes, on a chair.

Her maid arrived with the tea and a tall pitcher of water. Clara poured the cool water into a washbasin, wrung out a soft cloth, wiped her face and neck, and then, sprinkling some perfumed lotion onto the cloth, she carefully washed under her arms and between her legs. It was going to be a very hot day. In the swivel-mirror, she checked the back view and decided her hair would be better pinned up. Holding six bobby pins in her mouth, she picked up her comb – it would take another ten minutes but was worth it.

Her parents were stirring in the villa but she avoided the breakfast room, going straight to her father’s office where she lifted the brass handset of the telephone and asked to be put through to Ben. She did not normally telephone him at home – across the way in Villa Torlonia – she made him call her. Let it not be Rachele’s rough voice on the other end. She did not want to have to argue with her this morning. The housekeeper was up and put her straight through to Ben, who was not encouraging.

‘Amore mio, are you all right?’ said Clara. ‘Come to the window. I have a bad feeling.’ She scribbled tighter and tighter circles on the pad on her father’s desk.

Ben was terse. He was anxious, certainly, he said, but no more than he ever was. Nothing has happened, he said. Your imagination is getting the better of you. No, she said. You must listen. This is what I think you must do. Don’t tell me what to do, he said. Tell me what happened at the meeting, she said. Don’t worry he said. You worry too much, and rang off. He did not come to the window.

So, she thought, it is as bad as that.

In the normal course of a day, Clara would call Ben or have him call her at least twelve times, often more. Yesterday was wrong – she knew it. All wrong. And today was worse. When she had not heard from him again by two o’clock and Quinto had taken all her calls, each more frantic than the last, she decided to go to Palazzo Venezia. She told Quinto to send the driver to fetch her directly. He arrived promptly and things seemed calm and normal but she was not placated. No, said the driver, the boss had been busy all day, working from home. No more than that. On arrival at the via degli Astalli gate the attendant waved her through with a deferential nod. Normal there too.

Quinto awaited her at the lift, smiling reassurance as he escorted her to the first-floor apartment where she went straight through to the Zodiac Room.

‘Shall I bring tea?’

‘No. Yes. Yes, tea, but where is Ben? Where is he? Why has he not called me?’ She bit her lower lip and was even tempted to chew the edge of a fingernail. She stopped herself just in time.

‘He has been busy all day. He came in for a short while but left again at two o’clock. He said he was going to visit the area of last night’s bombing. I will send the tea.’

Quinto turned to leave. ‘He should be back soon. I am going down to wait for him at the lift.’

She heard the anxiety he too was only barely keeping under control. The portents were not good. The air was heavy.

Hours limped past; Clara had given up trying to find Ben. Her mind skittered between fear for him and anxiety for herself, and she could not concentrate on anything. One finger tapped incessantly on the magazine she tried to read. In the shadows of the silent apartment, monsters lurked. Without Ben, Palazzo Venezia was the enemy.

When Quinto returned, his frown was deep and he ran his hand through his hair, usually so carefully combed and oiled.

‘He is not back. But it is all right. I have received a policeman from the Presidential Division, sent to tell me the Duce has gone to Villa Savoia. He has an appointment with the King.’

‘Gone to the King!’ Claretta’s voice rose an octave and her throat hurt. She too wanted to run her hands through her hair but was careful not to.

‘I knew it. I told him not to go, but would he listen to me? No good will come of this.’

She lunged for her handbag from the sofa and rushed from the room as if Quinto had said Ben had been in an accident.

Quinto Navarra remained standing for some time, at the open double doors to the apartment, uncertain what to do next. On the one hand, he thought, things certainly did not seem right somehow. On the other, La Signora Clara was given to histrionics, and a routine visit to the King was hardly anything to become hysterical about. Was it? Quinto took a deep breath and cleared the tea tray, which was untouched. There will be an explanation, he said to himself. He would have to wait until the boss got back and by the look of things, it would be late. Another long night ahead.

By morning, Mussolini had recovered and was in fighting spirits. He had visited the site of the bombing on his way home after the meeting and been encouraged by the enthusiasm of the few locals about at that late hour. He spent the night writing a rebuttal of the motion, a motion that could not stand. He telephoned his office and in a firm voice, instructed his private secretary to ring the palace and make an appointment with the King. He lunched at home – Rachele made him the only meal he really cared for these days: spaghetti with butter and cheese and a glass of orange juice.

Rachele hovered, fretting. ‘Don’t go to the King, Benito,’ she said. ‘I do not trust him.’

‘Women,’ he said. ‘What is wrong with you?’ Rachele suffered from the deeply suspicious nature of her peasant background, but only yesterday, Clara too was saying the same thing to him. He would wear his uniform, damn them all! No, he went twice a week to the King without fail and he had always been careful to wear civilian clothing. He would do so today. He undid the uniform jacket in haste and fumbled the cursed buttons, tearing the bottom one away as he ripped the jacket off and tossed it to the bed.

He stood for a moment, did some deep breathing. His legs were hard to keep still. What was wrong with him? The worst that could happen would be that the King might take back command of the armed services. Really, he had so much on his mind that the King might be useful in that role. He might as well do something useful, the idiot, instead of playing with his coin collection.

Mussolini ordered his car and arrived at Villa Savoia punctually, a little before 5 pm. His bodyguards followed in various vehicles, careful to maintain the 500-metre distance Il Duce insisted upon. They knew he could fly into a rage if they followed too closely. They parked outside the villa as he swept into the courtyard, to be greeted by the King who was waiting for him at the door, his hand extended.

See, thought Mussolini, I knew I could rely on the King. He maintained a sober expression but was exultant. He would soon have the traitors back under his thumb.

The King seemed more subdued than usual but that was to be expected. He was seventy-three, but had changed little in appearance as he aged. His close-cropped hair was now white. His moustache was also white and, being shorter and thinner than the bristly thatch of earlier times, it failed to conceal the weak set of his mouth.

He led the way to his office, where he turned to Mussolini and said, ‘We cannot go on like this.’

‘No, Your Majesty. I agree.’ He opened his file from last night’s meeting, ready to explicate the many errors rendering the motion illegal.

The King cut him short, both hands raised. ‘No! You know they are singing songs saying “Down with Mussolini”? The country cannot continue like this. I think we must accept that the right man for this delicate moment is Marshall Badoglio.’

The King’s face was wan and taut. His voice wobbled and he stared off into the corner of the room. Making momentous decisions did not sit comfortably with Victor Emmanuel III.

‘But, but, a crisis at this moment …’ This could not be happening. Mussolini tugged at his collar.

‘My dear Duce! My soldiers don’t want to fight anymore.’ The King’s voice cracked slightly. ‘At this moment you are the most hated man in Italy. We must accept the vote of the Grand Council as the will of the people. I have instructed Marshall Badoglio to prepare to take over immediately.’

Mussolini seemed to hear the words as if from a great distance. His face burned.

‘Then it is all over. All over. All over.’ His voice had a peevish edge and he swayed. He put out a hand to steady himself against the mantle. In the mirror, a livid stain mottled his neck. ‘What will happen to me? To my family? What will happen to us?’

His eyes, the King said later, reminded him of the horse he had put down when it was injured. King Victor Emmanuel III, by contrast, was wooden. It was only twenty past five but the meeting was over. The King walked him to the door where he shook his hand.

‘We will talk tomorrow,’ Mussolini said faintly, nodding, as if the King had said it.

On the gravel drive, he looked for his car but it was parked at the far side of the quadrangle. With a sigh, he began to walk to it, too drained even to be offended that it was not brought to him. Instead, he was confronted by an officer of the Carabinieri.

‘His Majesty the King has commanded me to accompany you,’ he said, ‘to protect you from the mob.’

‘Oh, very well, come on then,’ Mussolini replied. ‘There is no need.’ He made towards the car again, shaking his head. ‘No need to exaggerate,’ he said; the people would always love him.

‘No, this way,’ said the officer, turning him towards an ambulance parked off to the side. ‘It is safer.’

He took the elbow of the ex-leader and, as if offering help, propelled him up into the back of the vehicle, where two armed guards waited. Mussolini was seated on a stretcher, the doors slammed and the ambulance sped out of the palace.

The evening was glorious. The heat of the day had waned and a gentle breeze wafted about the nodding heads of the flowers in the garden as the King and his ADC walked back and forth.

The King shook his head. ‘The Queen is very upset about him being arrested here. It is true. She is right. Here he was our guest. The rules of royal hospitality have been violated. It is not good.’ The King shook his head again and the two men turned indoors.

Not too far away from the palace, Marshall Pietro Badoglio, 1st Duke of Addis Ababa and 1st Marquess of Sabotino, had received a messenger. He was in a jovial humour. He had waited a long time for this moment.

‘You’re all under arrest,’ he called boisterously to his family. ‘No-one leave the house! Bring up the Veuve Clicquot and put it on the ice!’ He bounded up the stairs to change into his military uniform.

Back in Palazzo Venezia, Quinto Navarra paced and fretted.

Outside Villa Savoia, Mussolini’s bodyguards kept watch, forgotten by all.

It was still too warm to eat. Clara’s plate was untouched – the deep green of the spinach bled onto the white flesh of the fish. She pushed it away with a pouty sigh, almost overturning her wineglass – why did her mother always set a wineglass when she knew Clara only ever drank water? She had changed into a floral cotton dress without sleeves, but under the wide red belt her bodice was soaked with perspiration.

Evening sounds drifted up to the terrace on the soft air, as if it were a day like any other. The debris of the meal was scattered across the table. The cork and golden foil from a bottle of Spumante lay beside a crystal salt dish and the terrace lanterns refracted amber light through the Frascati in the tall glasses. Beside her father’s elbow, the bottle of Sangiovese left a magenta ring on the starched tablecloth. Claretta played with the drawn thread design of its border until she poked a hole in the fine work. Her mother glared at her but said nothing and she let the fabric drop. Strawberries glistened in a crystal bowl set in ice.

Dr Francesco Petacci was not hungry either. His forehead glistened with perspiration, all the way back to where the last of his hair still clung on. He was in his shirt-sleeves despite his wife’s disapproval – it was too hot to dress for dinner when there was only the family present. He refilled his wine glass for the third time. His wife would disapprove of that too. He could see from the state Claretta was in that things were grave. Ben had disappeared, she said. He cannot have disappeared, thought Francesco, but if there was another woman involved, it could be a while before he showed up and he knew what that would be like, dealing with his daughter. More likely affairs of state, he said aloud. No, his daughter shouted, he has gone to the King and I cannot find him. Unrest was in the air and everyone except his wife, it seemed, was anxious.

Clara’s mother, Giuseppina, had no difficulty at all eating her supper, despite the heat. She frowned at Francesco as he poured more wine, while she slid the strawberries towards her and helped herself to a large spoonful, which she sprinkled with icing sugar. She fanned herself lightly with an embroidered napkin and sighed as loudly as Claretta. Her daughter’s distracted air irritated her and spoiled the nice evening, but Claretta always over-dramatised. They all knew Ben could be difficult – not that she called him Ben to his face – but God knows Claretta did provoke him at times. Going to see the King was hardly the end of the world. Giuseppina was certain he would turn up tomorrow and resolve the problem. She did hope so, because it was too trying to have Claretta in this mood. She mopped the corners of her mouth, patted gently at the light perspiration on her throat and pushed back her chair, the iron legs grating across the tiles.

‘Shall we go in for the bulletin?’ she asked.

They drifted into the salon through the open French doors. Giuseppina surveyed the room with a pleasure undiminished by familiarity – gracious, it was, despite the modernity. She was not as certain as Francesco about all those stark lines, but it seemed to work pleasingly. She pressed the button for the housekeeper and ordered coffee.

Francesco turned on the wireless to warm it up for the 11 pm news broadcast. He settled into his chair with his pipe, tamping the tobacco with his thumb in pleasurable anticipation of the first puff. Claretta perched distractedly on the rolled wooden arm of an antique sofa, one of the few old pieces in the room.

‘Don’t sit on the arm. You will break it,’ her mother said with the tedium of habit.

With a shake of her head, Claretta slid into a lolling position, gazing out through the doors to the starry night and the last fading light. She chewed the inside of her cheek. Her mother turned the volume knob of the wireless and sat opposite as the clock chimed eleven.

His Majesty the King-Emperor has accepted the resignation from the Office of Head of the Government and Chief Secretary of State, of His Excellency Cavaliere Benito Mussolini …

Claretta’s scream was more of panic than surprise. She struck her forehead repeatedly with the heel of her hand. ‘What have they done to him? They will kill him. Oh, amore mio, I should never have left.’ She slid from the sofa to the floor, keening and rocking.

Her parents were astounded – as much by their daughter’s histrionics as the shocking announcement.

‘Too much American cinema,’ Giuseppina muttered. She glared at Francesco as if to say, this is your fault, the girl is uncontrollable. Neither went to her aid but watched her as if she were dangerous.

The bulletin droned to the end and still no-one moved. Francesco held his unlit pipe halfway to his mouth. After a moment, he rose and turned off the radio.

‘I … I must telephone someone. I …’ He waved his pipe. Giuseppina sprang at him. ‘It’s the King. He has always been useless. We have a coward and a fool as our King. As for Badoglio, that cretin has always hated the Duce. I’ll bet he put the King up to this. He just wants … he wants …’ She sputtered to a halt.

Her hands flew to the pearls at her throat, fingers telling the smooth pale orbs like a rosary. ‘Oddio! What will happen to us? We are not safe. Francesco, call the police at once. At once!’ Her eyebrows disappeared into her fringe. ‘At once!’

She tugged at her husband’s arm, sending the pipe spinning from his hand in a spray of tobacco.

Claretta was on her feet now. Like a flock of starlings in the Rome night sky they wheeled in unison, swooping from the room and across the terrace to gaze down at the outer walls to the courtyard, where their police guard was always positioned. There was no-one there. From the high terrace, they heard the raucous sounds of celebration and rejoicing. Fires burned in dancing orange points across the city.

Florence 1943

The fall

The stars glittered, no light anywhere to dilute their intensity. Annabelle was not asleep. She had gone to bed too early. The hated blackout curtains trapped the summer night, suffocating her. Drawing back the heavy fabric, she sat in her window, dreaming, drifting, imagining another life … She was Heloise at university, disguised as a boy, having a passionate love affair with Abelard.

A commotion downstairs fractured her reverie. The very timbre of the house changed. What now? It was more than two weeks since the Allied landing in Sicily. She raced down the stairs, wearing only her voile nightgown. From her father’s study came a clatter of raised voices, with the wireless on in the background. It was nearly eleven. As she rushed through the door, she was shushed from every side. No-one chided her for being half-dressed. The air was fuggy with cigar-smoke. Enrico pushed her to the front with a wave to remain silent and the evening news broadcast began. There was no usual introduction to the events of the day, the twenty-fifth of July in the twentieth year of the Fascist Era.

His Majesty the King-Emperor has accepted the resignation from the Office of Head of the Government and Chief Secretary of State, of His Excellency Cavaliere Benito Mussolini, and has nominated as Head of the Government and Chief Secretary of State, Cavaliere Marshal of Italy Pietro Badoglio. End of the transmission.

For long moments, the silence beat like a human heart. Annabelle thought it was her own heart. Enrico nodded, but did not speak. His lips were white and compressed. Finally, Achille rose to turn off the wireless.

‘You were right,’ he said, turning to Enrico. ‘What will it mean?’

Enrico had brought this news. She might have guessed. Annabelle was dulled with dread. ‘I am going back to bed,’ she said loudly. No-one answered.

Florentines awoke to a glorious summer morning filled with light and the call of the cuckoo. Outside the windows the air was already heavy with humidity and presentiment. Nothing was real. It was as if a play were suspended, midway through rehearsal, for a lost script. Stunned incomprehension stamped the faces of citizens. After a night of riotous carousing, the streets were quiet – littered with party badges torn from coats and trampled underfoot, smashed glass, frames from portraits of Il Duce ripped from the walls of homes and offices. The air smelt of ash and cinders. In the stillness, the ghostly covered cars on their blocks seemed like so many draped corpses. A quarter of a century of Mussolini was over. Was this good news or bad news? No-one knew. Utter confusion washed through the city. Rumours swirled like the capes of phantoms and facts were invisible. Stories wisped, drifted, disappeared. True and real had lost their currency. Many thought the war was over, having missed Marshall Badoglio’s confirmation that ‘Italy remains true to the word she has given’.

‘You will see, he will be back,’ said others, more cautious. By afternoon, a dangerous state of euphoria wafted about, a deadly miasma replacing caution. The streets were again clotted with citizens – many kissing complete strangers, some throwing pictures of Il Duce onto bonfires, others swapping the latest wild theories, while rampaging youths defaced fascist emblems. A slate statue of Mussolini was pulled from its marble plinth and crashed to the ground – a cascading Colossus. Tricolours appeared in several windows, tentatively. The evening news bulletin carried stories of bacchanalian orgies in Milan, the cradle of fascism, where rejoicing was unrestrained. Homes and offices of prominent fascists were raided, wrecked and looted. Viva Badoglio! echoed from the streets and belltowers and loggias across the city. Groups of young people swaggered arm-in-arm, swigging from wine bottles and dancing around bonfires. A fascist official was forced to eat his badge. The scenes of mindless elation were distasteful and unsettling to those with a more measured outlook.

‘Pandemonium in its literal sense,’ Achille said, shaking his head. ‘And these are the same people who were screaming Duce! Duce! Duce! only last week.’

Then as quickly as the ecstasy appeared, it evaporated with the confirmation from Marshall Badoglio that Italy was still at war.

For the following weeks, the sun came up each day on clocks that seemed broken. Time ceased to have meaning and each day brought new stories. In the bars and piazzas and bakeries and butcheries and grocery shops, the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker all knew for certain that … The sludge of rumour clogged the arteries of the whole country. Mussolini had gone mad. Hitler was dead. No, Mussolini was dead and Hitler had gone mad. The German presence increased and the talk was constantly of what Hitler might do: Hitler intended to kill the King. Hitler was going to kidnap the Pope. Hitler had kidnapped Mussolini. Where was Mussolini? He had not been seen since the afternoon of the twenty-fifth when he left an audience with the King. Life centred on the wireless news broadcasts but nothing was ever clear.

Annabelle drifted through each day, shoulders hunched, awaiting the news that increasingly came from Enrico. A subtle shift had occurred within the family. They seemed to have agreed to appoint him their minister of information and he was absent all day and much of the night. The people he spent his time with, such as Professor La Pira from the university and other opponents of the Regime, began to meet openly and talk about a new order. Suddenly Enrico was one of the grown-ups and Annabelle was the only child left. She had given up even the pretence of study and Enrico had not opened a book, she knew, for months. What was the point of it all? They would probably all be dead soon anyway. Hitler would kill them all. Mussolini was missing and she wondered what had become of Claretta? Her throat hurt and she cried herself to sleep at night, fat tears dribbling slowly down her cheeks onto the damp patches from the night before. She never allowed anyone to see tears in the daytime – Enrico would think she was a baby. No-one noticed.