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‘Of course,’ Marco goes on, ‘a lot of the people who took those risks were relieved when it was all over. They just wanted to get back to their lives. But some of them didn’t want to stand down. It wasn’t enough to get the Nazis out – they wanted to keep fighting, make a global revolution.’
‘And you think that’s what Stella did? Keep fighting?’
‘Honestly? I don’t know. But she’d be, what, just turning sixteen when the war ended. If her politics were anything like her brother’s, I can imagine her getting a set of false papers and running away to join the struggle somewhere else. God knows she’d have had enough choice. Argentina, Abyssinia… Yugoslavia, for that matter. That’s only just over the border.’
‘And there wouldn’t be any record of her then,’ I say. ‘Not as Stella Infuriati, anyway.’
‘Right. I’m not saying it’s the most probable scenario,’ Marco says. ‘But I think it’s the one I like best.’
‘Me too. And, look, these things did happen. Granny had an older cousin who ran off to Spain to join the International Brigades. He knew George Orwell. I’m not sure he liked him very much but still, he knew him.’
‘Wow.’ Marco sounds genuinely impressed.
‘Granny told me the whole story during one of our Florence trips. I was readingAnimal Farmat school, so I thought it was just amazing, and I felt so grown-up listening to her talk about it all – not that I understood more than half. Then I went home and asked Mummy if she ever met cousin Hector, and wasn’t it marvellous how he managed to fight Franco and Stalin all at once? She almost choked on her gin.’
‘I’m starting to understand why Achille got on so well with your grandmother. And why your mother didn’t.’
‘Mummy always was a status quo sort of person,’ I say. ‘And I don’t mean the rock band.’
Marco snorts. ‘Sounds like that would have been an improvement. Look, we’re almost at Siena. That’s Monteriggioni coming up on the right.’
I turn my head and see a green hill with a ring of fortifications at the top. It’s so perfect, so prettily symmetrical that for a moment I feel unreal, like I’ve stepped into someone else’s Tuscan fantasy. ‘Is Siena as nice as that?’
‘Even nicer,’ Marco says. ‘In fact, it’s beautiful, but don’t tell anyone I said that. We Florentines have to keep up our historic grudges.’
The road is rising steadily now, winding upwards, and my spirits rise with it. ‘Let’s make a pledge,’ I say. ‘From the time we enter Siena to the time we leave, we’re not going to talk about the book. Not a word, not even a thought. Deal?’
‘Deal,’ he says.
19
Stella
If my Resistance was unspectacular, so was my Liberation.
Tucked away in a narrow valley on a minor tributary of the Arno, Romituzzo was protected from the worst effects of the war. We were not all that far from the major strategic points, across the hills in the Elsa valley – San Gimignano, Poggibonsi, Certaldo, Castelfiorentino, Empoli – and of course the fighting there affected us. Enzo’s mother and her colleagues were killed by a stray bomb. But we never had to live through bombardment ourselves; never had to rush underground and emerge again into a new, ruined world. Our damage was collateral, marginal by the standards of the time.
And when the Allies pursued the Germans northwards through Tuscany in the late summer of 1944, those same cities took the brunt of the conflict: San Gimignano, Poggibonsi, Certaldo, Castelfiorentino, Empoli. And as the Germans were driven back, destroying and burning and killing as they went, they simply pulled all of their troops out of the Valdana. We didn’t have to fight them; in their eyes, our territory wasn’t important enough to defend. But that doesn’t mean we didn’t have to fight at all. There were still plenty of local Fascists who didn’t want to cede an inch of ground, who would fight to the death rather than admit themselves defeated. And that’s how we got our freedom. Inch by inch, shot by shot.
*
On the morning the fighting broke out in San Damiano, Achille knocked on my door not long after sunrise. ‘It’s kicking off,’ he said. ‘Go down to St Christopher’s and get your orders. That’s the main assembly point.’
I was already digging in my underwear drawer for my gun. ‘Where will you be?’
‘I’m heading up to Santa Marta. I’ll get my orders there. Christ, tell me you’re not hoping to shoot any Fascists with that daft little thing?’
‘It’s the best weapon I’ve got,’ I said. I felt rather defensive of don Anselmo’s gift. ‘Anyway, I’m sure I’ll be given a proper one at St Christopher’s.’
Achille grimaced. ‘I wouldn’t count on it. Look, take this.’ He took the Beretta in its holster from around his waist and held it out to me.
‘Achille, no. I can’t.’
‘I’ve got my German rifle. Please, Stellina, take it. I’ll just worry about you if you don’t.’ He was already fastening the belt around my middle, over my nightdress. ‘You remember how to fire a real gun, don’t you? Rotate the safety all the way – squeeze the trigger, don’t pull it. Oh, and aim for the belly. Don’t try to do anything fancy.’
‘Right,’ I said. I must have looked dazed, because Achille smiled and gave me a brief, tight hug.
‘Don’t worry, little sister. I’ll see you out there.’ He turned and ran down the stairs. The back door slammed, and a moment later I heard the MM 125’s engine start up.
