‘It was not like that at all,’ she said sharply. ‘I will tell you how it was.’ She leaned her elbows on the table. ‘I was very young during the war, but my father made me work, everyone had to work. It was one of my tasks to gather together the possessions of those who were killed so that useful things could be saved and anything personal could be passed on to the family.
‘When Alberto was killed on the cliff I gathered his few things and I found the letter. It was addressed to my father and there were two pages, otherwise it was unfinished. I read it briefly and it seemed important, but how important it was I did not know because I was very young. I put it in my pocket to give to my father.
‘But there was a German attack and we had to move. We sheltered in a farmhouse but we had to move even from there very quickly. Now, I carried my own possessions in a little tin box and that was left in the farmhouse. It was only in 1946 that I went back to the farm to thank those people – the first chance I had.
‘They gave me wine and then the farmer’s wife brought out the little box and asked it if was mine. I had forgotten all about it and I had forgotten what was in it.’ She smiled. ‘There was a doll – no, not a doll; what you call an … Eddy-bear?’
‘A Teddy-bear.’
‘That is right; a Teddy-bear – I have still got it. There were some other things and Alberto’s letter was there also.’
I said, ‘And you still didn’t give it to your father. Why not?’
She thumped the table with a small fist. ‘It is difficult for you to understand the Italy of just after the war, but I will try to explain. The Communists were very strong, especially here in the north, and they ruined my father after the war. They said he had been a collaborationist and that he had fought the Communist partisans instead of fighting the Fascists. My father, who had been fighting the Fascists all his life! They brought up false evidence and no one would listen to him.
‘His estates had been confiscated by the Fascist Government and he could not get them back. How could he when Togliatti, the Vice-Premier of the Government, was the leader of the Italian Communist Party? They said, ‘No, this man was a collaborator, so he must be punished. But even with all their false evidence they dared not bring him to trial, but he could not get back his estates, and today he is a poor man.’
Francesca’s eyes were full of tears. She wiped them with a tissue and said, ‘Excuse me, but my feeling on this is strong.’
I said awkwardly, ‘That’s all right.’
She looked up and said, ‘These Communists with their fighting against the Fascists. My father fought ten times harder than any of them. Have you heard of the 52nd Partisan Brigade?’
I shook my head.
‘That was the famous Communist Brigade which captured Mussolini. The famous Garibaldi Brigade. Do you know how many men were in this so-famous Garibaldi Brigade in 1945?’
I said, ‘I know very little about it.’
‘Eighteen men,’ she said contemptuously. ‘Eighteen men called themselves the 52nd Brigade. My father commanded fifty times as many men. But when I went to Parma for the anniversary celebrations in 1949 the Garibaldi Brigade marched through the street and there were hundreds of men. All the Communist scum had crawled out of their holes now the war was over and it was safe. They marched through the streets and every man wore a red scarf about his neck and every man called himself a partisan. They even painted the statue of Garibaldi so that it had a red shirt and a red hat. So my friends and I do not call ourselves partisans, and you must not call us by that word the Communists have made a mockery of.’
She was shaking with rage. Her fists were clenched and she looked at me with eyes bright with unshed tears.
‘The Communists ruined my father because they knew he was a strong man and because they knew he would oppose them in Italy. He was a liberal, he was for the middle of the road – the middle way. He who is in the middle of the road gets knocked down, but he could not understand that,’ she said sombrely. ‘He thought it was an honourable fight – as though the Communists have ever fought honourably.’
It was a moving story and typical of our times. I also observed that it fitted with what Coertze had told me. I said, ‘But the Communists are not nearly as strong today. Is it not possible for your father to appeal and to have his case reviewed?’
‘Mud sticks, whoever throws it,’ she said sadly. ‘Besides, the war was a long time ago – people do not like to be reminded about those times – and people, especially officials, never like to admit their mistakes.’
She was realistic about the world and I realized that I must be realistic too. I said, ‘But what has this got to do with the letter?’
‘You wanted to know why I did not give the letter to my father after the war; is that so?’
‘Yes.’
She smiled tightly. ‘You must meet my father and then you would understand. You see, whatever you are looking for is valuable. I understood from Alberto’s letter that there are papers and a lot of gold bars. Now, my father is an honourable man. He would return everything to the Government because from the Government it came. To him, it would be unthinkable to keep any of the gold for himself. It would be dishonourable.’
She looked down at the backs of her hands. ‘Now, I am not an honourable woman. It hurts me to see my father so poor he has to live in a Milan slum, that he has to sell his furniture to buy food to eat. He is an old man – it is not right that he should live like that. But if I can get some money I would see that he had a happy old age. He does not need to know where the money comes from.’
I leaned back in my chair and looked at her thoughtfully. I looked at the expensive, fashion-plate clothing she was wearing, and she coloured under my scrutiny. I said softly, ‘Why don’t you send him money? I hear you made a good marriage; you ought to be able to spare a little for an old man.’
Her lips twisted in a harsh smile. ‘You don’t know anything about me, do you, Mr Halloran? I can assure you that I have no money and no husband, either – or no one that I would care to call my husband.’ She moved her hands forward on the table. ‘I sold my rings to get money to send to my father, and that was a long time ago. If it were not for my friends I would be on the streets. No, I have no money, Mr Halloran.’
There was something here I did not understand, but I didn’t press it. The reason she wanted to cut in didn’t matter; all that mattered was she had us over a barrel. With her connections we could not make a move in Italy without falling over an ex-partisan friend of hers. If we tried to lift the gold without coming to terms with her she would coolly step in at the right time and take the lot. She had us taped.
I said, ‘You’re as bad as Metcalfe.’
‘That is something I wanted to ask you,’ she said. ‘Who is this Metcalfe?’
‘He’s up to the same lark that you are.’
Her command of English was not up to that. ‘Lark?’ she said in mystification. ‘That is a bird?’
I said, ‘He’s one of our mutual competitors. He’s after the gold, too.’ I leaned over the table. ‘Now, if we cut you in, we would want certain guarantees.’
‘I do not think you are in a position to demand guarantees,’ she said coldly.
‘Nevertheless, we would want them. Don’t worry, this is in your interest, too. Metcalfe is the man behind Torloni and he’s quite a boy. Now, we would want protection against Metcalfe and anything he could throw against us. From what you’ve said, Torloni carries a bit of weight, and if he hasn’t got enough, Metcalfe can probably drum up some more. What I want to know is – can you give us protection against that lot?’
‘I can find a hundred men, any time I