Prologue
Florence
2019
Livia Moretti stepped out onto the street and closed her eyes against the dazzling brightness. After the darkness of her top-floor apartment, the glare of bright white light felt almost shocking. The heavy oak door slammed shut behind her and she leant against it, steadying herself, sensing its heat through her faded cream linen summer coat. She fumbled for the fastening of her handbag, and felt inside the silk pocket for her door key. As was her habit, she checked for the other contents, ensuring everything was in its place. Her elegant fingers touched her small emerald-green leather purse, followed by the engraved silver money clip – an antiquated but neat contraption for keeping notes orderly – and finally, the little jewel-encrusted powder compact her mother had given her over seventy years before. In the bottom of the handbag was a small silver-handled magnifying glass. Livia snapped the bag shut, content that all was well and slipped it into position in the crook of her arm; with her other hand, she reached for her white stick leaning against the stone surround of the front door.
She walked along the cobbled street at a slow but even pace, her head very erect, even in her ninth decade, having been drilled as a child to stand up straight by her German governess. Fräulein Schneider had strapped a board across her charge’s back, pinning Livia’s shoulders into position. It had seemed harsh at the time, restricting her movements, preventing her from lolling and slouching as she would have liked. Even on holiday in the resort town of Forte dei Marmi on the Ligurian coast, where the family went to escape the heat of the city, the board was still worn at mealtimes. Livia remembered the ecstasy as it was removed and she was allowed to slip into a loose white linen frock, her bare feet on the white sand, her dark hair covered with a straw panama. Her mother, meanwhile, would be sitting upright in her rattan chair, her white skin protected by a parasol.
A gaggle of tourists fluttered towards Livia. Their features and bodies were indistinct; they were just an amorphous grouping of people, barring her way, standing gawping at the Duomo, flapping their arms and clicking. She often complained about them to her cleaner, Monica. ‘Why must they stand in the middle of everywhere? They make it so difficult to get around. And what are they doing – making these clicking noises all the time?’
‘They’re taking photos… selfies.’
‘Selfies, what on earth are “selfies”?’
‘Photos you take of yourself.’
‘Well, how ridiculous. They’ve come all the way to Florence to take photos of themselves? Why don’t they at least take pictures of the beautiful buildings?’
‘I don’t know,’ Monica had replied, as she plumped the needlepoint cushions on the battered linen sofa. ‘They’re not interested in the buildings, I suppose. They just want to prove they’ve been here.’
Livia shook her head, bewildered. Everything changes, she thought. Everything moves on. Life cannot stay the same.
Her route that morning was imprinted on her memory. Although she was unable to see the precise details of the buildings around her, their familiar shapes loomed on the edges of her vision. She knew how many steps it was from the Duomo to the small café in the Piazza della Repubblica, and counted silently to herself as she walked: ‘One hundred and forty-eight, forty-nine… and stop.’ The roar of a motorbike, as it rushed past her, created an eddy in the air, rustling her silk dress.
‘Can I help you cross the road?’ The man’s voice was young and friendly. She would usually have declined, preferring to manage herself, but he had already taken her elbow – the arm that carried the handbag – and was edging her forward. She found herself walking faster than she would have liked across the road and up onto the pavement on the other side.
‘Thank you,’ she said crisply.
‘You’re welcome,’ he replied. ‘Can I take you anywhere?’
‘No, thank you. I’m just going to Café Paskowski. It’s only a few minutes from here.’
‘I’m going there myself,’ he said. ‘May I accompany you?’
They walked the last hundred yards together. His touch on her arm, as he guided her through the crowds, was gentle and deferential.
‘It’s a delightful café, isn’t it?’ he said, gazing up at the large glazed windows and the Edwardian signage above the door. ‘I’ve been here several times since I arrived in Florence. I’ve seen you here occasionally – it’s obviously your favourite haunt too.’
His knowledge of her daily activity unnerved her. She wished he would leave her alone. She felt the familiar edge of the pavement with her stick. Just five more steps to her table. Angelo, the head waiter, always kept it for her so there was no embarrassment, no need to move someone else on. Her hand reached out for the familiar back of the chair and she sat down.
‘Well,’ the young man said, ‘it was lovely to meet you… I’ve often wondered about you.’
It was such an odd thing to say… so intrusive. She looked up and could see his outline. He was tall and dark-haired. But in spite of his forward manner, she felt drawn to him; she wished she could see his face properly.
‘I’m sure I don’t know why,’ she replied.
‘Oh, I don’t mean to be rude – forgive me.’ He sounded nervous. ‘I merely meant that you are so elegant, and every day you sit here, drinking your coffee, studying the paper with your magnifying glass.’
‘Well,’ she said, smiling faintly, wishing to bring an end to the conversation. ‘Goodbye then. And thank you again.’
He bowed and moved out of her field of vision.
Angelo placed a cup of coffee on the table, together with a folded copy of La Stampa, her daily newspaper.
‘Ecco, signora,’ he said politely.
‘Grazie.’
Livia took a little sip of the coffee and felt it reviving her. She opened her handbag, retrieved the silver-handled magnifying glass and laid it next to the coffee cup. Unfolding the paper, she spread it out, holding the magnifying glass to her eye so she could follow one line of print at a time.
She perused the headlines, before turning to the inside pages, where her eye was drawn to a story about an Italian actress who had just died. The name was familiar – Isabella Bellucci, otherwise known as la fidanzatina d’Italia – Italy’s little sweetheart. She had risen to stardom in the late 1930s, the paper said. She had married a British businessman after the war, and retired to the hills around Rome. Her son had died twenty years before, leaving one solitary grandson.
Livia felt her pulse quicken. She began to turn the pages of the paper, searching for a longer obituary. As she read about Isabella’s life – of her wartime experiences, of the scandals, the trial – she thought back to those days during the war, when trust in Italy was in short supply, betrayal was everywhere and the world went mad.
Part One
The Fascist Years 1941–1943
‘Fascism is a religion. The twentieth century will be known in history as the century of Fascism.’