The Young Doctor
Created | Updated Feb 5, 2012
Back in the early sixties I went to Italy. Well, perhaps it was not as simple as that. I had some friends who were going on the Magic Bus to Katmandhu – that seemed like too big an adventure for me - and my very boring boyfriend of the time wanted to go to Morocco. He was going to smoke pot, and I didn't.
I went instead to Italy. The idea came when, one day, I found my mother with the Reader’s Digest World Atlas open at the map of Italy. My mother, my eminently sensible doctor mother, was crying very quietly. My mother who never ever talked about her past – she had a slight German (I thought) accent - mumbled a few words about a town, the town her finger was resting on. A town, coincidentally, that was familiar to me (in name only) from my researches for my final, completed, thesis. A town that two of the Victorian Lady Novelists that I had spent months of my life with both lived in at separate times. The coincidence told me I needed to go.
So, with the remains of my carefully hoarded grant, I bought myself a eurorail ticket, wished my stupid boyfriend well, and, three days later, after a train, a boat, and many more trains I arrived in the town and found a small hotel with just the one star that matched my budget. But, then, I was stuck. Never travel without a plan! I didn’t quite know what to do next. The first day, I left the little hotel and wandered around the small town. I crossed the main square several times, and each time noticed an elderly man sat on the only bench, in front of a memorial plaque. For some reason, maybe his clothes, he seemed to me to be English. He sometimes was reading a paper, at other times just staring into space.
On the second day I was beginning to wonder why I had come and feeling a little bored. Again, the elderly man was sat in the square, beneath the memorial and facing the only restaurant. I passed him twice and then decided to talk. I don’t know why. He appeared kindly, and this was the first opportunity for conversation I had had since leaving home.
I sat on the bench and asked “Are you English?”
He looked at me for a long time before replying, quietly, in English. “Technically, yes, I suppose I am now, but I used to live here.” He looked carefully at me again.
“Are you visiting old friends?” I asked.
“No.” he replied, again gently, “Most of them are long gone. Scattered all over the world. There was no work here after the war. The factories were all bombed.”
“Oh.” I said, not quite sure how to continue the conversation. “Did you know Elizabeth Barrett Browning lived here?” What a stupid thing to say to a stranger!
“Indeed I do know that” he said, with a little smile, “She lived in a villa just up the road, but that was way before my time.” He smiled again. A kind smile.
I stayed silent, not sure what to say. We both looked towards the restaurant opposite. A phone rang from deep within. We heard someone answer it.
“That” he said quietly “was once my telephone. Shall I tell you about it? Do you have time?”
“Yes. I do. Please do.”
He looked cautiously at me again, before starting his tale.
“I was very proud of my telephone. I often glanced at it. When no-one was around, I would go up to it and touch the cold Bakelite for a few seconds. I wouldn’t lift it because the operator, my aunt, Mrs P, would, no doubt, be sat in front of her switchboard watching for its lights to light up, in her little room at the back of the restaurant, and she would immediately want to know what I wanted. She was very nosey. Mine was the sixth telephone to be installed in the village. Fathead that I was then, I was immensely proud of being among the favoured, the important, few. But it had not rung in the four days since it had been installed."
“And then, the phone rang as I was looking at it. I stared at it for a few seconds, then ran across the room, paused to catch my breath, and lifted the earpiece. “Pronto!” I spoke loudly, close to the mouthpiece. “Don’t shout!” It was Mrs P (I could hear her both on the phone and, echoing, from the back room). “I told you to keep your mouth well away from the phone!” She barked. I apologised and removed my face to the required distance.”
“The mayor wishes to speak with you.”
“Paulo?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Tell him I’ll see him when he comes in for lunch.”
“No, you idiot. He wants to speak to you now, on the telephone!” There was a series of clicks and squeaks.
“Giorgio? I need you to do something. Is your car working?”
“Yes. Of course.” I was as proud of my old jalopy as of the telephone.
“The Germans are here. I want you to go and meet them.”
“The Germans?”
“Yes. The Germans. Actually I think it’s the Austrians. Anyway, whoever they are we need to know what they intend.”
“I haven’t seen any Germans. Or Austrians. Nobody’s been here.”
“They are at the Rossini’s’ old factory. We think they are setting up some sort of headquarters there. We want you to go and find out. See what they want. Assure them of our goodwill. Do they need supplies? That sort of thing.”
“Why? What business do they have with us? I thought we didn’t want them here.”
“No. But they are here. It’s pointless to antagonise them. Make out we are friendly.”
“Are we still on their side? I haven’t been keeping up. Aren’t the Americans coming?” I genuinely didn’t understand the war, the reasons for it, why people were dying. I hadn’t followed the politics. I had been miserable and bored in Africa during the first war, and was now too old for the second.
“Maybe. But we have to be careful. Look, the boys are talking about going down there and throwing them out. I don’t want them getting hurt. We can’t rely on rumour. Go and see what they are doing, how many of them. That sort of thing.”
“Why me? I’ve got lunch to prepare. You’re the Mayor. You go.”
“Don’t be silly, it’s not a formal thing. You’re old and fat. They won’t worry about you.”
“Oh, right. And you’re not, I suppose. Since when?”
“Tell you what, you know the new doctor…?”
“The young blonde girl??”
“Yes. Dottore Martini. She speaks German, her family’s from Trieste. Take her with you. “
The idea began to look more attractive. “Well, it shouldn’t take too long…”
“An hour max. It’ll save the boys doing something silly. She’s waiting for you by your car.”
“Ahh... I’ve been set up, haven’t I?”
“Don’t think like that. You’re doing your duty. For the town. See you at lunch. Tell me all about it.”
“Hmm…” He hung up his phone, I replaced the receiver on mine.
“I went to the front door, and, sure enough, the new doctor was indeed there. She was smaller, younger than I had been led to believe. Standing by the car, slight, solemn and still, dressed in a short-sleeved sweater and skirt, both pale blue. I picked my jacket from the coat-stand by the door, turned the “open” sign to “closed” and went out to meet her.”
“We shook hands; her tiny hand completely wrapped in my meaty one, and introduced ourselves. Thankfully, on this one occasion, my pride and joy started at the first swing of the handle, and we set off. I tried a few pleasantries, but she answered in monosyllables and looked straight out of the screen, never turning to look at me. Despite her coolness, I was happy to be sat next to a pretty woman. It hadn't happened for a long, long time.”
“We turned into the factory about ten minutes later. There was no-one at the gates, but they were wide open. I drove up to the offices at the north end and we got out. For some reason I didn’t turn the engine off, but left it idling. Probably vanity. I didn’t want to look an idiot in front of the good doctor if it didn’t start later. “
“A soldier appeared at the factory door. He was very young. Probably even younger than the doctor!”
“May we see the officer in charge, please?” I asked. “We are from the town.”
““Wait!” He replied. I allowed his abruptness as a concession to his youth and lack of Italian. The doctor turned her back and looked around the yard. Her attention fixed on four black cars at the far end.”
“The boy soldier returned and invited us in with a wave of his hand. We followed him along a corridor, closed doors on both sides, into what I presumed had been the management offices. The double doors to the boardroom were open and we were led in. An officer, whom I took to be the Commandant, tall, crisply uniformed in black and smiling, stood alone at the end of the table He gestured us to some chairs and invited us, in perfect Italian, to sit. I did. The doctor stood behind me; rather than taking the chair next to me. The officer sat at the head of the table. The boy soldier disappeared.”
“We exchanged pleasantries and introductions. I offered any required assistance from the town, as instructed, and he didn’t think anything was required. He asked about the restaurant. As we chatted about menus – his parents had a restaurant somewhere in the Black Forest - there were scraping noises from one of the other rooms, as if furniture were being moved around, and some muffled shouting. The doctor, behind me, said that her presence was unnecessary, excused herself and left the room. She seemed distracted and uncomfortable and I wondered whether she was entirely happy about our mission, our proposed collaboration.”
“I rose and we began closing the conversation. There was a sudden scream – a woman’s scream - from along the corridor behind us. I pushed the chairs aside, accidentally obstructing the officer, and ran out, along the corridor to the factory entrance. In the lobby, the Doctor was making for the doors, sobbing and yelling unintelligibly. She slipped and landed on the floor. I went to her.”
“Get out. Quick, get out of here.” She screamed at me.”
“I tried to help her up, and, as I did so, heard quiet talking behind me. I looked up. A tall, bald, man in a white shirt with rolled up sleeves was chuckling and talking to the boy soldier, stood beside him at the door from the corridor. The Commandant had followed me out of the boardroom and also stood watching, hands on hips. Not sure what to do, I lifted up the tiny doctor and carried her in my arms, one under her shoulders, the other under her knees. She was struggling a little and sobbing. I turned my back to the door to push through. The bald man was moving towards me, the officer and boy soldier stood still watching.”
“Out of the door I started down the steps with the doctor in my arms. I saw three soldiers over by the black cars, and then the bald guy, ranting away unintelligibly, came out of the doors behind me. I was beginning to struggle and the doctor put her arms around my neck and held tight.”
“The bald man, barking what I took to be orders, came down the steps and, the doctor still in my arms, he went to slap her. She screamed in my ear, he laughed. I dropped the doctor and swung a fist at the bald man. By some fluke – I had never fought anyone in my life – I caught him on the jaw and he staggered back, tripped on a step, and fell, banging his head on a handrail.”
“I pulled the doctor to her feet, and shoved her towards the car, pulled a rear door open and pushed her in. The boy soldier had run to aid the bald man who was clutching his head, and may have been bleeding. The three soldiers were running across the yard towards us, one peeling off heading to the gates.”
“I jumped in, shoved the car into gear and pushed the accelerator pedal to the floor. We shot off and raced toward the factory gates, reaching them just as the soldier was beginning to close them. The car literally scraped through. By some instinct I thought to turn right onto the road, not left towards the town, and we roared off up the valley on the road to Modena. I looked in the mirror. The doctor had hauled herself up onto the seat, still sobbing, rocking back and forth, her hands clenched in her lap. I concentrated on driving, mind racing. A plan formed quickly. The old customs house! A disused building, once marking the border with Modena. I couldn’t see anything following us on the twisting road, but I charged on in third gear. We rounded the bend before the building. I was praying that the door was open, as it always had been when, as children, we had hiked up from town to spend hours playing here.”
“The doors were open. I drove the car straight into the building, leapt from the car and slammed the doors shut behind us. I went back to the car and barked at the doctor to stay absolutely silent then returned to the door, squinting through a crack. Two black Mercedes swung round the corner in front of the building and made to continue past, along the road. Suddenly, they changed course and swerved off the road, squealing to a stop not two metres from the door. We were finished.”
“But, over the rumbling of the Mercedes engine I could hear more noise. And the attentions of the cars’ uniformed occupants, by now out of their cars, were focussed not on the building, but the road. A procession of army vehicles hove into view, and stopped as the leader of our pursuers had gone to the roadside and raised his hands to stop the convoy. After some exchange of what I took to be pleasantries, there was some gesticulating. My guess was that he was asking if they had seen us, and the convoy leader was shrugging as if to say not.”
“The convoy got going and trundled past. There must have been some twenty vehicles of one sort or another and then, by some miracle, and after some debate, our pursuers both did three point turns and followed the convoy away from the customs post. I raised my eyes to heaven in thanks and turned to see the doctor scramble out of my car and start retching in the corner of the cavernous refuge in which we found ourselves. I went over and awkwardly put my arm round her shoulder to offer comfort.”
““What happened back there?” I asked quietly. “What frightened you?””
“She puked some more, and took a long time answering. “ One of the doors opened as I went down the corridor. They had a man… a naked man… hung from the ceiling. They were… it was horrible, horrible…” and she started sobbing again. Her body was trembling under my arm.”
“I led her back to the car, got it started again, and then opened the big doors, with all fingers crossed. All was clear. I reversed out, got out and shut the doors, jumped back in and swung the car onto the road and headed up the road away from the town and the soldiers. My plan was to head up the valley, cross the river at a bridge some 10 kilometres farther on, and come back down to the town on the other side of the valley. The road, I knew, was a bit rough in places but I reckoned we could do it.”
“Bloody Germans” I muttered.”
“I don’t think they were Germans” she said, her voice shaky, “I think the boy was Austrian and the big guy, the bald guy, had some strange accent. I don’t know where from. But the commandant, the one you were talking to, he was German. From the south.”
“She didn’t say anything else. I didn’t disturb her with questions. She was almost visibly composing herself, changing back into a professional woman.”
“My plan worked. We got back to town. I went to see Paulo, interrupted his grumbling about missing his lunch, and told him what had happened. He told me that one of the boys, the partisans, was missing. We decided to hide the car. I took it to an old farm that used to belong to the Brunettis, before they had left for America, and parked it in a shed. I walked back to the restaurant to prepare supper. Paulo was the only customer that evening. We hardly spoke.”
“Days passed. The Germans, or whatever they were, didn’t come into town. I kept busy, not wanting time to think. It was not for nothing that I had been rejected by the army. True, I was old, fat and clumsy, but I really hadn’t wanted to fight anyone. The whole war thing seemed pointless. We, in our small old town, just wanted to be left alone. I didn’t see the doctor. I heard she was ‘back to normal’.”
“A week later, as lunch (six customers!) wound down I was busy butchering a boar in the kitchen. We had to use hunted and trapped animals a lot in those days. I saw, through the hatch, the Commandant from the factory come in, with the tall bald man behind him, in a grey uniform. I drew back, out of their sightline, and stood for a minute. I felt the sweat on my brow and watched my left hand, the one without the knife, tremble. Not really knowing what to do, I put my head round the side door into Mrs P’s room.”
““You go and serve them”. I hissed.”
“She took off the headset contraption and put it on her knitting. on the switchboard. “What?””
““You go. Please.””
“Normally the last thing I expected from Mrs P was compliance, but she must have picked up the panic in my voice. She got up marched into the restaurant picking up a notepad and a carafe of water as she went, slammed the carafe on the table and stood and recited the day’s menu. This surprised me. She never seemed to pay the slightest attention to my food. I watched through the half closed door. The bald man had his back to me. He seemed to have a lot of gilt on his epaulettes. She came back into the kitchen and recited their requests back at me before returning to her room. Two pasta with wild boar sauce, two trout. I set about preparing the pasta. I heard them talking quietly, then a chair scraped on the floor.”
“The bald man came into the kitchen, heading for the toilets outside the back door. I turned my back. He passed through. I was breathing fast, the blood had drained from my face but I carried on. I was stirring the sauce when I heard him come back into the kitchen. He said something… and then I did the most stupid thing… I turned to look at him. He recognised me.”
“To this day I couldn’t tell you why, or even how, I did what I did. I could talk about red mists, or manic anger, or a rage of revenge. I don’t know. But, I can tell you what I did. I picked up the knife that I had been using to butcher the boar and I charged at him. He froze. I slammed into him and so did the knife. He slumped to the floor.”
“Both Mrs P and the Commandant appeared at the doors to the kitchen. Neither said a thing as they took in the scene.”
“And then the Commandant spoke, calmly, and in Italian. “Get rid of it!” That’s exactly what he said “it”, and with such contempt in his voice. He turned on his heels and left the restaurant. Somehow, and it’s probably my own self-justification after the event, I had the feeling that he had set up the whole thing. I don’t know, but I can tell you that I learned afterwards that there were no consequences. No soldiers appeared in town, there was no manhunt.”
“At the time, though, I wasn’t to know what would happen. Mrs P must have telephoned Paulo. He turned up after about ten minutes with two of the boys and between them they picked up the body and shoved him in the back of a small lorry. I just stayed sat on a chair in the corner, trying to come to terms with what had happened. The only time in my life I had been out of control, the only time I had attacked anyone – if you discount the accidental punch at the factory! I think I was crying. I was certainly very scared. The doctor appeared and squatted in front of me, her hand at my wrist on my pulse. She said, to Mrs P, that I would be OK and, as she stood, I swear she whispered to me. “Thank you.””
“An hour or two later I walked out of town to the barn where my car was hidden. I got it started and drove south towards the Americans. They weren’t very interested, and passed me on to some Indians (Sikhs, I was later to learn) who in turn passed me on to the British and, to cut a long story short, I ended up in a place called Marlow, firstly in a camp for aliens, and then, after the war ended, I worked in a restaurant in town.”
“Now, what is it? Fifteen years later, I have my own restaurant again, in Marlow. It’s OK. I have a wife, but no children, of course. Far too old for all that.”
He lapsed into silence.
“Wow” I said, “That’s quite a story. Who would of thought, in a quiet place like this. What happened afterwards? To the doctor, and Mrs P, and the mayor and the boys?”
“The boys are beside you” he said glancing at the memorial. “Paulo stayed here and died just last week. That’s why I’m here. Mrs P died peacefully a few years after the war. I used to save my pennies and phone her quite often. She used to tell me all the news. Very loudly!” he chuckled.
“And the lady doctor?”
“No-one knows. She left. Maybe to America, maybe England. There was nothing for her around here.” And then he asked a very strange question, looking at me straight in the eyes. “Do you know?”
Of course I didn’t, and told him so.
At the end of the summer, I was back home, looking through the job vacancies for someone eager to employ a second-class Eng. Lit. Mother came in. I just blurted out the question. “Ma, you know that town I visited in Italy, the one you were looking at in the atlas, were you ever there?”
“Yes,” she said, “for a while. In the war.”
“What did you do there?” I asked.
“I was a doctor, darling, same as now.” She slipped out of the room.
I went instead to Italy. The idea came when, one day, I found my mother with the Reader’s Digest World Atlas open at the map of Italy. My mother, my eminently sensible doctor mother, was crying very quietly. My mother who never ever talked about her past – she had a slight German (I thought) accent - mumbled a few words about a town, the town her finger was resting on. A town, coincidentally, that was familiar to me (in name only) from my researches for my final, completed, thesis. A town that two of the Victorian Lady Novelists that I had spent months of my life with both lived in at separate times. The coincidence told me I needed to go.
So, with the remains of my carefully hoarded grant, I bought myself a eurorail ticket, wished my stupid boyfriend well, and, three days later, after a train, a boat, and many more trains I arrived in the town and found a small hotel with just the one star that matched my budget. But, then, I was stuck. Never travel without a plan! I didn’t quite know what to do next. The first day, I left the little hotel and wandered around the small town. I crossed the main square several times, and each time noticed an elderly man sat on the only bench, in front of a memorial plaque. For some reason, maybe his clothes, he seemed to me to be English. He sometimes was reading a paper, at other times just staring into space.
On the second day I was beginning to wonder why I had come and feeling a little bored. Again, the elderly man was sat in the square, beneath the memorial and facing the only restaurant. I passed him twice and then decided to talk. I don’t know why. He appeared kindly, and this was the first opportunity for conversation I had had since leaving home.
I sat on the bench and asked “Are you English?”
He looked at me for a long time before replying, quietly, in English. “Technically, yes, I suppose I am now, but I used to live here.” He looked carefully at me again.
“Are you visiting old friends?” I asked.
“No.” he replied, again gently, “Most of them are long gone. Scattered all over the world. There was no work here after the war. The factories were all bombed.”
“Oh.” I said, not quite sure how to continue the conversation. “Did you know Elizabeth Barrett Browning lived here?” What a stupid thing to say to a stranger!
“Indeed I do know that” he said, with a little smile, “She lived in a villa just up the road, but that was way before my time.” He smiled again. A kind smile.
I stayed silent, not sure what to say. We both looked towards the restaurant opposite. A phone rang from deep within. We heard someone answer it.
“That” he said quietly “was once my telephone. Shall I tell you about it? Do you have time?”
“Yes. I do. Please do.”
He looked cautiously at me again, before starting his tale.
“I was very proud of my telephone. I often glanced at it. When no-one was around, I would go up to it and touch the cold Bakelite for a few seconds. I wouldn’t lift it because the operator, my aunt, Mrs P, would, no doubt, be sat in front of her switchboard watching for its lights to light up, in her little room at the back of the restaurant, and she would immediately want to know what I wanted. She was very nosey. Mine was the sixth telephone to be installed in the village. Fathead that I was then, I was immensely proud of being among the favoured, the important, few. But it had not rung in the four days since it had been installed."
“And then, the phone rang as I was looking at it. I stared at it for a few seconds, then ran across the room, paused to catch my breath, and lifted the earpiece. “Pronto!” I spoke loudly, close to the mouthpiece. “Don’t shout!” It was Mrs P (I could hear her both on the phone and, echoing, from the back room). “I told you to keep your mouth well away from the phone!” She barked. I apologised and removed my face to the required distance.”
“The mayor wishes to speak with you.”
“Paulo?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Tell him I’ll see him when he comes in for lunch.”
“No, you idiot. He wants to speak to you now, on the telephone!” There was a series of clicks and squeaks.
“Giorgio? I need you to do something. Is your car working?”
“Yes. Of course.” I was as proud of my old jalopy as of the telephone.
“The Germans are here. I want you to go and meet them.”
“The Germans?”
“Yes. The Germans. Actually I think it’s the Austrians. Anyway, whoever they are we need to know what they intend.”
“I haven’t seen any Germans. Or Austrians. Nobody’s been here.”
“They are at the Rossini’s’ old factory. We think they are setting up some sort of headquarters there. We want you to go and find out. See what they want. Assure them of our goodwill. Do they need supplies? That sort of thing.”
“Why? What business do they have with us? I thought we didn’t want them here.”
“No. But they are here. It’s pointless to antagonise them. Make out we are friendly.”
“Are we still on their side? I haven’t been keeping up. Aren’t the Americans coming?” I genuinely didn’t understand the war, the reasons for it, why people were dying. I hadn’t followed the politics. I had been miserable and bored in Africa during the first war, and was now too old for the second.
“Maybe. But we have to be careful. Look, the boys are talking about going down there and throwing them out. I don’t want them getting hurt. We can’t rely on rumour. Go and see what they are doing, how many of them. That sort of thing.”
“Why me? I’ve got lunch to prepare. You’re the Mayor. You go.”
“Don’t be silly, it’s not a formal thing. You’re old and fat. They won’t worry about you.”
“Oh, right. And you’re not, I suppose. Since when?”
“Tell you what, you know the new doctor…?”
“The young blonde girl??”
“Yes. Dottore Martini. She speaks German, her family’s from Trieste. Take her with you. “
The idea began to look more attractive. “Well, it shouldn’t take too long…”
“An hour max. It’ll save the boys doing something silly. She’s waiting for you by your car.”
“Ahh... I’ve been set up, haven’t I?”
“Don’t think like that. You’re doing your duty. For the town. See you at lunch. Tell me all about it.”
“Hmm…” He hung up his phone, I replaced the receiver on mine.
“I went to the front door, and, sure enough, the new doctor was indeed there. She was smaller, younger than I had been led to believe. Standing by the car, slight, solemn and still, dressed in a short-sleeved sweater and skirt, both pale blue. I picked my jacket from the coat-stand by the door, turned the “open” sign to “closed” and went out to meet her.”
“We shook hands; her tiny hand completely wrapped in my meaty one, and introduced ourselves. Thankfully, on this one occasion, my pride and joy started at the first swing of the handle, and we set off. I tried a few pleasantries, but she answered in monosyllables and looked straight out of the screen, never turning to look at me. Despite her coolness, I was happy to be sat next to a pretty woman. It hadn't happened for a long, long time.”
“We turned into the factory about ten minutes later. There was no-one at the gates, but they were wide open. I drove up to the offices at the north end and we got out. For some reason I didn’t turn the engine off, but left it idling. Probably vanity. I didn’t want to look an idiot in front of the good doctor if it didn’t start later. “
“A soldier appeared at the factory door. He was very young. Probably even younger than the doctor!”
“May we see the officer in charge, please?” I asked. “We are from the town.”
““Wait!” He replied. I allowed his abruptness as a concession to his youth and lack of Italian. The doctor turned her back and looked around the yard. Her attention fixed on four black cars at the far end.”
“The boy soldier returned and invited us in with a wave of his hand. We followed him along a corridor, closed doors on both sides, into what I presumed had been the management offices. The double doors to the boardroom were open and we were led in. An officer, whom I took to be the Commandant, tall, crisply uniformed in black and smiling, stood alone at the end of the table He gestured us to some chairs and invited us, in perfect Italian, to sit. I did. The doctor stood behind me; rather than taking the chair next to me. The officer sat at the head of the table. The boy soldier disappeared.”
“We exchanged pleasantries and introductions. I offered any required assistance from the town, as instructed, and he didn’t think anything was required. He asked about the restaurant. As we chatted about menus – his parents had a restaurant somewhere in the Black Forest - there were scraping noises from one of the other rooms, as if furniture were being moved around, and some muffled shouting. The doctor, behind me, said that her presence was unnecessary, excused herself and left the room. She seemed distracted and uncomfortable and I wondered whether she was entirely happy about our mission, our proposed collaboration.”
“I rose and we began closing the conversation. There was a sudden scream – a woman’s scream - from along the corridor behind us. I pushed the chairs aside, accidentally obstructing the officer, and ran out, along the corridor to the factory entrance. In the lobby, the Doctor was making for the doors, sobbing and yelling unintelligibly. She slipped and landed on the floor. I went to her.”
“Get out. Quick, get out of here.” She screamed at me.”
“I tried to help her up, and, as I did so, heard quiet talking behind me. I looked up. A tall, bald, man in a white shirt with rolled up sleeves was chuckling and talking to the boy soldier, stood beside him at the door from the corridor. The Commandant had followed me out of the boardroom and also stood watching, hands on hips. Not sure what to do, I lifted up the tiny doctor and carried her in my arms, one under her shoulders, the other under her knees. She was struggling a little and sobbing. I turned my back to the door to push through. The bald man was moving towards me, the officer and boy soldier stood still watching.”
“Out of the door I started down the steps with the doctor in my arms. I saw three soldiers over by the black cars, and then the bald guy, ranting away unintelligibly, came out of the doors behind me. I was beginning to struggle and the doctor put her arms around my neck and held tight.”
“The bald man, barking what I took to be orders, came down the steps and, the doctor still in my arms, he went to slap her. She screamed in my ear, he laughed. I dropped the doctor and swung a fist at the bald man. By some fluke – I had never fought anyone in my life – I caught him on the jaw and he staggered back, tripped on a step, and fell, banging his head on a handrail.”
“I pulled the doctor to her feet, and shoved her towards the car, pulled a rear door open and pushed her in. The boy soldier had run to aid the bald man who was clutching his head, and may have been bleeding. The three soldiers were running across the yard towards us, one peeling off heading to the gates.”
“I jumped in, shoved the car into gear and pushed the accelerator pedal to the floor. We shot off and raced toward the factory gates, reaching them just as the soldier was beginning to close them. The car literally scraped through. By some instinct I thought to turn right onto the road, not left towards the town, and we roared off up the valley on the road to Modena. I looked in the mirror. The doctor had hauled herself up onto the seat, still sobbing, rocking back and forth, her hands clenched in her lap. I concentrated on driving, mind racing. A plan formed quickly. The old customs house! A disused building, once marking the border with Modena. I couldn’t see anything following us on the twisting road, but I charged on in third gear. We rounded the bend before the building. I was praying that the door was open, as it always had been when, as children, we had hiked up from town to spend hours playing here.”
“The doors were open. I drove the car straight into the building, leapt from the car and slammed the doors shut behind us. I went back to the car and barked at the doctor to stay absolutely silent then returned to the door, squinting through a crack. Two black Mercedes swung round the corner in front of the building and made to continue past, along the road. Suddenly, they changed course and swerved off the road, squealing to a stop not two metres from the door. We were finished.”
“But, over the rumbling of the Mercedes engine I could hear more noise. And the attentions of the cars’ uniformed occupants, by now out of their cars, were focussed not on the building, but the road. A procession of army vehicles hove into view, and stopped as the leader of our pursuers had gone to the roadside and raised his hands to stop the convoy. After some exchange of what I took to be pleasantries, there was some gesticulating. My guess was that he was asking if they had seen us, and the convoy leader was shrugging as if to say not.”
“The convoy got going and trundled past. There must have been some twenty vehicles of one sort or another and then, by some miracle, and after some debate, our pursuers both did three point turns and followed the convoy away from the customs post. I raised my eyes to heaven in thanks and turned to see the doctor scramble out of my car and start retching in the corner of the cavernous refuge in which we found ourselves. I went over and awkwardly put my arm round her shoulder to offer comfort.”
““What happened back there?” I asked quietly. “What frightened you?””
“She puked some more, and took a long time answering. “ One of the doors opened as I went down the corridor. They had a man… a naked man… hung from the ceiling. They were… it was horrible, horrible…” and she started sobbing again. Her body was trembling under my arm.”
“I led her back to the car, got it started again, and then opened the big doors, with all fingers crossed. All was clear. I reversed out, got out and shut the doors, jumped back in and swung the car onto the road and headed up the road away from the town and the soldiers. My plan was to head up the valley, cross the river at a bridge some 10 kilometres farther on, and come back down to the town on the other side of the valley. The road, I knew, was a bit rough in places but I reckoned we could do it.”
“Bloody Germans” I muttered.”
“I don’t think they were Germans” she said, her voice shaky, “I think the boy was Austrian and the big guy, the bald guy, had some strange accent. I don’t know where from. But the commandant, the one you were talking to, he was German. From the south.”
“She didn’t say anything else. I didn’t disturb her with questions. She was almost visibly composing herself, changing back into a professional woman.”
“My plan worked. We got back to town. I went to see Paulo, interrupted his grumbling about missing his lunch, and told him what had happened. He told me that one of the boys, the partisans, was missing. We decided to hide the car. I took it to an old farm that used to belong to the Brunettis, before they had left for America, and parked it in a shed. I walked back to the restaurant to prepare supper. Paulo was the only customer that evening. We hardly spoke.”
“Days passed. The Germans, or whatever they were, didn’t come into town. I kept busy, not wanting time to think. It was not for nothing that I had been rejected by the army. True, I was old, fat and clumsy, but I really hadn’t wanted to fight anyone. The whole war thing seemed pointless. We, in our small old town, just wanted to be left alone. I didn’t see the doctor. I heard she was ‘back to normal’.”
“A week later, as lunch (six customers!) wound down I was busy butchering a boar in the kitchen. We had to use hunted and trapped animals a lot in those days. I saw, through the hatch, the Commandant from the factory come in, with the tall bald man behind him, in a grey uniform. I drew back, out of their sightline, and stood for a minute. I felt the sweat on my brow and watched my left hand, the one without the knife, tremble. Not really knowing what to do, I put my head round the side door into Mrs P’s room.”
““You go and serve them”. I hissed.”
“She took off the headset contraption and put it on her knitting. on the switchboard. “What?””
““You go. Please.””
“Normally the last thing I expected from Mrs P was compliance, but she must have picked up the panic in my voice. She got up marched into the restaurant picking up a notepad and a carafe of water as she went, slammed the carafe on the table and stood and recited the day’s menu. This surprised me. She never seemed to pay the slightest attention to my food. I watched through the half closed door. The bald man had his back to me. He seemed to have a lot of gilt on his epaulettes. She came back into the kitchen and recited their requests back at me before returning to her room. Two pasta with wild boar sauce, two trout. I set about preparing the pasta. I heard them talking quietly, then a chair scraped on the floor.”
“The bald man came into the kitchen, heading for the toilets outside the back door. I turned my back. He passed through. I was breathing fast, the blood had drained from my face but I carried on. I was stirring the sauce when I heard him come back into the kitchen. He said something… and then I did the most stupid thing… I turned to look at him. He recognised me.”
“To this day I couldn’t tell you why, or even how, I did what I did. I could talk about red mists, or manic anger, or a rage of revenge. I don’t know. But, I can tell you what I did. I picked up the knife that I had been using to butcher the boar and I charged at him. He froze. I slammed into him and so did the knife. He slumped to the floor.”
“Both Mrs P and the Commandant appeared at the doors to the kitchen. Neither said a thing as they took in the scene.”
“And then the Commandant spoke, calmly, and in Italian. “Get rid of it!” That’s exactly what he said “it”, and with such contempt in his voice. He turned on his heels and left the restaurant. Somehow, and it’s probably my own self-justification after the event, I had the feeling that he had set up the whole thing. I don’t know, but I can tell you that I learned afterwards that there were no consequences. No soldiers appeared in town, there was no manhunt.”
“At the time, though, I wasn’t to know what would happen. Mrs P must have telephoned Paulo. He turned up after about ten minutes with two of the boys and between them they picked up the body and shoved him in the back of a small lorry. I just stayed sat on a chair in the corner, trying to come to terms with what had happened. The only time in my life I had been out of control, the only time I had attacked anyone – if you discount the accidental punch at the factory! I think I was crying. I was certainly very scared. The doctor appeared and squatted in front of me, her hand at my wrist on my pulse. She said, to Mrs P, that I would be OK and, as she stood, I swear she whispered to me. “Thank you.””
“An hour or two later I walked out of town to the barn where my car was hidden. I got it started and drove south towards the Americans. They weren’t very interested, and passed me on to some Indians (Sikhs, I was later to learn) who in turn passed me on to the British and, to cut a long story short, I ended up in a place called Marlow, firstly in a camp for aliens, and then, after the war ended, I worked in a restaurant in town.”
“Now, what is it? Fifteen years later, I have my own restaurant again, in Marlow. It’s OK. I have a wife, but no children, of course. Far too old for all that.”
He lapsed into silence.
“Wow” I said, “That’s quite a story. Who would of thought, in a quiet place like this. What happened afterwards? To the doctor, and Mrs P, and the mayor and the boys?”
“The boys are beside you” he said glancing at the memorial. “Paulo stayed here and died just last week. That’s why I’m here. Mrs P died peacefully a few years after the war. I used to save my pennies and phone her quite often. She used to tell me all the news. Very loudly!” he chuckled.
“And the lady doctor?”
“No-one knows. She left. Maybe to America, maybe England. There was nothing for her around here.” And then he asked a very strange question, looking at me straight in the eyes. “Do you know?”
Of course I didn’t, and told him so.
At the end of the summer, I was back home, looking through the job vacancies for someone eager to employ a second-class Eng. Lit. Mother came in. I just blurted out the question. “Ma, you know that town I visited in Italy, the one you were looking at in the atlas, were you ever there?”
“Yes,” she said, “for a while. In the war.”
“What did you do there?” I asked.
“I was a doctor, darling, same as now.” She slipped out of the room.
