A Winter's Night (42 page)

Sugano handed him a pistol: “You might as well start now. You'll have to get used to this and anyway, you're doing him a favor at this point.”

Fabrizio took the gun and shot it. The boy's eyes went dead. He pulled off the other boot. These shoes are cursed, he thought, as he walked back towards the camp.

“I know what you're thinking,” said Sugano, “but there's no alternative. When the wolves are out, the sheep had better stay safe at home in their pens.”

 

In the meantime, Bruno Montesi, who had been named political commissar for the Red Star Brigade commanded by the Wolf, was trying to find his way there. Before leaving, he had managed to make an appointment to meet one of the leaders of the
Resistenza
at an
osteria
in Casalecchio near Via Porrettana. The man's code name was Martino and he was the commander of an assault battalion of white partisans stationed near Palagano, on the Modenese side of the mountains. Montesi recognized his drooping Tartar-style mustache and the burn scar on his left hand.

“You're Martino, aren't you?” he asked.

The man nodded and replied, “And you're Montesi.”

“That's right.”

“Sit down and eat: stewed beans and potatoes. They're good here and the bread is fresh.”

Montesi helped himself and poured out a glass of white wine.

“So you want to meet up with the Wolf.”

“If I can, that's my intention.”

“Then you'll need a battle name.”

“The Blacksmith. That's what people call me.”

“Suit yourself. Anyway, good luck because you'll need it.”

“I have a letter of introduction from the National Liberation Committee.”

“You know what the guy will do with your letter of introduction?”

“Don't tell me, I can imagine. But I have to see him nonetheless. I'll convince Wolf that he should join the NLC.”

“Listen well, buddy: the Wolf can't stand political commissars. He says all they do is talk. What's more, he has narrowly escaped two attempts on his life and he doesn't trust anyone anymore. One of his own tried to stab him and it's a miracle he didn't succeed—it's only because his men adore him and stand guard over him all night. Then, the very guy who stayed the would-be murderer's hand, Olindo Sammarchi, a guy who grew up with Wolf, his fast friend from the absolute start, who had won Wolf's complete trust by personally saving his life, well, this is the very guy that betrays him by going over to the Nazis and organizing more attacks against him. Can you believe it? When he was found out, Wolf had him put to death on the spot. So who can the Wolf trust anymore? If he can't even trust his best friend how do you think he's going to treat an absolute stranger?”

“But why did the first man try to stab him?”

“Who, the traitor? Amedeo Arcioni, that was his name. He said he was forced to do it because the Nazis had captured his family. And Wolf forgave him. The fact is that the Wolf has defeated the Germans so many times that they now consider him their number one enemy. He even succeeded in running a train off the rails and seized all the goods it was carrying. The Nazis would give anything to see him dead. You'd be mistrustful yourself if you found yourself in his shoes, wouldn't you?”

“Is it true that there are ten thousand men in the Red Star Brigade?”

Martino shrugged. “Are you kidding me? How could he support ten thousand people? There must be seven, eight hundred at the most, but that's a good number, as much as such a miserable territory can handle. The fact is that his teams are so mobile that they manage to show up at the same time in far-flung places and act with such rapidity that it seems like there are many more of them. You've heard of what happened at Monte Sole, haven't you?”

“There was a big battle.”

“You can say that again. The Germans had decided to pull out all the stops because they felt they were losing control of the situation and because a vast portion of mountain territory was already under the control of the Red Star. With the support of the Republican Army, the Germans organized a sweeping mop-up operation, pulling out all the big guns. Cannons, machine guns, the whole works. Their objective was to completely surround Monte Sole, the massif where the Wolf had set up the general headquarters of the Brigade . . . ”

“Which means the Germans must have had informers.”

“Obviously. The district that we control includes five or six towns as well as quite a few isolated farming settlements. It's easy for them to infiltrate someone. A farmer with a hoe, a shepherd taking his flock to pasture . . . anyone can be a spy. We've found some of them and executed them but you know more are out there. So, you know what Wolf does? He keeps all his men up at the base until the very last minute; he waits until the sentries tell him that the Germans are more or less a kilometer away and then he divides his men into a lot of small groups and takes them down to the base of the mountain. He gets them into position, hidden behind vegetation or lying low in the middle of a field of wheat, with more men posted at every trail. The Germans start to make their way up, Wolf keeps his men at the ready with their fingers on the trigger, all twenty-year-old guys. There are even some English soldiers with them, guys who had gotten cut off from their own units.

“When the sentries signal that the last German has entered the forest, Wolf unleashes hell. They're surrounded, with no way out. We took out five hundred and fifty of them. The others survived by escaping through the woods . . . Since then we've had more volunteers than we can handle, up to thirty new ones a day.”

“You were there too?” asked Montesi.

“Why, wasn't that obvious?”

“It certainly was. Then you can help me get there.”

“Only up to a point. You know, we have our own wrangles now and then, especially when it comes to how the airdropped supplies should be distributed. Insults tend to fly. It's better I don't show my face in that neck of the woods for a while. I'll take you to a spot a couple of kilometers away from his headquarters and I'll point out the way from there. Then you're on your own. Are you sure you have to meet with him just now?”

“Well, those are my orders. It's not like he's going to eat me.”

“I wouldn't be so sure. If you do manage to see him, you'll find that he has quite a boyish look to his face, but don't let your guard down: he can turn into a beast from one minute to the next: because he had a bad night, because he didn't sleep enough, because he didn't get screwed, because . . . ”

“I'll keep it in mind. Well then, what now? We're finished here, aren't we?”

“We smoke a cigarette and then we go. My truck's outside.” Martino pulled out a packet of Chesterfields and offered him one: “This is good stuff: brightleaf tobacco, from Virginia. There were about fifty cartons in the last drop.”

When they got started it was after midnight. They followed the road that skirted the bottom of the valley for nearly an hour until they got to Pontecchio. They drove through Il Sasso and Fontana, Lama di Reno and Marzabotto. At about four in the morning, Martino stopped the truck at the start of a trail.

“We're in the territory of the Red Star Brigade. The Wolf's den is up there. As soon as it starts to get light, take this trail until you come to a fork in the road. Go right and continue for another kilometer through a chestnut forest. When you see the beech-wood starting, it means you're almost there.”

“What do I do then?”

“Nothing. They'll find you. As soon as you hear a voice saying “Halt!”, raise your hands. They shoot first and then ask ‘friend or foe.' Are you armed?”

“No.”

“Good. They can't stand a man with a weapon unless it's one of their own. You're heading straight into the jaws of the wolf!” he grinned. “I think it's now that I say good luck.” Martino gave him the rest of the Chesterfield packet.

Montesi watched as Martino reversed and started on his way back down, until the truck disappeared around the first bend. He started walking up the path so he wouldn't be standing on the road and stopped when he found a biggish boulder he could lean on. He lit a cigarette and waited until dawn. The side of the mountain he would be climbing was still dark, but the sky above had become an aquamarine blue. He could hear the soft hoot of a horned owl that stopped as soon as the wind turned.

It took him about twenty minutes to reach the fork. He continued his ascent up a path which became increasingly steeper, surrounded on both sides by age-old chestnuts with gigantic moss-covered trunks. There wasn't a living soul anywhere around; all he heard was the rustle of wings now and then. Through the tree branches he could see the white-streaked peak of Corno alle Scale appearing and disappearing as he walked.

“One more step and you're dead,” said a voice on his left, neither soft nor loud, a statement more than an order and all the more effective for being so. Montesi raised his hands.

“I'm unarmed and I'm here on behalf of the National Liberation Committee. I have to see the Wolf.”

“Wolf doesn't feel like seeing anyone. Who are you?”

“Bruno Montesi, the Blacksmith. I have a letter of credentials from the NLC.”

“Take that trail on the left and walk forward without turning until I tell you to stop.”

“Can I lower my hands?”

“Yes. But don't turn or make any funny moves, or . . . ”

“ . . . I'm dead.”

“You got it.”

He walked uphill for another half an hour until he found himself in a clearing surrounded by beech trees. At one end was a dilapidated shack and a shed for drying chestnuts. There was a roadblock with two partisans armed with British Sten submachine guns. The voice behind him said: “He wants to see Wolf. He has a letter from the NLC.”

“That you, Spino? Where the hell did you find this guy?”

“Down at the beech-wood. So what the fuck do we do now? Tell Wolf he has a visitor, no?”

One of the two roadblock soldiers went over to the shack and shortly came out again with another couple of men.

“It's your lucky day, fucker,” hissed Spino. “Wolf will see you. He's the guy on the left.”

Spino was standing next to him now. Lean, bundled up in a military jacket, he looked no older than eighteen, and the other soldiers looked very young as well. Their battle names, the jargon, the arrogance of a boy trying to seem older than he is by saying “fuck” every other word: it all made them seem like kids playing at war, but instead they were damned serious.

“The one on his right is his brother Guido,” said Spino, whispering now. “And the guy leaning against the door is Sugano, his right-hand man.”

Wolf stepped right up to him. He looked just like Montesi had expected. A bristly beard, slightly wavy hair, black eyes that were much bigger than normal under a very wide brow, fleshy lips. His hooked nose reminded Montesi of a bird of prey. The combination was unsettling and gave him an expression of quiet ferocity. A medal hung at his neck, maybe Saint Anthony.

“Who are you and what do you want?” he asked.

“I'm the Blacksmith. The NLC has appointed me the political commissar of your brigade.”

“I've never seen you and I don't like your looks. I don't need any political commissar. The last one really broke my balls.”

“I'm sorry you feel that way. It's important that the combatants understand the political justification for their fight.”

“I decide what's important for my brigade. Many of my men live around here. They're fighting for their families and their homes, that seems like a good enough justification to me.”

“But I have precise orders from the Liberation Committee to install myself here as your political commissar. I'm sure we'll find a basis for agreement . . . ”

He was still speaking when one of Wolf's men dashed over and whispered something in his ear: “They're signaling an SS unit coming up from Pian di Venola.”

Wolf beckoned to Sugano: “Take him to the coal cellar.”

“Wait, what's happening?” asked Montesi in alarm. “What is this business about a coal cellar? Hey. Look, I have a letter here from the NLC. Read it!”

But Sugano was already behind him and he was pushing him towards the trail with the barrel of his machine gun.

Montesi didn't know where to turn.

They walked for about ten minutes in silence, and then he blurted out: “Listen, I'm a partisan. I was sent here by the NLC. Why are you treating me like this? What is this coal cellar? What are we going to do there?”

“Die,” replied Sugano. “You, that is. Wolf has ordered me to shoot you.”

Bruno Montesi felt his blood turn to ice, but he kept walking. “This is crazy,” he said, “I'm a partisan just like you, we're on the same side. Why would you want to kill me?”

“I don't know,” said Sugano. “I obey orders.”

‘Listen to me. The reason I came here is to convince Wolf to recognize the authority of the National Liberation Commit­tee. You have everything to gain . . . '

“Oh yeah? What do we stand to gain?”

“First of all, the Allies negotiate directly with us and they only recognize the formations which are part of the Committee. You are useful to them right now, but if the situation changes they will not hesitate to dump you and abandon you to your fate. By joining us, the NLC, you'll become part of a regular formation, recognized by the Geneva Convention; that is, with formal recognition of the credit and prestige that you've won through your victories. If you stay out, you're nothing more than a band of armed men, no matter how much fear you inspire.”

As he spoke, Montesi counted the steps and the minutes that separated him from his own summary execution, even if Sugano's silence gave him at least the impression that he might be listening. He continued.