Opening Scene, (c) Copyright 2023, All Rights Reserved
April 21, 1945
Dawn, the hills northeast of Trieste
It all bored her. Andreja Zupancic, Partisan assassin and now commando team leader, slowly departed the depths of slumber, no thanks to the annoying ruckus of courting songbirds, the screaming robins worst of all. The rolling wooded hills northeast of Trieste insisted on springing to life through a mid-April chill despite her desire to sleep. She slowly opened her left eye, then the right, squinting up at the canopy of oak and hornbeam branches, green with newly emerging leaves, the colors muted in the low pre-dawn light. Dew settled over her team’s camp, dampening her rough and dirty bedroll. She turned and nestled herself anyway, hoping for just a few more minutes of sleep. But sleep eluded her. Duty pulled her mind into the day’s mission, a routine ambush of a German army courier. The next day, blow up a German garrison.
She regretted accepting the promotion. What Andreja wanted most of all was to reclaim exclusive control over her every movement without the distractions of recruiting, training and leading her constantly growing team. She did care for these men and women. She mostly chose those in their late 30s and early 40s who, like her, had grown up in the Austrian-imposed school system. Mature, trilingual, their German so fluent they could lull even seasoned Wehrmacht soldiers into lowering their guard.
But still she wished she could go back to solo work. She missed the running. She relished the feeling of accomplishment when she tracked down an elusive target, let her bullet fly and watched her target fall. One less iron-crossed German officer. One less jack-booted Gestapo goon. One less killer who could harm her son, her brothers or her sister.
One more death to avenge her husband, betrayed by Italy’s erstwhile German allies when they stripped his artillery unit of its vehicles and left them to perish in the Libyan desert.
Renzo. Eighteen years of love, gone, and once again the rage surged through her. She forced herself to calm down. She turned onto her back, stared up at the slowly uncurling leaves, tried to imagine their slow, patient response to the morning light.
From Renzo her thoughts went to Miha, their son, just turned 20, somewhere in Serbia when the Italian army collapsed, now with a Yugoslav Partisan unit. Her brothers Renko and Zago, also drafted by the Italians, had been in Italian territory at the collapse. Probably joined an Italian Partisan team. If they were still alive. Andreja hadn’t had word of Cvetka in more than a year, when her sister joined a Yugoslav courier team.
An unexpected scent snapped her back to the present. Nostrils quivering like a wolf’s, she detected something vaguely barnyard on the barely moving air. Neither cow nor pig. Not chicken. Horse? No: Mule. With a hint of something floral: Lavender.
Andreja was no gardener but she knew lavender would not yet be blooming.
One hand instinctively went to her combat knife, the other pulled back the blankets. Her eyes went to the oiled canvas scabbard in which lay her rifle. Not enough time for that.
But then she stopped.
None but the best of trackers could possibly get this close, she thought. Someone that good would never allow their scent to drift downwind to me. Unless it was on purpose. Unless they knew me.
She scanned her memory. Who might this practical joker be? A sense of humor was hard to come by, the war seemingly in its last weeks, everyone war-weary and ready to go home.
A trick? A tickle of fear triggered an adrenaline boost that lifted her into a fighting crouch.
Andreja felt more than saw the leap and moved aside just as a man landed on her bedroll. She pounced, pinning him with an arm twisted behind his back, making a kidney scream from the weight of her knee and cooly chilling his right jugular with the flat of her blade.
“It’s me, Sergio,” he said, voice muffled by the blanket into which his face was mashed.
She pulled his arm tight. “Sergio who?”
“Sergeant Sergio Rovatti,” he said, his voice strained by pain. “Miha’s friend.”
“Miha?”
“Your son, remember him? We met 18 months ago, after the Italian surrender. I intercepted you sneaking into our camp. And here I thought I’d made a good impression.”
Now she remembered: She had been intensely displeased about being detected. But that was very early in her current career. She released him.
Sergio slowly got to all fours. When he turned himself around to face her, a chorus of metallic clicks made him look up into half a dozen rifles and pistols pointed at his head.
“Stand easy,” Andreja said, watching him. “A fellow Partisan, paying a social call.”
“Sergeant Sergio Rovatti, at your service.”
Nobody moved.
Andreja looked up at her team. “Good morning everyone.”
They responded in kind. Safeties clicked back on.
“German kit today,” Andreja said. “Isabella on checkpoint lead, Miro on the shot, Ivan will spot. Get some breakfast, we move out at 8:15.”
Sergio sat back heavily on her bedroll. “You can put that thing away,” he said, pointing at her knife. “I compliment you on your method of pinning me.” He rubbed his arm. “That hurt!”
Sergio studied Andreja. Her camouflage of dirt and charcoal masked a broad, rounded face with a wide flat forehead that curved gently upward. Just two or three light brown curls hung from under her watchcap, the rest of her hair tucked away. Large blue-gray eyes shone through. Her mouth, set grim, made him try to remember a smile. It had happened just once in their brief acquaintance, the corners of her mouth rising toward rounded cheekbones, creating ripples of dimples and revealing healthy-looking teeth.
She looked thinner than he remembered, no, leaner; stronger in the shoulders. Eighteen months ago, she had just been getting started, an experienced hunter but fresh from life in the city where she would seldom carry more than a grocery bag. He glanced at her gear and guessed she now carried 20 kilos or more.
Andreja studied him in turn. Tall, with large, wide-set and warm brown eyes that made him seem approachable to anyone who would meet his curious gaze. He displayed an air of inquiry, dark eyebrows slightly raised as if awaiting a response. Broad cheekbones and a wide, rounded chin lay heavily clothed in a thick black beard freshly trimmed.
He hadn’t mudded his face or hands; they actually looked fresh-scrubbed. Apparently with Lavender-infused soap. How audacious.
His clothing matched hers: Leather boots, thick oiled canvas pants, matching jacket, extra layers stitched onto the knees, elbows and forearms. No rank or unit insignia.
She remembered that he had made up for intercepting her by warning her to keep silent about her relationship to Miha. Smart. And he had arranged a secret meeting between mother and son, their first since Miha had been drafted. She had not seen either man since. Why now?
“My compliments to you,” she said. “Letting me smell you made sure I wouldn’t kill you.”
“Thank you.”
“And you found me even though nobody else, besides my team, knows where I am.”
“Magical powers,” he said. “I’m part bloodhound. And I have a good mule.”
“I smelled the mule, too,” she said with a slight smile.
“Do you like the lavender? Thank your mother for that.”
“Now you really have to explain yourself, and fast. I didn’t invite you to a tea party.”
Sergio sighed. “It seems your mother pissed off our fearless leader. Tito had our commissar, Vladimir, beat the crap out of Miha yesterday. Vladimir ordered me to carry your boy to your mother’s house. He said you’d be next if your mother didn’t toe the line. I figured someone had better warn you, but your mother and her big strong friend Ziva – that woman has forearms bigger than my thighs! – politely but firmly convinced me to bathe before leaving.”
She studied him. “That’s all very interesting. I have questions.”
“We can talk on the way,” he said, offering his hand. “We need to go, now.”
She slapped his hand away. “You expect me to drop my mission to clean up my mother’s mess? I have two German couriers on my hit list today.”
He stood up straight. “Commandante Andreja Zupancic, with all due respect, me being here has nothing to do with your mother and everything to do with Miha, a young man I consider my brother, and not just his broken hand, but his future.”
She paused to let his words sank in. “His future? What, is he planning to get married?”
“Not quite that simple.”
“Well I don’t need to see either of them to deal with this situation. If I go anywhere, I should go find your commissar.”
“Vladimir isn’t the problem. Did you not hear me mention the guy in Belgrade?”
She shook her head in exasperation. “I can make it look like an accident.”
“It won’t be helpful to ignore me,” he said, smiling. “May I make a suggestion?”
She glared at him. “Yes?”
“Take a three-day leave. Check on Miha, hear what’s happening, make your plan.”
“Check on my son? You sound like a sentimentalist.”
He put his hands to his chest. “Under this uniform of a Partisan is the soul of a poet.”
“So you’re part bloodhound and part poet? What else are you?”
“I predict you’re going to learn a lot about me over the next 72 hours.”
“I much prefer the idea of going after Vladimir.”
“I know. Miha told me.”
“Told you what?”
“That you haven’t spoken to your mother in a decade. A sort of feud. A brother died?”
“Feud, that’s an interesting word.” She shook her head.
He looked at her with care. “You carry much sorrow.”
“Miha was born not long after my brother died,” she said. “I put all my energy into him.”
“That must be what makes him such a superb soldier,” Sergio said. “I am proud to have him with me, as a soldier and a friend.”
“Thank you,” Andreja said, feeling slightly impressed. “What else did he tell you?”
“That his father was killed in Africa, and that’s why you joined the Partisans.” He paused. “I didn’t know that when we met,” Sergio said, quietly. “My condolences.”
“Thank you.” She looked at him hard. “What did you do, interrogate him?”
“No, I carried him. I had so many questions! Why would Tito do this?” He stopped himself. “I apologize if this conversation offends you, it’s just that I would do anything to help Miha or his loved ones.” He paused. “That’s why I’m here instead of going back to my unit.”
She studied him. This is a smart, caring man, she thought. As well as a good tracker, she thought ruefully. “You’re not going back to your unit?”
“No,” he said, looking off into the woods.
“No?”
He shook his head. “I’m a sergeant, I believe in discipline, and I’ve served under tough men. But the toughness served the mission. This thing between Tito and your mother is political. Maybe personal.”
“What will you do?”
“I don’t know yet. Right now my job is to get you back to your mother’s.”
“I don’t need any help getting back to my mother’s, thank you.”
“I know that, Commandante Andreja. I meant no disrespect.” He smiled. “Frankly, I want to go with you to see what happens.” He paused. “What’s this fight with your mother?”
“It’s…I don’t want to talk about it.”
“What about your father? Fighting with him too?”
“No. It … wasn’t his fault.”
“That your brother died?”
“Would you stop? I don’t have time for this!”
“Listen to me,” Sergio said. “If Tito’s after your mother, if he’s willing to beat up your son, your whole family is in danger. What are you going to do about it?”
