Gollantz: London Paris Milan (The Gollantz Family Saga Book 6) Read online

  Gollantz: London, Paris, Milan

  The Gollantz Family Saga Book 6

  Naomi Jacob

  Copyright © The Estate of Naomi Jacob 2016

  This edition published 2018 by Wyndham Books

  (Wyndham Media Ltd)

  27, Old Gloucester Street, London WC1N 3AX

  First published 1948

  www.wyndhambooks.com/naomi-jacob

  Publisher’s note: Due to the era in which this novel was written and set, some terms are used which would not be used today.

  The author has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, organisations and events are a product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organisations and events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. This ebook is licensed for the enjoyment of the purchaser only. To share this ebook you must purchase an additional copy per recipient. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Image © Everett Collection (Shutterstock)

  The Gollantz Family Saga series

  by Naomi Jacob

  published by Wyndham Books

  The Founder of the House

  That Wild Lie …

  Young Emmanuel

  Four Generations

  Private Gollantz

  Gollantz: London, Paris, Milan

  Gollantz and Partners

  Wyndham Books: Timeless bestsellers for today’s readers

  Wyndham Books publishes the first ebook editions of bestselling works by some of the most popular authors of the twentieth century, including Lucilla Andrews, Ursula Bloom, Catherine Gaskin and Naomi Jacob. Enjoy our Historical, Family Saga, Regency, Romance and Medical fiction and non-fiction.

  Join our free mailing list for news, exclusives and special deals:

  www.wyndhambooks.com

  To

  Isabella and Dario

  My kind friends

  MICKIE

  Fasano, 1948

  Contents

  BOOK ONE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  BOOK TWO

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  BOOK THREE

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Preview: Sara Dane by Catherine Gaskin

  Preview: Lily’s Daughter by Diana Raymond

  Preview: Hardacre by C. L. Skelton

  BOOK ONE

  Chapter 1

  ‘That’s the lot, sir.’

  ‘Very good, S’gt.-Major.’ Emmanuel sighed. ‘It takes more energy to wind up a camp than to run one, I believe.’

  ‘Very often the way with things, sir.’

  ‘Queer to think that in less than a week this place will be deserted. We’ve been here a long time, eh, Watkins?’

  ‘Best part o’ three years, sir. If I might say so, we’ve not made too bad a go of it. Plenty of the men wish they weren’t goin’ home again.’

  Emmanuel nodded. ‘They say that, possibly they believe it. They’ll feel differently when they get back. Poor devils, some of them haven’t much to go back to, from what I hear. The whole country was a battle ground.’

  ‘They’ve nothing much to thank “Musso” for!’

  ‘Oh well, he paid for his idiocy. Thanks, S’gt.-Major, that’s really the last of those infernal forms. Good night. You might find Moroni and send him to me, will you?’

  ‘Very good, sir, and good night.’

  The door closed, and Emmanuel stretched his long legs and lay back with closed eyes. He was tired; winding up a P.O.W. camp entailed so much work, so much attention to details which appeared unimportant. His eyes felt weary with the constant scanning of lists, checking equipment, accounting for beds, blankets, cooking-stoves and the like.

  Slowly, almost unwillingly, he opened his eyes and surveyed the shabby little room which had been his office for nearly three years. It had been like an oven in summer and filled with the stuffy, heavy heat of an oil stove in the winter. Yet he had come to have an affection for the place, as he had for the whole camp. He had come there wearing a uniform which was almost new; he glanced at his cuffs bound with leather. It was old enough now, in all conscience!

  Then he’d been Lieutenant Gollantz. Last month he had been told that he could put up a major’s crown in place of the three ‘pips’ to which he had attained. How long ago it seemed since that day when he had first worn the uniform and heavy boots of a private soldier! His training lingered only vaguely in his mind, as did the court-martial where, despite everything, he felt that he had been given a particularly square deal.

  There had been something strange about that business when he was recalled, because they were being rushed overseas and the telegram which had been sent to him had never been delivered. He had missed the trooper, and that and the fact that he had struck a sergeant who insulted him had resulted in a court-martial.

  Remembering it all, Emmanuel frowned, his mouth twisted a little. Had he been right in suspecting that his brother Julian had been involved in the loss of the telegram? Or was it only that his hatred of Julian made him imaginative and biassed?

  Anyway, it was all over, and he felt that he had vindicated himself in North Africa. Not that he’d done anything spectacular, or particularly brilliant; chiefly, he felt, because his officer ‒ they’d called him ‘Reggie’ ‒ had been well disposed towards him, and had been able to write reports which were not only convincing but admirably expressed.

  Anyway, he had been given his decoration and his commission. Then the unexpected air raid in Alex when he had been wounded, the long weeks in hospital, weeks filled with pain, weakness and, later, with complete boredom, had faded into a dim memory. The voyage home, medical boards, and finally he had been put in charge of a P.O.W. camp for Italian prisoners.

  How nervous he had been, how depressing he had found the camp, and what a godsend Sergeant-Major Watkins had been ‒ what a tower of strength! Together they had worked and planned, and slowly the Italians had become interested in making the camp more attractive; they had shown real ingenuity in building rockeries, making paths, fences, railings and the like. They had scoured the neighbourhood for climbing plants, trails of ivy, violet and primrose roots.

  Captain Harshire, who had gone only that morning had disapproved; he had even grumbled openly that the place ‘doesn’t look like a P.O.W. camp at all!’

  Emmanuel had asked, ‘How should a P.O.W. camp look?’

  Harshire had replied, ‘Well, if I may say so, not like Kew Gardens. In my opinion, prisoners should be treated like prisoners, not trained to become amateur gardeners. I may be wrong, but ‒’

  ‘I think that you are wrong,’ Emmanuel had said gently, and Harshire, noting the change of tone, had deemed it best to say no more.

  Bradley and Francis, the junior officers, had developed tremendous keenness for the camp; they were both energetic youngsters, with ideas and enthusiasm, both full of admiration for Emmanuel’s ideas, and possessing respect for his determination that discipline must be maintained. r />
  Not that there had been much difficulty, the Italians had a philosophy which they practised; they were prisoners, they were in a foreign land separated from their families. Moodiness, flashes of insubordination and disobedience only resulted in life being decidedly uncomfortable.

  In addition these things did nothing to bring their release nearer. It was obviously better to conform to rules, to obey orders, and to gain such small privileges as might be granted to men of good behaviour.

  There had been one or two cases which presented difficulties, such as when Bruno Costa and Dante Cicio were found to be meeting two village girls every time the opportunity offered. They were both young, strapping fellows; they had picked up a little English, which they delighted to speak, and they were ‒ as Emmanuel realized ‒ longing to talk once again to girls of their own age.

  He had sent for them both, and had spoken to them at length and with considerable force in their own language. They had been sulky; Costa had been on the defensive, but slowly Emmanuel’s complete reasonableness had broken down their antagonism. He had realized that they were both young, well-built, healthy young men with healthy appetites. They had stood before him. Costa a red-haired Italian from Venice. Cicio a more stolid and less good-looking fellow from Livorno. Both had been prisoners for nearly three years, first in Africa, and later they had been transferred to the camp where Emmanuel was in charge.

  ‘How old are you?’ Emmanuel had asked Costa.

  ‘Twenty-two, Commandante.’

  ‘And you, Cicio?’

  ‘Twenty-three, Commandante.’

  ‘Married?’

  Costa had nodded. ‘I was married three months before I was taken prisoner, Commandante.’

  Cicio had admitted that he was merely engaged, adding that he had known Maria for five years.

  Emmanuel had laid the tips of his long fingers together, in the way which was so like his grandfather’s. His face was very grave, but in it neither of the Italians found any anger. When he had spoken his voice was even, and filled with reasonable kindliness.

  He had said, ‘Listen, both of you. You are here living unnatural lives; that is because this life which we lead here is the result, or one of the results, of war, and war in itself is not a natural thing. It is not even a reasonable thing.’ He had glanced at the papers which lay at his elbow. ‘You, Costa, are a gondolier; you, Cicio, I see, a fisherman. Both good free lives, with the open sea ‒ or the lagoon, and it is like a sea, is it not so? But even the sea and the lagoon must be restrained. Kept within bounds, you understand.

  ‘You have imagined that when you were taken prisoner that the war was over for you both. Indeed it was, so far as fighting was concerned. Now you have to fight ‒ yourselves. Things which may be natural, which may be right and good outside a prisoner-of-war camp, cannot be allowed inside one. You are both ‒ of this I am certain ‒ men of the world, so it is not necessary for me to enlarge on this matter. In Venice, Costa, your wife waits for you, in Livorno there is the Signorina Maria longing for your return, Cicio. For their sakes, it is better that you do not walk and talk with English girls.

  ‘Lonely men are often reckless men, men who act without thought of consequences. Then in this camp there are rules. Everyone must obey those rules. I obey them, your officers obey them, the sergeants obey them ‒ this also applies to you. Rules must be obeyed.

  ‘You are still soldiers, you are still Italian soldiers, and you must be able to return to your wives and sweethearts with clear eyes and clean hearts. This is what you can still do ‒ for the honour of your country.

  ‘In the life of all soldiers there must be restraint. You are still soldiers. There, I have said enough. Believe me that I understand, I even sympathize ‒ for I know how you must long for the bright eyes, the kind voices, the gentle hands which belong to the women you love. I say, Costa … Cicio … be patient. The day will not be long in coming. The lagoon will still be there, your gondola like a black swan will be waiting, and ‒ your wife, too, will be waiting. Cicio, there in poor Livorno there is much to be done, but there is still the blue sea, the saltness on your lips when the wind blows from the sea … and there will be also your sweetheart waiting.

  ‘This time, my soldiers, there will be no punishment. And,’ he had smiled at them, that charming smile which seemed to light up his whole face, ‘there will be no second time! I have great trust in you both.’

  When they had gone, Hawkins had said, ‘My word, sir, I’d give a lot to be able to patter to them like what you do. Must mike a difference, say what you like. It’s a great gift, sir, to have langwidges.’

  The matter of Carlo, the big ironworker from Turin, had been more difficult. Carlo longed for strong drink, and a great deal of it. He had been sent to work on a farm, and some teetotal labourer had given him his beer at lunchtime. The craving for more had grown, and he had stolen from a public-house where the prisoners had been sent to build a wall under the direction of a British workman. Carlo staggered home, and when one of the guards noticed his condition and put him under arrest he had grown violent.

  He had appeared before Emmanuel looking very much the worse for wear. It was obvious that he believed that he would get off lightly, and the torrent of furious contempt which Emmanuel hurled at him almost caused him to stagger backwards.

  He was told that he was a bad soldier, that he had no knowledge of either self-restraint or discipline, and ‘what is worst of all, at a time when your nation needs every one of her sons to uphold her dignity and her prestige, you, Carlo Beltoni, betray her. The misfortunes of Italy are not sufficient, another must be added ‒ that you have the right to call yourself an Italian!’

  The huge man stared, his mouth agape, and finally burst into tears. Carlo Beltoni fought down his desire for strong drink.

  Emmanuel often said of the Italians, ‘An old race, but a young people, frequently very naughty, rarely actually wicked.’

  Emmanuel’s thoughts were broken by a knock on the door, and as it opened the voice of Sergeant-Major Watkins said: ‘Private Guido Moroni, sir.’

  Guido entered and stood to attention before Emmanuel’s desk.

  Emmanuel looked up and smiled. ‘Sit down, Guido. I want to talk to you.’

  The little Italian, who had once looked like some round-faced cherub, sat down, his work-worn hands hanging between his knees. His uniform was shabby, his hair was cut very short, the waves which he had once cultivated so carefully had vanished. He looked healthy enough, but thin and hard. There only remained a memory of the one-time exquisite, the look of doglike devotion in his eyes when they rested on Emmanuel’s face.

  Emmanuel said, ‘Well, Guido, it’s almost over, and you’re going home. You’re glad, aren’t you?’

  ‘I have been at home ever since I was admitted to this camp. My home is where Emmanuel Gollantz happens to be,’ Guido said. He sat silent for a moment, then asked with anxiety in his voice, ‘And you will return to Milano?’

  ‘I don’t know ‒ yet. Oh, I shall come back to see how things are. We’ve got to face it, Guido, there may be little or nothing left. We may not have a gallery any more, no pictures ‒ nothing.’

  ‘Have no fears. Before I left, as I told you, everything that was the most choicest was hidden in the cellars, and a wall built in ‒ which was made to appear old and dirty ‒ to hide them. Oh, you will find very much that is good, Emmanuel.’

  He watched the face of the man for whom he had such a complete and wholehearted admiration as he spoke. Emmanuel was silent, twisting a pencil in his long, fine fingers, frowning a little.

  Guido thought, ‘When I first knew him he was young; his hair was black as the darkest night; he was twenty-seven, I think. Now, at the temples his hair is like snow, the rest is grey. Sometimes his face looks grey also. I have known him when he was filled with misery, when he was poor, when he lost the one woman who has ever filled ‒ completely filled ‒ his heart. I have known him at times of great and wonderful success, when he w
as acclaimed as being the greatest expert, the most knowing man in the business. Now, how old is he ‒ this man I love so dearly? He is nearly fifty; his son is nearly a grown man. Simeon is more than twenty and as tall as his father.

  ‘He has not enjoyed the war as have some men, he has not enjoyed this camp, but it has been an escape from the world of which he is beginning to be a little afraid. Here he has felt safe, at least. Now he wonders what he will find in the new world which has been made out of all this blood, these dead men and ruined houses. He would have hoped for a “brave new world” ‒ he knows that it will not even be “new”, it will be made out of the shreds and ruins of the old. My poor fine Emmanuel!’

  Emmanuel put down the pencil and, leaning forward, began to speak.

  ‘You see, Guido, my father is growing old. He is seventy, and for many years he has not been very strong. My mother, too, is no longer young. For a long time the business in Bond Street has been declining. There is that big house to be kept going ‒ Ordingly ‒ and there is also my brother, Julian ‒’

  Guido said with suppressed passion, ‘Of this one do not speak, if you do’n mind. The name is offensive to me.’

  ‘And to me, I assure you, but he exists all the same, and he is an expensive luxury! I have always believed, and so does Sir Nathan Bernstein, that he is perfectly able to work if he wishes. True, during the war he has been employed in some capacity ‒ God knows what! ‒ at Whitehall. He looks very well in uniform, he’ll be sorry to give up wearing it. He’ll retire to Ordingly, levy toll on my father, live extravagantly, indulgently ‒ he and his wife and his son. The money will have to come from somewhere.

  ‘I’m the third generation to be in the antique business, Guido. One day Ordingly will be mine and later Simeon’s. The title will come to me, not that I particularly hanker after it, but ‒ there it is! My younger brother, Bill, will be all right. He’s clever, he was making a fair income before the war, he’ll go far now he’s out of the Navy. No need to worry about him.