Fighting For Love

XXIII - Jealousy

I've got some things to tell you down there. Enjoy!

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July 1st 1940 - 13:00

Arezzo, Italy

After three days on the road in Italy, we finally reached Arezzo. Despite Otto's house not being in Arezzo itself, it was some twenty kilometers away, according to him, it did belong to the city, so I guess I could say we had finally hit our destination.

Again, our plans of getting where we wanted to first were frustrated by our hunger. We decided to go to the central square, for Otto told me he knew a very good and cheap place to eat just next to it. People on the streets were staring at us and I didn't know whether that was due to Otto being a known figure around there or the simple fact that nobody carried hay on wagons anymore. Nonetheless, we stopped on the square and a couple of guards quickly came to see us.

"Fermare!" The last time I'd heard that being said I thought I would die and, for some reason, I felt the same that time. I guess it is not a very nice word to say to people.

The conversation between Otto and the guard went on entirely in Italian, which made me nervous. The first thing I'd do in Italy was to learn their language. I hate it when people talk about things that concern me and I can't understand a single thing. After ten minutes of me looking down and trying to get a word or two, all I could understand was that, at some point, he said our names and showed the letter he had received from Salzburg. Otto then turned to me.

"I'll need to go with them, but it will just take a minute, alright?"

"Can't I go with you?"

"No, I'd prefer if you didn't. I don't expect things to go bad, but should they do I need you out of this mess. Don't worry, there's a bookshop just next to the restaurant across the street, whose owner speaks German, Bartolomeo Visconti is his name. He's a friend of mine, tell him I am here and he will help you with whatever you want. If it takes more than an hour for me to meet you there, tell him to go check on me."

"Why can't I do it?"

"You have no business here. I have the excuse of the inheritance and being dismissed from the army, but you are an outlaw and don't think the Italians won't tell the Germans about you. Now go before these two ask me more questions about you."

I nodded, "Visconti, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Fine."

I watched as Otto was escorted by those two guards into a building that could only be the police station with a heavy heart. I looked at the church across the street. Would it be too hypocritical to pray? Deciding it wouldn't, I walked into it and took a seat on the left. I went down on my knees and asked for whoever was up there to help Otto.

I have always heard how tough times can make desperate people find faith with disbelief, but after I saw myself as one of those people I never questioned the power of desperation again.

I left the church and crossed the square to find the bookshop, as Otto had asked me to. It was a very small shop, squeezed between the restaurant and a tailor. I opened the door and a tall, young and, I must say, handsome man welcomed me.

"Buon pomeriggio." He said, with a smile. Good afternoon, I deducted.

"Ciao." I stopped. That's all I knew. "Hi, I am sorry, I've been told you speak German." He blinked several times.

"Y-yes, are you a tourist?"

"Not quite. I am here with Otto. He told me you know him."

"Otto Ziemann?" I nodded and a smile opened from ear to ear, "Is he here? It's been so long since I last saw him."