“She’s in there. She’s all yours” the soldier at the door nonchalantly stated as he turned a large key in the lock.

  Tony stepped through, entering the cell. It must have been a repurposed store cupboard Tony thought. Small, bare, and with the only light coming from a high-up window, no larger than a biscuit-tin. In the far corner a bruised and trembling girl huddled, the ripped brown dress barely clinging to her thin frame. Her hair, once glossy, was now a matted tangle.

  For the briefest moment Tony faltered. Instead of the steadfast partisan he’d imagined, before him lay a fragile, battered girl – a delicate figure etched with bruises. The cold reality struck him like a blow, and despair entered his mind. Yet as he met her tearful gaze, he saw not fear but the shadow of an inner strength that no torture could erase.

  He knew he would never begin to comprehend the lengths the local Gestapo would have gone to in their attempt to extract information from her. By all the historical accounts, they had failed. They gained not one single piece of accurate intelligence. In the end, she had beaten them.

  Glancing behind he could see the guard lingering in the doorway, looking hurried. Damn, he cursed, why couldn’t he just move back to his desk and give Tony the moment of privacy he required?

  “Well? What are you waiting for?” bellowed the guard, impatiently. “Everyone’s standing around outside, waiting for her.”

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  Tony, with his mouth dry, forced himself to swallow. Composing himself, “Rosina Barrichello,” he spoke softly, but her red-rimmed eyes darted away in terror. Tony bent down and gently took her arm. “It’s time to go.”

  She flinched but allowed herself to be led down the corridor towards the light of the open doorway ahead, leading to the town square.

  Outside, through a clear blue sky, the crisp morning light shone over a grim scene: a simple wooden chair standing alone against a stone wall, a line of rifles gleaming in the hands of the soldiers lined up, and a silent crowd of townspeople gathered under duress.

  Tony surveyed the square, marking the positions of the soldiers, and picking out the Assistant on a nearby balcony, watching intently from behind. This would be his last opportunity. As he held the trembling Rosina by her right arm he surreptitiously reached into his pocket with his left hand and brought out the object he smuggled into this time. He turned slightly to face her and began to whisper. He could feel the muscles in her arm stiffen as he spoke.

  As they crossed the square, Rosina’s posture began to shift. She straightened, the trembling subsided, and a faint, defiant smile played on her lips. Tony’s grip on her arm tightened briefly – a silent message of assurance.

  Rosina took her seat. She declined the blindfold and fixed her gaze on the line of soldiers standing in front. Her voice, though soft, carried strength. “Thank you.” Her final words, meant only for Tony, were almost a whisper.

  As he stepped away, she squeezed together her bound hands behind the chair.

  The townsfolk bowed their heads and prayed. The roar of a rifle volley broke the stillness of the morning, and the shots hit their target. Rosina Barrichello slumped forward; her defiance immortalised in death.