Mostly young women, as beautiful as any that Lanny had ever seen, and in costumes showing no diminution of elegance: They were the young matrons, chosen because of their various charms, not physical perfection alone, but gaiety, esprit, ability to entertain the men who had position, wealth, and power. The men were in their offices, dealing with multiple troubles; the ladies were bored and looking for entertainment. They had heard of a new curiosity, an American in Rome. Nobody was fooled very long by his claim to be a Frenchman; they knew he was an enemy alien—and how had he got here, and who was protecting him, and what was he trying to do? Did it mean a hope of peace?
Nobody was more skilled at social banter than the son of Budd-Erling; he had learned it as the grandson of Budd Gunmakers, at the age of four, or perhaps five, by listening to ladies and gentlemen. These were the same kind of ladies—in one or two cases they were granddaughters of the same ladies. But the process of social decay had gone on for forty years, and the witty remarks these new ladies made would have made their grandmothers blush to the roots of their hair. Jokes about other people’s sexual affairs, and sometimes about their own; jokes about men with men and women with women; there was nothing they did not know and touch upon with airy cynicism. Lanny, who had frequented smart society on the French Riviera, and in Paris, London, and New York, was familiar with this butterfly attitude and did not have to be naïve or puritanical; it was his role to be reserved and mysterious, and be sure that interest in him would increase.
There is an old song about “the light that lies in women’s eyes,” and some modern wit has added the tag, “and lies, and lies, and lies.” Lanny knew that light, and he saw it now in more than one pair, ranging in shade from dark to azure; he knew that he could choose among this assortment of delicate creatures, one or even several, and divert himself agreeably during his sojourn in this Holy City. He guessed that he was expected to do so and would be considered an ungrateful guest if he refrained. He did not intend to do it, because he had a code about which these people knew nothing. He would deal with them on the basis of polite jesting; he would be interested in them all, and each would wonder if he was serious with some other. The guessing would mount to a mild rage; they would try to find out about him from the higher-ups, and whether they succeeded or not wouldn’t matter, provided that he played his hand shrewdly.
So, when he was told that the lady who had just been his bridge partner was a “Galeazzo widow,” he did not look either shocked or puzzled, but let his features expand into a delighted grin. All Europe, and indeed all the polite world, had known of Count Ciano’s habit of keeping a harem of young and lovely women always at his service. It had been his practice to loll on the beach at Ostia with half a dozen of them about him, and others trying to get near. He would make appointments with the diplomats of other countries to meet him there, and sometimes it had happened that these gentlemen were elderly, and had paunches, or spindly legs, or other characteristics which they did not care to expose in bathing trunks. It had become something of a scandal that Italy’s Foreign Minister had thus abused the diplomatic proprieties, and had been known to offer his cast-off lady loves not merely to members of his own staff, but to visiting statesmen who had wives and families at home, and who, if they had affaires on the side, preferred to keep the matter out of their business discussions—and out of the newspapers.
III
The deposed cabinet member, now Ambassador to the Vatican, came to the Holy Water Golf Club late in the afternoon and met the new American friend of his very dear friend, the Princess Colonna. He was swarthy and black-haired; his ancestors, like Isabelle’s, had come from the Levant. He was short and thick-set, handsome in an animal way, with broad shoulders of which he was proud and a paunch of which he was ashamed; he tried to conceal it as his father-in-law did, by drawing it in and elevating his chest. He had risen in the world by aping his father-in-law in all ways, sticking out his chin, barking at his inferiors, and being very delightful to those whom for any reason he wished to please. Like Mussolini, he had also cultivated athletics; but the present hot weather was too much for him, and he preferred to sit on a club piazza and kid those who came in exhausted and sweaty from their round of the links.
As always, he diverted himself with the ladies. They still gathered about him, and Lanny could guess what was in their minds: the wheel of fortune turned fast these days, and who could tell when it might bring their dear Galeazzo on top again? So long as Isabelle still stuck to him, he was surely not to be considered a dead duck. So they beamed upon him and exchanged witticisms with him and with one another, and once more Lanny was astounded to discover that they were as free and easy on the subject of politics as they were with one another’s sexual amusements. They teased the ex-minister about his demotion and asked him if he had chosen the post because of the well-known Vatican extraterritoriality. Neither Italians nor Germans nor Americans could get him so long as he stayed there; but unfortunately there was no golf course, and what would he do for society? They would come to visit him, but what would Il Papa say about that? “Il Papa” didn’t mean Galeazzo’s papa, nor the papas of any of the ladies, but that august personage, the Holy Father, Pope of Rome.
Evidently the ex-minister had been told about the Franco-American art expert. How much he knew was a question, and Lanny, prepared in advance for the meeting, was resolved upon extreme caution. But Ciano knocked all that out with a few sentences. What was the use of diplomatic protocol in a time when the guns and bombs had taken charge? Sitting in the presence of half a dozen of his ladies, he defended himself by asking this visitor what he, the visitor, would have done in such a set of circumstances as Ciano faced, and he described them in detail. When Lanny said he could not imagine, that was Ciano’s vindication. “I couldn’t imagine and nobody else could imagine; but there I was.”
“Trying to foresee history is like trying to foresee the stock market,” ventured the polite guest.
“Hell!” was the reply. “I could foresee the stock market all right, because I could make it go where I wanted it to.” As the ladies laughed he went on, “I did so, and I made a fortune at it. But who could foresee what was going to happen in Greece?”
“They told us that you had bought all the Greek leaders,” put in the lovely Rosaura Forli.
“So I did,” declared her hero, “but the scoundrels wouldn’t stay bought. I protested against the invasion; I protested against every step up to the last madness. Could anybody that lives have imagined such a joke as Italy declaring war upon America? David going out against Goliath, and without a single stone in his sling. But we are prisoners of the Germans, and we do what we are told.”
Lanny hadn’t expected anything like that, and all he could lamely say was, “It is indeed a tragic situation.”
Ciano, turning his dark eyes upon the visitor, said, “They tell me you know the Führer, Signor Budd.”
Lanny admitted it. “I have done business with him as an art expert.”
“Then perhaps you know what is in his mind at present and will tell me.”
“He is a man of frank speech. He would be pleased if the Allies would make peace with Italy on the basis of an agreement by both sides to keep Italian territory inviolate.”
“Davvero! Wouldn’t that be lovely, if the Allies would agree! Have you heard any of them suggesting that bright idea?”
“Alas, no, Count Ciano. I fear they have designs upon your airports.”
“Quite so; and we are caught between two artillery barrages. Have you any suggestion of hope for us, Signor Budd?”
“I fear that lies outside an art expert’s province. But I sometimes meet persons of influence, and if you have any idea that you would like to have communicated, I will be a faithful messenger.” Lanny said this, inwardly wincing—as many other diplomatic persons had done—at being called upon to discuss affairs of state in the presence of half a dozen pretty young chatterboxes.
“Be so good as to report this for me,” res
ponded Il Duce’s errant son-in-law. “I have washed my hands of the mess and leave it to be cleaned up by those who made it. And you know whom I mean.”
IV
At the home of Commendatore d’Angelo Lanny had his promised meeting with Il Maresciallo Badoglio. This old gentleman—he was seventy-two—had served as Mussolini’s scapegoat in the Greek campaign; he had been ordered to take his ill-prepared armies up into those wild mountains, and he had done so and got soundly thrashed by tough fighting men armed with British weapons; then, of course, he had been blamed and kicked out. Somebody besides Il Duce had to be wrong. Pietro Badoglio had retired to his country estate; he was an immensely wealthy man and represented the top of Italian society, the white hope of the monarchists, the aristocracy, the landowners, and the great manufacturers. He had been given the Supreme Order of the Annunziata, which made him a “cousin” to the King and entitled so to address him.
This eminent personage came to the d’Angelo palace wearing his elaborate uniform with a broad Sam Browne belt and many pockets. He wasn’t willing to have the American come to him, the Signor had explained, since every other person in Rome was a spy. The Marshal was rather small, dapper and elegant, with colorless skin and a little white mustache. His voice was low and his manner reserved; caution was his watchword, and for the most part he sat quietly and let his host tell the American stranger how the Marshal had opposed the alliance with Germany and the attack on Greece, to say nothing of the insane declaration of war against America. “Now,” said d’Angelo, “the Germans hold our country in a tight fist, and our problem is how to pry that fist open.”
Lanny had expected this sort of reception. “Monsieur le Maréchal,” he said, “permit me to speak frankly, and in strict confidence. I bring you no credentials; it will be obvious to you that an American could not come into your country carrying credentials—except of the wrong sort. I have to convince you of my good faith by my personality and my moral tone, so to speak. At the time this war broke out, I enjoyed the confidence of Marshal Pétain, and at the home of Madame de Portes he commissioned me to carry a message to the King of the Belgians, in a last effort to stave off the calamity. I did not succeed in the mission, because the German armies marched into Belgium that same night. I only tell you the story to make it clear that I wanted peace for France and Belgium as I now want it for Italy.”
“Je vous accepte dans ce rôle, Monsieur,” said the Marshal. He spoke French fluently, and that was better for the guest.
Lanny continued, “At the time preceding the American Army’s invasion of North Africa I happened to be there, making a collection of Moorish art for a wealthy American. I had enjoyed the friendship of Admiral Darlan for some time, and I came to know General Juin, and M. Lemaigre-Dubreuil, and other important Frenchmen in both Algiers and Casablanca. They entrusted me with their plans and hopes, and I was able to get word to prominent persons in Washington and to work out arrangements which were very advantageous to the French. You must understand that my father is a leading American industrialist and is in position to get word to persons in authority and to get their answers. If I can persuade you of my good faith, I may be able to do for the Italians what I did for the French.”
Il Maresciallo’s watchword remained caution. “Our situation is an extremely complicated one, Monsieur Budd,” was his reply.
“I know that well, mon cher Maréchal. As you no doubt know, the Allied armies are about to invade Sicily. I have not been told the exact date, but it cannot be far off now. I know of my own knowledge that the French military men were sure that Casablanca could not be taken from the sea and that an army which attempted that feat would be met with disaster. As you know, we solved that problem. Sicily offers no greater difficulties.”
“I grant that you can do it, Monsieur Budd; but it will be a slow and costly adventure.”
“Our military men allow themselves three months for the job; but I happen to know that President Roosevelt believes it can be done in half that time. We have five thousand planes on hand for the invasion, and half as many vessels.”
“I warn you, the Italians will fight for their native soil much harder than they fought for Africa, which many of them never wanted.”
“We allow for that, mon Maréchal. But our warships and bombers will reduce the shore fortifications, and we shall put tanks ashore as quickly as we did in North Africa. We know that the Germans have brought the Hermann Göring Division to Sicily, and that they have one or two other divisions there; but their troops are tired, while ours are fresh—and we do not have to fight a war with Russia at the same time.”
“The German military men have had very bad advice, Monsieur Budd,” said the Marshal, and his visitor replied promptly. “You of all men should know what that means to commanding officers.” That was pressing the argument closely, and for the first time a trace of a smile crossed the old gentleman’s mask-like face.
V
Lanny went on telling secrets, for he had decided that this was the man who had the right to hear them, and he had been authorized to use his judgment. Said he, “The Strait of Messina will offer no obstacle to an invading army, and we shall take the great airbase of Foggia and be in a position to bomb not merely the whole of Italy, but also Austria and Southern Germany, which the Führer will not like.”
The former commander of all the Italian armies showed signs of warming up. “Since you seem to be so well informed,” he said, “will you tell me whether they intend to bomb Rome?”
“I am told that the decision is in the hands of our military, and that as soon as they have secured a foothold in Sicily they intend to bomb the railroads of Rome—what the British call the marshaling yards. These are considered a key point in the communication system by which the German armies are supplied.”
“Many poor people have their homes right beside those yards, Monsieur Budd.”
“It is because of those poor people that I have sought this interview. We have several million Italians in America and we find them good citizens, and surely do not wish to bring death and ruin to their relatives and friends. We want the quickest possible peace with Italy.”
“And yet you hold out nothing but unconditional surrender!”
“That phrase, mon Maréchal, is for our enemies, not for our friends. We are perfectly willing to tell non-Fascist Italians what we mean to do when we enter their country. You have seen us come into North Africa. We did not kill the men or rape the women, and we paid fair prices for everything we had to take. Once the people understood this, they have welcomed us; you hear no complaints from the Italians of Tripolitania and Cyrenaica.”
“Those are colonies, Monsieur Budd; but Italy is an independent nation and a great one.”
“You will hear the same thing from the people of Sicily as soon as we have taken it; the girls will be throwing flowers to our troops and the boys will be exchanging chocolate bars for eggs. We are bringing freedom to all decent Italians, and we ask nothing of them except that they will set up a decent government which the rest of the world can respect and live with.”
“As you doubtless know,” said the precise old gentleman, “I am a believer in our monarchy and a servant of our King.”
“I am aware of that, and if we were not willing to accept your help and the King’s help, I should be talking not with you but with the resistance group in the mountains. I have the definite instruction that after this war there will be a provisional government comprised of all the groups which are willing to aid us, and that when the war is won the people of each nation will choose the form of government they desire. Government by popular consent is the principle upon which our American nation was founded, and we have abiding faith that if the people are trusted they will choose peace and order and not conquest.”
These were not precisely the best words to warm the heart of an aged monarchist; but they were the words Lanny had been told to say and he said them. The airplane bombs and the artillery shells were behind them, and no
body knew it better than this ex-commander. He swallowed whatever pride he had left and inquired, “What, precisely, does your government desire me to do?”
“First, to consult with your friends and others who can be trusted, and then send a representative to Lisbon to meet with a representative of our government to decide when and how Italy is to withdraw from the war. The time for action, we believe, will be after it is clear that Sicily is lost and that Naples will be next. Also, we think the bombing of the railroads in Rome may help to make people realize the need of peace.”
“Be careful, Monsieur Budd; it may work just the other way. It may infuriate the people and harden their will.”
“Our strategists do not think so, mon Maréchal. Men fight because they hope to gain something; but the Italians have nothing to gain even by winning this war. Only today I heard the jesting remark that in Rome all the pessimists are studying German while the optimists are studying American. You see how it is, the Italians turn even the language over to us; they do not like the English so well, I am told.”
“We have heard rumors, Monsieur Budd, that Winston Churchill looks upon Sicily as a place which might have strategical importance to his great empire.”
“Cher Maréchal, Churchill has to have American help in taking Sicily. I am quite sure that if you will send a representative to Lisbon, you will have your mind put at rest on the point that Italy will not be dismembered.”
One Clear Call I Page 13
