One Clear Call I

by Upton Sinclair

  News spread with the speed of lightning—literally that, meaning the telephone. Julie had gradually come to realize that Lanny was collecting more gossip than art, and she set herself to helping him. She would phone, saying, “I have just learned of a very fine Vannucci which you might get.” He would go to her home, and the “Vannucci” would prove to be an inside story of the meeting between II Duce and the Führer, straight from the lips of Ciano’s latest innamorata. It bore all the signs of authenticity, because it described Adi as shouting down the Duck and giving him no chance to speak for several hours. The Italian was always at a disadvantage in dealing with his German ally because he thought he could speak German, was proud of the fact, and insisted upon showing it off; his blunders irritated Hitler, who knew no foreign language and had too much sense to try to pretend otherwise.

  The situation between them was an impossible one; both were on their way down and neither could help the other. Mussolini had presented a request for forty-nine tank divisions and three thousand planes to hold Italy against the Allies; he might as well have asked for the moon. Hitler blew up, and from that time on did nothing but rage and storm at a braggart and pretender who had been nothing but a handicap from the beginning. Mussolini had done nothing against France until Hitler had brought that country to its knees; he had rushed into his crazy attack on Greece and thus dragged Hitler into the Balkans and fatally delayed his invasion of Russia. Of course the Führer would say nothing about the fact that Il Duce had taught him his whole bag of propaganda tricks; not merely how to seize power, but how to hold it, and the banners and slogans and salutes and songs whereby the children of a nation might be made into a horde of deadly little robots.

  XV

  Five days of plotting and scheming, of confidences and betrayals, proposals and counterproposals, followed upon Il Duce’s return from that ill-fated conference that was nothing but a row. Lanny had another talk with Grandi, who was determined that the Fascist Grand Council should meet. It had been a part of Mussolini’s window dressing, like the labor “corporatives”; it had never had any authority, but in this crisis the deposed Minister of Justice, one of its members, was determined to use it. He succeeded in beating up such a demand that the Duce was forced to call it, and on the afternoon of Saturday, the twenty-fourth of July, the twenty-six members assembled in the famed Balcony Room of the Palazzo Venezia, from which for twenty years Il Duce had been proclaiming glory to his followers massed in the Piazza below.

  Lanny got the story the next day from the Commendatore, who had heard it from one of the councilors. It had been a frightening ten hours for those Fascist old-timers, many of whom had become gray-haired, or bald like their Duce, in the course of twenty-one years. They had entered the Palazzo through lines of Il Duce’s musketeers who wore fezzes with death-head insignia, and who now carried tommyguns by way of warning to presumptuous political dummies. In the Balcony Room their master, in full uniform with all his decorations, sat at a magnificent desk, while the dummies sat on the outer side of two long tables which made a “U” with the desk.

  Mussolini opened the proceedings by reporting on the meeting with Hitler, and said that he had rejected Hitler’s proposals. Then he launched into a tirade, blaming Italy’s failures upon everybody but himself. He said that the war was not popular, but no war ever was. He predicted that the Allies would not invade the Italian mainland. Italy must fight on.

  When he finished, Grandi arose and delivered an attack upon the head of the state, accusing him of having usurped powers and brought the country to ruin. Then came Ciano, supporting the charges against his father-in-law—and what deadly hatred there was between these two men! The debate became furious, and they called each other vile names out of the gutters of Rome. White-bearded Marshal de Bono leaped up and brandished an automatic in defense of the honor of the Army, but he was persuaded to put it back into its holster. Grandi presented a motion that the King be asked to take command, which meant, of course, the deposing of Il Duce. The wrangling lasted through the night; these elderly men turned gray with fatigue—and that included the Leader with his stomach ulcers. They almost came to fisticuffs several times, and one cabinet member, Pareschi, who had a weak heart, fell into a faint.

  “Votare! Let us vote!” Dino Grandi kept insisting, and that was something that had not been heard in twenty years. Mussolini, white with rage, stormed and threatened; but the former Minister of Justice went on insisting, “Votare! Votare!” At last the vote was taken, each member rising in his seat and announcing his decision. Many had not spoken previously, and it was their votes which decided. The council stood nineteen to seven in favor of Grandi’s motion, nearly three to one. Grandi had the motion in writing and called upon the members to sign it; they did so. Mussolini bowed his head and said, “Va bene”— very well.

  Why did he not use the power he had and order the Moschettiere del Duce to arrest those rebel dummies? This was a question which Lanny heard discussed by all his friends in Rome. None questioned that these well-trained gangsters would have obeyed their master; they would have taken Grandi and the other recalcitrants out and shot them in the courtyard of the Palace. The Mussolini of ten years ago would have given the order; but the Mussolini of today was a sick and broken man and lacked the nerve. He could not even address his people over the radio because his voice quavered and gave him away.

  He was caught between two fires, the Germans in the north and the Americans, British, and French in the south; his star was setting, and, more important yet, his stomach ulcers were getting worse. He had taken a fearful licking from his German master, and he had come back after a night of physical agony to find that his capital had taken a licking from enemy bombers. His people had turned against him and thought of nothing but of getting out of the war. Crowds were demonstrating all over the city, demanding peace, and if he had ordered a wholesale murder, the population would have risen and torn him to pieces.

  Apparently he had the idea that the King would stand by him. When the King summoned him, he took his time about going and went with an escort of a hundred and fifty of his bodyguards in a long train of cars. But he made the mistake of posting them outside the grounds of the royal villa. Inside the grounds the Army officers had hidden some fifty of the carabiniere, also an ambulance. When Mussolini entered to the King he was told abruptly that he was dismissed, and when he went outside he was forced into the ambulance and driven away, to the Braschi Fortress, outside Rome. The cabinet resigned, and Marshal Badoglio was appointed the new Premier.

  It was eleven o’clock on Sunday night when that news was made public, and then Lanny Budd witnessed one of the strangest sights of his life. It was a moonless night, very dark and very hot; the people poured out into the streets to celebrate, many of them in their pajamas. The wild demonstration went on until morning, dancing, singing, shouting, blowing horns—it was like New Year’s Eve in Times Square, New York. People built bonfires, and what a strange sight in a blacked-out city which had been bombed less than a week ago! Soldiers in trucks raced through the streets, waving the tricolor flag—green, white, and red—of the monarchy and singing the songs of twenty years ago. Crowds gathered before the Palazzo Venezia, where once they had cheered a uniformed pouter pigeon spouting defiance to the whole world; now they kicked on the gates, spat on the walls, and cursed it. Others gathered before the Regina Coeli prison, by the Tiber bank, demanding the release of the prisoners whom the tyrant had put there. Everywhere men wearing Black Shirt uniforms were attacked on the streets.

  So it has been through the ages when the mighty have fallen; and Lanny, who considered Benito Mussolini the vilest of men, wasted no sympathy upon him. He had watched the career of false glory since its beginning, and to see its end had been one of a P.A.’s goals in life. Now he watched the crowds and read the leaflets which the Socialists and the Communists were distributing, promising the people a new and better world; then he went into the drawing-rooms of the privileged few and listened to the
ir schemes to take control of this revolution and turn it to their own ends. That too was an old story.

  XVI

  President Roosevelt issued a statement, broadcast by the Algiers radio, saying that the Italian people would be allowed to choose the form of government they preferred, and that the Allies were ready to deal with any group which would co-operate against the Germans. His P.A. took that as an instruction and went to his friend Signor d’Angelo, seeking a private and confidential meeting with the new Premier. That wasn’t so easy, since the Marshal was busy choosing his cabinet and forming his policies. At any rate, that was what he said; but Lanny knew that he had been thinking about his cabinet for weeks, and as for his policies, the Allies were going to settle them.

  Pietro Badoglio was riding on top of the wave of fortune, or so he believed, and it was a great concession for him to drop in at the home of an old friend and meet a secret emissary of an enemy’s government. He could not stay long, he apologized, for many important matters were pressing for his attention. He did not stand up and spout, as Mussolini would have done under the circumstances; he was a gentleman of the old school and his voice was low. But Lanny quickly saw the difference between a politican seeking office and willing to make promises to everybody, and a politician who has got office and has to think of the consequences of every action, even of every word. “I am not yet prepared to be quoted on that, Monsieur Budd”—so spoke the hero of Abyssinia half a dozen times during the interview.

  The substance of his communication was that the Germans were here in Rome, and he was in no position to break with them. If he made any sort of deal that was unacceptable to them, they might do what they had done with the Vichy government—set it aside. It was necessary to wait until events had revealed themselves more clearly.

  “Suppose, Monsieur le Premier,” said the P.A., “that the Americans were to send an amphibious force to the beaches of Rome and at the same time land several thousand paratroopers in the night, as they have just done in Sicily. They could take and hold the city, and you and your government would be safe.”

  “That seems to me a typically American idea, Monsieur Budd—somewhat extravagant, if you will pardon me. Even if the coup succeeded, it would leave the major part of our country in German hands. They might choose to wreck it entirely, in punishment for what they would consider betrayal by us.”

  “But if the Allies have to fight their way up the peninsula they too will be forced to wreck the country.”

  “You say ‘forced,’ Monsieur Budd; but we insist that they do not have to invade our country at all; they can wait and effect a fair settlement with us.”

  So there it was. “Caution” was still the old gentleman’s motto; he was going to stall and let his soldiers be used by the Germans to kill American and British and French soldiers. “The war must go on,” he had said publicly, and now he said it privately, and he had nothing else to tell an American emissary, except that he protested against the bombing of Rome and that he hoped the Allies could be persuaded not to trespass upon the sacred Italian mainland.

  Oh, yes—and one thing more! Conversing with his friend the Commendatore he complained that one of his political opponents had rebuked the newspapers for listing him as “Duke of Addis Ababa,” when that capital was now in the hands of the British. The elderly warrior showed more feeling over this question than he did over the bombing of Rome. He had conquered Abyssinia, his government had awarded him the title, and according to all precedents he would hold the title forever, regardless of anything that happened later on. Said Badoglio, “Napier continued to be known as Baron of Magdala even after Magdala was retaken by the Abyssinians. Marshal Ney continued to be addressed as Prince of Moscow even after Napoleon’s retreat.” Lanny Budd realized that he was dealing with a vain old man who was more concerned about one of the ribbons he wore on his chest than about the thousands of his countrymen who were going to perish in futile battle.

  XVII

  Lanny went away from that conference with his mind made up that his usefulness in Rome was over, at least for the present. He had been here about six weeks, and the length of his stay had been left to his own judgment. He decided that it was time to report and get fresh instructions.

  How best to get out? He had no way to summon a seaplane and meet it off the beach of Ostia. He might have sent a message by the new wireless system and got instructions in reply, but that would have been dangerous; and anyhow, what would Herr Güntelen and Marshal Kesselring think if he were to disappear suddenly from the scene? He had made what amounted to an agreement with Hitler and he was under obligation to keep it, at whatever risk. Hitler would send him out, as he had done once before, by way of Lisbon; and that would suit a world traveler, because it might give him a glimpse of Paris and Madrid, and he could proceed by way of England and see his daughter. All he needed to do was to think up a satisfactory set of fairytales to tell the Führer.

  By this time the Americans had taken the entire western half of Sicily and were beginning the final great battle. So when Lanny went to the Hotel de Russie and asked to see Marshal Kesselring he was not surprised to be told that this officer was not “available”; Lanny could guess that he was in Naples, or even nearer to the front. He explained to Oberst von Horn that it was his wish to send a message to the Führer, and he was told that the staff had instructions to send whatever message Herr Budd might request. Herr Budd wanted the Führer to know that Herr Budd had information for him; the staff officer promised that this important statement would go at once.

  Lanny returned to his room and wrote notes to several of his acquaintances, telling them that he was leaving town for a while and thanking them for their courtesies. He left them to guess where and how he was going. Within an hour he received a message from the Oberst, saying that if Herr Budd would be in front of the Hotel de Russie at fourteen hundred, a car would be waiting.

  Lanny went, and was driven to the Guidonia airport, which the Americans had not yet put out of use. There was the same dispatch plane, with the same pilot who had flown him the last time. Herr Budd and his little suitcase were strapped into the co-pilot’s seat and the plane rose. Lanny had a bombardier’s-eye view of the smashed railroad yards, and then the plane swung round to the north, over the winding brown river—“O, Tiber, Father Tiber, to whom the Romans pray!” A few minutes later the passenger was looking down upon the bright blue of Lake Bracciano, and from there was unrolled a panorama of mountains, all brown or rock-gray on top, terraced and bright green on the sides. How many poets had sung about this land, and how many armies had marched over its roads! Up to a generation ago only the birds had enjoyed the view which Lanny was enjoying; but he soon forgot it, thinking up the fairytales he was going to tell to Adi Schicklgruber!

  BOOK THREE

  The Enemy Faints Not, Nor Faileth

  7

  Slaughters of the Race

  I

  “This is too easy!” Lanny Budd kept saying to himself. “This can’t go on. Watch out!” That he should have spent forty days and nights in Rome, playing both ends against the middle, and with a hundred pairs of sharp eyes watching him, a hundred sharp tongues criticizing him—that was tempting fate too much. And now he was going back into the tiger’s den, and at a time in the tiger’s life when it had so much to make it irritable. The British and Americans were driving the Germans out of the Mount Etna defense line in Sicily, and the Russian advance had taken two of the Germans’ most strongly defended positions, Orel and Belgorod. It was a time for Lanny to study every word that would pass his lips; he had not merely to guard against blunders, but to practice the offensive defense, by thinking up something novel, something that would sweep the Führer off his feet—if he could!

  The first time he had come to Hitler’s headquarters it had been the Ukraine, and the second time it had been Königsberg, far to the north. Where would it be now? He didn’t wish to show any curiosity, but watched the sun and judged that they were heading due north.
It is difficult to recognize mountains from above them, and there are many lakes in the Alps, most of them long and thin. National boundaries do not show, and he could not be sure when he was over Italy and when over Austria or Germany.

  It wasn’t until the plane had begun circling an airport that he realized he was coming to a place of many memories. Far to the west was the great spread of a city—that was Munich. To the east was the town of Salzburg, with the river cutting it into halves; below were villas perched on mountain slopes, and in the valley a village with a great hotel. Lanny knew the shape of the clump of buildings that comprise the Berghof, the Führer’s country home; and reaching up toward the plane was the famous rock, the Kehlstein, on top of which the inspired man had built for himself a secret retreat. He had taken Lanny Budd up in a great bronze elevator, a 700-foot shaft, and had revealed the basis of his religious belief, which resembled, so he said, that of the Arab camel driver Mohammed.

  Yes, it was Berchtesgaden, and Lanny could guess that Adi had been found in need of rest after the excitement of overcoming his Italian ally. When the plane came down there was a car waiting, the driver in the green uniform of the Führer’s bodyguard, the Leibstandarte. Lanny saluted. “Heil Hitler!” the man responded, and they rolled out of the village and on up the road which climbed along the mountainside. The dark green of fir trees covered the slopes—auf die Berge will ich steigen wo die hohen Tannen ragen! Clouds white as snow moved majestically overhead. The breeze was cool and laden with forest scents. Lanny drank them in and wished that he might stay here, away from all thoughts of war. But he knew enough about the plans of both sides to be sure that the war was coming here—indeed, it might end here.