by Grace Brophy
There were two of them there besides Visnar. One of them was the man who had come with Visnar to pick us up. I don’t know what the third one looked like, but I remember his voice. The three of them took turns raping me, and then Christina. I didn’t see them rape Christina. I kept my eyes shut, but I could hear noises and Christina crying and pleading, and then she stopped. I didn’t resist and I didn’t plead. When the three of them had finished, I heard one of them say to Visnar, tell Josip to come in if he wants some, and they all laughed. Josip was the soldier who had given Christina half of his sandwich. I think Josip also raped Christina, but I don’t know for sure. I was still lying on the floor when I heard a gunshot. One of the men, the one in charge, started screaming. “You’re a fuckin’ fool, Andjelko. You’ve sprayed his bloody brains all over the fuckin’ room. Get them all out of here,” he yelled, “and clean up that fuckin’ mess when you get back.”
They took us to a large warehouse located behind the town hall. There were many women and children there, at least half of them Muslims. Some of them I knew by name, and others I recognized from seeing them in the streets. It was quiet; none of the women were talking or crying. A woman I knew, a patient of Sergio’s, whispered to me that if you cried, or talked, they took you away and you didn’t come back. We were there for two days. A guard brought in loaves of bread and olive oil twice while we were there. We got our water from a small bathroom and we took turns using the one toilet. We sat on the floor leaning against the walls and slept in the same spot. Some of the children played with each other, and so long as they didn’t cry or make too much noise, the guards let them alone. That first night two guards came in and picked out four women in the dark who left with them. My nose was swollen to twice its size by then, and he passed us by, but then he returned and motioned to Christina. I tried to hold on to her, but he hit me across the face so hard I couldn’t breathe for the pain.
Three of the women came back an hour later. Christina was among them. She wasn’t crying and she didn’t talk or look at me. She stared straight in front of her and didn’t seem to know where she was. I knew from my medical training that she was suffering from posttraumatic stress. I was glad. I didn’t want her to know or remember what had happened. I don’t believe she even knew that her father was dead. The second day the guards brought us food once, and that night they didn’t come for any women. We heard shelling all night, and the next day, about eleven in the morning, the Croatian army came. We were told to go to our homes, to stay off the streets, that someone would come to interview us there. A few of us who needed immediate medical attention were seen to by their army doctor. I miscarried the baby three weeks later. The doctor said it was the stress, but I also had gonorrhea. Sergio’s body was found a few days after that, with the other villagers they had killed, in a lime pit outside the town. I buried him with my parents. Christina is in Zagreb, in a state hospital. Her doctor says her recovery will take time but that some day she may remember me.
Signed: Sophie Orlic
Cenni finished reading the report and picked up what was now left of his coffee—ice cold, he realized when he took a sip. It was all there, he thought, what he had wanted. The facts. He had plucked out the heart of her mystery. His hands were shaking. Later he couldn’t explain to himself why he did it, but he poured the remaining black liquid over the second page of her testimony. He watched as a slow moving river of coffee ran down the center of the page, smearing the type. He took his clean white handkerchief and dried it, obliterating completely her last words and signature. He walked over to the window and looked down on the car park below. He could see his car, its gray metallic paint gleaming in the midmorning sun. It was parked between the guard’s shed and the fence, the smallest space in the car park but the only one isolated from the other cars. No one could park next to him and ruin his paint job.
4
THE DAY HAD begun promising much, cloudless and warm when Renato Cenni left Urbino in the morning, but it was ending on a dark note. His unlined raincoat was too thin for the chill that had set in and the air was heavy with moisture. It was likely to snow again, and he had a two-hour trip back to Urbino if he ignored the speed limit. He got into his car, black and nondescript, purchased for its anonymity, and simultaneously started the engine and the heater, something Alex, who loved his car more than his comfort, would never do. Renato had an atavistic delight in speed and knew that this might be one of the last times he would enjoy the pleasures of solitary driving, of putting his foot down on the gas pedal as far it would go. Not that he risked much. The Church, unlike the police, purchased its cars for economy, not power. In another month he would be invested as the Bishop of Urbino. After that, he would have a driver and be expected to use him. The Church disliked idiosyncrasy and rarely tolerated it, excepting only those sons and daughters who had achieved religious notoriety, the ones who had refused to be shut up or shut in. Saint Francis of Assisi and Mother Theresa were the exceptions; he was the rule. His talents were for diplomacy and administration, as the cardinal had told him last week when he’d called Renato to Rome to announce his elevation to bishop. His successes, using those talents to carry out the work of God, had been many, just the one spectacular failure, his brother.
Alex was a good man, better than many of Renato’s fellow priests and certainly better than most of those who worked at the Curia. They call themselves Christians and behave like the Medici, Renato thought, dividing up power and its spoils among themselves. They had no flocks and a good many of them had forgotten why they had come to Rome in the first place. He had no arguments to counter those that Alex set forth when he denounced the Church for its insistence on pomp and circumstance in the midst of poverty, or for its egregious silence on the evils of greed and corruption in postwar Italy. It was fruitless to point out the Church’s counterargument, that men, even the holiest of them, are just men, that the Church is one, holy, and apostolic because of the grace of God, not the actions of men. Alex had studied law and theology at Bologna. He knew all the arguments and had all the answers. Renato often thought how very unItalian Alex was in his notions of morality. Good or evil, black or white, nothing in between. “You’re a bishop,” Alex had thrown at him before they’d parted that evening. “You can find things out that I can’t. An innocent woman may go to jail. Help me.” Renato had agreed, of course. They were brothers.
He had arrived at his mother’s house at 3:00, earlier than expected, so he wasn’t surprised not to see Alex, but when five o’clock came and Alex still hadn’t arrived, he knew his brother wasn’t coming. Alex telephoned shortly after that. A new case, he had said hurriedly, an American, very political. It wasn’t possible to get away. He’d visit Renato in Urbino. And then, right before he’d hung up. “Congratulations, Your Eminence.” Renato had retorted that Your Eminence was a title used only for cardinals. “Soon,” Alex had replied. Once they had finished each other’s sentences, at times had even started them. Renato always knew when Alex was lying. Of course, he could get away, he was a commissario!
His decision to become a priest had not been easy. He had thought about it for years, almost from the time that his father had died. But he had not spoken about it to anyone at home. His mother, he knew, would be delighted but for the wrong reasons. To be a priest in Italy still conveyed prestige. His grandmother was an ebullient nonbeliever, and Alex would have scoffed. He had allowed Alex to sweep him along as he made plans for their future until the night of their eighteenth birthday. He told Alex that night.
Alex’s reaction had been different from what he’d expected. He didn’t try to talk him out of it, nor did he repeat any of the old shibboleths about the Church. Instead, he was distant and invariably polite. He had even helped him to pack the night before he was to leave for Rome. When Alex had rolled up Renato’s favorite jeans, he had laughed. “Not for long,” he’d said to his brother, making a sweeping motion with his hands. Most of his remarks that night were just as inane, the type you make to str
angers with whom you’re uncomfortable.
When they were ten, their parents had given them separate bedrooms. One of his mother’s friends, a would-be psychologist, had told her that twins need to spend time alone if they’re to develop healthy egos. They had hated sleeping apart then, and he would usually sneak into Alex’s room after his parents had gone to bed. But that last night at home, he was glad to be alone. He had cried for hours and had fallen asleep just before dawn.
In time they became friends again. When Chiara was kidnapped, he had taken a leave of absence from the seminary. They had waited the weeks out together, hoping for her return. And when they knew she wasn’t coming back, Renato had spent the next month with Alex. When the director of the seminary had balked at granting him a longer leave, he had proffered his resignation, which was rejected.
They were friends again, but not as before. With each new elevation, the last time to monsignor, now to bishop, Alex would resume the icy distance of formality, even use the occasional Lei when they were alone. This time I’m going to fight back, Renato decided shortly after six o’clock. His mother protested when he said he was leaving, but his grandmother smiled. She whispered in his ear when he bent down to kiss her goodbye. “Give him hell!”
This was his first visit to Alex’s office in the suburbs, and he had some difficulty finding the building and then convincing the guard to admit him without an identity card. The priest’s collar, visible after he had removed his scarf, worked its magic. “Second floor, third door on the right,” he repeated out loud, as he ran up the stairs two steps at a time. At the top he stopped. Worried about his reception, he walked slowly down the corridor toward the only open door.
Alex was standing in front of his window looking out. The clocks had been set forward an hour, and he could still see the outline of Perugia framing the horizon. The last reflections of the setting sun streaked the sky with candied swirls of orange and purple and cast a soft tawny glow on the snow-capped mountains in the distance. He watched from his office as the lights of the football stadium began to go out, one by one, until they were all extinguished. He thought of the opening lines of Dante’s invocation to the muses,
Lo giorno se n’andava, e l’aere bruno
toglieva li animai che sono in terra
da le fatiche loro1
He felt oddly at peace for the first time that day. Perugia had won its third match in a row. It might even qualify for the European Cup. He laughed out loud at an irreverent thought: For the European Cup, even Renato would sell his soul! He looked at his watch, just a few minutes before 7:00. If he left now, he might catch Renato before he left for Urbino. He turned and saw his brother standing in the open doorway, framed in a halo of golden light.
“Carissimo,” Alex said softly, his eyes alight with pleasure. “For a moment I thought you were an apparition.”
“One of the nicer ones, I hope!” Renato replied.
“Poeta che mi guidi,” 2 Alex replied softly, then embraced his brother Italian style, kissing him on both cheeks. Just then the telephone rang. Alex checked the incoming number on the receiver. “Sorry, Renato, but I have to take this one.”
Renato scrutinized his brother’s face as he talked on the telephone. He’s aging well, better than I am, Renato thought, recalling the gray hair that he’d plucked from his right temple that morning and the three pounds he’d gained since turning forty. They were not identical twins, but some strangers, the undiscerning ones, assumed that they were. Renato acknowledged with a small sigh but no real regrets that Alex was the better-looking twin, his hair thicker and darker, his eyes a deeper blue, his nose a bit less Roman.
Alex, who’d just replaced the receiver, noticed his brother studying him and smiled. Renato felt his heart jump. Whatever had been wrong between them was over, and then, with consternation, he thought, unless I’m elected pope. That Alex would never forgive!
1 Day was departing, and the embrowned air
Released the animals that are on earth
From their fatigues
2 Poet, you who are my guide.
Book Four
* * *
Little Rita
* * *
1
On Monday mornings traffic comes to a complete halt approximately two hundred yards before the turn-off to police headquarters. This was Elena’s excuse every week for coming late and windswept to their Monday morning meetings. Cenni wondered if she’d offer up the same excuse today. He hoped for something new; otherwise it would be difficult to keep a straight face. Most of Italy was on holiday the Monday after Easter and those workers who weren’t called in sick; the roads were virtually empty. He was pleasantly surprised, then, to find Rita Minelli’s diaries sitting on the top of his desk, the relevant pages clearly marked with paper clips. For the first time in memory Elena had beaten him to the office. A report from the United States on John Williams had also come in during the night, but he decided to honor Elena’s enterprise by reading Minelli’s diary first. He flipped to the first page marked with a clip.
MAY 5, 2001—Mamma was awake through the night, coughing and spitting up blood. I waited until seven to call Dr. Biscardi to be sure I wouldn’t wake him. Call an ambulance, he said. I begged: Please come, Dr. Biscardi, just one more time, please! You know how Mamma hates the hospital. And then, just before he hung up, he says spitefully, I suppose she’s still smoking? Why did he have to say that?—he knows she’s still smoking. It’s the only pleasure I’ve had in life, Mamma says to anyone who’ll listen.
Two weeks ago, I stood behind the door of her hospital room, waiting for the attendant to bring a wheelchair so I could take her home, and overhead a one-way conversation Mamma was having with her roommate, Mrs. Kreindler—an elderly Jewish lady who probably didn’t understand a word of Mamma’s fractured English. Mamma was telling Mrs. Kreindler what a wonderful life she’d had in Italy before the war and before Papa lured her away to Brooklyn with false promises. She blames Papa for everything bad that’s happened to her.
My father, the count, Mamma said three times in so many minutes—carrying on about the beauties of Italy and the horrors of Brooklyn. And then she got carried away—forgetting Mrs. Kreindler’s history, I guess—and started to praise Mussolini and describe the wonderful parties my grandfather gave to entertain him. She was in raptures over a gown that she’d worn to one of those parties, white handmade lace from Burano, and the diamonds she’d worn in her hair, and the general who’d sat next to her at dinner, so handsome and so young to be in such a high position—I’d heard it so many times before! I guess Mrs. Kreindler understood Mamma well enough. She hissed Nazi at her.
I don’t know what came over me, but I stormed into the room yelling—We’re in Brooklyn and Papa’s dead. Can’t you let him rest in peace! Mamma started crying and couldn’t catch her breath. Sneaks never hear what they expect to hear, she said later, after I’d apologized. But this time she was different, more subdued. As I was helping her button her cardigan, she looked up at me from under her brows. Very softly, almost as though she didn’t want me to hear, she whispered, You’re a good girl, Rita. Those are the only kind words Mamma’s spoken to me since Papa died on June 10, 1974, a lifetime ago! The night they carried Papa out of the house, she was hysterical with fear. Cara mia, non mi lasciare mai, she begged over and over.
When we got home from the hospital, she told me to call her lawyer. I need to make a will, she said. No, Mamma! I cried. I didn’t want her to know she’s dying, but she knows! You’ll be rich, Rita, she said. Mamma knows nothing about money. We’ve had so little all our lives that I suppose she thinks the money she inherited from Nonna is riches.
MAY 22, 2001—Mamma is gone!—she died yesterday a little after five in the evening. She’d been in a high fever and delirious from early morning. Dr. Biscardi came in at noon and said she wouldn’t last very long, maybe a few hours. He was very matter-of-fact and suggested that I call someone to sit and watch with me. There is no one, I sai
d, and he nodded. At the door he turned. I’ll drop by later in the evening, after she’s gone, to sign the death certificate. Leave a message with my answering service. Cold bastard! He then asked if I had chosen a funeral home because, if not, he could suggest one. I told him that Mamma had always liked the Fossello Brothers. Of course, he said snidely, an Umbrian family, aren’t they! Dr. Biscardi’s family is from the Veneto and Mamma always said that he was a snob. He had often admired the Venetian candelabrum on Mamma’s dresser, and I had planned to give it to him after her death, but right then and there, I changed my mind.
After he’d gone, I went back to Mamma’s room to sit with her. I took her hand in mine, and it was very hot, hotter than it had been all day. She was mumbling incoherently, and sometimes she would cry out for her mother or father, once even for her brother. She never called out to Papa, and it was only the once that she called my name. I’m here, Mamma, I whispered, kneeling by her bed, but she didn’t recognize me. Doctor Biscardi had given her a shot of morphine to make her comfortable. She’ll be out of it until she’s gone, he had said, as though that were something wonderful.
I called St. Anthony’s rectory to ask for a priest. The parish secretary answered the telephone—a nasty woman—and said that Mamma had had the last rites twice in two weeks and that she wouldn’t send a priest over again, they had other things to do. I screamed at her, threatened to call the bishop, even the Vatican, if my mother died without receiving the last rites. I’ll see what I can do, she said, but I didn’t believe her. Then at three o’clock, a priest arrived at the door, someone I hadn’t seen before, young, in his late thirties, and very kind. Visiting from Italy, he said. He was surprised and pleased that I spoke Italian, and he gave Mamma the last rites in her native tongue—not the ten-minute version that the other priests had performed, but the full rite.
