The Girl From Venice

by Martin Cruz Smith

  The German army had two hundred thousand veteran troops in Italy. Mussolini had fifty thousand hard-core Fascists. Together they controlled Milan, Turin, Genoa and Verona and Salò, the new capitol of the German Republic. The war was lost, but it wasn’t over.

  The flight lasted no more than half an hour before Monte Baldo, a remnant of the Ice Age, seemed to rise like a single boulder over Lake Garda. At its base the villas and gardens were as charming as a scene made of marzipan. It was “Paradise on Earth,” inspiration for a million postcards that featured sailboats, paddleboats, palms and poplars, poetry and romance. But what had been holiday traffic was now replaced by military half-ton trucks, ambulances, and black sedans with German flags on their fenders.

  “Don’t be clever, don’t be smart,” Giorgio said and turned in his seat to Cenzo. “Publicly, you’re looking for your niece Giulia Vianello, an eighteen-year-old girl from Pellestrina. Also for your friend Eusebio Russo, a fishmonger who unfortunately is dead. Maybe Russo was involved in the black market and a bit of an agitator. Tread carefully. As for Silber and Colonel Steiner, you’ll probably fuck up, so don’t say anything unless I directly tell you to. We’ll meet some people on the ground who will talk as if they know all about conspiracies and invite you to share your opinions. All the more reason to keep your mouth shut. And about Gina, say nothing at all.”

  Giorgio eased down and as soon as the Stork’s pontoons touched water he cut the engine and let the plane coast to a dock where two deckhands secured it with ropes. The Salò marina was full of pleasure boats nodding by the dock but going nowhere. A pair of mechanics helped Giorgio out of the Stork. It was obvious from their welcome that they held him in awe; after all, here was a man who virtually tilted with dragons.

  A woman leaning against a red Alfa Romeo convertible waved and called, “Giorgio! Giorgio, over here!”

  She was in a tailored suit and silk scarf that stamped her as possessing money and style. A round man in a white suit filled the car’s passenger seat and held on to his hat like a squirrel with a nut.

  “Oh my God, and who is this?” the woman asked.

  “My brother, Cenzo,” Giorgio said.

  “The brother?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Cenzo said.

  Giorgio sighed. “This is Signora Maria Paz, the wife of the former Argentine consul. Maria often speaks before she thinks.”

  Maria Paz was in her late thirties, an athletic woman with bangles on her wrist and a hint of carnal knowledge to her smile. Cenzo could picture her at the head of a conga line. Her eyes darted back and forth from brother to brother.

  “It’s hard to believe,” she said.

  “And this is the movie producer Otto Klein,” Giorgio said.

  Otto doffed his hat. “A virtual doppelgänger! A double.”

  Not really, Cenzo thought. He had darker eyes and unruly hair, and was broader through the chest from lifting heavy nets and crates.

  “You just came in from . . . ?” asked Otto Klein.

  “Venice,” Giorgio said.

  “And . . .” Otto hesitated.

  “It’s still there.”

  “I didn’t doubt it. I didn’t doubt it for a minute.”

  “Poor Otto, he’s so nervous,” Maria said.

  Klein said, “I only want it understood that I’m Swiss. I’m neutral.”

  “I understand.” She kissed his cheek and made him blush. “I’m not sure that General Eisenhower will.” To Cenzo she said, “Welcome to Salò. Alas we have sunshine, which means that Milan and Verona will have a clear sky for bombing.”

  “I heard that Storks were Rommel’s favorite recon plane, but I never knew they came outfitted with pontoons,” Otto Klein said.

  “I had one modified,” said Giorgio.

  “Very chic,” said Maria Paz.

  She drove with careless abandon along the shore of Lake Garda. Giorgio sat up front with Maria, Cenzo in back with Klein. Side by side, the town’s Mediterranean villas possessed the elegance of a corps de ballet. The Villa Acquarone, its Palladian arches draped with a swastika, had become German headquarters. The Hotel Monte Baldo had been commandeered by German medical staff and the classical Villa Alba had been taken over by German radio. But was Salò Rome? Was it Venice? Berlin? Even the Orologio, the clock tower of Salò, looked more like an item of furniture than the gateway to a world capital.

  The presence of the Argentine consul’s wife suggested that Salò had maintained a diplomatic community and a stylish one at that. It was, after all, the capital of the Italian Socialist Republic, the RSI, a puppet regime but a regime nonetheless.

  “I’ve packed you a suitcase,” Giorgio said to Cenzo. “Your own clothes are only appropriate for fishing. I’ve left you shaving gear too.”

  Klein had a pink complexion and yellowish hair that stuck out the back of his neck like damp feathers. He tapped Cenzo on the knee.

  “Ufa.”

  “Excuse me?” Cenzo said.

  “I’m with Ufa, the German movie studio. Actually, I’m in charge of distribution of German films in foreign countries. We’re not doing very much of that these days. You’ve probably seen our films. Historical dramas. Grandeur. Have you seen The Titanic? Our latest. I like a movie with wherewithal and I’m always on the lookout for a pretty face. What I’d give for another Marlene.”

  “They’re hard to find,” Giorgio said.

  “Otto is sometimes an actor himself,” Maria said.

  Klein said, “I wouldn’t go that far. Amateur Hour, that sort of thing. Newsreels are the hardest, and these days newsreels are impossible.”

  “I agree,” said Maria. “One day you’re marching around the Eiffel Tower, the next day, Berlin is an empty shell.”

  “These are temporary setbacks,” Klein said. “The next few days will clarify the situation. Giorgio and I haven’t had our final say, have we, Giorgio? Believe me, this war is far from over.”

  “Is that true?” Cenzo asked Giorgio. “You’re going to save Mussolini? Are you a magician too?”

  A column of German infantry made a hollow thumping as they marched along the wooden boards of the promenade that ran along the lake. They were disciplined, and for an army that was supposed to be on the brink of collapse, they looked well organized and ready to fight on. But a person never could tell. Everyone knew stories about whole battalions that fought to the last man rather than surrender, and other battalions that searched for Allied troops to surrender to. The German troops were followed by ragtag groups of the Italian Fascist state: an imitation army, Blackshirts, police, carabinieri.

  Maria turned to Cenzo. “Do you like it? This parade was supposed to boost morale. Everyone but fanatics is leaving Salò. My husband and I are all that’s left of the diplomatic corps. Why are you here? Bad timing?”

  “I’m looking for a niece, Giulia Vianello. She’s missing.”

  “Have you buried your differences with Giorgio to find this young girl? Bravo.”

  “It would make a good film,” Klein said.

  “Good film, bad film, and the hell with morals,” Maria said.

  “Look who’s getting virtuous.”

  “I don’t think the word ‘virtuous’ has any meaning anymore,” Maria said. “Not for a woman, not in a war.”

  Klein said, “What would really boost our morale is more rain so the Allies have less visibility and can’t bomb us into the ground. Foul weather is what we’re after.”

  “But you’re still Swiss, right?” Giorgio said.

  Once the parade passed, the cafés returned to normal. Handsome officers strolled with attractive nurses. Waiters carried trays full of Campari and seltzer water. Bureaucrats in black shirts carried black satchels.

  “I wonder how many of these self-important men are ready to cast aside the black shirts and find their old serge suits,” Maria said.r />
  “You must have a uniform in the back of your closet,” Cenzo said to Giorgio.

  “My good friend Giorgio is an exception,” Klein said. “He would have advanced in heaven or hell.”

  “What does she look like, this Giulia?” Maria asked.

  Cenzo said, “Small and dark.”

  “That’s ninety percent of girls in Italy.”

  “She’s well educated.”

  “Can she speak any languages?”

  “English and French.”

  “She doesn’t sound like a fisherman’s daughter, does she?”

  “Her parents were professionals.”

  “Ah, that must explain it.”

  • • •

  Giorgio had reserved second-floor digs for Cenzo in the Hotel Golfo, a sickly-green establishment with a flat façade. Maria Paz and her Alfa Romeo had gone on their way. Otto Klein waited downstairs for a business meeting with Giorgio. As Klein put it, there wasn’t room for three men in such a hole.

  Giorgio set a leather suitcase on the bed. “Decent clothes. We can’t have you running around Salò looking like a fisherman. The main thing is that you’re only a block from the lake and you have a private bath.”

  “Why were Maria and Klein part of the welcoming committee?”

  “You liked Maria?”

  “I liked her well enough.”

  “You thought she was a good soul?”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, she knows everyone. She also makes a mean martini.” Giorgio planted a room key in Cenzo’s hand. “Maria will come back for you. I have to do some business with Herr Klein for an hour or so. He still thinks there’s time for one last cinematic epic. If you leave, steer clear of the other tenants of the Hotel Golfo. They’re lunatics, especially the Black Brigade. Best not to talk to any of them.” As he shut the door, Giorgio added, “Don’t screw up.”

  Alone for the first time, Cenzo looked around the room, not that there was much to see. The rich did not treat their staff with luxury. Peeling walls were decorated with a mirror, prints of the lake, a crucifix, and a plaster Virgin. A bureau with four drawers was empty except for loose change and spare buttons. An armoire with no hangers but a pile of blankets. A thin mattress without pillow or sheets. A miniature bathroom with a shower that squeaked and dripped. A shaving mirror hung from a hook. Giorgio’s suitcase, however, looked extravagantly expensive, and the shirts bore his monogram GGV for Giorgio “Giovanni” Vianello. The middle name was always given by the church and the name for boys in Pellestrina was always Giovanni. There was one small window. Otherwise, the room was as airless as a tomb.

  Cenzo washed and shaved, and as he rinsed his razor a rhythmic creaking of bedsprings started to come from the next room. It was hard to believe anyone’s amorous spirit could outdo the grimness of the setting. Cenzo went for a cigarette on the fire escape at the end of the hall.

  He had no idea of how to search for Giulia. He knew only that he was out of his depth. He knew nothing about the German army, partisans, or the surreal world of Salò.

  Colonel Steiner said that Russo had been found dead. Murdered. Alone. This was the point at which all certainties were reexamined. What had happened to the second man in Russo’s boat? Was his friend Russo actually a partisan or was he an informant? Why had he gotten off with only a black eye the first time and then killed the second? Who could say that Giulia had not suffered Russo’s fate? She may have talked her way out of the same situation. She was one terrific talker. One assumption he had to make was that Giulia was alive.

  The fire-escape door opened and a man dressed entirely in black stepped outside to wipe sweat from his brow. He could have been a neighborhood butcher, with a potbelly, cheeks as round as a teapot, and a little duster of a mustache. If he was surprised at encountering company, he didn’t show it. He studied Cenzo.

  “Vianello?”

  “Yes.”

  “But not the Vianello.”

  “The other Vianello.”

  “‘The other’? That shows modesty.” The man nodded as if he had touched on a universal truth. Cenzo couldn’t put a name to him right away but he had seen his face on the sort of posters that encouraged Fascist allegiance. The man shrugged apologetically at his apron. “One should never be afraid to get his hands dirty in the service of Il Duce.”

  “Do you know my brother?”

  “Giorgio Vianello? I know of him. Have you come like a good brother to assist him?”

  Orsini was the man’s name, Cenzo remembered. Commander Orsini, leader of the Black Brigade, returned the smile. The Black Brigade was the fist of the Italian Fascist state. That Orsini even knew of Cenzo’s existence was unsettling.

  “Family honor,” Cenzo said.

  “Yes. ‘Home, Motherland, Honor.’” Orsini looked as if he would slap Cenzo on the back with approval. “Maybe you would consider joining us?”

  “Joining the Black Brigade?”

  “You know our motto: ‘Embrace death.’”

  Cenzo was saved by the return of Maria Paz in her red convertible. “Making new friends?” she called. “I see you have found Commander Orsini. I hope I’m interrupting you.”

  “The Whore of Babylon,” Orsini muttered as he slipped away into the hall.

  “Such charm,” Maria said when Cenzo joined her. “He can’t stand the fact that he can’t threaten me. He wouldn’t dare. Anyway, your brother has given me the assignment of entertaining you. Much better. This way I can give you the lowdown.”

  15

  Maria drove with the air of an older sister. Her lipstick and fingernails were candy red and she blew kisses to German motorcycles buzzing past.

  “Such brave boys,” she said. “Fighting for a lost cause, but very brave.”

  “And confused,” Cenzo said.

  “Salò is the ultimate confusion, like having different operas take place on the same stage at the same time.”

  “What else does Giorgio have planned for me besides throwing me in the water like a bucket of chum?”

  “I can’t believe Giorgio put you in the same hotel as Orsini.”

  “Then you don’t know my brother. What’s happening tonight?”

  “We’re having dinner with General Kassel. You should be honored. After all, he has just been made commander of German forces on the Western Front. The general has commanded Giorgio and Otto Klein to be there and Giorgio has commanded me likewise.”

  “Giorgio can command the wife of the Argentine consul?”

  “He can be very persuasive. Besides, we have no official consulate here anymore.”

  “And what would I have to say to the general tonight?”

  “Fishing. Talk about fishing. Generals love to fish. Churchill fished here. The crème de la crème. Before the war, this was a destination of German tourists who fished in straw hats and white jackets. Now it’s helmets and Wehrmacht green.” She waved dark thoughts aside and pointed out to the Villa Feltrinelli. “This is the height of domesticity, where Mussolini’s wife, Signora Rachele, lives. And up the road is the Villa Fiordaliso, the romantic tower where he meets his mistress, Claretta.”

  “Aren’t the villas dangerously close together?”

  “Yes. God forbid the wife and mistress ever meet face-to-face. It’s the job of the German SS to keep them apart. Do you know how embarrassing it is for a fearsome SS officer to watch over a henhouse? Claretta is young and spry. Rachele is older but tough, a bulldog. It would be a good fight.”

  “The idea amuses you.”

  “Except when I see something like that.” She pointed to a poster on the casino that showed a mother telling her son, “I Would Rather You Came Home a Dead Patriot Than a Live Traitor.” Maria said, “No mother on earth would say that. This worship of death is sick.”

  “If you feel that way, why aren’t you back i
n Buenos Aires?”

  “A diplomat goes where he’s ordered. My husband was sent here, and now, unfortunately, he’s unable to travel.”

  “What if Salò is bombed?”

  “It won’t be. At least it hasn’t been.”

  “Why not? Mussolini is here.”

  “It would be a waste of ammunition. Ask yourself: Which is more important, Mussolini or a locomotive. It’s sad.”

  “What is?”

  “Il Duce. He’s practically a prisoner. He has Germans watching him all the time. You’ll see him riding his bicycle or sneaking off to see his mistress or hiding from his wife.” She pointed at more sites as they passed. “Here we have German Headquarters, a small Parthenon for German radio, cozy villas for the police and Black Brigade, a German hospital for amputations next to a crematorium for limbs. Convenient. Then there’s the latest gossip. Amour, amour, amour. Goebbels has a lover in Budapest. Hitler loves his dog Blondi. But enough of war. What are you doing in Salò? Please don’t give me a fairy tale about a runaway teenager. The girl might be distraught, but why would she leave Venice for Salò? On the other hand, a man well might track down the brother who seduced his wife. That I find entirely ­believable.”

  “This wasn’t my idea.”

  “Well, be careful. You look far too honorable. That is a handicap in Salò.”

  “As soon as I find the girl, I’ll go back to Pellestrina.”

  “Not too soon. You’re invited to a party.”

  “I think I’ll pass.”

  “You can’t. It’s Hitler’s birthday and you’re invited.”

  • • •

  The officers mess was hung with blackout curtains and larger-than-life-size portraits of Hitler and Mussolini. A quartet of musicians selected from the ranks played a relentless stream of waltzes. It was a golden evening. Officers wore their dress uniforms and dined in the company of adoring nurses and secretaries, for tomorrow might bring orders to the Eastern Front.