“The President then asked for opinions concerning the stability of Chairman Khrushchev himself, noting that during a period of nine months there had been serious convulsions within the Kremlin, resulting in the ouster of Bulganin, of Marshal Zhukov, of Molotov, and others.
“Secretary Herter said his reports indicated that Khrushchev’s power, while not absolute, was unchallenged at the present moment, but that he doubted that Khrushchev could on his own authority make significant diplomatic concessions while on U.S. territory. He would probably limit himself to procedural questions concerning the dates of summit meetings, etc.
“General Twining said that his opinion was that under General Malinovsky a strenuous effort was being made to emphasize the development of long-range missiles; and that General Twining was not himself satisfied by the reliability of the Defense Department’s estimates concerning the number of missiles now deployed. He reminded Director Dulles that in July, U.S. radar penetration had resulted in considerable Soviet redeployment, away from Tyura Tam inland toward southern Siberia.
“The Director reminded General Twining that our U-2S out of Japan had noted the development, and that, in any event, missiles developed in Siberia would need to be brought to a geographical area closer to the continental United States in order to represent a threat; at which point existing technology of surveillance would detect such movements.
“The President said the Defense Department and the Joint Chiefs should iron out the differences in their estimates. He requested Secretary Herter to devise a formulation that might accompany a text announcing a future summit meeting, which text would be understood by the diplomatic community as having the effect of lifting the ultimatum on Berlin. Because as matters now stood, the Kremlin was saying it very clearly: Effective on the day we (the U.S.S.R.) make a peace treaty with East Germany, Western rights of access to Berlin are … forfeit.
“The President called the meeting to a close at 4:17 P.M.”
Shelepin stopped reading. There was no comment. He reached for the red telephone and lifted it. “Shelepin, Comrade Khrushchev. I must see you right away.” He looked at his watch. “Very well, I’ll be there in ten minutes.” He motioned to Malinovsky and Speranski to follow him.
CHAPTER 5
Benni, as everyone called him then, was the guest of honor at the party—it was his birthday. The year was 1939. Benni was thirty-nine, and a considerable figure in Alturgia, the little suburb southwest of Rome where Benni was born, schooled, and now worked. Though still young, he had inherited his father’s role as something of an informal ombudsman for the workers who kept afloat the massive enterprise that sustained Alturgia, a subsidiary of the giant firm of Etzione Srl. whose cash registers, to point to only one of Etzione’s products, supplied half of Italy’s needs, and were exported worldwide. These were made in Milan, but the firm had many products, including typewriters and sewing machines. At Alturgia the principal product was the renowned Etzione Stapler, and Benni was the shop steward of the craft union, which called on him to do much of the paperwork for the 600-odd employees who looked to him for help in those little matters that can mean so much, like getting an advance before the new baby. Benni would get it, and with the check, more often than not, came a letter offering, however prematurely, the congratulations—of the Italian Communist Party, Etzione Stapler division.
Soon after the advent of Benito Mussolini, back when Benni had just begun to work, the sales in staplers had risen dramatically. It was not only because under fascism the paperwork was enormous. Mussolini, who was given to variable and episodic enthusiasms, had on one occasion elected to dwell on the virtues of husbandry by speaking of the staple as a symbol. This had been during a long and robust address delivered over state radio and blared into all public buildings and town squares. His researchers, Mussolini had recounted, his voice rising with triumphant enthusiasm at the discovery, had calculated that for every paper clip, Italians could, at the same expense, manufacture ten staples. “I ask you, my fellow citizens,” Mussolini had said, coming to the climax of his address, “I ask you, are you willing to serve the motherland to the extent of substituting a little physical exertion, in return for a saving of ninety percent?” Mussolini then dilated on the general theme of Italian physical culture, to which he was strenuously devoted. “Is it not,” he asked in his most seductive accents, “something of a symbol to ask all Italians to exert themselves physically to the extent of applying a little pressure on a stapling machine, rather than to slither on a paper clip, requiring no physical exertion, causing the arm muscles to become flaccid, replicating the obviously degenerate ways of our anarchic neighbors to the west?” He ordered that henceforward the stapler should be recognized as the agent of the energetic in body and spirit. He did not want to see a paper clip in any office of the Italian Government, he warned, his voice now not only paternal, but menacing.
The next day the orders had, of course, outrun the capacity even of Etzione, and there developed a six-week delay in delivery; but the demand proved constant, and the Alturgia division flourished, bringing finally the promotion of Benni to the position his father had had when suddenly the old man died, in his sleep, from a heart attack. The handsome, diffident, hardworking Benni was all but unanimously elected, on the fourth round, and shortly after a visit to the only other contender by two heavily muscled Party representatives from Rome, the other contender announced that he had decided to withdraw from the race so that Benni Bolgiano would receive the backing of all the workers, united.
The negotiation process with Etzione followed a preset course, every three years. The managers would meet with Benni and his lieutenants and announce exactly what the terms of the new contract would be. Benni would decide which terms of the new contract the management should fail to enumerate in its public message to the workers. Benni would take that clause—in 1938, it was two weeks’ vacation with pay after two years of work—and publicly insist that the company yield on the point. Much pressure would be mobilized. The managers would respond that the concession was economically crippling, but Benni would stick to his guns. Then, when there were only minutes to go before the old contract ran out, management would tearfully yield and there would be a noisy celebration among the workers. Benni would join in their celebration, and make a speech about the goldenwork of the bargaining table. He was careful not to say what actually was on his mind, namely that one day there would be no bargaining table, because the workers would own and operate the enterprise—that was for tomorrow, and at the last several Party meetings in Rome he had been cautioned against any public declaration that might attract the attention of Mussolini’s fascist police.
At the birthday party, Benni wished that the meeting in Rome had been this morning rather than yesterday, because the other historical event of September 1, 1939, was the attack on Poland by Hitler. Benni was not certain how to instruct his friends in the local Party on the proper reaction. Hitler was the enemy, of course; but Mussolini had twice, in recent months, professed a fraternal devotion to Hitler, and since the Party was cautious about provoking the opposition, Benni thought it wise to caution against any public comment, “pending developments.” The great Togliatti would have to instruct them on this one, for Benni knew the importance of rank, and discipline. So when he raised his glass, which he did frequently, both giving toasts and receiving others’, he spoke the usual “generalities, and when he got home to his wife and ten-year-old son and saw that they were safely asleep, Benni got down on his knees, secure from detection. Benni and the Party disapproved of prayers, but he was a man of some sentiment. “Although, Almighty God,” he whispered tonight, “I know that you do not exist, there is no reason to hold that against you; and accordingly I address you simply as a matter of courtesy, to ask you to look kindly on the workers of the Etzione Syndicate, Stapler Division, to bless the efforts of the members of its affiliated unions, and to give special guidance, in his all-important role, to Comrade Stalin, to help him in his campaign
to bring freedom and peace and justice and brotherhood to the peoples of this world. All this I ask, and especially that you look after my precious Maria and Michele.” Benni now lapsed into the boilerplate of his youth, from which his mother, proudly Jewish, would ostentatiously desist when Benni’s father conducted the prayer meetings, “through the blessings of thy son, our blessed Lord, Jesus Christ.”
It wasn’t until two years later that the Nazis came. They were technically there to help convert a part of the factory to the manufacture of parts for automatic weapons. At first Benni was treated with some deference, although he was not consulted on all of the decisions reached by the new military-technological hierarchy, even those decisions that directly affected working conditions.
He spoke to Maria about this one night in June, while Michele was fiddling with the radio. He said he would have to make an official protest, to which end he would have to see Captain Kreisler, who seemed to be the man to deal with, notwithstanding that he had no specific title; it was to his office that, increasingly, one went in order to get authoritative decisions. He would, he assured Maria, see him tomorrow—indeed, he had already made the appointment for three o’clock. Maria, pretty, always shy and a little frightened, turned her eyes toward Michele and asked Benni to be careful. He smiled, kissed her, and whispered that she might coach him better on how to behave—upstairs, in the bedroom.
Benni was astonished, on being admitted into the office of Captain Kreisler, that he was not invited to sit down. He stood, awkwardly, his opening remarks rather scrambled by the social clumsiness. Captain Kreisler, his black military jacket on, the heat of the afternoon notwithstanding, sat behind his desk, in front of a photograph of Mussolini and Hitler embracing at Munich. He had a sheaf of papers before him.
“I am glad you made this appointment, Bolgiano, because I had it down to see you.”
Benni said nothing, but could not remember when last he had felt so awkward.
“You are the son of Eva Moravia Bolgiano?”
“That is correct, Captain.”
“The records show that Eva Moravia was Jewish.”
Benni, finding a sudden equilibrium returning to his body, looked down at the pale blond person with the wispy mustache and broad, hunched shoulders.
Benni weighed his words carefully. “What business is that of yours? Besides, my mother is dead.”
Captain Kreisler’s cheeks flushed.
“I am aware that she is dead. I am also aware that you are one-half Jewish. I am also aware that a Jewish conspiracy, worldwide, is engaged in attempting to frustrate the great war effort binding your country and mine. You are as of this moment relieved of your duties at the Etzione Company. Empty your office by five o’clock, and hand the keys to the clerk in my office.”
Benni did not move.
Captain Kreisler looked up at him. “Should I make myself more clear? We do not want a Jew in our enterprise. Now get out.”
Benni leaped over the desk as if catapulted by a huge sling. His hands were on the throat of the captain, who had gone crashing to the floor, toppling the chair and the typewriter table to one side. The captain screamed in German. Benni released one hand, closed it, and delivered a smashing blow on the nose which instantly swelled and bled. He had delivered four blows, and started a fifth, before they pulled him away and held him outside pending the arrival of the military police. Benni said not a word, lowered his eyes, and looked at the ground: he did not wish to see the faces of any of his co-workers; even as he knew that they, frightened, would not want to see Benni. The wait wasn’t long. There were three men in the heavy black car that drove up. Two came out, and one of them with his stick, belted Benni in the stomach. He doubled over, and the guards took the opportunity to toss him into the back seat, separated from the front by wire netting.
The sergeant, preparing to enter the front section alongside the driver, turned to the four men from whom he had seized Benni.
“I am the adjutant of Captain Kölder of the military police.
“Send the official complaint by Captain Kreisler to the Office of the Advocate General at the Palazzo Venezia. We’re taking him right to Rome.”
During the next three days, in which twice each day he was taken to the “courtyard,” as the prisoners called it, and there beaten, without any observable passion, by two huge young loutish-faced men both stripped to their T-shirts, then dragged back to his cell, no one asked him any questions at all, and to his mumbled request to see a lawyer, a doctor, or a priest, no answer whatever was given. In or out of his cell he felt only a single pain: Maria and Michele. Michele, age twelve, would be—Benni almost had to stop to calculate it—one-fourth Jewish. Would harm come to him? To Maria? For having married a half-Jew? His resentment during those days, which were followed by the mockery of a trial (at which a gratifyingly mutilated Captain Kreisler gave evidence) when he was unable to wrest from anyone information about his family, let alone cooperation in transmitting any communication to Maria, caused a radical change in his easygoing nature. He felt hardening in him a resolve altogether incompatible with anything he had felt before. A resolve that left no room for compromise. It sustained him during the trip to the penitentiary near Naples, administered now by the Nazis, appearances to the contrary notwithstanding. He hardly noticed his surroundings. What had been the sentence? When last had he eaten? On the second evening Salvatore, his cellmate, doused a piece of bread in the cold soup and flagged Benni’s attention. “Eat this for the sake of Maria and Michele.” Benni was startled. Who was Salvatore? How did he know?
Salvatore anticipated the question. “You talk about them in your sleep.”
Benni looked at the mushy piece of bread as though he had never eaten before. He chewed at it, consuming about one half.
Salvatore spoke. “I have got word out on Maria and Michele.”
Salvatore was speaking in whispers. “The Party will look after them.”
“How do you know?” For the first time Benni felt he could focus on the problem. He looked at Salvatore, who was smoking a cigarette made from rancid prison tobacco rolled in newspaper. His voice was husky, but his words were authoritative in tone.
“I do not know. But the message has been passed along, and sometime soon you will hear.”
Benni, unfamiliar with the sinfulness of being part Jewish, asked Salvatore, who was obviously more cosmopolitan, whether it was now the active policy of Mussolini’s government to persecute the Jews.
“The answer to your question, Benni, is: Yes. It began with the October 1936 edict against Jews in the civil service and the armed forces. But the policy now fans out.”
“Would it affect my son?”
“He would be better off elsewhere. His father,” Salvatore spoke fatalistically, “is after all a political criminal who attempted to kill in cold blood the German representative of the Joint Military Command. They could have executed you.”
“Why didn’t they?”
“The workers at your plant stayed home until you were sentenced.”
All this was news to Benni. “But it must have been—four, five days before they tried me?”
“Your … attack was on a Tuesday. You were tried on Friday. On Saturday morning the workers went back to work their half day.”
Benni was visibly pleased, and proud; but then he wondered whether his co-workers’ contumacy might enhance the danger to his family.
He asked suddenly, “What was my sentence?”
“Seven to ten years, in a labor camp. This is an administrative center. Soon they will take you away.”
“And you?” Benni asked.
Salvatore, lighting another cigarette, said, “Me? Unhappily, I am to be shot.”
Benni stood up, but dizziness and weakness brought him back to the bedside. He began to speak, but his voice failed to function. Finally he said in a whisper, “What did you do?”
Salvatore, twirling his cigarette in his hand, said, “I blew up the refinery at Ostia.” He p
aused, and inhaled deeply. “It will take them three months to set it right.”
“How did they catch you?”
“That is the only reason I will die without peace. It can only have been one man who betrayed me, and he will survive me. But not”—Salvatore crossed himself—“for long. I gave his name to my friend.”
“What friend?”
“Never mind. The same friend to whom I gave the name of your wife and son. You must not ask for names in this business.”
“What business?” Benni asked.
Salvatore looked pityingly at his cellmate. “Benni, we are both members of the Party. The Party was forced to make an ugly alliance with Hitler. But that alliance will not last. And what you must realize now is that there is only one thing that matters, and that is for the Party to prevail. That is our business.”
Benni repeated, as if liturgically, “That is our business.”
“Do you understand what I am saying?”
Benni said he understood.
“In that event, your imprisonment will cause you less suffering.”
Benni then said, in accents he normally reserved for Maria and Michele, “Salvatore, what can I do for you?”
“Benni, you are a sentimental fool. What are you in a position to do for me? You cannot even provide me with a plate of fettuccine, let alone a bottle of brandy, let alone an hour with my bitch Teresa—curse her philandering soul—let alone cause these walls to dissolve, let alone bring on the death, by the slowest available means, of Il Duce and Der Führer.” Salvatore paused. “You can tell them—don’t ask who they are; they will make themselves known to you—that Salvatore Gigli died like a man, but that his soul will not rest in peace until his betrayer is brought to citizens’ justice.” Salvatore slowly, lasciviously went through the motion of cutting his own throat, sticking out his tongue as if in extreme agony. He was quiet then, and Benni did not want to initiate any conversation. He would not sleep for the few hours Salvatore had left to live, in case he wanted to talk. But he didn’t; he simply smoked one cigarette after another, and when the smoke reached the level of the single window, ten feet up on the side of the wall, the moonlight illuminated it, rising torpidly in the night air in the hot, humid cell.
Marco Polo, If You Can Page 4
