A Dark Song of Blood

by Ben Pastor

  “It ought to be on this coast, anyway, if reports of activity in the Naples harbor are correct.”

  “But where, and when?” Westphal passed his hands over the bristle of his cheeks. “Be good, Bora. Shave and run by Gestapo headquarters to see what Kappler has in mind.”

  21 JANUARY 1944

  The calendar day celebrated the feast of St Agnes with a Gospel reading from Matthew, the Parable of the Wise and Foolish Virgins. During the light hours, mixed reports were phoned in from the front, and by nightfall the only news of interest pertained to a heavy air raid on London. In a headstrong state of premonition, Westphal stayed up until late. Then, mostly because Kesselring had agreed to relent the alert after three tense days, he told Bora he would go lie down. “Call me if anything happens.”

  Bora set to keep watch in the dead hours that followed, when even vigilance born of foreboding whittled down under physical weariness. Nothing had happened. Nothing might happen. Around him and this room the whole great building seemed enchanted, bound in silence. Shortly after midnight, he began a letter to his wife, reread it and decided not to send it.

  A cigarette later, his mind wandered to disparate and irrelevant subjects, as in dreams. Who was the SS Magda Reiner had dated, and was God really Borromeo’s last lover? He wondered if it was true that Kappler collected Etruscan art, like Dollmann said. Was this the time to collect anything? And so through the night. Coffee grew cold in his cup, names on the maps became confused scribbles on mountainsides along wavy seashores. At one point Bora turned the lights off and went to open the window. It was like plunging his face in icy water, bracing and beneficial. Outside, the late hour stood calm, depthless. A thin haze stretched like a canopy of gauze over the city. He sat at his desk in the dark, facing the window. Finally, at three o’clock, the news came. Bora collected himself after leaving the telephone, and on his way to the general’s room he took time to straighten his uniform. Westphal didn’t need much to be awakened. He stared at the door where his aide’s figure stood straight, bare-headed. “Where?” he asked at once.

  “Codename Option Richard.”

  “Anzio?”

  “And Nettuno.” Bora looked away while the general furiously threw his clothes back on. “They’re making straight for the interior.”

  “Call Soratte at once.” Even as he left the threshold, Westphal’s voice summoned him back. “Stand ready to evacuate the building and the city.”

  In the early hours of the morning, the magnitude of the disaster was first assessed. By this time emergency troops had been dispatched to cordon off the landing area, and the void behind them was likely to be overwhelmed any time. But at noon, the line still visibly held.

  “If they only hesitate today and tomorrow,” Westphal wished out loud, bright-eyed with anguish and hope, “you may yet unpack your trunk.”

  Bora found it easy not to smile. “It’s less than sixty-five miles away. In Russia we traveled them in one hour.”

  “You were not facing German soldiers. No, no. Schlemm and Herr are doing everything right. The 65th Division is a resurrected ghost, but we’ll have the 362nd and the rest soon enough, if only we hold until then. The Panzer troops will.” Carelessly Westphal threw his greatcoat on. “I’m off to Soratte, and won’t be back until von Mackensen shows up. If Kappler calls for men, give him what he asks.”

  Bora followed him out of the office. “The power of news being what it is, by your leave I suggest that in the next few days we’ll see renewal of partisan aggression in Rome.”

  “All right, I’ll make sure the field marshal hears the voice of experience – and I promise I’ll sandbag my car. Speaking of experience, have we heard from Holz?”

  “We heard from his staff. He was killed earlier today.”

  “For shame. Well, get some sleep when you can. Any calls from the Vatican, don’t let through unless it’s the Secretary of State and up. You know what to do if the enemy breaks through.” About to leave, Westphal seemed startled, but immediately turned with a grin to Bora’s pale and unmoved countenance. “What do you know? You can hear the cannon from Rome.”

  2

  23 JANUARY 1944

  By Sunday, it seemed the Germans had vanished overnight. Their field-gray cars no longer patrolled the streets. Even the fierce mouths of tank guns had retreated from alleys and little tucked-back squares. Wild rumors of liberation were whispered and denied, but the deep roll of artillery to the west did not lie. Guidi was all the more surprised when Bora’s well-bred voice invited him over the telephone to a late lunch.

  “It’s absolutely impossible, Major.” He made up his mind to refuse. “I have work to do.”

  “All right. I’ll come there, then.”

  Guidi had no chance to reply, because the receiver had already been clicked down. He scrambled for the next ten minutes to clear his desk, knowing that Bora did not have a long way to travel from Via Veneto to Via Del Boccaccio. Soon the black Mercedes pulled in by the curb, and there was Bora, overcoat nonchalantly doubled on his left arm, getting out and climbing the steps with his stiff, quick gait. “Leave the door open,” he told Guidi. “I have lunch coming.”

  “Here?”

  “Why not?” Bora didn’t say he had hardly eaten in the last two frantic days. “I’m hungry.”

  The men in the police office made themselves scarce. As for Bora, he took advantage of the fact that no one would ask him about the military situation. So he showed far more leisure than matters warranted, amicably inquiring about Guidi’s new address, and whether he could be of assistance, “now that it seems we’ll be working together.”

  Guidi watched him stand by the window with his back to it, in apparent disregard of prudence, and suspected Bora may be trying to hide signs of sleeplessness or worry. He joined him to take a better look at his face. “Do you mean you didn’t know as of our first meeting?”

  “Why, no, I only found out a week ago. I’m glad, though.” In order to face Guidi, Bora turned toward the overcast light of day. On his fine-grained skin, character lines still disappeared after a change of expression. “Why are you looking at me that way?” He laughed.

  Guidi shrugged. “I was thinking that it’s not a good idea to talk by the window,” he simply said. Drawing back into the room, he gestured toward a chair. “Will you take a seat?”

  “No, thanks. Working in Rome is sedentary enough.”

  There was such negligence in the reply, Guidi was tempted to believe there might be less to the invasion than rumored. But Bora did look tired, and there was no denying that.

  Over lunch they discussed the Reiner case.

  “Rome is ours.” Bora dropped the political hint as if he were speaking of real estate. “No murderer will get out – if there’s a murderer. We want him.”

  “The King of Rome wants him,” Guidi specified mildly. “You can’t possibly approve of Maelzer, Major. He’s a drunken oaf. The Romans can’t stand him.”

  “Well, I’m not Roman.”

  “But I think I know you better than that.”

  Bora ate slowly, without looking up. “You don’t know me at all.” And while Guidi discovered his own appetite in the presence of good food, the German seemed to have lost interest in the meal. Sitting back, he took a house key out of his pocket, and laid it on the table. “My schedule is tight, so we’ll visit the Reiner place right after this.”

  “If you don’t mind, I’ll come in my own car.”

  “Fine. I’d rather go in the morning, but I’m a bit tied up.” It was only one of Bora’s understatements, since he was due to visit the Anzio front on behalf of General Westphal. But his composure was genuine, because he was not afraid. “Tomorrow after work, however, we’re off to a Pirandello play. I’ll tell you why later on.”

  At the Reiner apartment on Via Tolemaide – a side street of Via Candia, in the Prati district – Bora leaned to look out of the window at the sidewalk hemming the street four floors down. “Did anybody see her fall?” he aske
d Guidi.

  “No. Curfew was at seven those days, and it was past that time. As prescribed, all lights were off. A neighbor says he heard a woman scream between seven-thirty and eight, but he’s not sure it had anything to do with the incident.”

  Bora turned. “It’s not a cold winter by German standards, but it is cold. Why would her bedroom window be open at night?”

  “Perhaps for the very purpose of ending her life. Notwithstanding the absence of keys – someone could have picked them up from the street if she was holding them when she fell – we can’t rule out suicide, or even an unlikely accident. I’ll look into every possibility.”

  While Guidi began searching the room, Bora remained by the windowsill, moodily observing the minute debris of life on it – a pigeon’s silvery waste, lint caught up in it, a cinder speck flown here from God knows where. How little remains after our death, he thought. His next question came negligently over the rattle of windowpanes, caused by far away artillery. “What was she wearing at the time of death?”

  With his head in the wardrobe, Guidi pulled an envelope from his pocket, and handed it over. “Here are the photos. You may want to take a look between meals.”

  Bora looked at once. “They’re horrible.”

  “You can see she was wearing a nightgown and a robe. Next you’ll ask me if someone was here with her, and I have no answer for that. Out of twelve, only two other apartments in the house are tenanted. There was a seasonal party on the floor below, and enough noise for people not to realize what had happened. A policeman found her at seven fifty-five. Although she was undeniably past help, they transported her to the neighborhood pharmacy. Its owner, Dr Mannucci, had the common sense of declaring her dead for good.” As he spoke, Guidi opened drawers and poked into them. “By the way, Major, someone has come here before us. Except for her bed – a pillowcase is missing, did you notice? – this room has been straightened out.”

  “I will inquire,” Bora said.

  “It’d help if I knew what reputation the victim had in your community. Twenty-seven, unmarried or legally separated – the reports conflict – and ‘not too good-looking but vivacious.’ That’s how a co-worker described her in the dossier.”

  “I haven’t read it yet.”

  “Well, it isn’t enough to go on. Here’s Magda Reiner’s passport photo.”

  Bora glanced at the document Guidi handed him. “Some sources,” (he meant Dollmann, who had given him an earful of gossip about the story), “suggest she seemed to be actively seeking a husband, or a similar domestic arrangement.”

  “Among the Italians or the Germans?”

  “Both.” Bora leafed through the passport, and gave it back. “As for the lesbian angle, it came up after an office party where things got out of hand.” Because Guidi stared, Bora repeated, annoyed, “Out of hand. Kissing, touching, and the like.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I was told by a colleague who attended. But you’re just making me talk, because from what I understand, you already have a suspect.”

  Guidi passed his fingers on the dustless bed table. “A fairly untouchable one. He’s Ras Merlo, one of the last and highest-ranking Party officials in Rome.”

  “Well, could it be?”

  “Judge for yourself, Major. He’s a henpecked middle-aged Romeo with a brood of children. His oversized wife is known as ‘the Grenadier’, and apparently not beyond striking him in anger. Jealousy is hinted at as a motive, whether or not it’d be enough for him to kill. He seems to have a history of roughing up occasional girlfriends. We can’t place him in this building on that night, but someone looking very much like him was seen in a distraught state shortly after the incident in Via Santamaura.”

  “A parallel to this street.” Bora closed the window. Facing the room, he stared at Magda’s undone bed, and then away from it. “What was he doing there?”

  “Throwing up by the open market’s garbage cans. But I should add he lives on Piazzale degli Eroi, not far from here.”

  “Does he realize you’re on to him?”

  “We’ve been good about playing the accident card. Merlo might suspect there’s an investigation, but he doesn’t know for sure. More importantly, he doesn’t know me. As long as the official word holds, he’ll have no real reason to watch his step.”

  “Why not call him in and straighten things out at once?”

  Guidi remembered how Bora asked questions for the sake of being provocative. “Clearly not even Caruso wants to touch this one directly. Though he may take it from his wife, Merlo has a reputation for vindictiveness with political enemies.”

  “Ah. Not to speak of what he’d do to you. I get it. Anyway, tomorrow night we’ll have a chance to see him at the theater. It’s a command performance, and he’ll be there.”

  Bora did not follow when Guidi went looking through the rest of the apartment, three rooms in all. At Guidi’s return, he was sitting at the foot of the girl’s bed, weary or melancholy, or unwell. Likely to avoid questions about himself, he came to his feet at once. “Let’s go,” he snapped, “I can’t stay here all day.” As they faced each other in the narrow elevator, however, Bora said without prompting, “The gossip is that she began secretarial work in Stuttgart. She was from Renningen, nearby. Was attached to the German Olympic Committee in ’36, took on with a foreign athlete, and there were consequences to the relationship. It appears she was briefly married to an army photographer, served with army headquarters, and after a legal separation managed to find a post with the German embassy in Paris. She’d been in Rome six months, and apparently liked it very well. ‘Fun-loving’ they told me. No more than a social drinker, not much more than an easy lay.”

  Guidi had not expected the intervention. “But of course,” he thought he should say, “you heard all this from men.”

  “No.” They had reached the ground floor, and as Bora walked through the shady archway leading to the main door, Guidi could tell by the stiffness of his torso that he was in pain. “Actually, my first official act in Rome was to phone her mother. It seems a childless cousin is raising Magda’s daughter in Renningen. But it’s true that I haven’t sat to chatter with her girlfriends. That’s policemen’s work.”

  Having parted ways with Guidi, Bora walked to the pharmacy where the dead girl had been brought. It was an interesting narrow building on Via Andrea Doria, with an oval plate by the door that read “Free Medications Distributed to the Poor.” Inside, with the pretext of buying a painkiller, he conversed with Dr Mannucci, asking him first about the collection of fine apothecary vases on display, and then about the events of 29 January. The pharmacist – a hale old man with an old-fashioned mustache and a keen interest in the humanities – no doubt understood the reasons for Bora’s inquiry, but graciously acted as though it were just a friend’s concern. Patiently picking up and setting aside the well-fed cat that played with pen and papers on the counter (“Down, Salolo, down. You know better”), he said, “Yes, I did suggest that she be carried to Santo Spirito’s hospital. Carried, mind you – not rushed. You understand there was no reason to rush her to an emergency room, as her skull was crushed beyond repair and even recognition.”

  Bora had laboriously opened the Cibalgina container, and now swallowed two tablets. Showing a soldier’s pragmatic empathy, “The incident must have required much cleaning of your beautiful floor,” he observed.

  “Well, blood is less problematic than vomit – and that, too, we had to clean up on the same night.”

  “Oh? One of the policemen who brought her in?”

  Dr Mannucci looked Bora in the eye, both of them fully understanding the gist of the conversation. “Not at all.”

  At his return home, Guidi found its small population in a state of hushed exhilaration. Tenants from all floors had gathered in the parlor, where Francesca curled like a cat on the floor closest to the radio. “You must hear this.” Signora Carmela grabbed him by the arm. “The Americans have really come!”

 
; Her husband hastened to top the news. “The Germans are pulling out. They say there are none left in the city – they’re leaving by way of the Cassia.”

  Guidi glanced at Francesca, who remained turned to the radio, listening intently with her face low. “Who’s saying this?” he asked.

  “Who cares? The Americans are here!” The cherry-lipped woman – Pompilia Marasca, known as Pina – was ecstatic. “Just think of it – the Americans!”

  Guidi stared at the odd circle of people. Smiling, the professor said he’d use today’s date as a lotto number. The two students from upstairs – on the uneasy verge of being drafted – nudged one another and cracked juvenile jokes of relief. Signora Carmela blew kisses to the saints in their glass domes. “I hate to tell you,” Guidi spoke up. “The Germans have not left. The Americans may be coming, but there are Germans still here. Go see for yourselves.”

  “It doesn’t mean anything!” Angry-eyed, Francesca looked up at him, her paleness stark in the dim little parlor. “It’s the end for the Germans, can’t you see? It’s a matter of time!”

  “And,” the professor whistled through his false teeth, “how long can it take some seventy thousand fully armed men to reach us? I used to run bicycle races to Anzio and back.”

  The students swore they had seen the glare of battle in the past nights, contradicting each other as to direction and hour, but agreeing that it was the American advance.

  “Let’s hope you’re right,” Guidi said.

  “What happens if the Germans don’t leave Rome?” Pompilia suddenly considered. “Does it mean they’ll fight in the streets?”

  “I expect so.”

  “Oh, Jesus!”

  “Except that they’ll get it from all sides.” Francesca stood up to leave, contemptuously. What else she meant to say – and Guidi wished she would not – remained unsaid. She pulled back her hair with both hands, hard, until her features were lifted and she looked like a strange geisha. After she left the room, it was as though the space had grown dimmer yet.