by Ben Pastor
The perspective of a battle in Rome started a disagreement as to whether the Germans would line up outside the walls, or make a stand in the Vatican. “Open city or not, the Allies could carpet-bomb Rome,” one of the students said. At the ill-advised words, Pompilia saw fit to slump into a faint at Guidi’s feet.
“Someone turn the radio off,” he ordered. “No point in worrying ourselves sick until some reliable news comes on the air. Professor, will you help the lady?”
Pompilia remained in a stiff faint despite all gentle slaps and sprinkles of water, and only when Guidi relented enough to say he’d take her by the ankles if someone took her by the armpits, she came to with a flutter of eyelids. “I can walk,” she piped, lifting herself and proceeding out of the room.
That night Guidi went to bed early. He slept fitfully, dreaming that the Americans had come and he told them how to get to Bora’s office. In the dream Bora phoned him to say that he appreciated having the Americans over, since they would all go to a Pirandello play. But the Americans killed Bora instead.
The room was odiously dark and cold when Guidi awoke with a sore neck. Unable to find a comfortable position, he tossed for some time, until his trained ear was alerted to the opening of the door at the end of the hallway. Francesca was going to the bathroom. He heard a second door squeak on its hinges as she pulled it closed.
Guidi sat up to fluff his pillow. Germans, Americans – Bora might have been pretending today, and even now he could be on his way north with a retreating army. Back north, where the partisans had as good a chance of killing him as the Americans. Good riddance, Guidi wanted to say, but he didn’t really mean it as far as Bora was concerned.
He lay back. What took Francesca so long? He hadn’t heard water flushed or running, nor had the door opened a second time. Guidi waited a few more minutes, then slipped out of bed. In the dark he groped for the door, listening. Carefully he turned the key in the lock, and stepped out into the hallway. No candlelight filtered from under the bathroom door. Before knocking, he felt the door for resistance, and it gave way under his hand. “Francesca?” he whispered, forgetting the embarrassment that would follow her answer. But no answer came. A chilly draft prompted him to turn the light on: the bathroom was empty, and the window on the street stood ajar.
24 JANUARY 1944
Monday night, Bora said Pirandello helped him understand Italians.
“You must be joking.” Guidi took exception. “His plays are absurd.”
“Exactly.” From where they sat, now that the intermission allowed a full view of the audience, Ras Merlo’s pomade-shiny head could be seen bobbing up and down at the side of a bright green hat. Bora looked in that direction with an unkind grin. “The man has the authorities of two nations at his heels, and he’s watching a tale about getting caught.”
All evening Bora had been of a merry disposition, scarcely due to the sarcasm of the play, and closer to relaxation than Guidi had ever seen. Guidi could share none of the good cheer. He had stayed awake until dawn, waiting for Francesca’s return to the house. Without confronting her directly, he’d called for a routine check on her background. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but his heart was heavy.
Soon Bora headed for another box, where Guidi saw him greet an elegant group, kiss the ladies’ hands and chat nearly until the end of the intermission. “People I used to know,” he explained at his return. “Is Merlo still here? I don’t see his gummy head.”
“He’s just picking up something she dropped.”
At the next intermission, Bora left the box again. Guidi saw him below, easily finding his way across the partly empty row of seats to accost Merlo and his companion. Next he was clumsily stepping on the man’s foot, and apologizing gave him a chance to make small talk. He was even invited to sit to the left of the young woman, where he spent the rest of the intermission. He rejoined Guidi when the lights – miraculously working tonight – were already off.
“Are you out of your head, Major?”
“Why? Merlo doesn’t know me.”
“He knows you’re a German aide-de-camp.”
“There’s scads of us, Guidi. I wanted to make sure I got close in case the power fails. Don’t be a killjoy. He looks like a chummy ad for Brillantina Linetti, and she’s... Well, what can I say. She’s half his age.”
“Well, don’t be misled by his fat innocent looks. If he hasn’t done in the Reiner girl, he was directly involved in the Matteotti affair.”
“You mean his murder?” There was no discouraging Bora tonight. “A nasty way of disposing of socialist opposition. Did I tell you I was in Rome when it happened, twenty or so years ago? My stepfather’s wife told me how they stuffed the poor man in a shallow grave in the Campagna. Yes, I can see Merlo digging it. My first summer here, and everybody and his brother searched for this cadaver that no one wanted to find. How can you tell me the Italians aren’t absurd?” He sat back, lowering his voice as the curtain rose. “It was Merlo throwing up in the neighborhood of the Reiner house, by the by. How do I know? Not everyone is afraid of telling on a Fascist Ras, as it seems.”
When they left the theater it was very cold and clear. Even Bora admitted it was cold. A distinct rumble of cannon fire was audible past the expanse of city blocks. Guidi glanced at him in the semi-darkness, and Bora said, “It’s a beautiful night.” The truth was that after his visit at the front he knew how by tonight the worst was past, and the enemy contained. But he didn’t let Guidi have a chance to surmise that much. “I just received a telegram from my stepfather,” he told him. “My wife is coming next week.”
25 JANUARY 1944
Danza told Guidi, “Looked into all you asked for, Inspector. The girl is actually registered under her mother’s name, Di Loreto. No father’s name given. Has attended courses at the Academy of Fine Arts, goes by Lippi and calls herself an art student. Has been supplementing her income at a stationery shop by posing for painters, which is apparently what her mother does for a living. Not much else to say – works at this place, this stationery shop on Piazza Ungheria.”
“Friends, men and women?”
“Acquaintances. Goes to the movies with them, occasionally. No word of a steady boyfriend. If she’s pregnant, we don’t know by whom or for how long.”
“Try to find out. Anything else?”
“It depends on what you’re looking for. We can have her followed, Inspector. In case something turns up.”
The cold facts were no more significant than those about Magda Reiner, a parallel that made Guidi uncomfortable somehow. Guidi jotted down the names of the students and the cherry-lipped woman. “No. Look further into these, too.”
Danza read, and laughed. “She’s a familiar one!”
“What do you mean, is she on file?”
“With the vice squad, she is. Nothing big. Soliciting, mostly. She’s behaved for the past two years or so – not so many men around, I guess.”
“Politics?”
“Pina? Nothing from the navel up.”
Were it not for his uniform, Lieutenant Colonel Kappler would look insignificant. Far from consoling Bora, who’d been invited to Gestapo headquarters to discuss anti-partisan operations, the thought oppressed him somehow. Captain Sutor, after introducing him with unfriendly rigidity, left at once when Kappler walked around his desk to shake hands.
“I’m glad you could make it, Major. I’ve meant to chat with you since we met at Ott’s party. After all, we share a long experience in dealing with trouble. Did you hear that Graziani skipped town?”
With the only window shuttered and the electric light on, being in the office was claustrophobic. Bora kept on guard, careful not to appear tense. This was the time to gauge each other’s nature, a careful time of observation and taking of measures. He was aware of Kappler’s scrutiny and the need to convey an image of ease. “I’m not attached to Counter-intelligence here in Rome. The military end of guerrilla operations is where my experience resides, and stops.”
Kappler laughed. “General Westphal told me of your concern about partisan activity after the Anzio landing. The two bombings on Wednesday and yesterday’s attacks proved you to be right. I share your concern, and it seems only wise for us to coordinate our efforts. No matter how long it’ll take the Allies to get here, you know, it’s a lease we have. Nothing else.” Because Bora faced him squarely, Kappler added, “My estimate is two to six months, perhaps less.” Again Bora did not encourage him, so Kappler nodded to himself, reaching for a sheet of paper on his desk. “We’re terminal, as far as Rome is concerned. That’s why we should make our arrangements.”
“I’ve done most of my work in Russia, Colonel. Only some of the principles apply to Rome. It all depends on how ideological the partisans are, and how much community support they receive. Surely they have the advantage of close proximity.”
Kappler handed him a list of underground organizations. “They’re ideologically a mixed bag, but they all hate us. It comes to the same.”
Bora read. Without looking up, he said, “The terrain is as difficult as I can think of, whether or not we move the curfew back two hours. It equates jungle conditions as far as I’m concerned, and we know what portions of the city take the place of impregnable redoubts.”
His allusion to Vatican property prompted a response from Kappler. “And sanctuary, literally.”
Bora glanced away from the paper, but not directly at Kappler; rather, at the map of Rome on the wall facing him. “No doubt, outside the city weapons are being dropped by the Allies. When I was up north, the number of partisans was estimated at about a thousand nationally. They lacked good weapons. Brixia grenades, cheap pistols, no caches to speak of. How many do you calculate are passive and part-time members now; how many are active and full-time?”
Kappler gave him some figures, which Bora did not dispute. “But there are plenty of foreign agents hiding in Rome. American, British – people who, as yourself, speak the language well enough to be taken for Italians. Some four hundred escaped Allied POWs are rumored to be around. God knows, they may be attending our parties. And, with colleagues like Dollmann...”
Bora ignored the comment. He took a handful of documents out of his briefcase. “I brought copies of army directives we received between the end of November and the beginning of December 1941. You are welcome to them. In Russia partisan units were up to five hundred in number. They had huge land expanses at their disposal, knew the terrain, spoke the dialect and could boast highly indoctrinated commanders.”
“Did you hang a few?”
“I hanged more than a few.”
“But didn’t units like yours grant life to those who surrendered, which was the neat army habit early in the war?”
“I spoke Russian well. The commanders who didn’t were at a disadvantage in preparing propaganda leaflets and talking things over with the population. Indiscriminate hangings only make more trouble unless you’re ready to keep the pressure on. As you are aware, Colonel, ruling by terror in occupied territory has its drawbacks.”
“We’re not dealing with illiterate bunglers in Rome.”
“Except that one can be literate and a bungler. Our trouble in Italy will be north of here, as in the recent past. We might even see the formation of ‘partisan republics’ on the Soviet model. As for Rome, I would watch the Fascist calendar of saints – irregulars tend to launch attacks on significant dates, which is ideologically correct but predictable.”
Kappler had a strange expression, half-admiring and half-malicious. “In any case, we should make sure trouble doesn’t happen. I am talking, I believe, to one who understands what personal toll there’s to pay for courage. That is, you must harbor some bitterness.” Bora’s silence encouraged Kappler. “Let me show you how we are doing our part, Major.”
What followed was a guided tour of the other floors of the large building, where apartments had been turned into cell blocks. Bora noticed partitioning, bricked windows, and how the stuffiness bore the peculiar mawkish odor of interrogation rooms, male sweat and blood washed over with suds. None of this outwardly unnerved him, as Kappler could tell.
Leading him back to his office, Kappler was in fact engaging. “We have another location near the train station – the Italian branch. It’s not as efficient, but it works. These – what happens in this building – are the facts of life, every bit as much as what happens on the battlefield. We all stand to know them and be a part to them.”
“Well.” Bora thought it was as good a time as any to draw the line. He said, “I may stand to know them, Colonel, but I’m not a part to them.”
“Lucky for you that you don’t have to deal with the reality my seventy-three men and I face every day. But I’m sure you don’t mean what you say. Why else would Kesselring have brought you to Rome?” Kappler grinned. “You’re as seduced by discipline as I am. It makes it hard for us to differentiate between personal anger and duty. Didn’t you lose a brother in Russia?”
“He was shot down south of Kursk, yes.”
“Missing or dead?”
Bora kept steady, by long habit of self-control. “I retrieved his body myself.”
“What a blow for your parents. I hope you have other siblings. No? And you’d been in Stalingrad to the bitter end, yourself. I am in awe of your even-mindedness. And I grieve for your brother, as we are all army brothers.”
Bora was so shamelessly grateful for the words, he felt his critical sense slipping from him. Whatever he answered, it took him until the end of the meeting to realize that he was lost, polluted by Kappler’s talk whether or not he’d betrayed himself by agreeing to any of it.
The last thing Kappler told him was, “By the way, we just arrested the half-Jew Foa. Assure General Westphal he won’t have to worry about the old man’s ranting any more.”
After Bora left, Captain Sutor poured out his discontent about the visit.
“I’m not being unjust, Colonel. I know the army. He’s army, there’s nothing to be gained from relating to him, and I don’t trust him after what Lasser said.”
Kappler waved indulgently. “Lasser has a tendency to go hysterical. It isn’t the first time he’s tried to burn somebody on flimsy charges. He and Bora had a personality conflict, and Lasser is very loud.”
Sutor puckered his face, swallowing spite. “I think you’re making a mistake by being friendly to this Bora, Colonel. I’d have shown him nothing of our facilities. It’s going right back to Westphal and Kesselring. And Dollmann likes him.”
“It’s just like Dollmann, isn’t it? They’ll maneuver with one another like chess players, which is just fine. They’re both educated and Catholic – the only flaw from Dollmann’s point of view is that Bora’s straight.”
“All the same, sir, I stand by what I said. I don’t like him and you will be sorry you did.”
Kappler picked up his cap from the desk and put it on. “I think it makes you uneasy that he may discover you dated Magda Reiner, and that your record with the ladies in Paris is so enviable. Let’s go and talk to Foa, Sutor. We know about him. He’s got enough Jew in him to squeal on his own.”
27 JANUARY 1944
“Do you find her attractive, Major Bora?”
“I’m not sure ‘attractive’ is the right word. She doesn’t look much like a wolf. She’s more like the abstraction of a wolf, sleek and hairless except for her mane. She’s alert and threatening, I’d say. Not loving, or loving in a fierce way.”
Dollmann nodded. Alone as they were in the Fourth Room of the Capitoline Museum, he walked around the sandbagged bronze statue, and without touching them, he passed his hand under the skinny breasts hanging from her body. “They near the She-Wolf’s tits, and thrive / On milk never intended for them...”
“Ovid?”
“Bravo. Still, the late addition of the Twins is much too ornate for her sternness. What would you say she actually represents?”
Bora was thinking of the animal of his nightmares, but smiled
. “The tribal totem to be expected of a society of shepherds. You make a sacred symbol out of what you fear most.”
“Or a taboo. Note how her stance is firm rather than dynamic, Major. She’s surveying a danger which is at a distance or no larger than she is, straight to the side. Protecting the children entails no loving glance but a watchful gaze around for danger. Firmness, watchfulness, a worried threat. You wouldn’t get close, and though she isn’t snarling – her mouth is not contracted, nor her nose wrinkled – she could bite your hand off.”
“She did,” Bora calmly said.
Dollmann smiled. “No pun was intended, but there’s a connection between her and our being here, at some level. I used to think that ideologically we were her children.”
“Perhaps Ovid meant us – we’re the danger she’s guarding against.”
“I think we’re both. We fed at her breast and resented it and came back, grown, to worry her. We’re as uncivilized, as ungrateful as that.”
Bora brought his right hand close to the she-wolf’s mouth, fingers extended as if to feed her. “She rules in the end.”
“Caput mundi. Head of the world.” Dollmann rocked on the balls of his feet, watching him. In civilian clothes and a bow tie, he had the groomed appearance of a British professor rather than an SS. In the lonely room of the museum, he said in English, “Kappler is not the one to watch out for. Sutor is.”
28 JANUARY 1944
On Friday, Guidi waited for Francesca in front of the stationery store. If she was surprised, she said nothing, not even when he tipped his hat and began walking alongside her.
“Look,” he said, “I don’t know if I should be doing you this favor, but it’s been twice already that I heard you go out at night.”
Her scarf was coming undone, and when he reached for it, she pulled back. “So?” She wrapped the woolen cloth around her shoulders, hardly a protection against the bitter wind. “You’re going to arrest me for breaking a dumb six-to-five curfew? Mamma mia, you must come from the moon!” And when Guidi began to answer, she squared her narrow face at him. “If I go to see my boyfriend, I’m not about to stop ’cause you say so.”
