A Dark Song of Blood

by Ben Pastor

  Westphal went silent at the other end, or else was speaking to someone with his hand on the mouthpiece. “Has General Maelzer calmed down?” he asked then.

  “Somewhat.”

  “Who else is with you?”

  “Colonel Dollmann stepped in a moment ago.”

  “Try to talk to him.”

  Dollmann stood on the threshold, his narrow, ugly face blotched and weary. “You’ll have enough to fill the rest of your diary with this.” He valiantly tried to make light of things.

  “Colonel, you must agree that this will be most unfortunately army business, whether or not it was an SS unit that was targeted. So far we’ve had politicians, diplomats and SS giving recommendations, and it should be our own General Mackensen’s decision.”

  “It will be General Wolff’s, I’m thinking. But I agree.”

  Bora had not expected the quick assent and was disarmed by it. “What weight will Mackensen carry in the decision-making, then?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “The field marshal is due back to Soratte at seven. If you must contact Germany, I hope you will delay until his return.”

  “I’m going to the embassy now, Bora. You realize there will be a reprisal.”

  “I understand, Colonel.”

  Eyes closed, Dollmann inhaled deeply. Bora was self-conscious of his sweat and bloody smell, but Dollmann filled his nostrils with it. “Do you?” he was saying. “I don’t.” The colonel dragged his fine hands over the red blotches on his cheeks. “It was done to make us react, and if Kappler doesn’t see through it, we deserve whatever trouble will follow. As for you, Major, if you really wanted to make Maelzer angry you should have answered that there’s no Russian front left to send you to.” After a moment in which they looked at one another, listening to telephones ring throughout the building at long, lugubrious intervals, he rapped Bora’s shoulder with his knuckles. “Now comes the killing time. God help us all.”

  Signora Carmela expected Guidi to come through the front door. It was Francesca instead, breathless, wide-eyed, who rushed past the parlor to her room.

  “Are you all right, dear?” With cautious small steps the old woman approached Francesca’s room and looked in.

  Doubled over on the bed, Francesca was sobbing. Signora Carmela made out that German soldiers had followed her for a stretch of the way and nearly caught her. They had lost her only when she had turned into Via Paganini and stepped into a doorway.

  “Why would they follow you, poor lamb? A young woman with a baby on the way!”

  Francesca went from tears to laughter at the words, a frightful voiceless laugh that stiffened her into rigidity. Signora Carmela couldn’t get her to stop. Scared, she called her husband in.

  “Her nerves are shot,” he gravely said. “This requires Aurum.” In the Maiuli house the aromatic liqueur was the ultimate resource, and what there was of it in a bottle was jealously kept under lock and key. Now the professor poured a generous dose in a glass his wife held before Francesca. “This is so unlike her, the poor girl. Now we’ll get the doctor to come.”

  Francesca gulped down the drink. “No.” She coughed. “No, doctor. Nobody. I’m not home for anybody. No one, no calls. Nobody, do you understand? Not even my mother. Something went on downtown, the Germans are berserk.”

  “Goodness.” Signora Carmela wheezed. “And Inspector Guidi hasn’t come home either.” She drew away from Francesca, who was regaining her self-control and angrily wiped the tears off her face. “Where could he be, do you think?”

  “Don’t ask me where he is.” Shivering, Francesca kicked her shoes off. “I’m tired, I want to sleep.” And even as the old couple stood there, she climbed into her bed and covered herself, turning her back to them.

  Shortly after seven that evening, Bora called Guidi to confront him about the shots fired from the police station. There was no answer there, so he tried Via Paganini. Timidly Signora Carmela picked up the phone. Bora’s Italian reassured her, and – assuming he was a friend – she shared her worry about the inspector, who hadn’t come home from work.

  “Did he say he might be late?”

  “On the contrary. It was his turn to buy bread and he’s always been good about that. He’s a thoughtful man and wouldn’t let us go without bread for supper.”

  Bora hung up with a queasy feeling.

  At nine Westphal called back from Soratte: Field Marshal Kesselring had just deliberated with Hitler and the head of the 14th Army, General von Mackensen. The reprisal would stand at ten for every German killed. Bora called the embassy in hope of finding Dollmann still there, but was told that he had left for the Vatican. He phoned the Vatican next and learned that the colonel was no longer there. So he waited until nearly ten o’clock to call his apartment.

  Dollmann answered, and when he heard the final number, he cried out, “What a mess! And I haven’t had time to speak to General Wolff yet!”

  On his way to the hotel Bora stopped at the foot of Via Rasella, blocked off and eerie in the dark. The houses around it were empty and silent. At the corner of Via Del Boccaccio, the Public Security office was barred shut. Guidi’s little car was still parked at the street corner, with the windows smashed by gunfire.

  24 MARCH 1944

  The sun came up in a glory of little clouds, but Bora felt a noxious darkness inside. He had not been able to sleep all night, and today he ached dully. He decided against taking painkillers because they might make him drowsy, and he didn’t need that. Westphal would not be back from Soratte today, which he had expected. Kesselring was taking grave military decisions, and likely would visit the Anzio front again in the next few hours.

  Despite tales of overflowing death cells, Bora knew there were not enough capital punishment inmates in Roman jails to make up the number of hostages to execute. The SS death toll had risen overnight to thirty-two, and from Dollmann he heard that until late at night Kappler and Caruso had been discussing quotas. He still wondered what to make of Guidi’s disappearance, and it was with some hope that he called again at his workplace and at home. The police phone still rang empty. Signora Carmela began to weep when he asked her the question. Next, he was debating whether to contact Kappler, to whom he had not spoken at all the day before. Once Kappler had his orders he would carry them out with unshakeable thoroughness, and there was nothing to gain by irritating him. Uneasily Bora sat by the phone with an ear to the relentless cannonade from Anzio, resting his forehead in the palm of the right hand.

  At seven thirty he went to report to Maelzer. As yesterday, he was told to wait. When, half an hour later, the general had not yet left his breakfast table, Bora was curious to see Caruso come in. The head of police saw him and said nothing; looking haggard, he went past him to the concierge’s desk. Bora assumed he came to consult Maelzer, and prepared himself to wait longer; after overhearing Caruso ask for the Minister of Interior instead, he knew that the Italian police would fill in the names missing from Kappler’s death list.

  Maelzer came out of the dining room and was very brief and businesslike, as if yesterday’s anger had not spilled out into today. He looked well rested. He told Bora that in case the field marshal inquired, he was to report that all had been taken care of. By noon all major selections would have been made.

  Bora asked who would materially execute the order. Maelzer said he would know by noon, which to Bora meant there was uncertainty whether the army, the SS or the Fascists would carry out the sentence. Who was to be included in the list? Maelzer spoke fast. Criminals, partisans and Jews, three hundred and thirty of them.

  Bora was glumly returning to his battered car when the thought first came to him that Guidi might be among those arrested at Via Rasella. Any anger he’d felt for police apathy during the attack left him. His foreboding grew worse after he was unable to phone anyone in authority at Regina Coeli. Bora had to talk to Kappler now, but all the while the dark inside him widened at tremendous speed.

  Francesca ate breakfast in
bed, nursed by Signora Carmela. She was hungry, and when she finished, she asked for more. Signora Carmela said there were only dry beans and a small piece of bread in the house, because the inspector had not come home or sent the groceries.

  “Well, I’m hungry,” Francesca snapped back. “Why don’t you send the professor to buy something at the store? I pay the rent, and board goes with the room. If you and your husband don’t want to go out, then ask for something next door.”

  Signora Carmela would not argue. It was cherry-lipped Pompilia who gave her a generous piece of nearly fresh bread and a small hunk of cheese, with ill-concealed satisfaction at being asked. From the threshold she watched the old woman trip back to her door. “Aren’t the lovebirds up to doing their own shopping?” she called after her.

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Signora Carmela said.

  Francesca was on the telephone when she came back in, and quickly lowered the receiver.

  “I feel much better,” she said, in a pacifying tone.

  Signora Carmela placed bread and cheese on a plate, and this on the kitchen table.

  At Via Tasso the atmosphere was feverish. It didn’t take much observation to notice that several of the officers had worked through the night. Kappler had had time to shave but was filmy-eyed, going in and out of doors; Sutor wore dirty-blond stubble on his face, and was gulping coffee in thirsty draughts. “Hey, here’s Bora,” he announced to someone in the office behind him, who turned out to be Captain Priebke. “Bora, have you brought some names?”

  “No. I’ve come to talk to Colonel Kappler.”

  “What about? We’re busy as hell.”

  “I suspect an Italian police official was detained by mistake at Via Rasella.”

  “Who?”

  “Sandro Guidi.”

  “The horse-face of the Reiner case? What the hell would he be doing at Via Rasella?”

  Bora ignored the question. “If I’m right, it’s obviously a mistake. Please check your list of detainees.”

  Sutor’s face darkened. “What are you up to really, Bora? Who sends you?”

  “I’m here on my own. I worked with the man, remember?”

  “We don’t have a general list of detainees.” Bora knew Sutor was lying, but there was nothing he could do about it. “You’ll have to go to Regina Coeli and see if he’s in the slammer there. We’ve got other things to worry about.”

  Priebke peered out of the office with half of his face smothered in shaving cream.

  “Yes, why don’t you go to Regina Coeli, Bora?”

  The jail lay across the city, on the other bank of the Tiber. There was heightened activity here as well, especially in the German-controlled Third Wing. Bora had to wait before someone finally came to talk to him. They had no idea who might be in the batch of two hundred and more brought to the temporary detention camp at the Ministry of Interior, nor if any had been transferred here. No one was allowed to see the prisoners. He’d have to ask the SS at Via Tasso.

  “I come from there. All I want is to get the man out of jail if he happens to have been brought in by mistake.”

  While he was again kept waiting, Bora looked at his watch. It was nine forty-five when a lieutenant emerged from a doorway to inform him sharply that they knew nothing of a man called Guidi. He left. In the bleak corridor of the ground floor he was again hounded by an angst-filled foreboding, which he still did not want to name. And though he knew Sciaba was here, he refused to worry about him right now, because he remembered Kappler’s promise to transfer him to the Italian Wing at the end of March. And it wasn’t yet the end of March.

  Outside the jail he stopped by the bridge, collecting his mind. He watched the river coil crazy eddies around the piers, carrying spring mud and bits of young leaves from the rains in the hills. Anxiety was becoming physical, a hyper-vigilant pessimism Bora had never known to be wrong. From below, a fresh, bitter odor of water wafted up the bridge’s arches, where swallows dived to gather bits for their nests.

  At this time Kappler was again meeting with Caruso. And still there weren’t enough names on the list.

  Back at Via Tasso, Bora stopped Sutor in the hallway. “They told me Guidi’s been arrested,” he lied. “Give me the papers to get him out.”

  Sutor did not get impatient at first. He went to his desk and picked up the list of hostages to be shot in the afternoon. He scanned it and held up a page for Bora to see. “You’re too late.”

  Bora read and his mouth went dry. “You can’t be serious, Captain.” He had a hard time controlling his voice. “I have word from General Maelzer that only proven criminals would be included.”

  “Caruso recommended the name. It’s all legal, Bora.”

  “The hell it is!” Bora knew he was raising his voice and did it all the same, forgetful of the people around the office. “You must remove this name from the list, do you understand me?”

  “Get a hold of yourself.”

  “Take his name off the list right now!”

  Sutor struck a threatening pose, coming chest-to-chest with Bora. “We’ve been working at this for twelve straight hours – what’s with you, are you fucking crazy or queer for this Guidi?”

  “Remove the name, Sutor!”

  Sutor took his breath. “Only if you put your name down in place of his.”

  They came dangerously close to blows. Bora left the building in a rage, a frantic grind of thoughts milling through his mind: appealing to Maelzer, the embassy or the Vatican. Calling Wolff directly... As if any of those actions would work. Under the incurious eyes of the SS men at the door he steadied himself and entered his car. He put a cigarette in his mouth. Without lighting it he drove off to St John Lateran Square, and took the road that led out of Rome.

  Francesca had washed her hair in the sink. Seated on the rim of the bathtub she began to dry it with a towel. Even without a full-length mirror she knew she was growing big quickly. None of her dresses fastened any more. Thank God there were only eight weeks to go. Yesterday’s close call had for once frightened her, but she was all right today. No one had been caught. No names given. Talking to Rau’s contact this morning, she’d understood from their agreed-upon code that he was fine too, and out of Rome by now. Whether he would return or not depended on how things developed. The morning newspapers carried no news about the attack, nor did the radio. It meant the Germans were confused, and in disagreement as to what to do next.

  She weighed the possibility that Guidi might be involved in the investigation of the attack, but it was unlikely. He’d probably left Rome instead, having finally decided what side he was on. After she finished blotting her hair she left the bathroom. “I’m going for a walk,” she announced to the Maiulis from the door of her room. “It’s nice and sunny out.”

  All Bora knew was that Field Marshal Kesselring was still at the Anzio front or returning from it, possibly by way of the once flourishing, quaint villages of the Alban Hills. It was a desperate proposition to reach him in the battle zone, but he decided to make straight for Genzano, which at a distance of thirty-five miles was the farthest of the hill towns, and would allow him to trace his way back through others if he missed him there.

  The countryside was at the time of year when every hour makes a difference in color and measure of green. Almond trees bloomed white along the slopes and craggy spurs of ancient lava flows, and at any other time Bora would love the sight. None of it interested him now. When an American reconnaissance plane hovered alongside him on the state route, he ignored it. For a time the plane followed his car at no more than fifty feet of altitude, then peeled off and was gone.

  The volcanoes blistering the countryside south-west of the city had long been extinct and filled with water, which made them into round, deep-rimmed lakes with the clarity of mirrors. Their sides were hairy and thick with an uninterrupted coating of woods, and only recently bombs had scarred them bare here and there. Making for their green humps, Bora drove past countless antique and new r
uins, minding none. It was nearly eleven o’clock. In little over four hours the executions would take place.

  Genzano huddled on the outer rim of the smaller of the two craters, bristling with vineyards; Bora speeded up the road that led to its venerable center, with his eyes now and then on the hazy view of the city like a shore of endless pebbles below him, until the curve took it from sight. The houses were pale orange and yellow at the sides of the street. A timelessness of sorts seemed to hang about even though the rumble from the front was continuous, and the smoke rising from it could be seen down the plain toward the sea, less than fifteen miles away. There was an army patrol in the square and Bora stopped by them.

  They listened to him at attention. They had just escorted the field marshal to town; he was having lunch at the Stella d’Italia restaurant. Bora followed with his eyes where the soldiers pointed, and went to park by the entrance. Army cars lining the square alerted him of a conference taking place inside. He prepared himself to wait for the others to leave. Reaching for a cigarette, he found that he’d never lit nor removed the one in his mouth since leaving Rome.

  Bora’s secretary had a run in her stockings, which Colonel Dollmann marked as a discordant note in her otherwise perfect army outfit. “Where is the major?” He looked away from the run when she turned around from the file cabinet.

  “He left at 0700 hours and has not returned since,” she said.

  “Has he called?”

  “Yes, just now.”

  “Where from? I need to meet with him.”

  “Genzano.”

  Dollmann decided to show no surprise, although he asked, “What in Heaven’s name is he doing there?”

  Bora watched the field marshal spine the fish in his plate, the tines of his fork heedfully dividing the fragile, waxy flesh, white with a brownish shade; the spine appeared neatly, daintily shaped, nearly transparent, easily surrendering the meat around it until it lay exposed. Kesselring picked up the wedge of lemon and squeezed it over it with even pressure of thumb and forefinger. Caught by sunlight, a spray crowned the slice as juice trickled on the dish. He mopped his fingers on the napkin and began to eat. Bora looked away.