A Dark Song of Blood

by Ben Pastor

  “You do run when they’re after you.” And he was thinking of Stalingrad, of his own close escape, but said nothing more about it. Spain, Poland, the Ukraine – years of chasing and being chased. Putting out the cigarette after an extended last draft, he asked, “Off the top of your head, what can you tell me about diabetic coma?”

  Treib acted as if he didn’t know Bora was stalling. “Do you mean diabetic or hypoglycemic coma? There’s a difference.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Well, the second turns up when blood sugar falls below 0.7, with the appearance of the first symptoms – weakness, sweating, nervousness, mydriasis or dilated pupils. By the time you get to 0.3, you get loss of consciousness and coma. The first is occasioned by insufficient insulin. Some of the signs include dry skin, typical acetonic breath, contracted pupils. Untreated – and sometimes even treated – they both lead to death. Come, Bora, what will it be? I’m willing to work on your arm and put you out in two days. You won’t be able to wear the prosthesis at once, but you’ll be on your way to feeling better.”

  “If I get a weekend off, you can have me. So, if you administer insulin in excess, you could induce a hypoglycemic coma?”

  “You could. Regarding surgery, take a few days off – it’s all lost anyway, can’t you see?”

  “No.” It was the last thing Bora wanted to hear and he cut the surgeon short. “Not up north. There’s a year’s worth of fighting in the mountainside.”

  “Well, all right, a year’s worth, maybe. Do you want to go through it on morphine?”

  Bora looked away. This, too, he’d heard before.

  Capturing the moment, Treib set the chair straight. He looked at his calendar. “I’ll meet you here Saturday after next at five o’clock. Eat nothing that day. Bring a change and your shaving kit. And a book to read, maybe.”

  “I want to be out within twenty-four hours.”

  “I’ll kick you out as soon as I’m sure you won’t have a secondary hemorrhage.”

  1 MAY 1944

  By Monday, fires could be seen burning from the high points of the city in the not-so-distant hills, down the plain to Velletri and even in the east toward Tivoli. From the relative quiet of Mount Soratte, Kesselring listened to Bora enumerating the historical treasures of the small towns north of Rome, saying now and then, “I’ll do what I can,” or, “This is the last war when art or archictecture or anything of that sort will be spared.” They were at the end of a briefing and the field marshal was indulgent toward his insistence on details. “You give me all these annoying reminders, Martin, while I have such comparatively good news for you. Effective this month anti-partisan guerrilla activity in Italy will fall under my command, and under the control of army officers in the field. It’s true that we’ll still be a hybrid – my head and the Supreme SS Chief’s on one neck – but partisan reconnaissance will be up to those as yourself.”

  “What about Rome?”

  “It’s still up to Kappler’s men in Rome.”

  Guidi found it contemptible that the Romans were ecstatic at General Maelzer’s late distribution of staple foods. Hammering of air raids all around the city gave the spring day an echo of storms to come. The only piece of good luck he could think of had come in unlikely form: the visit of a militiaman, who reported having been in the neighborhood when “the German girl had been killed”. It was the first direct reference to murder Guidi had heard from a witness of sorts. And though he had no doubt that this was the very man Merlo had sent spying on Captain Sutor, potentially conclusive information had come from the meeting.

  Sitting with his back to the window (he didn’t care to see the walls of the houses across the street, scarred by bullets after the bomb had exploded nearly six weeks before), he reread his notes. Sutor had in fact accompanied Magda Reiner home, but had not left at once. He’d spent at least fifteen minutes inside, and then emerged again at about seven fifteen or seven twenty. Magda was with him and they were apparently arguing. Sutor had entered his car, and sat in it while she presumably returned to her apartment. But then Sutor had gone back inside. And he’d stayed inside. In the commotion that followed in the street after the death, the militiaman could not tell when the SS had left the apartment building. But he was sure he’d been inside when Magda met her end.

  Guidi was tempted to call Bora, but thought better of it. Why give him one more chance to take over and twist things his way? No, this piece of information is mine. I am the policeman. This goes neither to Caruso nor to Bora.

  That evening he was looking forward to a bit of self-congratulation in the borrowed peace of Via Paganini when he met the sight of Antonio Rau, ensconced in the Maiulis’ parlor. Rau showed himself curt, even rude. When Guidi tried to convince him to walk outside and discuss matters at once, he refused. “What’s there to discuss? I pay the rent same as you do.”

  Dinner was richer than usual but dismal in mood. The Maiulis munched their food like unobtrusive mice, linking eyes with one another. Francesca and Rau chatted in forced tones of levity, and when Rau came up with some Latin ditty to rouse the professor from his sulks, Guidi had had enough. He left the table and went into his room.

  Face up on the bed, he looked at the humidity stain on the ceiling, one of which he had for the past four months identified as a frog-like creature, tongue extended. So, that’s how it was. This was the friend Francesca had been trying to accommodate, and Rau’s coming posed an even more immediate threat to the household. Surely the SS kept an eye on the whereabouts of their translators. His absences from the city and now his move to another address might be noticed; however, he’d obtained permission to relocate. The little he had eaten came bitterly to Guidi’s throat as he thought of being dragged into this game when he’d been the one the Germans had nearly killed at the caves. But Francesca was right. It had come after all to choosing allegiances.

  The frog-like stain on the ceiling seemed to swing as he moved his head on the pillow. Rau had avoided him tonight, but would have to face him tomorrow. Sure. And then? The one who was caught was Sandro Guidi, who could neither tell nor turn in, nor yet be silent. He stood from his bed after a while, walked to the dining room and announced he would be moving out by the end of the month.

  *

  Dr Mannucci, staying late at his pharmacy as usual, went to close both doors after Bora asked the question. “I thought you had come a long way from your command just to buy Cibalgina,” he commented. And then, reverting to the question at hand, he added, “You could find out about the prescription through the Brothers of Charity – they run the pharmacy at the Vatican. I wager the lady acquired her medicine there, as insulin is hard to come by. Sagone brand, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It has to be. Belfanti, Erba and the others vanished from the shelves months ago.”

  “For all of my acquaintances at the Vatican,” (Bora shamelessly made use of Montini’s and Borromeo’s names) “I doubt the good Brothers would tell me whether her prescription had in fact run out. You would have much more clout under the circumstances.”

  Mannucci removed his fat cat from the counter, saying, “Down, Salolo, down,” and shook his head when Bora tried to pay for the painkiller. “I promise nothing, Major. Give me a couple of days before you call again, and I’ll see what can be done.”

  Bora did not have to wait so long, however. On Friday afternoon, the pharmacist telephoned with the news. It had taken some doing, but Brother Michele had relented enough to indicate that the Fonseca prescription had only been recently renewed. Alone in his office, Bora saw the piece of the puzzle fall into the pattern with such neatness as to give him a chill.

  At last it all made sense. The fragments of glass vials in Marina’s bathroom, pointed out to him by the Lombard policeman, who’d commented under his breath, “I wonder what these are about, there’s no container and no syringe anywhere.” The injection marks in Marina’s arm. Her dilated pupils.

  Bora said, “I’m in yo
ur debt, Dr Mannucci.” And, to the gruff “Not at all” from the other side, he continued, “But I insist. So much so that I allow myself a small piece of advice. Remind your in-laws, if you have any, and if they reside at Largo Trionfale, to take good care during these difficult times. The army is less inquisitive than others about hidden firearms, but we do have our curiosity.”

  9 MAY 1944

  On the same day that Sebastopol fell to the Russians, a dinner party was organized for General Wolff. Bora was required to attend for Westphal, a minority of one at a table of SS. No one spoke to him and he spoke to no one. Dollmann glanced his way from Wolff’s table, and after the dinner advised, “Have our dear Westphal send you to the Vatican with some excuse tomorrow. Wolff has a private audience with the Pope, and there’ll be politicking going on.”

  Bora had slept poorly and was in a touchy mood. Just before dawn he’d dreamed that his room had been emptied, his uniform searched and his diary stolen from him. But it was his room at Lago, months ago, his winter uniform from the Russian days, and the diary had nothing but Dollmann’s name written in it. He was about to say no to the proposal. Still, this might be a chance to approach Borromeo privately about Cardinal Hohmann, and he sought permission to go.

  True to his habits, he never followed the same route twice, and instructed his driver to pick him up at headquarters over the lunch hour on the following day, and take him to the Vatican by way of Corso Italia, Via Salaria, Via Paganini, Via Aldovrandi, Viale Mazzini and Viale Angelico.

  10 MAY 1944

  The shot had not been heard from the apartment, partly because Signora Carmela had the radio on. Guidi happened to be home between trips to Tor di Nona, where an investigation of black-market activities was as lost a cause as he could think of.

  Neither the shot was heard, nor the skid of the Mercedes’ tires on the pavement and its braking after jumping the curb at the elbow of Via Paganini. What followed was a racket in the stairwell, and soon a frantic hammering at the door. Guidi heeded it at once. Antonio Rau stormed in, jostled him past the threshold and bolted the length of the hallway into the bathroom, and out of its window to the back. Less than ten seconds later, a German soldier with sub-machine gun followed, crashing through the same route and out of the window.

  Signora Carmela was not so petrified that she could not stand up and scream. Out of the kitchen there came the professor in his shirtsleeves, and already – magnified and made harsher by echoes in the stairwell – Guidi recognized Bora’s angry voice, ordering a group of heavily armed soldiers to enter one of the apartments.

  He couldn’t help crying out, “What on earth is going on, Major Bora? What is this?”

  Bora did not look back – he was at the foot of the stairs and incited the soldiers to rush up. “Stay out of my way, Guidi!” Neither Guidi nor anyone else did otherwise when the major himself barged into the Maiulis’ house. Without asking he looked around for the telephone and spoke a few sentences into the mouthpiece. From the stairs there came the sharp cries of Pompilia Marasca, whom the Germans must be bodily hauling out of her apartment.

  “But what’s the reason?” Guidi asked with such anguish in his voice that Bora did answer.

  “Get the rest of the tenants out into the street if you want to be useful. They shot at my car just outside – I got a window’s worth of glass in my goddamn lap before the man ran into this building.”

  Guidi blanched at the thought of Antonio Rau. The Maiulis were brought out to join Pompilia, who protested enough for one of the burly young soldiers to have to hold her, breasts bumping on him as he did. Pistol in hand, Bora climbed to the second floor, followed by Guidi who tried to talk sense to him, knowing it was no use. “Wouldn’t we have heard the shot, had it come —”

  “Shut up.”

  The obligatory list of tenants tacked by the door was snatched by the soldiers. One by one, people were pushed and goaded and shouldered out of their rooms, and in a few minutes the field-gray bustle of more soldiers poured in from the street and began searching the apartments. Guidi feared what could be found in Francesca’s room. Helplessly he stared at the soldiers awakening a storm of tinkles from the glass domes in the parlor, invading kitchen and bedrooms. From the Maiulis’ room came an excited call that caused one of the soldiers to race up the stairs for Bora. Two suitcases were produced in the parlor and opened on the floor for the major to see. There were old suits packed tight in them, but Guidi understood by the way the Germans handled the clothes and smelled them that grease stains gave away weapons that had until recently been hidden in them.

  Bora would hear nothing more. He had the Maiulis brought back in. Signora Carmela seemed not to understand the connection between the suitcases and immediate danger, but the professor did. He bridged a sheepish, desperate look at Guidi. He told Bora that he gave his word of honor he had been unaware of the cache, but was ready to answer for it as head of the household. Bora silenced him. “You bet you are.” He turned to Guidi. “Who else lives here? You and who else? Your girlfriend? Who else?”

  “A man by the name of Rau, a student of mine,” Maiuli interjected.

  “I’m not talking to you. Guidi, who else lives here?”

  “That’s all, Major.”

  “Where’s the woman?”

  “Out, but let’s not be absurd, she’s nine months’ pregnant. What could you want with her?”

  Bora left the parlor and Guidi after him. Francesca’s room was being searched by soldiers: not until thoroughly going through it did they enter the bathroom, where Bora ordered them to search everywhere, even inside the water tank high above the toilet. It paid off. Wrapped in a watertight envelope, there was a handgun hidden in it.

  “We had better find this Rau or your girlfriend goes in, pregnant or not.”

  All the adult males were made to file out into the narrow street, including students, the old piano player and the professor. As for Pompilia, the soldiers hauled her into the truck with repressed grins after she let her skirt fly over her knees and the girdle snaps showed on her thighs.

  Guidi stood on the doorstep, apart from the others. Bora’s Mercedes had come to a halt across the street, in the recessed space of the building facing it. It seemed impossible that whatever had blasted the large hole in the side window could have missed him. The driver was sweeping glass out of the back seat. How had the attackers not seen the army truck following the staff car? Likely the larger vehicle had slowed down to negotiate around the curve where a series of private garages reduced the pavement. In any case, hands crossed behind the nape of his neck, Antonio Rau was being led back from Via Bellini by two soldiers.

  When Bora stormed into the Mercedes’ front passenger seat and slammed the door shut, Guidi came to bang on it. “Am I not under arrest like everybody else?” he yelled.

  The German lowered the window only enough for his voice to come across with immense contempt. “You wouldn’t dare shoot at me.”

  In the desolation of the house, women congregated to the Maiulis’ parlor to lament, unaware that weapons had been found there. When numbly Signora Carmela informed them, Guidi had to step in to keep them from clawing at her. They appealed to him: he was police, wasn’t there anything he could do? Guidi felt he could do nothing until Bora’s anger boiled down. But Bora’s anger was likely to boil over after learning that Rau was a translator for the German occupation forces.

  Francesca came back at about five o’clock. From the state of the house it was clear what had happened. She went from room to room, finally standing by her own door with a pale look of anxiety. There Guidi joined her. She spoke to him in a low, quick voice, “It’s not my fault if the idiot got himself caught, is it? Now I’ve got to worry about myself, if he talks.”

  In her rifled parlor, Signora Carmela wept. “How could Antonio do this to us, Francesca? It must have been his relatives who put the guns in the suitcases... But how did one get inside the toilet?”

  “Stop crying,” Francesca said irritably,
“it’s no use whatever.” And, to Guidi, “How is it that you’re still here? Did the Germans decide you’re no threat?”

  Guidi let her show concern in her own way by righting pictures and replacing the glass domes on the saints. Her coolness before danger impressed him. “Do you want me to drive you somewhere?” he suggested.

  “No.” She sat in the professor’s armchair, which brought a renewed flow of tears to Signora Carmela’s eyes. Only after the old lady went to cry herself to sleep could they talk freely. Francesca smiled an enigmatic smile. “What’s there to do? If the Germans come for me, I can hardly start running. It isn’t as if they don’t shoot pregnant women.”

  “Maiuli won’t last a week if they get him to clear rubble or drag bodies out of it.”

  “They could have said no to Antonio when he suggested bringing the suitcases along. You can’t be responsible for people’s stupidity.”

  “But what if Antonio talks?”

  “It’d be a mess. He knows lots. The SS will want him for sure – why, they know him.”

  “And what will happen to you then?”

  “If I’m lucky they’ll kill him before he talks.”

  “Jesus, Francesca, that’s no answer!”

  Francesca had that strange, queerly relaxed smile again. “If you’re afraid for me you’re wasting your time. Whatever happens, happens.” Hands hugging the bulge of her body rising from the groin, she looked over to him from the armchair. “It’s getting low. In a couple of weeks it’ll be out, and then we can make love again.”

  Guidi stepped back, heavy-hearted at her words and for having given her reason to pronounce them. He had neither desires nor impulses at this point, and everything he felt was packed in a sadness of things to come.

  11 MAY 1944

  Bora was alone in the office when news came of the massive attack on the Gustav Line. He was instantly in a cold sweat. This was the final battle Kesselring had forecast, and had begun with the simultaneous firing of more than one thousand big guns, from Cassino to the sea. What a time for Westphal to be on leave, along with several of the army chiefs. He put out of his mind the fact that he had just lost Rau to the SS, and began his rounds of calls to the field marshal and to Maelzer’s office. He also had to find a way to trace General Westphal.