by Ben Pastor
“Happy name day,” Bora said.
“To me and the Pope, thank you. How goes it?”
Bora shook his head. Kesselring had just written off the string of mountain towns between Frosinone and hard-held Lanuvio. Valmontone was practically lost. They met the field marshal, who after a polite exchange of greetings added, “When you go from here, Dollmann, take Colonel Bora along. He has his orders. Leave the city as graciously as you can.”
The SS simpered. “There’s a Verdi opera tomorrow evening.”
“Good, let’s have a memorandum about it. All of you will attend, including General Maelzer.”
“It’s Un Ballo in Maschera,” Dollmann added, without adding he’d leave Rome in the morning. “The idea of a political plot during a masked ball is too coincidental to take it with a straight face, but we’ll act our parts well.”
Afterwards, as they drove back, Dollmann said, “It’s been fun. When all is said and done, what fun it’s been. There never was a city like Rome, and the chance to operate in it... Ah, it’s been fun.”
Bora was too tightly hemmed in by melancholy to see what fun it might have been. His regret for leaving Rome outweighed everything else.
“Now be good and continue your irreplaceable service as soldier, Bora. It will see you through political hardships, were you to incur any. The game’s entirely unfair, but play it to the best of your ability. For a shrewd player, the best move is always his next. You can’t win by checkmate, but how well you can hold your own. Until the board is tilted.”
“That, you know, I’d never do.”
“Oh, the angel of God will tilt it, even as he’ll unhinge the axis of the world at the end of days. Allow me to wax poetic and convey to you that all that remains in conclusion is Love.”
Bora was taken aback by the words, but rallied quickly. “Given or received?”
“Given, of course. That which we receive is soon digested. That which we proffer – my dear Bora, you’re the one who should understand that – is what keeps us going.”
Bora was silent for a time. He was thinking of Mrs Murphy and feeling rather sorry for himself. “Regret is all I can feel right now. It taints everything.”
‘Why? Your love for others stays.”
“Do they want it?”
“They want it.” Dollmann looked out of the car to the confusion of vehicles and retreating men. “Do you remember when we stopped by the Bronze Wolf, and you put your hand into her mouth? It was symbolic, and I thought of that gesture for a long time. There’s a self-destructive streak in you, your former wife is right. It must be checked. With some luck, it will be checked.” He made a little waving motion of dismissal with his hand. “What we did, God is going to count in our favor.”
“I hope so.”
Dollmann pondered a good long while before speaking his next words. He blurted them out while they were halted and his chauffeur waited outside for a disabled tank to be removed from the road. “You’re worse off than you think, Bora. The apology only bought some time. The best thing for you is that the Americans are at the gates and Kappler is dismantling his apparatus, not building it – the Gestapo can produce a file on you in twenty-four hours.”
Bora rolled down his window – the car was stifling, both men perspired heavily – and then opened the door altogether, placing one foot out of the car. “Well, those for whom we did what we did can recite the kaddish on my grave.”
“Don’t say such things, not even in fun!”
“I’m not saying them in fun, Colonel.”
At two o’clock, Bora telephoned Guidi, and for a couple of minutes related the conversation with the Servigliano records section chief. When Guidi tried to say something, he charged, “Don’t interrupt me. I haven’t much time and must make it all clear. It is not speculation! It’s all logical, and we should have thought about it from the start. Whom could Magda Reiner be hiding? An enemy of some kind. A partisan? Unlikely, as he could hardly operate out of a German-owned building. A shirker, then? She spoke no Italian, so it made sense it might be a German deserter.”
“So, you found the boyfriend from the Greek Front...”
“No, I didn’t. And of course it needn’t even be a German, but someone who spoke German. I thought about that late neighbor of yours, Antonio Rau, but the Gestapo says he’d been nowhere near that side of Rome. So, I thought, could it be an enemy soldier? How likely is it that an Allied soldier would speak German? I set this aside, as all I had was possibly the German nickname ‘Willi’. But then I began thinking of that William Bader who placed fifth in the obstacle race at the Berlin Olympics, the father of Magda’s child.”
“Which is why you showed me the book in the lobby of the Piazza Vescovio hospital. I thought you suspected Wilfred Potwen.”
“I did until then. But at the hospital the surgeon told me of a wounded American prisoner of war who’d escaped near Albano after a spectacular race leaping across fences despite his impaired leg. The surgeon mentioned a detail that intrigued me: this was the man’s second time in imprisonment. He’d already escaped the Servigliano camp and headed south in October of last year, and had just been nabbed trying to sneak out of Rome.”
Guidi saw no logical connection whatever, and was keeping his peace only because Bora was not one to have the phone clicked down on him. He said, moderately, “There must be hundreds of Allied prisoners in and out of custody, Colonel.”
“Yes. Precisely. It took me forever to get hold of the records section chief at Servigliano, and frankly I had little hope they’d recaptured the man. I was merely expecting to hear confirmation that he’d been there in September, whoever he was. But recapture him they did. The partisan unit that freed him in the Albano countryside headed north to Ascoli Piceno, where William Bader, with new, well-forged papers, was caught for the third time, after a second bounding race.”
“But so far you’ve only placed Bader in Rome.”
“His clothes and his shoes place him in Magda Reiner’s care, and in 7B besides. He was wearing the rubber-soled shoes she’d gotten Hannah to buy for him at Calzaturificio Torino, and – though they were worse for wear – the clothes from Vernati’s.”
Guidi had gone from disinterest to keen attention, and satisfaction for his part in the case was only curbed by prudence. “But how likely is it that she would run into her old flame in a city as large as Rome by accident?”
“Well, Guidi, clearly she ran into him. I am revealing no state secret if I tell you that the Underground or the Church, or both, have operated in favor of all kinds of people, even to the extent of pairing them up with people they’d known in the past. I have confirmation of this particular case from an excellent source.” Bora meant Borromeo, whom he’d practically forced to cough up the information. “And you have yourself attended one of our infamous parties, where everything and everybody come together.”
“So, this Bader had found his way to Rome from Servigliano, hoping maybe to join the Allied forces coming up the peninsula. Good enough. Having met Magda, she volunteered, or agreed, or was forced to hide him in a place both reasonably secure and close by, just doors down from her own apartment.” Guidi did not add the obvious, that Bader was waiting for the Americans to reach Rome. “But wouldn’t she be afraid that someone else from the embassy would go into 7B and discover her lover?”
“It’s likely that she knew when supplies were to be picked up from storage. Still, it was a dangerous game and she must have been in great fear of being discovered. One of the ways in which she hoped to cover up her clandestine activity was to ‘pick up’ not one, but two men from our side – Merlo and Sutor.”
“Which is why she started dating them shortly after the 30 October party. Bader must have just arrived at her doorstep about then.”
“Precisely, Guidi. So, throughout November and most of December she was running the razor’s edge of working at the embassy, dating two rivals and hiding the father of her child, now an enemy and fugitive. She might or mig
ht not have considered the possibility that Merlo and Sutor would grow jealous of each other. The fact remains that by 9 January all German civilian employees were ordered to leave Rome. This protocol was undoubtedly known to embassy personnel by the end of December.”
“So she told Bader that he had to pack.”
“Possibly. Or else things had gotten untenable between them. No doubt he knew she was carrying on with two other men, and whether or not it was to protect him, he might have – let us say – resented it. She hoarded food for him, bought him clothes, had a copy made of the key to his hideout – might have had a hand in securing false papers for him. But he had to stay locked up while her lovers came to visit overnight.” Bora spoke in German to someone in the office, and then took up again in Italian. “Now, what do you say to this reconstruction of events. When Sutor took her home from the holiday party on the night of her death, he tried to convince her to let him stay. They argued over it and he left in a rage, under the watchful eye of the militiaman Merlo had set after him. He did not, as the militiaman was instructed by Merlo to tell you, stay in the building. Had he done so, and I hate to admit it, Magda Reiner might be alive today.”
“But if Sutor had left, what about the witness who overheard Magda arguing in German in her apartment?”
“Well, remember Bader was from St Louis, which has a large German immigrant colony. Magda’s parents knew little about the athlete she romanced in ’36, but they did tell me he spoke German. He is the ‘Willi’ Hannah Kund spoke of. I believe that after Sutor left, she went into 7B and confronted Bader, probably to tell him or remind him he had to pack soon. In addition, God knows, he might have been in a jealous rage. They probably scuffled in the place, or made love, or both – think of the missing underwear – and she lost a button from her dress. I think she, or the Vatican, had gotten him a new set of forged papers, and he burned it to force her to let him stay. This would account for the ashes, which migrated from 7B, likely on his clothes and under his shoes, when he followed her to her apartment. Here she changed for bed, but they ended up arguing again and were overheard – speaking German. She might have threatened him, and I suggest he struck her and decided to push her out of the window, as a flight of four storeys would undoubtedly conceal any blows to her face or head and dispose of the danger she now posed.”
“But in the confusion after her fall, with Merlo in the whereabouts, neighbors and then the police gathering, would Bader be able to get away?”
“Why not? The light was off in her room, according to reports – indeed, with all that the window was wide open, it took PAI some time to figure out from what apartment on what floor she’d fallen. Remember, the killer locked her bedroom and front door. As we posited earlier, he took her key chain (that, we may never find), went back to 7B to dispose of his bedding and a few other objects in one of Magda’s pillowcases, and slipped away in the dark. I’d like to say we made escape from Rome close to impossible, but you and I both know how much actually goes on at night.”
“Why do you say that?”
“No particular reason. But it’s true, isn’t it?” Bora took a breath. “It irks me to think of it, but Bader nearly managed to get out of Rome, though it took him some doing. He was caught without papers on Via Portuense late in January, and only because he was shot in the leg. After ending up in the field hospital at Aprilia, once again he gave us the slip near Albano on 15 February. He got new papers along the way, probably from the Roman underground that set him free. What irks me most is that he was in the field hospital when I visited it, and that I might have even helped him out of the accursed rubble. Anyhow, although the forced evacuation of the hospital after the bombing bought him a couple of weeks on the lam, he’s back in our hands now, and I promise you he’ll stay there and face trial.” This time Guidi could hear the smirk in Bora’s voice. “I am thrilled more than I can say.”
As this was obviously the sole reason for his call, Bora put down the phone, without giving Guidi a chance to mention Caruso’s request for a meeting. And there was no telling what Caruso would say to the possibility of exonerating Ras Merlo from the charge of murder.
That evening Cardinal Borromeo was having dinner, and listened to the radio while he did so. Unceremoniously for his station, he asked Bora to sit at the other end of his long refectory table. “A bit of tongue, Colonel Bora?”
“No, thank you. I am on my way to Countess Ascanio’s, but had to stop by. Cardinal, are you going to the opera tomorrow?”
“I never miss the season’s opening. I have seats with the diplomatic corps. Why?”
“Excellent. Thank you. I need to see you there.”
Borromeo made a very strange face. “Colonel, you do not plan to...”
Bora understood, and blushed violently. “It’s best if you do not offend me by saying it, Cardinal.”
Another slice of tongue was transferred by the manicured hand of the prelate to his plate. “I’m relieved. About-faces greatly trouble me. But you are meeting me now, so it must be for someone else that you wish to see me.”
“Yes.”
“For the sake of someone else?”
“You could say so.”
“I’ll be there. Now, don’t run off. Stay seated, and give yourself ten minutes to think whether you really want to meet me at the Opera House.”
Bora would not argue. He sat back, resting his shoulders against the padded back of the chair. The music was very well known to him – Schubert’s unfinished Sonata in C major. He had played it beautifully once. Not just as an accomplished interpreter, but with beauty. With beauty. How does one draw such beauty back into oneself? He had unwisely used his time in Rome, and as such he must be chased from it. The love proffered, Dollmann was right: it was the love not given that haunted him tonight. Across the tureens and cruets of the narrow table he looked at Borromeo, who remorselessly broke Church discipline by eating meat on Friday.
“I’ll see you tomorrow night after the end of the opera, Cardinal.”
Donna Maria had not really spoken to Bora since Sunday night. They’d been avoiding each other in the strange little ways people who are close elude real contact, through courteous superficiality. Tonight Bora found her in the dark parlor with the window open, a distant glare of fires visible over the crest of the roofs.
He undid his belt and laid down his gun. Like a lover he put his arms around her from behind, holding her. She rested her head against him. “Martin, it’s burning in the hills.” She stared out. “Look out there, look – what’s down that way?”
Bora looked where the sky tongued red, higher at times than others. “Either Castel Gandolfo or Albano.” And he felt her ache in the security of his hold, knowing it was not to last.
“Martin, when will you...?”
“Soon enough, Donna Maria.”
She tried hard not to cry at the words. She freed herself and went to sit on her sewing chair, still facing the window. Bora sat at her feet.
“Why don’t you go to The Seagull? You can stay there, just stay there until the Americans arrive, and then it’s going to be all right. No one need know. You can make your war end there.”
He stroked her knees. “Now, now, are you really telling me this, Donna Maria?”
She pulled a handkerchief from her cuff and blew her nose into it. “No, I’m not. I’m being a foolish old goose. But what else can women do to keep their men except weep?”
“I don’t think Dikta ever wept.”
“She didn’t keep you, either.” It was the opposite, but Bora kept silent. Donna Maria dabbed her eyes. “I know what you’re thinking, Martin. The truth is that until you let go, she’s still inside and won’t let others in.”
He didn’t want to talk about it. Pulling away, he tried to remove himself from her mind reaching out. “It’s not easy any more.”
“Why, what’s the matter? How are things different?” Against his will, she took his left wrist and placed it on her knees. “How are things different?
”
“You’re holding the difference, Donna Maria.”
Her grasp around his wrist was unanticipated, hard, to the edge of pain. “Am I? Is this the difference? You are perfect now.”
The words raced at him. They opened an unexpected chasm, the caving in of a crust of pretense, under which his disbelief and need for the words were ravenous. “How can you say that? If ever there was hope for some perfection before...”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Perfection is sometimes achieved by subtraction, not addition. You’re perfect now, or you never understood perfection. A hand was well worth the prize of it.” She placed his right hand on his own wounded arm. “You had better listen to me, Martin Bora – this is perfection.”
That night, when he arrived home after the lonely drive to the Tiburtino district, Guidi found two men waiting at the top of the stairs. Dim light rained on them from the bulb hanging above, like yellow dust. Hand on the rail, without stopping he slowed down his climb.
“Inspector Guidi, we’re Francesca’s friends.”
Silently Guidi stepped up, took the key from his pocket. The men stood aside to let him pass, waiting until he opened and nodded his head toward the inside of his apartment. But they let him walk in first. By the bulges in their coats Guidi knew they were heavily armed. “To the kitchen,” he said. Here, he pulled a couple of chairs away from the table and the men sat down, wide-kneed as swaggering farm boys, hands spread on their thighs.
Guidi stood before them, and because they looked the room over for exits, he casually removed the pistol from the holster under his arm. “I’m listening.”
No other explanations were given or asked. The younger of the two, so dark as to seem blue-haired, with a narrow and obstinate forehead, said, “Francesca talked about you.”
