A Dark Song of Blood (2 page)

9 JANUARY 1944

At fifteen minutes to seven on Sunday, a cold, rainy day that made the cobblestones along the Vatican Wall slick with ice, Bora
arrived to meet whomever the Secretary of State had chosen for the encounter. He secretly hoped it would be Cardinal Borromeo, whom he knew less than Cardinal Hohmann and would be easier to lie to. But it turned out to be Hohmann who would meet him; the same old man who, as a bishop, lectured on ethics when Bora was at the university. A spry octogenarian who notoriously did not take no for an answer, he noticed Bora's concern and laughed his small squeaky laugh. “What is this, General Westphal sends me a boy from home?”

Bora leaned over to kiss the cardinal's ring.

“Have you been to Mass?”

“Why, no, Your Eminence.”

“Then go to Mass first – there's one about to begin next door.”

Bora fidgeted through the service in the chapel of the handsome flat just outside the Vatican boundaries, from which all German soldiers were barred. At his return, Hohmann was eating candy next to a small table. “If you haven't taken Communion,” he said with a merry flicker of his blue eyes, “it means you were ordered to lie to me.”

“I haven't taken Communion,” Bora admitted, “but not for that reason. Your Eminence, General Westphal wishes to inform you that we might look into the matter of preventive arrest of civilians by the Italian authorities.”

“That's a lie already, because you won't.”

“He also sends his respects to Your Eminence.”

“They're not worth a fig, Major.” Hohmann handed the dainty plate of candy to Bora, who tensely declined. “What happened to the saucy upperclassman with whom I discussed Glaucon?”

“Things are different now.”

“Nonsense. From one Saxon to another, Major Bora, tell your commander that I want more than his word for it. If he doesn't make himself accountable in writing, the Holy Father may request to see him personally, or to see General Maelzer, or the field marshal.”

“Even the field marshal has his orders.”

“What were you to tell Cardinal Borromeo, had he been the one selected to meet you?”

“I am not at liberty to say.”

Genially Hohmann slapped his knee. “Then it's ‘no'. You were told to tell
him
no, and ‘maybe' to
me.
Well, I suppose that counts for something.”

“I urge Your Eminence to accept General Westphal's spoken offer of interest. I'm afraid it's as good as Your Eminence is going to receive.”

“Our Eminence will accept it if you will apprise him that he is unto us as Plato's prisoner to his companions.”

Bora gave him a frustrated look. “With all respect, I cannot tell my commanding officer that he's
ridiculous
.”

The teacher in the cardinal relented enough for him to lead Bora out of the room with a fatherly squeeze of the shoulder. “It's all right, Major, you don't have to tell him.”

“I still need Your Eminence's answer to the offer.”

“The answer is no.”

Later that day, from the baluster of the Janiculum Hill, Rome was hazy with smoke – people were burning cardboard and furniture in their stoves after gas and central heating had been cut off, like most services. The view had the dreamlike hues of a northern place, a Flemish quality of misty perspectives, roof edges suspended, outlines dabbed on. But the cupolas betrayed Rome, and so did the somber heads of the pines, and the white marble slope of Victor Emmanuel's monument, a throne fit for a giant.

“How can you know so much about Rome if you arrived only ten days or so ago?”

Bora was thinking of Hohmann, whose outspokenness had nearly cost him his life in Germany, and slowly turned at Guidi's question. “My stepfather's first wife lives here. I spent many summers with her, down that way.” He pointed at an undefined spot in the center of the city, where blocks of venerable brick houses clustered around fat churches.

During four hours of visiting the sights and breaking for lunch, Bora's talk had been inquisitive but superficial, with no sign of deepening now. So Guidi decided to prompt him. “Major, what do you know about the Reiner case?”

“Not much. If there's foul play, we want it solved.”

“What else?”

“That's about all. Rumors about boyfriends – and about a girlfriend, too.” Bora stood straight, and fastidiously rigid.

“That's news to me.”

“Well, it proves how we can keep our mouths shut.”

“Three weeks have passed since her death, and not a word in the papers. They told me the body is still here.”

“Actually, her ashes are. She was cremated upon her family's request. You understand that after her fall, it was hardly an open coffin matter.”

“No word about an autopsy, either. And the key to her apartment has not been made available to the Italian authorities.”

“The building belongs to the German government.”

Guidi was vexed by Bora's reticence. “So, that's it, Major. They brought me in as a newcomer to sandbag the investigation.”

“Whatever you mean by
they
, it isn't the Germans. And what a low opinion of yourself you have. Perhaps
they
think you're the only one who can see through it.”

For the next few minutes, Bora pointed out monuments through the haze, discussing them. Guidi, still resentful, was not about to settle for the view. He said bluntly, “Frankly, Major, after the matter at Lago, I thought for sure you'd seek headquarters in Germany.”

Unexpectedly Bora grinned. “For safety, you mean? Because of a jackass like Captain Lasser?” But he didn't add how close to asking for that very safety he'd come. “War is not over in Italy, by a long shot. I like being involved.”

“I don't know why you keep after war when you might not have to.”

Bora took out a pack of Chesterfields. “Why, you're not serious!” He offered a cigarette to Guidi, without taking one himself. “Ever since Spain, I've had seven years of great fighting. The
glory
of it, Guidi, the bloody idea of it. It takes more than a lost hand or a jackass colleague! Spain, Poland, Russia – I volunteered for all. Being in war is as much fun as being in love, when the want's in it.”

Guidi saw through the bluster. “Is that the only lesson to be gained from it?”

“No. Spain is where I learned what civil war does to a country, so I don't mind being here at all. I know what to expect. As for Italy, it was Albert who brought me here.” Bora meant Field Marshal Kesselring, affectionately, though his face grew hard. “I assure you, Guidi, your king made a mistake when he turned on us. We'll do what we must, but you'll be out in the cold.”

“You mean the Italians. I see. Why do you bother with my company, then?”

Bora looked down at the lighter he had taken in hand without using it. “Must there be a motive? This isn't police work.”

“Some higher-up found me an accommodation at Via Paganini,
closer in.
I was notified of it this morning, and have reason to think you had something to do with it.”

“Why should I?”

“That's what I am asking you, Major Bora.” Irritably, Guidi carefully lifted the collar of his coat against the northern wind. It was a good coat, an expensive new one, and he was proud and protective of it in these lean years. Bora looked elsewhere and was rapidly isolating himself. Nothing else would be gotten out of him today. “I think you've shown me enough for now,” Guidi advised. In silence they walked across the belvedere to the Garibaldi monument, where Bora instructed his driver to take Guidi back to work.

10 JANUARY 1944

The first thing Westphal asked on Monday was, “What the hell's going on at Verona? Have the Fascists finished trying their own?”

Bora nodded. “Ciano has been condemned to death.”

“Good! I'll give credit to Mussolini for dumping his son-in-law. He shouldn't have left his fat post at the Vatican. Who else, besides Ciano?”

Bora didn't need to look at the list. “De Bono, Gottardi, Pareschi and Marinelli.”

“Ha! Two of them are decrepit.”

“They're all to be shot as traitors tomorrow at nine.”

“Serves them right. Now give me the bad news.”

Bora reported on his meetings with Kesselring and Hohmann, adding that he had already requested an audience with Cardinal Borromeo to sample the moderate Vatican wing. “The worst news is that the Americans made it across the Peccia River. They've been at it since Thursday, and now they've done it. The French are still north of Cassino, but they may be there for weeks.”

“So, is it still looking slow?”

“It's still looking slow.”

Westphal went into his office, from where he called out to Bora after a while, “On Saturday there's a party at Ott's house. I want you to go if Dollmann is going. Have you met him already? Good. Sit by him. He loves to talk, for an SS.” Westphal came back in, with an ironical bent of his lips. “You know about him, of course.”

“I heard rumors, General.” Bora did not say the kindest of them had been
They say Dollmann fucks his chauffeur.

“Rumors? By God, you were a good choice. Now we only need to find a way to use your
other
talent. That's the one we brought you here for.”

“Hopefully there'll be no need.”

“Don't delude yourself. We haven't seen the tip of what clandestine activities are yet to come. Ask Dollmann at the party. By the way, we go to Frascati tomorrow, and on the way back let's swing by the shore. We won't leave until 0700 hours, but be here at five as usual.”

“I suggest we leave at six-thirty. American bombers become active by 0800 or so.”

“We'll do as you say. Any news about the Reiner mess?”

“Only that they have a newcomer looking into it. The official word is still ‘accident', but we know better.”

“Wasn't her door locked from within?”

“Or from without. Her keys are missing.”

In the afternoon Bora prepared two itineraries: one through Frascati to Anzio and along the shore to Lido and back to Rome, and another that rejoined the return route inland at Aprilia, skirting the Alban Hills to the south. Their departure, however, was delayed by reports of new fighting around Cervara.

The sun was almost up when they left the southeastern city limits, and rolling along the horizon by the time they crossed the crowded suburb of Quadraro. Past them went the one-storied little stucco houses, ochre- and mustard-colored, beside postage-stamp courtyards enclosed by fences and paved with cement tiles. Frost-covered cacti sat in pots at the gates of more pretentious tenements, three and four stories in height, belted by unimaginative masonry balconies. Bora was reading from his notes to the general. “The birth rate in this place is huge – over twenty-three hundred a year.”

Disparagingly, Westphal glanced away from the window. “Mark my words, one of these days we'll come here and fish out all the men and haul them off. All communists and socialists, ungrateful riff-raff brought here from the slums of the countryside. Now, this is the place where you'll count yourself lucky if you don't get yourself blown to bits!”

Bora had noticed the car lacked the customary sandbags on the floor; a mine would explode the chassis and kill them
without hope of escape. But then his car was sandbagged on the day a grenade had been thrown at it, and it had made no difference, really. He simply took note of street names, to be able if need be to find his way around the quarter on foot. Despite his staff position, he wore the ordinance pistol at his belt. His assignments had made him realistic about war exigencies, he had told Westphal, and Westphal had answered that he didn't mind.

Five miles out of Rome, when they passed Mussolini's movie citadel, the general drew back more amiably on the seat. “I don't need to be briefed about this – most of your colleagues' lovers are from Cinecittà.” Bora looked up from the topographic spread on his knees. “Maelzer doesn't like it, but there's little he can do about it. There used to be a tramway every twenty minutes each way – now it's all up in the air.”

Not far from the road Pius IX's old railway could be now seen penciling a straight parallel line among farmhouses and fields. Past Osteria del Curato, the highway to Frascati and that to Anagni diverged. The staff car bore left at the crossroads and had nearly reached the landmark called Halfway Tower (Westphal was giving Bora his plans for the day) when two British fighters burst into view from the south-east, fast and low and coming their way.

At Westphal's order the panic-stricken driver, who had swerved off the road, regained it and continued to travel. The first flyover was deafening, followed by the whine of engines as they pulled up to bank round and return.

“They'll strafe,” Bora warned.

Westphal was stone-faced, but would not order to stop. Over them the fighters swept one after the other, cannons ablaze. A loud dry whipping of shells cracked the air – asphalt flew up around the car and pieces of it hit windshield and side windows, stray metal gouged the doors; the noise was for a moment beyond the edge of hearing, and painful. Against a bare sky the fighters had turned ahead, and were scuttling back with
the slick ease of deadly fish. Bora knew a third passage could not possibly miss them. In front of him, in naive self-defense, the driver braked and covered his head. Westphal braced for the explosion; Bora had been holding a pen in his hand, and now absurdly capped it and put it away in his pocket. High grating of engines drowned their thoughts.