A Dark Song of Blood (24 page)

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 ruins, 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.

“Truly, Martin, you know better than that.”

“No,
Herr General Feldmarschall
, I don't. I don't. I need a note from you within the next few minutes, or Guidi is dead. I would not have come here had I known better.”

Kesselring looked up from the dish. They were outside on a vine-covered balcony that overlooked the lake, and there weren't enough new leaves on the trellis to shield the sun entirely; the red branches did most of the covering. “None of us is clean in this business. Did you not order reprisals during your stint in Russia?”

“Against guerrilla forces, yes.”

“And what's ‘guerrilla forces' to you? Do they speak Russian, do they wear
valenki
boots? I don't see why you're choosing to
become involved in this. If it's friendship you're thinking of, there's no such thing in war. There's camaraderie, not friendship – and for an Italian, after what they've done to us! Awful things have happened before. What's different this time?”

“
Herr General Feldmarschall,
” Bora said dryly, “they will start shooting in less than three hours. If you think an innocent man is worth saving, I beg you to give me a signed message for Kappler.”

“This Guidi, he's not Jewish, is he?”

“No, he's not Jewish.”

“You
know
that
.
”

“Yes, I know that. He's not Jewish.”

“Because if he were Jewish, you understand —”

“For God's sake,
Herr General Feldmarschall
, I'd ask you if he were Jewish, don't you see?”

Kesselring took another bite, then let go of his fork, watching him. Bora kept self-control with an obvious effort; still he held his stare, and his lips were unmoved.

Kesselring had his big bony laugh. “We go back forty years, your stepfather and I. Best commander I ever had. You're like him, but even more unorthodox. You're courting trouble.” With the napkin he wiped his mouth from side to side. Moderately he drank some white wine from his glass. He poured some for Bora, who did not even acknowledge the gesture. Finally he stood up with his burly frame. “I will call Colonel Kappler and speak to him in person. Wait here.”

While he was gone inside the restaurant, Bora fidgeted. In the incongruous peace of the view, his heartbeat pounded at the sides of his neck, and the explosions from the front seemed never to end. He understood all too well that Kesselring did not wish to apply his signature to a written order.

The field marshal was back eventually. “Kappler is not in. I left a message with his adjutant. Everything is fine. Guidi's name will be pulled from the list and he will remain at Regina Coeli until you pick him up.”

Bora thanked him. Sweat gathered on his face at the release of tension. In less than an hour he'd be out of Via Tasso on his way to the jail – and that would be before two o'clock.

Kesselring sat again. “It's all right, Martin. Now let me eat in peace.”

Francesca had lunch at her mother's.

“What are you going to do with the baby?” her mother asked, taking her long hair in hand and sweeping it behind her back. She was still young, narrow-hipped, large of breasts, with a hungry mouth and fingertips stained by tobacco. Francesca remembered seldom seeing her in other than a robe; in the summer sometimes she was naked. They knew one another's bodies very well.

“Do you have stretch marks?” her mother asked when her first question was not answered.

“Some.”

“I can't understand why. I got none with you.”

“I'm going to have it at the Raimondis',” Francesca answered to the first question. “You know her, she paints watercolors. He's a physician, and they have no children. She's been sketching me every month and tells me how
beautiful
my belly looks. She bought me three new dresses.”

Her mother half-closed her eyes, with her hand on a pack of German cigarettes across the table. “I kept you.”

Francesca shrugged, with a little smile. “The man who rents with me – we've gotten together a couple of times. He feels so guilty about it, he asked me to marry him.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I laughed in his face, Ma. He's a policeman. What would I want to marry him for?”

“There's something to be said for those who offer.”

Francesca went to the long mirror on the door to look at herself sideways. “We'll see if he asks again.”

*

A look at the still-distant southern periphery showed Bora that the roadside airport ahead was being strafed. He took the first right turn with the intention of reaching Rome by a parallel route, only to find that the Centocelle Field was under attack, too. So it was by circuitous country lanes that he finally came to Via Tasso at five past two. SS men would not let him through the door. Judging by the number of vehicles jamming the street, Maelzer had decided to charge Kappler with responsibility for the execution. Bora decided he'd try Regina Coeli again and physically get Guidi out of there.