A Dark Song of Blood (5 page)

Though that wasn't all of it, either. Melancholy and loneliness, so well laid away for the past year, had been stirred up from their places and looked ugly now. He did not wish to recognize them as his own, did not wish to forsake invulnerability. Still, the heartless gossip made him sick at actors and scenario. Kappler's affairs, Magda Reiner's affairs. What could Westphal want to hear out of this? It felt like mud in his mouth.

Talk of his wife had come closest to undoing him. The thought of her caused him pain – beyond desire, soreness of love, anguish that made him bristle and kept him awake many nights. She was inside him beyond herself, even. He was defensive about his feelings for her, and Dollmann had asked entirely too many questions after Maelzer's crude words.

“Why, Major, you're in love!” The amused comment had come when both of them had grown less reticent. “I'd even call you
passionate!
”

The suggestion embarrassed him. “I'm a disciplined man,” he had pointed out.

“Yes, and passions are what discipline is for, aren't they?”

16 JANUARY 1944

On Sunday, Cardinal Borromeo, in a three-piece suit under his tan coat, was punctually to be found in the Evangelical Church, where ‘All Praise Be To You, Jesus Christ' was sung by a bespectacled alto. Seated in the first pew, he gave no sign of recognizing Bora and kept him in suspense until the end of the concert. At that time he informed him that the Holy
See was sympathetic to General Westphal's position. Bora was visibly relieved. He thanked the cardinal and began to leave, when the other unceremoniously retained him in the seat.

“On the other hand, Major, I am shocked to hear that your office is even now collaborating with the Italian police.”

Bora denied it was so. “My commander would have informed me were we to be embarrassed before His Holiness by accepting a cooperation we specifically decline.”

“Check your sources, dear friend.”

Only on Monday Bora found out the truth, in a memo from General Maelzer. “I know nothing about this,” Westphal said. “Do you?”

“It's the first time I see it, General.”

“Well, Maelzer must have his reasons for involving you in a girl's broken head. But you'll have to deal with the Italian police in your spare time.”

“There isn't much that can be done after hours,” Bora observed. “Not with the Italians.”

“Well, meet this Guidi fellow now and then and listen to his reports.” Westphal handed him Maelzer's message. “I don't like it any more than you do. Now we can't tell the Vatican we have no say with the Italian police, and that baboon Caruso will get us in trouble yet.”

In the days following 19 January, there was more for Bora to worry about than the head of police. His long hours with Westphal – often extending to fifteen daily – practically ran round the clock after the British advanced beyond the Garigliano River and passed Minturno by the coast on their way to the crossroad village of St Maria Infante. On Thursday, a counter-attack was launched from Ausonia on the affluent south of Cassino, by which time nervous talk arose of an imminent landing. Kappler called in to inquire about the number of soldiers available in Rome for immediate recall to the front, if needed. Bora came up with ten thousand. All day Westphal stayed at Soratte and returned late, tired after his conference with Kesselring. Still
he spent most of the night before a map held in place by hastily emptied coffee mugs, evaluating enemy positions and the endless coastal stretch marked for stand-to. Waiting.

Kappler phoned again at four in the morning to warn that Gestapo and SS stood ready to requisition drivers and attendants.

“Go ahead,” Westphal replied, yawning into his fist. “If that's what we throw before an invading army, we deserve what we have coming.” He looked at Bora, who had been reading charts of the shoreline from Leghorn to Naples. “Well, it doesn't look slow any more,” he said. “And the field marshal is right – they bombed too much all around us for it not to happen in the Rome sector. Especially as they hit the Littorio Airfield yesterday.”

“It ought to be on this coast, anyway, if reports of activity in the Naples harbor are correct.”

“But where, and when?” Westphal passed his hands over the bristle of his cheeks. “Be good, Bora. Shave and run by Gestapo headquarters to see what Kappler has in mind.”

21 JANUARY 1944

The calendar day celebrated the feast of St Agnes with a Gospel reading from Matthew, the Parable of the Wise and Foolish Virgins. During the light hours, mixed reports were phoned in from the front, and by nightfall the only news of interest pertained to a heavy air raid on London. In a headstrong state of premonition, Westphal stayed up until late. Then, mostly because Kesselring had agreed to relent the alert after three tense days, he told Bora he would go lie down. “Call me if anything happens.”

Bora set to keep watch in the dead hours that followed, when even vigilance born of foreboding whittled down under physical weariness. Nothing had happened. Nothing might happen. Around him and this room the whole great building
seemed enchanted, bound in silence. Shortly after midnight, he began a letter to his wife, reread it and decided not to send it.

A cigarette later, his mind wandered to disparate and irrelevant subjects, as in dreams. Who was the SS Magda Reiner had dated, and was God really Borromeo's last lover? He wondered if it was true that Kappler collected Etruscan art, like Dollmann said. Was this the time to collect anything? And so through the night. Coffee grew cold in his cup, names on the maps became confused scribbles on mountainsides along wavy seashores. At one point Bora turned the lights off and went to open the window. It was like plunging his face in icy water, bracing and beneficial. Outside, the late hour stood calm, depthless. A thin haze stretched like a canopy of gauze over the city. He sat at his desk in the dark, facing the window. Finally, at three o'clock, the news came. Bora collected himself after leaving the telephone, and on his way to the general's room he took time to straighten his uniform. Westphal didn't need much to be awakened. He stared at the door where his aide's figure stood straight, bare-headed. “Where?” he asked at once.

“
Codename Option Richard
.”

“Anzio?”

“And Nettuno.” Bora looked away while the general furiously threw his clothes back on. “They're making straight for the interior.”

“Call Soratte at once.” Even as he left the threshold, Westphal's voice summoned him back. “Stand ready to evacuate the building and the city.”

In the early hours of the morning, the magnitude of the disaster was first assessed. By this time emergency troops had been dispatched to cordon off the landing area, and the void behind them was likely to be overwhelmed any time. But at noon, the line still visibly held.

“If they only hesitate today and tomorrow,” Westphal wished out loud, bright-eyed with anguish and hope, “you may yet unpack your trunk.”

Bora found it easy not to smile. “It's less than sixty-five miles away. In Russia we traveled them in one hour.”

“You were not facing German soldiers. No, no. Schlemm and Herr are doing everything right. The 65th Division is a resurrected ghost, but we'll have the 362nd and the rest soon enough, if only we hold until then. The Panzer troops will.” Carelessly Westphal threw his greatcoat on. “I'm off to Soratte, and won't be back until von Mackensen shows up. If Kappler calls for men, give him what he asks.”

Bora followed him out of the office. “The power of news being what it is, by your leave I suggest that in the next few days we'll see renewal of partisan aggression in Rome.”

“All right, I'll make sure the field marshal hears the voice of experience – and I promise I'll sandbag my car. Speaking of experience, have we heard from Holz?”

“We heard from his staff. He was killed earlier today.”

“For shame. Well, get some sleep when you can. Any calls from the Vatican, don't let through unless it's the Secretary of State and up. You know what to do if the enemy breaks through.” About to leave, Westphal seemed startled, but immediately turned with a grin to Bora's pale and unmoved countenance. “What do you know? You can hear the cannon from Rome.”

2

23 JANUARY 1944

By Sunday, it seemed the Germans had vanished overnight. Their field-gray cars no longer patrolled the streets. Even the fierce mouths of tank guns had retreated from alleys and little tucked-back squares. Wild rumors of liberation were whispered and denied, but the deep roll of artillery to the west did not lie. Guidi was all the more surprised when Bora's well-bred voice invited him over the telephone to a late lunch.

“It's absolutely impossible, Major.” He made up his mind to refuse. “I have work to do.”

“All right. I'll come there, then.”

Guidi had no chance to reply, because the receiver had already been clicked down. He scrambled for the next ten minutes to clear his desk, knowing that Bora did not have a long way to travel from Via Veneto to Via Del Boccaccio. Soon the black Mercedes pulled in by the curb, and there was Bora, overcoat nonchalantly doubled on his left arm, getting out and climbing the steps with his stiff, quick gait. “Leave the door open,” he told Guidi. “I have lunch coming.”

“Here?”

“Why not?” Bora didn't say he had hardly eaten in the last two frantic days. “I'm hungry.”

The men in the police office made themselves scarce. As for Bora, he took advantage of the fact that no one would ask him about the military situation. So he showed far more leisure
than matters warranted, amicably inquiring about Guidi's new address, and whether he could be of assistance, “now that it seems we'll be working together.”

Guidi watched him stand by the window with his back to it, in apparent disregard of prudence, and suspected Bora may be trying to hide signs of sleeplessness or worry. He joined him to take a better look at his face. “Do you mean you didn't know as of our first meeting?”

“Why, no, I only found out a week ago. I'm glad, though.” In order to face Guidi, Bora turned toward the overcast light of day. On his fine-grained skin, character lines still disappeared after a change of expression. “Why are you looking at me that way?” He laughed.

Guidi shrugged. “I was thinking that it's not a good idea to talk by the window,” he simply said. Drawing back into the room, he gestured toward a chair. “Will you take a seat?”

“No, thanks. Working in Rome is sedentary enough.”

There was such negligence in the reply, Guidi was tempted to believe there might be less to the invasion than rumored. But Bora did look tired, and there was no denying that.

Over lunch they discussed the Reiner case.

“Rome is ours.” Bora dropped the political hint as if he were speaking of real estate. “No murderer will get out – if there's a murderer. We want him.”

“The
King of Rome
wants him,” Guidi specified mildly. “You can't possibly approve of Maelzer, Major. He's a drunken oaf. The Romans can't stand him.”

“Well, I'm not Roman.”

“But I think I know you better than that.”

Bora ate slowly, without looking up. “You don't know me at all.” And while Guidi discovered his own appetite in the presence of good food, the German seemed to have lost interest in the meal. Sitting back, he took a house key out of his pocket, and laid it on the table. “My schedule is tight, so we'll visit the Reiner place right after this.”

“If you don't mind, I'll come in my own car.”

“Fine. I'd rather go in the morning, but I'm a bit tied up.” It was only one of Bora's understatements, since he was due to visit the Anzio front on behalf of General Westphal. But his composure was genuine, because he was not afraid. “Tomorrow after work, however, we're off to a Pirandello play. I'll tell you why later on.”

At the Reiner apartment on Via Tolemaide – a side street of Via Candia, in the Prati district – Bora leaned to look out of the window at the sidewalk hemming the street four floors down. “Did anybody see her fall?” he asked Guidi.

“No. Curfew was at seven those days, and it was past that time. As prescribed, all lights were off. A neighbor says he heard a woman scream between seven-thirty and eight, but he's not sure it had anything to do with the incident.”

Bora turned. “It's not a cold winter by German standards, but it
is
cold. Why would her bedroom window be open at night?”

“Perhaps for the very purpose of ending her life. Notwithstanding the absence of keys – someone could have picked them up from the street if she was holding them when she fell – we can't rule out suicide, or even an unlikely accident. I'll look into every possibility.”

While Guidi began searching the room, Bora remained by the windowsill, moodily observing the minute debris of life on it – a pigeon's silvery waste, lint caught up in it, a cinder speck flown here from God knows where.
How little remains after our death
, he thought. His next question came negligently over the rattle of windowpanes, caused by far away artillery. “What was she wearing at the time of death?”