The Rules in Rome (23 page)

Ley’s mumbling grew worse that afternoon. She dreaded Heinie returning from duty or the doctor coming to check on him again. She couldn’t always pick out what he was saying, could rarely tell what language it was, but she
heard her name more than once and wasn’t sure how long she could convince everyone that he was talking about an old girlfriend. Gracie wasn’t even a German name.

It’s the morphine
. She couldn’t skip his next dose. He’d be in too much pain. But if he kept talking in his sleep, they’d both end up dead.

Zimmerman walked through the prison
with Heinrich Vogel. It wasn’t Vogel’s job to investigate the shooting, but Zimmerman asked for his help since Vogel had shown up soon after the incident.

“The first guard was here, dead when we arrived.” Vogel pointed to the floor where the corridor split. “Then the other lay halfway down the hall. Poor man died in my arms.” Vogel frowned at the memory.

When they reached the cell, Vogel showed Zimmerman the final two spots. “Ostheim was here. He was dead when we arrived. Adalard—um, Hauptmann Dietrich—was over here. I wasn’t sure he was going to make it last night, but I was with him this morning, and I think he’ll recover.”

“What was Dietrich doing here?”

“I don’t know. He wasn’t conscious long enough for me to ask.”

“Hmm. Did you see the prisoner who escaped?”

Vogel shook his head. “He was gone before I got here. Most nights I would have been gone by then too, but I was finishing up a report for Sturmbannführer Scholz.”

Zimmerman looked around the cell, but it offered him no clues. Somehow, the prisoner had obtained a weapon, and he’d used it effectively. “Thank you for your help, Obersturmführer Vogel.”

“Of course. Let me know if I can help with anything else.”

Zimmerman nodded, doubting there was much either of them could do to recover the man he’d captured yesterday before dawn. “I will. And let me know if I can ever help you with your duties.”

Vogel was in the doorway, but he stopped, hesitating. “Actually, since you work with Sturmbannführer Scholz, I would appreciate any mention of my help. The two of us had a disagreement over SS marriage laws, and he hasn’t forgotten it. Any comment showing him I’m still loyal to the SS would be helpful.”

Zimmerman had heard about the incident. Most officers who wanted to advance in their careers would instantly drop ties with a girlfriend of questionable ancestry, but Zimmerman could sympathize with lovestruck Heinie Vogel. He knew what it was like to earn a commanding officer’s displeasure. And he knew what it was like to fall in love with someone very different from himself. “I’d be happy to.”

He walked back to his desk, pausing where Ostheim usually sat.
I can’t believe he’s gone.
Ostheim had always been so careful with his duties in the prison. Zimmerman couldn’t imagine him making a mistake, yet he was dead.

He went to his own seat and thought for a while, unable to concentrate on his paperwork. He was glad for the distraction when Möller rushed over to him. His forearm was bandaged from the raid, but he’d turned down
medical leave. “Sir, there’s been an explosion in the Via Rasella. Sabotage, they think.”

“Drive me there,” Zimmerman said.

Möller was enthusiastic behind the wheel—the type of driver who made his passengers fear for their lives—but the streets were mostly empty, and Möller made the drive in record time. The Via Rasella was narrow, surrounded by tall buildings, and positioned on one of the seven hills of Rome. This afternoon, it was a swarm of activity.

Zimmerman stepped from the car and grabbed a distraught German enlisted man’s arm. “What happened?”

“They butchered us,” he whispered, staring at the blood on his hands as tears pooled in his eyes.

“Who?”

The soldier shook his head. “I don’t know.” He was distracted by a shadow moving along one of the roofs. He pointed his submachine gun at the top of the building and pulled the trigger, blasting the roof line.

Zimmerman couldn’t see anything worth shooting but didn’t scold the soldier for his trigger finger. The man was emotional beyond reason. “What unit are you with?”

“SS Bozen 11
th
company, 3
rd
Battalion. We were on our way back from training when they attacked.”

Zimmerman had heard of the Bozen SS. They were tasked with anti-partisan warfare in Rome, and the 11
th
company had been on their last day of training. They would have been walking up the street on their way back from the firing range when they were hit. It was the perfect spot for an ambush.
Why didn’t their officers see that before the Gappisti did?

Zimmerman left the soldier to shoot at the shadows of long-escaped adversaries. Bits of stone, stucco, and broken glass littered the bloodstained cobblestones, and the pockmarks of bullets showed on the buildings lining the street. The soldier he’d just left hadn’t been the only one firing his weapon, and they’d hit more than just stucco. A female corpse hung over a
ledge, and her blood stained the wall below her.
Was she one of the partisans or just in the wrong place at the wrong time?

As he walked farther up the hill, he saw the huge crater. It had blown open a nearby building’s wall and left a massive hole in the ground. Water flowed down the hill, so the explosion must have ruptured a pipe too.

He approached a hauptsturmführer who seemed calmer than the enlisted man had been. “What happened?”

“Not sure. A bomb. Might have been dropped from the windows. It cut through their lines, then a team of gunmen hit the side and rear with mortars and pistols. Most of the men assumed they were being attacked from the apartments, so that’s where they fired.”

Across the street, a team of soldiers dragged civilians from the building. One of the women was shouting, children were crying, and an old man collapsed in the press of people forced from their homes. A soldier gave
him a solid kick, which forced him back to his feet.

“Put them with the rest of the civilians,” the hauptsturmführer ordered.

“What were our losses?” Zimmerman asked.

“Sixty percent casualties.” He shook his head, disgusted. “Keep your hands on your heads,” he yelled at the Italians.

“Any civilian deaths?”

“A few.”

Zimmerman saw the soldiers’ bodies stacked in a row along the street’s edge. He drew closer and forced himself to look at each face. He didn’t recognize any of them, but they were his countrymen, his Nazi brothers. Nearby, another soldier sat on the street, weeping, his face buried in his
hands. Zimmerman clenched his fists as he looked at the long line of German dead.
Whoever did this will pay
.

More civilians were forced onto the street, and the soldiers divided them, sending the men to one location and the women and children to another. A few of the soldiers were emptying the buildings not just of residents but also of valuables. A jewelry box here, a silver tray there. One of the civilians protested, her cries carrying over the sound of the others. “That’s my grandmother’s tea set!”

“Keep your hands on your head!” the officer shouted again.

Losing an heirloom tea set is the least of her worries
, Zimmerman thought.

He walked up and down the Via Rasella, trying to piece together what it must have been like. The wounded had been taken to hospitals, but the dead still lay in their orderly row. As he studied the crater, he considered what he’d heard—that the bomb might have been dropped from a building. He studied the angle from the nearest blasted-out window to the crater. No one could throw a bomb that big that far. They would have needed special equipment. More likely, the bomb had been on the street. Hidden inside a car?
He couldn’t see any pieces of wreckage, but the blast was big enough to have incinerated an automobile.

He searched the nearest buildings to be sure of his theory. The civilians had all been removed, and he ignored the looting soldiers. None of the rooms held anything that would launch a bomb, and he didn’t think equipment like that could be moved or hidden quickly. He walked outside, planning to ask the civilians if they’d seen anything.

A vehicle pulled up, and Vogel got out, along with a pair of SS engineers. Vogel directed them as they unloaded their explosives.

The hauptsturmführer Zimmerman had spoken to earlier finished his roundup of civilians and approached the engineers. “General Mälzer wants
to blow up the entire street and shoot all the civilians.”

“What?” Vogel looked at Zimmerman as if asking him for help. Zimmerman turned away. He wasn’t going to dispute an order from General Mälzer, the German commandant of Rome. “Were any of the civilians involved in the blast?”

The hauptsturmführer shrugged. “Does it matter? Get ready to blast the buildings.”

“But, sir, Mälzer can’t have meant it. It’s doubtful any of the residents were involved. It was probably the Gappisti, and the guilty ones are far away by now.”

The hauptsturmführer glared at Vogel. “Are you questioning your orders?”

Another soldier discovered an unexploded mortar, saving Vogel from having to answer. The soldier who’d found it brought it to the cluster of three officers. Zimmerman took a few steps back, as did the hauptsturmführer. Vogel strode forward and examined the shell. “It’s Italian.”

“The Gappisti?” Zimmerman asked.

“That would be my guess,” Vogel said.

“Then let’s shoot these people so the Gappisti lose their support.” The hauptsturmführer gestured toward the rounded-up civilians. “Make the population hate them for the retribution they’ve caused. With no one to hide them or feed them or turn a blind eye when they distribute their propaganda, the Gappisti will be easy to catch.”

Vogel handed the mortar to one of his men and gazed at the hauptsturmführer in stern disagreement. “Who do you think the people are more likely to hate? The Gappisti who killed soldiers occupying their city or the soldiers who massacred civilians unconnected with the attack?”

“You better watch yourself,” the hauptsturmführer said. “Get those buildings ready for demolition, now.” He turned and stalked away.

Vogel watched him go but didn’t give his engineers any orders.

“Vogel,” Zimmerman whispered. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll do what he says.”

“Why?” Vogel asked. “It won’t bring them back to life.” He pointed to the row of dead Bozen SS troops. “The civilians aren’t the guilty ones. They don’t deserve to be executed, and killing them won’t do us any good. It will just cause more problems with the rest of the Romans, with the Pope. This
will make the bad press the Americans got after destroying Monte Cassino seem like a picnic.”

“Just follow your orders, Vogel,” Zimmerman said. “It’s not your job to think. It’s your job to obey.”

“I can’t obey an order like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not right!”

Zimmerman shook his head in exasperation. Vogel’s view of war reminded him a little of his wife’s. Neither of them seemed to understand the ruthlessness required for victory. “What’s right is following your orders.”

Vogel didn’t say anything. His engineers waited for direction, one of them staring at the carnage around him in disbelief, the other glaring at Vogel in disgust.

Zimmerman walked away. If Vogel didn’t get over his weak stomach, he was going to get in trouble, and Zimmerman thought it best to avoid friendship with someone whose career was about to collapse. He hadn’t gone far when the hauptsturmführer came up to him. “New orders. We’ll turn the civilians over to the Italians for questioning.”

Zimmerman was reluctant to admit it, but Vogel was right—killing the civilians would cause as many problems as it solved. Better to question them and see if they knew anything useful. By whatever means necessary, he intended to find the guilty parties, and when he did, he would show them no mercy.

Bastien tried to open his
eyes, but his eyelids felt heavy and dry, as if they were glued shut and had weights on them. His torso ached, especially the left side, and it took him a while to remember why. He tried to rub his face with his hand, thinking it might help him open his eyes, but his hand seemed to take an eternity to move from his side to his face, as if his nerves were no longer connected correctly.

“Are you waking up?” It was Gracie’s voice, but he still couldn’t get his eyes open.

“Trying to.” His voice sounded like a croak. His eyes finally opened, but the light from the balcony window was blinding. He squinted, trying to find Gracie, and saw her only after she pulled the curtains shut, darkening the room.

She came back to a chair by his bed, her eyes searching his face. “How do you feel?”

“Rotten.”

“Can I help you with anything? Are you hungry? Thirsty? Do you need more morphine?”

Now that she mentioned it, his throat was dry. “Water, please.”

Gracie went into the other room, then returned with a glass of water. She stacked an extra pillow behind his head and helped hold the glass for him. He wanted to do it himself, but his hands still felt uncoordinated.

“Do you remember my name now?” Gracie asked.

What a silly question.
“Of course. Are we alone?”

“For now. The doctor said he’d come, but he’s late.”

Bastien let her help him with another sip of water. “I remember several names for you, Concetta. Or Miss Graziella Begni, or Gladius.” He whispered the last options.

A small smile broke out on Gracie’s face.

“What?”

“You don’t remember waking up this morning, do you?”

I was awake this morning?
“I guess not.”

“Well, if Heinie asks, you have an ex-girlfriend named Gracie.”

Bastien searched his brain to figure out why on earth Gracie would have started a rumor like that, but it just made his head hurt. “What are you talking about?”

Gracie set the glass on the small table by his bed. “You called me Gracie in front of Heinie and the doctor this morning, so I told them you were confusing me with an old girlfriend.”

Bastien had slipped in his head before, but slipping out loud was worse than the time he’d fouled up his security check. “Don’t let anyone give me any more morphine. I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Gracie said. “I thought I’d distracted Ostheim long enough. He’s the one who shot you, isn’t he?”

“Yes, but I was late getting to the prison. What happened with Ostheim?”

“The waiter brought our meals, and Ostheim told him to send them up to his room. He was billeted in the hotel he took me to. I went with him, but when he started kissing me, I knew I had to get out of there.”

“Didn’t I tell you not to go anywhere alone with him?” The instant the words slipped from his lips, Bastien regretted them.
Gracie already looked distraught; she didn’t need a lecture. Besides, he’d made several of his own mistakes the day before, and she’d been trying to help him. “Did he hurt you?”

“No, but I was scared, so I hit him over the head with a wine bottle. I thought he’d be unconscious past our deadline, but I guess I was wrong. I’m
sorry.” She wiped away a few tears. “It’s all my fault.”

“No, I was late. And I shouldn’t have put you at risk in the first place.”

Gracie blinked rapidly, as if she was trying to prevent new tears.

“I’m glad he didn’t do anything more than kiss you.” When Bastien pictured it, it made him wish he’d been the one to pull the trigger and kill Ostheim.

“No, he just shot you instead.”

“Let it go. He can’t hurt either of us anymore. Unless you believe in ghosts.”

Gracie’s lips twitched in amusement as she shook her head. “Let me get you something to eat.”

“First, could you help me to the bathroom?”

She frowned. “I don’t know that you’re supposed to get out of bed.”

Bastien wasn’t sure he was physically capable of getting out of bed, but it was urgent that he make it to the bathroom. “Let’s try.”

Gracie pulled the blankets back. He hadn’t realized he was wearing nothing but his skivvies.

“Let’s get you on your side first. Then I’ll pull your legs to the edge of the bed and use them to help swing you upright.” Gracie rolled him onto his right side so his weight was on the uninjured side of his body. As she gently pulled his legs into position, he had the impression this wasn’t the first time she’d helped someone with limited mobility out of bed. “Ready?”

Bastien nodded, but even with Gracie’s help, sitting was agony, and it must have shown on his face.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

Bastien took a few deep breaths, hoping the pain would calm down, but it didn’t, and it wasn’t just his bullet wound. He had a headache and he felt dizzy. He didn’t know if he could stay sitting for much longer, let alone walk to the bathroom, even with help.

“Are you ready for me to help you stand?” Gracie was next to him, but the blood rushing past his ears made it hard for him to hear her.

“I don’t know if I can,” he confessed, hating to admit how helpless he was. Already, his peripheral vision was splotchy, and he was starting to feel nauseated. The left side of his abdomen burned with every breath.

“Should I get a jar?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

When she came back from retrieving it, she hesitated. “Can you do it by yourself?”

He glanced at her face, red with embarrassment. “Yes.” He wasn’t really sure he could, but there were some things he wasn’t going to accept help with.

She looked relieved and left the room. When she came back, he handed the jar to her. If she’d ever had any romantic feelings for him, he was sure he
smothered them when he handed her the jar full of urine. He would have felt regret, but his side hurt too much.

Gracie set the jar on the floor. “Let’s get you comfortable again, then I’ll take care of that.”

He was grateful for her help because he wasn’t sure how much longer he could sit without falling over. But lying down was almost as painful as sitting up had been. Gracie left with the jar, and he heard water running, but he’d dozed off by the time she came back.

“Adalard?”

He blinked a few times, trying to banish sleep again.

Gracie cleaned his hands with a wet towel. “I’m sorry, but the doctor wanted you to eat something. The cook sent up a few things for you. After that, I’ll let you sleep again.”

As if being unable to go to the bathroom by himself wasn’t bad enough, he had to let Gracie spoon feed him his soup. He was like a baby, unable to
do anything for himself, only he was twenty times bigger.

“Enrichetta said she hopes you feel better soon,” Gracie said, breaking the silence. “She also had a good laugh about how I haven’t made it to my new flat yet.”

“Hmm.” Bastien thought he knew why. “When I asked her about finding a place for you, she seemed to think it wasn’t necessary because she assumed you were with me most nights.”

She gave him another spoonful. “Most people seem to assume that. Which reminds me: I let something slip in front of Heinie. I was taking your socks off, and I didn’t know you had scars on your legs. He seemed to think I should have seen them before.”

“Well, that’s not as bad as my slip.”

“How did you get them?”

“The same way I got the scars on my hands.”

Gracie held his gaze, wordlessly asking for more information.

“A fire,” he said. “When I was nine.”

He felt Gracie’s fingers on his right hand, examining the scars there. “It sounds terrifying and painful,” she said. “Especially for someone so young. I’m sorry.”

She offered him more soup, and he shook his head. “I think I’ve had enough.”

Gracie set the bowl on the end table. “How did the fire start?”

A month ago, Bastien would have told her to mind her own business, but not now. Maybe it was time for Gracie to know more about his past. “My brother, two years younger than me, liked to play with matches. My mom was out with the baby, and my dad needed to help the neighbor with something, so he told me to make sure Hans didn’t get into trouble. I got busy building something, and Hans started a fire. I think he was trying to light an oil lamp, but he dropped it, and the oil spread everywhere. All over the floor, all over the curtains. Then he dropped the match.” Bastien paused, the memory of the inferno still fresh in his mind. He could still remember his brother’s frightened pleas for help and the way Bastien had thought the flames would consume them both. “I got him out, but he died a few days later.”

They had been in the same hospital room. As long as he lived, Bastien would never forget his little brother’s cries of pain. He had been Bastien’s best friend. They’d played together, walked to school together, shared their toys, shared a bedroom. Hans had been a good boy, but he had died an agonizing death of painful burns followed by a raging infection. “It was my fault,” Bastien said. “I was supposed to be watching him.”

“You were only nine,” Gracie whispered, a catch in her voice.

“My dad told me to take care of my brother, and I didn’t. Fourteen years later, when my dad was arrested, he entrusted the rest of my siblings to me. I’ve often wondered why when I failed him so miserably with Hans.” Bastien glanced at his scarred right hand. “That’s why I have to help win this war, soon, before my other brother joins the fight and ends up dead. I can’t lose him too. I can’t fail my father again.”