A Dark Song of Blood (36 page)

In the desolation of the house, women congregated to the Maiulis’ parlor to lament, unaware that weapons had been found there. When numbly Signora Carmela informed them,
Guidi had to step in to keep them from clawing at her. They appealed to him: he was police, wasn’t there anything he could do? Guidi felt he could do nothing until Bora’s anger boiled down. But Bora’s anger was likely to boil
over
after learning that Rau was a translator for the German occupation forces.

Francesca came back at about five o’clock. From the state of the house it was clear what had happened. She went from room to room, finally standing by her own door with a pale look of anxiety. There Guidi joined her. She spoke to him in a low, quick voice, “It’s not my fault if the idiot got himself caught, is it? Now I’ve got to worry about myself, if he talks.”

In her rifled parlor, Signora Carmela wept. “How could Antonio do this to us, Francesca? It must have been his relatives who put the guns in the suitcases... But how did one get inside the toilet?”

“Stop crying,” Francesca said irritably, “it’s no use whatever.” And, to Guidi, “How is it that you’re still here? Did the Germans decide you’re no threat?”

Guidi let her show concern in her own way by righting pictures and replacing the glass domes on the saints. Her coolness before danger impressed him. “Do you want me to drive you somewhere?” he suggested.

“No.” She sat in the professor’s armchair, which brought a renewed flow of tears to Signora Carmela’s eyes. Only after the old lady went to cry herself to sleep could they talk freely. Francesca smiled an enigmatic smile. “What’s there to do? If the Germans come for me, I can hardly start running. It isn’t as if they don’t shoot pregnant women.”

“Maiuli won’t last a week if they get him to clear rubble or drag bodies out of it.”

“They could have said no to Antonio when he suggested bringing the suitcases along. You can’t be responsible for people’s stupidity.”

“But what if Antonio talks?”

“It’d be a mess. He knows lots. The SS will want him for sure – why, they
know
him.”

“And what will happen to you then?”

“If I’m lucky they’ll kill him before he talks.”

“Jesus, Francesca, that’s no answer!”

Francesca had that strange, queerly relaxed smile again. “If you’re afraid for me you’re wasting your time. Whatever happens, happens.” Hands hugging the bulge of her body rising from the groin, she looked over to him from the armchair. “It’s getting low. In a couple of weeks it’ll be out, and then we can make love again.”

Guidi stepped back, heavy-hearted at her words and for having given her reason to pronounce them. He had neither desires nor impulses at this point, and everything he felt was packed in a sadness of things to come.

11 MAY 1944

Bora was alone in the office when news came of the massive attack on the Gustav Line. He was instantly in a cold sweat. This was the final battle Kesselring had forecast, and had begun with the simultaneous firing of more than one thousand big guns, from Cassino to the sea. What a time for Westphal to be on leave, along with several of the army chiefs. He put out of his mind the fact that he had just lost Rau to the SS, and began his rounds of calls to the field marshal and to Maelzer’s office. He also had to find a way to trace General Westphal.

Suddenly it was a matter of days. Three weeks, two weeks, maybe less. He functioned by methodical routine, concentrating on one thing at a time, and if events did not lose magnitude, they came into focus and perspective. In fact, it would only take three days for the Allies to billow over the Line. In the evening he flew to Soratte, where he learned that as soon as the stronghold at Cassino fell, withdrawal would follow to the
immediate periphery of Rome. Bora had to walk out of the conference room to collect himself. Westphal, just arrived, exchanged a grim look with him, and for the first time he seemed to be very close to nervous collapse.

Back to Rome on the following day, Bora found that after a counter-attack German resistance had broken around the hard-held heights facing the valley opposite Cassino, and the Moroccan troops were streaming through. When Sutor laconically called him to communicate that Antonio Rau had forced the guards to kill him before anything could be extracted from him, it came as an anticlimax. Bora actually began to laugh over the telephone.

Guidi debated all day Friday whether he should swallow his pride and approach Bora about the professor, whom he’d seen carting dirt at one of the bends of the Tiber with a handkerchief bound on his bald head to shield it from the sun. A German soldier who looked no older than sixteen sat on an empty oil drum a few steps away, careless about the speed of the operation. Still, it was hard labor for one who had never lifted anything heavier than a book.

Despite encouraging news from the “free” radio stations, Signora Carmela had slipped into a state of mute apathy and had to be all but spoon-fed. She spoke of the professor as if he had died already, and had hung a black ribbon on the front door. At dinner time Francesca received a phone call from a woman who did not identify herself, but only said, “The wine has turned.”

From her reaction Guidi knew it was serious. “Is it good or bad?”

“Good,” Francesca said in a trembling voice. “Antonio died without telling on us.”

On Saturday two more mountains along the Gustav Line fell to the enemy after less than four hours of fierce fighting. Mount Majo went over to the French at three o’clock.
At five o’clock Treib called from the hospital to remind Bora of his appointment. It was Westphal who took the line, and told Bora in a rough way, “Get your ass over there. You’re not going to save the front by being here rather than where you’re scheduled to be.”

Guidi was relieved to hear that Bora was not available, because he could tell himself he had given it a try. From the non-committal orderly who took the line at headquarters, he received an unasked-for piece of information. “The major left the following message for you, Inspector.
I have news worth reporting. Contact Captain Hanno Treib at the Piazza Vescovio hospital if I am not back in touch by Monday.
”

14 MAY 1944

“Well, there’s the curious cat, minus the paw he left in the lard.”

Turning his head on the pillow renewed the agony down Bora’s sutured left arm. “Come in, Colonel Dollmann.”

Dollmann stood by the hospital bed. “Why didn’t you tell me you were having surgery? I looked for you everywhere. Here’s a book of poetry for you.” He sat, with a sweep of eyes at Bora’s figure under the light quilt.

“Thank you. If the stitches hold well, I’ll be out tonight or tomorrow morning at the latest. Would you please tell General Westphal?”

“Westphal is at Soratte. He sends word for you to take it easy.”

“I’ll be out in the morning at the latest.”

Dollmann let his attention wander to the heavy bandage at the end of Bora’s arm, supported by a folded towel so that the wrist lay slightly above the level of the elbow. The arm was strong, blond-haired, fatless. Bora closed his eyes so as not to watch Dollmann watching him.

“How’s the front?”

“We’re losing ground fast. St Maria Infante is next. The men are working miracles, but miracles don’t cut it any more.” Dollmann stood up. He went to close the door and walked back to the bed. “God willing, the field marshal will convince the Führer not to torch Rome.”

Bora opened his eyes. “Is it being contemplated?”

“At this point, very much so. Look here, Bora – I only have a few minutes, and came to do more than inquire about your health. I hate to do it this way, but you’re immobilized enough and low enough to have to listen.” Dollmann leaned closer with his torso at an angle, like an anxious priest listening to confession rather than one about to reveal any truth. “I know more than you think about everything. I know what Borromeo is putting you up to, without realizing or caring about the risks it entails. I know about Poland, about Lago. Deny nothing, I
know.
”

Bora felt a surge of nausea. Only having already vomited everything, even saliva, curbed it a little. “I wish you’d let me be, Colonel.”

“Far from it. Whatever you suspect might have happened to Hohmann, I beg of you, let it go in view of what I have to say. It’s because of my knowledge of you and your visit to Foa that I approach you, and expect you to listen as closely as you ever did to anything in your life. It’s the last act of importance you will carry out in Rome, since we are defeated in every other sense. Bora, an informer has been turning Jews in to Kappler for several weeks. Gets paid for it. Hundreds of people – no, do
not
interrupt – hundreds of people who could have survived this time have been hand-delivered for deportation. What that means, God forgive us, we both know. Hohmann managed to counteract the operation to an extent, but now he’s gone. He would expect you to pick up where he left off.”

“Colonel, Cardinal Borromeo has already —”

“I am not speaking of humanitarian intervention, Bora. Understand me. And answer nothing unless you’re ready to do something about it.”

Dollmann did not let go of Bora’s eyes, and Bora kept track of Dollmann’s features closely. He had to steady his breathing. Deep raw pain traveled from the reopened wound and freshly severed nerves, a debilitating bloody pain. Death, as on the noon hour at Ara Coeli, passed between them quickly, like the shadow of a cloud before the sun lessens the light of day. A transitory darkness which both sensed, and virile grief, different in Dollmann than in him, but no less manly. Bora’s need to rebel gave in to that grief. He made a motion with his head, not quite a nod. “I understand. How can it be done?”

Dollmann’s forehead was sweaty, a reaction that seemed not to belong to such a controlled, sarcastic face. He impulsively reached his hand to Bora’s knee. “Thank God, Bora. Thank God. This is what I came for. Enough for now; details will follow.” He pulled back on the chair, letting go of Bora’s leg with a slow withdrawal of his hand. “Before I leave, tell me if there’s anything I can do for you.”

Bora was anxious to be left alone, and to put out of his mind what had been said until now. “Yes,” he replied. “There is. Do all you can to find me a copy of this.” He passed a handwritten note to the SS. “No, I have no idea where there might be one, but I need it most urgently. And I will need the name and phone number of the records section chief at the Servigliano transit camp.”

Dollmann nodded, already on his feet. “Should I let Guidi know you’re here?”

“No.”

“Very well.” From the foot of the bed where he’d laid it, the colonel moved the book he had brought closer to Bora. “The poems are by that charming American Fascist, Ezra Pound. Do read ‘The Garret’ after I leave. I... Yes, well, Bora, we’ll be in touch.”

Bora swallowed, a motion that sent blind bursts of pain up and down his arm. He watched Dollmann reach the door without turning back, and walk away. His arm seemed to yearn
for a mouth to cry with, and he was reminded of the old stoic saying, “But the parts which are beset by pain, allow them, if they can, to give their opinion about it.” His body wanted to shout. He struggled with its need for a time, breathing hard. His soul wanted to shout also, because of what Dollmann had told him.

The book of poetry under his right hand was slim, a fine edition. He fingered its spine, opened it and leafed through it without large movements, until ‘The Garret’ came before his eyes. It was a short poem that ended,
Nor has life in it aught better / Than this hour of clear coolness, / The hour of waking together.

How well Dollmann understood him. It was like everything else with him: the seduction he gave in to was inside him as want already, and it only needed a little chafing to arouse it. There had never been a rape of his mind. On the frontispiece, in black ink, the colonel had penned in lieu of a signed dedication the embittered pun
Roma Kaputt Mundi.

Francesca soon grew weary of Signora Carmela’s dejection, and besides, she wanted a warm meal. “You’ll have to get out of this mood,” she told her impatiently. “You’re lucky he’s still in Rome. If you were less useless you’d go and bring him something to eat instead of squatting here doing nothing.”

“I can’t go out alone to the other side of town...”

“You’ll have to if you want to see him.” And because the old woman seemed not to respond more than by shrugs, Francesca sought to distract her. “Come on, I’ll let you feel the baby move.”

Signora Carmela had never thought of the possibility. “Feel the baby move?”

Hesitatingly she drew close to Francesca, whose light dress draped the front of her body so that the out-turned navel was perceivable under the cloth. Signora Carmela would not touch her on her own, so she guided her hand to the flesh. “Wait. There it goes.”

Signora Carmela was stunned. Again and again she reached for her belly throughout the morning, curious as a child. “Does it hurt? It must hurt. Does it hurt?”

“It doesn’t hurt. Why don’t you make some soup? The baby would like that.”

On Monday, Bora felt at his lowest physical ebb since coming to Rome. He had hoped to be out by noon but began hemorrhaging at five in the morning. After a brief struggle to stop the blood flow, Treib would not hear about his leaving. “If you stay very still and do as you’re told, I might let you out by Wednesday. If anyone calls for you, I’ll tell them to come back then.”