Liar Moon (25 page)

“Turn over. Put this under your arm, and we’ll see how you’re doing. I’m against smoking, but if it lifts
your spirits, you may ask Sister Elisabetta to light you a cigarette.”

Bora had to wait until the pain subsided before speaking. “I don’t need to smoke, but I have a favour to ask.”

“Only if it has nothing to do with getting up.”

“I’m looking for a piece of information.”

Having heard what Bora was asking, the physician scowled. “What kind of request is it, just after showing the family pictures? What have you done, knocked a girl up?”

“No. I’m just curious.”

“Give the thermometer back.” The surgeon read the temperature with visible relief, which he did not share with Bora. “Well, we have several specialists in Verona. Practically any physician can handle the matter, but if it is the specialists you’re looking for, I know two that I would recommend.”

“I’m interested in those who have private practices, not those associated with hospitals or clinics.”

“And what do you want with their names?”

“I’d like to contact them by phone.”

“Forget it. You’re not getting up.”

“Will you at least ask Sister to call for me?”

“Ask her directly. If Sister feels like being your secretary in addition to turning you in bed, it’s her business.”

Minutes later, the nun’s little hands, cracked by soap and alcohol, vanished inside the depths of her cuffs. She repeated the question Bora had instructed her to ask. “Is that all, Major?”

“Yes, but I should warn you it is a lie.”

“And you expect me to lie?”

“Only to good ends, Sister. According to the principle of double effect, a little transgression will be more than offset by its worthy result.”

Sister Elisabetta smiled. “So now you’re teaching me religion, Major Bora.”

 

That evening, back home in Sagràte, Guidi crossed the kitchen floor without greeting his mother. Distractedly, with his greatcoat still on, he walked to the sink, lathered his hands, dried them without rinsing and sat down at the table. When his mother poured him soup, he stood up again and took to pacing back and forth. At one point he walked to the front door, opened it wide, slammed it shut and resumed his pacing.

Whatever amount of unchecked passion showed through, his mother was at once frightened. “Sandro, what happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you sick?”

“No.” Again Guidi sat at the table, staring at the soup. He unbuttoned his coat without taking it off. “Here.” He stretched his arm out to give her his handkerchief, crumpled and stained with mascara. “I have this to wash, Ma.”

 

Even early in the morning, one could smell liquor on Habermehl’s breath, despite the Valda mints he constantly chewed. Too big for his uniform, the blue-grey Air Force breeches stretched every which way, and when he sat down at Bora’s bedside, the fabric seemed about to burst on his knees.

“Martin, I spoke to the direct SS superior of
Hauptsturmführer
Lasser. He promised me he’ll keep the prisoner in
Verona for another twenty-four hours. You have access to him, but he let me know that I was asking a great favour. Whatever your business with this Gardini fellow is, hurry up, because we don’t know what they’ll do to him next.”

“If it were up to me I’d be out already,
Herr Oberst.
No matter what, I am leaving tomorrow.” Although Sister Elisabetta spoke no German, Bora grew quiet when she looked in from the threshold.

“Major, there’s a Republican Guard officer here by the name of De Rosa. He says it is urgent.”

Habermehl recognized the name. He took his cap from the bedside table. “Do you want me to leave, Martin?”

“No,
Herr Oberst
, stay. Let’s hear what’s new. I might need your help again.”

De Rosa swept in. He stiffened in a Fascist salute, and addressed Bora in German with all the exasperation he was obviously feeling.

“Major, it has come to my attention that a partisan leader has been arrested, and treacherously taken from the Italian authorities. I have come to ask, since it was you who handed him over to your compatriots, that you have him released to us at once.”

Indifferent to Italian politics, Habermehl had left the chair and was leafing through Bora’s book by the window. He found the photograph of Bora’s wife, and lifted it to the light to study it. When he realized that Bora was about to flare up at De Rosa, he burst into an amused laugh to avoid the incident. He laughed to make De Rosa understand the absurdity of his request, and also because he knew fanaticism, and hated it.

At seven thirty on Tuesday morning, when Bora went to take his leave, the surgeon wouldn’t even look him in the face. “I wash my hands of it. Do what you want, it’s your skin.”

By eight o’clock SS
Hauptsturmführer
Lasser, who looked very much like Alan Ladd and might or might not know it, spied Bora’s ribbons before speaking.

“Haven’t we met somewhere before, Major?”

The same question, from a different SS man. Bora said, “It’s possible, Verona is a small place. Perhaps at the funeral of Vittorio Lisi, the other day.”

“No, no. I’m speaking of military assignments. Weren’t you in Poland back in ’39? Yes. Now I remember. Cracow, Army Headquarters. You served under Blaskowitz.”

“We all served under General Blaskowitz. He was head of the
Generalgouvernement.
”

Lasser’s office, one of many in the requisitioned insurance building – the “INA Palace” – was cold enough for the men’s breath to condense. Behind his puffing little cloud of irritation, Lasser was not falling for his calmness, Bora could tell. He’d brought up the issue because Army General Blaskowitz had the reputation of being hostile to the SS, and in Poland his young staff officers had dared to expose abuses against the civilian population. Bora, who had hand-delivered written reports on SS activity to Blaskowitz in his hunting lodge at Spala, knew where Lasser was headed. “Well, we left Poland behind a good long time ago. At least,” he said, lowering his eyes to Lasser’s ribbons, “you got France afterward. I did two years in Russia, Stalingrad included.”

“You volunteered to go there, as you did in Poland. Now what do you want from us?”

“Only the opportunity to speak to your prisoner. After all, I turned him in to you. And I believe Colonel Habermehl explained that my presence here has nothing to do with politics.”

Lasser’s eyes narrowed. “This bandit, this Gardini, he is the worst of his kind, stubborn and impudent. He likes to push his luck, Major. If I’m not mistaken, for all your lying low in the Italian countryside, you’re one to understand that feeling.”

“I think you’re mistaken.”

“Weren’t your men the cads who let a truckload of Jews escape just last week? I know all about it.”

“Then you know that the vehicle broke down. It was night by then, the terrain was wooded and treacherous, and the guards were overpowered. That’s all. It should have been apparent to your commander that my unit isn’t trained for that sort of duty.”

Lasser could not stare him down. But as he encumbered the doorway, Bora had to walk around him to get out. Carefully, because every brusque motion still caused pain and sparks of light to dance around him.

“You have five minutes,” Lasser shouted after him. “So be quick about it.”

After Russia, Bora had not believed he could suffer from claustrophobia.

Lack of horizons had haunted his late summer days there, and then the autumn and winter. Haze or rain or snow had in one way or another kept the end of that world from sight, so that he had led his men along as one lost, despite all maps and directions.

Today, the stinging rain and high-walled courtyard near the Palace closed in upon him like a lidless box,
and made him unsympathetic and moody. That he’d been able to get these few moments was already miraculous, in the way that Habermehl could perform miracles with his influence. As things were, there was no time to get the information he wanted, but try he must.

Gardini was already seated inside the army truck, under armed guard. One prisoner, one soldier. Bora knew well enough what this “transfer” really meant, and he only wondered whether a sack for the body was being kept in the truck’s cab, or if they wouldn’t bother with that. Rain created chained links from the flap of the truck’s cover, a sad necklace, and each scene like this, each death, was for the past two years like a rehearsal for his own, which added no egotistical pity, but only weariness at the long wait.

Gardini likely believed he was being brought to another jail. He said nothing about it, and neither did Bora. Bora would not climb into the truck, not only because his leg still hurt too much, but because that damp space would soon be polluted by death
.
So he stood in the rain by the tailgate, with Gardini looking down at him.

“We haven’t much time,” he said, aware of the irony of his words. “So it’s best if you tell me quickly. Clara Lisi is in jail, accused of the murder of her husband. I imagine it matters more to you than to me.” He ignored Gardini’s scowl. “So, if you have anything to do with this case, spill it out. You cannot get in worse trouble than you are. And after all, you must have guts, or you wouldn’t have sneaked into town three times, knowing you might be caught.”

“Four times. I came four times.”

“Well, good for you. I understand how important it is to see the woman one loves. Did you kill Vittorio Lisi?”

“I have nothing to say.”

Bora declined with a gesture when the soldier offered to let him into the truck, and out of the rain. He didn’t mind the rain. From his seat, Gardini only said, as if spitting the words, “You’re a bunch of idiots, if you think Claretta did it.”

“That’s true, we’re idiots at times. Enlighten me.”

“I didn’t even know Lisi had died, the scum. Much less that they had arrested Claretta. I came because I had to see her again.”

“You
had to
, or you
wanted to
?”

Gardini stared at him with hostility. “What’s it to you?”

“It makes a difference.”

“I had to and I wanted to. How’s that?”

“I expect you were the one who telephoned her in the country some time ago. Did you inform her you were planning a visit?”

And even as Bora was talking to the man, the odour of rain on the flagstones of the courtyard meant another time, and another place. Standing to kiss Dikta, before the War, unsure about her love even then but all taken up by their lust for each other, which did conceal love in him, enough to make him hope it did in her, too. His parents’ country house in Gohlis, a venerable Bora doorway to a world of polite spaces, corners still friendly from his childhood, but now less innocent as he visited them again with her. Rain had for the longest time reminded him of that kiss.

That he should be standing here with a man who would be dead in an hour’s time was like being dropped from
a free space of possibilities into a trap. The courtyard, the task at hand, his career – traps one inside the other. And he was not the one to die today.

Gardini said nothing. Lasser’s men had clearly worked on him. Bloodstains on his sleeves marked where he might have staunched a nosebleed. From the way he sat, Bora recognized the discomfort of a body that has been beaten.

“What I really want to know,” he continued, “is whether you were with Clara Lisi on the afternoon of 19 November.”

“I’m not telling.”

“Were you in Verona that day, or anywhere around Verona?”

“I’ve told you all I’m going to say, Major.”

Time was up. Bora walked away from the truck, and Gardini waited until he was nearly out of earshot before calling him back. He had a different anxiety in his voice. The grudge had diluted, or else it was not the most important feeling at this moment. “How is she?”

“She’s fine.”

 

The truck’s engine started, and there was really nothing else to say.

On the second floor of the SS headquarters, Lasser’s office no longer had Lasser in it. The nameless
Standartenführer
with the scarred lip stood there instead.

As Bora walked by, he called him in. Without closing the door, he announced, “I have your report here, Major,” and when Bora said something, he rudely cut him off. “Save your breath. We know you’re good with words. There’s no way we’re ever going to beat you at the game of words. But we’re not in your philosophy class.”

Bora heard himself losing prudence. “If that’s your assessment, then I hope you’ll let me go, since I have plenty to do, and being complimented on my writing is really a waste of your time and mine. Regarding the incident, you should be protesting with the Italian authorities. According to Article Seven, it was ultimately their transport, and their responsibility.”

The eyes of the SS officer stayed on the folder he had in hand. “You
are
Martin-Heinz Bora, lately assigned to O.B. South, and before that, to O.B. East, Army Group III?”