The Rules in Rome (13 page)

“Yes, thank goodness.” Maybe Bastien owed Vaughn-Harris his thanks, first for taking an unwanted fiancée off his hands, then for forcing him to
work with an unwanted but much-needed radio operator.

Zimmerman longed for an orderly
. He’d rather pass in front of a sniper’s nest than tackle the stack of paperwork waiting on his desk.
Maybe if I get another promotion.
That would make his wife happy, but he doubted it would relieve him of his paperwork. He had a few rungs to climb before he was the one doling out forms. Until then, he was on the receiving end.

Had he been home in Germany, he would have gone to church with his wife and son, then taken the family for a hike in the forest. Instead, he was spending his Sunday afternoon catching up on reports.

“Still here?”

Zimmerman recognized Ostheim’s voice and looked up from his pile. “Yes. War might not be so bad if it wasn’t for all this paperwork.”

Ostheim sank into the chair in front of Zimmerman’s desk. “I’d settle for eliminating the Wehrmacht.”

“Excuse me?” What did Ostheim have against the German Army?

“I don’t really want to get rid of it, just make it subservient to the SS and revoke commissions for current hauptmanns.”

“Oh?” Zimmerman raised an eyebrow, waiting for Ostheim to explain.

“Not all hauptmanns. Just Dietrich.” Ostheim thumped his fist on the desk. “What I wouldn’t give to outrank him.”

Zimmerman looked back at his report. Ostheim had already told him what had happened at the curfew party. “There are other women in Rome.”

“It’s not about the woman so much. It’s about winning, or at least beating Dietrich.”

“Leave it alone, Otto. He outranks you, and he’s got an Iron Cross.” Zimmerman glanced up long enough to see Ostheim fiddling with one of his pencils.

“You don’t have any dirt on him, do you? Shoddy engineering? A Jewish cousin? Late entry into the Nazi party?”

Zimmerman tried to think of anything that seemed off about Dietrich,
but nothing came to mind. He was quiet, professional, competent. Showed no signs of dissatisfaction with Nazi leadership or the army. “I suppose there
was that SD man asking questions about him a week and a half ago.”

“Why?”

“He didn’t tell me the reason for the investigation, and I didn’t consider it my duty to question the SD.” Zimmerman stressed the end of his
sentence, hoping Ostheim would take the hint and realize questioning Dietrich wasn’t in his line of duty either.

“What type of questions did he ask?”

Zimmerman sighed and sat back in his chair. Ostheim was persistent. Usually, that was an asset, but as Zimmerman looked at his unfinished pile of paperwork, he thought even positive traits could sometimes become
vices. “He asked if I’d seen another SD officer recently. Someone came out to investigate Dietrich, but he disappeared.”

Ostheim seized the last bit of information. “An SD officer disappeared
while investigating Dietrich? Surely that reflects poorly on Dietrich.”

“Not necessarily. The SD man could have gone missing anywhere between Berlin and Rome. Might have gotten killed in a bombing, might have been murdered by the Gappisti, might have decided to go live in Switzerland.”

“There’s a file on Dietrich somewhere though, isn’t there? Either here or at army HQ?”

“I’m not going to go looking through a
hauptmann’s
files unless I have a better reason than his success in wooing Italian women. If you’re so curious, why don’t you send a letter to Reichsführer Himmler and ask him about Hauptmann Dietrich? Be sure to tell him how much time you’ve spent pursuing this and why.” Zimmerman tried to focus on his paperwork, but he put it down when he heard his pencil snap.

“Sorry.” Ostheim threw the broken pencil into the wastebasket.

“I’ll keep my ears open, Otto, but I don’t think this is worth your time.”

Ostheim didn’t say whether he’d take Zimmerman’s advice. “Well, I have a few interrogations to check on.” He stood. “I wouldn’t mind having Dietrich locked in one of those cells.”

Even after Ostheim left, Zimmerman had a hard time focusing on his paperwork. He stood in frustration, paced around the room, tried to ignore
the beautiful weather beckoning him outside, and sat at his desk again.
Finish the paperwork now, then you won’t have to worry about it tomorrow.

On his fourth form, something finally caught his interest. It was a tip two sources had verified claiming a Catholic church in the San Lorenzo district was harboring refugees. The tip itself wasn’t odd; Zimmerman saw similar tips day in and day out. Rumor was, half the city was hiding the other half. But when it came to churches, the SS walked a careful line. No one wanted to provoke a condemnation from the Vatican. So far, rumors of plans to kidnap the Holy Father and Vatican City’s geography, surrounded by German troops, had kept papal memos vague. The Pope condemned the war and pleaded for peace but didn’t publicly take sides. Yet there were concerns that papal neutrality might be tested to the breaking point if the SS began searching churches, especially if it ended up being a false alarm.
But with two sources?
Zimmerman smiled, thinking two sources might make it worth the risk.

* * *

On Monday morning, Zimmerman received permission for his search. He just had to notify the Wehrmacht and gather his team. As he approached
German Army headquarters, he recognized Hauptmann Dietrich coming from the other direction.

“Heil Hitler.” Zimmerman saluted.

Dietrich returned the salute and joined Zimmerman on the steps. “Beautiful morning, isn’t it? Shame I have to spend it inside.”

“Yes, perfect weather for a roundup.”

“Oh, and who are you rounding up today? More men to dig trenches for me?”

“Maybe I’ll send some your way, but I doubt it will be very many. I’ve finally convinced my superiors that we should risk Vatican disapproval and
search churches if we have sufficient evidence they’re hiding someone.”

“And I assume you have sufficient evidence?” Dietrich asked.

Zimmerman nodded. “Two independent tips claiming the clergy in a San Lorenzo church are harboring Jews, probably a few Gappisti and escaped POWs too.”

“And when will this roundup take place?”

“Just before curfew.” If he waited until civilians were supposed to be off the street, it would be easy to spot anyone trying to escape.

Dietrich slowed, looking through his attaché case. He swore softly. “Forgot my report. I’ll have to go back and get it.” He shook his head. “It’s a rotten day to be stuck behind a desk. Good luck with the roundup.”

Zimmerman smiled his sympathy. It was indeed a rotten day to spend doing paperwork. As he walked through the door, Zimmerman considered telling Ostheim about the exchange. Maybe Ostheim would feel better if he knew Dietrich would pay for his weekend with the Italian woman by slaving over a pile of paperwork on a sunny day, but Zimmerman decided not to say anything. He wanted Ostheim to drop it. Dietrich didn’t seem so bad—Zimmerman could sympathize with anyone who didn’t like reports. Besides, he planned to have more exciting news. One successful raid on a church would make it easier to conduct another. Papal protests would be brushed aside if he found proof the churches were being used as asylums. By tonight at supper, Zimmerman planned to celebrate.

* * *

Gracie was going to be late meeting Otavia at the Sant’Angelo bridge, and all she had to show for it was a thin piece of dry black bread.
That has to have been the slowest line I’ve ever seen.

“Concetta?”

Gracie recognized Ley’s voice instantly, but she wasn’t expecting to see him until evening. She turned and waited for him to catch up, worried because he wasn’t one to change plans without reason. “Good morning, Adalard.”

“Good morning.” He leaned in to greet her with a kiss. It only lasted a second, but it somehow reached all the way down to her toes.

How does he do that?
She concentrated on a response. “Is anything wrong?”

He nodded and slipped his arm across her shoulders, keeping her walking
at an even pace. “The SS is going to raid a church in the San Lorenzo district
this evening. Plan to pick up whoever’s hiding there—Jews, Gappisti, escaped soldiers and airmen. I’m in staff meetings the rest of the day. Can you warn them? And tell them someone’s been talking?”

“Do you know which church?”

“No.”

“Do you have any idea how many churches there are in Rome?” Gracie couldn’t warn all of them, not in one day.

“Close to a thousand, I think. But it’s a church in San Lorenzo.”

Gracie waited until a few pedestrians passed them and were out of earshot. “That cuts it down a little, but I don’t know that district—there could be dozens of churches there.”

Ley was quiet for a few long seconds. “If I ask for more details, it will
look suspicious. I can’t miss my meetings to help you, and the churches wouldn’t trust me anyway. They’d see me as a German officer trying to flush
them out. If you can’t do it, so be it. A few dozen more Jews will be shipped
off
to concentration camps. Based on what I’ve heard, it won’t make much of a difference, not percentage-wise.”

Gracie felt her face grow hot with anger. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to help—she did—but he was giving her an enormous task. “You think
it’s no big deal if a few Jews get shipped off to their deaths?”

Ley shook his head. “No. I think it’s tragic, but I’m not going to blow my cover for them. Thousands of Allied servicemen depend on my information. I wouldn’t have asked for your help if I didn’t think you could warn the church without giving yourself away. If you disagree, just pretend I wasn’t here.” He smiled at her, but she was close enough to see the frustrated
look in his eyes. He slipped his arm from her shoulder to her waist and kissed her good-bye before striding away.

People would be arrested and probably killed unless she prevented it. She knew she had to try, but how was she supposed to warn every church in San Lorenzo all by herself? San Lorenzo was east of Rome’s center, near the freight yards and the cemetery. She’d never been there. It might have five churches or five dozen.

She heard a church bell toll ten and thought of Otavia. Gracie was supposed to be at the bridge now, and it would still take her a while to get there. She walked faster, hoping something would work out. Maybe Otavia would at least know how many churches were in San Lorenzo.
Please let her know something that will help, or let me somehow find the right church
, she prayed as she rushed toward the bridge.

Gracie was afraid Otavia would be gone when she arrived, but she was still there looking up at one of the marble angels guarding the bridge. Her face was serene, like the angel she studied. One hand rested on her abdomen, and the other held a basket.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Gracie said.

Otavia smiled and put a hand on Gracie’s shoulder. “It’s fine. Is everything all right?”

Gracie’s initial instinct was to grab Otavia’s report and then move to her next assignment. It wasn’t the job she’d been trained for, but someone had to warn those churches. Yet Otavia probably knew more about the San Lorenzo district than either Ley or Gracie did, and she would want to help the people in hiding. “The SS is conducting a raid this evening on a church. They’ll arrest whoever’s hiding there, so I’m supposed to warn them, but I don’t know which church. I don’t know what to do.”

“Those poor people. Do you know anything about the church?”

“It’s in the San Lorenzo district—that’s the only clue I have.”

Otavia slipped her hand through Gracie’s arm. “We’ve got a lot to do, then. We’ll go to San Lorenzo fuori le Mura first. Maybe they’re hiding someone in the rubble.”

“You’ll help?”

“Of course,” Otavia said.

“Thank you.” Gracie blinked away the extra moisture in her eyes, relieved and grateful. “I wasn’t sure where to start.”

“How did the SS find out? And how did you find out?”

“The SS has an informant, so someone at wherever they’re hiding the refugees is talking or let the wrong thing slip to someone they shouldn’t trust.” Gracie took a deep breath as she moved to Otavia’s second question. She couldn’t tell Otavia about Ley. “I found out from someone who wasn’t able to warn them.”

“Do you trust whoever you heard it from?”

“Yes.” Gracie answered immediately. She was overwhelmed by Ley’s request, but she knew his information would prove true.

Otavia reached into her basket and pulled out two dark scarfs. “These are dirty, but if there’s an informant, we might want to wear them anyway.”

They put the scarfs over their hair and walked to the Basilica of San Lorenzo fuori le Mura together. The church had been damaged in an air raid the previous summer, and there was still significant work to do before it was fully repaired, but that didn’t mean there weren’t plenty of hiding places inside.

“The frescoes were so beautiful,” Otavia said.

Gracie followed Otavia’s gaze but saw only rubble.

“They’re gone now.” Otavia frowned as she stepped into the church.