The Rules in Rome (14 page)

The basilica was one of Rome’s best, and Gracie was in awe of the grandeur that shone in spite of the mostly missing roof and damaged walls. She pulled her eyes away from an elaborately carved column and looked around for someone to confide in. Otavia had already tracked down a priest,
and as Gracie joined them, she heard Otavia explaining the expected raid.

The priest was quiet, nodding at Otavia’s words. His face was calm. Gracie wondered if he was naturally good at concealing his emotions or if perhaps he had nothing to worry about because he wasn’t hiding anyone.
Or he doesn’t believe us.

“Thank you for your warning,” he whispered. “I will do what I can to share the information with those who might be in danger.” Gracie prayed that meant he knew where the refugees were hiding and that he’d ensure they were warned.

When they left the church, Gracie turned back and saw the priest motioning another man over to him. “Do you think he knows something?” she asked.

“Probably.” Otavia glanced around to make sure they were alone. “Let’s split up. We’ll meet at the cemetery when we’re finished. If we’re quick, I think we can get to all of the churches while there’s still time to move anyone they’re hiding.”

Gracie spent the next few
hours searching out churches. Otavia divided the district by streets and told Gracie what to expect, but it was still a new area for her. Fortunately, although there were hundreds of churches in Rome, most of them weren’t concentrated in San Lorenzo.

Otavia was already in the cemetery, sitting on the grass next to a headstone, when Gracie arrived. When she saw Gracie, she smiled up at her. “I’m sorry. I should have taken one more and given you one less.”

Gracie waved her hand, dismissing any suggestion that Otavia had cause to apologize—in truth, she had probably saved a few people’s lives. “I couldn’t have done it without your help. Thank you.”

Otavia pushed herself from the grass but stopped midway to her feet, still hunched over. A grimace of pain showed on her face, and one of her hands pressed against her abdomen.

Gracie rushed over to her. “Are you all right?”

Otavia took a few deep breaths before answering. “I’m not sure. It’s not so bad now, but it was like those cramps I used to get if I did too much walking and didn’t drink enough water. Except I’d get them in my calves, not all the way across my stomach.”

“You don’t suppose the baby’s coming?” Gracie asked.

A look of panic crossed Otavia’s face. “It’s too early.”

“Sit down again and rest. I’ll find you some water, and then I’ll help you home. Where do you live?”

“By the Villa Borghese.”

That was a long way to walk. They could take the tram, but even that would involve a significant stretch on foot. Gracie helped Otavia back to the ground, noticing a few rivulets of sweat along Otavia’s hairline. Gracie checked Octavia’s forehead for fever, but she felt cool and clammy. “I’ll be back as soon as I find something for you to drink.” Gracie left the cemetery, thinking she’d go back to the last church she’d been to.

“Excuse me, signorina. Is something wrong with your friend?”

Gracie turned around to see a young Italian of about thirteen. His clothes were old and slightly dirty, and he needed a haircut, but underneath a layer of grime, his face was earnest. “She’s feeling ill. You don’t know
where I could find someone with a car or a horse-drawn cart, do you?”

“Depends on what you can pay.”

Gracie wasn’t sure if the boy wanted money for himself or for the driver, but she assumed she’d need to pay both. The tram would be less expensive, but trams were breeding grounds for lice, and Gracie wasn’t sure how far
Otavia should walk. She felt in her pocket, pulling out enough lira to buy several days’ worth of food. “Will this do?”

“That’s enough for me to find someone for you. What he charges is another story.” The boy reached for the bills, but Gracie held them out of his reach.

“Find the cart first.”

The boy nodded and ran off. Gracie checked her pocket again, grateful OSS had given her plenty of currency. Purchasing a ride home wouldn’t be a problem. It was finding a ride that was a challenge. Gracie continued along the street until she saw a caf
é
. Deciding to skip the church, she went inside and convinced the owner to fill an empty wine bottle with water and sell it to her.

When Gracie returned to the cemetery, Otavia was waiting. “I had another one,” she said, rubbing the side of her abdomen.

“Here, have some water. That should help.”

Not long after, Gracie saw the boy again. He lingered outside the cemetery’s entrance, so she walked over to him.

“I found something for you.” He pointed down the road to where a cart pulled by a single horse plodded toward them. “He’s a milkman.”

Gracie handed the boy his money. “What’s your name?”

“Neroli.”

“Thank you for your help, Neroli.”

He shoved the money into his pocket and grinned before running off.

When the cart pulled to a stop, Gracie negotiated with the driver on the price of a ride. He was less expensive than Neroli, but she didn’t regret paying the middleman, or middleboy. Like most of the people she passed on the street, Neroli looked like he needed more food, and without his help, she wasn’t sure she could have found a way to take Otavia home. Gracie helped her friend to the cart, and the two of them found places to sit on the floor. It wasn’t very comfortable, but it was better for Otavia than walking or standing in a crowded tram.

The cart was slow—Gracie thought she could have beaten the horse in a footrace—but she didn’t have anything else to do before curfew, other than collect Ley’s report. Otavia had no additional contractions during the ride, but she grimaced as the cart jostled them about. Despite the discomfort, she managed to smile for most of the journey.

When they arrived, both women thanked the milkman, then watched him drive away.

“My apartment is a block back,” Otavia said. “I gave him the wrong address, to play it safe.”

Gracie nodded. “I’ll see you in, if it’s all right with you.”

“Thank you,
Tesorina
.”

The street where Otavia lived was old, with lush, ancient trees and buildings that reminded Gracie of palaces. She paid more attention to the architecture than to the inhabitants, but as Otavia led her inside, Gracie caught sight of a boy’s head. She couldn’t be sure from the back view, but for an instant, it looked like Neroli. Then Gracie lost sight of him and couldn’t find him again. There were plenty of children in Rome who needed haircuts, and the dirty brown and gray of the boy’s clothing was common enough. She almost suggested they walk around the block as a precaution, but Otavia looked tired.
It’s just a coincidence.

They took the stairs slowly, and as soon as they arrived in Otavia’s modest apartment, Gracie had Otavia put her feet up. The view from the living room window was extraordinary, showing Rome in all its splendor.

“You said your mother lives with you?” Gracie asked.

“Yes, but my aunt isn’t feeling well, so she went to stay with her.”

“Do you want me to find her?”

“No, I’ll be all right.”

Gracie hesitated. She didn’t want to intrude, and Otavia seemed better, but Gracie wanted to be sure. She glanced around the orderly kitchen,
suddenly itching to make something. “Can I at least cook you dinner?”

“I don’t want to be any trouble.”

“I don’t have a kitchen, and I miss cooking, so you’d actually be doing me a favor.”

Otavia laughed. Gracie loved the way she laughed—as if she didn’t have a care in the world. Gracie knew that wasn’t true. Otavia’s husband was away, involved in a dangerous partisan movement; her beloved city was occupied; and she risked execution if the Nazis caught her gathering and passing information to the Allies. Yet even with reasons to frown, Otavia consistently looked on the bright side. “Well, if you put it that way, I suppose I could let you borrow my kitchen. I think my mother went to the market before she left, so there should be something worthwhile to make.”

Gracie found fresh fish, cicoria, and cheese. She looked through the cupboards and found basic baking supplies too. The flour wasn’t as fine as she preferred, but she still thought her biscuits would be good if eaten while warm. Even Gracie’s mother liked her biscuits. She seasoned the fish and cicoria with olive oil and lemon juice, and they ate the biscuits with slices of cheese.

“Do you want a job? I’ve never been a very good cook.” Otavia helped herself to a second serving. “Not that I could pay you—we can barely afford rent nowadays.”

“I’d be happy to come cook again,” Gracie said. “And I left money and ration coupons on the counter to make up for what I’m eating.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I do. Food’s hard to come by, and I know I won’t starve.” Ley would give Gracie food if she asked for it.

“Thank you.” Otavia wrapped the leftover biscuits in a cloth and put them in a breadbox. “Do you suppose whichever church was hiding people got them moved by now?”

“I hope so. But it can’t be easy to find somewhere new on such short notice.”

“Do you think the SS would search catacombs? Most of the churches have them. Plenty of hiding places down there.”

Gracie shuddered. “I’d hate to hide there. It’s so dark. And it would be so creepy with all those skeletons.”

“They’re just bones. Better to hide there than get arrested.”

“But don’t you think it’s spooky? I mean, they used to be living, breathing people, and now . . . now they’re gone.”

Otavia looked thoughtful. “I don’t think they’re gone. They’ve just moved on to a better place.”

Gracie nodded. That was what she believed too—she wouldn’t have been able to survive the past year if she hadn’t known with certainty that life continued after death. But she still hoped she’d never have to hide in the catacombs.

The afternoon passed quickly, full of conversation. They laughed a lot and even cried once when Otavia spoke of how much she missed her husband. Before Gracie knew it, a nearby clock struck five in the evening. Curfew had come.

“I should have left an hour ago.” Gracie had missed her rendezvous with Ley. Otavia’s apartment didn’t have a phone, so she couldn’t call to explain, and she’d probably be arrested before she reached his hotel.

“You can stay the night, if you’d like,” Otavia said. “I’d hate for you to get caught out after curfew. If we warned the right refugees, the SS will be extra nasty to anyone they arrest tonight.”

Gracie thought for only a moment before agreeing.

Zimmerman stood in the Renaissance-era
chapel, fuming. “What do you mean you haven’t found anyone?” he yelled at one of his squad leaders.

“I’m sorry, sir. We’ve searched everywhere.”

“Search harder. Look behind the tapestries. Make sure no one is hiding in the priest’s quarters or under the floor.”

“Sir, we’ve already searched
everywhere.
”

“Search again,” Zimmerman said. But he’d worked with this squad leader before. Möller was thorough, not one to miss much. That meant there would be several indignant clergymen to deal with, as well as his own incensed superiors. Zimmerman was the one who’d convinced them to risk upsetting Vatican neutrality, so he would be the one to shoulder the blame.

He waited another two hours while his men went over everything again. He was tempted to let his men literally tear the church apart, but if no one was found—and he suspected no one would be—a ruined church and the political backlash it would cause could result in his demotion. What would his father, a decorated veteran of the Great War, think? And his wife—he
wasn’t sure if she’d be more disappointed that he’d demolished a church or that he’d destroyed his career.

When everything had been searched at least twice, Zimmerman dismissed his men and walked back to the Via Tasso. There would be no celebration supper tonight. Zimmerman had a report to write, then he would probably have to endure the most severe reprimand of his life. After that, he was going to find his sources and see what had gone wrong.

* * *

Bastien knocked on Gracie’s door for the second time that evening. When she hadn’t come to his suite as planned, he’d come to check her flat. There had been no answer, so he’d gone back to his hotel, thinking they might have missed each other. When he couldn’t find her there, he’d returned to the old building where she lived.

There was still no response from behind the door. Bastien checked the bathroom at the end of the hallway, but it was empty. He didn’t think she was in the building, but he wanted to know for sure. What if she was injured
and unable to answer his knock? If she was hurt, it was probably his fault. He hadn’t thought it very risky to warn a few churches that the SS planned to search them, but what if she’d been arrested? Or shot? Or killed?

Bastien went to the ground level and found the landlord. The old man
saw the German uniform and backed into his office, knees trembling.

“I need the key for a room on the fifth floor.” Bastien could break in, but he might damage the door. He wanted Gracie to be able to lock it again, assuming he found her.

“Why, sir?”

“That’s not your concern. You can give me the key, or I’ll kick the door in. The choice is yours.”

“But, sir, my tenants have a right to some privacy.” The landlord stood a little taller. “I must offer them an explanation.”

“I am a Wehrmacht officer, and I want to see what’s inside Signorina Gallo’s apartment. That should be sufficient reason.” Bastien held his hand out, hoping the landlord and any tenants who recognized him would think he was just a jealous lover. “The key.”

The landlord mumbled an agreement but took his time finding the correct key. Then he followed Bastien up to the fifth floor and watched from the hallway while Bastien unlocked the door to reveal an empty room. Ignoring the worried look on the landlord’s face, Bastien went into the apartment and shut the door behind him. He opened a few drawers and found
Gracie’s radio, so she wasn’t out trying to contact headquarters.
Where is she?

Bastien stayed inside less than a minute. He locked the door and returned the key to the landlord, dreading his next destination.

Gestapo headquarters never slept. The first person Bastien saw when he walked inside was Ostheim. Bastien cursed his luck. Of all the SS men in the city, Ostheim was the least likely to help him. Ostheim’s salute was practiced and precise, but the hatred oozed from his eyes as he turned toward the prison
side of the building, no doubt to begin his nightly interrogation sessions.

Bastien followed him from a distance. As he drew near the cells, he could hear moaning, and the air itself seemed oppressive. If Bastien were ever arrested, this was probably where he’d be brought. He held back a shudder and approached the desk of an SS NCO, returning a Heil Hitler and then taking a deep breath.

“I understand there was a raid on a church this evening,” Bastien said.

“Yes, sir, but nothing came of it.”

“Any new arrests today?”

“No, sir.”

Bastien nodded. That meant Gracie wasn’t here, and that was a relief.

Ostheim appeared again as Bastien was turning to leave.

“Anything I can help you with, Hauptmann Dietrich?” Ostheim’s tone was anything but helpful.

“I’m just following up on a raid. Obersturmführer Zimmerman said he might have more labor for me, but it seems the raid didn’t turn out as expected.”

Ostheim frowned. “Obersturmführer Zimmerman is completing his report on the other side of the building, should you like more details.”

“I think I’ve learned enough. Thank you, gentlemen.”

As Bastien walked away, he was fully conscious of Ostheim’s gaze following his every move.

Bastien’s next stop wasn’t quite as horrible as the previous one, but it was still a prison, and its inmates were still tortured. German jailers ran one wing of the Regina Coeli prison, and the Italians ran two. Like the Via Tasso Gestapo building, it was one Bastien normally avoided.

He recognized no one when he arrived, much to his relief. If no one knew
who he was, his inquiry was less likely to come back later and jeopardize his mission. Bastien began with the Italian side of the prison, addressing a young
soldier stationed at a desk. “I need to see the list of prisoners taken today.”

“I’m not at liberty to disclose that, sir. Not without permission from my superior.”

“Then call him.”

The soldier nodded and picked up a phone, then told someone on the other end that a German hauptmann wanted to see him. Not for the first time, Bastien was grateful Dietrich had been promoted past the initial ranks—most people quickly cooperated with German captains.

An officer who looked as young as his clerk came through the doorway not two minutes later. “May I help you, sir?”

“Yes. I’d like to see today’s prison manifest.”

“May I inquire as to why, sir?”

Bastien walked to the side of the room, where the clerk wouldn’t be able to overhear him, and the officer followed. “It’s a delicate matter. I’m looking for a double-agent, someone working for us but pretending to work with the Gappisti. I have reason to believe the agent was arrested today. I’d rather not tell you the agent’s name or alias in case I’m wrong. I don’t want word to leak out that we’ve infiltrated the Gappisti.”

The officer frowned as Bastien suggested the possibility of a leak from the Regina Coeli, but he cooperated. “Follow me.”

He led Bastien to his office, opened a ledger, and turned it around for Bastien to read. Bastien skimmed through the page until the dates switched from March fifth to March sixth, then slowed. There were no women, so Gracie wasn’t in the Italian portion of the Regina Coeli. “The agent’s not here. Thank you for your help.”

Bastien used the same story on the German side, with similar results. Knowing it was foolish to try, he went to Gracie’s apartment again anyway, but no one answered the door, and when he returned to his hotel, his rooms were empty.

Even though he’d have to get up by 0300 hours, he spent most of the night pacing in his bedroom. Where else could he look? Rome was too big for him to check everywhere. Gracie didn’t seem to be in prison, so Bastien’s mission could continue. But if he’d sent Gracie to her death, he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to forgive himself.

***

Gracie rushed to Ley’s hotel as soon as curfew ended the next morning, but he wasn’t there. She wasn’t surprised. He’d been working early mornings most of the past week, so he probably wouldn’t be back until that afternoon. She hoped he hadn’t learned anything urgent in his meetings the day before. She should have done a better job keeping track of time—there
was hardly a place in Rome where you couldn’t hear church bells, so it wasn’t that difficult of a task.
At least Otavia is all right
.

She returned to her flat for a few hours and was about to leave for lunch when someone knocked on her door. The sound always made her tense because it could be the Gestapo. She took a deep breath before answering the door and was relieved to find Captain Ley in the hallway. He leaned in to give her a kiss, and her heart rate accelerated at his touch and
his nearness. As he straightened, she noticed the shadows under his eyes.

She let him in, and as soon as the door closed, he leaned against it. “Where were you all night? I was afraid you’d been arrested, and when you weren’t in any of the prisons, I didn’t know what to think.”

He searched the prisons for me?
“I got stuck out after curfew.”

“So where did you go?”

“I stayed with one of my other contacts—”

He frowned. “The one who spent a night here?”

“No. A different one. She’s in the family way and had a bit of a scare. I helped her home to make sure everything was all right, and then I lost track of time.”

“And your contact, is she in good health now?”

Gracie nodded. “Yes, she was fine this morning. I’m sorry I missed our meeting yesterday.”

He didn’t speak at once, and she braced herself for a lecture on the importance of being punctual. “I’m just glad you’re safe. And good job. The SS didn’t find anyone in their little raid, so whatever you did worked.”

* * *

The boy standing in front of Zimmerman groveled, much like Zimmerman had done earlier that week when called in front of his superior to explain why the raid on the church had come up empty, embarrassing the SS and adding strain to the already-rocky relationship with the Vatican. It had taken Zimmerman a few days to find his second source, an Italian street urchin who liked to be paid for his information with cigarettes.

“You said there were Jews hiding in that church. Why was it empty when we arrived?”

The boy swallowed. When he finally spoke, his voice was a whisper. “There were two women, sir. One came to the church while I was cleaning and warned the priest.”

“Then why didn’t you send an update?” Zimmerman had looked like a fool. Had he known of the Jews’ escape, he could have canceled his search and saved himself and the SS significant embarrassment.

“I was following the women, sir. And I know where they live.”

Zimmerman leaned back in his chair and handed Neroli a carton of cigarettes. “Where?”

“A building in the Villa Borghese. A flat on the third floor. I can show your men.”

“And what do the women look like?”

Neroli shrugged. “Women. One looked like she was expecting a baby; the other one had dirt or something on her cheek. They were wearing scarves so I couldn’t see their whole faces.”

“How old?”

“Not too old.”

Zimmerman wondered what
not too old
meant to someone as young as Neroli.

It had been a bad week for Zimmerman. First there had been the fiasco with the raid. Then on Wednesday, the Gappisti had destroyed a fuel truck and 2,500 gallons of gasoline at the Via Claudia, near the Colosseum. Earlier today the Gappisti had attacked a parade of Italian Fascists, killing three of them and wounding others. The Gappisti were everywhere—a few steps ahead of his raid, destroying his supplies, and killing his allies. He’d had no leads on Wednesday’s explosion or Friday’s ambush and murders along the Via Tomacelli. Up until now, he’d also had no leads on Monday’s failed raid on the San Lorenzo church, but maybe this new information would make the week end better than it had begun.

* * *

Bastien inspected new fortifications early Friday morning, so he was finished and exhausted by midafternoon. He glanced at his watch as he strode through the hotel lobby and figured he had just enough time for a quick nap before Gracie arrived for their meeting.

He’d only taken off his boots and unbuckled his belt when someone knocked on the door. When he answered, Gracie stood there, an hour early, but he didn’t mind. He leaned out to welcome her with a kiss. Lately, he’d found himself keeping her in the hallway longer so he could lengthen his greeting, even if no one seemed to be watching. She fit perfectly in his arms, and her lips were soft and responsive. It was all part of the act, of course. Or was he carrying it too far? Enjoying it more than he should?

He gave her cheek a final caress and pulled her inside, then instantly wanted to kiss her again. But he’d promised he wouldn’t take advantage of her, and he intended to keep the promise he’d made in Switzerland. Besides,
the tense set of her eyes and downward curve of her lips made him think she was worried.

“Is something wrong, Concetta?”

“I was supposed to meet a contact over an hour ago, and she didn’t show up.” Gracie’s hands moved in tense, antsy motions. “She’s the one I told you about—she helped me warn the churches and then was ill. What if something happened to her? She lives with her mother, but her mother was away on Monday, and what if she’s still gone and my friend needs help? She doesn’t have a phone, so she can’t call anyone.”