The Rules in Rome (6 page)

“Easy, signorina,” a voice whispered
in Gracie’s ear as she struggled to pull away. “The change in weather could bring rain.”

Gracie relaxed as she recognized the code phrase. “I’ll be sure to carry my umbrella when I go out,” she replied, reciting the memorized counterphrase.

“The dead drop’s been compromised.”

“So you tracked me down?”

He nodded, his dark eyes never leaving hers. His face broke into a grin, causing slight lines to appear around his lips. “You didn’t make it easy though.”

Gracie returned his smile. She was glad she hadn’t been too easy to track
but grateful he’d managed to do it before she blundered into a Nazi trap.

Her contact slipped his hand into a well-worn shirt pocket and brought out several sheets of paper folded into quarters. “My reports. The last several of them.”

Gracie slid them into her own pocket and brought out one of the silk handkerchiefs. “I was asked to deliver this. It’s for encrypting your messages, and it’s more secure than your old system.”

He ran the smooth fabric between his fingers. “So I use these numbers for the transposition keys instead of words from my poem?”

“Yes, and after you’ve used each set, cut them off and burn them. That way they’ll only be used once, and if the Germans catch you, they won’t be able to read your previous messages.”

“Fine. I was getting sick of Catullus anyway.”

“If the dead drop’s compromised, how will I get your next report?”

A slight frown appeared on his face as he thought. He was silent as a pair of civilians entered the building from the street and went into one of the offices on the north side. “Come with me.”

She followed him outside and walked beside him for a few blocks. When the foot traffic thinned and no one was within earshot, he slowed his stride. “I’m Angelo, by the way.”

“I’m Concetta,” Gracie said.

“Pleased to meet you, Concetta. I’m glad you’re here. It’s been frustrating not knowing who to pass my reports to.” He motioned with his head to an apartment complex as they walked past. “In a week, meet me there, on the roof. Noon. I’ll give you another report then.” He took her hand, brought it to his lips for an instant, and winked at her. “I’ll see you next week.” He turned back the way they’d come and strolled away.

Gracie watched him until he turned a corner. His steps were confident, his clothing old but clean, and his smile friendly. She wondered how and why he’d started working against the Nazis and what he was like when
he wasn’t being a spy. She shook her head, knowing her primary concern should be whether or not his information was of any use to the Allies.

* * *

The next morning, Gracie walked along the water queue, wondering what her next contact would be like. So far, she was working with two men, both around thirty years old, both handsome. Of course, one of them had manhandled her into an office building and the other had burned her underclothing.
I don’t care how old or ugly the next agent is, as long as they’re easy to work with.

The line stretched more than a block. She’d known water service in the city was sporadic and unpredictable but hadn’t expected so many civilians to turn to public fountains for their water. As she walked along the untidy line, she looked at everyone’s elbows, hoping to see a patch, hoping her
contact would be there. She moved slowly, acting like she was trying to find a friend rather than somebody’s elbow.

A block from the pipe, Gracie saw a woman with a maroon patch near her left elbow. Like most of the women in Rome, she was otherwise dressed in black. Gracie’s own wardrobe was three-quarters black items, even
though she preferred color. As Gracie drew near, the woman straightened,
and Gracie realized her contact was pregnant.

“The sunset was lovely yesterday, wasn’t it?” Gracie said.

The woman’s lips curved upward as if she found the code phrase humorous. “Yes, I watched it from a street near the Pantheon.”

Gracie tried to judge the distance between the woman’s place in line and the water pipe, wondering how long of a wait she had.

“The line begins farther back.”

Gracie had unintentionally cut in line, and the two women waiting behind her contact paused their gossiping long enough to cross their arms and glare at her. Gracie wasn’t even sure which one had spoken.

“I need water,” her contact said. “Can we meet later? Noon?”

“Yes. Where?”

The woman smiled again, revealing a perfect set of teeth. “The Pantheon?”

* * *

The last time she’d been in Rome, fourteen years ago, Gracie had gone sightseeing. She hadn’t expected to act the tourist on her OSS mission but didn’t mind an excuse to gawk at Rome’s ancient wonders again. OSS had provided numerous maps and photographs of the city for her to study, but pictures and paper couldn’t do Rome justice.

She chewed pieces of the pane nero she’d waited an hour for. The bread tasted horrible, but it had been the only thing available when she’d made it to the front of the line.
So much for fine Italian cuisine.
There hadn’t been a line at the bookstore next to the bakery, so Gracie had also bought a few books of Roman poetry and was carrying them now.

Gracie’s contact was late but only by a few minutes. “Sorry to keep you,” the woman said, twisting her luxurious dark hair away from her neck.

“It’s fine. Did you get your water?” Gracie looked around to make sure no one was close enough to overhear their conversation.

“Yes. And I got it up to my flat without spilling any. Such a nuisance. I think I’m just about ready to leave Rome and join my husband’s partisan band in the hills. It can’t be much worse than living here.” She looked down at her abdomen. “Except they might not have midwives there, and my mother lives with me now. She’d be furious if I left and she didn’t get to see her first grandbaby.”

Even though she was complaining, the woman’s voice sounded cheerful. Gracie had a feeling this new contact would be a pleasure to work with. “I’m Concetta.”

“I’m Otavia. I know some people in the country, and they know people. Word of what the Germans are doing outside Rome is brought to
me, but for the last few weeks, I haven’t been able to do anything with it.”

“From now on, you can give it to me.”

“Good.” Otavia glanced at the bread still in Gracie’s hand. “That’s what you’re eating?”

“It was all they had left by the time I got there. I don’t have a kitchen, so I can’t make my own food.”

Otavia grinned as she waited for a few pedestrians to stroll out of earshot. “
Tesorina
, you’re obviously new in town.” Otavia used the term of endearment Gracie’s grandparents had used. “Unless you want to starve, you’re going to need to shop at the black market.”

“But isn’t trading on the black market punishable by death?”

Otavia laughed as she took Gracie’s arm and led her away, then she whispered. “Yes, and so is operating an enemy radio or getting caught with a four-pointed nail or riding a bicycle or violating curfew.”

“You can get shot for riding a bicycle?” Maybe that explained why Gracie had seen several bicycles with useless third wheels tacked on.

“The Gappisti had a few too many successful assassinations by bicycle.”

Gracie had to think for a few moments before remembering that the Gappisti were Italian partisans, members of the Gruppi di Azione Patriottica, a resistance group working against the Nazis.

Otavia pointed across the street, and the two of them crossed to the other side, conveniently avoiding a pair of Italian Fascist police. “So today I’ll show you where to get your food. And then Friday we’ll meet again at the Piazza Navona, by Neptune’s fountain.”

“You like meeting by famous landmarks?”

“Gives us an excuse to loiter if one of us is late. And I love Rome. I know I talk about leaving, but I don’t really want to. I miss my husband, but if I went to join him, I think I’d miss this city. So I’m doing what I can to help the Allies get here quickly so I can have both my loves at the same time.” Otavia pointed out a quiet side street and turned onto it. “The Amis and Tommies are certainly taking their time. I expected them to be here by now.”

“Us too.” Gracie thought of Ley’s anger that the landings in Anzio and Nettuno had been so badly botched. “Where’s your husband?”

“Somewhere to the east. They were going to send him away for forced labor, so he joined a partisan band instead.” Otavia sighed. “At least I get letters. It could be worse.”

Gracie wondered how she’d react in Otavia’s position.
Not as well
, she knew.

“Have you seen Rome before?” Otavia asked.

“Yes, but not recently. I grew up in Nettuno, then my family moved to the United States when I was eleven. My oldest sister had married a few years before and they had immigrated. My brother-in-law started his own business and convinced my dad to come work for him.”

“Didn’t you miss Italy?”

“For a while.” And Gracie had missed it but not for very long. Utah had quickly become her home, and she’d felt like she belonged there. Or at least she had until six months ago. Gracie shook her head to clear it. “Is the black market expensive?”

“Depends on what you need.” Otavia stopped in front of a store window, her eyes glued to the dress on display. It was black, with an empire waist and a hemline that hit the mannequin just below the knees. Tiny scarlet flowers were embroidered along the neckline and waist. “Oh, I love
that dress. Not that I could pull it off, but you’d look wonderful in it.”

“Me?” Gracie stared at the dress. It was beautiful, but it would accentuate rather than disguise her curves. “It’s probably too fitted for me.”

Otavia sighed again, walking away from the shop. “
Tesorina
, a shape like yours is meant to be shown off. What I wouldn’t do to look like you . . . I finally have a few curves, but an extra one came along as part of the deal.” Otavia patted her stomach.

No one had ever told Gracie she’d look good in a dress before. Her mother had sometimes told her she was smart, but that wasn’t a compliment, not coming from Marisa Begni, who didn’t think women needed brains. Otavia, on the other hand, with her radiant smile and pleasant form, lithe even when pregnant, would fit right in with Gracie’s flawlessly beautiful sisters.
Gracie glanced at her reflection in a window, wondering if she’d
somehow changed because Otavia seemed to see her in a different light. But she still looked like ungraceful Gracie.
Why on earth would Otavia want to look like me?

Obersturmführer Kornelius Zimmerman sat in
his normal chair at the café and sorted through the postcards he’d just purchased, wondering which he should send to his twelve-year-old son. The Trevi fountain? The Colosseum? St. Peter’s Basilica? He would send them all eventually but wasn’t sure which to mail first. As Untersturmführer Otto Ostheim sat down across from him, Zimmerman decided on St. Peter’s. He’d already sent a few views of the church’s exterior to his son, but this postcard showed some of the interior, and Klaus would like that. He was drawn to churches.
Taking after his mother . . .

“Any luck today?” Ostheim asked.

“The usual. A few Jews, two suspected Gappisti members, one of the Carabinieri who helped arrest Mussolini last July.” Zimmerman grinned with satisfaction as he spoke. It had taken Hitler less than two months to rescue his friend. And those who had dared stand up against Hitler’s most valuable ally were made to pay a heavy price when captured.

“That should make for a busy night at the Via Tasso, eh?”

“Yes. For you.” Though he had a desk at the joint Gestapo headquarters and prison at 145 and 155 Via Tasso, Zimmerman’s responsibilities involved catching wanted people rather than questioning and torturing them.

“Maybe I should get back,” Ostheim said. “Make sure my newest guests are being treated correctly.”

Zimmerman put the postcards away, knowing Ostheim would stay and eat something before going back to his work of supervising interrogations until late into the night. “And for you? A good day?”

“Yes, and it’s about to get better.”

Zimmerman turned to follow Ostheim’s gaze. A tall woman, probably in her midtwenties, with black hair and a curvy figure, had just walked through the door. Zimmerman and Ostheim shared a weakness for Italian beauty, but while Zimmerman was more interested in its art, Ostheim was most drawn to its female inhabitants.

Ostheim went over to talk to her, and a few minutes later, he brought her to the table. “Obersturmführer Zimmerman, may I present Fr
ä
ulein Concetta Gallo.”

Concetta nodded a greeting, then sat when Ostheim pulled a chair out for her. She seemed a little hesitant and somehow different from the usual type of woman Ostheim picked up. Like most Italian civilians, her clothing looked a decade old. She was pretty, to be sure, even with the birthmark on
her right cheek, but she seemed less . . . desperate than most of the others.

“Do you come here often?” Ostheim asked, speaking Italian.

“No, but I think I should. It’s lovely.” Concetta gestured out the window.

Zimmerman glanced at the street, but it seemed ordinary to him.

Ostheim and the woman continued their conversation, but Zimmerman
promptly tuned them out to focus on his food when the waiter brought it. Zimmerman’s Italian wasn’t as good as his friend’s, and he had trouble keeping up with the woman’s rapid speech.
How does she talk so fast and move her hands at the same time?

Zimmerman was halfway through his spiced mutton when a Wehrmacht hauptmann entered the café and stopped near their table. Zimmerman had spoken briefly with Dietrich before, long enough to know he was an engineer and, like Zimmerman, preferred to work away from his desk. He only remembered the hauptmann’s name because an SD man had been asking
questions about him a few hours ago. “Good evening, Hauptmann Dietrich.
Looking for a seat?” Zimmerman pointed to the empty chair beside him.

“Thank you. I have other arrangements for supper, but when I saw the signorina, I wanted to stop and say hello.” Dietrich turned to Concetta.
“I don’t suppose you remember, but we ran into each other at the train station the other day.”

The Italian woman’s face lit up in a smile. “Yes, of course I remember. Thank you for your help with my luggage.”

“What were you doing at the train station?” Ostheim asked Dietrich.

“Returning from a short leave. A bereavement pass, but the journey did have its bright spots.” Dietrich turned his attention from Ostheim to Concetta. “Actually, I seem to remember planning a walk along the Tiber with you.”

Ostheim cleared his throat. “Fr
ä
ulein Gallo and I were about to order—”

“Actually, a walk along the river sounds perfect.” Concetta stood, then turned back to Ostheim and Zimmerman. “It was a pleasure to meet you both. I hope we’ll see each other again soon.”

Ostheim glared at the couple as they left. He wasn’t used to losing, and Zimmerman could tell Dietrich had just made an enemy.

* * *

Captain Ley was silent for several blocks. Gracie was relieved that he’d shown up because drawn-out conversations that revolved around her cover story made her nervous. She was ravenous, though, and disappointed to miss supper. Whatever Ostheim’s friend had been eating looked and
smelled heavenly after eating nothing but bread for the last day and a half.

“Do you have any idea who you were sitting with?” Ley’s face still held a pleasant smile, but his whisper was icy.

“Otto—I think his last name was Ostheim. And his friend was Lieutenant Zimmerman.”

“I am fully aware of their names, ranks, and duties. What I’m wondering
is if you noticed the silver
S
’s on their uniforms, like a pair of lightning bolts.”

Gracie wondered why Ley seemed so upset. “Yes, but back in Switzerland you told me to be friendly with other army officers so it wouldn’t look strange for me to be friendly with you when you arrived.”

“
Army
officers. Obersturmführer Kornelius Zimmerman and Untersturmführer
Otto Ostheim are not members of the German
Army
. They’re members of the Allgemeine SS, and they specialize in arresting Jews, partisans, and spies and deporting or torturing them. They aren’t the type of men you want to cross, and thanks to you, Ostheim, and probably Zimmerman too, now has a very good reason to hate me.”

“Well, what was I supposed to do when Ostheim came up to me?”

Ley didn’t answer, instead taking a pencil and a sheet of paper from his pocket. He wrote something on the paper, folded it, and handed it to her. “My report. And an address. If you’re not under arrest, meet me there tomorrow for my next report. Sixteen hundred hours. And if by chance I’m late, don’t flirt with SS officers while you’re waiting.” He turned abruptly and strode off.

She scowled at his departing figure. It wasn’t like she’d had much of a choice. Surely flirting with an SS man and getting an invitation to supper was preferable to snubbing him and inviting close scrutiny of her papers. Gracie passed a clock and quickened her pace. She would have to head for her apartment at once if she wanted to make it before curfew. Her stomach rumbled, but she didn’t have time to wait in line for food. Maybe she shouldn’t have turned down Ostheim’s supper invitation. SS or not, he seemed more friendly than Captain Ley.

* * *

Bastien was still on edge when he arrived at the hotel on the Via Veneto, where he and a few dozen other officers were billeted. Since his arrival in Rome the previous fall, he’d done his best to maintain a low profile. Thanks to Ambrose and Vaughn-Harris, he’d drawn far too much attention to himself the past few weeks, first by requesting leave, then by the mandate to work with their inexperienced radio operator. Desk officers seemed to think the only qualifications a radio operator needed were language fluency and the ability to tap out Morse code, but the real requirements were more complex.

Bastien went straight to supper. He wasn’t really hungry—not after spotting the SD man from the train station for the third time in as many days. He assumed skipping meals would only be suspicious, so he spread real butter on his bread and forced himself to eat as if he had an appetite, wondering why the SD was on his tail. Did they suspect he wasn’t really Dietrich? That he wasn’t loyal to Germany? Both?

He was nearly finished when he realized Obersturmführer Heinrich Vogel, the man sitting next to him, hadn’t said anything the entire meal. He was usually more talkative and had a tendency to whistle “Lili Marlene” while coming to and from the dining hall. Bastien watched him for a few seconds. Heinie was moving food around his plate, but his meal wasn’t making it to his mouth.

“Something wrong, Heinie?”

Heinie’s brown eyes flickered to Bastien’s, but he didn’t speak for a while. The blood vessels in his eyes were more prominent than usual, and his lips
formed a frown. “Had an interesting conversation with Sturmbannführer Scholz today.”

Scholz was Heinie’s commanding officer, but Bastien had gotten the impression that Scholz, though an adamant Nazi, was easy to work with. “Interesting as in bad?” Bastien whispered.

Heinie nodded, glancing around the table at the other officers.

Bastien didn’t pry further, but he excused himself early, as usual, and Heinie followed him to their third-floor rooms.

“What happened with Scholz?” Bastien asked when they were alone in the hallway.

“I asked him for permission to get married.”

“And?”

Heinie frowned again. “Maurleen can only prove her German ancestry back to 1787. That would be good enough if I was just an enlisted man,
but because I’m an SS officer, she has to prove racial purity back to 1750.”

Bastien knew the SS controlled its men like a supply officer controlled
his best equipment, but he hadn’t realized how strict the requirements for
marriage were. “I’m sorry, Heinie. How is Maurleen taking the news?”

Heinie pulled a letter from his pocket. Bastien caught a hint of perfume and assumed Maurleen was the author. “Do you have any idea what the paperwork is like to apply for marriage? She had to fill all that out, then they did a medical exam—and it’s not as if she’s a lounge singer; she’s a minister’s daughter. It was humiliating for her.” Heinie opened the letter and read from it. “‘I wanted to be your wife so badly, but now I realize I am unworthy of such an honor. I trust our Führer to lead Germany to greatness, but perhaps I can best serve the Reich as a factory worker rather than an officer’s wife. I would never want to damage your career or pollute the blood of your posterity. Yet my heart will always be yours. I shall have to go on loving you from afar, as a humble flower loves the sun but can never approach its glory.’”

Heinie put the letter away, his voice tight with emotion. “They’ve got no right to make Maurleen feel like that—she’s beautiful and smart and kind, and she’s a good German. Better than any of them. Who cares who her great-great-grandfather was? It’s ridiculous. They have Waffen SS divisions
made of Muslims from Bosnia, but they won’t grant permission for me to
marry someone like Maurleen? They don’t come any better than her!”

Bastien unlocked his door and motioned Heinie inside. He didn’t want someone overhearing Heinie’s rant against the SS. Bastien could get in trouble for listening to it, and Heinie could get in even worse trouble for voicing it. “Can you appeal Scholz’s decision?”

Heinie followed Bastien inside the one-bedroom suite and slumped into one of the wooden dining chairs. “I offered to resign my commission.
Then they wouldn’t care about any ancestors born before 1800.”

“You’d do that for her?”

“Yes, but Scholz told me he’d consider my resignation an act of treason. I’m stuck.” Heinie raked his fingers through his hair in frustration. “I shouldn’t have listened to that arrogant SS recruiter. He promised us advanced training, newer weapons, superior uniforms. ‘Join the Waffen SS and become the best of the best.’ Me and my stupid ego. I thought being part of an elite unit would impress Maurleen, not keep us apart forever. I’ve known I wanted to marry her since I was eighteen, and now . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Then you’ve already waited six years. Wait a few more.”

“What if the rules never change?”

Bastien sat across the table from Heinie. “Maybe we’ll lose the war. I doubt SS rules will still be in force should that happen.”

Heinie smiled and shook his head. “You could get reprimanded for saying that, Adalard.” His smile broadened. “But not as severely as I could be reprimanded for calling SS regulations ridiculous.” He lowered his voice. “Do you really think we’ll lose the war?”

Bastien looked at the floor and realized his leg was rhythmically tapping the carpet. He forced it to stop. “No one’s taken Rome from the south since the sixth century.”

“But Italy isn’t the only place we’re defending. The Red Army is unending. It doesn’t seem to matter how good our men are, the Communists just send more troops. And I ran into a cousin about a month ago. He’s with the Kriegsmarine. Said our U-boats aren’t sinking as much tonnage as they used to. What if the Allies invade across the English Channel?”

“They might try, but that doesn’t mean they’ll succeed.” As Bastien said it, he knew it was true but wished with all his heart that a cross-channel invasion would come soon and result in a quick Allied victory. “Just do
your best, Heinie. You can’t control anything else. And write to Maurleen. She needs to know you still love her and that you’ll wait.”

“I worry about her. She’s never been all that confident, so to have some slimy SS bureaucrat tell her she’s not good enough to get married . . . And she’s in Schweinfurt now. She promised she’ll go to the bomb shelter as soon as the sirens sound, but sometimes I think my odds are better than hers when it comes to surviving the war. Saturation bombing—it’s barbaric, and Schweinfurt seems to be a frequent target.”