A Dark Song of Blood (7 page)

25 JANUARY 1944

Danza told Guidi, “Looked into all you asked for, Inspector. The girl is actually registered under her mother’s name, Di Loreto. No father’s name given. Has attended courses at the Academy of Fine Arts, goes by Lippi and calls herself an art student. Has been supplementing her income at a stationery shop by posing for painters, which is apparently what her mother does for a living. Not much else to say – works at this place, this stationery shop on Piazza Ungheria.”

“Friends, men and women?”

“Acquaintances. Goes to the movies with them, occasionally. No word of a steady boyfriend. If she’s pregnant, we don’t know by whom or for how long.”

“Try to find out. Anything else?”

“It depends on what you’re looking for. We can have her followed, Inspector. In case something turns up.”

The cold facts were no more significant than those about Magda Reiner, a parallel that made Guidi uncomfortable somehow. Guidi jotted down the names of the students and the cherry-lipped woman. “No. Look further into these, too.”

Danza read, and laughed. “She’s a familiar one!”

“What do you mean, is she on file?”

“With the vice squad, she is. Nothing big. Soliciting, mostly. She’s behaved for the past two years or so – not so many men around, I guess.”

“Politics?”

“Pina? Nothing from the navel up.”

Were it not for his uniform, Lieutenant Colonel Kappler would look insignificant. Far from consoling Bora, who’d been invited to Gestapo headquarters to discuss anti-partisan operations, the thought oppressed him somehow. Captain Sutor, after introducing him with unfriendly rigidity, left at once when Kappler walked around his desk to shake hands.

“I’m glad you could make it, Major. I’ve meant to chat with you since we met at Ott’s party. After all, we share a long experience in dealing with trouble. Did you hear that Graziani skipped town?”

With the only window shuttered and the electric light on, being in the office was claustrophobic. Bora kept on guard, careful not to appear tense. This was the time to gauge each other’s nature, a careful time of observation and taking of measures. He was aware of Kappler’s scrutiny and the need to convey an image of ease. “I’m not attached to Counter-intelligence here in Rome. The military end of guerrilla operations is where my experience resides, and stops.”

Kappler laughed. “General Westphal told me of your concern about partisan activity after the Anzio landing. The two bombings on Wednesday and yesterday’s attacks proved you
to be right. I share your concern, and it seems only wise for us to coordinate our efforts. No matter how long it’ll take the Allies to get here, you know, it’s a lease we have. Nothing else.” Because Bora faced him squarely, Kappler added, “My estimate is two to six months, perhaps less.” Again Bora did not encourage him, so Kappler nodded to himself, reaching for a sheet of paper on his desk. “We’re terminal, as far as Rome is concerned. That’s why we should make our arrangements.”

“I’ve done most of my work in Russia, Colonel. Only some of the principles apply to Rome. It all depends on how ideological the partisans are, and how much community support they receive. Surely they have the advantage of close proximity.”

Kappler handed him a list of underground organizations. “They’re ideologically a mixed bag, but they all hate us. It comes to the same.”

Bora read. Without looking up, he said, “The terrain is as difficult as I can think of, whether or not we move the curfew back two hours. It equates jungle conditions as far as I’m concerned, and we know what portions of the city take the place of impregnable redoubts.”

His allusion to Vatican property prompted a response from Kappler. “And sanctuary, literally.”

Bora glanced away from the paper, but not directly at Kappler; rather, at the map of Rome on the wall facing him. “No doubt, outside the city weapons are being dropped by the Allies. When I was up north, the number of partisans was estimated at about a thousand nationally. They lacked good weapons. Brixia grenades, cheap pistols, no caches to speak of. How many do you calculate are passive and part-time members now; how many are active and full-time?”

Kappler gave him some figures, which Bora did not dispute. “But there are plenty of foreign agents hiding in Rome. American, British – people who, as yourself, speak the language well enough to be taken for Italians. Some four hundred escaped Allied POWs are rumored to be around. God knows,
they may be attending our parties. And, with colleagues like Dollmann...”

Bora ignored the comment. He took a handful of documents out of his briefcase. “I brought copies of army directives we received between the end of November and the beginning of December 1941. You are welcome to them. In Russia partisan units were up to five hundred in number. They had huge land expanses at their disposal, knew the terrain, spoke the dialect and could boast highly indoctrinated commanders.”

“Did you hang a few?”

“I hanged more than a few.”

“But didn’t units like yours grant life to those who surrendered, which was the neat army habit early in the war?”

“I spoke Russian well. The commanders who didn’t were at a disadvantage in preparing propaganda leaflets and talking things over with the population. Indiscriminate hangings only make more trouble unless you’re ready to keep the pressure on. As you are aware, Colonel, ruling by terror in occupied territory has its drawbacks.”

“We’re not dealing with illiterate bunglers in Rome.”

“Except that one can be literate and a bungler. Our trouble in Italy will be north of here, as in the recent past. We might even see the formation of ‘partisan republics’ on the Soviet model. As for Rome, I would watch the Fascist calendar of saints – irregulars tend to launch attacks on significant dates, which is ideologically correct but predictable.”

Kappler had a strange expression, half-admiring and half-malicious. “In any case, we should make sure trouble doesn’t happen. I am talking, I believe, to one who understands what personal toll there’s to pay for courage. That is, you must harbor
some
bitterness.” Bora’s silence encouraged Kappler. “Let me show you how we are doing our part, Major.”

What followed was a guided tour of the other floors of the large building, where apartments had been turned into cell
blocks. Bora noticed partitioning, bricked windows, and how the stuffiness bore the peculiar mawkish odor of interrogation rooms, male sweat and blood washed over with suds. None of this outwardly unnerved him, as Kappler could tell.

Leading him back to his office, Kappler was in fact engaging. “We have another location near the train station – the Italian branch. It’s not as efficient, but it works. These – what happens in this building – are the facts of life, every bit as much as what happens on the battlefield. We all stand to know them and be a part to them.”

“Well.” Bora thought it was as good a time as any to draw the line. He said, “I may stand to know them, Colonel, but I’m not a part to them.”

“Lucky for you that you don’t have to deal with the reality my seventy-three men and I face every day. But I’m sure you don’t mean what you say. Why else would Kesselring have brought you to Rome?” Kappler grinned. “You’re as seduced by discipline as I am. It makes it hard for us to differentiate between personal anger and duty. Didn’t you lose a brother in Russia?”

“He was shot down south of Kursk, yes.”

“Missing or dead?”

Bora kept steady, by long habit of self-control. “I retrieved his body myself.”

“What a blow for your parents. I hope you have other siblings. No? And you’d been in Stalingrad to the bitter end, yourself. I am in awe of your even-mindedness. And I grieve for your brother, as we are
all
army brothers.”

Bora was so shamelessly grateful for the words, he felt his critical sense slipping from him. Whatever he answered, it took him until the end of the meeting to realize that he was lost, polluted by Kappler’s talk whether or not he’d betrayed himself by agreeing to any of it.

The last thing Kappler told him was, “By the way, we just arrested the half-Jew Foa. Assure General Westphal he won’t have to worry about the old man’s ranting any more.”

After Bora left, Captain Sutor poured out his discontent about the visit.

“I’m
not
being unjust, Colonel. I know the army. He’s army, there’s nothing to be gained from relating to him, and I don’t trust him after what Lasser said.”

Kappler waved indulgently. “Lasser has a tendency to go hysterical. It isn’t the first time he’s tried to burn somebody on flimsy charges. He and Bora had a personality conflict, and Lasser is very loud.”

Sutor puckered his face, swallowing spite. “I think you’re making a mistake by being friendly to this Bora, Colonel. I’d have shown him nothing of our facilities. It’s going right back to Westphal and Kesselring. And Dollmann likes him.”

“It’s just like Dollmann, isn’t it? They’ll maneuver with one another like chess players, which is just fine. They’re both educated and Catholic – the only flaw from Dollmann’s point of view is that Bora’s straight.”

“All the same, sir, I stand by what I said. I don’t like him and you will be sorry you did.”

Kappler picked up his cap from the desk and put it on. “I think it makes you uneasy that he may discover you dated Magda Reiner, and that your record with the ladies in Paris is so enviable. Let’s go and talk to Foa, Sutor. We know about
him.
He’s got enough Jew in him to squeal on his own.”

27 JANUARY 1944

“Do you find her attractive, Major Bora?”

“I’m not sure ‘attractive’ is the right word. She doesn’t look much like a wolf. She’s more like the abstraction of a wolf, sleek and hairless except for her mane. She’s alert and threatening, I’d say. Not loving, or loving in a fierce way.”

Dollmann nodded. Alone as they were in the Fourth Room of the Capitoline Museum, he walked around the sandbagged
bronze statue, and without touching them, he passed his hand under the skinny breasts hanging from her body. “
They near the She-Wolf’s tits, and thrive / On milk never intended for them...
”

“Ovid?”

“Bravo. Still, the late addition of the Twins is much too ornate for her sternness. What would you say she actually represents?”

Bora was thinking of the animal of his nightmares, but smiled. “The tribal totem to be expected of a society of shepherds. You make a sacred symbol out of what you fear most.”

“Or a taboo. Note how her stance is firm rather than dynamic, Major. She’s surveying a danger which is at a distance or no larger than she is, straight to the side. Protecting the children entails no loving glance but a watchful gaze around for danger. Firmness, watchfulness, a worried threat. You wouldn’t get close, and though she isn’t snarling – her mouth is not contracted, nor her nose wrinkled – she could bite your hand off.”

“She did,” Bora calmly said.

Dollmann smiled. “No pun was intended, but there’s a connection between her and our being here, at some level. I used to think that ideologically we were her children.”

“Perhaps Ovid meant us – we’re the danger she’s guarding against.”

“I think we’re both. We fed at her breast and resented it and came back, grown, to worry her. We’re as uncivilized, as ungrateful as that.”

Bora brought his right hand close to the she-wolf’s mouth, fingers extended as if to feed her. “She rules in the end.”

“
Caput mundi.
Head of the world.” Dollmann rocked on the balls of his feet, watching him. In civilian clothes and a bow tie, he had the groomed appearance of a British professor rather than an SS. In the lonely room of the museum, he said in English, “Kappler is not the one to watch out for. Sutor is.”

28 JANUARY 1944

On Friday, Guidi waited for Francesca in front of the stationery store. If she was surprised, she said nothing, not even when he tipped his hat and began walking alongside her.

“Look,” he said, “I don’t know if I should be doing you this favor, but it’s been twice already that I heard you go out at night.”

Her scarf was coming undone, and when he reached for it, she pulled back. “So?” She wrapped the woolen cloth around her shoulders, hardly a protection against the bitter wind. “You’re going to arrest me for breaking a dumb six-to-five curfew?
Mamma mia
, you must come from the moon!” And when Guidi began to answer, she squared her narrow face at him. “If I go to see my boyfriend, I’m not about to stop ’cause you say so.”

Guidi had no reason to be disappointed by her words. Still he said, tartly, “It’s because of sabotage that the Germans just took two more hours out of our day. It isn’t just the Italian police keeping an eye on things. See him during the day.”

“As if I don’t have to work during the day. Besides, he’s married.” She grinned, but it was an uncovering of lips as animals have, and there was no humor in it. It was for a moment as if her skull were showing through the skin, marring her beauty.

Guidi found himself bluffing; quoting empty police talk, because in the end there was no arguing the point. “I’m warning you. Find another way to meet him, or I’ll have to turn you in. I know where you’re
really
going.”

“I bet you don’t.” She tried, slowly, but was less sure of herself.