Warburg in Rome (17 page)

Warburg smiled. “I’m under the impression that all the colonel needs is a little Catholic mumbo-jumbo.”

Deane smiled, too. “That I can deliver. Here”—he turned to his desk—“wait’ll you see my stationery.”

A few moments later, as the woman and Warburg were about to leave, he turned back to Deane. “Monsignor, about the Haganah and the Delegation. If it’s true, that’s news to me. How do you know that?”

“
Ad limina
,” Deane said. “Periodic accounts rendered to the Pope—from everywhere. The nuncios enunciate. From London
and
Jerusalem. Information mingles with the incense around here.”

“I need that incense, Kevin,” he said. Then added, “Do you have a nuncio in Budapest?”

In the jeep, Warburg had ridden in front with the driver, leaving the bench behind to her. They had careened across Rome, at last screeching down the Via Veneto to the Palazzo Margherita, which the Americans were already calling Clark’s headquarters, although to her it remained the magical palace in which her namesake queen had lived until her death. Marguerite remembered how, as a girl of seven or eight, she had seen the great arched windows draped in black, bunting that seemed all the more austere in contrast with the pink stone of the monumental edifice. That Her Majesty the Queen Mother was dead had been, for Marguerite, an opening into the mystery of mortality. If Her Majesty could die, so could her son, King Victor Emmanuel. If kings and queens could die—Marguerite shuddered to remember this exact moment of recognition—so could her own mother and father.

Warburg had ordered the driver to keep the jeep’s engine running, leaving her to wait while he hurried in to deliver the monsignor’s letter. Then, coming out, he had dismissed the driver and gestured Marguerite into the front. He did this without imperiousness, but nonetheless with an authority to which, despite her by now habitual wariness, she immediately yielded. With Warburg at the wheel, and her providing directions, they had hurried to the Jewish neighborhood on the banks of the Tiber—the ghetto—where the first meeting with Lionni had taken place. They found him in the same rooms, and he leapt with joy at their report. The bridge would be attacked, probably in the morning, at first light. Now the Jewish leader and Marguerite had their plan. They would set out as soon as the store of medicine and food could be loaded onto the truck, noon at the latest. With luck, they would make Carpi before dark.

Lionni had drawn Marguerite aside, away from Warburg. In a corner of the room, he opened a drawer. Without comment, she looked at what it held—bundled currency. They turned back to Warburg.

“And so, tonight is for sleeping,” Lionni said with a clap, dismissing them. “Every minute matters.” So it was that the American had insisted on driving her to Trastevere, even though it was not far to walk.

Now they were sitting side by side in the jeep in front of the shabby rooming house where Marguerite lived. The glow of twilight lent the façade of the scarred and shuttered building a golden hue. The approach of midsummer meant it was late, even if darkness had not quite fallen. The nearby streets were deserted, as if the German curfew still held. Warburg said good night and wished her luck. When she did not move, he pushed the ignition button, shutting the engine off.

He said, “Tell me about your father.”

She said with quiet detachment, “My mother and father were killed when their automobile was forced off the Ponte Alto on the road to Trento.”

“Forced by whom?”

“Fascists. Nine years ago. When Il Duce seemed invincible. Not a rabbit, running scared.”

Her own incidental use of the word “rabbit” startled Marguerite, calling to mind as it did the harelip of the Franciscan in Croatia. His white handkerchief catching saliva, falling as a starter’s flag. She blocked the thought, resuming, “As the colonel said, my father was director general of the Red Cross. My father told the truth about Italian mustard gas in Ethiopia. Il Duce was
arrabbiato
—enraged.”

“So the Red Cross is your . . . patrimony.”

Marguerite nodded. She did not know why she was finding it difficult to leave this man’s company. What was it about him? She allowed herself to fix her stare on his slender fingers, resting on the steering wheel. He wore no jewelry. His nails were clean. He had turned in the seat, inclined toward her, and she was aware of his eyes on her face. A gentle gaze.

He said, “Monsignor Deane asked if I was going to Fossoli with you. I answered no. I wish I could.”

After a moment, Marguerite laughed. “At the sentry points you could show your
repoussé
Washington card—the card, you say ‘embossed’? You could answer for us in your fine Italian. The Gestapo would salute and let us through.”

He laughed, too. Then, somber again, he said, “It will be dangerous.”

“Jocko Lionni is wise, very practical.”

“Is he Zionist? Haganah?”

“The monsignor asked that.”

Warburg said, “I noticed when Jocko pulled you aside. He opened a drawer full of money, showing you. I just saw that. Where did the money come from?”

“I do not know.”

“It’s for bribes.”

“We say
dono
,” she said. “Donation. Every barrier on every road lifts at
dono
. And I have my passport.” She flicked at her Red Cross hat.

“If the Haganah’s involved, it will be even more dangerous.”

She said, “This will be nothing. I was in Croatia.”

“How?”

“With Partisans. Not Palestinians. Communists.”

“When?”

“Until a few days ago.”

“Is that where you received the bruises? There, on your face?”

If she could not tell Père Antoine, how could she tell this stranger? Yet she found herself unknotting the red kerchief at her throat. As he took in the sight of her mangled neck, she waited. When he asked at last “What happened?” it was so softly she was not sure he’d spoken.

“This cloth,” she said, twisting the kerchief around her fingers, “you see it in the north, in the hills. The Garibaldi Brigade. I was with them for more than three months. Before that, when the Nazis came to Rome, I had to flee. I was making my way to Switzerland, but I—”

“You joined the Partisans?”

“Not joined. I was one of the women. Our work was knitting the
calze
, the stockings—”

“The socks.”

“—for the men. In the winter especially, the socks are essential. To keep men in socks is important work. Blistered feet become infected.”

“But what happened?”

Marguerite shook her head. She had gone as far with this as she could. She looked Warburg in the eye. “I was not there when my father’s auto plunged into the river. But I see it every day, the black Lancia driving away on the bridge above. White tires. A silver panther bibelot on the front. Two men, black shirts, one black-gloved hand made into a fist, raised outside the driver’s window. Pumping in triumph as my mother’s body washed away in the river current, as my father was trapped in the car, where he drowned or died of head injuries. They never said. And I never speak of it.”

“Except now. You are speaking of it now.”

“My mother’s body was not recovered for four days. Two miles downriver, partly eaten by eels.”

Warburg said nothing to this.

After a long silence, Marguerite said, “And
your
parents?”

Warburg’s head drew back just enough to show that the question startled him. He said softly, “My father was a butcher. A small city. Both my parents are deceased. Heart attack. Pneumonia. Natural. My life has been quite different from yours.”

“American.”

“Yes. Therefore privileged.”

“But the deaths of parents is never privilege.”

“No.”

“And they were Jews.”

“Yes.”

“It is bad for Jews here. Very bad.”

“Worse in the north,” he said. “If Fossoli were across the Alps, the prisoners would be dead already.”

“I do not understand why Jews should be so contempted.”

“Hated.”

“Why?”

“You’re asking me?”

“Yes.”

Contempt. The word pushed into Warburg’s mind his unwelcome memory. “Once,” he said, “I took a
tallit
, my father’s
tallit
. . . You know the word?”

“Yes. The Jewish prayer covering.”

“Shawl. My father offered it to me, but I refused to wear it. He was asking me to be a Jew. I said no. Instead, I let the
tallit
sink beneath the surface of a lake, like a drowning.”

“You say that with sadness.”

“Thinking of Fossoli, it is sad. It bothers me. Would it not bother you to have done such a thing?”

Marguerite said, “So, Budapest. You spoke to the monsignor of Budapest?”

“I am here in Rome because this is as close as I can be to Hungary. Thousands of Jews are being taken each day. Each day. Budapest is the last place we can stop it.”

“How?”

“Swedes. Neutrality. My group is sponsoring a Swedish diplomat in Budapest. Tomorrow, perhaps the next day, I will know if Stockholm has agreed. Then the Swedish official will provide Jews with the
Schutz-Pass
. He will offer Jews a Swedish refuge. Hungarian officials will be paid to believe it, a fiction, a lie.”

“You have money for bribes, as we do.
Dona nobis doni
.”

“I saw what Lionni showed you, the banknotes were tinted red. That means reichsmarks, no? In denominations of one thousand? Where does Lionni get such currency?”

Marguerite said only, “To Germans at the checkpoints, lire would be worthless.”

“So is it the Haganah? Who else could get such reichsmarks? Is what the monsignor said true? Is Lionni a Zionist?”

“Who would
not
be a Zionist? What Jew would not want Palestine?”

“America is a better place for Jews. I will be taking Jews to America. It’s why I came.”

“You said Budapest is why you came.”

“From Budapest to America. Through Rome. I am hoping you can help me. After Fossoli.”

Marguerite faced him, smiling suddenly. “So you think we will return?”

“Of course I do. Otherwise I wouldn’t let you go.”

She laughed at the outrageous presumption of his statement, and then so did he. “What I mean to say . . .” Warburg blushed.

But she teased him. “Do you claim this authority over me because you are American? Or because you are a man?” For a moment there was nothing uncertain in her.

“Perhaps because you were a girl without a father,” he answered. “Your father—that is where we began our conversation.” He paused again, then looked directly at her. “Your father’s death.”

“After that, I wanted to become a religious woman. A nun. It was impossible. I became a convent student instead. Père Antoine, in the beginning, was like my second father. Eventually I realized he was like my God. Then, what I understood was—I have no God. That was what the death of my parents did to me. I do not believe in God. I still say my prayer, but only for magic. Not for faith. My prayer is called Remember, but I have forgotten.
Memorare
. Do you understand?”

“I think so. I have no God either.”

“But for a Jew, that perhaps is easier.”

“Why?”

“Jews . . . the death of one’s parents is nothing compared to what Jews suffer . . . not just now, but always. If God abandons Jews, then Jews have a right . . . What Jews suffer is unjust.”

“I do not suffer,” Warburg said.

“Not true,” she replied. “You suffer with Jews. I see it in your face. If you do not believe in God, you believe in . . . Jews.”

Warburg forced a laugh. “I think we Jews call that idolatry.”

She shook her head. “If there were a God, he would be Jewish. Today, in Italy, in Croatia, Poland, Europe, God is a Jew, that’s all. That is what I believe. It is not idolatry. Instead of actually praying, I believe in helping where I can.”

“Red Cross.”

She nodded decisively. “A cross without a god.”

“And in helping, you have been . . . bruised.”

She drew the kerchief back around her throat. “It was not in helping that I was hurt.”

“What do you mean?”

She knotted the kerchief, too tightly. With no awareness of doing so, she closed her eyes.

And for an instant she was in Trieste once more, in its farthest, foulest alley. The red-bearded monster had choked the air from her lungs, and she was about to lose consciousness. But instead, as if channeling the writhing of her death throes, she began to fight again, clawing at his face with her nails. Carlo would not be stopped. He banged her head against the pavement. Once more, she felt close to losing consciousness, even as the clearest thought she’d ever had took over her mind: He is murdering me!

It was true. But his furious passion was then her great advantage. Her hand, on instincts of its own, went to the holster at his hip. She found the pistol handle, grasped it, her finger sliding into the trigger notch as if she had handled such a thing before. She had the snout of the Luger against his shoulder, then his cheek, then his lust-distorted eye. Just before passing out from lack of oxygen, she closed her finger.

“A man,” she said now. “A man I thought a friend . . . attacked me.”

Warburg knew to wait.

“And I killed him.”

There. At last she had said it to someone. And of course it had to be to a stranger, a man she would not see again. She threw her right leg over the lip of the jeep door, but before she could step out, Warburg took her arm. She stopped and drilled him with a look. How could he possibly have heard her absolute declaration as an opening, when it was termination, pure and simple?

But all he said, repeating himself, was “Good luck.”

Five

A Jew’s Fantasy

W
ARBURG AND MATES
were seated at a sidewalk table in late-afternoon sunshine, but clouds had darkened the western sky and a breeze had kicked up. A summer thunderstorm was coming. The café was on the edge of the plaza in front of the Pantheon, with its massive dome. Each man had his demitasse and cigarette. If the rain came, Warburg thought, they could retreat into the great building’s becolumned portico.