A Dark Song of Blood (4 page)

Sutor lifted his bullet-head, craning his neck to look into his notebook. “Bora, Martin-Heinz –
von
Bora. Of the Leipzig publishing firm. Son of the late conductor, and stepson of that Prussian swine von Sickingen. Was commander of a Wehrmacht detachment up north.”

“What else do we know about him?”

“Half-English. Transferred at the request of the SS, for bungling the transport of Jewish prisoners. Can’t touch him, though. Has a stellar military record and lots of friends. Looks younger than his thirty years, bright-eyed and tight-assed, especially for one who spent two years on the Russian front. The field marshal is a personal friend of his stepfather. Old boys’ network.”

“That ought to count for nothing with us.”

Sutor shrugged like an unconcerned bureaucrat. “You asked.”

“Well, no matter. He sounds smart enough to watch himself. Point him out to me if he’s at the party on Saturday.”

That evening Guidi noticed that Francesca Lippi had already eaten dinner, although it was not yet eight o’clock. “The Maiulis are visiting neighbors,” she called from the parlor. “You’ll have to help yourself.”

Guidi ate a small portion of potato salad alone. Through the
open door he could see the girl read and pay no attention to him. He made a point of observing whether she wore a ring, and saw none. She sat with a leg tucked under her body, curling up. The tip of her tongue showed red when she wetted her finger to turn the pages. His shyness with women didn’t help at times like this. Guidi was moodily rolling himself a cigarette when she called out, “You work with the Germans?”

“No.”

“Didn’t you ride in a German car on Sunday?”

“It had nothing to do with work.”

She looked over from her chair, her hungry little face pinched like a young fox’s. “I bet you got information on all of us before you moved in.”

Guidi sat back, choosing not to smoke. Antipathy for the Germans was palpable not only in this house but in the streets, and even at the police posts. Only those whose immediate power depended on their presence still played the pro-German game, Caruso first among them. Guidi disliked the Germans, too, and resented being identified with them. Politics was only part of the reason. History, national character, behavior had more to do with it. In that sense Bora was a strange animal, so familiar with things Italian as to somehow cross over. Tonight Guidi could excuse the major’s battered idealism, and yet resent him, and be envious of his flair and self-assurance without any desire to emulate him.

12 JANUARY 1944

On Friday morning, while Westphal and Bora read glum reports on the second raid over Brunswick that week, Guidi found a parcel of papers on his office desk.

“What’s this?” he asked his right-hand man, an eager policeman named Danza.

“It came from the German Command, Inspector.”

Quickly Guidi freed the papers from a criss-cross of rubber bands. “Anything else?”

“Yes, sir. The NCO who brought it said you’ll get to report to the German Army.”

Guidi felt himself blush. “The hell I will.”

Danza nodded toward an envelope on the desk. “That also came for you.”

In the envelope, bearing Caruso’s signature, was a typewritten note.
While you will keep me regularly apprised of developments concerning the Reiner case, my German counterpart will be General Maelzer. Report to him through General Westphal’s office, and specifically to —

Guidi didn’t need to read further to know that Bora’s name followed. Friendliness and car rides and the tour of Roman sites: it all made sense now. Angrily leaning over the parcel, Guidi turned pages until he met the first and only name in the list of suspects: the Secretary General of the National Confederation of Fascist Unions, now heading its “detached office” in the city. “My God” escaped him.

Next he called Caruso’s office in Piazza del Collegio Romano.

“That’s right,” the head of police said coolly. “That’s why we need a newcomer. The suspect doesn’t know
you
, and you don’t have to be as discreet as others have to. Keep looking in the dossier, there’s plenty about His Excellency’s goings-on. The Germans will want his neck, so prove he killed her.”

“I understand, Dr Caruso. What then?”

“Then we’ll show our Germanic allies that we’re as good as they are when it comes to administering justice. His Excellency might be the token we must turn in to them. I ordered that you be issued your own car, Guidi.”

Guidi stared at the dossier, uncomfortably reminding himself that Caruso had just finished playing his role of headhunter at the great show trial in Verona. “What happens if we find out that Secretary General Merlo has nothing to do with it?”

“You had best have someone else in hand by then.”

*

The Parioli district, on this side of the Tiber due north of the great Villa Umberto Park, had for the past decade been favored by the upper class and the nouveau riches. SS Colonel Ott’s house sat at the corner of Viale Romania and Via Duse, hugging it with its sleek lines over the manicured boxwood of the garden. When Bora arrived, several guests were already assembled in the spacious living room. Ott met him at the entrance, handed him a cognac and introduced him to his wife, who’d just flown in for their tenth wedding anniversary. Near the grand piano, Bora saw Dollmann conversing with a man in a similar uniform. Both were slim, fair, with slicked-back hair and angular, sly features, and both were looking into the room.

Mindful of Westphal’s advice, Bora came to greet the SS officers. Soon Dollmann walked back with him toward the refreshments table. “Kappler was dying to meet you.” He smiled.

“I don’t know if I should be flattered, Colonel.”

“Because he’s head of the Gestapo in Rome? Don’t be a prude. He’s a charming enough man. Here, have some caviar.”

Bora looked straight at him, which was a frank habit of his and often unnerved people. “There is much in this assignment I could learn from you – we both like Italian culture.”

“Oh, Kappler does, too. Collects art. Ancient things, preferably.” Dollmann looked around with his vulpine eyes. “Unlike men who collect young ones, like the Reiner girl. What else do you know about the story?”

“No more than you do, Colonel. The word is accident or suicide.”

“But of course you don’t believe that!”

“I believe even stranger things these days.”

“She dated a couple of ruffians. Speaking of which, the Allies have taken Cervara, and soon will have it all from Ortona to south of Gaeta.”

Bora drank slowly, so as not to have other drinks forced on him when he wanted to gather information.

Dollmann suavely upbraided him. “Finish your drink, I want you to taste some real vodka. It came from better days at Kursk.” He reached for a square of toast topped with a creamy mixture. “By the way, what was your specialty in Russia?”

Bora was sure the SS knew already. “Counter-intelligence, related to guerrilla warfare,” he answered nonetheless.

“And in northern Italy, as we hear. So. Do you have nightmares?”

“Not about guerrilla warfare.” Bora finished his cognac. He took from the closest tray two glasses of vodka, and offered one to Dollmann. “To Rome,
caput mundi
.”

“Yes. Head of
our
world, at any rate. Does it include the Vatican?” Dollmann held the vodka before his lips without drinking. “You were at its doorstep twice this week.”

“It’s the army that keeps me devout.” Candidly Bora glanced up from his drink. “Please instruct me if there are more people I ought to meet, in this room and around the Vatican. You are the Reich’s prime interpreter and man about town, while I’m new to Rome at war. And I’m not sure I know what
ruffians
means in the context of the Reiner case.”

“One at least was our own. And that’s all you’ll get from this round of drinks.”

Midway through the party General Maelzer showed up, merry with drink already and eager for conversation. Bora was introduced by Dollmann. The general went through some pat routine of questions and then said, “You’re young, Major, you’ll get in the thick of things quickly enough – I don’t mind if you screw someone, but I don’t approve of liaisons with Italian women.”

“I’m happily married, General!”

“If you were happily married you’d be with your wife. You’re as well married as wartime allows you.”

With this, Maelzer moved on to another circle of guests and a new round of drinks. Bora, who’d married in a hurry on his way to war, was not nearly as secure as he showed. A
sensitive and in many ways romantic man, he had for five years shown steadfast commitment in the face of rare furloughs and a superficial wife. As for other things in his life, his love for the object might be well in excess of what it deserved, from the same idealistic stance that made him obdurate in his work.

Moments later, Dollmann rejoined him. “What did he say? There’s no getting angry at the
King of Rome
when he’s in his cups.” By then a cold dinner was served, which neither he nor Bora chose to eat. They sat with their drinks in hand, Bora looking at the couples growing intimate with what the colonel judged to be more than just uptightness.

That night Guidi stayed up late to read the dossier. The only noise in the apartment was the snore rising from Signora Carmela’s crippled body. Elsewhere in the building, the neighbors were quiet. Guidi had routinely found out about them: middle-class people, employees and shop clerks, students. There was a small child on the top floor, who could be heard crying in the morning. Across the landing, a flashy, cherry-lipped woman in black received visits from noisy male relatives, and a reclusive old fellow Signora Carmela called
Maestro
– he played the piano, well in Guidi’s reckoning. Oddly enough, the one Guidi had been least inquisitive about was Francesca, whose small room was at the other end of the hallway. She left for work early in the morning, and was home by curfew. Whether the Maiulis knew that she was pregnant, he couldn’t say either. Her pale, drawn face came to him, the careless way she combed her hair away from it with her fingers as she read, so that it drew a brown wave behind her ear. She didn’t smile, spoke little at meals, and answered curtly to everyone.

Magda Reiner, instead, continued to live a vicarious merry life in the snapshots of summers past, so different from the last dreadful images. Her blond, plump and smiling countenance against unknown mountains, alongside unknown friends,
was forever safe from injury. In one picture, she laughingly embraced another woman.

As for
Ras
Merlo, Guidi didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as he read about him. His given name was Radames, though he went by Rodolfo. Born 1900,
bersagliere
in the bicycle troops during the Abyssinian campaign. Married to Ignazia Pallone since 1930, four children: Vittorio, Adua (known as Aida), Libico (known as Lorenzo) and Cadorna (known as Carletto). Had been instrumental in the creation of the Istituto Forlanini ten years earlier, and presently headed what remained in Rome of the prestigious National Confederation of Fascist Unions. Rumor had it that he had conflated his last name and his wife’s under the pseudonym
Piemme
, and authored the words of the well-known North African Campaign song ‘Macallè’:

             
Là nell’arida terra del Tigrè

             
nel tramonto del gran sole d’or,

             
solitario, il forte Macallè

             
pieno di ricordi sorge ancor!

Ever since meeting Magda Reiner at a party during the 28 October anniversary of the March on Rome, they’d been inseparable, or nearly so, until her death on 29 December. “Driven by jealousy”, as the report indicated without other comments, he was known to have roughed her up before witnesses occasionally. And now the provincial policeman was expected to find out whether he’d pushed her over the windowsill.

For the rest, the data were scanty: the death had occurred after a year’s end party, at around seven forty-five in the evening, on the sidewalk below the deceased woman’s premises on Via Tolemaide. She’d engaged in sexual intercourse at least once in the hours preceding her death, and though her bedroom and apartment doors were locked, delaying the entrance of the authorities, no keys had been found.

*

A few streets away, Bora left Ott’s party at one in the morning, under a drizzle that fell askew and began to be weighed down by snow. He often drove himself, especially after hours, taking different routes through the darkened city. He had to face the fact that he was angry with Dollmann, whose loquacity he had repaid to excess by receiving a burden of intrigue with it.

Though that wasn’t all of it, either. Melancholy and loneliness, so well laid away for the past year, had been stirred up from their places and looked ugly now. He did not wish to recognize them as his own, did not wish to forsake invulnerability. Still, the heartless gossip made him sick at actors and scenario. Kappler’s affairs, Magda Reiner’s affairs. What could Westphal want to hear out of this? It felt like mud in his mouth.

Talk of his wife had come closest to undoing him. The thought of her caused him pain – beyond desire, soreness of love, anguish that made him bristle and kept him awake many nights. She was inside him beyond herself, even. He was defensive about his feelings for her, and Dollmann had asked entirely too many questions after Maelzer’s crude words.