A Thread of Grace Page 20

  “The Italian Foreign Ministry never surrendered a single Jew from any of their territories,” Huppenkothen says, his bearing rigidly erect, to make the most of his inadequate stature. “Not from Greece, Salonika, Russia, or Yugoslavia, not from southern France—”

  “My dear Artur, handing over undesirables to another government would have meant a loss of sovereignty.” Von Thadden addresses his men. “That, of course, is no longer an issue for the Republic of Salò.”

  Huppenkothen gathers his papers and replaces them in the document case. “Our survival as a Volk demands that we free ourselves and Europe of this ancient racial cancer.” He looks at each of the officers in the room. “The malign influence of the Jew festers in every city and every valley of this country. We must be hard. We must be ruthless. Be assured,” he says directly to von Thadden, “the Gestapo takes note of those who fail in this regard.”

  The room remains silent until the small man’s footsteps are heard no more. The Schoolmaster strolls back to his place behind the lectern. “Herr Oberstpolizei Huppenkothen’s devotion to the Aryan race is admirable. It is a devotion I endorse, a devotion I share, but the Waffen-SS is a military organization, gentlemen. Our priorities must be well ordered. Reinecke, do you have the figures I requested?”

  “Jawohl, Gruppenführer. On 8th September, there were approximately thirty-five thousand native-born Italian Jews, or less than half a percent of the national population. To this, add several thousand foreign Jews smuggled into the country from France and Yugoslavia by Italian troops last month.”

  “For a total of . . . ?”

  “Best estimate seems to be forty-five thousand, Gruppenführer. Although with the deportation from Rome, that number has already dropped.”

  “So, forty-four thousand Jews, two-thirds women and children. Leaving—?”

  “Fifteen thousand men, of whom a third would be too old to fight,” Reinecke says, having anticipated the calculation. “Say, ten thousand potential combatants.”

  “Make that ten potential combatants!” a Standartenführer in the last row retorts. “These are Jews we speak of!”

  “Worse,” someone else calls out. “Most are Italian Jews!”

  “How many gears does an Italian tank have?” another asks.

  “Only one: reverse!” comes the answer.

  Suddenly the room erupts with jokes. How do you stop an Italian tank? Shoot the soldier pushing it! Did you hear about the Italian rifle for sale? Never been fired, only dropped once! What do Italians call half a million men with their hands in the air? The army! Did you hear about the new Italian flag? It has a white stripe—on a white background! Did you hear? Did you hear? Did you hear?

  Reinecke looks increasingly troubled, but von Thadden lets the men enjoy themselves. All their lives, they’ve been taught to sneer at the Untermenschen of the world, but when the laughter wanes, he warns them, “In war, as in chess, underestimating the enemy is a mistake. We who have served in Russia know that Italian soldiers can be formidable and ferocious fighters.”

  “Particularly the Alpini,” Reinecke says earnestly.

  “Obersturmführer Reinecke was seconded to an Alpine unit during the first battle of the Don,” von Thadden informs the others. “Bear in mind as well: the Badoglio government surrendered, but il Duce’s Black Brigades are united with us in opposition to the Allied invasion of Italy, and to the Bolshevik threat to Europe. Other demobilized soldiers,” he grants, “consider us an occupying force. They could pose a substantial threat. Furthermore, Italians are a notably tenderhearted and generous people, and such altruistic softness inevitably leads to collectivism. If Bolshevik Jews join and subvert Italian resistance forces, they must be considered the vanguard of the Soviet army.”

  He waits in the chastened silence for his words to sink in. “Garrison all population centers with over one thousand inhabitants. Conscript laborers and clear fifty meters on either side of all railroads and paved highways. Burn everything that can give cover to saboteurs. Shoot anyone who resists. I want anti-aircraft guns around all bridges and at two-kilometer intervals along the whole of the railway from Sant’Andrea to Borgo San Mauro. Establish supply-line patrols—every four hours, round the clock, starting at seventeen hundred hours this afternoon. Dismissed.”

  Chairs rumble. Low voices murmur. The staff meeting breaks up, but von Thadden motions for Reinecke to remain. “Your given name is Helmut, is it not, Obersturmführer?”

  “Yes, it is, Gruppenführer.”

  “And your wife is Anneliese? Expecting, I believe.” Reinecke nods, a little startled. Von Thadden smiles warmly. “Shall I arrange leave for the event?”

  “The Reich comes first, sir.”

  “Of course! But I’ll see if we can’t find a few days for you to go home. Or,” von Thadden offers craftily, “your little family could join you here. The presence of a man’s wife and children does so much for morale, and I want my adjutant to operate at peak efficiency. The rise in pay grade will not be unappreciated by a new father, eh, Hauptsturmführer?”

  “I— Thank you, Gruppenführer. This is most unexpected.”

  “I’ve had my eye on you, Reinecke. I pride myself on recognizing merit. You’ve earned this promotion.” Von Thadden extracts a slip of paper from his breast pocket. “Contact this man about the arrangements.”

  Reinecke reads the name. “Ugo Messner. German, sir?”

  “Of German blood—a Volksdeutscher from Bozen. Charming, and very helpful with finding accommodations, furniture, and so on. Get cracking, Reinecke! My Martina is lonely, and she loves babies. Your Anneliese will be good company for her.”

  FORMER RABBINICAL RESIDENCE

  PORTO SANT’ANDREA

  Erna Huppenkothen rubs at a smudge on the credenza with the corner of her apron and adjusts the lace tablecloth on the dining table. Fine porcelain and lovely silver are already laid at Artur’s place. She has prepared his supper herself. Plain, sensible German cooking. Ugo—Herr Messner, that is—offered to find Italian girls to cook and clean for her, but Erna has refused. “Let silly women like that Martina von Thadden have servants and grand homes!” she told Herr Messner. His eyes glowed with admiration. He sensed the strength of her will, her determination. She will not be corrupted by the warm weather and aristocratic ease Italy offers its conquerors.

  Erna sees through all that seductive courtesy. Behind each fawning smile, there is trickery and insult. Mouths wish you Buon giorno, Buona sera, Buona notte. Eyes wish you dead.

  Ugo is Italian, too, but different, of course, being Aryan by blood. She could never have established this household so quickly without his help.

  Happy to be in the company of other good Germans, Ugo appeared out of nowhere, pointed out this house, and arranged the removal of all its awful modern furniture and degenerate Jew art. Most of the house was as clean as could be expected, given the dust and smoke from the bombing, but—Scheibenkleister! That horrible library! Enough dirt in there to plant a garden and raise potatoes.

  Not even a good, strong German woman like Erna could have carried all those filthy Jew books away to be burned, so she agreed to let Ugo’s men get rid of them for her. A few days later, he told her about some lovely antiques, available for a very reasonable price, and had them delivered on approval. Erna’s favorite piece is a sideboard of ebonized walnut, magnificently carved. Difficult to dust, but worth the effort. An ornate mirror hangs above it. “The glass is four hundred years old,” Ugo said, “and you’re the most handsome woman it’s ever seen.”

  Such a flirt! But courteous. Respectful. And so attentive, although he travels on business regularly, gone for several days at a time. He always brings her little gifts: handsome old drawings, lovely candlesticks, lace linens to grace her table. Nicer than anything she had back in München.

  She enjoys Ugo’s visits. Even at home, she was often lonely. After Mutti died, she kept house for Papa until he, too, passed away. When her brother, Artur, asked her to come to Italy as
his housekeeper, Erna was grateful and determined to justify the expense and bother he went to, bringing her here. She had long since resigned herself to spinsterhood. She never expected to meet anyone as pleasant as Herr Messner, and in Italy, of all places!

  The mantel clock chimes six. She straightens her apron and waits in the vestibule, knowing Artur will arrive at 6:05. Already, they have established their daily schedule. She’ll take his hat and briefcase. He’ll remove his coat and make a brief reply to her greeting while she hangs up his things. She’ll serve his supper in silence; he works even while he eats. “That was good,” he’ll say when he finishes, then retreat to his study, a collection of files in hand. When he goes to bed, he’ll find beautifully ironed pajamas, a silk robe, and Turkish slippers laid out in his room. In the morning, his suit will be sponged and pressed, his shoes blacked and shining.

  Each evening Erna clears away his dishes and eats her own meal, standing, in the kitchen. “I wish Artur were more like you, Herr Messner,” she confessed yesterday. “He barely speaks, and he never listens to me!”

  “Artur is lucky to have you looking after him,” Ugo said, “but naturally he is preoccupied by affairs of state. Noticing things like furniture and cooking would be a sort of dereliction of duty. You serve the Führer by serving Artur, Fräulein!”

  “I never thought of it that way,” she said.

  “Men always love to talk about their professions,” Ugo said thoughtfully. “Perhaps if you take an interest . . . ?”

  The door opens. Her brother steps inside. “Good evening, Artur,” Erna says, taking his hat and briefcase. “You look tired. How was work today?”

  November 1943

  EN ROUTE TO BORGO SAN MAURO

  VALDOTTAVO, PIEMONTE

  Osvaldo Tomitz smacks a wrench into Renzo Leoni’s palm. “We’re lost,” he says. “Admit it!”

  “We’re not lost.” The disembodied voice beneath the little milk van is serene, but the Alfa Romeo appears to spit the wrench out. “A socket wrench, Padre! Female connector, right angle to the handle. Fits around a bolt.”

  Osvaldo tries another tool.

  “That’s a socket wrench,” the voice says patiently, “but not the nineteen-millimeter socket wrench. The dimensions are on the handles.”

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned: I skipped the course on engine maintenance in seminary.” Osvaldo paws through the contents of a metal box. Twenty-one, seventeen . . . At least the numbers aren’t divisible by five. “Ecco! A nineteen-millimeter female coupling, right angle to the handle.”

  Metallic sounds issue from beneath the engine, along with a stately procession of quiet curses. “Porca vacca. Porca miseria. Porca bagascia . . .”

  “Where did you learn—?”

  “To curse? The Royal Italian Air Force.”

  “—to fix engines?” Osvaldo finishes.

  “Same place. Know why Italian pilots fly in squadrons of four?” There’s a grunt of effort, followed by another steady stream of profanity. “So they’ll have one working radio at the end of the mission. We could never get spare parts even in the thirties. Kept the planes airborne with electrical tape and scraps of tent canvas— Porca puttana! Is there any wire in that toolbox?”

  Osvaldo digs around. “You were a mechanic, then?”

  “Belandi, no!” Renzo exclaims, offended. “I flew a Caproni 133 triple-engine high-wing fighter-bomber,” he says grandly. “Had a whole crew of fitters and riggers at my command, but those were my very own balls in the cockpit. Mondo cane!” Another convoy of curses rolls out from under the truck before Renzo continues: “I always did the work myself—damned if I’d trust some ignorant cafone with a hammer . . . There! Climb into that pig-bitch and crank her, Padre.”

  Using the hem of his cassock to protect his hand, Osvaldo opens the gasogene chamber and stokes the coal fire before swinging up into the cab. The starter fails. He pulls the choke out a bit more. The engine catches, then roars unmuffled.

  “That’s good! Cut the engine!” Renzo eases himself from under the truck and gets up slowly, groaning like an old man. Wipes grease from his hands with a rag, dusts off his coveralls. Reaches into the cab of the Alfa and pulls out a bottle of grappa. “Medicinal purposes,” he says, toasting the priest and taking a long swallow. “Got a cigarette?”

  Osvaldo offers a package of Macedonias. Renzo’s face twists, and Osvaldo shrugs. Macedonias taste like burning straw, but they’re better than nothing. The men light up and listen to the breeze in treetops that meet over the center of this gravelly road.

  “Porca troia! It’s going to rain,” Renzo grouses. “Which reminds me: those blank identity papers you bought? You haven’t distributed them yet, have you?” The priest shakes his head, and Renzo asks, “What made you choose Troia for the addresses?”

  “The papers needed a municipal stamp. A group in Genoa got one from a village called Troia down in Apulia. The town’s behind Allied lines, so nobody can double-check the documents.”

  Renzo flicks ash. “Padre, do you happen to know what troia means in the Ligurian dialect?” When Osvaldo shakes his head, Renzo prompts, “It’s a female occupation . . . Not a very respectable occupation.” The priest still looks blank. “Troia means prostitute, Padre.”

  “But . . . no!” Osvaldo moans. “So all those people would be walking around with papers that say they’re—”

  “Children of Troia! The sons and daughters of a southern whore!”

  “Am I correct in assuming that I am the only person in northwestern Italy who didn’t know that?”

  “I rather hope my mother would be just as surprised. The Germans wouldn’t get it, but repubblicani would piss themselves laughing, and then arrest anyone carrying the documents.”

  “So I’ve ruined two hundred identity cards.”

  “In the future, you might check criminal intentions with your more disreputable colleagues.” Renzo slumps onto the truck’s running board and inspects his scraped knuckles. “Can I ask you something, Tomitz? Why the hell are you up here, looking for Hebes on the run, in God-Knows-Where, Piemonte?”

  “You admit it! We’re—”

  “We are not lost!” Exasperated, Renzo closes his eyes. Folded and forested, the hills must seem impossible to navigate from the ground, but he’s seen this landscape from above. He sees it at this moment as though he were flying over the countryside. The plains sweep north from the coast, breaking into long valleys rimmed by wooded mountains that crumple into higher and higher terrain until they merge with the Maritimes. “We are five kilometers by air from Borgo San Mauro, which is that way,” he says, pointing. “It’s twenty kilometers on this miserable dirt track, which is a pain in the coglioni to drive on, but better than getting picked up by a German patrol on the main road. Answer my question.”

  The priest straightens. “We are taught: Do not stand by while your neighbor’s blood is shed.”

  “Sounds like Leviticus,” Renzo remarks, watching the clouds.

  “We must place ourselves on the side of those who suffer persecution!” Osvaldo insists, as though arguing with someone. “I am here without permission,” he confesses. “You know what they say in the Curia? Tutti preti sono falsi.”

  Renzo looks surprised. “All priests are frauds? Not all, surely! There’s your friend Leto Girotti. Archbishop Boetto in Genoa, and his man Don Repetto. That nuncio in Turkey.”

  “Roncalli?”

  “Yes, that’s the one.” Elbows on his knees, Renzo hunches over, cigarette shielded by his palms from the rising breeze. “You know what I think? Ten percent of any group of human beings are shitheads. Catholics, Jews. Germans, Italians. Pilots, priests. Teachers, doctors, shopkeepers. Ten percent are shitheads. Another ten percent—salt of the earth! Saints! Give you the shirts off their backs. Most people are in the middle, just trying to get by.” Squinting through tendrils of smoke, he leans away to look at Tomitz. “You are a very dangerous man, Padre. You are an ordinary, decent fellow who aspires to s
aintliness.”

  “And you?” Osvaldo demands, flushing angrily. “You have false papers—Stefano Savoca could simply disappear. As Ugo Messner, you could go to Berlin if you wanted to! Where do you fit in this moral taxonomy?”

  Renzo grins derisively. “Oh, I’m definitely a shithead. I’m just trying to commit a better class of sin than I used to.” Renzo takes a drag, holds smoke in his lungs, blows it out slowly. “You know anything about Yom Kippur, Padre? The Day of Atonement. Jews are supposed to fast and ask God’s forgiveness for sins against Him, but not even God can absolve sins against someone else. So. We’re supposed to go to the people we’ve harmed, beg forgiveness, make things right. Which is why some sins are unforgivable.” He studies the wooded hillside that borders the road. “Murder, for example.”

  “Because one can’t ask forgiveness of the dead.”

  “Too true. You know what Cain’s sin was, Padre?”

  “Why, killing his brother, of course.”

  “Catholics! One answer per question, end of discussion. No, Padre, Cain’s sin was depriving the world of Abel’s children. My theory is, if Abel had lived, the percentage of shitheads in the world might be significantly lower.” Renzo stands and shuffles bent-kneed for a few steps before he can straighten. “Can you reach that Beretta from where you’re standing? Don’t move, just tell me.”

  “The pistol? Yes, it’s on the dashboard.” Alert now, Osvaldo whispers, “What do you see?”

  Renzo seems to study the clouds. Raindrops roll off the leaves and hit his face. “Who, not what.”

  Osvaldo Tomitz is carrying sixteen thousand lire in cash, its bulk concealed in the black cincture around his waist. There are, Leto Girotti estimated, over a thousand Jews hiding in his mountain parish, and he’ll distribute the money to families sheltering them—assuming Osvaldo isn’t robbed this afternoon. He grabs the gun and thrusts it into Renzo’s hand.

  Casually, Renzo drops the cigarette butt to the dampening ground before bellowing, “Sh’ma, Israel! Adonai Eloheynu!”