“You think so?”
“Simply concentrate on the mission,” Otto said. “After a while, you will find that as they’re being processed and stripped, they no longer have faces. All they have is a sameness.”
“You’ve studied this?”
“Naturally. A Junker bomber can carry twenty passengers and a pilot. But a Stork reconnaissance plane like you flew in Africa can lift on a breeze while a Junker needs at least four hundred meters to clear the ground. Really, there is no choice but the Stork. Wouldn’t you agree?”
It was true. On such a short airstrip a Junker would stand out like an overdressed dowager.
“You won’t find the girl on your own,” Otto said. “You can hardly ask the Germans for help, and the partisans will be too busy taking over the world. Do you think Giorgio is going to help you, anymore than we would help him?” Otto allowed himself an expansive puff. “What you need is someone with the right contacts.”
“Why would you help find her?”
“Because you can help me.”
Cenzo heard the brassy sound of a small plane.
Otto looked at his watch. “Right on time.” A German reconnaissance plane skimmed the treetops. Otto was grimly satisfied. “One of our German friends is leaving the battle early with the help of the Argentine consulate, of course.”
The plane looked as frail as a model made of balsa and glue, but it was a Stork, the plane that had once rescued Mussolini from a mountaintop and still flew in and out of Berlin. It made a low pass over the landing strip, turned into the wind, touched down, and rolled to a gentle stop on the grass.
A car stripped of its swastikas appeared at the clubhouse, and as the passenger emerged, Cenzo recognized the obese colonel who had delivered a birthday toast to Hitler at General Kassel’s farewell dinner. Tonight he was in civilian clothes and clamped a fedora on his head as he scurried to the open door of the plane. Cenzo remembered the name on his passport. Herr Wilhelm Christian Doorf.
The pilot was a young man in black leather, a tight black helmet, and a lighthearted mood, as if all he had ever wished for was a spectacular death. He walked toward Otto and said, “I have the ratline if you have the rat.”
“Here are his papers, all in order.” Otto passed him an envelope. “Everything in context.”
The pilot riffled through the contents with an expression so blank, it had to be contempt. Otto was not put out; he looked as if he had been insulted by better men.
“Very well.” The pilot turned on his heel and marched back to the plane to squeeze his passenger’s wide rump into the rear seat. He climbed into the front, pulled on his helmet like a knight of yore, and started the engine. The plane nudged forward, made a 180-degree turn, and rolled into the wind. As always, the takeoff of a Stork seemed premature. One bump and the recon plane was grass-high, then high as the trees and banking toward Switzerland. The car that the colonel had come in backed up and drove away.
“Do you remember how to fly one of these toys?” Otto asked.
“They may be simple, but they’re not toys.”
“I didn’t mean to insult you. Dodging bullets must take skill.”
“Mainly, you fly close to the ground.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“I’ll pass,” Cenzo said.
“It’s a good plan.”
“It’s not the plan that bothers me.”
“You don’t trust me? You can pilot the plane and the girl will hold the gun. You can’t object to that.”
“I’m not interested.”
“Not your cup of tea? Well, think about it. You’ll see, it’s the only way out.”
The clouds opened up and rain began to fall. Cenzo could picture the Stork being blown like a kite one way and then the other.
22
A battalion of the Wehrmacht was leaving Salò, marching down the promenade to the ringing of a glockenspiel that made their retreat sound like a celebration. Who were they? Cenzo wondered. Strip them of their helmets and guns, and they were salesclerks and students who had been dispatched to oblivion. There were salutes and cheers outside German headquarters but the locals greeted them with the impatience of hosts whose guests had overstayed their welcome.
Cenzo picked up a copy of the Gazette. The war was taking on strange twists and turns. Before, the Germans had advertised for sausage makers; now it was for blacksmiths. They sent them to Poland to work in arms factories, yet they continued to mount productions of grand opera and announce fictitious victories over the Allies.
Maria Paz squeezed next to Cenzo with a manila envelope under her arm. “I’ve been looking for you,” she said.
“And now you’ve found me. But, no, thank you. I don’t need any passports to Argentina.”
“Do you despise me?”
“For helping Nazis escape a fate they richly deserve? A little.”
Maria was still fashionable, always fashionable, in a creamy-white dress that brought out her natural tan. It was interesting, he thought, how initial attraction could inspire later contempt.
“You would never compromise,” Maria said. “Not you.”
“Since I’m just a lowly fisherman I can pick and choose. Does this music stir your blood? It’s a bit oompah for my taste.”
“You don’t want to talk to me?” she asked.
“No. You are far too clever, both you and Otto. Why were you looking for me?”
“I thought you would like to know that Giulia is at Vera’s house.”
“Say that again.”
“Vera has your girl Giulia. She called me to tell you.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“You go on ahead,” Maria said. “You be Sir Galahad. That’s a fate you deserve.”
• • •
Vera admitted it was pure chance that the very girl Cenzo was searching for had visited Vera’s Hollywood-style bungalow. “I mean, it’s better than dramatic: it’s cinematic. She’s hungry, of course. Who isn’t?” Vera pointed to a food tray of picked-over sandwiches and grapes that had been rolled to poolside. Modern art hung on the walls. A tiger skin sprawled across the floor.
“And you think this is the girl I’m after?” Cenzo said.
“She certainly fits the description.”
“Where is she?” Cenzo asked.
“In the living room.”
He knew from the moment he saw the girl hunched over a pile of Spam, soap, and cigarettes. She boldly raised her gaze as Cenzo approached. She had a round face with black hair short as a boy’s and eyes that shone like black glass.
“She didn’t need to sneak in,” Vera said. “I told her she could come and swim anytime except, of course, when I have male friends. I found plenty of nice dresses that fit her. It’s the most extraordinary thing. What will happen to her?”
“It’s not her,” Cenzo said.
“You’re sure?” Vera hated to lose a good story. “She swims like a dolphin.”
“She may swim like a dolphin, but she’s not Giulia.”
“But she’s so clever,” Vera said.
“Of course she’s clever. She’s a Gypsy,” Cenzo said. “Gypsies also have a difficult time with the Nazis.”
The girl broke into a broad smile. “It doesn’t matter. This was my last visit here anyway.” From her sundress she pulled a handkerchief that she spread over the table before her and industriously began filling with black-market treasure.
“You’re sure she’s not the girl you’re searching for?” Vera sounded cheated. “Then where is she?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Well,” said Vera, “it’s one of those instances where two people seem to be exactly alike until someone says they’re not and then all sorts of differences are uncovered. Like a birthmark. It happens in films all the time.”
The girl built a pyramid of Spam, cigarettes, soap, and bottles of face cream and perfume on her handkerchief.
“She’s really taking quite a haul,” Vera said in a weak protest.
The girl told Cenzo, “Your lady friend here has a ton more. She’s a hoarder. She should be ashamed.”
“Why make this your last trip?” Cenzo asked the girl. “You could have tapped these people forever.”
“Look around. The war is almost over. Once the partisans are in control, your friends are going to be . . .” The girl drew her finger across her neck.
“How did you learn to swim?” Cenzo asked.
“I dove for coins that tourists threw in the lake. When there were tourists. It was a good deal. I’m sorry it’s over.” The girl tied the four corners of the handkerchief into a knot and practically swung her legs with pleasure for hoodwinking people who were so gullible.
23
Cenzo parked across from the Argentine consulate. He didn’t like how he had left her the day before. What, after all, gave him the right to judge her? She had been a friend to him and he had no good reason to be self-righteous.
There were no lights on or signs of life apart from the coolness of an oncoming storm. The leaves of an elephant-ear plant flapped on the veranda. A lemon rolled across the tiles. The front door flew open and shut without rousing anyone. Finally, Cenzo crossed the street and rang the doorbell. When no one answered, he pushed the door open and walked in. The loudest sounds in the reception room were the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece and the stirring of the chandelier.
He had seen Maria stuff papers into the center drawer of her desk. It was locked, but the desk’s side drawers yielded stationery, pens, ink, stamps, a stapler, and a flashlight. He flicked the flashlight beam around bookcases and travel posters. Hadn’t Otto said it was a shame that Cenzo couldn’t see more of Maria’s handiwork? How many Nazis had she, with her talent for the bogus, sped on their way?
At the far end of the reception area was a sliver of light. Cenzo opened a door to a flight of cellar stairs and was hit by the sharp smell of turpentine. He followed the steps down to a workshop where Maria sat on a stool and polished a violin. The strings were yet to be attached. She gave a start at the sight of Cenzo but went on with her work. She wore an apron and had pulled her hair back into a workmanlike bun.
Forms of unfinished violins hung belly-out along the wall. Jars of spirit varnish, copal, volcano ash, ox blood, and gold lined the table. Penknives and sable brushes sat in open boxes, along with sets of chisels and gouges and sandpaper that ran from fine to superfine. A manila envelope sat on a workbench.
“People claim that Gasparo da Salò used gold and blood in the varnish,” Maria said. “It’s a myth, but buyers love to hear it.”
“What else do you tell them?”
“I tell them the ingredients of the varnish were a secret. It’s all contradiction anyway. On one Gasparo violin the scrolls are ugly. On another Gasparo the scrolls are elegant. Age is the most important part. It’s not easy to find a violin that’s four hundred years old and still intact whether it’s good or bad. But if you’re going to look for a Gasparo in a hayloft, Salò is the place.”
“How will it play?” Cenzo asked.
“That depends on the player. I make no promises, only possibilities. I’m afraid the same can be said about Vera’s Gypsy. I’m sorry I got your hopes up.”
“It’s the way of the world. In any case, I should be apologizing to you.”
Maria fell silent. She ran her hand over the violin she had been working on, along the ancient wood and hints of mystery and gold.
“Do you get to play any of your violins?” Cenzo asked her.
“I used to.” Maria looked at the array of musical instruments hanging on the wall. “I’m afraid I’m not going to be able to finish any of these in time. I’m sorry, because I would have loved to hear them played by a real musician.” She eyed the line of the violin’s belly and the bridge. “Notice how Gasparo kept the arching low, as if the instrument yearned to be handled.”
“Does it?”
“Of course.”
He picked up a manila envelope and shook its contents onto the table.
“It’s not what you think,” she said. They were like the identity documentation that Cenzo had seen before—passports of different nationalities, letters of transit, union cards, honorable discharges from the military, train tickets—except that the ultimate destination for these was Palestine. Whole families were listed.
“Jews,” Cenzo said.
“Like Giulia. My coconspirators and I have an arrangement. We let one Nazi go in exchange for five to ten Jews.”
“And if I had found Giulia, you would have created a passport and papers for her too?”
“If you had found her,” Giorgio said from the top of the stairs. He stepped down. “Why is he here?”
“That’s what I was going to ask you,” said Maria. “I expected you. That’s why I left the doors unlocked.”
Cenzo felt very much on the wrong foot, as if he had arrived at a party on the wrong day.
“What do you think?” Giorgio asked Maria Paz. “Is he dangerous?”
She gave Cenzo a cool assessment. “I don’t think so.”
“You’d be surprised,” Giorgio said. “Can you believe, Cenzo actually passed himself off as me at police headquarters? Now, that’s ambition.”
“I don’t think so,” Cenzo said.
“It doesn’t matter. We’re running out of time.”
“I’m almost finished with the passports,” Maria said.
“You’ve got to get ready to meet the conquering Allies. I’ve just heard on the radio that Argentina has declared war on Germany and Salò too.”
“That should tip the scales,” Maria said. “Argentina against Salò. Could a war be any more ridiculous?”
“I’ll have to get back to the radio station,” Giorgio said.
“To be the voice that announces the surrender, of course,” Cenzo said.
“Once things start to fall apart, it will be too late,” Giorgio said to Maria. “Come to the station with me.”
“They can’t be that close,” Maria said.
“On some streets, partisans are here already.”
“I can’t leave the consul.”
“The object now is to avoid chaos. Somebody has to have control of the radio, the railroad, the armory, the streets.”
“And the partisans?” Cenzo asked.
“The Reds, you mean. They have to be neutralized. That’s why the right people have to be in charge when the Allies come marching in.”
24
Rumor had it that Mussolini was hiding with the cardinal in Milan. That loyal Fascists were rallying by the thousands to his banner. That he was going into retirement to write his memoirs. That Germans and Allies were joining forces to attack communist Russia. None of these stories were true. But it was the eve of something enormous, a collective breath held, a sense that a great wave was on the horizon.
The only model of equanimity that Cenzo encountered was Otto Klein, who walked along the Corso like a man appraising real estate.
“I always leave room for compromise,” he said. “Sober-headed businessmen can always work something out.” That seemed to be the case with Otto Klein.
“If you get fair warning,” Cenzo said.
“Of course I’ll get fair warning. There are alarms and false alarms. I have my dear friend Vera, who will get her signal to leave from Claretta, who will get her signal from Mussolini. It’s probably the only system in Italy that works. Where are you headed, Cenzo, if I might ask?”
“To the cathedral.”
“I wouldn’t have figured you as a religious type.” From time to time, Otto skipped to keep pace. “Meeting anyone I know?”
“My b
rother. You know, Otto, you make me feel like I’m being squeezed for plumpness.”
“Nonsense.”
The cathedral trembled as a Panzer tank rolled by. Negotiating a turn, the tank clipped a kiosk and dragged it like a hostage down the street. Otto framed the scene with his fingers.
“I can’t help myself, I’m a moviemaker. Imagine what it will look like when the enemy enters Venice. How epic it will be. The last stand of civilization against a horde of American mobsters, the dregs of the British Empire, perverts of the French Empire, lascivious Africans and mercenary Sikhs.”
“For a peace-loving Swiss, you have a bloodthirsty appetite,” Cenzo said. “What if the Germans simply leave quietly?”
“Not their style.”
• • •
The Cathedral of Salò was so narrow it seemed pinched. Worshippers floated in the watery illumination of candles, and it took Cenzo a minute to find Giorgio. A crucifix hung in the light that poured in from a window high above the altar.
Giorgio whispered, “The cathedral is on the site of a Roman temple. I like to imagine Bacchus rising from the floor. Crucifixes are usually so dismal, but if you disregard the wormholes, this one has a certain elegance.”
Cenzo took in the worshippers. A man who looked flattened by life wore a mourning band on his sleeve. A nun mumbled to her rosary. Two girls whispered secrets to each other. A fat man gathered his arms like an octopus. A program from Vatican Radio whispered by the front portal. A swallow circled the transept.
“What do you want?” Cenzo asked.
“Have you found your friend?” Giorgio asked.
“No.”
“Then what have you been doing, besides poking your nose into the affairs of Maria Paz?”
“Your nose is already there.”
“That’s crude. I should have left you back in Pellestrina.”
“You would have. It was Steiner who wanted me,” said Cenzo.
“Colonel Steiner? You think he cares about Giulia—or any Jew, for that matter? He just wants to end the war while the German army is still intact. One traitor sealed Vittorio Silber’s fate and Giulia is the only one who might know who that is.”