Читать книгу The Saint Peter’s Plot - Derek Lambert, Derek Lambert - Страница 8

II

Maria Reubeni had awoken that morning in her apartment in the old Jewish quarter of Rome near the Bridge of the Four Heads at 5.30.

These days she always awoke early, sometimes with problems of the previous night processed and solved, always with her mind turbulent with ideas.

Maria was a fervent Jew but not an Orthodox one. Her fervour was directed towards salvation rather than religious observation. She was sure that one day she would be a Zionist, but at the moment she was more concerned with saving Jews than rehabilitating them.

She rose from the bed and stood naked at the open window of her bedroom and peered round the yellow curtains for her daily glimpse of the river — the advertisement for the apartment had said simply ‘overlooking Tiber’ without mentioning that you could break your neck looking for it. She saw a swirl of water and withdrew from the window satisfied. It had become a ritual this daily peek at the river: not for any aesthetic reason: merely to remind her each day that the Tiber had once regularly flooded the ghetto into which Pope Paul IV had thrown the Jews in the sixteenth century. To Maria Reubeni the flow of the Tiber was the flow of Jewish persecution ever since.

But Maria was not a Jew who dolefully studied anti-Semite history while awaiting the next blow. She could not understand why the Jews of Europe were allowing themselves to be exterminated by the Germans. My God there were enough of them. Now she was determined to save the Jews of Rome.

She left the window open so that she could smell the first breaths of freshly-baked bread and coffee from the street below and turned on the shower in the bathroom. The cold water drumming on her shower-cap and sluicing down her body cooled her thoughts and gave them direction.

It was now a critical time for Italian Jewry. She and the other members of DELASEM, Delegazione Assistenza Emigranti (Jewish Emigrant Association), had known this ever since the war had started to go badly for the Axis powers. Italy would crumble. The Germans would move in. The Jews would suffer.

Now Mussolini had been ousted and it was just a matter of time … First DELASEM had to persuade the Allies and Italy’s new government under Pietro Badoglio to postpone an announcement of an armistice until they had got the Jews out of Italian-occupied France — and organised sanctuaries for the Roman Jews.

Maria dried herself, glanced briefly at her fine, heavy-breasted body in a wall mirror, dressed herself in a lime-green skirt and blouse and began to brush her long hair, so black that it seemed to have bluish lights in it.

Then she went to a cafe near the Theatre of Marcellus and ordered black coffee, the ersatz variety which tasted more like gravy, and a slice of pizza with a filling no thicker than a postage stamp.

The waiter with the anaemic moustache served her with a traditional flourish.

“Have you heard the news today?” he asked.

She shook her head, mouth full of pizza.

“Palermo has fallen,” the waiter told her.

“It fell on the twenty-second,” said Maria.

“Ah, you have better information than me.”

“I listen to the BBC.”

“Soon they will be on the mainland. Soon, perhaps, in Rome?” He looked at her hopefully. This goddess who had brains as well as beautiful bosoms.

“Perhaps,” said Maria.

The waiter pointed at the pizza and coffee. “Now every Italian knows we should never have gone to war. It is hurting us where it hurts most,” prodding his stomach. And then sadly: “We Italians are not fighters.”

She looked at him steadily. The waiter smiled uncertainly. She stood up, at least three inches taller than him. “Never let me hear you say that,” she said, searching for money in her handbag.

“You think we are fighters?” Astonished.

“You are implying that Italians are cowards,” Maria said. “Have you ever heard of Suda Bay?”

Miserably the waiter shook his head and began to clear the table to avoid her gaze.

“The Italians sank the British cruiser, York, and three supply ships. And how did they do it?” waiting until he was forced to look up. “With human torpedos, that’s how. And the pilots only ejected when the explosives were on target.”

“I didn’t mean —” the waiter began.

“The Italians are as brave as anyone. It is merely that we” — What am I, Jewish or Italian? — “are not stupid enough to sacrifice our way of life — that is what we have more than any other nation, a way of life — for an empty cause. But we are ruled by our hearts and not our minds, and that is why we allowed ourselves to be led to disaster by the Fascists.”

Her speech finished she strode from the cafe.

“Ah, she’s got guts, that one,” said a workman in blue dungarees sipping his coffee.

“Six months ago she would have been thrown into jail,” observed another.

“Perhaps she will be very soon,” said the first workman. “When the Germans come.”

The waiter said: “Why? The Germans have no love for Mussolini. Why should they throw her into jail for insulting him?’

“Because,” said the second workman, “she’s a Jew. That’s why, my friend.”

Outside the cafe Maria turned on her heel and headed towards the Corso. She was surprised at her pro-Italian outburst; after all, the Italians had introduced racial laws aimed at the Jews — even the Jewish artichoke had been renamed; but, Maria comforted herself, that had been the doing of the Fascists. But why had she wasted words on the waiter? Perhaps, she thought, because I know no man of character and strength in whom to confide; a man, that is, to whom I am physically attracted. Not even Angelo Peruzzi whose strength is a sham.

She didn’t take one of the green trams this morning. She wanted to smell the scents of Rome as it finally climbed from its bed after its drowsy awakening. The sky was misty blue and the streets rang with the clip-clop of horses’ hooves — more horses around these days than cars. But today Maria sensed a fresh nuance to the summer morning; a new expectancy as the Romans awaited the Germans, a razor-blade of cruelty; and when a pneumatic drill started up she jumped as though it were gunfire.

* * *

At the Fountain of Trevi Maria met by appointment a man she did admire. Although admiration was the limit of their relationship because the man was forty-eight — and a priest.

His name was Father Marie-Benoit, known in Rome as Maria Benedetto. He was a French Capuchin friar who had dedicated himself to rescuing Jews from their oppressors.

From the outset his career had been unorthodox. In the First World War he had served with the 44th Infantry Regiment as a stretcher-bearer and rifleman and had been awarded the Croix de Guerre with five citations and the Medaille Militaire. He was being trained as a machine-gunner when the Armistice was signed and was then transferred to the 15th Algerian Rifle Regiment in Morocco. After that he became Professor of Theology at the College International de St. Laurent.

At the outset of the present war he served first as an Italian interpreter with the French South-east Army Group. When France surrendered he went to Vichy, France, to Marseilles, sorting house of gangsters and refugees from German-occupied Europe. There he organised escape routes for the Jews.

Subsequently he was recalled by his Father Superior to Rome, where he had previously served, and was installed in the Capuchin Monastery at 159 Via Sicilia.

Currently he was working on plans to evacuate Jews from the area of southern France occupied by the Italians because, as soon as the Italian surrender to the Allies was announced, the Germans would move in and implement Hitler’s Final Solution.

Seeing him standing beside the fountain Maria Reubeni thought: “Now there’s a man.”

She walked up to him. “Good morning, Father.”

He smiled at her. “Good morning, my child.” His features were serene and yet it seemed to Maria that the serenity was a mask beneath which any extreme was possible.

He pointed at the fountain’s rocks set against the wall of the palace, at the statues of gods and goddesses and tritons, and the cascades of water spilling into the great bowl. “That water,” he said, “comes from Agrippa’s aqueduct, the Aqua Vergine, probably the sweetest water in all Rome. And do you know what the English used to do with it?”

She shook her head.

“Make tea.”

She laughed.

“Great people the English. A pity they never colonised Rome. If they had we might spend the rest of the day waiting for the sun to go down over the yard-arm instead —”

“Of waiting for the Germans to come.”

Father Benedetto sighed. “And come they will. Already the German Army is preparing to take over. We have a lot to do,” he said taking her arm. “Papers to forge, food to hide, escape hatches to oil.”

“But first,” she said, “the Jews in France, in Nice. How is it going, Father?”

“Slowly,” said the priest. “As you know, I’ve seen the Holy Father and sought his help. So far nothing’s happened but that was only thirteen days ago. These things take time. And the Holy Father is in a very difficult position,” he added.

“Very,” the girl said drily. “He finds it very difficult to acknowledge the existence of Jews. Particularly dead ones.”

“Now that,” said the Capuchin friar, “is not quite so. There are many factors involved. But this is no time for a debate about Papal diplomacy.” He led her from the little square in the direction of the Corso, gesturing with his free hand. “Palaces, basilicas, villas … We live in a museum. And there must be many dusty hiding places in a museum.”

“But will you be able to get the Jews out of France?” Maria asked.

“We hope to get in touch with London and Washington through the British and American representatives at The Holy See. The prisoners in The Vatican,” he said smiling. “Which reminds me,” tightening his grip on her arm, “I understand there was a very important visitor to The Holy See today.”

They reached the Corso, the windows of its elegant facades covered with dark-blue paper as an air-raid precaution. There were a few people around heading for the food queues; a kiosk opposite the Piazza Colunna displayed newspapers bearing nebulous headlines because editors were no longer sure what constituted good and bad news.

“Who was that?” Maria asked. “The Chief Rabbi?”

“On the contrary,” Father Benedetto said. “He was a German.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

“His name might.”

“Who was it, Hitler?”

“Not quite.” Benedetto bought a newspaper with a map of Sicily on the front page. The arrows on it seemed to indicate that the Enemy was winning. Or were they now the Allies? “His name is Dietrich.”

“Not Sepp Dietrich?”

“So it seems.”

“But what —”

“That is what we’d like to know,” the priest interrupted. “Why was Hitler’s favourite soldier-boy seeing the Holy Father?”

“Or why,” said the girl, “did the Pope grant an audience to a swine like that?”

“Whichever way you like to put it,” Father Benedetto said mildly. “Apparently it isn’t generally known that the audience took place.”

“How do you know?” She plunged her hands deep into the pockets of her skirt and began to walk slowly down the sidewalk, head bowed in thought.

“From our contact” — he corrected himself —” your contact in The Vatican. It seems,” tapping her on the shoulder with the rolled-up newspaper, “that you have a way with priests.”

“But why didn’t he contact me?”

“Apparently you were out of touch last night.”

“I suppose I was. I was having dinner with my father.” She took a pack of cigarettes from her handbag, then put it back because you didn’t smoke in the presence of a priest, certainly not walking in the street. “Who did he contact?”

“Angelo Peruzzi,” the priest told her and, because of her startled reaction, asked: “Why, does it matter?”

She said abruptly: “It might.”

“Well, you’d better go and see him,” said Father Benedetto uncertainly. “He’s a good man, isn’t he?”

“A good man, yes. But a weak man who disguises his weakness with bravado. If you’ll excuse me, Father, I’d better go to him now.”

“Very well, my child.” He touched her arm. “God be with you.”

Yes, she thought as she boarded a tram, Angelo was a good man. A brave man? Possibly. But bravery wasn’t necessarily strength, bravery didn’t embrace wisdom. How many acts of bravery had been committed for facile motives? Would Angelo kill just to prove himself to the rest of the partisani?

* * *

From the tram, jammed with rich and poor united by lack of gasoline, Maria gazed at churches and palaces opening their pores to the sun; at the sand-coloured walls of the Palazzo Venezia and its balcony from which Mussolini had declared war: at the white wedding cake across the square, the Vittorio Emanuele Monument.

In this square, when the overthrow of Mussolini had been announced, Maria had seen black-shirts flee for their lives as the crowd spat on a bronze bust of Mussolini. The euphoria had been sustained by the rumour that Hitler was dead.

Now the celebrants had retired and the Fascists were showing their noses again. Mussolini was still alive, the Germans would soon be here, and already in the streets you could see young men with bright blue eyes wearing combat clothes beneath civilian jackets.

Maria turned her attention to the stumps and roots of ancient Rome. The Allies had already bombed the city, wrecking the Basilica di San Lorenzo. How many more noble buildings would join the ruins of the Coliseum and the Forum before the war was finished? And who would destroy them — the Germans or the Allies? If only, Maria thought, the Italians could decide which was the enemy.

She alighted from the tram under a Fascist slogan, Many Enemies, Much Honour and made her way up the Via Cavour, a long and dreary street leading away from the sunlit ruins.

Here, in a small square reached by a flight of worn steps, Angelo Peruzzi had a one-roomed apartment. The tapestries of the square were underclothes and faded blouses hanging from the balconies. The only inhabitants at this time were starved cats that had escaped the stewpot.

Maria mounted the hollowed stairs and knocked on the door. No reply. She took the key to the room from her purse. Angelo had given her the key in the hope that she would join him in bed, but she had laughed at him and he had sulked for a week.

He was handsome enough with his brigand’s face and polished black hair; but he wasn’t a Jew, and in any case she had no respect for him.

The room smelled of stale tobacco smoke. On one side was an unmade camp bed. And he wanted me to share that! Opposite the bed a bookcase filled with innocuous volumes — these days you didn’t display either Fascist or Communist literature — and, on the walls, photographs of the Peruzzi family grouped round proud Papa who looked like an old-time Chicago barber.

Maria glanced at the papers lying on the table, one of its legs supported by a manual on firearms. She picked up an unlabelled bottle of red wine and smelled it. She grimaced. Gutrot! Angelo Peruzzi, aged twenty-eight, drank too much. It saddened her that she had to work with such men. But these days every willing hand was valuable, and Angelo was in contact with the most influential partisani, each group prepared to fight for its own rights in post-war Italy.

At first Maria had wondered why the more level-headed partisani bothered with Angelo. Then she had discovered that they used him because he liked to kill.

She was replacing the bottle when she noticed the sheaf of paper on which it had been resting. On the first sheet were scrawled three words in Angelo’s childish hand-writing: DIETRICH VATICAN HUDAL.

Slowly Maria lowered the bottle to the table. She glanced at her wrist-watch. It was 11.30 am. If Dietrich had been granted an audience with the Pope, then it would be over by now.

In two strides she was across the room, pulling back the bed, grimacing at the smell of unwashed sheets, pulling an old oak wedding chest from underneath. She tossed aside old magazines until she reached Angelo’s private armoury. A dismantled Thompson sub-machine gun, a Luger pistol and a stiletto with an elaborately carved handle.

All present and correct — except a German stick-grenade.

Maria ran out of the house into the square where the cats spat and arched their backs. Then she was in the Via Cavour running towards the centre of the city.

An old Lancia passed her, the driver — a fat man with a few strands of hair greased across his scalp — glanced at her over his shoulder. She waved and he smiled, winked and stopped the car.

“What’s the hurry, my pretty one?”

She jumped in beside him and told him to take her to the Piazza Navona as though she were addressing a taxi driver.

He shrugged, smiled, patted her knee and drove away.

“Urgent business?”

“Very.”

“Perhaps after this, ah, urgent business, we could meet and have a little drink. Perhaps in the sunshine on the Via Veneto …”

“Perhaps,” thinking: “If Angelo has ruined everything I’ll kill him.”

“What is the, ah, nature of this urgent business? It isn’t usual to see beautiful girls running on a hot day in Rome.” He glanced sideways at her. “You looked as though you were running for your life.”

“I’ll tell you about it later,” she said. “When we’re having that drink. And maybe after that …” managing a smile at the fat Fascist black-marketeer beside her. “Could we go a little quicker?”

“Nothing easier.” He stamped on the accelerator. “There’s no traffic on the roads. Not many of us are lucky enough to have cars these days. I have lots of beautiful things I could show you.”

As they neared the Piazza Navona Maria told him to stop.

“But I thought —”

“This will do,” she snapped.

As she climbed out she turned on him. “I know your face now, you fat pig. You’d better watch out.”

She lifted her skirts and ran through the narrow streets arriving at S. Maria dell’ Anima just as a black Mercedes was pulling up outside.

She saw Angelo Peruzzi in his clerical clothes as he was reaching into the leather briefcase. She threw herself at him, grabbing his hand inside the briefcase.

He swore and tried to push her away. She pressed her body against him, trapping the briefcase between them.

He pushed again with his free hand but she clung to him. He thrust his hand under her chin: “Get away from me or I’ll break your neck.”

She could feel his strength overcoming her; all she needed was a few moments more.

“Get away …”

Her head was bending backwards. Another fraction of an inch and the bones of her neck would snap. She gave way and fell to the ground, just as the door closed behind the bulky figure in the ill-fitting grey suit.

Angelo’s lips were trembling. With shaking hands he slipped home the tongue of the strap over the spring-clip on the case.

“You bitch,” he said.