Pino stood there for several awkward moments before Leyers said, “What were you saying there just before he left?”
“I asked him what Connecticut was like, and he said it was nowhere as beautiful as Italy.”
The general studied him. “Let’s go. I have an appointment with Cardinal Schuster.”
When they drove back into the city at two that afternoon, Milan felt electric and rebellious. Factory whistles were blowing. Conductors and drivers were walking away from the remaining trolley cars and buses, creating havoc for the German convoys trying to forge through the city on their way north. When Pino was stopped at a crossing, he swore he heard the crackle of rifle fire in the distance.
That caused him to glance at General Leyers in the backseat and think about the satisfaction he’d take in arresting the Nazi and telling him he’d been a spy all along. Where should I do it? And how? In the car? Or on the road somewhere?
The closer they got to the Duomo, the more Nazis they saw. Most were Waffen-SS, the killers, the rapists, the plunderers, and the slave guards. They were in the streets all around Gestapo headquarters, taking refuge behind the Panzer tanks in and around the cathedral and the chancellery, where Pino parked outside the gates because there were too many cars in the courtyard already.
Pino followed Leyers toward the stairs. A priest intercepted them. “His Eminence is seeing you in his office today, General.”
When they entered Schuster’s ornate formal offices, the cardinal of Milan sat behind his desk like a judge wearing white robes, his red miter on the shelf behind him. Pino took in the crowded room. Giovanni Barbareschi, the seminarian, stood off the cardinal’s left shoulder. Nearest to them was Eugen Dollmann, Hitler’s Italian translator. Beside Dollmann stood SS General Wolff and several men in business suits Pino did not know.
Seated at the far left side of the cardinal’s desk, balancing on a cane, was an angry old man whom Pino would not have recognized had his mistress not been sitting next to him. Benito Mussolini looked twisted inside and out, like a spring that had been overwound and sprung. His skin pale and sweaty, the puppet dictator had lost weight and was hunched forward as if against stomach pain. Claretta Petacci stroked Il Duce’s hand idly and leaned against him for comfort.
Behind Mussolini and his mistress there were two men wearing red neckerchiefs. Partisan leaders, Pino thought.
“Everyone you asked to be here is here, Your Eminence,” Barbareschi said.
Schuster eyed them all. “Nothing said here leaves this room. Are we in accord?”
One by one they all nodded, including Pino, who wondered why he was even in the room with Dollmann there to translate.
“Our goal, then, is to save Milan further suffering and limit the amount of German blood spilled as they retreat. Yes?”
Mussolini nodded. After Dollmann translated, Wolff and Leyers did, too.
“Good,” the cardinal said. “General Wolff? What can you report?”
“I’ve been to Lugano twice in the past few days,” the SS general said. “Negotiations are moving slower than expected, but moving. We’re three, maybe four days away from having a document to sign.”
Mussolini came up out of a stupor. “What document? What negotiations?”
Wolff glanced at the cardinal, then at General Leyers, who said, “Duce, the war is lost. Hitler has gone mad in his bunker. We have all been working to end the conflict with as little death and destruction as possible.”
Sitting there hunched over his cane, Mussolini went from ashen to beet red. Little bubbles of spittle showed at the corners of Il Duce’s lips, which squirmed before he thrust out his chiseled jaw and began shouting and waving his cane at Wolff and Leyers.
“You Nazi bastards,” Mussolini roared. “Once more we can say that Germany has knifed Italy in the back! I’ll go on the radio! I’ll tell the world of your treachery!”
“You’ll do no such thing, Benito,” Cardinal Schuster said.
“Benito?” Mussolini cried with indignation. “Cardinal Schuster, you will address me as ‘Excellency’!”
The cardinal took a long breath, and then bowed his head. “Excellency, it is important to reach an agreement of surrender before the masses rise up and revolt. If not, we will have anarchy, which I intend to prevent. If you are not committed to that goal, Duce, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
Mussolini looked around the room, shook his head in disgust, put his hand out to his mistress. “Like how they treat us, Clara? We’re on our own now.”
Petacci took the Fascist leader’s hand and said, “I’m ready, Duce.”
They labored to their feet and started toward the door.
“Excellency,” Cardinal Schuster called after him. “Wait.”
The prelate went to his shelves, pulled down a book, and handed it to Mussolini. “It’s a history of Saint Benedict. Repent your sins, and may you find comfort in this book in the sad days that are now on your horizon.”
Mussolini got a sour look about him, but took the book and handed it to his mistress. On the way out he said, “I should have them all shot.”
The door slammed shut behind them.
“Shall we proceed?” Cardinal Schuster said. “General Wolff? Has the German High Command agreed to my request?”
“Vietinghoff wrote me this morning. He has given orders for his men to stand down from offensive actions, to remain in barracks until they are contacted.”
“Not quite a surrender, but a start,” said Cardinal Schuster. “And there’s still a core group of SS here in the streets around the Duomo. They’re loyal to Colonel Rauff?”
“I would think so,” Wolff said.
“But Rauff answers to you,” Schuster said.
“At times.”
“Issue him an order, then. Forbid him and those monsters in uniform from perpetrating any more atrocities before they leave this country.”
“Atrocities?” Wolff said. “I don’t know what you’re—”
“Don’t insult me,” the cardinal of Milan snapped. “You will not be able to cover up the things done in Italy and to Italians. But you can prevent further massacres from happening. Are we in agreement?”
Wolff looked highly agitated but nodded. “I’ll write the orders now.”
Barbareschi said, “I’ll deliver them for you.”
Cardinal Schuster looked at the seminarian. “Are you sure?”
“I want to look the man who tortured me in the eye as he gets the news.”
Wolff scribbled the order on stationery, sealed it with Schuster’s wax, and put his ring into the wax before handing it to the seminarian. As Barbareschi was leaving, the priest who’d led them in returned and said, “Cardinal Schuster, the prisoners of San Vittore are rioting.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight