“And do you know this man personally?”
“I only know of him. He was a friend of my nephew some time ago. I heard a rumor that he is a Jew, too,” said Enzo. “A Jew and a member of the resistance . . . They don’t get more dangerous.”
Erich was appreciative of the information, but he did not show it, and he didn’t care to humor the comment. Though they provided vital information at times, political and social climbers like Enzo, who enjoyed lighting fires as a way to be seen, could be just as detestable as the men and women he sent to the camps.
“And this nephew?”
“My wife’s sister’s son. He and his sister and mother moved from here to live in the South.”
“When did they go?” asked Erich, directing this to Serafina.
“Several weeks ago, we believe,” she said. “But I have not seen my sister, Julietta, for months.” She pursed her lips, as if she were not only displeased but also guilty to mention her, perhaps even ashamed.
“They supported the Allies?”
Serafina nodded, but she did so to her lap only.
“And where is this niece?”
“She is unwell,” said Serafina too quickly.
“I will get her,” said Enzo, overriding her, and Serafina tensed. She did not want her niece interrogated.
Teresa walked timidly behind her uncle, supported by crutches, from a room at the rear. Her eyes were red rimmed as if she had been crying.
Erich stood politely to shake her hand, and she sat, rubbing down the front of her skirt, modestly. She avoided eye contact with him until he spoke.
“Conti Fiore . . . You heard him speak about an ambush?”
“Yes,” she said. “I mentioned it, but I am not completely sure I heard correctly.”
“Had you met him before you worked there?”
“No,” she said, but he sensed that she was lying.
“How did you come to work in his café?”
“My brother helped get me the job six weeks ago when the owner of the restaurant I was working for previously was conscripted into the army, along with his sons.”
“Do you like working for him?”
“Il signor Fiore is very generous to his staff,” she said, her eyes level, the statement unrehearsed and genuine.
“Did he ever talk to any other persons that you thought were suspicious?”
She paused, swallowed hard, then looked at her shoes and shook her head. “No.”
She was holding back, a reluctant participant torn between loyalties. But he could live with that. She had given him what he needed, in the silences also.
“I hear that the rest of your family are now in the South.”
Her breathing quickened at the mention of them.
“Yes.”
“And why didn’t you go, too?”
“I am loyal to Mussolini . . .” She regretted this, because she had just admitted the rest of her family wasn’t.
“It is all right, Fr?ulein Della Bosca,” said Erich. “I’m not worried about your family. They will have to live with the consequences when the South is once again in safe hands. But in the meantime, this Conti is some kind of ringleader, yes?”
“I’m not sure. I just mentioned what I witnessed to Zia Serafina in passing. That’s all.” Her aunt did not look at her, ashamed perhaps that she had put her niece in this position. It was obvious to Erich that Teresa had not been aware they would go to the police.
“You did right to do that.”
He did not feel it necessary to talk further. The fact that she had some trouble discussing it with him, indicating she was in some way disloyal to her own family by mentioning it, told him that the information was correct. He cared only about the address, about capturing the resistance members.
Present-day 1945
Marceline is surprised to see Erich at the house. She was not expecting him back for hours.
“You need to take Genevieve and go to this address,” he says. He hands her a piece of paper.
“But your mother?”
“I will take care of her. Find her another safe place.”
Marceline looks briefly at his mother. There is something knowing in the look, something she wants to say, though she would never dare.
“Pack now. Leave immediately.”
His tone is terse, but Marceline is used to such orders. She worked for others much harsher. Marceline disappears into the back room.
He bends down to Genevieve.
“You must stay with Marceline. You must be good.”
“Mutti!”
“She had to go away for now, but I will see you soon.” The little girl’s hands are so small against Erich’s. He has a desire to pick her up and hold her close, but it would show a certain need that he cannot allow. He stands up before she has the urge to lean into him, to reach her arms around his neck. He takes her hand to follow Marceline to the bedroom.
“Do not take much,” he instructs her.
Marceline nods, but she already knows this. She has had to run before, and she is used to packing sparingly.
Erich carries the packed suitcase and places it near the front door.
“Thank you, Marceline, for everything.” She nods. She has always been loyal to the party. “I will follow shortly, but there are things I have to do.”
Marceline doesn’t look to the window where Erich’s mother sits, and Genevieve has forgotten she is there. Not that Genevieve has ever had anything to do with her grandmother. His child will never benefit from her encouragement and teachings like Erich did.
Erich opens the door and watches Marceline walk purposefully up the street with Genevieve on her hip.
He stays until they are out of sight, looks once down the street the other way, then closes the door. He moves to the front bay window where his mother sits facing the window. On the pavement outside, some rubbish has been strewn and blows in the wind, without purpose, like the people that pass it. There is nothing for him here.
Erich sits in the chair opposite his mother to look outside, to try to see what she sees. Every day she watches, eyes following passersby. He took this at first to be a sign that her mind was still receptive, but over the weeks he has come to the conclusion that the watching is involuntary. She has become an imbecile, a type of creature she once despised. There is something there, a faint form of recognition, a tiny light every so often, but just a sliver, as if she were teasing him. The same day she committed the murders, she committed herself to a life worse than death, muses Erich.
He traces the hairline above her ear. When he looks down from the window, one man has paused to look back. It unnerves him. He stares back, and the man moves on. He doesn’t know many people here, nor does he want to. He trusts no one. His last conversation with Elias has confirmed that he must complete his business here.
“Do you remember when I was small, you told me something?”
Nene doesn’t look at him.
“You said that I must always look after the family if anything happens to you. That I must fill the role of my father. What would you like me to do now, Mother? I feel that if you could talk, you would tell me. That you would know immediately what must be done.”
She turns, not looking at him, but at something behind him, responding to the tone in his voice. He can see the scarring at the hairline. He touches it briefly, thinks about the moment she took the lives of his siblings and attempted to kill herself. Tears spring to his eyes, and he blinks them away. He can’t remember the last time he cried. He takes her hand, bends down to kiss it. And his head stays bowed, not in prayer, but to reflect on all the good that she has done.
“You also said to be merciful to animals, to never let them suffer. You taught me that as well. Do you want me to be merciful, Mother?”