A Thread of Grace by Mary Doria Russell
Small valise in her right hand, Suora Marta has only her left to deploy, and debates which of her charges to hold on to: the little boy or an old nun in her second childhood. Either might wander off.
Suora Ilaria’s veiled head tosses and swivels; she reminds Suora Marta of a horse trying to see around blinkers. “This didn’t use to be here,” Ilaria says, glaring at the railway station. “I’m sure this didn’t use to be here!”
Marta grips Suora Ilaria’s elbow. “Stay close,” she tells the boy. “We have to show our papers.”
They shuffle forward. A carabiniere gives the nuns’ documents a cursory inspection and smiles at the child, who is not required to carry any. “This didn’t use to be here!” Suora Ilaria informs the policeman. “Are you sure this is Roccabarbena? I’m sure this wasn’t here!”
“Suora Ilaria grew up here,” Marta explains, “but this is her first visit in a long time.”
“The station wasn’t built until 1927, Suora.” The carabiniere hands the documents back to Suora Marta. “Poveretta,” he mouths, with a sympathetic glance at the old nun.
The view beyond the station is pretty: low mountains in pale sunlight, a cool mist rising over the two rivers that converge just south of the city. Leading the way, Marta keeps her charges moving through telescoping arcades that increased in height and grandiosity as Roccabarbena grew from minor Roman town to busy Fascist railhead.
Already the workday has begun. Merchants roll up iron saracinesce to reveal storefronts. Housewives sweep stoops or shake out string bags and greet neighbors on the way to the market. People look startlingly clean and healthy, without the grimy gray pallor of those who live with air raids on ever-diminishing rations. Roccabarbena has escaped Allied bombing. Food is close at hand.
“You’re a lucky boy,” Marta tells the rabbi’s son. “This is a good place to live.”
His silence borders on rudeness. She lets it go for now, distracted by Suora Ilaria’s increasing agitation at the changes in her hometown. All evidence of the past forty years annoys and frightens the old girl. And I’m beginning to feel the same way about this century, Suora Marta thinks.
They cross the Piazza Centrale and board a crosstown trolley that deposits them at the base of a hill. “Watch!” Suora Marta tells the child. The trolley rotates on its huge wooden turntable so it can return to the piazza. “That’s Mother of Mercy up there,” she tells him then. “See the walls?”
There’s no reply from the boy, but Suora Ilaria’s mood improves with every step. “This is how it used to be,” she declares happily, bending beyond her ordinary stoop into the long uphill hike. “We always walked!”
There’s no fuss when they arrive. The portress takes Ilaria to a room. Suora Marta shows the boy to a visitor’s W.C., drops her own valise, and heads for the sisters’. When she returns, the child is waiting by the front door. “Are you hungry?” He shakes his head. “Come with me,” she says.
He follows her down a long, cool hallway to a door giving onto a stone pathway bisecting the convent’s high-fenced garden. They pass through a gate into the schoolyard. The weather is clement, the windows open. Singsong classroom chants drift out on the breeze: multiplication tables, irregular verbs, prayers being learned for First Communion.
“That will be your room,” Suora Marta says, pointing. “Your teacher’s name is Suora Corniglia.” She expects a question: is she nice? The rabbi’s son keeps his own counsel. “She’s young, and new to teaching,” Suora Marta tells him anyway, “but she has a good heart. You’ll like her.”
They enter through a side door, but instead of bringing Angelo directly to Suora Corniglia’s classroom, Suora Marta escorts him to an empty office. Pulling the door closed, she takes a seat at a desk, studies the silent child standing in front of her. “Figlio mio,” she asks quietly, “do you know why you are here with us?”
He does not nod so much as hang his head more dejectedly.
“When you answer me, you must say Sì, Suora or No, Suora.” It is a correction, but not a severe one. She is merely teaching him the rules. “Let’s try again. Do you know why your father brought you to us?”
“Sì, Suora,” the boy whispers.
“That’s better, but you must look at me when you answer. From now on, when someone asks your name, you must say—” It will be easier for him to remember if the false name is similar to his own. “You must say Angelo Santoro.”
The boy scowls at his feet. “I don’t want to lie.”
Suora Marta blinks. Yesterday the terrible rumors were confirmed. Eleven hundred Roman ebrei were deported on Yom Kippur, the Jews’ holiest day. The Vatican immediately ordered that all Catholic institutions be opened to refugees, but this must remain a secret, or the Church’s status of diplomatic neutrality will be nullified. “Don’t think of it as lying,” she suggests, cagey as a Jesuit. “Think of it as pretending. Again: what is your name?”
He looks up briefly. “My name is Angelo Santoro,” he says, and adds, “Suora.”
She smiles. “You’re a quick learner, Angelo Santoro. Come here to me, child.” He moves around the corner of her desk, feet scuffling reluctantly. “Angelo,” she whispers, lifting his little chin with one finger, “this is very important. You must never, ever tell anyone why you are here. You must pretend to be a Catholic, and do everything the other children do.”
“Sì, Suora.”
“I’m going to bring you to your new teacher now. Suora Corniglia also knows why you are here. She’ll help you learn our ways, and tonight she’ll show you where you’ll sleep.”
The child’s hangdog silhouette is outlined vaguely by misty light from the window. For an instant, Suora Marta sees the dead partisan’s head canted at a horrible angle.
“Angelo, if anyone finds out why you are with us, we could all be punished. So you must be brave, like a soldier! Promise me,” she whispers. “Promise on your word of honor that you won’t tell anyone why you’re here.”
“Never,” he swears, eyes stinging with tears he refuses to let fall. “Never, Suora!”
Sunlight breaks through fog and low clouds, its sudden dazzle mocking Angelo Soncini’s dark and wounded pride. He sucks his lips between his teeth and bites hard.
Never will he tell a living soul that his father sent him away because he was too noisy, and made his baby sister cry.
DIVISIONAL HEADQUARTERS
12TH WAFFEN-SS WALTHER REINHARDT
PALAZZO USODIMARE, PORTO SANT’ANDREA
These are the times when one is simply happy to be alive. All is right with the world. Suffused with a sense of unassailable well-being, you know you are where you should be, doing what you were meant to do.
This is war’s importance and its essential function, Erhardt von Thadden thinks. War provides an arena in which the best demonstrate their strength by cleansing the world of its worst. A perfect system, really . . . I should write a paper.
The Schoolmaster. That’s what von Thadden’s officers call him. Tall, spare, and born to instruct, he would still be a university professor but for a fortuitous guest lecture to some military cadets. When he walked into their classroom on the last day of June in 1934, he was merely an honorary major in the Security Department’s Cultural Activities section. He joined the organization primarily to further his study of Aryan philology, but national service came naturally to a von Thadden. And the smart black uniform with its silver runes was handsome.
He’d just begun his lecture when the first of the SA queers were brought to the Gross-Lichtenfeld wall. The cadets rushed to the windows when they heard the first volleys. Appalled by the distressingly unprofessional executions, the boys turned to von Thadden in confusion. Without hesitation, he left the classroom and took charge of the proceedings at the wall. By the end of the day, the Party’s Blood Purge had entered German history, and Erhardt von Thadden had earned his commission.
Nine and a half years later, he has risen to the rank of lieutenant-general in the Waffen-SS. Comma
Shaved and dressed by 0600 hours he returns briefly to the bedroom to kiss his sleeping wife’s forehead. He leaves the palazzo’s private rooms, crosses an inner piazza, and strolls down a polished marble hallway to his office. Oberscharführer Kunkel stands at the door ready to hand the Gruppenführer an espresso. Before accepting it, Erhardt holds his arms away from his body and pirouettes for his staff sergeant’s inspection.
“Your collar, Gruppenführer,” Kunkel murmurs indulgently. The Schoolmaster’s inattention to dress is famous.
Von Thadden checks his reflection in a gilt-framed mirror. “Ach!” he cries, smoothing the offending fabric. “This morning,” he promises Kunkel, “I shall make a special effort to keep the coffee off my uniform.”
For the next half hour, von Thadden reviews the night’s events, scanning dispatches and reports laid out on a superb neoclassical table. When the Gruppenführer sets those papers aside, Kunkel materializes with another stack: notes prepared for the morning’s briefing. At 0700 sharp, von Thadden heads for the library, pausing just outside a grand ballroom filled with rows of gunmetal gray desks. Typewriter keys smack sharply against paper, voices murmur, telephones ring. When the C.O. appears, men stand and salute. Von Thadden raises his own hand more casually as he passes. Behind him, chair legs squeal, and his staff goes back to work.
“Heil Hitler,” he murmurs, entering a small room walled with four hundred years of finely bound books. Officers come to their feet, salute. A man in civilian clothing raises his right arm straight, forty-five degrees off horizontal. The soldiers’ attention is on their commander, but the civilian’s eyes rest with conspicuous devotion on the photo of the Führer that has replaced a portrait of the Sant’Andrese pirate who built this palace.
“How nice to see you again, Artur,” von Thadden says, forcing the civilian to acknowledge him. “Gentlemen, we have a guest this morning: an old acquaintance of mine from our days in München. Herr Artur Huppenkothen—formerly of the Vienna Office for Jewish Emigration, currently Oberst der Polizei in Sant’Andrea. He will be addressing us later in a discussion of joint operations.”
Kunkel pulls down a large map mounted on the wall. Von Thadden reaches for a wooden pointer and strikes a pose behind the lectern. “I know what you’re thinking,” the Schoolmaster says, looking over his shoulder slyly. He does not join the burst of surprised laughter, but his eyes sparkle.
With the pointer, he quickly outlines a triangle of territory angling north-northwest. “Gentlemen, our area of responsibility runs from the Port of Sant’Andrea here, inland to central Piemonte.” (Tap, scrape.) “The arc of land along the Gulf of Genoa is Liguria, which takes its name from a pre-Roman tribe. Piemonte means ‘foot of the mountain,’ the mountains in question being the Maritime Alps. Eastern Piemonte is a large, fertile plain. Highly developed agriculture. Rice, corn, wheat. Western Piemonte is composed of long river valleys bordered by high saddles of low but steep wooded mountains, all of which are ribbed by numberless ravines.”
Von Thadden clears his throat and looks around. “Kunkel? Where is the water?” he asks mildly.
“Sorry, Gruppenführer. Right away, sir.”
“Valleys,” von Thadden continues, “often take their names from their rivers. Valle Stura. Valle Gesso, Valle San Leandro.” (Tap. Tap. Tap.) “The pattern is broken in our area of authority. The Romans called this Vallis Octavii—Eighth Valley. Italian is, of course, merely Vandalized Latin . . .”
He pauses to take note of who chuckles first: Helmut Reinecke. No surprise there. Always in the front row, like a diligent young graduate student, but an excellent combat record. Artur Huppenkothen, on Reinecke’s right, makes a show of boredom.
“Like everything else in this once great empire,” von Thadden resumes, “ ‘Vallis Octavii’ has been corrupted—the present inhabitants call it Valdottavo. The valley forms a great funnel pointing south-southeast, with the San Mauro River running down the center. Saint Mauro is the patron of the region. Some sort of bishop in the reign of Pope Sixtus the Fifth.” He pauses for effect. “Or was it Fiftus the Sixth? Difficult to keep all these popes straight . . .”
From the staff: smiles all round. Huppenkothen looks out the window.
“Despite the terrain, Vallis Octavii was famous for peasant farmers whose capacity for hardship and toil earned the poet Virgil’s praise. The land is all but untillable, its soil imported by sailors in sacks, so the story goes, and hauled up the mountains on muleback. The peasants are tough, secretive, hostile to outsiders and—”
“Communists,” Huppenkothen says in a loud, flat voice. “The place is rotten with them.”
Von Thadden goes on as if Artur had not spoken. “Transport is fairly primitive. The San Mauro River is broad, shallow, rocky, and unnavigable. Torrential in spring and autumn, frozen in winter. In summer, the river may dry up altogether. Mule paths connect high hamlets with villages. Gravel tracks connect some of the larger towns. Paved roads and a railway parallel the riverbed.”
Kunkel delivers mineral water in a Murano goblet on a silver tray. Von Thadden takes a sip and continues: “Note that at the narrow ends of these two valleys, the San Leandro and San Mauro rivers converge.” (Scrape. Scrape.) “Together they have carved out a wedge of land. The city of Roccabarbena”—tap—“sits on that wedge, at the funnel’s narrow end. The Roccabarbena railway switching station collects freight and passengers from both Valle San Leandro and Valdottavo. Four bridges cross the rivers at Roccabarbena.” (Tap. Tap.) “Two are Roman, built for foot and wheeled traffic. The others are railway trestles, built in the 1920s by Herr Mussolini.”
He lays the pointer down. “By December, German engineers will finish blasting a tunnel from Valdottavo into the plains northeast of the region. This connection will allow food, goods, and laborers to be delivered to the Vaterland. Armaments will flow southward to the Gustav Line, below Rome. Your thoughts?”
The discussion of tactics for controlling supply lines is routine, methods for securing them standard. Roccabarbena’s bridges and Valdottavo’s railway line are of clear strategic importance. “And the Communists in the region, Gruppenführer?” Helmut Reinecke asks, with attention to detail. “Indigenous or imported?”
“Both,” Huppenkothen says.
“Yes—and perhaps now is the time to turn things over to our Gestapo colleague,” von Thadden says mildly, backing away.
The men shift in their chairs. Artur Huppenkothen takes the podium, realizes it is too high for him, and sidesteps it. Behind him, the Gruppenführer leans against a wall lined with books, arms crossed just below his medals. Von Thadden catches Reinecke’s eye, and glances toward Huppenkothen’s heels, which are undoubtedly raised by lifts. Reinecke’s lips twitch. Suspicious, Huppenkothen glances over his shoulder. Von Thadden smiles encouragingly, like a teacher urging a shy student to get on with his book report.
Artur is a remarkably colorless man: pale skin, pale eyes, a pale scalp showing through thinning blond hair. His cuff links are fashioned of unadorned gold, the better to draw attention to the red monogram AH embroidered on his shirt cuffs. These are Artur’s own initials but, one is invited to note, also the Führer’s. Artur always dresses with strict attention to grooming, his shoes polished to a high gloss, his trousers pressed to a fine edge. He thinks all this will win respect, but others see it as a confirmation of a widespread speculation. If he hadn’t informed on his own lovers to Himmler, Artur Huppenkothen would have been executed in 1934 like the rest of Röhm’s SA fairies.
“Our department has completed an assessment of the Jewish problem in northern Italy,” he begins, pulling a sheaf of crackly onionskin from a leather document case. “The infestation is pervasive,” he says, rattling the report to prove it. “As soon as our Führer began to drive them from the Vaterland, Jews ran like rats for Italy. But the Jew also has deep roots here—”
Huppenkothen clears his throat as the uncomfortable chuckles fade. “Your commander is, of course, correct. The oldest Jew community in Europe is that of Rome. Soon, however, we shall say that it was in Rome. Deportations have begun,” he says, regaining his momentum, “but our task is daunting. The Jew has infiltrated Italian society at all levels, and in every sphere. Not only trade unions, but also the military and the government—”
“In Italy,” von Thadden interjects helpfully, “the Jew is not closely associated with commerce. Until recently, he was prominent in the Italian armed forces.”
“Accounting, no doubt, for the poor showing Italy has made militarily,” Huppenkothen snaps. “Even the Catholic Church has been subverted here—not at the highest levels, but among so-called worker-priests who stir up discontent among factory workers and the peasantry. The Fascist Party itself was filled with Jews from the beginning, even on Mussolini’s Grand Council. Il Duce’s daughter nearly married one! Race mixture has been extensive here, even in the face of the 1938 laws. Native-born Jews have been provided endless exemptions to the laws. A Jew could be Aryanized if he had served in the armed forces, or—”
“Knew whom to bribe in the registry,” von Thadden murmurs.
Huppenkothen soldiers on. “The race laws were not enforced at all in Italian-occupied territories. The Italian foreign minister Count Luca Pietromarchi has Jewish blood. He is married to a Jewess—”
“Really?” von Thadden asks. Needling Artur is almost too easy, but someone has to keep the little queer in his place. “I thought that was only a rumor.”