A Thread of Grace by Mary Doria Russell
Palming the note concealed in her habit, Marta removes the handkerchief from her sleeve and steps forward as if to dust the base of the Madonna’s statue. She gives the plaster feet a bit of a rub to remove some smudge and slips the piece of paper under a vase of flowers. Turning, she sees the gentleman with the mustache note her attention to the altar’s cleanliness. Suora Marta nods slightly, acknowledging his approval.
Tasks accomplished, she returns to the pew and slides in next to Suora Ilaria, who is snoring peacefully. There, until the basilica bell tolls the hour, Suora Marta prays for the soul of her friend and co-conspirator Rina Dolcino, who may not have been in a state of unblemished grace when she was pulled out of a market crowd last month and shot by Artur Huppenkothen’s Gestapo.
PALAZZO USODIMARE
PORTO SANT’ANDREA
“Reprisals are an effective tactic for encouraging good citizenship,” Erhardt von Thadden admits, knifing into a huge slab of Florentine beefsteak on his plate, “but they can be overused, Artur.”
While the Gruppenführer chews, his toady Helmut Reinecke takes up the theme. “In the Soviet Union, many Russians and Ukrainians were eager to join the Waffen-SS in opposing communism. The same will be true here, Herr Huppenkothen, but reprisals against civilians easily undermine willingness to work with us.”
“The Geneva Convention is clear,” Artur insists. “When civilians take up arms under the banner of a government that has capitulated, they lose their protected status.”
Von Thadden tips the last of the wine down his throat. Crystal flashes as he raises his glass toward the maid. “Artur, you haven’t touched your meal!”
“I neither eat meat nor drink alcohol.”
Reinecke’s mouth twitches, but von Thadden looks stricken. “Like our Führer! Of course! How could I have forgotten? Shall I have the chef prepare something else for you?”
“I didn’t come here to eat, Gruppenführer. I came to discuss a coordinated campaign against terrorists and their supporters. When Italian deserters bring guns home and use them to assassinate German officials, they’ve made their homes subject to attack. When an old man gives vegetables to partisans, he and his garden become military targets. The rosy-cheeked woman who sews dresses for her daughters and mends clothing for bandits puts her own children at risk.”
“Certainly, Herr Huppenkothen,” Reinecke agrees, “but the Führer also instructs us to make our rule more tolerable by dulling the senses of the local population. They must fear us, but they must also believe that they will not be harmed so long as they do as they’re told. One can make use of Alakhine’s defense as well as Steinetz’s offense.”
“The lure, not the cudgel,” von Thadden explains. “Do you play chess, Artur?”
“Games are for children.”
“Chess teaches strategy and tactics for any conflict.” Von Thadden turns his benign gaze on Reinecke. “So: Alakhine’s defense, Helmut . . . What do you propose?”
“Put German construction crews to work rebuilding damaged churches, sir, as von Treschow did in the Soviet Union. He encouraged Russian Christians to come out of hiding and worship in public again. This tactic gained such goodwill among the clergy that many priests joined anti-Communist fighting units. They make excellent spies—”
“And excellent collaborators!” Artur points out. “They’re conspiring to hide Jews all over this country.”
“Then we must open their eyes,” Reinecke insists. “Jews put their parishioners at risk. Jews are bandits and thieves. Jews are to blame when reprisals fall on Italian Aryans.”
“Italian Aryans.” Artur snorts. “Have you ever looked at Italy’s coastline? These people have been seafarers for millennia. What do you think sailors do when they get into port?”
“Good point, Artur,” von Thadden concedes. “The appeal to race rarely stirs Italians, Helmut. They define blood by direct kinship only.”
“Then remind them that their own gallant sons died fighting Jewish Bolshevism in the Soviet Union. Remind them that if the Communists take over here, they will seize private property, just as they did in Russia.”
“While promising the peasants that we’ll break up large holdings and redistribute the land after the Bolsheviks are defeated,” von Thadden says comfortably. “The Italian is not logical. He won’t even notice the contradiction!”
The room is decorated with exquisite frescoes, beautiful furniture, heavy silver serving pieces. Everything surrounding von Thadden speaks of loot and unearned status. Artur rises to inspect a chess set on a side table. “Sixteenth century,” von Thadden tells him. “Rose quartz, onyx, and white marble. The pieces are sterling, of course. I have a board in every room. I like to keep games going with various opponents.”
Artur’s hand hovers over the board, as though he is considering a move. Putting a finger under one corner, he tips it over, sending stone and silver crashing to the floor. Reinecke is on his feet, but von Thadden raises his hand and shakes his head.
“You, sir, are a venal, self-satisfied thief,” Artur Huppenkothen says with quiet conviction. “You are unworthy of the Reich, and unworthy of our Führer. I will do whatever is necessary to restore order in this city, with or without your cooperation, Gruppenführer.”
The bedroom door is open. Martina von Thadden turns from her dressing table, all pearl-colored satin and pale pink skin. “A new negligee!” Erhardt notes on his way in.
“Do you like it?” she asks, twirling. “It was very expensive, but Ugo told the shop owner, ‘This lady is the Gruppenführer’s wife, you fool!’ You should have seen that man’s face, Lieber. He said he’d send it right over as his gift to the Gruppenführer’s lovely lady. And look at these shoes, and this handbag! Have you ever seen such fine leather?”
Erhardt pretends to admire the latest acquisitions, letting her happy musical voice bubble around him while he undresses. Childless, surrounded by servants, Martina has nothing to do but shop for clothes and prepare for the moment when her man returns.
He holds out his arms. “Come to me, little chatterbox,” he says, and she does, giggling like a girl. His hands float down a satin river, then grip the heavy hips. Martina has put on weight since coming to Italy, and Erhardt is glad of it. He likes the heft of her, the depth of the shapes, the luxurious distance of bone from his touch. She seemed made for babies when they married, but their first died shortly after birth, and she has miscarried ever since. A blood incompatibility the doctors said.
She breaks away and moves backward, pulling him by the hand toward their bed. “You’ll never guess who I saw today!” she says the moment he’s through.
He tries not to sigh. This is her only flaw. She likes to talk, after. “Who?” he asks, eyes closed.
“Erna Huppenkothen! She’s still not married. With a name like that, I’d have run off with the first man named Müller I could find. She told me she has a gentleman friend—guess who!”
“I can’t imagine.”
“Ugo Messner! She says he’s ever so nice to her. She made sure I knew that he’s never touched her even once, except to kiss her hand. She thinks that means he’s respectful, not repulsed. Dry and skinny as a stick, Erna is.”
“Messner’s just polite because of her brother. The rest is her imagination.”
Martina goes still. “Lieber, you don’t think Ugo is . . . ?”
“Paragraph 175?” Erhardt says, using the customary legalism. “No, my sweet, but have you noticed that his gait is somewhat impaired? There’s a rumor of a terrible war wound.” He clears his throat, and adds, “Not unlike Göring’s.”
Her lips form an astonished O. “How awful!” she cries. “I knew there was something about him. I feel so safe with him.”
Erhardt knows what she means. There is something about Messner: a sort of brave melancholy that makes his attention to bored and lonely women seem more a service to their men than a reason for jealousy. “I suppose it’s possible he really is courting her. Of course, Gestapo connection
“Erna told me that she embroiders AH on all of Artur’s personal linen. Poor little man! He tries so hard to be like the Führer—and he fails so gloriously!”
When her husband chuckles, Martina rises on an elbow to kiss him, and makes her eyes warm as she straddles him. “I love to make you laugh,” she murmurs. She leans over, letting her heavy breasts brush the hair of his chest and belly lightly, lightly. He stretches like a cat, almost purring as her lips go to work.
For the good of the race, the doctors told the couple, the Gruppenführer should take another woman, but Martina is damned if she’ll give all this up to some cow who’ll drop one calf a year.
Morale is on the rise, she thinks when he finally stiffens, and hides her relief in renewed determination while his eyes wander the ceiling. There, painted satyrs chase nymphs, who smile over milky shoulders. Diaphanous scarves fall gracefully from legs parted half in flight, half in invitation. Arbors encircle a garden full of pink roses, and plump grapes hang from twisted vines. Foliage does not quite conceal a variety of couplings. Standing, bending, above, behind . . .
Erhardt raises a languid hand and points. “Let’s do that one now.”
Like many maritime estates, the Palazzo Usodimare is absurdly large. Four great wings surround a central piazza larger than San Giobatta’s. There are stables, storerooms, kitchens, baths, residential quarters, two ballrooms, a dining room for fifty guests, and a seaward gallery of offices, where the prince’s staff once scanned the harbor for incoming ships. The whole is ringed by massive stonework. Four hundred years on, and the Usodimare family is nearly extinct, their palace appropriated by the latest of Italy’s invaders, but the purpose of the palace walls hasn’t changed: to demonstrate raw power while shielding the splendors within from the eyes of the vulgar.
Dry-mouthed, Osvaldo Tomitz hands his papers to a sentry. “I have an appointment with the Gruppenführer.”
The guard studies the priest’s photo minutely and logs a notation while a second sentry frisks him, grinning when he gets to Osvaldo’s crotch.
“You’re expected,” the first man says, handing the identity papers back. “Follow that walkway.”
The garden behind the wall is stunning in its prewar beauty. Almond and lemon trees in enormous terra-cotta pots line paths perfumed by roses and mimosa, clematis and jasmine. Roman and Egyptian statues preside over a view of the water far below, softened by a living frame of cypresses, holm oaks, umbrella pines and palms. Luxuriant foliage breaks the noise of the city into small, distant fragments. All other sound is quiet and close. The rasp of brooms grooming paths. The scraping of rakes. The clank of a wrench as a plumber works on the dry fountain’s pump. The casual chat of SS troopers with submachine guns, overseeing the work.
In a far corner of the garden, filthy and tattered, Iacopo Soncini stacks half-burnt scrap wood and bits of broken furniture around a pile of uprooted plants. Appalled, Osvaldo stops abruptly.
“Wunderbar, ja?” a cultured voice behind him remarks. “In such a garden, one may forget the ugliness of war.”
Osvaldo turns. An officer smiles in greeting, fair skin crinkling around clear blue eyes. “Erhardt von Thadden, at your service,” he says. “Thank you so much for coming! I appreciate your making time for me, Hochwürden.” The traditional form of address for a German priest is “Highly Honored,” but in von Thadden’s mouth the title is mockery, and his smile broadens when Tomitz bristles. “My apologies. I was merely extending a courtesy,” he says smoothly. “What does it say in the Gospels? ‘Call no man Father.’ Sant’Andrea is most assuredly not Rome, but I shall do as the Romans do, if you prefer, Padre.”
“Tomitz will do.”
“Excellent! And you may call me von Thadden, of course. My office is in this wing,” he says, leading the way. “I ordinarily prefer to meet with people in their native habitat, so to speak, but lately it has seemed the better part of valor to invite visitors here. I don’t mind dying for the Vaterland, but there’s no glory in being assassinated by a bandit on a bicycle.”
Von Thadden leads the way past glass cases displaying detailed models of ships, vellum charts of the Mediterranean, brass navigational equipment. Somewhere, typewriters clatter like small-arms fire. Von Thadden stands aside, allowing Osvaldo to precede him into the office. Its walls are dominated by frescoes immortalizing the naval battle of Lepanto, and by a map of the Gruppenführer’s fiefdom.
Von Thadden invites Osvaldo to sit in a chair upholstered in coral damask, but he himself lingers by a small gilt table that supports a simple wooden chess set. “My grandfather carved the pieces,” he says. “He taught me to play when I was eight— Ah! There’s a mate in two.” Chuckling with satisfaction, von Thadden plays the white rook from C1 to C8. “Leisure is so important. You leave the game, and come back to it refreshed. May I offer you something to drink? Coffee perhaps? Tea? It’s a bit early, but I do have some very good French Cognac.”
Osvaldo remains standing. “Nothing, thank you, Gruppenführer.”
“Are you sure?” Von Thadden takes a seat behind a neoclassical table. “Please, Tomitz! Relax!” he urges pleasantly, and waits until Osvaldo perches on a chair. Well-tended hands come to rest upon a thick, unopened file. In red letters, the word Geheim is stamped: Secret. “This isn’t an interrogation,” von Thadden assures him. “I simply like to get to know important people in my district.”
“Then you should make an appointment to visit the archbishop, Gruppenführer. I am merely his secretary.”
Von Thadden chuckles. “Admirable modesty, Tomitz, but I am an academic by training, and any professor will admit that his office and all his affairs are run by his secretary!” Von Thadden opens the file, lifts the top sheet, scans it briefly. The blue eyes rise, and von Thadden smiles happily. “You see? I am correct! His Excellency does indeed speak very highly of you.” He sets the précis of that interview aside, then picks up another report, and another. And another. “Tell me about yourself, Tomitz. Where did you grow up?”
“Trieste.”
“Yes, of course! When it was still part of the Habsburg empire, explaining your flawless German!” von Thadden says brightly. “Interesting city, Trieste. Mittel-europa at its mongrel worst! Austrians, Italians, Slovenes, Greeks! And Jews, of course,” von Thadden says genially. “Your parents were . . . ?”
“My father was in shipping. My mother is a widow.”
“I meant, what is your parents’ race?”
“Italian.”
The expectant smile fades. “Father of Austrian ancestry. Mother, Venetian. A German head, an Italian heart, ja? Mann’s Tonio Kröger, come to life.” Von Thadden smiles encouragingly this time. “Brothers? Sisters?”
“Two of each.”
“My family was the same. Three boys, two girls.” Von Thadden consults the file. “I am the fourth of five, but you were the middle child, I see. Sisters older, brothers younger. One in the army. Karl?”
“Carlino. Yes.”
“Ach! It says here that Karl has been missing for some time. How terrible for your poor mother!” Von Thadden looks up, eyes rich with sympathy. “Would you like me to see if I can ascertain his whereabouts?”
Osvaldo hesitates. “I’m sure my mother would appreciate that.”
“Naturally! She worries about her Karl! It would be my privilege to alleviate such suffering. Unfortunately, my wife and I have no children, but my Martina would be frantic in your mother’s place. Karl’s unit was . . . ?”
“Ninth Army, Third Corps, Venezia Division. He was stationed in Greece.” Osvaldo glances at the file. “Surely you know that already.”
Von Thadden looks hurt. “Your dear mother’s anxiety would only be prolonged were I to waste time making inquiries on the wrong front.” He returns to the file. “You went to the Tortona seminary.”
“Yes.”
“And taught there later . . . Tell me about your education. I’m not a Catholic. I’ve always been curious about th
“Latin liturgy, theology, philosophy. Are you a Lutheran, Gruppenführer?”
“I’m afraid I am a bit too knowledgable to cling to my natal religion, Hochwürden. My academic field was Near Eastern philology. I know a creation myth when I hear one, even if it’s the myth I grew up with. What do you think of Genesis?” von Thadden asks curiously. “Do you honestly believe your god made mud-pie people, and then became so angry with them for eating a piece of fruit—”
Osvaldo rises. “If you’d like to discuss the Church’s position on natural selection, there’s a Jesuit at the Gregorian who—”
“Sit down.”
Slowly Osvaldo drops back onto the chair.
“Genesis is merely a Jew variation on the Babylonian creation story Enuma elish,” Von Thadden says, scholarly once more. “ ‘Blood I will mass, and cause bones to be! I will establish a savage: man shall be his name.’ Thus spoke Marduk—the first divine sculptor of people. Flood stories were commonplace in Babylon, Sumeria, the Hittite kingdoms. Genesis is simply a degenerate version of earlier myths.” Utterly at ease, he leans back in his chair, crossing one knee over the other. “Christianity, of course, has no validity at all severed from its Jew roots—a persistent logical problem. Having declared Jesus divine, you must mistranslate and misrepresent Hebrew prophecy. The Jew messiah is to be an earthly leader who’ll bring political peace to Jerusalem and, by extension, to the world. The past nineteen hundred years have been very bloody.” Von Thadden smiles cheerfully. “No peace, no messiah.”
“Jesus will come again—”
“Ah, but as a Jew peddler might say: Cash, not credit, mein Herr! Jesus had his chance.” Von Thadden rises to pour coffee from a silver service on a side table. Adding a generous measure of sugar, he stirs thoughtfully with a sterling spoon. “Christians backed the wrong horse, messianically speaking. So you changed the rules to make Jesus the winner of the race. And if a Jew messiah ever does materialize, you’ve taken the precaution of declaring him the Antichrist, and enemy of Christendom! Goebbels could hardly have done better!” He lifts the exquisite porcelain cup toward his nose, breathing in with evident pleasure. “You’re sure you wouldn’t like a coffee?”