Страница 101 из 109
Boot heels ringing, Schramm enters, shouts, intimidates. The jailer is a well-fed Italian toady eager to mollify bad-tempered Nazis. Grabbing his keys, he is happy to lead the way down a twisting set of stairs cut into living rock. The air is moist, damp, cooler by the step.
“A relief from the heat outdoors, ne?” the chatty jailor remarks. “Until your joints start to ache. Of course, these bastards have more than their joints to think about! Down this way, signore. These used to be storerooms, I don’t know what for. Must have been valuable, though. Look at those doors!”
Wide, heavy planks, reinforced with iron bands. Two long rows on either side of a stone corridor. Behind one door, a man weeps and begs. Someone yells at him, voice harsh, words garbled. A third man cries, “Coraggio, camerati!”
“Courage, comrades!” the jailer mocks. “That one must be new.” He glances over his shoulder. When the German fails to share his amusement, a scowl automatically replaces the grin. “Shut up in there!” the toady shouts, banging on doors with his truncheon. Halfway down, he sorts through keys, opens the door, steps aside. “In there,” he says u
Illuminated by the borrowed light of the hallway, the room is narrow. Like a tomb. Like a sepulcher. The walls are tiled with porcelain-faced bricks, as a bathroom’s might be, but there are no facilities beyond a galvanized bucket in one corner.
Curled on the bare basalt floor, the man inside does not rouse. Eyes swollen shut, lashes buried in purpled pulpy flesh. Broken teeth visible through torn lips. Both shoulders dislocated; vast bruises speak of ripped blood vessels. The abdomen, too— hideously bruised. Testicles blackened. Blood in a drying pool of voided urine: ruptured kidneys, a torn bladder.
A thousand years of artwork have prepared Schramm for this body. Grünewald’s Isenheim Altarpiece. The damned of Bosch’s hell. The crucifix in every church. Look without flinching at atrocity, they instruct the faithful. Imagine what the saints endured, and envy them. Behold what the Savior suffered for your sake. But not everyone learns the intended lessons; some dream of hammering the nails.
Blinking, gagging, Schramm takes a handkerchief from his pocket and holds it over his nose; not even the greatest artwork can convey the smell of ammonia and shit. “This is Tomitz? You are certain?”
“Oh, yes, sir! Absolutely!”
Voice low and controlled, Schramm asks, “Who is responsible for his condition?”
The jailer shrugs. “PierCarlo I
“Christ! Look at his mouth! If he wanted to talk, how the hell would we make out what he’s saying? Get I
“I–I don’t know where— He’s off today.”
“Find him, or I’ll hold you responsible.”
The jailer hesitates. “I should lock up.”
Schramm points to what’s left of Osvaldo Tomitz. “Do you suppose that is going to escape?”
The jailer hurries off. Just as quickly, Schramm kneels at the priest’s side, bending to bring his lips close to the torn ear. “Father,” he says, “I’ve come to help.”
Spongy eyelids flutter. Bleeding fingers twitch. One must be ordained to give extreme unction or to hear confession, but one of the partisan priests has provided Schramm with what he needs, and given him instructions. He opens a medical bag and withdraws a small, round case that looks like a gold pocket watch.
“Receive my confession, Lord,” he whispers for Tomitz. “Savior of the world, O good Jesus, who gave Yourself to death on the cross to save si
He’s probably getting the prayers wrong, but he doubts that God will mind. “Pray with me, Father,” he urges. “O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins because of Thy just punishment, but most of all—”
The priest’s split and crusted lips begin to move, and together they finish the Act of Contrition. Opening the gold case, Schramm brings the consecrated Host close enough to touch the swollen lips. Throat clogged, he whispers, “Corpus Christi.” The priest’s tongue reaches forward to bring the dry and nearly weightless wafer within his battered mouth.
The ritual is complete, but not the task. “Osvaldo Tomitz,” Schramm asks, “do you believe in Jesus Christ, who died so that others might live?”
Tomitz nods once, twice. Slowly: again, again, again.
“This day, you shall be with Him in heaven. Father, pray for me!”
Exchanging the gold case for a syringe, Schramm finds the intercostal space, depresses the plunger. A moment later, the suffering ends. A thousand Jews, the people who harbor them, and God knows how many Resistance cells are safe.
Schramm should leave now. Just walk home, to his sons and to his wife. War changes men, but it changes women, too. He’s spent the better part of two years in the company of Italian women ru
But somehow, he ca
We were afraid. We were all afraid. There wasn’t enough of anything, and if there isn’t enough, you’re afraid someone will take the little you have. They’ll hurt you, steal from you, and laugh at your weakness and stupidity afterward. That’s what everyone believed. We were all locked away in our separate fears, and then… the Führer came out of his prison with a key. He would turn our selfish, despicable fear into a kind of glorious selflessness if we obeyed him, if we dedicated our lives to the Reich. If our blood was pure.
There’s no point in lying, Father. With Irmgard in my family, it was judge or be judged. If I joined the Party, if I did as I was told, there was no question of sterilization. Exceptions were made. Goebbels has a clubfoot, you know. And my children— they’re such fine boys. Strong and handsome. I miss them so much….
Schramm’s eyes fill. He tries to get a grip on his emotions, but when he sees the small cross scratched in the mortar between the stones, there’s no holding back the tears. Tears for what he meant to do, tears for what he did. Tears for his broken family, his broken life, his broken nation. Sobbing, he crawls to the little cross, and places his fingers on the symbol of salvation, of love that is more than enough, love that is the antidote to all fear. Remorse claws at his lungs, his guts, his heart.
Father, I was afraid, and weak. And wrong. And I am so terribly sorry! I’ll do penance, Schramm swears, choking on a laugh when he thinks, Not just rosaries, either, Father! For the rest of whatever life I am granted, I will try to make amends.
The old words come back, prayers he learned as a child. Misere mei Deus: Have mercy on me, O God, according to the multitude of thy tender mercies. Blot out my iniquities, and cleanse me of my sin. Lord, I am not worthy that You should come unto me, but only say the word, and my soul shall be healed—