A Thread of Grace

Erna sees through all that seductive courtesy. Behind each fawning smile, there is trickery and insult. Mouths wish you Buon giorno, Buona sera, Buona notte. Eyes wish you dead.

Ugo is Italian, too, but different, of course, being Aryan by blood. She could never have established this household so quickly without his help.

Happy to be in the company of other good Germans, Ugo appeared out of nowhere, pointed out this house, and arranged the removal of all its awful modern furniture and degenerate Jew art. Most of the house was as clean as could be expected, given the dust and smoke from the bombing, but— Scheibenkleister! That horrible library! Enough dirt in there to plant a garden and raise potatoes.

Not even a good, strong German woman like Erna could have carried all those filthy Jew books away to be burned, so she agreed to let Ugo’s men get rid of them for her. A few days later, he told her about some lovely antiques, available for a very reasonable price, and had them delivered on approval. Erna’s favorite piece is a sideboard of ebonized walnut, magnificently carved. Difficult to dust, but worth the effort. An ornate mirror hangs above it. “The glass is four hundred years old,” Ugo said, “and you’re the most handsome woman it’s ever seen.”

Such a flirt! But courteous. Respectful. And so attentive, although he travels on business regularly, gone for several days at a time. He always brings her little gifts: handsome old drawings, lovely candlesticks, lace linens to grace her table. Nicer than anything she had back in München.

She enjoys Ugo’s visits. Even at home, she was often lonely. After Mutti died, she kept house for Papa until he, too, passed away. When her brother, Artur, asked her to come to Italy as his housekeeper, Erna was grateful and determined to justify the expense and bother he went to, bringing her here. She had long since resigned herself to spinsterhood. She never expected to meet anyone as pleasant as Herr Messner, and in Italy, of all places!

The mantel clock chimes six. She straightens her apron and waits in the vestibule, knowing Artur will arrive at 6:05. Already, they have established their daily schedule. She’ll take his hat and briefcase. He’ll remove his coat and make a brief reply to her greeting while she hangs up his things. She’ll serve his supper in silence; he works even while he eats. “That was good,” he’ll say when he finishes, then retreat to his study, a collection of files in hand. When he goes to bed, he’ll find beautifully ironed pajamas, a silk robe, and Turkish slippers laid out in his room. In the morning, his suit will be sponged and pressed, his shoes blacked and shining.

Each evening Erna clears away his dishes and eats her own meal, standing, in the kitchen. “I wish Artur were more like you, Herr Messner,” she confessed yesterday. “He barely speaks, and he never listens to me!”

“Artur is lucky to have you looking after him,” Ugo said, “but naturally he is preoccupied by affairs of state. Noticing things like furniture and cooking would be a sort of dereliction of duty. You serve the Führer by serving Artur, Fräulein!”

“I never thought of it that way,” she said.

“Men always love to talk about their professions,” Ugo said thoughtfully. “Perhaps if you take an interest…?”

The door opens. Her brother steps inside. “Good evening, Artur,” Erna says, taking his hat and briefcase. “You look tired. How was work today?”

November 1943

EN ROUTE TO BORGO SAN MAURO

VALDOTTAVO, PIEMONTE

Osvaldo Tomitz smacks a wrench into Renzo Leoni’s palm. “We’re lost,” he says. “Admit it!”

“We’re not lost.” The disembodied voice beneath the little milk van is serene, but the Alfa Romeo appears to spit the wrench out. “A socket wrench, Padre! Female co

Osvaldo tries another tool.

“That’s a socket wrench,” the voice says patiently, “but not the nineteen-millimeter socket wrench. The dimensions are on the handles.”

“Bless me, Father, for I have si

Metallic sounds issue from beneath the engine, along with a stately procession of quiet curses. “Porca vacca. Porca miseria. Porca bagascia…”

“Where did you learn—?”

“To curse? The Royal Italian Air Force.”

“— to fix engines?” Osvaldo finishes.

“Same place. Know why Italian pilots fly in squadrons of four?” There’s a grunt of effort, followed by another steady stream of profanity. “So they’ll have one working radio at the end of the mission. We could never get spare parts even in the thirties. Kept the planes airborne with electrical tape and scraps of tent canvas— Porca puttana! Is there any wire in that toolbox?”

Osvaldo digs around. “You were a mechanic, then?”

“Belandi, no!” Renzo exclaims, offended. “I flew a Caproni 133 triple-engine high-wing fighter-bomber,” he says grandly. “Had a whole crew of fitters and riggers at my command, but those were my very own balls in the cockpit. Mondo cane!” Another convoy of curses rolls out from under the truck before Renzo continues: “I always did the work myself— damned if I’d trust some ignorant cafone with a hammer… There! Climb into that pig-bitch and crank her, Padre.”

Using the hem of his cassock to protect his hand, Osvaldo opens the gasogene chamber and stokes the coal fire before swinging up into the cab. The starter fails. He pulls the choke out a bit more. The engine catches, then roars unmuffled.

“That’s good! Cut the engine!” Renzo eases himself from under the truck and gets up slowly, groaning like an old man. Wipes grease from his hands with a rag, dusts off his coveralls. Reaches into the cab of the Alfa and pulls out a bottle of grappa. “Medicinal purposes,” he says, toasting the priest and taking a long swallow. “Got a cigarette?”

Osvaldo offers a package of Macedonias. Renzo’s face twists, and Osvaldo shrugs. Macedonias taste like burning straw, but they’re better than nothing. The men light up and listen to the breeze in treetops that meet over the center of this gravelly road.

“Porca troia! It’s going to rain,” Renzo grouses. “Which reminds me: those blank identity papers you bought? You haven’t distributed them yet, have you?” The priest shakes his head, and Renzo asks, “What made you choose Troia for the addresses?”

“The papers needed a municipal stamp. A group in Genoa got one from a village called Troia down in Apulia. The town’s behind Allied lines, so nobody can double-check the documents.”

Renzo flicks ash. “Padre, do you happen to know what troia means in the Ligurian dialect?” When Osvaldo shakes his head, Renzo prompts, “It’s a female occupation… Not a very respectable occupation.” The priest still looks blank. “Troia means prostitute, Padre.”

“But… no!” Osvaldo moans. “So all those people would be walking around with papers that say they’re—”

“Children of Troia! The sons and daughters of a southern whore!”

“Am I correct in assuming that I am the only person in northwestern Italy who didn’t know that?”

“I rather hope my mother would be just as surprised. The Germans wouldn’t get it, but repubblicani would piss themselves laughing, and then arrest anyone carrying the documents.”

“So I’ve ruined two hundred identity cards.”

“In the future, you might check criminal intentions with your more disreputable colleagues.” Renzo slumps onto the truck’s ru