A Thread of Grace

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 ba

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 mille

“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 ski

“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 co

“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.