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“I don’t speak French, sir.” Scheel waits a beat. “It never seemed to be of military importance.” Reinecke grunts a laugh. Scheel continues reading: “ ‘Following these engagements, the regiment was attacked by men in civilian clothing. We estimate their numbers to be close to twenty thousand. Despite heavy fighting and a number of casualties, we broke their resistance. We are presently regrouping. Gruppenführer Erhardt von Thadden and eight others are missing in action, presumed killed.’ ”
Hands behind his back, Reinecke turns from the rain to stare at a silver-framed photograph recording his daughter’s first Christmas. A
Two, perhaps three months before they must retreat behind the Alps. We’ll make them pay, he’ll tell Martina. Before we leave this place, we’ll make the bastards pay.
CASTELLO RITANNA
21 SEPTEMBER
Nine men, unshaven and half-dressed, sit morosely in close quarters. Stripped of their uniforms, given dirty peasant trousers to wear, they were brought here blindfolded, shoved into this little cell. Each has a story of ambush or attack. They’ve had no food for twenty-four hours. The water jug is nearly empty, the slop bucket nearly full. No one expected to live through the night, so they count themselves lucky when they awaken to hunger and the stench of their own waste.
Beyond their prison cell, an argument rages. “They are prisoners of war! The Geneva Convention—”
“— is a crock of shit! They are murdering civilians. They’re war criminals.”
“Which is what you’ll be if you shoot them!”
The shouting gets louder. A new voice ends the dispute. The language is Italian, the accent Teutonic. Kunkel boosts young Meisinger up, to peer out a small high window. “I see a German,” Meisinger reports excitedly. “Standartenführer Reinecke must have sent a negotiator after all!”
Regaining some dignity and bearing, the Gruppenführer stands, and urges the others to do the same. They wait, clawing straw from hair and rubbing at teeth with their fingers.
The wooden bar scrapes back and the heavy timber door is dragged open. The clouds are low and gray, but the captives blink in the dull light pouring into the dim cell.
“Herauskommen!” a blond man orders.
Von Thadden addresses the Aryan, whose tone indicates that he does not realize to whom he is speaking. “Guten Tag, mein Herr. I am Gruppenführer Erhardt von Thadden—”
“Shut up. We know who you are.”
Shoved toward the center of a small castle’s piazza, their protests rewarded with blows and curses, the prisoners have no choice but to obey. A mob of men and boys with reddened eyes glare, shout and spit at the captives, but make way with deference and respect for the blond. He sits at a table crudely lashed together from fallen branches, folds his hands with an expression between contempt and satisfaction. Before him are nine small piles of documents weighted with pebbles against the breeze. Identity papers, personal items, snapshots. “My name,” the blond begins, “is Jakub Landau—”
“I knew it!” a captain named Grittschneider says, thirst-swollen lips curling with distaste. “Jew dog!”
The rat-faced little Jew who shot Schmidt in cold blood snarls, “Shut your filthy mouth, Nazischwein!”
There are shouts, threats. Someone drives a rifle butt into Grittschneider’s belly. Landau raises a hand. Order is instantly restored in silence broken only by the sound of Grittschneider coughing.
“I shall read the indictment in German for the prisoners,” Landau a
Without turning, Landau pauses. The interpreter’s voice is flat, unemotional and familiar, though Erhardt von Thadden has never before heard this man speak Italian. He who was always immaculately turned out when visiting the Palazzo Usodimare is shabby now, and hollow-eyed, half his face pitted by scars. “Mein Gott,” von Thadden says. “Ugo Messner.”
“Sometimes,” Messner replies. “Not recently.”
“You— you sat at my table. You danced with my wife!”
“You occupied my country.”
Landau’s voice cuts through, continuing the indictment. “Unable to defeat combatants, German forces surrounded and yesterday destroyed the following.” There are groans, roars, cries of grief as Landau reads a long list of towns and villages razed. “A thousand families have been burned out. We have received reports of over five hundred civilian casualties. Nearly three hundred were burned alive in the church of San Mauro.”
“This is absurd!” von Thadden says. “We were in your custody while that was happening!”
Jeers drown Messner’s emotionless translation. Again Landau gestures for silence. “In that case,” he says, “explain these.” He draws photographs from one of the nine stacks of documents, and spreads them out on the table so the prisoners can see them. Grittschneider looks away.
“Scheisskerl!” Kunkel snarls at Grittschneider. “You’ve killed us! Why would you carry pictures like that?”
The partisans pass the snapshots from hand to hand. On the back of each someone has methodically recorded dates and locations from 1941 to 1944, from Russia to Italy. The backgrounds vary— forest, grassy wasteland, a stone bridge, a blank wall— but the same heavy-set man is in each. His uniforms document a rise from second lieutenant to captain. Behind him, dangling from taut ropes: as few as three, as many as twenty, people hang. Mostly men.
“They were criminals! My duty was to establish order in those towns,” Grittschneider declares. “Those executed were thieves, drunkards. Murderers!”
A young woman approaches, holding out a photo. “Name two.” Guileless green eyes fix Grittschneider with an unwavering gaze. “If they were guilty of crimes, there must have been a trial. Name two of the convicted.”
“Claudette!” Duno cries. She does not turn. “That’s Claudette Blum!” he tells Landau.
“It was a long time ago,” Grittschneider says, dismissing her. “They were criminals! Justice was done.”
Landau stands to face the partisans. “Justice! The very thing we seek!” he says, theatrically amazed by the coincidence. He turns to the Germans. “I will be merciful. You may all live… for as long as this man can recite the names of those he hanged.”
“It was a long time ago!” Grittschneider repeats. “I don’t remember—”
“I only wanted to drive a car!” Meisinger weeps. “I didn’t do anything!”
Landau pounces, mimicking the boy. “I didn’t know! I didn’t do anything!” he whines. “That’s what they say, comrades! But there are ten thousand places where the fascisti kill like this. Everywhere the Nazis go, they murder. They build factories for nothing but killing! Bigger than Fiat, bigger than Olivetti— huge factories, comrades. Thousands of people go every day into these factories— not to work, to die! Children, women, old people. Jews, Gypsies, Slavs— anyone the Nazis call Untermenschen. The bodies are burned. You can see smoke from twenty kilometers away! They give the ashes to German farmers— for fertilizer! I have seen these things with my eyes, and now you, too, see what they do!”