“What happened to them?”
“The story is not quite clear. There are references to complaints made to Rome by the commander of the Fourteenth Carabinieri Battalion, protesting the treatment of Yugoslavs. The Jews, all Yugoslavian, were treated much better than the partisan prisoners. Apparently the Jews, having not been part of the partisan movement, were viewed as being in protective custody.”
“But in a concentration camp.”
“Yes, the Fascist government did put them in the camps, in Italy as well as Yugoslavia. Some were worse than others, depending on the whim or politics of the commander. When Mussolini fell, the new government ordered the Jews released, but gave them the option of staying in the camps, in case they feared being rounded up by the Germans.”
“That’s a hell of a choice.”
“Indeed. A few hundred joined the partisans to fight, others fled to partisan-held territory. But about two hundred were too old or sick to be moved. The Germans took over the camp and transported them to another camp in Poland. Auschwitz, I think it was.”
“Auschwitz? Diana mentioned Auschwitz, and another camp in Poland, Belzec.”
“The Germans seem to prefer Poland as their killing ground,” Kaz said. “Belzec was the first camp set up, but Auschwitz has grown into a huge operation. I wrote a paper detailing what is known about it while I was in London with the Polish government-in-exile. Three main camps, over twenty-five satellite camps. Inmates are put to work on war industries, and often worked to death.”
“It may be worse than that,” I said. The warm sea breeze on my face felt odd, as if nothing of beauty or any pleasant sensation should intrude upon these words. I told Kaz everything Diana had told me, and watched his face harden with disbelief, horror, anger, and all the emotions I had gone through. It couldn’t be true, that was the first response of any sane person.
“Oh my God,” Kaz said. “Witold Pilecki.”
“Who?”
“Captain Witold Pilecki, of the Polish Army. In 1940, he volunteered as part of a Polish resistance operation to be imprisoned in Auschwitz.”
“That’s one brave guy, or a fool.”
“Many people thought the latter, especially after his reports were smuggled out. The underground delivered them to London. He talked about the mass killings, and requested arms and assistance to free the prisoners. His request was never granted. He was thought to be exaggerating, either deliberately or as a result of conditions in the camp. His report stated that two million people had been killed there, during a three-year period. He simply was written off since no one believed the numbers he was reporting.”
“What happened to him?”
“He escaped, last April. I think he must be with the Home Army, the Polish underground.”
“Three years in hell, and no one believes him.”
“Does anyone believe Diana?”
“I do. But I don’t think Kim Philby did. Or he didn’t want to. Or couldn’t.”
I watched Luca Amatori on the deck of the Liberty ship next to us. He was enjoying the sun and the breeze, maybe feeling he was part of some grand plan, helping to liberate another piece of his homeland. Did he ever think about the two hundred sick and elderly Jews he left behind on Rab? Did they ever disturb his sleep? What else did he do, hunting partisans in the mountains of Yugoslavia, that might haunt him at night?
There was so much evil in this war. Maybe Luca was a good man, maybe not. Maybe he had been a good man once, before the shooting started. Before the hard choices. That’s how evil made its way in this world. Not with a devil’s face, as the nuns taught us. It slithered between the cracks, caught decent people off guard, dragged them along until they were in too far. Then it made them into something they never thought they could ever be.
Had our killer, our Caligula, once been innocent? Had evil snuck up on him, or was it an old friend? Death was everywhere. Soldiers and civilians, the grim and the meek, they were all drawn into this killing machine that sucked in souls from the front lines, the air, the water, from quiet homes far from the fighting. Why should some fool be allowed to feed the machine more than it demanded? That trumped evil in my book.
A column of GIs passed below us, and I saw Danny’s face, glasses on his freckled nose under a helmet that looked way too large. I started to cry out, but it wasn’t him. The kid didn’t have his walk, and the set of his shoulders wasn’t right. Somebody else’s kid brother.
I covered my face with my hands and prayed. Prayed for Danny, for his innocence, even harder than I had prayed for his life. It seemed so precious.
When I looked up, Kaz was gone. Probably in search of better company. There was a flurry of salutes on the deck below, and I figured it had to be senior brass coming aboard. It was Major General John Lucas, commander of VI Corps and this whole damned invasion. He pulled himself up the steel stairs—ladders, I think the Navy insisted on calling them—huffing a bit as he made it to the upper deck. He turned and addressed the crowd on the lower deck, mostly correspondents and headquarters types. I saw Phil Einsmann waving and I waved back, but he was trying to ask the general a question, not flag down a drinking buddy. He got the general’s attention and shouted above all the others.
“General Lucas, any comment on where we’re headed?”
“It’s top secret,” Lucas said, and then waited a beat. “But no one told the street vendors, I hear, so I’ll tell you what you already know. It’s Anzio.”
That got a laugh among the reporters, and a halfhearted cheer from the officers. General Lucas looked amused, like a banker at a Rotary Club luncheon who just told a joke. He had a stout banker’s body and gray hair. He didn’t look like much, but I’d heard he’d been a cavalry officer on Pershing’s Punitive Expedition into Mexico, and then wounded in the Great War. There had to be some fire left in the man, but he was keeping it tamped down, as far as I could see.
“Are you headed for Rome once you’re ashore?”
“Are you going to attack the Germans from the north?”
“What strength do you have?”
These and a dozen other questions were shouted out while Lucas signaled for quiet.
“Now that you’re all on board and under armed guard,” he said, to another round of polite laughter, “I can answer your questions. My orders are to secure a beachhead in the Anzio area and advance upon the Alban Hills. We expect the enemy to put up a stiff resistance and respond rapidly with reinforcements. Therefore, the primary mission of VI Corps is to seize and secure the beachhead. I have the British First Division, the U.S. Third Division, and other attached troops, including Rangers, paratroops, and British Commandos. We’re going to give the Germans a surprise, I’ll tell you that.”
“What about after the beachhead?” Einsmann shouted. “Are you going to take the high ground?”
“The Alban Hills are nearly thirty miles from the beachhead. We’re not going to rush into anything. We can’t afford to stick our neck out and make a mad dash for the Alban Hills, or Rome, or anywhere else. Seize, secure, defend, and build up. That’s what I aim to do. Thank you, gentlemen.”
General Lucas ascended the ladder to the bridge deck, his corncob pipe stuck into a corner of his mouth. I wasn’t exactly a fan of “Old Blood and Guts” George Patton, but it struck me that I’d rather have a general like him leading an invasion than this paunchy, grandfatherly figure.
“Billy, what are you doing here?” Phil Einsmann said, working his way to my corner of the deck. “I thought you’d still be in Caserta, tracking down the Red Heart Killer.”
“Is that what you press boys are calling him?” I was sorry he’d been given such an interesting nickname. He didn’t deserve it.
“It’s catchy. I filed a story, but I doubt the censors will release it. Not good for morale back home. You didn’t answer my question.”
“Habit. I like reporters, I just don’t like telling them anything.”
“Hell, Billy, I already know about Major Arnold and how you found him stuffed in his own trunk. There hasn’t been another killing since then, has there?”
“No. And I’m not taking this sea cruise for my health.”
“So you think the killer is someone in the Third Division?”
“I didn’t say that. Lots of other guys making this trip.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll tell you something, though. Lucas is not happy with his orders. He thinks he’s being hung out to dry. He’s got twoplus divisions and they’re landing him on a flat plain with mountains almost thirty miles away. The orders from General Clark are pretty vague. Did you pick up on that? To ‘advance upon the Alban Hills.’ What does that mean—take them, or approach them?”
“Could be either.”
“Exactly. If Lucas fails, Clark can blame him whichever way it goes, for not taking the hills or for advancing too rapidly. Lucas is between a rock and a hard place, without enough troops to do the job.”
“Is that why you were asking him what his plans were?” “I was hoping to get him riled up, so he’d say something worth printing.”
“I think it’s been some time since he’s been riled.”
“That might be a damn good thing, Billy. A lack of rile could keep some of these boys alive.”
“Where did you hear all this?”
“Not everybody clams up in front of reporters. It’s easy to get stuff off the record. On the record and past the censors, that’s another thing. So level with me, Billy, off the record. About the murders.”
“I wish there was more to tell. Yeah, I think it’s someone in the Third Division. Someone who knew the victims. Someone who had a reason to kill them. Did you ever meet a guy named Stefano Inzerillo? He ran a dive called Bar Raffaele in Acerra.” I didn’t mind trading information with Einsmann, especially since he’d probably not get word one past the censors.
“You used the past tense, Billy. I take it he didn’t sell his business and move?”
“He’s moved on to another location. Did you know him?”
“I know the joint.”
“Not a spot for high rollers; not like the officer’s club at the palace. What were you doing there?”
“Billy, I took you for a man of the world. What do you think? It wasn’t for the fine wine. How did Inzerillo get it?”
“Someone beat him up pretty bad, so he barricaded himself in his bar. Some guy, a GI most likely, set the place on fire.”
“Jesus. Anzio could be a rest cure after all this.”
“Did you ever see Lieutenant Landry there?”
“The first victim? I don’t know, never met him. Couldn’t tell you. I did see Sergeant Cole there once though.”
“I thought you said you didn’t know him.”
“I knew who he was. I only said I hadn’t spoken with him since he got transferred to CID. Father Dare told me he helped get Doc Galante to wrangle a transfer for him. Wait a minute—it would have been Major Arnold who did the paperwork on that. Was Cole’s suicide part of this?”
“Off the record, I’d call it murder.”
T
HERE HAD BEEN
fireworks in the night, and I’d finally understood what “the rockets’ red glare” meant. There were no bombs bursting in the air, but the shoreline took it on the chin. To the north, Anzio and Nettuno glowed a dull orange as smokewreathed fires spread. Kaz and I were on the beach, threading our way between craters, stacks of supplies, engineers spreading steel gratings over the sand for the heavy stuff to cross to the road, and noncoms yelling at GIs to move inland. We trudged up to the main road and watched as landing craft disgorged more and more men. After being crammed onboard ships for more than thirty hours with hundreds of men who had nothing better to do than play cards, sweat, puke, and pray, they looked excited, like kids on a trip to the shore. They laughed and gabbed, peppering their sergeants with insistent questions.
“Do you think I’ll do all right?”
“Can I stick with you?”
“What will you do when we get to Rome?”
“No,” a sergeant first class barked at them. “I think you’ll piss your pants and run. And don’t come near me if you can’t keep your head and ass down, you’ll just draw fire. You’ll never make it as far as Rome, so don’t worry about it. Now move your ASTP asses and prove me wrong!”
I watched the GIs following him, the smiles gone from their faces. I hoped the army had actually taught these kids something about warfare when they went to college.
“Hey Billy!” Phil Einsmann ran up the beach, his only armament a small portable typewriter in a wooden case and his war correspondent’s patch on his shoulder. “Where are you fellas headed?”
“We’re waiting for a jeep. Looking for a lift?”
“I have no idea where to go, but I’d rather not walk there.”
“Here’s Major Kearns,” Kaz said, as a jeep fought its way against the flow of traffic. I’d gone over my suspicions with Kearns about all the connections with the Third Platoon, Cole, the rag doll, the WP grenade, Inzerillo, and the last murder. I left out the part about my kid brother, and my worry that he might cross paths with Red Heart. He might think I was being overprotective. Maybe so. Maybe it was only coincidence, but it all felt wrong. Someone in the Third Platoon had answers. Father Dare was on my list as well. Einsmann, too, for that matter. He seemed to know more than he’d let on, and cropped up at the damnedest times.
“Boyle, Kaz,” Kearns said as he got out of the jeep. Not for the first time, I noticed how people liked Kaz immediately, taking to his nickname, responding to his suave continental charm, not to mention the unstated allure of the mysterious scar down his cheek. A surefire combination. “The outfit you’re looking for is headed to Le Ferriere. Father Dare went along with them, since they didn’t have a medic.”
“Isn’t that unusual?” Kaz said. “For a chaplain to go on a combat patrol?”
“From what I’ve heard, he stays close to the front lines and does a lot of work with the wounded. He’s picked up some basic medical knowledge, so he’s useful, especially on patrol.”
“He’s not your average holy Joe,” I said. “How do we find them?”
“Go back down this road and turn right just before Nettuno. The road signs are still up. Take the Via Cisterna.” Kearns opened a map that showed the village about halfway between the coastline and the Alban Hills.