Persona Non Grata Page 7

  “You’re reading Agatha Christie when you should be reading your missal.”

  “The others, Piero.”

  “There are no others, Fra Gianni. Not after forty years.”

  “But the money is still there.”

  “Money?”

  “That’s why they killed your brother. He had witnessed Saltieri’s death—and he knew about the money.”

  “Italo had no money. He was poor. We were all poor.”

  “The gold bullion that the partisans stole from the Germans.” Fra Gianni shrugged. “Why else did they murder the Carabiniere? Why did they murder your brother? The gold bullion, Piero—somebody must have it.”

  The sky was a cloudless blue as they came to a bend. The village opened up before them, like a photograph in a geography textbook.

  “Why else have they been killing off these old people—people with an old secret?”

  16: Afternoon Tea

  FRA GIANNI WAITED until the housekeeper had closed the door before speaking. He sat forward. “It was probably a good thing you left Santa Maria, Piero … They used to say, ‘Five days in the hands of the partisans, two days in the hands of the Fascists.’ ”

  “A joke.”

  “A joke that wasn’t too far from the truth. There was a lot of fighting in the last months of the war and Santa Maria changed hands frequently. We would chase the Fascists and a few days later they would come back supported by the Germans and take over the town again. Then we would have to run away up into the hills and hide until the Germans had gone off. Gone off with their heavy artillery and their tanks.” Fra Gianni laughed as he began to pour tea into the three cups. “Your mother sent you to the city because she thought you’d be safer there than staying in Santa Maria. Or in the hills.”

  “The city got bombed.”

  “But by the allies—and they weren’t trying to kill. Up here it was the Fascists—Mussolini’s Fascists and they were worse than the Germans.”

  The Baronessa held up her hand—a fragile hand, of an almost translucent white. “You mustn’t be so harsh on the Germans, Gianni. There were good Germans, too.”

  The priest looked at the woman and nodded. “At least when the Germans took a partisan, they shot him quickly.”

  “And sometimes they released him.”

  “You are not completely objective, Baronessa.”

  “I married a German, I lived in Germany. I think I know better than you what the Germans are really like.”

  Fra Gianni spoke hesitantly. “I can forgive the Germans. But the Italian Fascists were different. I can find no forgiveness in my heart. How can I forgive them for what they did to their fellow Italians? They tortured their compatriots.” He stretched forward, handing a cup of tea to Trotti. “Cruel men for cruel times. Your mother did the right thing, Piero. She did not want to lose another son.”

  Trotti looked out of the window of the presbytery.

  The Baronessa said calmly, “That’s why your partisans tortured Saltieri.”

  Trotti turned. “Why?”

  “The partisans were no gentler than the Fascists. They had the same methods, the same ruthlessness. And the same mindless spilling of blood. They were no better. Don’t listen to this foolish old priest. The partisans were traitors.”

  Fra Gianni looked at her. “You must not say that, Baronessa.”

  “Communists.”

  “We weren’t all communists.”

  “And common law criminals.”

  “There are times when the Baronessa von Neumann prefers to ignore the truth.”

  “Traitors.”

  “The partisans were patriots, fighting to free Italy.”

  “We had started the war alongside our German allies—and the partisans were traitors.”

  Fra Gianni asked, “Then in your mind, Baronessa, I, too, am a traitor?”

  In offended silence the priest waited for an answer. The wrinkled, kind face looked aggrieved.

  “Drink your tea, Gianni—and tell your friend about the partisans. And how they courageously slaughtered young boys.”

  The tea was bitter and seemed to rasp against the side of Trotti’s tongue. He took more sugar from the silver bowl; granules dropped from the spoon onto the highly polished wood.

  The room was almost bare. The walls had been painted a long time ago; there was a painting of Saint Theresa in a dusty gilt frame. A single vase of cut flowers in the middle of the table.

  Fra Gianni raised his shoulders in reluctant concession. “The partisans were not all saints.” The old priest looked at the woman—they must have been of the same age. But while Baronessa von Neumann looked frail, there was a liveliness about the priest, a warm, human robustness.

  “But Primula Rosa was no murderer.”

  “Then he was a fool.”

  “A fool?”

  “To live among murderers and criminals.” The Baronessa snorted. “And traitors.”

  Trotti asked, “What happened?”

  “Happened?”

  “To the young boys the Baronessa mentioned.”

  Gianni hesitated. “I had to give them the last rites. And then they were blindfolded and shot.”

  The afternoon air was losing its warmth. Trotti put down his cup on the table and stood up; he went to the window that looked out on to the garden and beyond it, at the peaceful panorama of the village.

  “I didn’t want them to be shot—and neither did Primula Rosa.”

  “But they were shot, weren’t they?” A triumphant smile on the old woman’s thin lips. “They refused to come over to us. And if we had let them go, they would’ve gone straight back to the Fascists and told them where we were hiding.”

  Trotti continued looking out of the window. “Tell me about Saltieri.”

  Fra Gianni poured another cup of tea before answering. “A good man—but not wise.”

  The presbytery was beside the church. The roofs of Santa Maria were spread out beneath the window. The leaves of the chestnut trees were showing their first tint of brown. A bus moved silently along the road from Tarzi. Trotti heard the shrieks of children playing somewhere.

  He turned his back on the window and took a packet of sweets from his pocket.

  “What Gianni means is that his friends the partisans hated Saltieri because Saltieri was a Carabiniere who tried to do his duty.”

  “He wasn’t a bad man—but most people hated him.” Fra Gianni nodded. “There was a black market. From the first day of the war in 1940. Everybody knew that—and I don’t think many people really disapproved. Not even you, Baronessa—for in those days, you were no richer than the rest of the villagers.”

  “Black market?”

  “With Genoa and Milan easily accessible, there was money to be made. And the people up here deserved a bit of wealth. It may not be the Mezzogiorno here—but the hills have always been poor. When I first came to Santa Maria in November 1943, I was shocked. Poor and very closely-knit. Just like the south—like Calabria. With the same ancient rivalries between families. And the same tradition of poverty. In a way, the war was a blessing. The war created the market for the people here and it was no secret that some villagers got rich by selling meat on the black market in Genoa. There was a big demand for fresh meat in the towns—and Santa Maria could supply meat. Good, fresh meat. That was Saltieri’s mistake.”

  The woman said, “He did his duty.”

  A mischievous smile. “Something of a Prussian about the Baronessa von Neumann.”

  “Saltieri did his duty.”

  “He should have minded his own business.”

  Trotti asked, “What did he do, Saltieri?”

  “You know what southerners can be like, Piero—one of those southern policemen who are as innocent as some of their colleagues are corrupt. There was a black market—and Saltieri tried to stamp it out. With any sense, he would have collaborated.”

  The Baronessa said, “He was not a southerner. He was from Ancona.”

  “He arrested
half a dozen of the black marketeers.”

  “When?”

  “It must have been as early as 1942 that there was the first trial. In Chiavari. I wasn’t here at the time—but I know a lot of people resented Saltieri. At least two villagers went to jail.”

  “You met Saltieri?”

  “Once or twice.” The priest set down his cup and now stretched back in his chair. The Baronessa watched him with a look of friendly disapproval. “By the time I came to Santa Maria there was more for him to worry about than a black market in meat. The whole zone from here to the Po going north and over to Genoa going south—the whole area was like the Wild West. A long, guerrilla war; and nobody knowing who was fighting who, and who was in charge. I was living here”—he tapped the well-worn wood of his chair to indicate the presbytery—“taking mass every day in church. But a lot of people knew that I was chaplain to the partisans.”

  “Saltieri knew?”

  “I could trust him. There was nothing dishonest about him.”

  “Saltieri was honest, Gianni.”

  “But unimaginative, Baronessa. He had that slow, unimaginative dullness that you find in some southerners. One day I met him in the street and he asked me if I was a partisan. I told him I was and he just nodded slowly.”

  “Well?” the Baronessa said sharply.

  They were like an old couple, Trotti thought. Fond of each other, yet continually bickering.

  “Devoid of guile.” Fra Gianni shrugged. “And I realized that sooner or later they were going to kill him.”

  17: Pauli

  “YOU BELIEVE MY brother was murdered?”

  The street was empty and Trotti was reminded of the days of curfew. Deserted and silent, except for the creaking of the street lamps hanging above the road; shadows that danced jerkily.

  They reached the edge of Santa Maria. The cafe by the bridge was still open and a solitary old man sat outside, caught in the yellow light of the doorway, like a gnarled tree that had taken root.

  Overhead, the sky was without a cloud and the stars had formed a dome of twinkling lights. There was no moon yet. Beyond the river, Trotti sensed the hills looming on the far side of the village. For a brief instant, nostalgia pinched at his heart. Nostalgia for Santa Maria as it used to be, nostalgia for the young man he had once been.

  Trotti accompanied the Baronessa across the bridge. A wind was coming down from the hills, a sharp wind that announced the approach of autumn. It ruffled Trotti’s hair.

  “The last months of the war I spent in Germany.” The Baronessa was out of breath from the exertion of walking.

  “But your husband was here. He told you what happened.”

  “You mean the bullion?”

  “Was there a connection between the gold and my brother’s death?” Trotti took her by the arm and helped her down from the pavement. She had difficulty in walking. She took small, careful steps. Together they crossed the road.

  (Trotti remembered the road. It had once been made up of cobbles worn to a roundness in the river bed. Then the Americans had come with their tanks and all the stones had been cracked or destroyed. Now the road was surfaced with tarmac.)

  “The war was almost over and the partisans were getting bolder. It was very difficult for Pauli. Everybody knows that my husband was a good man—everybody. But for them I was a traitor—even though Pauli and I were married at a time when Italo-German relations were still good.” She stopped and it was almost bodily that Trotti lifted her and placed her on the far pavement.

  The sound of the river joined that of the wind. The cold smell of the hills.

  “You are very kind, Commissario Trotti.”

  He gave her his arm.

  She patted his hand. “I like to tease Gianni—you do understand?”

  “Of course.”

  “Gianni is a fine man—but like so many Italians, he doesn’t like to face up to the truth.” She had raised her voice against the wind. “Or rather, he prefers to create his own truth. And so he has got it into his head that all the partisans were good and everybody else was wicked. But you know, Commissario, before the war, before everything started going wrong, we all loved the Duce. We were all proud of him, proud for what he was doing to make our country a better place. We were all Fascists then—and the tragedy of Italy is that we didn’t all change sides at the same time.”

  “Baronessa, you talk like a German.”

  “I spent over twenty happy years in Germany.”

  “You came back in 1965?”

  “Pauli and I were living in Hamburg. He died in 1963 and I returned to Santa Maria in 1965—after my boy got married.”

  “You knew Italo?”

  “Italo?” Her eyes flickered.

  “My brother—did you know him personally?”

  The Baronessa seemed to hesitate. “Yes, I knew your brother.”

  “Was there a connection between the bullion and my brother’s death?”

  “They killed Italo Trotti because he knew about Saltieri. He had witnessed Saltieri’s murder.” She tugged at his sleeve. “This is my house.”

  It stood by the river. It was a villa with closed shutters and a steep sloping roof. There was not enough light to see the color, but Trotti noticed the flowers creeping down the walls, a battered Fiat 600 in the drive, a large front garden and an iron gate that creaked as Trotti pushed it open.

  They went slowly up the steps, the woman placing her weight on Trotti’s arm. She led him into the house.

  “I cannot stay, Baronessa.”

  They entered the drawing room where several photographs of Pauli von Neumann looked down from the immense piano. Pauli in the uniform of the Wehrmacht, Pauli smoking a pipe and swinging a golf-stick. Pauli—his hair now thinner—and a little boy on a windswept beach of the North Sea.

  Velvet curtains and dark red wallpaper.

  “A little something to drink.” A conspiratorial glance. “That priest doesn’t like me drinking alcohol. He would have made an awful husband.” From a cabinet she produced a bottle of Latte di Suocera. “Not schnapps, perhaps—but it can warm an old heart.”

  She laughed to herself and Trotti smiled.

  “You want to know about the gold?” She gestured him to one of the deep armchairs.

  Trotti sat down. “I want to know if there is any connection between my brother’s death and the other murders since the end of the war.”

  “Pauli was here. Over seven thousand German troops and everybody knew the end was near. They were surrounded.” She raised her glass. She did not sip her liquor as she had sipped the tea. She drank in two fast gulps. “Surrounded on all sides by the partisans. Pauli had heard about a special SS convoy that had been heading north—heading to the Austrian frontier. But when they saw that their line of retreat had been cut off, the SS people joined up with the other Germans. It was a long time after the war Pauli discovered that, when he and his men surrendered, it wasn’t just the guns and armaments the partisans took. Seven thousand soldiers, Commissario. And each man heavily armed—but tired of war, tired of fighting. The partisans took all their weapons … They took everything.”

  “Including the bullion?”

  She nodded. “Booty that the SS were hoping to buy their freedom with.”

  “And it all fell into the hands of the partisans?”

  “In the Valley of Tecosa.” She put her head to one side.

  “Where does my brother come into this?”

  “That was before.” A click of irritation. “Saltieri was murdered in April—and at the same time they murdered Italo Trotti, April fourteenth. 1945.”

  “There’s no connection between my brother and the SS gold?”

  “Italo Trotti was a witness to the murder of the Carabiniere.”

  “Fra Gianni seems to think my brother knew about the gold.”

  “Gianni is an old man.” A harsh laugh. “And he is from Piemonte. What do you expect the Piemontesi to understand? He still refuses to believe that most of his par
tisans were criminals and black marketeers.”

  “Did Saltieri and my brother know about the gold?”

  “They were already dead.”

  “You heard Fra Gianni talk about the deaths … the people who’ve died since the war. You don’t think those people were murdered? You don’t think their deaths had something to do with the gold?”

  “Of course I do.” The eyes grew smaller and darker.

  “Then who murdered who? And why?”

  “I know very little about what happened here at the end of the war. I was in Germany and what I know is from asking questions. And here, when you ask questions, you make a lot of enemies.” She paused, poured herself another generous glass of Latte di Suocera. She had kicked off her shoes. Small misshapen feet in dark stockings. “Since my return to Santa Maria I have seen five people murdered. All of them connected directly or indirectly with the partisans. All of them the same age. Like Draghin—Draghin was in the firing squad that murdered the young Repubblichini.” There was no softness in her face. “They found his body in the river about ten years ago. The back of his head had been smashed in.”

  Trotti could hear the whine of the wind.

  “And Dandanin. Not an intelligent man, perhaps, but he had been among the partisans. A loud mouth and a drinker. He beat his wife. Then in 1979 he was attacked in the lane that runs at the back of the house. They found his body the following day.” She smiled grimly and finished her drink. “His head had been smashed from behind.”

  “Was Dandanin in the firing squad?”

  “You must ask Gianni.”

  The sound of the wind and the river outside.

  “And why have they all been murdered? Why the deaths since the war?”

  “The gold, Piero Trotti.”

  Trotti frowned. “You knew Italo well?”

  “A nice boy, but the retreat from Russia had unbalanced him—made him strange.” For a moment, she closed her eyes.

  “What happened to the money, Baronessa?”

  “Perhaps the partisans shared it among themselves.”

  “They must have spent it—at least some of it … in forty years, some of the money must’ve surfaced.”