James Benn - Death

“Everything real,” Randic said. “God-damn Italian priests are freezing asses off now, eh?”

“You didn’t rob a couple of priests, did you?” I asked.

“Why? You holy boy? Kiss the Pope’s ass?”

“If two priests report their clothes were stolen, the Germans might be on the lookout for imposters. But what’s your beef with priests? And Italians for that matter? They’re on our side now, if you haven’t heard.”

“Beef?” Randic gave Hamilton a quizzical glance.

“He means what is your problem,” Hamilton said.

“Ah. Beef. God-damn funny language you have. First thing, no priests will make report,” Randic said, raising an eyebrow in Hamilton’s direction. Maybe he was kidding, maybe not. “Second thing, there is no now, where Italians are friends. There is only what has happened. It will always be that way. For you, perhaps, there is now. For us, never.” He rapped his fingers on the tabletop, grimy nails tapping out an insistent rhythm.

“Why?” I asked.

“Hamil-tone, do these boys know nothing?” Randic struck a match and lit an oil lamp, the wick catching, inky black smoke floating to the ceiling until the flame held. The sun hadn’t set, but the cabin was dark with shadows, smoke, and surliness.

“We know about the camps,” I said. “Concentration camps for Jews, Gypsies, and anyone else the Nazis want to kill.”

“I did not lose my family in god-damn camp,” Randic said. “Wife and two little boys were walking down the street in Valjevo, going to market. They pass hotel where Italian garrison lives. Italian soldier is on balcony, reading newspaper. Nice day to be outside. He sees my wife and children, puts down newspaper. Picks up machine gun. Shoots them in street. Puts down machine gun and goes back to newspaper. Do you think that man is my friend now? ”

“No,” I said, in a soft, weak voice. “Never.”

“God-damn right. Same thing with priests from Rome. You know the Ustashi?”

“Only that they’re Croatians, right?”

“Fuck, you know nothing. Marshal Tito is a Croat, and I would die for him. Ustashi are Croats, yes, but…” He waved his hand in the air, searching for the right words.

“Fanatics,” Hamilton said. “Right-wing, Roman Catholic fascist fanatics.”

“All that,” Randic said. “We are Serbian Orthodox Church. Ustashi want to kill or convert us. Prefer killing. Kill Jews, Muslims, Serbs, everyone. And your Pope, he loves them, that bugger Pius.”

“Listen, we’re not involved in your politics,” I said, wanting to change the subject. Not that I was a holy roller, but I was Catholic, an altar boy from South Boston, and I didn’t take to bad-mouthing His Holiness. But our lives were in this guy’s hands, so I didn’t want to fight over religion with him.

“Politics! Listen, Hamil-tone, he calls it politics when Ustashi bastards murder us. Is that how politics goes in America, Mr. Boyle? Knife to throat? Women raped? Sons shot and thrown in pit? Ah, you are a fool. But I hope Nazis no kill you anyway.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I feel the same way. I didn’t know it was that bad in Yugoslavia.”

“The world should know,” Hamilton said. “Tito has raised an army; they’re much more than a guerilla force. He’s fought the Italians, the Germans, the Royalists, Chetniks, and Ustashi, and held them all off.”

“Josip Broz Tito is a great man,” Randic said. “He fights.” We drank to Tito as the diesel engine growled to life and the boat began to move.

“Tell me about the Pope and the Ustashi,” I said. “What does he have to do with them?”

“You tell, Hamil-tone,” Randic said, emptying the bottle into his glass. “I drink.”

“The Vatican doesn’t have diplomatic ties with the Ustashi puppet state,” Hamilton began. “But the Pope granted the prime minister, Ante Paveli? an audience when Mussolini and Hitler put him in power after the fall of Yugoslavia. The archbishop in Sarajevo, Ivan saric, is a pure fascist. Plus, there are many priests active among the Ustashi, from Paveli?’s bodyguards to those running his concentration camps.”

“Ivan saric,” Kaz said. “He’s the bishop who writes horrible poetry, isn’t he?”

“He butchers both words and people,” Randic said.

“Yeah, he runs the Catholic newspapers in Sarajevo, so he can print whatever he wants. Poems about the magnificence of Hitler, about money-grubbing Jews, the joy of forced conversions of Serbians-all terrible stuff,” Hamilton said.

“And your Pope, Mr. Boyle, he does nothing about it. The Ustashi murder thousands, the archbishop sings their praises, and the Pope lets Paveli? kiss his ring. But they send you to Rome because one priest is murdered. Ha! What can a man do but drink?”

“Zeveli,” I said as the vessel picked up speed and began a gentle, rhythmic roll.

“I do not like boats,” Kaz said, staggering from the room.

Kaz didn’t like boats all the way to Pescara. The wind kicked up about an hour out, as darkness settled in and clouds covered the stars. Kaz spent most of the night above deck, leaning over the side, moaning when he wasn’t cursing in Polish. As we neared the German-occupied shore near Pescara, the crew helped him change out of his soaked uniform and into his priestly garments. By then he felt well enough to give his Webley revolver to Randic, telling him he hoped he killed a good number of “god-damn” Ustashi with it. This gesture endeared him to the Partisans, who laughed, clapped him on the shoulder, and gave many Serbian well wishes for our safety. Even green at the gills, Kaz showed his knack for getting along with all sorts of people.

With the first glimmer of false dawn lighting the horizon to the east, a small boat rowed us ashore, Hamilton at the bow, Thompson submachine gun at the ready. The crew paddled into a small bay and brought the boat up onto a shingle beach, each wave rolling stones and pebbles, creating a cascade of sound that muffled the splashing of the oars and whispered commands. They beached the boat and Hamilton motioned us to stay put as they jumped out and pulled it onto dry land.

“Don’t get your feet wet,” he whispered as we got out, holding our long cassocks up like ladies at a garden party. “The Krauts at the train station might take notice.”

“Okay,” I said. “Where are the men we’re meeting?”

“Right there,” Hamilton said, pointing down the beach, about ten yards away. Two men, dressed in nondescript uniforms with rifles pointed in our general direction, had appeared from nowhere. “Good luck.”

“Same to you in Yugoslavia,” I said. We shook hands, and in seconds he was gone as the boat slid back into the water. Our new guides motioned for us to follow. We did, our shoes crunching on smooth, round stones worn down by the sea.

A hundred yards from the beach, we came to a rough track where a mule cart was waiting. An old woman dressed in typical peasant black from head to foot sat with the reins in her hands. She did not look at the two men, or at Kaz and me. They gestured for us to get in the back, and by the time we were seated, they were gone. The woman snapped the reins and the mule plodded forward.

“Buongiorno, signora,” Kaz said. She ignored us as we sat facing each other, our cheap suitcases on our laps, phony papers in our coat pockets, and a pallor to Kaz’s cheeks. The cart trundled along, the early morning sun warming our faces. It was eerie, this sensation of falseness, everything about our identities a lie, every lie necessary to keep us alive. Armed only with disguise, from the clothing labels in our overcoats to the two-day-old newspaper from Rimini in the north, we had placed our lives in the hands of a silent old woman in a mule cart. At least our shoes were dry.