James Benn - Death

BRINDISI. ITALY

February, 1944

They must be in love, I thought, watching the couple as they danced to a scratchy tune on the Victrola. It was late, and the place was empty but for us, the dancers, and a waiter at the front entrance, trolling for customers. He’d gotten bored refilling my wineglass, so I poured the last of the vino myself and listened to the song. Again, since it was the only record in the joint.

“Who’s that singing, Kaz?”

“Carlo Buti. Very popular in Italy. Billy, are you listening to me?”

“Sure. Guy named Carlo Buti. What’s the song about?” I could count on Kaz to know stuff like this. He was smart in seven languages, but he didn’t know everything, like when to mind his own business. He’d been yammering at me for the past hour, and I’d been doing my best not to pay him any mind.

“He is singing to his lover,” Kaz said, leaning back and listening. “Love is beautiful when he is near her. It makes him dream, it makes him tremble. The usual romanticisms.”

Kaz had his reasons to play the cynic, so I let it pass. He was probably right about the song anyway. The couple on the tiny dance floor swayed to the music, ignoring us and the waiter at the door, who called to a group of British officers to come in and try the mussels with fava beans. The dancers ignored the war, too, in a way Kaz and I could not. They were together, their arms interwoven, their passion thick in the night air. They were young, maybe nineteen or twenty, tops. She rested her cheek on his shoulder as his hand caressed the small of her back.

“They must be in love,” I said, out loud this time.

“Indeed,” Kaz said, finishing the wine in his glass. “And moneyed, as well. She is wearing silk stockings, and he has a decent wristwatch. No visible scars or injuries on the young man either, so it is likely he is either very lucky-which comes with money-or he avoided military service with the Fascists. They are drinking a Brindisi Rosso Riserva, so he can afford more than a common table wine. He has been sneaking glances at his watch, so he must need to get her home soon. This is the only time he can be alone with her, and hold her, which is why they are dancing.”

“Not bad,” I said. “How do you know she’s not a prostitute?”

“Her shoes. They are expensive, and new. Also, they are still here, long after the meal is done. The young man would not wish to dance all night if he could take the young lady to bed. Therefore, he cannot. It is only a guess, but her parents must trust him to let her go out unattended. But, it is wartime, and these things may not be so important anymore.”

“You might have a career as a detective, Kaz.”

“You’ve taught me to study a room and the people in it as soon as I enter. We have been at this table for so long, I’ve had ample time. What are we doing here, Billy?”

“Having dinner, enjoying the view.” I gestured to the harbor, across the road from the ristorante. A Royal Navy destroyer was tied up at the dock, and the muted sounds of sailors moving about drifted across the wide street that separated the wharf from the city. A line of palm trees rustled in the breeze. February in Brindisi was not much like February in Boston.

“We finished eating hours ago. The wine was tolerable, more so than your company, I must say. Billy, face it. She is lost. By now, there is no hope. Why won’t you listen to me?”

Love is beautiful when you are near the one you love. When you can’t be, it is terrible. It makes you dream, but the dreams aren’t happy ones. And I tremble, too, along with Carlo Buti.

“I do listen, Kaz. Is it true that the old Roman road ends here, in Brindisi?”

“The Appian Way? Yes. Just around the corner, as a matter of fact. A Roman column marks the end as it comes down to the water. Why?”

“So we could leave here, start walking, and end up in Rome?”

“Well, yes. But it is almost three hundred miles, and the German Army might have something to say about it.”

“Yeah, that’s a problem.” I watched as a jeep full of American MPs drove slowly by, checking out the clientele. I rested my chin in the palm of my hand, tilting my head against my fingers to hide my face. The music had ended, and the young couple were gathering their things to leave. Almost midnight. The jeep stopped, and the MPs watched the lovebirds depart. There was a blackout in place, but the MPs were easy to spot with their white helmets shining in the moonlight. Light spilled out into the street, but the MPs didn’t say anything, simply rolled on, probably admiring the young lady.

“Are you in trouble with the MPs, Billy?”

“Not that I know of,” I said, my hand going to the table. It was true enough.

“Good, because this late, they may stop to question anyone out near the harbor.”

“Yeah, especially pretty girls. I think we’re safe.” Safe. I trembled.

“Billy,” Kaz said, laying his hand on my arm. I shook it off. “We heard a week ago. The message took two days to get here. You know what that means.”

“Due grappe,” I said, signaling the waiter. Maybe another drink would shut Kaz up, but I doubted it.

“It means that by the time we learned she was taken, the Gestapo had let her sit alone in a cell for two days, listening to the screams of the tortured,” Kaz said. “To soften her up. Standard Nazi practice.”

“Grazie,” I said as the waiter set down the drinks. I raised my glass, but Kaz ignored me.

“The first day might not have been too bad,” he continued. “They apologize for keeping you waiting, offering tea, coffee, cigarettes. A rational discussion, to size the prisoner up. Some might give up information then, in the hopes of staying alive and keeping their fingernails.”

I drank half the glass down, the fiery liquor harsh in my throat. I didn’t look at Kaz.

“But it is all a ruse,” he said. “To raise the prisoner’s hopes and then dash them. Later that day, the actual torture begins. That would have been six and a half days ago. And the Gestapo would have worked fast, knowing that once an agent is captured, the rest of their group will go into hiding as soon as they hear of it.”

“When did you become an expert in Gestapo torture?”

“I was briefed by an SOE colonel.” The Special Operations Executive, Great Britain’s spy and sabotage outfit. Set up in a villa outside of Brindisi, they sent the young and the willing to do the dirty work of winning a war for the old who had too much to lose. They had their own Royal Air Force squadron at their beck and call, plus a small army of forgers, tailors, demolitions experts, commandos, and smugglers. “You don’t want to know the rest. Suffice it to say, six days is more than any mortal can stand.”

I finished the grappa.

“They call their torture chambers kitchens,” Kaz said. “That should give you some idea of what they do. If prisoners don’t talk, they will likely die from the interrogation. If they do talk, they are often shot once the information is verified. Or sent to a concentration camp. Either way, she is dead by now, or beyond all redemption.”

“How does SOE know all this?”

“It is their job to know these things.”

“But how can they, if all prisoners are killed or sent to concentration camps? There would be no way to learn those details.”

“There have been some escapes. And a very few people have been let go. Even the Gestapo makes mistakes.”

“Interesting,” I said.

“No, it is terrible. And what is worse is that you should cling to any hope.” Now it was Kaz’s turn to drink. He took one gulp, and then finished the rest. His lips curled against his teeth as he swallowed, and the scar on the side of his face seemed to redden. Our eyes met, and I wondered which of us was the worse off. Kaz had been head over heels in love when I first met him. And Daphne Seaton had loved him too, but that all ended in an explosion that killed her and maimed him in body and soul. Daphne was never coming back, and that certainty haunted Kaz.