Mary Russel - A Thread of Grace

“Borders are borders,” Cicala commiserates, “even when a war ends.”

“Better here than Russia. Many more behind you?”

“The carabinieri said there were about twelve hundred Hebrews in Sainte-Gisèle. Some stayed behind. Most gave the mountain a try. How many have come over so far, sir?”

“Three hundred at the Fenestre. Twice that at the Pass of the Cherries. We’ve had a few hundred come through here at Aurelio, so there can’t be many more—” A family with three children stagger into view, so tired they’re tripping over their own toes. “ Dio santo, let these be the last!”

“Tenente?” a sergeant shouts from the office door. “Headquarters!”

Miroglio catches the eye of a passing private. “You! Go up and meet that family! Cicala, come with me. The captain may want to talk to you.”

They duck through the office door and Miroglio pulls off his cap, tossing it onto a pile of paperwork. Hand over the mouthpiece, the sergeant whispers, “It’s not the captain, sir. I didn’t recognize the name. Some major—”

Rinaldo brings the handset to his ear. “Tenente Miroglio, at your orders, Maggiore.” He gestures for Santino to sit. “I’ve been told a total of twelve hundred, sir… Yes, that’s the situation here as well. Most of them are in hotels in Val di Ponente, but some have gone on toward Cuneo… I have about thirty in the Aurelio barracks, sir, and more coming— families with children… Maggiore, we have a couple of trucks up here, but perhaps you can arrange additional transport? The Hebrews’re in poor condition. I’d hate to see them walk any farther… Yes, I’ll wait, of course, sir.”

The office is quiet while Miroglio’s line is rerouted. The sergeant reappears, handing Santino a plate of stew and bread with a tin cup of Barbera. The wine is cloudy with sediment and thick enough to chew, but Santino accepts it gratefully, raising the cup in salute as the sergeant leaves. Swallowing a chunk of gristly meat, Santino gestures toward the pass with his fork. “Maybe for Alpini that climb wouldn’t have been much, but for regular army and these poor damned ebrei? One false step, and we’d have slid all the way to the Riviera—”

Miroglio straightens. “ Jawohl! Ja, mein Herr, das ist korrekt. ”

Santino’s fork freezes halfway to his mouth.

Miroglio listens for a long time before saying, “ Jawohl. Ich verstehe. ” When the lieutenant finally replaces the receiver in its cradle, he looks dazed, and very young. “Italy doesn’t have a government anymore,” he says. “Marshal Badoglio and the royal family left Rome this morning. The city is occupied. The Vatican is surrounded.”

Confused, Santino asks, “By Americans or the British?”

“Germans! They’ve stopped the Allies on the beaches. German command has ordered all Italian troops to disarm. We’ll be transported south to reinforce a defensive line close to Naples. Anyone who resists will be shot.” Miroglio’s Adam’s apple works convulsively. “Our post captain was executed this afternoon for refusing to surrender his sidearm.”

“ Madonna! Those miserable, shit-eating sons of bitches!”

Miroglio isn’t done. “I’ve been ordered to keep the Hebrews under guard. The SS will be here noon tomorrow— to take care of our ‘problem.’ ” The lieutenant looks sick. “ Dio santo, ” he whispers. “What have I done?”

“Tenente, you didn’t mean any harm—”

Miroglio stands so quickly his chair tips over. “How long will those people last in a labor camp? I’ve signed their death warrants! What am I going to do?”

They are nearly the same age, both born after Mussolini marched on Rome. All their lives, Rinaldo Miroglio and Santino Cicala have taken orders from fathers, priests, teachers, bosses, officers.

“Tenente? If Germans say noon, they mean noon. Let the Hebrews sleep,” Santino advises. “Then get them out of here early.”

Miroglio walks to the window. “Where? Where can they go?”

Santino comes to his side. The moon is rising, its light gleaming on stone terraces that descend like a giant’s staircase into shadowed ravines. “There must be hundreds of little farms in these valleys. If everybody took a few…?”

“Scatter them around the countryside,” Miroglio says slowly. “Spread the risk.”

“We should hide, too, sir. If the Germans come here and don’t find Jews…”

Miroglio looks south. “The Allies promised Badoglio they’d send fifteen divisions into Rome alone— that’s what we heard.”

“Pardon me, sir, but if promises were pigs, we’d have bacon for breakfast.”

“True enough. And if the king’s left Rome, we’re on our own.” Miroglio thinks a moment longer, then rights his fallen chair. Pulling stationery from a desk drawer, he begins to dash off notes. “Rollero, I need you!” The sergeant comes to the door. Miroglio fills him in quickly. “Get a courier in here right away. We’ll need to alert Fenestre, the Pass of the Cherries, and every hotel in the valley. I want all the men in the square now, and be quiet about it! We’re going to pack up the weapons and ammunition and get out of here by dawn.”

Unnoticed, Santino finishes his meal and leaves the office. He shuffles toward the barracks across the square through an anthill of eerily quiet activity as La Guardia di Colle Aurelio begins an orderly if unordered retreat.

Nodding to a sentry, Santino eases the barracks door open, listens to snores and soft sighs, waiting for his eyes to grow accustomed to the dark. Alberto Blum lies prone in the bed nearest the door, loose mouth gaping, eyes sunken into purplish bruises. Claudia sleeps quietly in the bunk above her father.

How old is she? Sixteen? Marriageable, in San Vito— the age Santino’s mother was, and prettier, even, than his Mamma in her wedding photograph.

Silently, Santino reaches out and, with one blunt finger, traces the line of her hip in the air above the blanket. His dirt-rimmed nails are ragged from the rocks. Her fine-grained, sunburned skin looks like polished pink marble against the rough army blanket tucked beneath her chin.

She stirs. He snatches back his hand. She does not awaken, but he leaves the barracks quickly, and is halfway across the parade ground before his steps slow.

Hulking mountains blot out half the sky. Santino Cicala grew to squat and solid manhood surrounded by mountains in the rocky highlands of Calabria. A year since he was drafted, and what has he seen in that time but mountains, and more mountains? Up the shank of the peninsula: the Apennines. Here in the north: the Alps, the Dolomites. Everywhere, steep as church spires, Italy’s mountains go on forever. Their roads snake and twist and coil— marvels of civil engineering. Bridges and viaducts, culverts and switchbacks and tunnels abound, and every single one will provide German demolition teams with an opportunity to delay or block an Allied advance. Northern Italy is filled with farms and factories. Food for German soldiers and civilians. Fabric for uniforms. Airplanes, trucks, cars. Labor. The Germans won’t give all that up without a fight.

“Madonna, I’m tired, ” Santino whispers. Tired of officers and orders. Tired of marching, and of food that tastes of metal. He wants the war to be over. He wants to go home. He wants to build things, not blow them up. He wants a wife. He wants to raise kids. He wants history to leave him alone.

He stares at his own broad feet, sore and blistered in cheap boots— soles gaping, shoelaces frayed and broken. Seven hundred kilometers, vast navies, and great armies lie between him and home. He thinks of Signor Blum, sick and without a wife or sisters to care for him. He thinks of Claudia, and the shape of her against his hand. He looks to heaven, finds the polestar, and empties his lungs of air. “I’m damned if I’ll dig ditches for Germans,” he tells the night, and enlists in his next war.