Obersturmführer Kornelius Zimmerman sat in his normal chair at the café and sorted through the postcards he’d just purchased, wondering which he should send to his twelve-year-old son. The Trevi fountain? The Colosseum? St. Peter’s Basilica? He would send them all eventually but wasn’t sure which to mail first. As Untersturmführer Otto Ostheim sat down across from him, Zimmerman decided on St. Peter’s. He’d already sent a few views of the church’s exterior to his son, but this postcard showed some of the interior, and Klaus would like that. He was drawn to churches. Taking after his mother . . .
“Any luck today?” Ostheim asked.
“The usual. A few Jews, two suspected Gappisti members, one of the Carabinieri who helped arrest Mussolini last July.” Zimmerman grinned with satisfaction as he spoke. It had taken Hitler less than two months to rescue his friend. And those who had dared stand up against Hitler’s most valuable ally were made to pay a heavy price when captured.
“That should make for a busy night at the Via Tasso, eh?”
“Yes. For you.” Though he had a desk at the joint Gestapo headquarters and prison at 145 and 155 Via Tasso, Zimmerman’s responsibilities involved catching wanted people rather than questioning and torturing them.
“Maybe I should get back,” Ostheim said. “Make sure my newest guests are being treated correctly.”
Zimmerman put the postcards away, knowing Ostheim would stay and eat something before going back to his work of supervising interrogations until late into the night. “And for you? A good day?”
“Yes, and it’s about to get better.”
Zimmerman turned to follow Ostheim’s gaze. A tall woman, probably in her midtwenties, with black hair and a curvy figure, had just walked through the door. Zimmerman and Ostheim shared a weakness for Italian beauty, but while Zimmerman was more interested in its art, Ostheim was most drawn to its female inhabitants.
Ostheim went over to talk to her, and a few minutes later, he brought her to the table. “Obersturmführer Zimmerman, may I present Fräulein Concetta Gallo.”
Concetta nodded a greeting, then sat when Ostheim pulled a chair out for her. She seemed a little hesitant and somehow different from the usual type of woman Ostheim picked up. Like most Italian civilians, her clothing looked a decade old. She was pretty, to be sure, even with the birthmark on her right cheek, but she seemed less . . . desperate than most of the others.
“Do you come here often?” Ostheim asked, speaking Italian.
“No, but I think I should. It’s lovely.” Concetta gestured out the window.
Zimmerman glanced at the street, but it seemed ordinary to him.
Ostheim and the woman continued their conversation, but Zimmerman promptly tuned them out to focus on his food when the waiter brought it. Zimmerman’s Italian wasn’t as good as his friend’s, and he had trouble keeping up with the woman’s rapid speech. How does she talk so fast and move her hands at the same time?
Zimmerman was halfway through his spiced mutton when a Wehrmacht hauptmann entered the café and stopped near their table. Zimmerman had spoken briefly with Dietrich before, long enough to know he was an engineer and, like Zimmerman, preferred to work away from his desk. He only remembered the hauptmann’s name because an SD man had been asking questions about him a few hours ago. “Good evening, Hauptmann Dietrich. Looking for a seat?” Zimmerman pointed to the empty chair beside him.
“Thank you. I have other arrangements for supper, but when I saw the signorina, I wanted to stop and say hello.” Dietrich turned to Concetta. “I don’t suppose you remember, but we ran into each other at the train station the other day.”
The Italian woman’s face lit up in a smile. “Yes, of course I remember. Thank you for your help with my luggage.”
“What were you doing at the train station?” Ostheim asked Dietrich.
“Returning from a short leave. A bereavement pass, but the journey did have its bright spots.” Dietrich turned his attention from Ostheim to Concetta. “Actually, I seem to remember planning a walk along the Tiber with you.”
Ostheim cleared his throat. “Fräulein Gallo and I were about to order—”
“Actually, a walk along the river sounds perfect.” Concetta stood, then turned back to Ostheim and Zimmerman. “It was a pleasure to meet you both. I hope we’ll see each other again soon.”
Ostheim glared at the couple as they left. He wasn’t used to losing, and Zimmerman could tell Dietrich had just made an enemy.
* * *
Captain Ley was silent for several blocks. Gracie was relieved that he’d shown up because drawn-out conversations that revolved around her cover story made her nervous. She was ravenous, though, and disappointed to miss supper. Whatever Ostheim’s friend had been eating looked and smelled heavenly after eating nothing but bread for the last day and a half.
“Do you have any idea who you were sitting with?” Ley’s face still held a pleasant smile, but his whisper was icy.
“Otto—I think his last name was Ostheim. And his friend was Lieutenant Zimmerman.”
“I am fully aware of their names, ranks, and duties. What I’m wondering is if you noticed the silver S’s on their uniforms, like a pair of lightning bolts.”
Gracie wondered why Ley seemed so upset. “Yes, but back in Switzerland you told me to be friendly with other army officers so it wouldn’t look strange for me to be friendly with you when you arrived.”
“Army officers. Obersturmführer Kornelius Zimmerman and Untersturmführer Otto Ostheim are not members of the German Army. They’re members of the Allgemeine SS, and they specialize in arresting Jews, partisans, and spies and deporting or torturing them. They aren’t the type of men you want to cross, and thanks to you, Ostheim, and probably Zimmerman too, now has a very good reason to hate me.”
“Well, what was I supposed to do when Ostheim came up to me?”
Ley didn’t answer, instead taking a pencil and a sheet of paper from his pocket. He wrote something on the paper, folded it, and handed it to her. “My report. And an address. If you’re not under arrest, meet me there tomorrow for my next report. Sixteen hundred hours. And if by chance I’m late, don’t flirt with SS officers while you’re waiting.” He turned abruptly and strode off.
She scowled at his departing figure. It wasn’t like she’d had much of a choice. Surely flirting with an SS man and getting an invitation to supper was preferable to snubbing him and inviting close scrutiny of her papers. Gracie passed a clock and quickened her pace. She would have to head for her apartment at once if she wanted to make it before curfew. Her stomach rumbled, but she didn’t have time to wait in line for food. Maybe she shouldn’t have turned down Ostheim’s supper invitation. SS or not, he seemed more friendly than Captain Ley.
* * *
Bastien was still on edge when he arrived at the hotel on the Via Veneto, where he and a few dozen other officers were billeted. Since his arrival in Rome the previous fall, he’d done his best to maintain a low profile. Thanks to Ambrose and Vaughn-Harris, he’d drawn far too much attention to himself the past few weeks, first by requesting leave, then by the mandate to work with their inexperienced radio operator. Desk officers seemed to think the only qualifications a radio operator needed were language fluency and the ability to tap out Morse code, but the real requirements were more complex.
Bastien went straight to supper. He wasn’t really hungry—not after spotting the SD man from the train station for the third time in as many days. He assumed skipping meals would only be suspicious, so he spread real butter on his bread and forced himself to eat as if he had an appetite, wondering why the SD was on his tail. Did they suspect he wasn’t really Dietrich? That he wasn’t loyal to Germany? Both?
He was nearly finished when he realized Obersturmführer Heinrich Vogel, the man sitting next to him, hadn’t said anything the entire meal. He was usually more talkative and had a tendency to whistle “Lili Marlene” while coming to and from the dining hall. Bastien watched him for a few seconds. Heinie was moving food around his plate, but his meal wasn’t making it to his mouth.
“Something wrong, Heinie?”
Heinie’s brown eyes flickered to Bastien’s, but he didn’t speak for a while. The blood vessels in his eyes were more prominent than usual, and his lips formed a frown. “Had an interesting conversation with Sturmbannführer Scholz today.”
Scholz was Heinie’s commanding officer, but Bastien had gotten the impression that Scholz, though an adamant Nazi, was easy to work with. “Interesting as in bad?” Bastien whispered.
Heinie nodded, glancing around the table at the other officers.
Bastien didn’t pry further, but he excused himself early, as usual, and Heinie followed him to their third-floor rooms.
“What happened with Scholz?” Bastien asked when they were alone in the hallway.
“I asked him for permission to get married.”
“And?”
Heinie frowned again. “Maurleen can only prove her German ancestry back to 1787. That would be good enough if I was just an enlisted man, but because I’m an SS officer, she has to prove racial purity back to 1750.”
Bastien knew the SS controlled its men like a supply officer controlled his best equipment, but he hadn’t realized how strict the requirements for marriage were. “I’m sorry, Heinie. How is Maurleen taking the news?”
Heinie pulled a letter from his pocket. Bastien caught a hint of perfume and assumed Maurleen was the author. “Do you have any idea what the paperwork is like to apply for marriage? She had to fill all that out, then they did a medical exam—and it’s not as if she’s a lounge singer; she’s a minister’s daughter. It was humiliating for her.” Heinie opened the letter and read from it. “‘I wanted to be your wife so badly, but now I realize I am unworthy of such an honor. I trust our Führer to lead Germany to greatness, but perhaps I can best serve the Reich as a factory worker rather than an officer’s wife. I would never want to damage your career or pollute the blood of your posterity. Yet my heart will always be yours. I shall have to go on loving you from afar, as a humble flower loves the sun but can never approach its glory.’”
Heinie put the letter away, his voice tight with emotion. “They’ve got no right to make Maurleen feel like that—she’s beautiful and smart and kind, and she’s a good German. Better than any of them. Who cares who her great-great-grandfather was? It’s ridiculous. They have Waffen SS divisions made of Muslims from Bosnia, but they won’t grant permission for me to marry someone like Maurleen? They don’t come any better than her!”
Bastien unlocked his door and motioned Heinie inside. He didn’t want someone overhearing Heinie’s rant against the SS. Bastien could get in trouble for listening to it, and Heinie could get in even worse trouble for voicing it. “Can you appeal Scholz’s decision?”
Heinie followed Bastien inside the one-bedroom suite and slumped into one of the wooden dining chairs. “I offered to resign my commission. Then they wouldn’t care about any ancestors born before 1800.”
“You’d do that for her?”
“Yes, but Scholz told me he’d consider my resignation an act of treason. I’m stuck.” Heinie raked his fingers through his hair in frustration. “I shouldn’t have listened to that arrogant SS recruiter. He promised us advanced training, newer weapons, superior uniforms. ‘Join the Waffen SS and become the best of the best.’ Me and my stupid ego. I thought being part of an elite unit would impress Maurleen, not keep us apart forever. I’ve known I wanted to marry her since I was eighteen, and now . . .” His voice trailed off.
“Then you’ve already waited six years. Wait a few more.”
“What if the rules never change?”
Bastien sat across the table from Heinie. “Maybe we’ll lose the war. I doubt SS rules will still be in force should that happen.”
Heinie smiled and shook his head. “You could get reprimanded for saying that, Adalard.” His smile broadened. “But not as severely as I could be reprimanded for calling SS regulations ridiculous.” He lowered his voice. “Do you really think we’ll lose the war?”
Bastien looked at the floor and realized his leg was rhythmically tapping the carpet. He forced it to stop. “No one’s taken Rome from the south since the sixth century.”
“But Italy isn’t the only place we’re defending. The Red Army is unending. It doesn’t seem to matter how good our men are, the Communists just send more troops. And I ran into a cousin about a month ago. He’s with the Kriegsmarine. Said our U-boats aren’t sinking as much tonnage as they used to. What if the Allies invade across the English Channel?”
“They might try, but that doesn’t mean they’ll succeed.” As Bastien said it, he knew it was true but wished with all his heart that a cross-channel invasion would come soon and result in a quick Allied victory. “Just do your best, Heinie. You can’t control anything else. And write to Maurleen. She needs to know you still love her and that you’ll wait.”
“I worry about her. She’s never been all that confident, so to have some slimy SS bureaucrat tell her she’s not good enough to get married . . . And she’s in Schweinfurt now. She promised she’ll go to the bomb shelter as soon as the sirens sound, but sometimes I think my odds are better than hers when it comes to surviving the war. Saturation bombing—it’s barbaric, and Schweinfurt seems to be a frequent target.”
“Remind her to get to the shelter quick, then.” Bastien didn’t bring up the German bombings of Warsaw or London or Belgrade, but maybe Heinie was right—the death of civilians on both sides was tragic and was happening with far too much frequency. “Does she work at the ball-bearing plants?”
Heinie nodded.
“Well, I’m sure they have plenty of warning before attacks, and they have deep shelters.”
Heinie was quiet for a while, so Bastien switched subjects, hoping his friend would give him additional information he could pass on to Gracie. It was a little odd, thinking of Heinie as a friend. They belonged to opposing armies, and Bastien never hesitated to gather information from him, but he liked Heinie. Even as he used him, Bastien hoped that someday Heinie and Maurleen would be able to wed. “How are those new flak batteries coming along?”