LITMIR.BIZ

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her.

      “It fell on the twenty-second,” said Maria.

      “Ah, you have better information than me.”

      “I listen to the BBC.”

      “Soon they will be on the mainland. Soon, perhaps, in Rome?” He looked at her hopefully. This goddess who had brains as well as beautiful bosoms.

      “Perhaps,” said Maria.

      The waiter pointed at the pizza and coffee. “Now every Italian knows we should never have gone to war. It is hurting us where it hurts most,” prodding his stomach. And then sadly: “We Italians are not fighters.”

      She looked at him steadily. The waiter smiled uncertainly. She stood up, at least three inches taller than him. “Never let me hear you say that,” she said, searching for money in her handbag.

      “You think we are fighters?” Astonished.

      “You are implying that Italians are cowards,” Maria said. “Have you ever heard of Suda Bay?”

      Miserably the waiter shook his head and began to clear the table to avoid her gaze.

      “The Italians sank the British cruiser, York, and three supply ships. And how did they do it?” waiting until he was forced to look up. “With human torpedos, that’s how. And the pilots only ejected when the explosives were on target.”

      “I didn’t mean —” the waiter began.

      “The Italians are as brave as anyone. It is merely that we” — What am I, Jewish or Italian? — “are not stupid enough to sacrifice our way of life — that is what we have more than any other nation, a way of life — for an empty cause. But we are ruled by our hearts and not our minds, and that is why we allowed ourselves to be led to disaster by the Fascists.”

      Her speech finished she strode from the cafe.

      “Ah, she’s got guts, that one,” said a workman in blue dungarees sipping his coffee.

      “Six months ago she would have been thrown into jail,” observed another.

      “Perhaps she will be very soon,” said the first workman. “When the Germans come.”

      The waiter said: “Why? The Germans have no love for Mussolini. Why should they throw her into jail for insulting him?’

      “Because,” said the second workman, “she’s a Jew. That’s why, my friend.”

      Outside the cafe Maria turned on her heel and headed towards the Corso. She was surprised at her pro-Italian outburst; after all, the Italians had introduced racial laws aimed at the Jews — even the Jewish artichoke had been renamed; but, Maria comforted herself, that had been the doing of the Fascists. But why had she wasted words on the waiter? Perhaps, she thought, because I know no man of character and strength in whom to confide; a man, that is, to whom I am physically attracted. Not even Angelo Peruzzi whose strength is a sham.

      She didn’t take one of the green trams this morning. She wanted to smell the scents of Rome as it finally climbed from its bed after its drowsy awakening. The sky was misty blue and the streets rang with the clip-clop of horses’ hooves — more horses around these days than cars. But today Maria sensed a fresh nuance to the summer morning; a new expectancy as the Romans awaited the Germans, a razor-blade of cruelty; and when a pneumatic drill started up she jumped as though it were gunfire.

      * * *

      At the Fountain of Trevi Maria met by appointment a man she did admire. Although admiration was the limit of their relationship because the man was forty-eight — and a priest.

      His name was Father Marie-Benoit, known in Rome as Maria Benedetto. He was a French Capuchin friar who had dedicated himself to rescuing Jews from their oppressors.

      From the outset his career had been unorthodox. In the First World War he had served with the 44th Infantry Regiment as a stretcher-bearer and rifleman and had been awarded the Croix de Guerre with five citations and the Medaille Militaire. He was being trained as a machine-gunner when the Armistice was signed and was then transferred to the 15th Algerian Rifle Regiment in Morocco. After that he became Professor of Theology at the College International de St. Laurent.

      At the outset of the present war he served first as an Italian interpreter with the French South-east Army Group. When France surrendered he went to Vichy, France, to Marseilles, sorting house of gangsters and refugees from German-occupied Europe. There he organised escape routes for the Jews.

      Subsequently he was recalled by his Father Superior to Rome, where he had previously served, and was installed in the Capuchin Monastery at 159 Via Sicilia.

      Currently he was working on plans to evacuate Jews from the area of southern France occupied by the Italians because, as soon as the Italian surrender to the Allies was announced, the Germans would move in and implement Hitler’s Final Solution.

      Seeing him standing beside the fountain Maria Reubeni thought: “Now there’s a man.”

      She walked up to him. “Good morning, Father.”

      He smiled at her. “Good morning, my child.” His features were serene and yet it seemed to Maria that the serenity was a mask beneath which any extreme was possible.

      He pointed at the fountain’s rocks set against the wall of the palace, at the statues of gods and goddesses and tritons, and the cascades of water spilling into the great bowl. “That water,” he said, “comes from Agrippa’s aqueduct, the Aqua Vergine, probably the sweetest water in all Rome. And do you know what the English used to do with it?”

      She shook her head.

      “Make tea.”

      She laughed.

      “Great people the English. A pity they never colonised Rome. If they had we might spend the rest of the day waiting for the sun to go down over the yard-arm instead —”

      “Of waiting for the Germans to come.”

      Father Benedetto sighed. “And come they will. Already the German Army is preparing to take over. We have a lot to do,” he said taking her arm. “Papers to forge, food to hide, escape hatches to oil.”

      “But first,” she said, “the Jews in France, in Nice. How is it going, Father?”

      “Slowly,” said the priest. “As you know, I’ve seen the Holy Father and sought his help. So far nothing’s happened but that was only thirteen days ago. These things take time. And the Holy Father is in a very difficult position,” he added.

      “Very,” the girl said drily. “He finds it very difficult to acknowledge the existence of Jews. Particularly dead ones.”

      “Now that,” said the Capuchin friar, “is not quite so. There are many factors involved. But this is no time for a debate about Papal diplomacy.” He led her from the little square in the direction of the Corso, gesturing with his free hand. “Palaces, basilicas, villas … We live in a museum. And there must be many dusty hiding places in a museum.”

      “But will you be able to get the Jews out of France?” Maria asked.

      “We hope to get in touch with London and Washington through the British and American representatives at The Holy See. The prisoners in The Vatican,” he said smiling. “Which reminds me,” tightening his grip on her arm, “I understand there was a very important visitor to The Holy See today.”

      They reached the Corso, the windows of its elegant facades covered with dark-blue paper as an air-raid precaution. There were a few people around heading for the food queues; a kiosk opposite the Piazza Colunna displayed newspapers bearing nebulous headlines because editors were no longer sure what constituted good and bad news.

      “Who was that?” Maria asked. “The Chief Rabbi?”

      “On the contrary,” Father Benedetto said. “He was a German.”

      “That

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