Marco Polo, If You Can

by William F. Buckley

  They came when the moonlight, though dissipated, could still be seen. An officer, six men, a priest. “Dismiss him.” Salvatore pointed imperiously at the priest. “I am a Marxist, and need no opiate before leaving this wretched world.” The lieutenant and priest spoke to each other in whispers. The priest drew back, but did not leave the detachment. His head was bowed in prayer. They put handcuffs on Salvatore, who turned then to Benni and said in a resonant voice, “The revolution will bury these bastards.” They yanked him out then; moments later, Benni heard the fusillade and was sick, though all that came from his impoverished stomach was an ill-digested crust of bread. Was this, he wondered, what was meant by casting bread upon the waters?

  Benni found, at the prison in Basilicata, that he was happiest in the company of those who discreetly shared his own secular passion. One month after his arrival the news had been passed that the Resistance, under Party leadership, had smuggled Maria and Michele to America; they were safe, living in Washington. From time to time the Red Cross would bring him a letter from Maria, reassuring Benni that she would wait forever for him, and that Michele—now “Michael”—was doing well in school.

  The days and weeks and months went quickly—the summers hot, the winters cold, the food all but inedible, the spirits kept alive only by news, which would trickle in, of defeat after defeat, the deposition of Mussolini, then of course talk of a military invasion by the Allied powers, in anticipation of which the Nazis descended in large numbers. Would they—there were three hundred in the work detachment—be moved north? Perhaps even as far as Germany? Or might they be shot? That, Benni reflected, probably depended on whether the relevant orders were given by the Germans or by the Italians, whose loyalty in the southern provinces was less than rigorous. The Germans would be more expeditious in their approach, the Italians more nonchalant; besides, the Italians would be around after the surrender to answer for what they had done, while the Germans would be retreating to their northern fastness. All the talk was about what was looming; finally, during the summer of 1943, the guards permitted them to listen to the radio broadcasts. It was not difficult, after a week or two, to get the hang of it. The announcers spoke in an Aesopian mode: thus, “The Allied expeditionary force, led by General George Patton, suffered severe losses in the fighting outside Palermo, as the valiant armies of Italy resisted wave after wave of assault on the capital city.” This meant that the next day the Americans would take Palermo. The prisoners did not bother to disguise their enthusiasm for the invading armies, and the morale of the guards was visibly disordered. By October all the Germans had been detached to the front in Calabria. The Italians did their work listlessly, under officers who at first were younger and of lesser military rank than their predecessors. These in turn were replaced by men who had clearly been yanked by the Nazis from retirement, and now the prison camp was under the command of Colonel Nicola Paone, who must have been overage in grade during the First World War. The colonel knew nothing about the manufacture of barbed wire, which was the principal production of Campo Spirito Santo, and there weren’t enough old hands about to notice the general slowdown. The manuals had always specified that the barbs should be four-point half round, wrapped around both cable wires. So it had been from time immemorial, with the wire coming in from the die at one end of the long, ill-heated building. But the loss of supervisory controls began to bring on difficulties. The lubricant box was neglected, or the fiber washers went too long without replacement, or the holding screws were unregulated. At the other end, waiting for the naked wire, those in charge of the barbing process were often idle. And when the wire was passed through the feeds into the spinner head, as often as not a single worker would insert the barb, resulting in two-point, rather than four-point, barbs. Instead of precisely measuring the specified eight centimeters between barbs, the prisoner pulling the wire would merely approximate the distance, then nod to the spinner operators. However, no one in Rome complained that production quotas were not being met, indeed were down by fifty percent.

  Benni, by now the ackowledged leader of the ideological militants, acted in effect as spokesman for all the prisoners, since it was only the Communists who were organized; and it was he who was called into the office of Colonel Paone on the evening of February 4, 1944, and invited to sit down. Benni did so warily, refusing the proffered cigarette. The colonel said that he had listened to the shortwave radio the evening before and had done considerable thinking. The war—at least the Italian part of the war—was, he said … well, was over. In a matter of weeks, the Americans would reach Rome—and here, at Campo Spirito Santo, the prisoners were halfway between the beachhead and Rome—what would be the point in pointless resistance? Benni’s heart began to pound, but he did not change his expression. The colonel went on to say that American radio had put on the air a general who, speaking in perfect Italian, announced that any Italian or German officers found guilty of brutality or acts of savagery against civilians or political prisoners would be tried by American military courts and held responsible for their acts. “When we take Rome,” Paone quoted the American general, “we will have ammunition left over for firing squads.”

  Benni permitted himself to nod his head slowly, weightily, as though the American general who spoke Italian had been meticulously transcribing Benni’s orders.

  Colonel Paone then asked a direct question. He wanted to know whether Benni would be willing to testify to the effect that under Colonel Paone, he and his fellow prisoners had been fairly and humanely treated?

  Benni decided to take a long gamble.

  “On one condition, Colonel.”

  “What?” Colonel Paone’s voice was anxious.

  “That you permit all prisoners to leave within twenty-four hours.”

  Colonel Paone looked at Benni as if he were utterly mad. He rang for the orderly, motioning him to lead Benni back to the barracks.

  The next morning at dawn the usual bell didn’t sound. The men began, out of habit, to stir. Most were fully dressed against the February cold. The prisoner nearest to the door which should have been unlocked at 6:45—so that they could walk, under the watchful eye of the guards with the automatic weapons, pacing up and down the elevated walks to the refectory—pounded on the door. “Hurry up! I’m hungry.” There was no answer. Playfully, he pulled on the handle. The door swung open. The men fell silent. Apprehensive, he motioned to Benni, who walked purposefully to the gray-lit aperture, sticking his head out the door. The light was sufficient to see. He looked up to the commanding patrol tower. There was no one there. Benni looked to the right, toward the mess hall which would be bustling with the preparation of the soup and gruel they would be given for breakfast. It was silent.

  And so he knew. Looking neither to the right nor left, and followed silently by his ragged barracks mates, he walked to the huge gate under the control tower. Confidently he turned the handle and pulled. It opened squeakily. For Benni, the war was over.

  CHAPTER 6

  The President wiggled his index finger at his chief of staff, indicating that he should leave the Oval Office.

  The Director had known the general many years, at historical and personal moments very high and very low. He knew the zephyrs, the williwaws, the storms, and the hurricanes. Observing him now, standing behind his desk, confronting the Secretary of State, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, and the Director of Central Intelligence sitting in the chairs to which they had been unsmilingly beckoned, the Director knew that this threatened to be a historic, typhonic low. Indeed, the President found it difficult to begin. His face was red, and the Director feared for his heart condition. They had come in by helicopter from Camp David that afternoon. He had said goodbye, after which Khrushchev went to a press conference, then to Andrews Air Force Base, and on to Moscow.

  Finally, gritting his teeth and facing no one in particular, the President said:

  “Ever see Khrushchev drunk?” He pronounced it Kroo-cheff.

  No one commented.
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  “Any of you, any of you. I’m asking you a question: Did you ever see Kroocheff drunk?”

  Again there was silence.

  “I suppose he doesn’t drink vodka when he is merely in the company of underlings. Only with chiefs of state. Is that what your people report, Allen? Or do they report anything? Maybe they’re all drunk. Why not, the good they do.”

  Everyone knew the President was on no account to be interrupted.

  He lapsed again into silence, looking down at his desk.

  “Know what the son of a bitch told me last night? At my lodge? At my presidential retreat? Named after my grandson? Know what he said? He said—now, I quote him e-x-a-c-t-l-y.

  “He said, ‘Ike, you should watch your language.’ Called me ‘Ike’!” The President’s eyes very nearly popped out.

  “I looked at the interpreter, I mean I looked at the son of a bitch and I said”—the President’s voice turned to ice-coated steel—“I said, ‘What did you say?’

  “The fellow looked at Kroocheff, mumbled something, Kroocheff mumbled back—fellow couldn’t look me in the face this time—but he said:

  “‘The Chairman’s words, sir, which he insists I translate directly, are: “Ike, you should watch your language.”’”

  The President resumed his agitated walk behind the table, his mind obviously reverting to the alternatives he had faced shortly before midnight the night before.

  “I couldn’t kick out the interpreter. That would have left me with that grinning son of a bitch with no way to talk to him. Oh, I thought of a few alternatives. The one that appealed to me most was to walk right up to him, eye to eye, then knee him one right in the crotch, then sit back and tell the interpreter to tell ‘Nicky’ to watch his language. Oh, I’ll dream of that opportunity every day of my life—don’t tell Mamie. Every single day of my life I’ll think about it, think about what I didn’t do for my country.…”

  There was silence. The Secretary of State finally broke it.

  “Mr. President, what did you say?”

  “What did I say, for godsake? I thought, this guy’s got to be nuts. How many times have I seen him? Six? (Felt like thirty-six.) How many people were usually in the room? Except once, about a dozen. I didn’t use any language which would have shocked—Mary had a little lamb. I mean, Mary. Mary’s lamb. Oh goddammit, I mean, if I said ‘Gee whiz’ in front of him I’d be surprised.

  “Then I began to think. What I thought was, well, maybe the old bastard had read somewhere—you know, it’s all over, in the books and articles they write about me—that I don’t always talk—that people who’ve spent their lives in the army—don’t always talk, well, you know, like nuns. So I asked him—very steady voice, and very formal language—‘Mr. Chairman,’ I said—twice I said Mr. Chairman, real cold, so he’d know how I reacted to the ‘Ike’ bit—I said, ‘Mr. Chairman, where did you get the impression, Mr. Chairman, that I use improper language?’

  “He says, ‘When a report says, “The President gave full expression to his displeasure,” isn’t that the polite way of saying, “The President swore”?’

  “So I said to him—I could have just changed the subject, but the son of a bitch had been drinking steady, like maybe eight, ten, fifteen vodkas, counting before dinner, so I wondered, well, where’s this guy getting his information? So I said, ‘Where did you see any reference to “The President gave full expression to his displeasure”?’—I figured somebody had given him an old column by Joe Alsop or somebody wanting to show off what an insider is—I asked him that.

  “He giggled. Ever see his teeth up close, Allen? Help yourself to one of those telescopes you watch Mars with for signs of Soviet sub activity or whatever, and look at his teeth someday.…

  “He giggled. Then he said—he didn’t begin it with ‘Ike’ this time, he said ‘Mr. President’—‘Mr. President,’ he said, ‘we know everything that goes on, and we know how you “gave full expression” to your “displeasure” with Defense Secretary McElroy when you found out that what the Secretary had said about Soviet missile capability was incorrect.’ He giggled again—I swear, I had to turn my face. Then he said, ‘You remember, Mr. President, how you spoke to Mr. McElroy after learning that we had many more than just ten missiles?’

  “Son of a bitch,” the President said. “Son of a bitch. I mean, that’s exactly what happened, and if memory serves—and my memory does me pretty good service, no thanks to all that crap they print about the effects of my stroke—you, Dulles, and you, Herter, were in the room at the time. And maybe you, Twining, can’t remember. NSC meeting. Was it in the Situation Room? I’d gotten that report of yours, Allen, about the Japanese U-2, and I chewed McElroy’s ass out, and he deserved it. He admitted it to me later. In private.

  “In private? Shit. ‘In private.’ What’s that? Tell me what that is, Dulles.

  “Now I’ve done a lot of thinking since midnight last night. I thought of calling McElroy in Paris. But think, now, how that would have sounded.

  “‘Neil, this is Eisenhower.’

  “‘Good evening, Mr. President. It’s two in the morning! An emergency?’

  “Me: ‘No, Neil, not exactly. I’d like to ask you a very specific question. Did you ever tell anybody—wife, friend, anybody—that I chewed you out using exactly these words: “The President gave full expression to his displeasure”?’

  “That would have been just great. I wouldn’t have blamed McElroy if he thought I was drunk. Or crazy. So I didn’t call McElroy. But—this was a coupla hours after Kroocheff went to bed—his aides came in, practically had to carry him out. I managed a smile. You know,” the President’s face lit up in a caricature, “‘the famous Eisenhower grin.’ Take a good look, gentlemen, because you’re not going to see ‘the famous Eisenhower smile’ again for a long time, I’m telling you, not for a long time.

  “So at exactly 0235 I called Jim Lay. I said to him, ‘Lay, get your ass down to the safe where they keep the minutes of the National Security Council meetings, wherever the hell that is, and call me back and read me what it says at the meeting back in—I figure about three weeks ago, sometime in early September—the meeting McElroy was at, and we discussed revised estimates of Soviet nuclear capability.’

  “He told me he might have trouble getting into the safe at the EOB this time of night. I told him the only trouble would be for whoever held him up from doing what I told him to do; I didn’t care if he had to round up the Eighth Division as an escort, or get the Department of Engineers to bomb the goddam safe open. He got the picture. I gave him the number to call. He called me back in forty minutes, 0315, and here”—the President reached down to his desk top and grasped a sheet of paper on which, even at a distance, his audience could see his handwriting—“here is what he read me—I’m skipping the first part. Right to nuts and bolts.” The President moved his trembling finger down the page to the passage: “‘After listening to the Director’s report on Soviet nuclear missile capability, which conflicted with the earlier publicized estimate, the President gave full expression to his displeasure.’”

  He threw the paper down on his desk, gripped the top of his chair, drew it slowly back, sat down, lifted his legs to the top of the desk, and leaned back.

  His voice now was matter-of-fact.

  “Herter, go back and study the minutes of all National Security Council meetings going back three months at least. Then assume everything we said is known to the Kremlin. Report back to me, and advise me how this will affect a) our policy; b) our negotiations; c) our public statements.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  “Twining? Do the same thing. Plus make recommendations on how whatever we gave out that they shouldn’t know can be confused; throw ’em off, that sort of thing. Get back to me by the fifth of October, or by the time their missiles land on us, whichever comes first.

  “Dulles? Find the mole.”

  Without looking up, the President pointed to the door.

  CHAPTER 7


  The last time the Director had called on Rufus, the Director had promised that never again would he trouble the man who had determined almost ten years before to retire. Not—the Director now said to Rufus, trying hard not to sound argumentative—not that it was obvious to him why Rufus, a younger man than the Director by seven years, should want so badly to retire; but that was his business. So when the Director had called this morning he simply hadn’t bothered with the usual excuses. He’d just said, “Rufus, I’ve got to see you.” Rufus’s reply was as expected, and at a little after twelve Dulles’s car reached the little farm in Maryland where Rufus devoted himself to his roses, while his wife Muriel seemed to attend to everything else, including discretion. The lunch was prepared and laid out in Rufus’s study, lined with books on horticulture and philosophy, in three languages.

  The Director had known Rufus since the war, at one tense moment of which General Eisenhower had insisted, with twenty generals and admirals looking on, on hearing from Rufus personally over the telephone that in his judgment the ruse had worked on the Nazis, and that it was therefore okay to proceed with the Normandy invasion. Rufus’s reputation as a man of outstanding ingenuity, tenacity, and discretion had actually got him notice in a history book or two. There had been repeated attempts to interview him, but these had now mostly died down, because Rufus handled them uniformly and routinely: he returned all mail, except that clearly marked as coming from his closest friends, unopened, having first stamped it: “ADDRESSEE UNKNOWN.” His telephone number was unlisted, and even so he changed it every sixty days, at which point, in his methodical way, he would mail eight postcards, on the back of which would be scrawled merely: “New number: 325–1231. R.” You couldn’t ever really tell, the Director thought, lighting his pipe as Rufus poured coffee, but he supposed that Rufus was—not a truly happy man. He was too philosophical to be happy. But he was a man content; even fatalistic.