Picture of Defeat

by John Harris

  When he returned with the form, Jones stared at it and listened with increasing interest to what he had to offer. ‘US army?’ he said. ‘Then the original must have been signed either by some clerk at their headquarters who’s mixed up in a racket and was providing a false signature, or by an American officer who won’t be queried.’

  ‘Of the rank of major or above,’ Pugh said. ‘That’s the regulation.’

  ‘The next rank above major,’ Jones ended pointedly, ‘is colonel.’

  They lifted their heads and stared at each other for a long time.

  ‘I think,’ Pugh said, ‘that it’s time one of us went to Rome.’

  Seven

  The condition of the Eternal City was much the same as that of its more profane little brother, Naples, and it could barely contain its air of excitement. For the final defence of the place, German soldiers had been hauled out of hospital and formed into a last-ditch battalion, but the forces against them had been too much. The Gruppa Azione Patriottica, a Communist action group of terrorists, had been eliminating spies, collaborationists, soldiers or anybody they disliked for some time, cutting telephone wires, putting spikes down on the road and setting off bombs.

  But now the Germans were gone and for the first time in twenty-two years people were discussing their politics openly in the cafés and bars with the same delirious feeling of freedom that was just beginning to wear off in Naples. They had spent too long staring hunger in the face, listening to screams in the night, the spatter of machine guns and the hurried clomp of nailed boots. Now the shutters, which had remained firmly closed against everything, were being opened at last, Jews were appearing from their hiding places – one had been sleeping for months inside an altar – and there were escaped British and American prisoners of war openly in the streets. There were also escaped Russians, huge hairy creatures who had been living wild, terrifying the peasants and beggaring them with their enormous appetites, and people of all political persuasions who had tried to withstand the Germans and the Fascists throughout the occupation.

  But already prices had started to soar, and gas and water were still cut off and, though it was possible to eat in restaurants, the food came from the black market and only the rich were able to afford it, usually by selling their possessions, even their bed linen, in the street. But, despite the grisly stories of torture in the Via Tasso, where the Gestapo had had its headquarters, there was still some of the good Roman ostentation of bowing and hand-kissing, and still a little nostalgic Italian sniggering at the few impertinent gestures of defiance they had got away with.

  The British had appeared only in small numbers. The American Commander of the 5th Army and his horde of newsmen and cameramen had occupied most of the attention since the liberation, and there had even been some attempts to keep the British out so that it would be an entirely American liberation, but a few had made it and there was a defiant sign chalked on a wall, ‘Gli ingles steno a Roma’ – The British have arrived in Rome. On the other hand, just below, there was another sign: ‘We do not want Germans, Americans or English. Let us weep in peace.’

  There were a few grumbles that the Pope had done nothing to help Italy during the occupation, but most people accepted that he had been in exactly the same powerless position as themselves. The day before Pugh arrived, the Pontiff had agreed to meet the Allied press and, with times changing, the women correspondents had not gone to the interview in black veils and dresses but had been in pants and forage caps, and throughout the interview there had been flashing lights and cries of ‘Hold it, Pope!’ And ‘Attaboy!’ and ‘Gee, that’s great!’ The Pope had not enjoyed himself.

  By now, though, the excitement was beginning to die down a little and things were becoming normal, whereas only a few days before, the mobs had been in the streets, shooting the informers who had given away people who had hidden Italian soldiers. The director of the Regina Coeli prison, where so many political prisoners and deportees had been kept, had been lynched. Identified by wives and mothers of men who had suffered under the Nazi-Fascist control as the personification of collaboration, he had been spotted by a crowd who were actually screaming for the blood of someone else entirely, trampled on, dragged half-naked in front of a tram – the driver of which had refused to run his vehicle over him – and finally thrown into the Tiber, where youths had beaten him to death with oars. With his body finally hanging from the bars of a window of his own prison, it had emerged that, far from collaborating, he had in fact been trying to save lives and had been in contact with the Jews and the Committee of National Liberation, a clandestine organisation set up against the Germans.

  Like Naples station, Rome station was crowded with people trying to find relatives from whom they had been cut off for months, and here and there about the streets were flowers and little shrines on still blood-stained pavements, where people had been shot. When partisan bombs had blown up a lot of Germans in the Via Pascal, the Germans had gone berserk with revolvers and machine guns; terrified children had run in circles until they had collapsed, and nervous people had crowded on to the trams which circled the city, and remained there for over an hour, going round and round until they felt it safe to descend.

  The air was still thick with resentment and vengeance, and the station staff, struggling against the increasing numbers trying to travel now that it was possible, were in no mood to help Pugh. The office where all the paperwork was done was undermanned and being run by a few tired clerks.

  ‘As if we haven’t enough to do just trying to get the trains running again,’ one of them said, staring sullenly at Pugh’s uniform.

  He didn’t offer much hope of finding out what had been carried on trains from Naples but, as it happened and obviously to his surprise, he managed to unearth the sheet which showed Grei’s coffin as ‘goods’ in the guard’s van.

  ‘Cassa da morto,’ he read. ‘Una. Cadavere: Uno. Al interno. Coffin: One. Corpse: One. Inside.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘You also expect a name, Signore?’ The clerk waxed sarcastic. ‘It is Grei, Gustavo.’

  ‘Who gave permission for the coffin to be transported?’

  ‘I have it here.’ The clerk stared at the illegible signature. ‘Someone who wishes to remain anonymous, it seems; but the rank is clear – Tenente Colonello. Lieutenant-colonel. The name could be anything, including Jesus, or Joseph or even Mary, Mother of God.’

  ‘Where did the coffin go?’

  ‘Signore, I don’t have eyes everywhere. I didn’t see it go. I’m just a clerk. You must ask a porter. Or perhaps a guard, who would have required a signature and possibly an address to release it. With a coffin containing a corpse, they would not be required to come here.’ The clerk grinned suddenly. ‘The delay here could be so long, putrefaction could set in.’

  It didn’t take long to find a porter who remembered the coffin. He and his workmate had brought up a trolley to carry the flowers.

  ‘I fiore!’ he said ecstatically. ‘The flowers! One fell off and I took it home to my wife. It is still in a glass on the table.’

  ‘What about the coffin? Who carried that? Some other porters?’

  The porter turned a shocked look at Pugh. ‘A coffin, Signore? Containing a corpse? The undertakers took it. There were six attendants waiting on the platform for it. And a two-horse hearse. Such splendid plumes.’

  ‘What about the relatives? Did they meet it?’

  ‘They accompanied, Signore. From Naples. Three splendidly dressed men. Such coats and hats! Such wealth! They gave me a thousand lire tip! Just for carrying the flowers. No weight at all.’

  ‘Three of them?’

  ‘Three of them, Signore. One very important. He wore a medal ribbon. Two less important. A captain and his lieutenants, you might say.’

  You might well, Pugh thought.

  ‘What about where the coffin went to? Did you hear the address?’

  ‘Not me, Signore. I was only the porter. On the other hand’ – the
porter tapped his nose – ‘I remember now–’

  ‘You did hear an address?’

  ‘No, Signore, I didn’t. But I did see the name of the undertaker as we were putting the flowers round the coffin in the hearse. A splendid hearse, Signore. The sort I would like for myself. Such well-fed horses. The name was Andreotti and it came from the Via Moroni. Doubtless, the Signore Sergente could verify.’

  He could indeed. ‘You’re sure of the name?’

  ‘I saw it clearly, Signore. Very clearly. Right under my nose. And my eyes are good.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Determined not to be outdone by Genovese’s boys, Pugh offered a thousand-lire note and the porter slammed to attention and saluted.

  ‘It is good to have the British in Rome, Signore,’ he said. ‘They stole the piano from our canteen for a sergeants’ mess. But the Germans shot our dog. The British would never shoot a dog.’

  The clerk in the office regarded Pugh’s return with a sigh. ‘Telephone book,’ Pugh demanded.

  The name of Andreotti, Piero, agente di pompe funebri, was there. Via Moroni, 19.

  The Via Moroni was in the north of the city, not far from the station and close to the railway line. It was an area of flat-fronted blocks interspersed here and there with open yards, some of which had been made from bombed areas. Pompe Funebri Andreotti occupied a yard behind a high, spiked gate and was fronted by a small shop whose glass had been painted black.

  The owner, whom Pugh took to be Piero Andreotti, was wary and preferred to talk of irrelevant details.

  ‘We used our best horses,’ he said. ‘Mefistofele – a strange name for a horse used by an undertaker, I think – and Massaniello. Very reliable animals. Never disturbed by traffic. Not even by bicycles; there are a great many bicycles in Rome these days, and the young don’t hesitate to ride under their noses. You can imagine what would happen if the horses took fright. Che disastro! The hearse is our best. It was insisted on. We have two of course. Most undertakers have only one. It has rubber tyres. Very silent. Very distinguished. The other is for lesser occasions. Second-class – but still very dignified, of course.’

  ‘Where did it go?’ Pugh demanded bluntly.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The coffin. It isn’t still here, is it?’

  ‘But, no, Signore! I understand the poor soul died five days ago. It would be most unwise in the growing heat to keep it that long. It went to the Cimitero Monumentale.’

  ‘Immediately?’

  ‘No, Signore… They said they wanted it taken to the home of the relatives.’

  ‘Who said so?’

  ‘The signori who accompanied it. Very fine gentlemen they were, too. They said they wished for candles and prayers and a priest.’

  ‘The undertaker in Naples said they had candles and prayers and a priest there. Why did they want them again?’

  ‘For the Roman relatives, Signore? I understand Gustavo Grei was a relation who had died in Naples after being cut off by the war. He was being brought back by cousins to his family in Rome.’

  ‘Where do these cousins live?’

  ‘Via Romolo e Remo. I have the address here. Numero 31.’

  ‘And the family?’

  The undertaker stared at his book. ‘Name of Focchia Emmanuele Focchia. I always look up names and addresses for safety. There are too many crooks about. They were expecting it. The coffin was carried up the stairs to the living room, where it remained overnight. The next morning we collected it and removed it to the Cimitero Monumentale.’

  ‘Smell the candles?’

  ‘Signore?’

  ‘You can smell candles when they’ve been burning. For a lying-in-state, for instance. Probably even incense, if the priest came and brought an altar boy or a server.’

  Andreotti suddenly looked worried. ‘I smelled neither candles nor incense, Signore.’

  ‘They didn’t in Naples either. Did you open the coffin for them and close it the following day?’

  ‘They said they wished to do it themselves.’

  ‘Did you see any sign that they had?’

  ‘I didn’t look, Signore.’

  ‘What about the coffin? Did you notice anything odd about it?’

  ‘Odd, Signore? Nothing except that it was a big one. For a large man. The man inside must have been very big and overweight.’

  ‘He was a small man. Your size.’

  Andreotti looked puzzled then he smiled. ‘He must have rattled round inside, Signore.’ He frowned. ‘But when we were carrying it up I discerned no movement. Perhaps they packed it with his treasures. They do sometimes. The Neapolitans are superstitious – barbaric, like the ancient Egyptians. But who am I to argue? They paid me well.’

  ‘In cash?’

  ‘A great deal. More than I asked. So that I would do things exactly as they requested.’

  ‘Did you arrange for an uncle from Rome to be with the coffin?’

  Andreotti sniffed. ‘That’s a Neapolitan practice. We’re more civilised up here.’

  Pugh frowned. ‘What about the coffin? Did it seem the same when you brought it down as it did when you took it up?’

  ‘But, of course, Signore.’ Andreotti stopped dead and slapped his forehead. ‘Since you mention it, Signore, I don’t think it did.’

  ‘In what way was it different?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t think about it, of course, at the time. I was concerned only with getting it down without dropping it. But it was easier than I’d expected, and I noticed that the body moved. You can tell, Signore, when you have it on your shoulder and your ear to the wood. I felt it move. I heard it move.’

  ‘But it didn’t move as you took it up?’

  ‘No, Signore. And it was heavy.’

  ‘It was a big coffin.’

  ‘A very big coffin. We have a stock of caskets for the deceased – all normal sizes, but I’ve never come across one this size before. That’s very odd, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Pugh agreed. ‘Very odd. The men who had brought the coffin from Naples: did they attend the funeral?’

  ‘No, Signore. They had a big car which waited in the street. They followed the hearse for a little way but then they turned off.’

  ‘And the relations in Rome?’

  Andreotti looked puzzled. ‘They didn’t attend either, Signore. The men said they weren’t well and that only they would be going. But they didn’t, as I say. In the end there was just the priest, myself, the bearers and the director of the cemetery. I feel a man should never be sent to his Maker without someone to see him go.’

  ‘Do you have the names of the men who hired you?’

  Andreotti shrugged.

  ‘Didn’t you present them with a bill?’

  ‘They insisted there should be no bill. They gave me no names. Just cash. I didn’t argue. One doesn’t under such circumstances – especially these days.’

  The Via Romolo e Remo was not far away, in a district of tall flat-faced buildings containing apartments, not unlike the building where Gustavo Grei had died in Naples. Emmanuele Focchia belonged to the same class. He was a clerk and, though he was working, he was clearly not paid enough. Both he and his wife were thin and hollow-eyed and looked as though they hadn’t had enough to eat for ages. He opened the door nervously, and when Pugh mentioned Gustavo Grei he saw Focchia flinch.

  The apartment was small and as ugly as the building. A new lamp and a new radio standing on a table seemed quite out of keeping with the general shabbiness of the rest of the place.

  When Pugh explained why he was there, Focchia and his wife exchanged nervous glances.

  ‘Your uncle,’ Pugh said. ‘Arnaldo Grei.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Focchia agreed. ‘Uncle Arnaldo.’

  ‘Of Via Opera, 19, Naples.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Your father’s brother, or your wife’s father’s brother?’

  ‘Why do you ask, Signore?’

  ‘Documents get a bit mixed up. The coffin w
as brought here from Naples, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘By relatives?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Names?’

  Focchia gave a frantic glance at his wife. ‘Well–’

  Pugh pulled out a notebook and waited as if to write down the names.

  Focchia gave his wife another desperate glance. ‘Well–’ he said again. ‘Well, you see, they were not close relations of mine, you understand. They were his relations.’

  ‘So why did they bring the body to Rome?’

  ‘Well – ah! – because he had left a request that he should be buried in Rome with his wife.’

  ‘What about his children?’

  ‘They are in the north. At the other side of the front line.’

  ‘Did you request that the body be brought north?’

  ‘Yes. I knew of his wish, you see.’

  ‘Whom did you contact in Naples?’

  ‘An undertaker.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘I don’t have the name.’ Focchia’s answers were coming more easily now as he gained confidence.

  ‘So how did you pay his bill?’

  ‘I didn’t pay the bill. The Naples relations did that. The relations who brought the body here.’

  ‘I saw the coffin. It was a big one. He must have been a big man.’

  ‘Yes. A big man. Very strong when he was young.’

  ‘What about the undertaker here in Rome?’

  ‘Ah – well, you see – that had all been arranged–’

  ‘But not by you?’

  ‘No. Not by me. By the relatives from Naples.’

  ‘What about the burial? Where was it?’

  ‘I regret I didn’t attend it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘My wife was unwell.’

  ‘But, of course, you met the coffin when it arrived at the station?’

  ‘Yes.’ Focchia caught a despairing warning glance from his wife and changed his mind. ‘No! No, of course not! I forgot. I told you. My wife was unwell.’