by Bill Mesce
*
It had not always been thus, but over the period Harry had been in Rome, he had come more and more to prefer time in his paper–filled cubby to time anywhere else; to the company of his fellow officers in the dining hall; to time alone in his room mooning over photographs of his wife and two sons; even to time walking the streets of Rome, indulging in the sights and the war–rationed pleasures the city afforded its most recent occupiers. Instead, he preferred the quiet time alone among his piles of papers, coordinating, corroborating, collating. Only rarely did he even avail himself of the staff clerks, preferring to do his own filing and transcribing and typing, pushing his stubby, hesitant fingers about a typewriter keyboard. For some reason, he found comfort in those late night and weekend hours when, more often than not, his office was the only isle of light on the darkened floor.
On one of those evenings when he had the floors of offices to himself, Harry granted himself what might be described as an indulgence. It was several months prior, during those last days of summer when he had first begun to learn of the events at the Ardeatine Caves. He had ventured out along the dark corridors, to the floor and then to the posh rooms where the German Commander of Rome had kept his offices. Harry had let himself into the office, now home to his own superior, and lowered himself in the deep cushions of the chair behind the massive, oaken table serving as a desk. In the glow of the moonlight filling the tall windows, he noted the pen holder of shining obsidian, the elegant phone the likes of which he’d only seen in the cinema in films featuring Greta Garbo. Behind him, despite the blackout, windows provided a grand view of the Via Venuto.
Harry let himself sink deep into the upholstered chair, rested his head against the high–back. He looked out on the broad via, strollers – some arm–in–arm – silhouetted in the moonlight. He rested one of his pudgy hands on the cool handle of the telephone, and wondered what manner of being could sit in such comfort, pick up that graceful receiver, look out on that stately boulevard, and command the ritual slaughter of 335 human beings. Aside from the creaking of the chair beneath his stout frame, nothing came to him by way of answer or enlightenment.
It would be the only time Harry would walk the dark, carpeted hallways after hours.
And so it was, some days after Mr. Hauser had headed home to impress his hoped–for future congressional constituents with his dutiful representation of their concerns, Harry sat alone in his snug little sanctum on the evening of that date marking the American holiday of Thanksgiving.
There was a knock at his door which he did not answer. The visitor was experienced enough with Harry not to even bother waiting for a response and immediately entered. Harry briefly glanced up over his reading spectacles just long enough to identify the intruder as one of the staff orderlies, a young private whose child–like form was lost in the folds of his Government Issue uniform. He was pushing one of the hotel’s silver serving carts ahead of him and atop the main tray were several covered plates.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Colonel!” the orderly chirped in some Great Plains drawl. “They missed you down in the dinin’ room! Yore missin’ out on a helluva party!”
Harry re–settled his spectacles on his roundish nose. “I’ll muddle through.”
The orderly awkwardly navigated the reefs of piled files until he docked the cart alongside Harry’s desk. He made a show of lifting each of the plate covers and declaring the scrumptiousness of the food with a loud sniff. “Mmmmm–mph! The cooks did a right good job, Colonel! Tried to make it just like home! Even got cranberry sauce! It’s that glop comes out a can, but it’s still cranberry sauce. Got some macaroni there, too – a ‘joint operation ‘tween us ‘n’ the Eye–talians ya might say! Not bad on the side. You should get inta some a this while it’s hot, Colonel.”
“Thanks.”
Without looking up, Harry could sense the disappointment of the youngster, and his puzzlement that such a mouth–watering invitation could be so dispassionately rebuffed. The orderly attentively re–covered the plates. “They didn’t really have ‘nuff turkey for ever’body,” he confessed. “The junior officers got a lot a chicken mixed in. Turkey don’t seem to be so big over here.” The orderly seemed to be looking for an excuse to maintain a conversation. He leaned over the studious Harry, looking out the office’s one, narrow window. “Funny how quiet it is ever’ place else. I mean, it’s a helluva wing–ding they got goin’ downstairs! ‘N’ out there – ”
“It’s just Thursday to them.”
“I guess. Hey, maybe it’ll catch on.”
Harry turned to study the orderly’s earnest, open face over the rims of his lenses. “‘Catch on?’”
“You know, like they celebrate Christmas. Why not Thanksgiving?”
Harry sighed and returned to his paperwork. “They’ve been celebrating Christmas a lot longer than we have.”
“Oh, yeah, I guess.”
Harry gave the orderly another glance which queried as to whether the orderly had anything more of note to offer.
The orderly was not so naïve as to miss the meaning and began to back out of the office. “Well, enjoy yore dinner, Colonel.”
Harry nodded a thanks and sighed pleasurably when he heard the door shut.
But only a few minutes passed before he heard footsteps yet again padding along the carpeted hallway toward his office. Harry growled impatiently before calling out: “You forget something, Private?”
No response. Harry sat up curiously. “Is somebody out there?”
Then, in an unreservedly artificial basso which echoed up and down the empty corridor: “Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows!”
Of all the people on earth with whom Harry Voss was acquainted, only Joe Ryan would have refined the ability to balance himself on the doorknob, allowing his upper body to swing into the room while his feet remained in the doorway, and only Joe Ryan would have believed the hours spent in refining such a flourish were a worthwhile investment.
“My God! Joe!” Harry tossed his glasses on the desk and shot to his feet, his face opening in a welcoming smile as he went to grasp the hand of Colonel Joseph P. Ryan, Judge Advocate’s Bureau.
“Harry–boy!” Ryan clasped Harry’s hand warmly in both of his own. He stood back a moment, his bright, green eyes squinting in study at the shorter, thicker officer in front of him. “That’s a rounder shadow than I always thought Lamont Cranston would have.”
“Drop dead. What are you doing here? Are you AWOL?”
It was a dashing smile of perfect white teeth that Ryan flashed; a smile befitting the good looks that made him look several years younger than the man across from him though they were of the same age. “Colonels do not go AWOL,” Ryan pronounced, emphasizing the point with a leather–gloved finger. “They conduct operations at their own discretion.”
“Sit down, you dirty so–and–so!”
Ryan looked at the one visitor’s chair filled with files with a not–quite–so–mock disdain. “No mean feat, Harry–boy.”
Like a contrite housekeeper, Harry quickly made room.
“Who’d you piss off to end up in this rat hole?” Ryan said, pretending to dust the seat with his gloves before setting himself and his trimly–tailored Royal Navy–styled bridge coat down.
“I like this rat hole,” Harry said, returning to his own chair. “I think it’s cozy.
“You would.” Ryan leaned toward the serving cart, peaked under one of the covers with a pained eye. “Oof!” Then, in a horrible imitation of an Irish brogue, “Would this be our loverly Army cooks be havin’ a try at proper holiday victuals?”
“I hate when you do that.” As Ryan opened his coat, Harry noted the steam pipe fit of the colonel’s “Eisenhower” waist jacket. “Did you lose weight?”
“Living in the field makes you hard, Harry.”
“I thought you wrote me you were living in a hotel in Liege.”
“Compared to this palace, I’m living in a ditch. C’mo
n, let’s go.”
“Go where?”
Ryan rankled his nose at the serving cart. “I didn’t come all this way to eat Army slop. You must know some nice little place.”
“A few.” Harry reached for his cap and jacket. Ryan’s eyebrows went up over the battered flying jacket on top, the combat boots below. “What’s with the Rickenbacker jacket and boondockers? You think you’re Patton?”
“Patton wears a tie.” In the doorway, Harry frowned with a thought and nodded toward the serving cart. “What about that?
Joe Ryan smiled and made an inviting gesture of his arm. “Little mice, little mice, wherever you are…bon appetite.”
*
Not ten minutes away, Harry guided them onto one of those innumerable narrow mews that spin off from the main Roman vias and corsos like meandering little tributaries off rivers. Harry had no problem negotiating the blacked out streets, leading them to a cellar trattoria. Though dim and grotto–like, the air – fragrant with the essence of simmering tomato sauce, frying garlic, and aged cheese – was warm and inviting after the chill November night. As soon as Harry and Ryan entered, a cherubic Italian woman of uncertain but appreciable years called out in bright Italian: “Ah, so, Colonel ‘merican! Again you learn that the kitchen at the Hotel Flora is not so good as my kitchen?” She came out from behind the dining room’s bar with its attendant hanging wicker–clad chianti bottles and gave Harry a hug and kiss on each cheek.
“I don’t think it’s the kitchen at the hotel that’s the problem so much as the Army cooks in it,” Harry said.
She ran an appreciative eye up and down Ryan’s form. She was older than the two men, handsome in her corpulent way. “Ah!” she said with great interest, “you bring a friend tonight? Good! You spend too much time eating alone!”
“Good evening, Signora,” Ryan said, graciously taking her hand and gently setting his lips on the work–toughened skin. “A pleasure to meet a friend of my friend; particularly one so charming.”
The signora put her free hand on her ample hip and flashed Harry an impressed look. “This one is something special, eh?”
“Oh, he’s something all right. Colonel Ryan, this is Signora Catarina. Signora, an old friend of mine.”
She feigned a lady–like curtsy; Ryan responded with an equally arched bow. She took them both by the arm and led them to a checkered cloth–covered table.
“He speaks the tongue as well as you,” she said as she lit the stub of candle protruding from an old wine bottle. She rubbed her chin thoughtfully as she studied Ryan’s features. “Northern Italian?”
“Very northern,” Ryan said. “Connemara.” When she seemed not to understand, he continued: “County Galway. Ireland, my dear.”
“I would normally hold that against you, but since you are a friend of your friend…” She shrugged forgivingly. “Would you like a little something to start? Antipasto?”
“Of course!”
“Maybe some mozzarella with fried peppers?”
“Can’t you hear my heart pounding?”
“Where did you find him?” Signora Caterna asked Harry.
“Gypsies threw him out.”
After she left them alone, Ryan basked in the rich odors of the place. “Smells like home, Harry. You must eat here every night.”
“Off and on.”
“Do you know anything about Belgians?”
“Nope.”
“Let me tell you about Belgians, Harry–boy. There’s no such thing as Belgians.”
“That’ll be a shock to all those people saluting the Belgian flag every morning.”
“Oh, they’ll blab your ear off about a great Belgian history, and Belgian traditions, blab, blab, blab, but there’s no such thing as a Belgian. You’ve got German Belgians, and you’ve got French Belgians; that’s what you’ve got. And then there’s the Flemish and I don’t know what the hell they are; some Dutch thing I think. Now these German Belgians – krauts by any other name – ”
“Do you still take on the occasional diplomatic duty? Because this is the kind of diplomacy that could extend the war twenty years.”
Signora Catarina returned with a basket of warm bread, a plate covered with slabs of mozzarella broken up with slivers of fried red pepper soaking in an oil–and–herb mix, and the antipasto.
“Ah, beautiful!” Ryan enthused. “Signora, I haven’t seen anything this lovely since I left home!” Then a lurid wink in her direction: “And the food looks gorgeous, too!”
“He’s unbelievable,” she said to Harry, fanning a hand in disbelief.
“The better you know him, the worse he gets,” Harry said.
Alone again, Ryan wagged his eyebrows luridly at Harry. “A little something going on here between you two? Can’t blame you, Harry. She’s a fine figure of a woman. A fine figure for two women! A little old for my taste, but I know you like ‘em aged like a good provolone! If you want, I’ll break the news to Cynthia for you.”
“I didn’t think it was possible,” Harry said, “but you’ve become an even bigger pain in the arse than you’ve ever been.”
“I’ll bet you say that to all the fellas. Excuse me, belladonna!” he called across the room. “Could we have a bottle of chianti, please?”
The signora looked questioningly toward Harry; alcoholic potables were a rare part of his meal.
Harry nodded his approval. “He’s paying.”
“Mark my words, Harry,” Ryan babbled on, “you keep your eye on those kraut Belgians. I think some of them wouldn’t mind slitting a Yank’s throat in his sleep. For laughs.”
“Do you say these things out loud up there?”
“Do you know the big difference between German Belgians and French Belgians?”
“They’re taller?”
“The French ones have sooo much better food! When was the last time back in the States you saw a Belgian restaurant? To krauts, food is any kind of meat you can stuff into a skin sack. Bratwurst, knockwurst – it’s the worst!”
“It’s sad you think that’s clever.”
Then Ryan, as he rarely did, ratcheted back his usual level of performance to something more akin to that of normal human beings, and asked, with a sincere hunger for news of home, “What do you hear from Cynthia?”
The remainder of the meal passed – with only the occasional effusive interruption tossed Signora Catarina’s way by Ryan – on just such a mundane level. What news of home? What news of the people who, just a few years before, had been their neighbors and friends? They had both been overseas long enough that thoughts of home had begun to take on a sadly vague and dream–like quality. Talking about them with each other went some way to reinvigorate the memories, to remind each other that these thoughts were of something real; something that could be touched and felt, and that awaited their return.
As their meal concluded over demitasse, a satiated Ryan sighed and then demanded, “You’ve got to show me some sights.”
“Sights?”
“Harry, I am in Rome and God knows when the little Irish bastard from Newark is ever going to be in Rome again. Give me the nickel tour. The rush job.”
“There’s a blackout! What can you see?”
“I’ve always hated when you’re realistic! Have I ever told you that? You can be such a killjoy, Harry–boy; a wet–blanket–sourpuss–pain–in–the–ass killjoy!”
*
Harry wheeled the jeep through the Piazzo Rotondo, pointed out the shadowy forms of the colonnaded face of the Pantheon and the massive dome above. “It was like a church for all the gods the ancient Romans worshipped.”
“You really can’t see much, can you?” Ryan moaned.
“I told you.”
“How about that Colosseum thing?”
“‘Colosseum thing?’” For all his practiced élan, there were times, Harry observed, when Ryan remained a local lad on his first excursion away from home. “Sure. We should be in time to watch the MPs do the evening flushing out of hooke
rs. Maybe we’ll see somebody you know.”
The Colosseum was a few minutes ride from the Pantheon, so it was not long before Harry and Ryan found themselves up among the curved travertine benches upon which, millenia earlier, Roman citizens had been entertained by spilt blood and rent flesh. Ryan brushed away at the bench with his gloved hands and sat.
Below them and above them, the bulk of the Colosseum was shrouded with night. There was little moon; just enough to limn the arches of the uppermost tier of the amphitheater, the repetitive sweep of the seating tiers, the labyrinth of compartment walls and corridors nearly a hundred feet below them at the bottom of the stadium well.
“A little more impressive than the Newark city stadium,” Ryan observed.
“A little.”
“Except it smells like a latrine. And it’s kind of banged up.”
“See how you look two thousand years from now.”
“However I look, I’ll look better than you! What’s that whole mess down there?” Ryan pointed to the roofless maze below. “Where did they throw the Christians to the lions? “
“All that was covered. The bottom of the arena was like a stage; wood covered with sand. There were trapdoors into the arena. They used to be able to put on quite a show. Once they somehow got water in there and rigged up a sea battle between miniature boats. The way I got it, there wasn’t a lot of throwing anybody to the lions. Animals fought animals, people fought people, and they usually didn’t let the people kill each other. They spent so much time and money training gladiators, it was too big an expense to always kill them off.”
“If that’s true, even if they did throw the occasional Christian to a lion, that still gives them a step up on us. We’re not as frugal about our gladiators these days.” Ryan said it with a – for him – unusual pensiveness. “How come you didn’t drop me a line about getting transferred to Rome?”
“You don’t seem to have had any trouble finding me.”
“Maybe I could’ve gotten you out of it.”
“I volunteered, Joe.”
“Is everything ok at home?” Ryan asked, sincerely concerned.
“I hope so.” Harry shrugged off Ryan’s worry. “They were looking for guys who knew the language, who understood the people – ”