Giacomo and Pia had left for work, and Paulo was at the Naval hospital, arriving before seven for early morning rounds with one of the attending physicians. Larry and Paulo, at their parents' insistence, were planning to go to dinner together, to one of the nearby, family owned store front restaurants that seemed to pop up on every street. Pia had tickets with friends for some show being performed at a local theatre before heading for Broadway, so she wasn't able to join them. To make up for this, he had promised to take her to lunch, an opportunity to spend a little time together, just the two off them. Later he would stroll over to his dad's shop and hang out there for a while before meeting his sister, and perhaps spend the rest of the afternoon just wandering the old neighborhood, seeing who was around and catching up on old friends. But for now, a leisurely breakfast and some time with his mother, a woman of quiet strength and native intelligence, the kind of smarts, he thought, that couldn't be acquired in any school.
* *
The evening was warm, but not unpleasantly so, and the fortuitous conjunction of temperature, clear sky and full moon seemed to most of the inhabitants of South Philly to be an invitation to amble along the streets of their neighborhood. It was a summons too enticing to refuse, this working class promenade, and in twos and threes, sometimes singly, they sauntered along, groups occasionally coalescing, their ranks swelling, forming new larger groups then splitting apart like some sort of human chemistry, new molecules heading off in every direction. Larry and Paulo emerged from Angelo's, having refused a second round of grappa, on the house of course, to join the evening stroll.
They walked in silence for a while, their bellies full and their thoughts as aimless as their wandering, before Larry broached the subject that had become a recurring problem in recent months. "You understand I can't tell you exactly what it is that I do, but you do know that I sometimes work behind enemy lines."
"Understood. You don't have to apologize to me."
"But I do need to talk to you about something that happened. It's been bothering me, and talking to the doctors at my HQ, well, they're nice but, no offense to your profession, they didn't seem to really give a damn. The only people I know who will care are the only people who love me, my family. I can't talk to mom or dad about this, you'll see why. And Piccola, well, I would have a hard time with her, too. I need to talk to my brother."
Paulo was apprehensive about what he might hear, but he also felt gratified that his older brother, someone to whom he always looked up, desired to unburden himself to him. "Larry, I'm a good listener and you know I love you."
"The last mission I was assigned was in occupied France, in preparation for D day. The details aren't important, but what is, is what I was forced to do by unexpected circumstances. I've killed before, up close and personal, not some Jerry in your sights at a hundred meters. That's just the way it often is with the kind of work that I do, and I could live with that. They were all bad guys, the enemy, and they would have killed me in a minute without blinking an eye if they had the chance. But I never killed a child."
Paulo felt a fist of ice grasp his heart, the summation of the fear that had been growing since Larry started talking. He didn't know what to say. His brother paused, looking for a reaction. The only thing that Paulo could do was put his arm on Larry's shoulder, hoping the empathy he felt for the other's pain would come through, and the initial revulsion he felt would remain hidden.
Larry started walking again, his throat dry and his tongue moistening equally dry lips. "I was setting charges on...on something that had to be destroyed. It was critical. Hundreds of GIs would die if I failed. No one expected that the wife and children of the German officer in charge would be visiting. It wasn't exactly the front lines, but didn't they realize there was a war going on? Shit. Who except the most arrogant could send women and children to visit men while they're fighting a fucking war?
"I was turning to go and there was this kid wearing a Hitler Youth uniform, couldn't have been more than twelve or thirteen. He looks at me, then at the satchel charges. 'That's a bomb,' he says, 'I'm going to get my father.' I started to say something in German, but he spun around, about to bolt, so I had to grab him. He was kicking and trying to scream for help, while I was holding him with one arm and trying to muzzle him with my other hand. Strong for a kid. I knew I couldn't keep him immobilized and quiet for long, not unless I stayed where I was and sat on him. No tape or anything else to tie him up with. Two others who came with me were too far away, waiting at the perimeter, to be of any help. He had almost wriggled free when I realized what I would have to do."
"Larry, you don't have to..."
"Yes, I do. Basically, I suffocated him. Shit, Paulo. Let me call a spade a spade. I killed a little kid. Then, I puked my guts out. My soul, Paulo, that's what it cost me. My soul and the life of a child for the lives of a hundred soldiers. Was it a fair trade?"
They had walked for several blocks and paused on the corner of Tenth and Dickinson in front of Little Sicily, a café and neighborhood landmark since before Larry was born. Paulo turned so he could face his brother and took hold of his arm above the elbow. "That kid, that Nazi, cause that's what he was regardless of his age, a Nazi..."
A loud, basso voice interrupted. "Hey, it's the Sabatini boys. How youse doing? The whole neighborhood's proud of you." A short, chubby, middle-aged man with thinning black hair parted almost dead center approached them. "In spite of all the bragging your old man does." He chuckled, a big smile on his face. It was Frankie Meola, a generally good-natured fixture in the area around the Italian market, a man who worked for the Mafia; doing what, nobody seemed to know, but his connection was unquestioned. He could be seen from time to time bending over and talking through the window to someone in the back seat of a large sedan that pulled up to the curb, and Frankie would occasionally go missing for a few days or a week, and when he returned he always seemed to be flush with cash. The signs were unmistakable, and he was therefore always treated with respect, as well as a measure of discrete avoidance.
Larry had to hide his disappointment at once again being interrupted before he was able to fully confess and exorcise the self-declared sin that gnawed at his insides. Larry turned towards Frankie, hand outstretched in greeting. They shook, Larry noticing the soft flesh of the other's hand, but also aware of the inordinate strength in those pudgy five fingers as they held him in a firm grasp. Paulo turned toward them, his back to the street and waited to pay his respects, while Frankie continued the handshake as he spoke to Larry. Frankie noticed the car careening around the corner a second before Larry saw it, and pushed Larry backwards, trying to make a dash for the entrance of the restaurant. Larry was caught off balance and tumbled to the pavement, while his brother looked on, not sure what was happening. Frankie and Larry knew exactly what was about to transpire, but Larry's shouted warning to Paulo was drowned out by the discordant din of the fusillade of bullets let loose by the occupants of the speeding car. Automatic and pistol fire erupted, the muzzle flashes tracking around the corner like orderly fireworks visible to Larry as he lay on his back, trying to roll and get to his brother. Frankie Meola crashed to the ground in a heap, the back of his expensive knit shirt riddled with bullet holes and the back of his head exhibiting an unnatural contour, pieces of it having been blown away. Larry reached Paulo, who was flat on the ground, just as the hail of gunfire ceased and the sound of the car's revving engine receded down Dickinson Street. He prayed that he had heard his warning, ducking in time to avoid the barrage of lead from the Mafia assassination, but as soon as he put his hand on Paulo's back he knew that he was hit. The warm, sticky fluid he felt on his hand was blood, the feel of it sadly familiar to Larry. He rolled him over, life not gone from the body, but the empty eyes already far away, and the rapid, shallow respirations formed small bubbles of blood and spittle that burst almost as soon as they were formed. Larry knew that his brother was beyond hope; he simply held onto him, cried, and in between the tears spoke to him of his
love. He hoped for some word, some remembrance for the family, some final pithy statement that could be passed down the generations - mark these words well, they were the last ever spoken by your great uncle Paulo Sabatini. He hoped for some final forgiveness from his brother for the sin that he had confessed. But Paulo simply lay there, immobile and silent except for the rasping breaths, until they too ceased and he died in his brother's arms on a South Philadelphia street, on a not unpleasant summer night.
* *
An ache filled the collective hearts of the family and a pall settled on the whole neighborhood. The local Mafia chieftain paid his condolences, expressed his rage and indignation that such a thing could happen, and vowed swift revenge. Giacomo's blood was near boiling and he believed that if he had the perpetrators in hand, it would be his greatest joy to skin them alive, flaying each of them as he had done to goats and cows during his years in the leather business. Aletta let him vent, knowing that to try to dam up such a torrent would come to no good, and in short time he realized that his greatest joy was not retribution, but rather what had been taken from him, one of his children, and no amount of killing, no vendetta could ever replace him. Tears followed the anger, and when the family held him and his wife close, and gently spoke of time, and prayers, and fond memories and all of the other platitudes that one says upon the death of a loved one, they nodded in acceptance, but each knew in their heart that they would bear an open wound for the rest of their lives.
For Larry, his brother's death was like a jagged claw that ripped at him from every angle, sundering mind and body alike. Not only was the loss the greatest he had yet endured, but his own demons remained un-expunged, and the guilt he felt for being concerned about his own misfortune in losing what he thought was the one hope he had for redemption, plagued his soul even more. He thought about going to a priest, but he had been away from the church for many years, and besides, he thought they would be incapable of understanding the choices involved.
Days passed. Days of darkness and grief as the family clung to each other, physically close, yet each alone in their own torment. When the time came for Larry to return to Europe and the war, there welled up new waves of emotion, beating in disorganized patterns like ocean currents colliding. For his parents there seemed to be ominous portents and signs everywhere as they divined tragedy from everyday minor events. The loss of both sons would be too much for them to live with. Pia appeared calm, but Larry could read the signs. Easily distracted, short tempered with him, an absent-minded indifference to her appearance, all spoke of her fear for Larry as well as her mourning for Paulo. As for Larry, his furlough had provided neither rest nor rejuvenation, and he departed with a physical and mental fatigue that was profound.
Giacomo borrowed a friend's car and insisted on driving Larry to the Naval base. His mother and Pia came along, sitting silently in the back seat during the short ride that seemed longer than it was because of an awkwardness in their closeness, a feeling that heretofore had been unknown in the Sabatini family. At dockside warm hugs and assurances of a safe return were spoken with animation. But they all knew it was forced, as if by actors at a local theatre group, and however good the performance, when it was over, and they drifted off to home, they would return to their own personal thoughts. And for the Sabatinis, to a one, the paramount thought was, "What shall we do if we loose both our boys?"
As the ship was maneuvered out of its birth, the family stayed on the dock, wanting to keep their son and brother in view as long as possible to make sure the image was securely imprinted in their minds, for it might have to last a lifetime. When the bow swung around to starboard and the vessel eased into the river, Larry gave them a final wave and, leaving his duffel where it lay, made his way forward and sat down on a winch housing on the fore deck to await the open sea. Ahead lay his war, a passion play of death and destruction on a very personal scale. Inside he could hear the distant howl of the murdering beast he feared he might become. Would he ever be free? Behind him, his home and family, a sanctuary violated, forever changed. When they reached the open ocean the spray doused his body, but the fever inside burned on.
CHAPTER FOUR
BERN, SWITZERLAND. 12 FEBRUARY, 1945.
Allen Dulles sat and looked out the window onto Herrengasse, the narrow street in which, at number 23, was housed the headquarters in Switzerland of the Office of Strategic Services, the OSS, occupying portion of the United States embassy in Bern. Its presence in the embassy quarters was not public knowledge for ostensibly it didn't exist, but in reality it was really more a matter of the right heads turning the other way. The building, a light colored stone town home from an elegant era long since past, was one of a dozen or so that lined both sides of the street and, from the outside, was rather nondescript as were it's neighbors on either side. Inside, while hardly nondescript, it did not appear at all opulent, but for those with a discerning eye, the quality of the materials and the care with which it was built stood as a lasting testimony to the wealth and good taste of its former owners.
Rising above the stone buildings across the street, the tower of the Cathedral of St. Vincent stood silhouetted against the blue sky, and as the thin white clouds passed by, it seemed like the tower was moving, always about to fall over but never actually doing so. Sometimes Dulles felt like that, and it was that similarity that now held his gaze fixed on the centuries old tower as he stood and walked to the window.
Allen considered himself to be thoroughly versed in the history of spying, but having just read "The Art of War" by Sun Tsu, he was surprised to find that over two thousand years ago the Chinese general had realized the importance of spying for a successful military campaign. Dulles had read volumes too numerous to mention, had immersed himself in operational data and histories culled from secret files of multiple agencies and had personally interviewed dozens of agents; but all of his knowledge did not fully prepare him for the emotional rigors of his craft nor protect him from the assaults on his conscience. He was cursed with a memory that did not let him forget the names of any of the agents, operatives, informers or partisans that had been killed in operations that he had authorized or directed. And because of his position, Allen often knew the details — perhaps a merciful bullet while fleeing, or days of torture and humiliation, a barely breathing, broken human unable to resist the onslaught against their body and kept alive only long enough to know how the Germans had taken advantage of their forced betrayals. Often, of course, the operative was simply never heard from again. They came, these pangs of emotion and despair, at all times of the day and night, sometimes while he was sleeping. He would wake up in the middle of the night and even before he was fully awake he would feel it descend upon him like a too thick blanket. When this happened the night's sleep was lost to him and Dulles had learned not to try to go back to bed. Sitting at the kitchen table in his apartment with a cup of hot chocolate he would think of all of the atrocities being played out all over Europe and the rest of the world under the direction of Adolph Hitler and his thugs. He would think of all the deaths, the torture, the complete disregard for human life or dignity. Then there began a long mental inventory of the various operations that played a part in the long arduous fight against this disease that was infecting the world. Not all of them were successful, but enough were, so that by the time he had proceeded through the long file he created in his mind, he felt justified in what he had done. Their banner had been advanced, the sacrifices he had demanded of others brought the world a little closer to safety, and by the time the first signs of dawn were visible through the east facing window of his kitchen, Allen Dulles could once again live with himself.
He stared out his office window a moment longer, watching the clouds float by, and with an anthropomorphism he didn't really believe, envied them there distance and detachment from the human race, watchers who were serene in their total inability to do anything to alter the course of history or affect the world of man, other than to make it wet. His eyes wandered
from the sky to the street below his office, men and women hurrying along the Herrengasse a reality check bringing him back to his daily world of espionage, data collection and the all too numerous meetings and reports to be filed.
He turned away and slowly stepped off the few feet to his desk, where he picked up the phone. "Send them in now."
His aide opened the door and stood aside as he ushered three men into the large wood paneled room that was once the second floor study of the wealthy merchant who built the house so many years ago. He nodded to the men as they entered and motioned them to sit down at the round, elegantly carved table that occupied most of the center of the room, remaining standing until they all sat. Turning to the window, his back toward them, he began. "Seven weeks ago, by way of a wealthy Italian businessman, we were contacted by a General in the Wehrmacht who made a most interesting proposal. As you may know, Hitler has been driving his staff to develop an atomic weapon, and they were making significant progress, which was why, last February, a joint British Norwegian operation destroyed a Norwegian ferry carrying the entire remaining Nazi supply of plutonium and sent it to the bottom of a deep lake in southern Norway." Always somewhat of a showman, Dulles paused for effect, before continuing. "Except, that's not where the plutonium ended up!"
Allen Dulles turned and looked at each of the men sitting at the table before continuing, "Our general seems to have pulled a switch and removed the plutonium before it was loaded on the ferry. He transported it himself to Germany where he has it hidden. Now he wants to use it as a bargaining chip." He walked to the window and opened it slightly, an excuse to gaze outside one more time. How he envied the clouds in their detached remoteness.
The men at the table looked at each other, waiting for Dulles to continue. Julian Templeton, although not a field agent himself, often ran agents as director for most of the operations out of the Switzerland OSS. He was the oldest of the four, and the best dressed. In his mid forties, and the only professional politico among the group at the table, his take on any situation included an evaluation as to how it might help or hinder his postwar career in the State Department. Nonetheless, he had a quick, analytical mind that was very adept at planning operations, especially where much of the scenario could not be known in advance and where contingencies had to be built in to cover a myriad of unforeseen possibilities. Julian was patriotic. He loved his country, believed in the freedom it offered and was eager to help in advancing its cause. But he was also a cynic and whenever patriotism and his own self-advancement clashed, he made no bones about his allegiance. It was, first and foremost, to himself.
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