Six Graves to Munich

by Mario Puzo

  They drank together. Tullio wouldn’t let him go, refused to take money for the wine. Other men gathered around. Some brought long loaves of bread stuffed with sweet fried peppers; others gnawed on smoked eels. Children danced in the streets. Then down the main avenue came three elaborately dressed girls, shining black hair piled high, strolling arm in arm and giving the men provocative looks. These were the fiesta putains, the festival whores, specially picked and imported to pluck the virginity of all the young men who had come of age this year, and thus protect the honor of the local girls.

  The men around the wine booth melted away, joining the long trail of young men following the three fiesta putains.

  The fiesta would be a great cover, Rogan thought. He might be able to do the job this very night and be out of town by morning. He asked Tullio, “Can you tell me where the house of Genco Bari is located?”

  The change in the huge Sicilian was immediate. His face froze into a blank mask. All friendliness vanished. “I do not know any Genco Bari,” he said.

  Rogan laughed. “I am an old war comrade of his, and he invited me to visit him here in Villalba. Never mind, I’ll find it myself.”

  Tullio immediately unfroze. “Ah, you are invited to his fiesta also? The whole village is invited. Come, I’ll go with you myself.” And though there were at least five customers waiting for wine, Tullio motioned them away and shuttered the wooden booth. Then he took Rogan by the arm and said, “Put yourself in my hands and you will never forget this night as long as you live.”

  “I hope so,” Rogan said politely.

  The villa of Genco Bari, on the outskirts of the town, was surrounded by a high stone wall. The two huge iron grille gates had been swung open, and the grounds of the just visible mansion were decorated with colored streamers that went from tree to tree. Genco Bari was holding open house for the villagers, most of whom worked on his farmlands. Rogan followed Tullio inside the gates.

  Long garden tables were laden with great bowls of macaroni, fruit, and homemade ice cream. Women filled glasses from wine casks resting on the lawn, and offered the red-purple liquid to anyone who passed by. The whole surrounding countryside seemed to be attending the fête here on the grounds of the Mafia leader’s estate. On a raised platform three musicians began a wild piping dance tune. And on the same raised platform, seated on a thronelike carved chair, was the man Rogan had come to kill.

  The Mafia leader shook hands with everyone. He smiled graciously. But Rogan almost did not recognize him. The fleshy tanned face had changed to a bony waxen death’s-head the color of the faded ice cream Panama hat that adorned the shrunken head. Amidst the gaiety of the fiesta, Genco Bari was the white mask of death. There was no doubt: Rogan would have to move fast to claim his revenge, or a more impersonal executioner would do the job.

  Men and women formed into a square to dance to the music. Rogan became separated from Tullio as he was swept into the vortex of the dance. He seemed to descend into a whirling funnel of human bodies that spewed him out into the open air, hand in hand with a young Sicilian girl. Other couples were peeling off from the whirling crowd and disappearing into the bushes. Rogan’s girl danced behind a huge wine barrel and drank from a great silver pitcher on top of it. Then she held up the pitcher for Rogan to drink.

  She was beautiful. Her full sensuous mouth was stained purple from wine. Her flashing dark eyes, her clear olive skin, consumed the lantern light in their own greater fire. Her full breasts, spilling over the low-cut blouse, pulsated with her eager breathing, and her plump thighs strained against the silk skirt, the hungry flesh not to be denied or contained. She watched Rogan drink, pushing her body up to his; then she led him through dark treelined lanes, away from the festivities, to the rear of the stone mansion. He followed her up a flight of outside stone steps that spiraled along the walls and ended at a balcony. Then they were going through inky glass doors to an inside bedroom.

  The girl turned and held up her mouth to Rogan. Her breasts were heaving with passion, and Rogan put his hands on them as if to still their movement. Her arms twined around his body, pressing him close.

  For a moment Rogan thought of Rosalie. He had made up his mind that he would not see her again, that he would not let her share what he was sure would be his capture or death. Now, by making love to this girl, the decision would become final in his mind. And more important, the girl was the key to penetrating Genco Bari’s mansion; he was in it right now. With the girl, who was growing impatient.

  She was pulling him onto the bed, tugging at his clothes. Her skirt was hiked up to her stomach, and Rogan could see her marvelous full- fleshed thighs, feel her hot skin burning his own. In minutes they were coiled about each other like two snakes, twisting on the bed, straining and plunging, their naked bodies slippery with sweat, until finally they rolled onto the cool stone floor. Locked in each other’s arms they fell asleep there, woke, drank red wine from a jug, got back on the bed, made love again, and fell asleep for a final time.

  When Rogan woke up in the morning he had the worst hangover of his life. He felt as if his whole body was filled with sweet rotten grapes. He groaned, and the naked girl next to him cooed sympathetically, reached down beneath the bed, and lifted up the half-empty jug of wine they had been drinking the night before.

  “This is the only cure,” she said. She drank from the jug and handed it to Rogan. He put it to his lips and the fruity wine washed the ache out of his head. He kissed the girl’s heavy breasts. They seemed to give off the fragrance of grapes; her whole body exuded the aroma of the wine, as if she herself were the very essence of it.

  Rogan smiled at her. “And who are you?” he asked.

  “I am Mrs. Genco Bari,” she said. “But you may call me Lucia.” At that moment there was a knock on the bolted door. She smiled at him. “And that is my husband come to reward you.”

  Lucia went to unbolt the door while Rogan reached to where his jacket hung on a chair, groping for his Walther pistol. Before he could find it the door swung open and Genco Bari came into the room. Behind his frail, wasted figure loomed two Sicilian peasants, shotguns cradled in their arms. One of the peasants was Tullio. He stared at Rogan impassively.

  Genco Bari sat at his wife’s dressing table. He smiled in a kindly way at Rogan. “Have no fear; I am not the typical, jealous Sicilian husband,” he said. “As you see, it is obvious I can no longer fulfill my husbandly duties. I am a more worldly man than my fellow peasants, and so I permit my wife to satisfy her very natural needs. But never with someone from this village, and always with discretion. Last night I am afraid my poor Lucia became carried away by the new wine and her passion. But no matter. Here is your reward.” He tossed a purse stuffed with money on the bed. Rogan did not move to take it.

  Genco Bari turned to his wife. “Lucia, did he acquit himself well?”

  Lucia flashed Rogan a brilliant smile and nodded. “Like a fine bull,” she said mischievously.

  Bari laughed, or rather he tried to laugh. But since there was no flesh on his face, it was merely a grimace of loose bones and skin and teeth. “You must forgive my wife,” he said to Rogan. “She is a simple peasant girl with forthright, lusty ways. That is why I married her three years ago when I learned I was dying. I thought I could hold on to life by feasting on her body. But that soon ended. And then when I saw her suffering I broke all the traditions of our land. I permitted her to have lovers. But under conditions dictated by me, so that my honor and the honor of my family would remain untarnished. So let me warn you now: If you boast of this to anyone in Sicily, I will set my ferrets after you and you will never lie with women again.”

  Rogan said curtly, “I don’t need that money, and I never tell stories about women.”

  Genco Bari stared at him intently. “There is something familiar about your face,” he said. “And you speak Italian almost like a native. Have our paths ever crossed?”

  “No,” Rogan said. He was looking at Bari with pity. The man weighed no
more than seventy pounds. His face was a skin-covered skull.

  Genco Bari said musingly, as if talking to himself, “You were searching for me when you were in Palermo. Then the American agent Bailey set you on my trail. Tullio here”—he jerked his head at the armed guard—“tells me that at his wine booth you were inquiring where I lived and that I had invited you here. So we must know each other.” He leaned toward Rogan. “Have you been sent here to kill me?” He smiled his ghastly smile. He flung out his arms jestingly. “You are too late,” he said. “I am dying. There is no point in your killing me.”

  Rogan said quietly, “When you remember who I am, I’ll answer that question.”

  Bari shrugged. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “But until I do remember, I insist that you remain a guest here at my villa. Take a little holiday. You will amuse my wife, and perhaps you can spare an hour each day to chat with me. I am always curious about America. I have many friends there. Say yes to my request; you won’t be sorry for it.”

  Rogan nodded, then shook the hand outstretched to him. When Bari and his guards had left the bedroom Rogan asked Lucia, “How long does your husband have to live?”

  Lucia shrugged. “Who knows? A month, a week, an hour. I feel sorry for him, but I am young; I have my life to live, so perhaps it is better for me if he dies soon. But I will weep for him. He is a very kind man. He has given my parents a farm, and he has promised to leave his whole estate to me when he dies. I would have gone without lovers. It was he who insisted. Now I am glad.” She came and sat on Rogan’s lap, ready for more of the same.

  Rogan spent the next week at Genco Bari’s villa. It became obvious that he could never hope to escape Sicily after he killed Bari. The Mafia organization would intercept him easily at the Palermo airport. His only hope was to kill Bari in such a way that his body would not be discovered for at least six hours. That would give him time to get on the plane.

  He spent part of each day making plans and cultivating Bari. He found the Mafia Don extremely likeable, courteous, and helpful. They became almost good friends in that week. And although he went horseback riding and on amorous picnics with Lucia, he found his conversations with Genco Bari more entertaining. Lucia’s sexual appetite and grape smell were overwhelming. It was with relief that Rogan settled down every evening to share Genco Bari’s light supper and glass of grappa. Bari had changed completely from the murderer he had been ten years before. He treated Rogan like a son, and he was extremely interesting, especially when telling strange stories about the Mafia in Sicily.

  “Do you know why no stone wall in Sicily is over two feet high?” he asked Rogan. “The government in Rome felt that too many Sicilians were ambushing each other from behind stone walls, so they thought that if they reduced the height of the walls they would reduce the number of murders. How foolish. Nothing will stop people from killing each other. Don’t you agree?” And he gave Rogan a sharp look. Rogan merely smiled. He did not want to be led into any philosophical discussions about murder.

  Bari told Rogan stories about the old Mafia feuds and protection rackets. How every branch of industry had its own Mafia branch clinging like a leech and sucking blood. That there was even a branch of the Mafia that collected protection money from young men who serenaded their ladies beneath their balconies. The whole island was unbelievably corrupt. But you could live in peace—if you, too, were a member of the Mafia.

  Bari had become a farmer in 1946, because he had refused to have anything to do with the traffic in narcotics that sprang up after the war. “I was an evil man in those days,” Genco Bari told Rogan with a deprecating smile. “I was violent. But I never harmed a woman, and I would never deal in narcotics. That is infamità. I always kept my honor. Even murderers and thieves have their honor.”

  Rogan smiled politely. Bari had forgotten about the Munich Palace of Justice, and he had forgotten the screams of Christine preserved on the brown wax phonograph cylinder. It was time to remind him.

  By the end of the week Rogan had thought of a plan that would let him kill Bari and make a clean getaway. He proposed to the Mafia Don that they both go for a picnic in Rogan’s car. They would drive out into the country with a basket of food and jugs of wine and grappa and sit in the shade of a tree. The outing would do the ailing man good.

  Bari smiled at Rogan. “That would be very fine. It is very thoughtful of you to waste your time on an old wreck like me. I’ll give orders to have your car stocked with food and drink. Shall we take Lucia with us?”

  Rogan frowned and shook his head. “She’s too lively, and men can’t talk with women around. I like your company too much to have it spoiled by a female’s idle chatter.” Bari laughed and they were agreed; they would leave early the next morning and return late in the evening. Genco Bari had some business in a few small villages that could be taken care of along the way. Rogan was glad to see that these villages were on the road to Palermo.

  They started off the next morning with Rogan driving and Genco Bari, his skull-like face shielded by his inevitable cream-colored Panama hat, seated next to him. They drove a few hours on the main road to Palermo, and then Bari directed Rogan to take a side road that wound up in the hilly regions. The road ended in a narrow trail, and Rogan had to stop the car.

  “Bring the food and wine,” Genco Bari said. “We’ll picnic beneath the rocks.”

  Rogan carried the basket to where Bari was standing in the shadow of the hill. There was a red-checked tablecloth to spread over the ground, and on top of that he put the covered dishes of fried aubergine, cold sausage, a loaf of crusty bread wrapped in a white napkin. There were wide short glasses for the wine, and Bari poured from the jug. When they had finished eating, Bari offered Rogan a long, thin black cigar. “Sicilian tobacco, rare, but the best in the world,” Bari said. He flared his lighter and lit Rogan’s cigar for him, then said in exactly the same tone of voice, “Why are you going to kill me today?”

  Rogan, surprised, took a quick glance to see if he had been led into a trap. Genco Bari shook his head. “No, I have not taken any precautions to guard my life. It is of no value to me any longer. But I still like to satisfy my curiosity. Who are you and why do you wish to kill me?”

  Rogan said slowly, “You told me once that you had never done violence to a woman. But you helped to kill my wife.” Bari looked puzzled, so Rogan went on. “On Rosenmontag, 1945, in the Munich Palace of Justice. You fixed my tie before Eric Freisling shot me in the back of the head. But you never killed me. You never killed me. I stayed alive. The Freisling brothers are dead, Moltke and Pfann are dead. After I kill you I have only Pajerski and von Osteen to punish, and then I can die happy.”

  Genco Bari puffed on his cigar, stared at Rogan for a long time. “I knew you would have an honorable motive for killing me. You are so obviously an honorable man. All week I could see you planning how to kill me and then get safely on your plane in Palermo. So I’ve helped you. Leave my body here and go forward. Before anyone knows what has happened, you will be in Rome. Then I suggest you leave Italy as quickly as possible. The Mafia has a long arm.”

  “If you hadn’t straightened my tie, if you hadn’t distracted me so that Eric could sneak up behind me, I might not kill you,” Rogan said.

  On Bari’s emaciated face was a look of surprise. Then he smiled sadly. “I never meant to trick you,” he said. “I thought you knew you were going to die. And so I wanted you to feel a human touch, to comfort you in those last few moments without betraying myself to my fellow murderers. You see, I do not excuse myself from that deed. But I must insist to you now: I had nothing to do with your wife’s death or with her screams.”

  The Sicilian sun was directly overhead and the rock overhanging them gave no shade. Rogan felt the sick anticipation rising in his stomach. “Was it von Osteen who killed her?” he said. “Tell me who tortured her, and I swear by her memory and her soul that I will let you go free.”

  Genco Bari stood up. For the first time in their relati
onship he was harsh and angry. “You fool,” he said. “Haven’t you realized I want you to kill me? You are my deliverer, not my executioner. Every day I suffer terrible pain that no drugs can completely banish. The cancer is in every cell of my body, but it can’t kill me. As we did not succeed in killing you in the Munich Palace of Justice. I may live in this pain for years to come, cursing God. I knew from the very first day that you wanted to kill me. I helped you in every way to find an opportunity.” He smiled at Rogan. “This sounds like a rather grim joke, but I will only tell you the truth about your wife if you promise to kill me.”

  Rogan said harshly, “Why don’t you just kill yourself?”

  He was surprised when Genco Bari bowed his head, then raised it to look directly into his eyes. Almost with shame, the Italian whispered, “It would be a mortal sin. I believe in God.”

  There was a long silence. They were both standing. Finally Rogan said, “Tell me if it was von Osteen who killed my wife, and I promise to end yours.”

  Genco Bari spoke slowly. “It was the leader of our group, Klaus von Osteen, who had the screams recorded to torture you with later. He was a strange, terrible man—no other man I have ever known would have thought of such a thing at such a time. For it wasn’t planned, you know. It was all an accident. So he had to think of the recording right there, right on the spur of the moment, as the girl was dying.”

  Rogan said hoarsely, “Then who tortured her? Who killed her?”

  Genco Bari looked directly into his eyes and said gravely, “You did.”

  Rogan felt the blood pounding in his head, the skull around the silver plate throbbing with pain. He said thickly, “You lousy bastard, you tricked me. You’re not going to tell me who did it.” He took the Walther pistol from his jacket and pointed it at Bari’s stomach. “Tell me who killed my wife.”

  Again Genco Bari looked directly into Rogan’s eyes and said gravely, “You did. She died giving birth to a dead child. None of us touched her. We were sure she knew nothing. But von Osteen recorded her screams to frighten you with.”