The Road Beyond Ruin

by Gemma Liviero

  The man was lying on his side, eyes closed. Shriveled and gray, he looked around eighty, though he was much younger, and had somehow lasted ten years in such circumstances. He should have died by now, thought Erich, but the political prisoners here were treated better than most. He’d had connections. Monique at one time said that one of the fascists who had put him in prison had once been her father’s friend.

  The prisoner was sallow and shrunken. He no longer resembled a human. Erich scanned the bleak gray walls of the cell, the inhabitant’s only vista, and the concrete floor, stained and streaked with matter. When he looked up, the man had one eye open, watching him. Erich paused a moment. He could have said something then. The words were there in his head, the words that might fill the wretch with a moment of peace, if his mind was not yet addled. But Erich walked away instead. If nothing else, he had satisfied his own curiosity.

  Monique must never know. Erich needed his wife to do her duties, to not be distracted, and to remain a silent and loyal wife at least, even though it was a marriage of convenience only, as a favor to Georg. He and Monique were nothing alike, and their separations were probably the only thing they agreed upon. The air in their apartment was oppressive. He was glad to leave as often as he did, was pleased when he was called to Berlin for urgent talks.

  The next months were spent busily interrogating people who had not been fully supportive of recent measures—of the treatment of Jews, of changed conditions—people who were not happy with the closure of certain venues and the abolishment of certain newspapers, and people who had their own ideas, which were no longer allowed. It was his job to counsel (code for threaten), to ensure compliance from those who were outspoken. And then there were the occasional resistance members who were caught in the mountain ranges between Italy and Austria. Who had taken to theft and minor sabotage but had not been, who Erich thought would never be, clever enough to commit the kind of deed that would overthrow the powers of Germany. As inconsequential as he thought they were, they were still annoying enough to waste his valuable time. They would need to be eliminated.

  In the summer he and Monique had taken the train to Dresden and had access to a car to take them to the river house. He had not liked the idea of spending any extra time with her, but he was pleased to be seeing Georg again. Rosalind had been there, mousy as always, looking around her and watching Monique. He had seen the jealousy years earlier, as had Georg. He had been amused by it, Georg less so, more guarded on the subject. But the incident by the river houses had left an effect on Erich that would change the course of his life forever. It was something that would hang low, a gray cloud just above him; even at the crucial moment of interrogation, the memory of that night would attempt to scatter his otherwise arranged thoughts.

  As the months passed by, the cloud grew darker. The news of job promotions elsewhere and his desire to work in other areas amplified his growing dissatisfaction with his own role, which had diverged into tedium, and the situation with Monique, even more so, the marriage pointless and regrettable now.

  She had acted differently toward him after their return from Germany. The subject of Georg had completely ceased between them from that point forward, and neither did she broach what had occurred, but in small ways the experience seemed to empower her. She showed indifference to the things he spoke about and had become slower to perform the household tasks required of her. But what bothered him most was that the event was another weight on the chain that bound them, in that any knowledge of it outside their tiny river circle would shame him, exposing the lies inside their marriage.

  He had just spent the day interrogating several Italian resistance members who had been caught and transferred to a concentration camp. Arriving at the cell, he had found that they had pissed on the floor in front of the door. He had conducted an interrogation in the rooms below to get away from the smell. He was meant only to ask them questions, but they had answered haughtily; they had laughed, and then one of them had spat on him. The prisoner was set upon by several enforcers in the room, but it was not enough. On top of the previous events, Monique, Georg, his sister, and the thankless work, the prisoner’s spitting had been the final offense.

  Erich had picked up a metal rod and beaten the prisoner so hard repeatedly that the man fell unconscious. Not that these disciplines hadn’t been performed before; it was just that Erich had not had to bear the physical side of things. He noticed a trace of blood on his cuff when he took off his coat on arrival at the apartment he and Monique shared.

  After a long drive home, he found the apartment in darkness. There were no smells from the kitchen. He had not told her he would be home, but his mother always had meals ready for his father regardless. Monique, in contrast, had grown to be useless as a housewife; there was no point to her being here.

  She arrived sometime later, and he was waiting for her.

  “Where were you?” he asked.

  “Just walking,” she said, trying to hide the shock of finding him home. She looked slightly repulsed.

  “You have been looking for your father again, haven’t you?”

  She switched on the light in the kitchen.

  “What does it matter?” she said nonchalantly. She did not give him the courtesy of looking at him. She was like Claudine. Showing her contempt, openly then. And the thought of his sister brought even more feelings of rancor to the surface.

  She turned to look at his hand that had reached out to grip her arm, before looking up at his eyes with both alarm and disgust.

  “What are you doing?” she said. “Let me go.”

  You must control your wife, Erich, before she controls you, his mother had advised shortly after his wedding. She had seen Monique’s flaws, like he had.

  He pushed Monique roughly back on the couch. He lifted her skirt, but she slapped him, and his return slap caused her to cease the fight, to look at him differently. It wasn’t arrogance now. The look was more fearful.

  “Leave me!” she said. “You can’t be doing this.”

  “I know that you are a slut. That you spread yourself halfway across Vienna and Berlin to anyone who looks your way.”

  “Stop it!” she said, and pushed at his chest. “This isn’t part of the arrangement.”

  “Why now would you fight your husband?” he said breathlessly from the effort of holding her. “It may as well be this way. It may as well be your duty also.”

  “Erich,” she said in a much softer tone. She was becoming subdued, more like she should have been all this time. “This is not what . . .”

  But he ignored her and undid his zip, still with his jacket on, still with the uniform that helped suppress those who needed it. Consummation at least would validate their marriage and reduce the power Monique seemed to think she had. She winced as he pushed hard into her, and it was over quickly as she lay there, tears streaming from the sides of closed eyes. He looked down, almost afraid to see what he had done. There was blood on the skirt beneath her, and only then did he return to some semblance of his usual self.

  Feelings of revulsion had replaced the anger, and he left for the bathroom to wash her from him. When he came out, she was in the kitchen. She had her back to him. It had to be like this, he thought, but not forever. Time would change things; he knew that and counted on it.

  And the only way he could remove the disgust, the self-loathing, was to atone in other ways. He would take vengeance, each act, each interrogation worse than the previous to block out the memory, to create more from which he could draw from to forget Georg, Monique, to forget the past.

  He did not return for a month, taking an apartment near the main camp, his job taking him often to northern Italy where partisans had become more active, and they needed someone qualified to take control of the situation. One of the senior officers stationed in Italy had been injured in an attempted ambush. He was in the hospital and would likely recover, but not for some time. Erich was asked to fill the position, which would eventually become perm
anent.

  He was taken by plane and then by car. On the way he was handed the file of information. From a list of names and details, the person he was asked to interview was a supporter of the newly formed Italian guards, or Black Brigades, who patrolled the streets. Erich did not particularly like this group. They were not orderly and organized like the SS had become. The group was made up of members of the police, veterans, and fascist loyalists, and they seldom supplied any important information. Still, they were at least controlling northern Italy to some degree, which then, more than any other time, needed stricter measures, a greater show of force to side with Germany.

  The one-legged man, Enzo Silvestri called into the Gestapo headquarters based in Verona, with information that he wished only to give to Erich Steiner, whom he had met once before at a government function, or to someone else as senior. Erich declined to meet him at the Gestapo police station; instead he would pay a visit to Enzo’s house to interview him there, as well as the whole family. Erich had found that it was sometimes better to see their surroundings, to gain a better truth, to see through duplicity, tricks, or lies.

  The file told him that Enzo had a wife, Serafina, a son, Beppe, who had been killed fighting in Africa, and a niece, Teresa Della Bosca, who was living with him.

  An interpreter accompanied Erich to the house, one of the better ones on the street. They had come from money. They owned shops, and they had helped pay for supplies for the Brigades in Verona. Erich established straightaway that they were loyal. But he still had to witness this for himself.

  An offer of refreshment by Serafina was declined. Erich never treated such interviews as social, but his manner was courteous and did not fit that of an interrogator. Serafina said she was thrilled by his visit, but a constant flutter of her hands told him that she was nervous also. The sight of SS, especially senior ones, caused anxiety even among those most loyal.

  “What is it that you have to tell me?” Erich asked.

  “I have the address of someone you might be interested in. A man named Conti Fiore,” said Enzo. “I know that he had something to do with the bomb that exploded on the road to Verona.”

  “And how did you come by this?”

  “My niece has been working at his café, and she was asked to place several crates of food in the back of a delivery van. A cover sheet inside the van had slipped away from some boxes, exposing what was underneath. She noticed there was a box marked as explosives, along with several guns, and as she walked away, she heard the word ‘ambush’ whispered between the owner and the driver. She mentioned it to her aunt that day, but it was not until we heard about the explosion later that we made the connection. I believe that Conti Fiore is involved in the resistance.”

  “And do you know this man personally?”

  “I only know of him. He was a friend of my nephew some time ago. I heard a rumor that he is a Jew, too,” said Enzo. “A Jew and a member of the resistance . . . They don’t get more dangerous.”

  Erich was appreciative of the information, but he did not show it, and he didn’t care to humor the comment. Though they provided vital information at times, political and social climbers like Enzo, who enjoyed lighting fires as a way to be seen, could be just as detestable as the men and women he sent to the camps.

  “And this nephew?”

  “My wife’s sister’s son. He and his sister and mother moved from here to live in the South.”

  “When did they go?” asked Erich, directing this to Serafina.

  “Several weeks ago, we believe,” she said. “But I have not seen my sister, Julietta, for months.” She pursed her lips, as if she were not only displeased but also guilty to mention her, perhaps even ashamed.

  “They supported the Allies?”

  Serafina nodded, but she did so to her lap only.

  “And where is this niece?”

  “She is unwell,” said Serafina too quickly.

  “I will get her,” said Enzo, overriding her, and Serafina tensed. She did not want her niece interrogated.

  Teresa walked timidly behind her uncle, supported by crutches, from a room at the rear. Her eyes were red rimmed as if she had been crying.

  Erich stood politely to shake her hand, and she sat, rubbing down the front of her skirt, modestly. She avoided eye contact with him until he spoke.

  “Conti Fiore . . . You heard him speak about an ambush?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I mentioned it, but I am not completely sure I heard correctly.”

  “Had you met him before you worked there?”

  “No,” she said, but he sensed that she was lying.

  “How did you come to work in his café?”

  “My brother helped get me the job six weeks ago when the owner of the restaurant I was working for previously was conscripted into the army, along with his sons.”

  “Do you like working for him?”

  “Il signor Fiore is very generous to his staff,” she said, her eyes level, the statement unrehearsed and genuine.

  “Did he ever talk to any other persons that you thought were suspicious?”

  She paused, swallowed hard, then looked at her shoes and shook her head. “No.”

  She was holding back, a reluctant participant torn between loyalties. But he could live with that. She had given him what he needed, in the silences also.

  “I hear that the rest of your family are now in the South.”

  Her breathing quickened at the mention of them.

  “Yes.”

  “And why didn’t you go, too?”

  “I am loyal to Mussolini . . .” She regretted this, because she had just admitted the rest of her family wasn’t.

  “It is all right, Fräulein Della Bosca,” said Erich. “I’m not worried about your family. They will have to live with the consequences when the South is once again in safe hands. But in the meantime, this Conti is some kind of ringleader, yes?”

  “I’m not sure. I just mentioned what I witnessed to Zia Serafina in passing. That’s all.” Her aunt did not look at her, ashamed perhaps that she had put her niece in this position. It was obvious to Erich that Teresa had not been aware they would go to the police.

  “You did right to do that.”

  He did not feel it necessary to talk further. The fact that she had some trouble discussing it with him, indicating she was in some way disloyal to her own family by mentioning it, told him that the information was correct. He cared only about the address, about capturing the resistance members.

  Present-day 1945

  Marceline is surprised to see Erich at the house. She was not expecting him back for hours.

  “You need to take Genevieve and go to this address,” he says. He hands her a piece of paper.

  “But your mother?”

  “I will take care of her. Find her another safe place.”

  Marceline looks briefly at his mother. There is something knowing in the look, something she wants to say, though she would never dare.

  “Pack now. Leave immediately.”

  His tone is terse, but Marceline is used to such orders. She worked for others much harsher. Marceline disappears into the back room.

  He bends down to Genevieve.

  “You must stay with Marceline. You must be good.”

  “Mutti!”

  “She had to go away for now, but I will see you soon.” The little girl’s hands are so small against Erich’s. He has a desire to pick her up and hold her close, but it would show a certain need that he cannot allow. He stands up before she has the urge to lean into him, to reach her arms around his neck. He takes her hand to follow Marceline to the bedroom.

  “Do not take much,” he instructs her.

  Marceline nods, but she already knows this. She has had to run before, and she is used to packing sparingly.

  Erich carries the packed suitcase and places it near the front door.

  “Thank you, Marceline, for everything.” She nods. She has always been loyal to the party. “I will f
ollow shortly, but there are things I have to do.”

  Marceline doesn’t look to the window where Erich’s mother sits, and Genevieve has forgotten she is there. Not that Genevieve has ever had anything to do with her grandmother. His child will never benefit from her encouragement and teachings like Erich did.

  Erich opens the door and watches Marceline walk purposefully up the street with Genevieve on her hip.

  He stays until they are out of sight, looks once down the street the other way, then closes the door. He moves to the front bay window where his mother sits facing the window. On the pavement outside, some rubbish has been strewn and blows in the wind, without purpose, like the people that pass it. There is nothing for him here.

  Erich sits in the chair opposite his mother to look outside, to try to see what she sees. Every day she watches, eyes following passersby. He took this at first to be a sign that her mind was still receptive, but over the weeks he has come to the conclusion that the watching is involuntary. She has become an imbecile, a type of creature she once despised. There is something there, a faint form of recognition, a tiny light every so often, but just a sliver, as if she were teasing him. The same day she committed the murders, she committed herself to a life worse than death, muses Erich.

  He traces the hairline above her ear. When he looks down from the window, one man has paused to look back. It unnerves him. He stares back, and the man moves on. He doesn’t know many people here, nor does he want to. He trusts no one. His last conversation with Elias has confirmed that he must complete his business here.

  “Do you remember when I was small, you told me something?”

  Nene doesn’t look at him.

  “You said that I must always look after the family if anything happens to you. That I must fill the role of my father. What would you like me to do now, Mother? I feel that if you could talk, you would tell me. That you would know immediately what must be done.”