Alibi: A Novel Read online

  “Like your aunt.”

  “She wouldn’t run. You have to imagine. Midnight, the sirens, people screaming, pounding on doors. She couldn’t move, the fear was too strong.” She shrugged. “So they took her. She scared herself to death.”

  “But you hid from the Germans?”

  “Germans? No, Italians. They used us to do it. Our own. Carabinieri, police, some Fascists. Maybe that’s why they waited till it was dark—maybe they didn’t want to be seen. Later it was SS. More efficient. With the police, it became a farce. They took everyone to Collegio Foscarini, but there were no facilities, nothing. So people came with food, they would throw food through the windows for the children. Ten days like that. A public embarrassment. So to Casa di Ricovero and they release the sick ones. They didn’t understand—no one could be released. So the SS came and arrested them again. A farce. But finally, the train. After that it was mostly SS, with their informers. Grini. He would take them through the hospitals, even the mental hospital. It wasn’t enough for them if you were crazy. You had to be dead.”

  She folded her arms across her chest, hugging herself, rocking a little.

  “You’re cold.”

  “Of course we didn’t know they would go through the hospitals. We thought it was safe there. We were on the Lido then. Hiding, but not hiding. A vacation flat someone found for us, empty, you know. The neighbors pretended no one was there. We still had a little money. How much longer could it go on? It was just a matter of time, if we could wait it out. But then my father became too sick to stay there. He had a friend at the hospital, from the old days. He thought it would be all right. Use another name. Who would look in the critical wards? What for? They were already on their way to San Michele, almost dead.” She lowered her head. “But they did look.” She stretched out one arm. “That one. Dr. Maglione. You think I would forget that face? Never. And then tonight, one look and I was back in that ward. But this time, champagne. Everyone smiling. And I thought, he got away with it. They all did. They got away with murder.”

  “Not all of them.”

  She waved her hand, dismissing this. “They’ll never pay. Who’s going to make them pay? You? Me? A scratch on the face. That’s my revenge, a scratch. And for that, which one of us, do you think, will no longer be welcome in your mother’s house?”

  “It’s my house too.”

  “No, hers. What do you think, we’re all going to be friends? If I saw him again, I would do it again. Spit and spit. I can’t help it—I don’t want to help it. I want to kill him.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  She lowered her head. “No. Then I would pay. So they always win.” She moved away, glancing up at the tall buildings. “Look at this place. Who gets an eye for an eye? All dead. It’s like a tomb now. I don’t even know why I came.”

  “To show me.”

  “Yes, to show you. What they did.” We stood for a minute looking at the silent campo, peering into the dark passages as if we were waiting for whistles and the stamping of boots to break the stillness. “You know what he said to me, my father? When they took him for the train? ‘God will never forgive them.’ But he was wrong. They’ll forgive themselves.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “Oh, yes. It’s one thing you learn in the camp, what they’re like. Ask your doctor how he feels. Not even embarrassed. And then one night at a party somebody points a finger. You know what I’d like? To keep pointing—wherever he goes, all his parties, his hospital, just keep pointing at him until everyone knows.” She shrugged. “Except what difference would it make? It’s just what some crazy girl says. And who believes her?” She looked down. “Who would believe her?”

  “I would.”

  She turned away, flustered. “Yes? Why? Maybe she is crazy. Making scenes.”

  I put my arm around her. “Come on, we can’t stay here all night.”

  She glanced up at the buildings again, stalling. “Look at it. No one left.”

  “Maybe we should leave Venice. Go somewhere else. Rome.”

  “Just like that.”

  “Yes, why not?”

  “And who pays? You?”

  “It doesn’t matter about the money.”

  “And then one day you’re gone and it does matter.”

  “Why would I go?”

  “Everybody goes.”

  I held her by the shoulders. “Not me. Don’t you understand that?”

  “No. Why? I don’t understand why.”

  “Why. You think there’s a reason? Maybe that morning on the vaporetto. I don’t know why. Maybe the way you scratched Gianni’s face. I liked that.”

  She smiled slightly and leaned her forehead against my chest, muffling her words. “And that’s your choice, someone like that?”

  “Mm. Forget about this.” I waved toward the dark buildings.

  “I can’t.”

  I nodded. “I know. But let it go now, for a while. Come with me.”

  She was quiet for a minute, close to me, then nodded.

  “But not to Dorsoduro. You understand that? I’ll never go there again.”

  “Yes, you will. He won’t be there.”

  “Where have you been all night? I’ve been worried sick.”

  My mother, still in her silk wrapper, was having coffee in the small sitting room, curled up in the club chair next to the electric fire. Her hair was loose, just brushed out, her face pale, with not even the usual morning dusting of powder. An ashtray with a burning cigarette was perched on the arm of the chair, the wisp of smoke rising to mix with the steam from her coffee.

  “Although I can guess. Bertie said you’ve become friends with that girl. Really, Adam. She’s obviously a neurotic—hadn’t you noticed?”

  “She’s not a neurotic.”

  “Well, call it whatever you like. She’s obviously something. Have some coffee. What a spectacle. I mean, you like a party to have a little—but not quite that much. Gianni’s been wonderful about it, but of course it’s embarrassing. The worst part is that since she’s your friend, he can’t help but wonder—well, you know. Which is ridiculous. I said you looked as stunned as anybody. But you might give him a call. You know, talk to him a little. You don’t want him to think—”

  “Did he tell you why she did it?”

  “Apparently she thinks he caused her father’s death. Of course doctors have to deal with this all the time. You know, somebody dies in hospital and who’s to blame? Anybody will do, really—doctor, nurse, anybody.”

  “So he doesn’t know who she is?”

  “Doesn’t have the faintest. She must have seen him at the hospital and—well, you know, when you’re in that state.” She looked up. “Adam, I hope you’re putting an end to this. I’m sure the poor thing needs help and it’s very sweet of you, but you don’t have to be the one to do it. They have people for this. I mean, for all you know she could be deranged. Murdered her father. Really.”

  “They were at medical school together.”

  “Who?”

  “Gianni and her father. He knows who she is.”

  She was reaching for her cigarette but stopped, surprised by this. “And he murdered her father, I suppose,” she said finally, sarcastic.

  “No. He handed him over to the SS so they could murder him. They were rounding up Jews in the hospital. Her father was too sick to move. Gianni handed him over. So what does that make him, an accessory? In her eyes it comes to the same thing.”

  “That’s a terrible thing to say.”

  “Especially when it’s true.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Gianni wouldn’t do such a thing. Is this what she’s going around saying?”

  “She was there. She saw him.”

  “Well, darling, not exactly the most reliable source, considering.”

  “Then ask him.”

  “Of course I’m not going to ask him. Why would he do such a thing? What possible reason could he have?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe he was an anti-Semite,
a collaborator. Maybe he was just a sonofabitch. He handed a sick man over to a death squad. What does it matter why?”

  My mother looked at me for a second, then stubbed out her cigarette, taking her time, and gathered herself up out of the chair, balancing the cup over the ashtray.

  “Adam, I want you to stop now. I won’t have that tone. And I won’t have any more of this. Last night was bad enough. You seem to forget it was my party, my evening that got spoiled. I didn’t ask for the extra dramatics. So all right, let’s put that behind us. Not your fault if she’s—But now it’s over. I won’t have you saying these things about Gianni. I won’t.”

  “Not even if they’re true?”

  “They’re not.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I know him. He’s a wonderful man.”

  “So was Goebbels, to his children. Before he poisoned them.”

  “Is that supposed to be funny? Is it this girl? Have you lost all your sense? Is Gianni supposed to be a Nazi now? Maybe it’s not her. Maybe something happened to you in Germany.”

  “Yes, I met a lot of people like Gianni. Wonderful. And they didn’t think twice about putting people in boxcars.”

  “Adam, what is the matter with you?” she said, her voice finally distressed.

  “The matter is you won’t listen.”

  “Not to this, I won’t. Not anymore. I’m going to have my bath.” She put down the cup and started to move away from the table. “This isn’t Germany, you know.”

  “Why, because it’s beautiful?”

  She stopped and turned to face me. “I don’t know why you’re doing this. Trying to ruin everything.”

  “I’m not trying to ruin anything. I’m trying to help you. You almost married this man.”

  She looked at me. “I am marrying this man.”

  “You can’t. You can’t marry someone like this. Are you that far gone?”

  She tried to smile, her eyes moist. “Yes, I’m that far gone.”

  “Have you been listening at all? A man like this—”

  “A man like what? Don’t you think I know what kind of man he is?”

  “No. I don’t think you know him at all. You’ve just rushed into this like you rush into everything else. Except this time it might be harder to get out. Not to mention more expensive.”

  “Oh,” she said with a small gasp, deflated. “What a hateful thing to say.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said quickly, seeing her eyes fill, but she waved me away.

  “No one can hurt like a child.” She brushed her hair back, rallying. “Is that what you think? Well, darling, I’m sorry to disappoint you. Or him, for that matter. But really, I’m not Doris Duke. Isn’t it too bad? Of course I’ve told him that. But if you like, I’ll tell him again. So he can be absolutely sure what he’s getting. All right?”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “Yes, you did. You’re full of meanness today, I’m not sure why. Maybe you don’t want me to marry anyone.”

  “I just don’t want you to marry him. Neither would you, if you’d stop and listen for two minutes.”

  “Oh, just him. But the thing is, darling, no one else has asked me.”

  “Mother—”

  “So we’ll do this. I’ll tell him again I’m not rich.”

  “It’s not about the—”

  “And if he still wants to go ahead—just on the off chance that he’d like me for myself—will that make you feel better?” She stared at me for a second, then turned to the door. “Good. Now can I have my bath?”

  After she left, I just stood there, not knowing what to do. Follow her and keep arguing? For what? More tears and stubborn indifference, past listening. What Claudia had predicted; the last thing I’d expected.

  I picked up the coffee, tepid now and slightly bitter, and finished it, then stood looking at the wall, the light from the water outside moving on it in irregular flashes, out of rhythm, jumpy.

  He’d tell her some story. A hysterical response to a hospital death. Who would say otherwise? Were there hospital records? Another name, she’d said. Not even a paper trail. I walked over to the window. On the side table there was a new picture—not the jaunty Zattere one on the dressing table but Gianni in a more formal pose, seated at a desk, with papers in front of him for signing. I picked up the photograph and looked at his eyes, half expecting to find some peering intensity, visible evil. But of course it was only Gianni. How easy had it been for him to point Signor Grassini out? A struggle? Routine? Something he’d done before, in the habit of informing? There wouldn’t have been only one.

  I looked again at Gianni at his desk. Papers to sign. There was always paper somewhere. Almost without thinking, I slid the picture out of its frame and put it in my pocket. More reliable than memory, sometimes, the paper of a crime.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I caught the traghetto that crossed the Grand Canal to the Gritti and then headed toward San Moise. A few days, Joe had said—maybe he had already gone. But the Bauer still had a Sullivan registered, and while I was using the house phone to call him, I spotted him at breakfast in the dining room facing the rio.

  “Late start?” I said, going up to the table.

  “Late night. You just caught me. Sit, but don’t expect too much.” He rubbed his temples, wishing away the hangover.

  “Thanks.” I took a cornetti from the bread basket in front of him. “Eat something. It helps.”

  “Did I call you or did you call me?”

  “I called you. I need a favor.”

  “Too late. I go back to Verona at fourteen hundred.”

  “That’s where I need the favor.”

  He raised his eyebrows over the coffee cup.

  “Could you run a check on somebody? See what you’ve got hiding in the files?”

  “Italian?”

  I took out the photograph.

  “Isn’t this the guy from the other day? You always run a check on your friends?”

  “He’s not a friend.”

  “Bad boy?”

  “I think so.”

  “What’d he do?”

  “Cooperated with the SS rounding up Jews.”

  “He wouldn’t be the first. They insisted, you know.”

  “I don’t think it was like that. I think he helped.”

  “Adam, for chrissake, if I had a nickel for everybody who—”

  “I know. Frau Schmidt telling on the neighbors. This is something else. He’s a doctor. Old family. He had a choice.”

  “Army?”

  “No. Probably too old. Maybe too smart.”

  “So?”

  “So, what else? This stuff—it usually doesn’t happen just once. You know. It’s part of who you are.”

  “Fascist?”

  “Maybe, but not only that. I mean, what the hell, the mailman probably had a party card. Did he work with the Germans? What did he do? Sort of thing you might turn up in your files.”

  “Might.” He looked again at the picture. “You have a name?”

  I took out a pen and started writing. “He may have used another. That’s why the picture—in case somebody might spot him.”

  “Somebody like who?”

  “Come on, Joe, we worked the same street. You must have somebody just looking at pictures to see what he can see. An old partisan, maybe. Somebody looking to get even.”

  Joe took a sip of coffee. “Is that what you’re looking to do?”

  I met his gaze over the cup. “He wants to marry my mother.”

  “Jesus, Adam, we’re not a fucking reference bureau. If you don’t like him—”

  “He’s a bad guy. I just want to know how bad.”

  “Look, let me explain something to you. This isn’t Frankfurt. The setup’s different here. We’re not trying to punish anybody. The Italians are supposed to be the victims, the good guys. We don’t keep those kinds of files on them. And the Italians, they don’t want to know. They settle things privately. It’s what the
y’re good at. Since fucking Rome. Some Fascist prick set up a partisan ambush? They don’t bother with a trial. They just stick him with a shiv some night and go about their business. You see Mussolini in the dock? Just strung him up at a gas station. They don’t want us running trials here. They take care of their own.”

  “So what are you doing here then?”

  “German trials. The Germans want trials. Or maybe we want them to have them. Anyway, they do. And when the evidence is here, we have to come get it. Kesselring did a lot here before they transferred him back. Just wiped people out. So things get lost in Germany, we find something else here. It doesn’t matter where he did it as long as he did it. It’s the Germans we’re after, not your mother’s boyfriend.” He put the picture back on the table.

  “So let’s see, that means you’ve got the German army files—what they didn’t take. They take much?”

  “Some.”

  “And you’ve probably got that cross-referenced with the Salò government files—liaison reports anyway. SS? Nobody kept files like they did, we know that. So what do we have? The army worked with Italians, so there’d be sheets on them there. Secret police reports, for sure. SS would have their own little black book of informers. Somebody like Gianni, they’d probably give him a file all his own, wouldn’t they?”

  Joe raised his eyes again. “Yes.”

  “In other words, the German files have got practically everything we want to know about the Italians, wouldn’t you say? Except what they said to each other. And all I want to know is what he said to the Germans. What they had to say about him.”

  “An Italian civilian? We’re not here for that. They’re our friends.”

  “Yeah, well, so are the Germans now.”