“Only by reputation, sir. After Narvik, I’ve been stationed in Rieti.”
“Quiet there?”
“Fairly quiet, Herr Field Marshal. Some bombing.”
Kesselring flexed his cheek muscles as if irritated and ran his eyes across Scholl’s face, the medals on his chest, the placement of his hands on the chair arms. “Naples will soon fall into enemy hands.”
“But how can that be?” Scholl let out. A huge error. Kesselring was already smirking. He’d taken it personally: a major city under his control was being lost to the Allies. Scholl bit down hard on the insides of his mouth.
“It simply is. To complicate matters, the citizens are . . . unruhig. Restless. You’ve never been?”
Scholl shook his head, afraid to speak another word.
“A dirty hovel. Ragged. Poor. Lawless. The Allies have been bombing it steadily for three years, and now, soon enough, they’ll inherit it. They’re welcome to the place, though the port is of some value.”
It wasn’t a personal discussion, then, had nothing to do with the reprimand. Despite his foolish remark, Scholl felt a wave of ease—almost confidence—move through him.
Kesselring blinked once, slowly. “We need a qualified officer to go there and subdue the city, collect the Jews according to Himmler’s plan, and maintain order until the time comes for our troops to move north to new positions. Your name was suggested to me as a man who could be firm enough with the Italians to take on such an assignment.”
Scholl allowed himself a single nod. A promotion, then. A new opportunity.
“I’ve assigned you an aide who’s been there for some weeks, Captain Nitzermann. And a driver from our fleet here, also somewhat familiar with the place. Flying into the city has become complicated, so he’ll drive you down there without delay. This afternoon. Two hundred kilometers. Do whatever you have to do in order to maintain a degree of subservience.” Kesselring closed his eyes for several seconds, tiredly, Scholl thought, then opened them. “It may prove necessary to destroy the city entirely before you leave it. Willing?”
“Of course, Herr Field Marshal.”
“Go then.” Kesselring looked down and ran his eyes over the papers between his hands. “Lieutenant . . . Renzik is the driver. He’ll meet you at the front door with a car and accompany you as your assistant. Pack quickly and go. The territory south of Rome is safely in our hands, so you should encounter no trouble. Questions?”
“None, sir.”
“Go then. If difficulties arise, use your own initiative.”
Scholl had to restrain himself from offering thanks. He waited a moment to be certain the interview was finished, then stood and saluted with a “Heil Hitler!” He turned sharply on his heel, marched through the outer office, and trotted down the five flights.
A promotion. In charge of an entire city! “Use your own initiative,” the field marshal had said. “Maintain subservience.”
So much for the whims of jealous major generals. So much for a transfer to the Russian front.
Three
Despite the Allied bombing raids of the past three years, and now the dramatically increased German military presence in Naples, Rita Rossamadre had kept to her practice of making the long trip to the Monastero di Genovese once a week in order to confess her sins. Her half brother, Marco, had been a monk there nineteen years—from the day of his twenty-third birthday—and since women were not allowed inside the monastery proper, and since Marco wasn’t allowed to leave the grounds, he performed the sacramental rite of absolution in a small stone shed against the outer wall of the enclosure, a place where the hired workmen kept their tools and, in better times, had enjoyed their lunches. This weekly arrangement—her brother stepping outside the walls to meet with a woman—had been going on for the better part of a decade, and it seemed to Rita perfectly in keeping with the Neapolitan habit of acknowledging rules without quite obeying them. In the old days, when there had been gasoline, men parked their cars, trucks, and motorcycles exactly where they wanted to—sometimes under NO PARKING signs—and women bought half their goods on the black market; people would take communion on Sunday morning and sleep with a mistress or a married man the same afternoon. Sometimes they paid their taxes; often they did not. It had always seemed to her that the city was filled with the best and worst of humanity, and that, no matter how much suffering it endured, Naples retained a sense of humor, a stylish independence, and, among the true Neapolitans, a reflexive generosity that showed itself in every interaction. Their Jesus was a kind, winking savior. Why would He mind if one of His monks left the enclosure for half an hour every week to give his sister spiritual comfort?
In order to reach the monastery, Rita had to walk one kilometer from her building in the Quartieri Spagnoli to the port, catch the A-622 bus to Ercolano—a half-hour ride south—and then make the difficult climb up the monastery access road, with the dark bulk of Vesuvius rising in front of her. Still, as complicated as the trip had become in wartime, it was the high point of her week, and all of it—the walk to the port and back, the two bus rides, the time with her brother—felt like spiritual nourishment.
On that day, the Spagnoli was unusually quiet. The terror of the planes and sirens had been absent from their lives for more than two weeks now, though no one knew for certain why the bombers had disappeared or when they might return. At about the same time the bombings stopped, news reached them that something had happened to Mussolini, and that the king and the head of the military, General Badoglio, had offered the Allies an armistice. Then that Italy had switched sides and would be fighting with the Americans! For one day, everyone thought the war was over—everyone, even the Germans. There were celebrations, Italians dancing in the street, even a few German soldiers joining them.
That brotherhood had lasted only a matter of hours before Hitler gave his men the terrible message: they had to fight. In the following days, he’d sent more and more of his army into Italy, because half the Italian soldiers had simply taken off their uniforms and come home. First they’d fought the Allies, now they were fighting with the Allies; what was the point? The bombs had stopped falling: that was the good thing. But the Germans had taken over the city, and no one besides the most devoted Italian Fascists thought that was something to celebrate.
As always, however, Rita went along her route without fear, protected by Saint Agata and by a mysterious feminine strength—a power, almost a magic—that had lived inside her for decades.
On this humid September day, the buses were running, the 622 almost on time—a miracle—and there were several empty seats, all near windows. In peacetime, in warm weather like this, window seats were prizes; now, the opposite. Passengers—mostly women heading out to the countryside to cut dandelions and hunt for mushrooms—huddled close to the middle aisle in case there was an explosion. Rita said a prayer to San Cristoforo, patron saint of travel, and took an empty seat by a rear window, her small purse held on her lap with both hands.
The bus lurched off. She considered her sins.
Except for one part of her life, it seemed to her, she was basically sinless. She believed in God without question, prayed daily to the Virgin Mother and to San Rocco, Santa Agata, San Gennaro, and San Cristoforo. She had money and some food and shared generously with poorer, hungrier neighbors and any child she happened to find on the streets, especially her little friend Armando. Never in her life had she intentionally hurt another soul, and before the war, she’d even made a habit of feeding the Spagnoli’s dogs, cats, and pigeons.