Free A Dark Song of Blood by Ben Pastor Page B

lighter flickered. “Another cigarette?”
    â€œNot now.”
    Off and on the reviving tip of flame pointed Bora out to Guidi in the moments that followed – long moments, drawn and flattened into strips of time, during which Guidi simply tried to find out whether he was afraid or just nervous. To be sure, the possibility of death made him feel acutely lonely; as if suddenly no rules applied, and all life were vulnerable. If Bora was pondering the unfairness of dying on the eve of his wife’s arrival, all that showed were the slow glimmering arcs drawn by his cigarette as he took extended draughts from it. Guidi sat back, chasing thoughts from his mind, so that he would not be attached to anything when the explosions rolled in from one periphery or another.
    But the explosions were slow in coming. In the odd silence, Bora said, “I don’t know why it’s taking them so long.” Then Guidi heard him move impatiently toward the window, feel around for the lock and throw it open. The crisp night air flooded in. Searchlights scanned the sky, here and there sweeping the bottom of clouds and becoming diffused or reflecting from them. No sound of engines, no anti-aircraft, not even from the beleaguered neighborhood of Castro Pretorio. The only artillery booming at slow intervals was Anzio’s way.
    â€œJust howitzers,” Bora observed. “The searchlights may have struck a cloud, or it may have been friendly aircraft.” He did not close the window until the sound of all clear began winding up. Shortly the lights returned, failed, were on again for good. Guidi felt sheepish, because he’d in fact been afraid, and likely it showed. “Not exactly a baptism of fire, was it?”
    Bora courteously pretended not to notice. “Let’s count our blessings. How about a cognac?”
    â€œDon’t mind if I do.”
    On their way down to the bar, they met guests returning to their rooms from the basement in various stages of undress, military and civilians alike. One of them was SS Captain Sutor, whom Bora did not expect here in his shirtsleeves and with a woman, but greeted by a curt lowering of his head.
    3 FEBRUARY 1944
    â€œWell, why was Foa taken in?” Westphal decided to ask Bora.
    â€œNo specific charges other than he did not collaborate with Gestapo officials. It seems he refused to inform on colleagues from the Royal Carabineers.”
    â€œHe’s kept under house arrest, is he?”
    â€œNo, he’s in the state prison. Frankly, it seems unreasonable to expect him to denounce brother officers.”
    Westphal took a watermarked sheet of paper and began writing on it. “If he’s wise he’ll do just that. Of course I wouldn’t give the SS or the SD the time of day, but Foa has no choice. Thanks for telling me, Bora.”
    â€œShould we ask for some consideration? He’s nearly seventy years old.”
    Westphal was in an excellent mood with the news of the bloody defeat of American troops at Cisterna, and did not grow cross. “No. Why should you care? You were the one he insulted by phone. Here.” He handed the signed sheet to Bora. “Two days’ leave starting tomorrow. And go to meet your wife at the station, for God’s sake. It’s three hours from now, but keeping you around is like having a sick calf on the farm. You’re useless to me. Unless the end of the world comes, I’ll make sure nobody calls you until Monday morning.”
    Bora raced from the office to the Termini Station.
    As he walked in, Colonel Dollmann happened to be leisurely coming out. “Well, well!” He stopped only long enough to remark, with an eye to the flowers Bora had with him, “Are we not dashing this morning! Is it legitimate or illegitimate?” When reluctantly Bora told him, he laughed. “There may be fun in that, too. Enjoy yourself.”
    Bora had been ceaselessly pacing on the solitary platform