“Let’s begin again.”
“My name is Rainy Schiller,” she says, her voice whistling slightly through broken teeth. “Serial number—”
The slap is almost perfunctory this time. The Gestapo man has accepted that her name is Rainy Schiller. That she is from New York. That she is an American soldier. And he has memorized her serial number.
He has not accepted her lie that she is in Italy solely to meet an Italian Resistance member named Xavier Cugat. In fact, Xavier Cugat is a bandleader known for his Cuban rhythms. It’s not even an Italian name, but it was the first Latinate name Rainy had come up with. She’d thought of giving them Tomaso’s or Cisco’s name, but that sort of cleverness could turn around and bite her.
The Gestapo agent, Heinrich Berman, remains convinced she knows more, and after weeks of interrogation, freezing cells, little food, and no sanitation, Rainy would happily tell him everything, anything . . . if she can be sure the Allies have landed in Salerno. Once the landing is secure, her secret is of no value.
If she can confess, she will be taken to the grim courtyard she can see from her cell, and like so many she has seen over the course of these terrible weeks, she will be placed against a wall, have a lit cigarette placed in her mouth, and be shot.
She is afraid to die, but death is preferable to this. Her body is one massive bruise. Her face is bruised, cut, and swollen so she is barely recognizable. She is filthy and stinks so vilely that Berman keeps the window open at all times to allow fresh air. Her dress and underthings are matted with dried vomit, piss, feces, and menstrual blood as well as the blood of beatings. She had just started her period when she was captured. It is this fact alone that saved her from being raped as a sort of Gestapo “welcome.” And now she is far too vile an object for that particular indignity.
On a few occasions she has heard distant explosions and has begun to hope that it might be approaching Allied artillery, but it could just as easily be bombs. In the early days of captivity, she had applied her intelligent mind to the task of seeking escape, but her cell door is thick wood, and the bars on the tiny, dirty window are strong and firmly fixed in stone. That window is at her head level when she stands on tiptoes, and it is placed directly beneath and behind the stake where the condemned are tied. Her view is of the feet of the doomed, and the three or four black-uniformed SS riflemen beyond. Again and again she has seen the condemned dragged in, often barely able to stand. Time and again she has seen the execution squad line up, cigarette smoke rising from faces sullen with drink. Time and again she has heard the orders snapped out, seen the rifles rise, heard the crash, seen the feet splay sideways, seen a body slump. Watched blood run down like rain across the glass.
After the first beatings she knows escape is a pipe dream. She can only walk in a shuffle, and even the simplest thoughts require all her energy. Her focus drifts. Her thoughts splinter and go off in tangents before petering out in futility.
Her best future now is death: bullets are quick. She has come to envy the dying.
At first she had tried to keep their spirits up, crying out, “Be strong!” in Italian, as most of those executed now are Italian partisans. But that bravado is miles beyond her now. That Rainy is gone. That Rainy has been beaten, leaving only this filthy, despicable, weak creature.
“How did you come to be in Italy?” Berman asks in his bored voice.
“Parachute,” she says, and flinches, awaiting the blow that arrives instantly.
“Who was your contact?”
Some time later she is aware of being dragged, limp as a doll, and pushed to fall against the stone wall of her cell and slide, delirious, to the floor.
Some unmeasurable time later, when she reluctantly leaves the realm of swirling nightmare and returns to her worse-than-nightmare reality, she senses a change in the air. At first she has no idea how she knows something is different. The effort to focus takes all her energy, and she drifts in and out of full consciousness. She hears a gunshot. It makes her frown. It’s not right. Wrong sound. Wrong direction.
She hears a yell in Italian, No, no, no, no. Mercy! I have a family! The cry is cut short by a gunshot, then in quick succession, a second shot.
Cell doors are opening and not slamming shut. Too many feet in the corridor.
Slowly the truth comes to her: they’re shooting prisoners in their cells.
A cell door opens, quite close by. The man in the cell next to hers yells and curses in a language Rainy does not recognize.
Bang. And a second gunshot immediately after. Bang.
One in the heart, one in the head.
The key rattles in her own door.
I’m going to die.
I’m going to die right now.
Right now.
Fighting terror and pain and weakness, she rises as stiff as a very old woman.
The cell door opens.
Hans is there with a smoking Luger pistol in his hand. A second guard stands behind him, swaying drunkenly.
Rainy searches her mind for some brave final phrase and can only summon up Nathan Hale’s words. Through broken teeth and swollen lips Rainy tries to say that she only regrets having but one life to give for her country, but her tongue is thick and her throat is constricted and whatever comes out it is no great, inspirational speech.
Hans steps in quickly. He places the Luger’s barrel against her forehead. His blue eyes stare hard into her one open, brown eye.
He tightens his finger on the trigger, right there, inches from her face. Then he twists the gun sideways and fires.
BANG!
It’s a hammer blow against her head, and she falls straight back, hitting the stony floor like a sack of meal. Hans steps over her, straddles her, so she is looking up at his towering figure as he takes careful aim for the second shot.
BANG!
The bullet hits the stone beside her ear, sending stone chips into the side of her face.
Hans looks down at her.
She stares up at him.
“This bitch is dead,” Hans says in German. Then, his lumpish face twisted into a nasty grin, he whispers, “Xavier Cugat. Funny.” And he turns and walks away.
Hours pass. Rainy lies absolutely still on the floor. The cold threatens to make her shiver, but she can’t show any sign of life lest some passing German see that she still lives.
She listens intently. More gunshots. Then trucks. She hears them through the window, which means they are pulling into the courtyard. There comes the tramping of feet. Snatches of conversation in German that is all urgency and bravado.
After an eternity, the trucks drive away.
She continues to lie still, slipping in and out of reality, losing all track of time. When she is lucid she listens, but all of the familiar sounds are gone now. She hears a bird. She hears distant explosions. A rat scrabbles curiously in through the open door, and in earlier times she would have leapt at it, wrung its neck, and eaten it raw. She’s eaten rat before this, and beetles and moths too. But she’s too weak to try to catch this rat.
Hours pass. And her voluntary stillness becomes involuntary: she doubts she can possibly stand. She knows she cannot escape even if she can stand. She is too weak, and the weakness this time feels fatal. Rainy is sure she will never move again.
Is that why Hans did not kill her? Was he leaving her to a longer, more painful death by starvation? Or is it that he appreciates the way she’d managed to make a fool of Hans’s superior? Had her life been spared because a Gestapo thug liked to rhumba?
Time loses all meaning. There is no longer any line between nightmare and reality, between disconnected subconscious fantasy and awareness. So when Rainy hears strange voices, she is not excited. They cannot be real. The phrase “fugging slaughterhouse,” in an indignant Bronx accent, can only be a dream.
“This one’s a woman,” a different voice says. “Fugging Nazi animals. It stinks like a goddamn latrine in here.”
“I guess these Eye-ties are sorry now th
at they joined up with Hitler.”
From deep within the lurching madness of her shattered mind, Rainy says, “Fug Hitler.”
It’s a mumble, barely a sound, but a voice says, “Hey! This one’s alive!”
There is a rush of activity. She sees boots—GI boots—coming and going, and then a face comes swimming into view. A young woman with her helmet tipped back.
“Hey there, honey, I don’t speak Eye-tie, but you just lie still there till we get a medico.”
Rainy’s eyes focus and from far away comes a tingle of recognition. But it fades as she spies the canteen on the young soldier’s hip.
“Water,” Rainy begs.
“Hey, that’s English. You mean this, right?” the GI asks, pointing to her canteen. She unbuckles it, screws off the top, and dribbles a thin stream into Rainy’s mouth.
Rainy swallows desperately, swallows and swallows until she coughs.
More soldiers, more voices, more blurry, shifting faces.
“Are you real?” Rainy asks in a hoarse whisper.
The soldier flashes a smile. “You do speak English.”
“Are you real?” Rainy insists.
“As real as I can be,” the soldier says. She sits on the floor cross-legged and cradles Rainy’s head with her hand, lifting her just a little to take more water. “Who are you?”
Rainy has been asked the question hundreds of times, each time telling the same not-quite-true answer, the answer that would not identify her as a Jew. Now she has a hard time making herself say her name. She has endured hell for her secrets.
But the soldier, the impossible American soldier, leans down over her and says, “Listen to me, honey. You’re safe. You’re safe.”
Rainy cries without tears and sobs, her body shaking with the emotion of it. The GI is patient, waving off an officer who seems to want her to move on.
At last, after so long that Rainy is certain that the soldier will leave if she doesn’t speak, she quells her sobs long enough to say, “Sergeant Rainy Schulterman. US Army.”
LETTERS SENT
Dear Mother and Father,
A friend is writing this for me since I banged my hand a bit and the fingers are stiff.
I know you must have been very worried since it’s been quite a while since I was able to write. But please don’t worry, I am perfectly fine. In fact, I’ve run into some old friends from Africa, one of whom, Jenou Castain, is writing this down for me.
Someday I will tell you all about my adventures over these last couple of months.
No time for more right now, they have me hopping! Just know that I am all right. And that I miss you terribly and remain your loving daughter,
Rainy
Dear Mom,
I am sending this letter by way of Pastor M’Dale because I don’t want Daddy to read it. You’ll know from the letter I sent addressed to you both that I am in England now, having been slightly wounded. What I did not mention in that letter is that Harder is here working as an orderly.
I don’t quite know how to say what I need to say next. So I guess I’d better just blurt it out: Harder told me what happened during the riots. I understand a lot more now than I did. I understand why Daddy can’t deal with Harder, even though I wish he could. And of course I understand Harder better too.
But most of all I feel I understand for the first time how hard your life has been. Mother, I am so sorry for any time I vexed you. I am so sorry for so many things. I know you forgive me, you always do, and if you would rather we never speak of this again I will honor your wishes.
But since you aren’t here to shush me, I want to say something. You kept us safe from all the pain you’ve felt. You kept all that bottled up, and because of it I got to grow up happy. If I am a mother someday I hope to do half as well.
Please don’t worry about me, I am well away from the fighting, completely healthy aside from a very itchy cast on my leg, and I doubt I will be near the fighting again. You must never worry on my account.
Harder is fine, full of all his usual passion and wild ideas. But he is liked and respected here, though he’s only an orderly. He still has a way about him that draws people.
Well, that’s it for now. I won’t mention Harder in the letters I write to the whole family. But if you wanted to write to him you could send it to me, and I will pass it along to him.
Pray for me.
Your loving and grateful daughter,
Frangie
PS: Pray for the boys and girls I care for too; they need it more than me.
Dear Mother and Father,
Well, I’m a corporal now, and they’re threatening to make me a buck sergeant eventually. It means some responsibility, which I’m not keen on. I think I like following orders rather than giving them, although you know, strictly speaking, NCOs don’t give “orders,” they just carry them out. So I suppose whatever happens it won’t be entirely my fault.
We lost a fellow named Tilo Suarez a few weeks ago. It was very sad, and I’ve been going over and over in my head what could have been done, by anyone, to save him. Sergeant Cole says I have to accept it and move on. He says we have to put all our feelings in a box and only open that box at some later time. But these people are my friends now, not just fellow soldiers.
I am sorry, I am rambling on, aren’t I? And I don’t have time to start over or I’ll miss getting this posted, and who knows when the next mail call will come.
Daddy, I remember you saying that I should find a good sergeant and stick by him. Well, I have two now, Cole and Stick. I am in good hands, and I am not worried so I hope you won’t be either. I’m writing this from the shadow of a sheer and amazing mountain topped by an incredible monastery. It’s all very beautiful.
Love always,
Rio
Dearest Rio,
Finally I am in a place where I can write: England! Of course I can’t tell you where exactly without risking the censors marking the page up with their black marks, but I am fully recovered and reassigned to XXXXXXXX.
My darling, I loved our time together in Tunis. It was magical. I won’t say more here where prying eyes see everything, but I want you to know that it was no meaningless pastime for me.
I wanted to say that when we last met, but Guttierez tells me I was singing Christmas carols. I was a little out of my head, as I guess you noticed. Ha-ha.
Anyway, darling, I hope the future will see us together, you and I. I hope also that you know I will always try to do the right thing by you. I would say something more definite, but my love, I am leery of making promises when our futures are so fraught with possible difficulties.
But my love for you is undiminished. Always and forever yours,
Strand
30
RIO RICHLIN—RAPIDO RIVER, ITALY
“Okay, huddle up,” Sergeant Cole says. He’s just come from a briefing with the captain, and the expression on his face is grim in the gray, cloud-filtered light. A chilly drizzle falls, dripping down helmets to slide down ponchos, and from there to soak trouser legs and the tops of socks and inevitably boots.
Cole’s cigar is lit and clouds of blue smoke billow forth from time to time, sometimes lingering beneath the brim of his helmet. They are six men and one woman: Sergeants Cole, Sticklin, Alvarez, and Coelho, and Corporals Petrash, Marder, and Richlin. Everyone but Alvarez is smoking, including Rio. All are caked in mud, the men all whiskered, and Rio is nearly as dark from smoke and dirt. Eyes peer from beneath helmet brims, white-rimmed eyes in darkened faces.
Winter has come with rain and hail and still more rain. Italy from Rio’s perspective is made of jagged rock, rubble, and mud, and life is a story of cold and wet and hunger and exhaustion. Each day the proportions change but the essentials do not.
“Here’s the deal. We are starting the big push on Monte Cassino.”
No one is surprised, but neither is anyone happy at the prospect. For weeks after taking Naples they have fought their way closer to the massive, forbid
ding rock topped by the awe-inspiring monastery. Monte Cassino lies directly alongside the only usable road to Rome. From that high perch the Germans see everything, and their gunners can pick off tanks or trucks with effortless accuracy.
Monte Cassino must be taken.
Monte Cassino cannot be taken.
“There’s this river up ahead that some are saying is the Volturno, and others are saying is just more of the Rapido.” Cole waits, letting this sink in. Earlier a Texas outfit had tried to cross the Rapido and had come very close to being wiped out before withdrawing, having achieved none of its objectives.
“I don’t much care what they call it. They say it’s not very wide or deep, but it’s too deep to wade across and the water is running pretty fast. And, well, you know about the Texans.”
Stick spits rainwater that’s run into his mouth and says, “Sarge, we’ve all been patrolling that stretch of river, and we can’t even get a recon patrol across. The Krauts have wire everywhere and mines, they’ve got MGs dug in and mortars and 88s sighted in.”
Cole sighs. He relights his cigar with his Zippo, and in the light of the flame he looks older, Rio thinks. Not a little older, a lot, as if he’s aged twenty years. “Yeah, the brass knows all about it. But this is a broader movement—Free French are attacking as well. And we’ll get arty.”
“Great,” someone mutters. “At least we’ll have crater holes to jump into.”
“Look, I’m not here to bullshit you,” Cole says. “This isn’t a garden party. Engineers have marked lanes through the minefields, mostly, so as long as no one panics maybe we can avoid those at least. But don’t assume. Engineers make mistakes, and it’s not unknown for Kraut patrols to move the markers.”
Rio listens closely to every detail, but her heart is sinking. She knows what matters and what does not. Will the target be softened up by artillery? Yes. Will there be cover? No. How strong is the enemy? The Wehrmacht is never so weak you can relax, but intel says they’re not expecting the Allies to attack.