Mus cost a fortune for new stationery every time the border moves, Schramm remarks, offering the brandy.
Printers always prosper. The Italian raises the flask in salute and takes a healthy swallow. If you wont be needing me anymore?
Schramm nods, and the man strolls off toward an alcove, pausing to admire a fresco of the Last Judgment that Schramm himself finds unnecessarily vivid. Searching for a place to sit, Schramm gets a fix on some pews near the confessionals, takes another sip from the flask. No retreat! he declares. Probably aloud.
The tourists slow circuit of the church is punctuated by murmurs of dismay. A fifteenth-century baptismal font is damaged. A colorful jumble of shattered glass lies beneath a blown-out window. Verdamm Tommies, Schramm mutters. British claimre only bombing military sites, but Hamburg is rubble! Dehousing the workers, thats what they call it. Terrorflieger, we call it. Leverkusen, München. Köln, Düsseldorf. Rubble, all of them! Did you know that?
We hear only rumor these days, even with the change in government, the Italian replies, declining comment on Mussolinis recent fall from power.
Schramm waves his flask at the damage before taking another pull. RAF pilotsre so fugging inaggurate Schramm tries again. They are so fucking inaccurate. Satisfied with his diction, he swivels his head in the direction of his new friend. They call it a hit if they aim at a dock and smash a church!
Very sloppy, the Italian agrees. A shocking lack of professional pride!
Slack-jawed, Schramms skull tips back of its own accord. He stares at the painted angels wheeling above him until his hands lose track of what theyre supposed to be doing and the flask slips from his fingers. He aims his eyes at the floor, where the last of the liquor is pooling. Thas a pity, he mourns. Laboriously, he lifts first one foot and then the other onto the pew, sliding down until he is prone. Fat ol nun, he mutters. Proly never committed a sin in her whole life
A sharp noise awakens him. Coughing and crapulous, Schramm struggles to sit up. His confessor hasnt arrived, but chunks of stone have been neatly stacked by the door. Sweeping shards of colored glass into a pile, the Italian flirts gallantly with the novices. The pretty one flirts back, dimpling when she smiles.
Schramm slumps over the back of the pew in front of him, cushioning his brow on folded arms. Im going to be sick, he warns a little too loudly.
The Italian snaps his fingers. Suora Fossette! The bucket! The newly christened Sister Dimples scrambles to deliver it, and only just in time. Allow me, the gentleman says, courteous as a headwaiter while Schramm pukes into the dirty water.
Swiping at his watering eyes
with trembling hands, Schramm accepts the proffered handkerchief. Touris, translator now youre a nurse!
A man of endless possibilities! the Italian declares, setting the bucket aside.
He has a face off a fresco: bent-nosed and bony, but with a benign expression. Old enough to be tolerantly amused by anothers disgrace. Someone who might understand Schramm wants to tell this kindly stranger everything, but all that comes out is I was tryin tmake things better.
Always a mistake, the Italian remarks. Where are you staying, Oberstabsarzt? Would you like to come back another day?
Schramm shakes his head stubbornly. Dammte Schpageddi-Fresser. Italiansre always late! Where is that shit of a priest?
Lie down, Herr Doktor. Schramm feels his legs lifted onto the pew. Rest your eyes. The priest will come, and then well get you back where you belong.
No, thank you, Schramm says firmly. Hell exists, you know. Any combat soldier can tell you that. The other man stops moving. I knew youd unerstan! So heavens real, too! Logic, ja?
Their moment of communion is over. I myself am not a devout Catholic, the Samaritan informs him regretfully. My opinions about heaven and hell neednt trouble you.
Righ righ. Almost asleep, Schramm mumbles, Youre not a bad fellow
Moments later, he is snoring like a tank engine, and does not hear the hoot of delighted laughter that echoes through the basilica. Did you hear that, Sisters? his intepreter asks. The Nazi says Im not a bad fellow!
For a spaghetti chomper, Suora Fossette amends solemnly.
Musical giggles are quickly stifled when swift footsteps and whispering fabric announce a priests approach. Grüss Gott, mein Herr, he says, shooting a stern look at the novices. I am Osvaldo Tomitz, secretary to His Excellency Archbishop Tirassa.
Don Osvaldo! Piacere: a pleasure to meet you! says a well-dressed civilian. Im Renzo Leoni.
Tomitzs confusion is plain. Suora Marta undoubtedly told him that the man wishing to confess is an obnoxious German drunk. How may I be of service to you, signore?
Ah, but I am not the one who sought your services, Don Osvaldo. Leading the way toward the confessionals, Leoni presents a Waffen-SS officer passed out cold on a pew.
Nose wrinkling at the sour smell of vomit and brandy, Tomitz snorts. So thats the Aryan superman weve heard so much about.