A Dark Song of Blood by Ben Pastor Page B

anti-partisan operations, the thought oppressed him somehow. Captain Sutor, after introducing him with unfriendly rigidity, left at once when Kappler walked around his desk to shake hands.
    â€œI’m glad you could make it, Major. I’ve meant to chat with you since we met at Ott’s party. After all, we share a long experience in dealing with trouble. Did you hear that Graziani skipped town?”
    With the only window shuttered and the electric light on, being in the office was claustrophobic. Bora kept on guard, careful not to appear tense. This was the time to gauge each other’s nature, a careful time of observation and taking of measures. He was aware of Kappler’s scrutiny and the need to convey an image of ease. “I’m not attached to Counter-intelligence here in Rome. The military end of guerrilla operations is where my experience resides, and stops.”
    Kappler laughed. “General Westphal told me of your concern about partisan activity after the Anzio landing. The two bombings on Wednesday and yesterday’s attacks proved youto be right. I share your concern, and it seems only wise for us to coordinate our efforts. No matter how long it’ll take the Allies to get here, you know, it’s a lease we have. Nothing else.” Because Bora faced him squarely, Kappler added, “My estimate is two to six months, perhaps less.” Again Bora did not encourage him, so Kappler nodded to himself, reaching for a sheet of paper on his desk. “We’re terminal, as far as Rome is concerned. That’s why we should make our arrangements.”
    â€œI’ve done most of my work in Russia, Colonel. Only some of the principles apply to Rome. It all depends on how ideological the partisans are, and how much community support they receive. Surely they have the advantage of close proximity.”
    Kappler handed him a list of underground organizations. “They’re ideologically a mixed bag, but they all hate us. It comes to the same.”
    Bora read. Without looking up, he said, “The terrain is as difficult as I can think of, whether or not we move the curfew back two hours. It equates jungle conditions as far as I’m concerned, and we know what portions of the city take the place of impregnable redoubts.”
    His allusion to Vatican property prompted a response from Kappler. “And sanctuary, literally.”
    Bora glanced away from the paper, but not directly at Kappler; rather, at the map of Rome on the wall facing him. “No doubt, outside the city weapons are being dropped by the Allies. When I was up north, the number of partisans was estimated at about a thousand nationally. They lacked good weapons. Brixia grenades, cheap pistols, no caches to speak of. How many do you calculate are passive and part-time members now; how many are active and full-time?”
    Kappler gave him some figures, which Bora did not dispute. “But there are plenty of foreign agents hiding in Rome. American, British – people who, as yourself, speak the language well enough to be taken for Italians. Some four hundred escaped Allied POWs are rumored to be around. God knows,they may be attending our parties. And, with colleagues like Dollmann...”
    Bora ignored the comment. He took a handful of documents out of his briefcase. “I brought copies of army directives we received between the end of November and the beginning of December 1941. You are welcome to them. In Russia partisan units were up to five hundred in number. They had huge land expanses at their disposal, knew the terrain, spoke the dialect and could boast highly indoctrinated commanders.”
    â€œDid you hang a few?”
    â€œI hanged more than a few.”
    â€œBut didn’t units like yours grant life to those who surrendered, which was the neat army habit early in the war?”
    â€œI spoke Russian well. The commanders who didn’t were at a disadvantage in preparing