Warburg in Rome by James Carroll Page B

Warburg notice the faded symbol on the truck’s canvas, the familiar cross the color of dried blood. The truck, too, had been through hell. Warburg’s gaze, now set loose, went to the woman. The first thing to strike him was her bruised face, an eye half closed in its blackened well. Tall and thin, her knee-length blue skirt and blouse hung loosely on her body. Her calves were strikingly unshaven. Taking in her face again, he saw, apart from the bruises, its emaciation, a hint of weary glamour in the way her cheekbones protruded. There was also an accidental glamour in the angle at which her beret was cocked, keeping the other side of her face in shadow. Because of bruises there, too? Her pale lips made clear that she wore no makeup, but the crescent under her eye was dark enough to seem penciled in. A red sliver of what he took to be an undershirt showed at her throat, reminding Warburg, oddly, of the priest’s crimson collar tab. The woman, suddenly aware that Warburg was looking at her, met his gaze with such directness that, despite himself, he returned it. For a long few seconds, they stared at each other.
    “They are here to pick up food,” Deane was saying to the sergeant, “for an open-air orphanage.” Deane turned to Warburg. “She said there are more than a thousand untended children holed up in the Quirinal gardens—lame, lost, abandoned. They just congregated there, without adults. She has to get them milk and bread.”
    “We got no orders for that, Father,” the sergeant said. “My orders are to watch out for black market operators.”
    “It’s Monsignor, Sergeant,” Deane said easily. Without knowing the subtleties, Warburg recognized the pulling of rank.
    “Sorry, Monsignor. But we don’t sign anything out of here until the major shows.”
    “When will that be?”
    “Who knows? Look around, Father—I mean Monsignor. Sorry. You see any officers? Logistics staff meeting, probably. We’re supposed to have motor pool support here by now, but do you see any vehicles? Typical.”
    “Meanwhile, Sergeant, these Red Cross folks have orphans to feed. She said the kids are living on castagne —chestnuts. Raw chestnuts. Look here. What’s on that one pallet alone? Fifty boxes of Carnation Farms? Come on, Sarge. That’s milk.”
    “No can do, Monsignor. Not feasible.” He flashed his clipboard. “ Capiche? No signature, no release.”
    Warburg stepped forward. “I’ll sign that. I’m David Warburg. WRB.” Having pronounced the initials with authority, he counted on them meaning nothing to the soldier. But he flashed his leather credentials folder with a flourish, then held it before the man’s face, requiring him to examine it. “That’s the secretary of the treasury’s signature there. And you see the service grade—GS-19, Sergeant. Think brigadier general. Let’s call this my shipment.” Warburg was trumping not only the sergeant, but the priest. “Evaporated milk. Civilian disposition. It’s meant for the children. You can let this one pallet go. By the time the Red Cross comes back for anything else, standing orders will have been issued. You’ll receive a commendation. Where do I sign?” Warburg took the clipboard out of the soldier’s hands, leaving him to roll the words “brigadier general” across the craps table of his brain. Warburg pulled a fountain pen out of his inside pocket, uncapped it, and waved it at the bottom of the page, a wand. Handing the clipboard back, he said, “Now get these people some help loading that stack onto their truck.”
    “Yes, Sir.”
    “And get them some of that flour.”
    The sergeant turned and barked orders at his crew, the chain of command kicking the dog.
    Monsignor Deane spoke briefly to the Italians and moved away toward the hangar, where in one cleared area the C-54 passengers’ luggage was being offloaded. As Warburg moved to follow Deane, the woman half reached out a hand and surprised him by saying in English, “Thank you,