"Mike is a dangerous chap."
We seated ourselves comfortably. Porta had a surprise for us. A butter-keg full of brown beans. We pulled our folding spoons and forks from the legs of our boots. The keg was placed in such a position that we could all reach it from where we sat. The beans were cold, but that did not matter much.
Barcelona produced a cigarette and broke it in three. The pieces went the round.
Porta dealt.
"Is there anything nicer," said the Old Man with a smile, "than sitting up on a hill on a good bog with a barrel of beans in front of you and a good game of cards, knowing you're more or less safe from shells?"
We agreed that there wasn't. If we could go on sitting there in our private bog, the war could last a hundred years as far as we were concerned. Most of us were not yet twenty-five. We had long since forgotten what civilian life was like. Our greatest luxury was a decent latrine on some mound under the open sky.
IV
Two squadrons of tanks were standing in readiness in Via di Porta Labicana.
From out of the darkness came hoarse cries: "Sbrigatevi, per Bacco!" and terrified people leaped out from the covered wagons. The place swarmed with SD-men and their fascist henchmen; fierce dogs barked; children cried; a little girl dropped her doll; an old woman stumbled; hob-nailed boots dealt kicks right and left; heavy doors were pushed shut and fastened with chains; a locomotive let off steam.
"The swine" exclaimed our minstrel, "Far too many in each truck to even sit."
"Shouldn't we chuck a few grenades at the SD men?" Tiny suggested, hopefully.
"It wouldn't do us or the others any good," the Old Man muttered angrily.
"It was much worse, when they took the Warsaw Jews," Porta put in. "They don't use whips here, only their feet."
"Why don't they break out?" Barcelona asked, surprised. More goods wagons rolled up and were filled with silent people.
"Are they going to kill them all?" asked the Minstrel who had been with the SS.
"You can take your oath they are," said Heide with a bully's laugh. "They'll gas them in Poland."
"But people can't treat humans that way," the Old Man murmured naively.
"Didn't you know," Porta said ironically, "that the crowning glory of creation is that swine, man?"
That was the night the Jews of Rome were deported. Two squadrons of tanks from the German army safeguarded the loading of them at Rome's termini.
The Jews had been rounded up in broad daylight just outside the windows of the Vatican. There had been a brief but violent struggle in Vicola del Campanile, when they had arrested two Jewesses and an old man. One of t he women was finally dragged by the feet to the truck parked in Via della Conciliazione.
The round-up was watched by the Gestapo chief in Rome, SS Obersturmbannfuhrer Kappler, in person. The Germans were doing their best to provoke the Pope into making a public protest, which would have been the signal for what Hitler, Himmler and Heydrich had wanted and been dreaming of ever since they came to power: the liquidation of the Holy See.
For the Vatican to have made a protest at that moment would have been to seal its own doom. The people in the RSHA were sitting at a telephone waiting to give the code word "Dog-collar."
PORTA'S GAMBLING DEN
We had a few quiet days during which we did nothing but a little trenching and mine-laying at night. Of course, we lost a few people now and again, but it was a good time, for we did not consider trench-digging anything. There was only one really bad night. We were surprised by violent artillery fire, took the wrong direction and crawled along parallel to our positions. That cost us forty-three dead and twice as many wounded, but all of us old sweats got back with whole skins. What's more we were able to laugh at Heide. He had been scalped by a shell splinter and all the glossy black hair that was his pride was gone from one side of his head. We used two packets of bandages to cover the huge wound. He was so
We seated ourselves comfortably. Porta had a surprise for us. A butter-keg full of brown beans. We pulled our folding spoons and forks from the legs of our boots. The keg was placed in such a position that we could all reach it from where we sat. The beans were cold, but that did not matter much.
Barcelona produced a cigarette and broke it in three. The pieces went the round.
Porta dealt.
"Is there anything nicer," said the Old Man with a smile, "than sitting up on a hill on a good bog with a barrel of beans in front of you and a good game of cards, knowing you're more or less safe from shells?"
We agreed that there wasn't. If we could go on sitting there in our private bog, the war could last a hundred years as far as we were concerned. Most of us were not yet twenty-five. We had long since forgotten what civilian life was like. Our greatest luxury was a decent latrine on some mound under the open sky.
IV
Two squadrons of tanks were standing in readiness in Via di Porta Labicana.
From out of the darkness came hoarse cries: "Sbrigatevi, per Bacco!" and terrified people leaped out from the covered wagons. The place swarmed with SD-men and their fascist henchmen; fierce dogs barked; children cried; a little girl dropped her doll; an old woman stumbled; hob-nailed boots dealt kicks right and left; heavy doors were pushed shut and fastened with chains; a locomotive let off steam.
"The swine" exclaimed our minstrel, "Far too many in each truck to even sit."
"Shouldn't we chuck a few grenades at the SD men?" Tiny suggested, hopefully.
"It wouldn't do us or the others any good," the Old Man muttered angrily.
"It was much worse, when they took the Warsaw Jews," Porta put in. "They don't use whips here, only their feet."
"Why don't they break out?" Barcelona asked, surprised. More goods wagons rolled up and were filled with silent people.
"Are they going to kill them all?" asked the Minstrel who had been with the SS.
"You can take your oath they are," said Heide with a bully's laugh. "They'll gas them in Poland."
"But people can't treat humans that way," the Old Man murmured naively.
"Didn't you know," Porta said ironically, "that the crowning glory of creation is that swine, man?"
That was the night the Jews of Rome were deported. Two squadrons of tanks from the German army safeguarded the loading of them at Rome's termini.
The Jews had been rounded up in broad daylight just outside the windows of the Vatican. There had been a brief but violent struggle in Vicola del Campanile, when they had arrested two Jewesses and an old man. One of t he women was finally dragged by the feet to the truck parked in Via della Conciliazione.
The round-up was watched by the Gestapo chief in Rome, SS Obersturmbannfuhrer Kappler, in person. The Germans were doing their best to provoke the Pope into making a public protest, which would have been the signal for what Hitler, Himmler and Heydrich had wanted and been dreaming of ever since they came to power: the liquidation of the Holy See.
For the Vatican to have made a protest at that moment would have been to seal its own doom. The people in the RSHA were sitting at a telephone waiting to give the code word "Dog-collar."
PORTA'S GAMBLING DEN
We had a few quiet days during which we did nothing but a little trenching and mine-laying at night. Of course, we lost a few people now and again, but it was a good time, for we did not consider trench-digging anything. There was only one really bad night. We were surprised by violent artillery fire, took the wrong direction and crawled along parallel to our positions. That cost us forty-three dead and twice as many wounded, but all of us old sweats got back with whole skins. What's more we were able to laugh at Heide. He had been scalped by a shell splinter and all the glossy black hair that was his pride was gone from one side of his head. We used two packets of bandages to cover the huge wound. He was so
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