“G? Paolo?”

“Gustavo, his first name. That would be the name on any document, so of course the Germans—”

“But I don’t understand. He wasn’t a doctor.”

“Well, Villa Raspelli wasn’t a hospital. It’s—how do you say, casa di recovero?”

“I don’t know—rest home? Recuperation center, I guess.”

“So, recuperation. You know, an officer is wounded. Maybe tired of the war. He goes to Villa Raspelli. He looks at Lake Garda, breathes the good air, he eats, he gets better. Maybe he has to practice walking. Maybe the arm is like this.” She made a gesture to indicate a cast. “But no one is dying. It’s casa di recovero, not a hospital. A club for butchers,” she said, her voice suddenly bitter.

“But then why did Gianni go there?”

She looked over, almost delighted, pleased with me. “That is an excellent question. A doctor from Venice? From the big hospital? Why not someone in Verona? I have the records. There were no serious illnesses there in this period. And you know, if it was serious they moved them out to a real hospital. This was der Zauberberg, a place to rest. But a doctor comes from Venice. So why?”

I said nothing, waiting.

“Of course, it is an excellent excuse. Doctors do go there. Maybe not from Venice, but they go. To make the checkups. How is the cast? You know. No one would think it unusual if he went there.”

“But you did.”

“Because I know what it was like. He wasn’t needed. Still, there he is. Not once, several times.” She pulled out one of the sheets and pointed. “G. Maglione. Not a ghost. As I say, an excellent excuse, if you were meeting someone. No suspicion at all. You meet the SS at Quadri’s, everyone notices. You meet secretly, someone finds out. But at Villa Raspelli no one questions it. You’re a doctor. Maybe someone has asked for you. Take a black bag, all out in the open. Wonderful.”

“Wait a minute. Back up. His brother went there. He wasn’t a doctor.”

“Well, Paolo didn’t need an excuse. They were his friends. You know about him?”

“Only what I read in the papers. A playboy.”

She nodded. “Yes. Racing cars. Then more games. The Order of Rome. You know that?”

I shook my head.

“A club, for boys like him. Young Fascists. Rich, stupid. For the new empire. Ha. Abyssinia. What did they care about Abyssinia? An excuse to get drunk, be stupid together. Harmless, and then not so harmless. The Germans began to use them. Of course, it was the Duce at Salò, but really the Germans.”

“Used them how?”

“To inform. To help fight the Communists. For someone like Paolo, that’s all you had to say. The Communists—that would be the end of everything, wouldn’t it? Better to make a bargain with the devil. So they did.”

“Over drinks at the Villa Raspelli.”

“Yes, many times. He was a favorite there—he must have been good company. Still a playboy. And of course there was the work to discuss. No more Abyssinia. Now he was saving us from the Communists. A hero. For Italy. For the Church. He wasn’t the only one like that, you know. There were lots of heroes. And now they answer for it.” She placed her hand on the folder, as if it were the prosecutor’s case.

“But not him.”

“No, he answered earlier.”

“A car crash.”

She took a sip of tea, calm. “No, he was killed.”

“I thought it went off the road.”

“It did. After.”

I looked at her, surprised. “Do you know that?”

“Yes,” she said simply.

I reached for the coffeepot, something to do while I took this in.

“But Gianni,” I said, “he wasn’t—what was it? Order of Rome?”

“No. I only knew about the brother. That’s why I’m here. To talk to you about this one.”

“Well, he wasn’t that. Like Paolo, I mean. Not a playboy. Not stupid, either. I can’t imagine him joining anything. He likes to keep his hands clean.”

“Not too clean. Isn’t that why you came to us?”

“That was something else. Not the Order of Rome. In his own way, he—” I looked up from my cup. “He told me he did it to save someone else. Who was in the hospital at the same time. A partisan.”

She lifted her head in surprise, then tipped it to one side, thinking. “A partisan,” she said quietly, turning it over another minute. She pushed at her sleeve, an absentminded gesture, moving the heavy cloth back until a splotch of white appeared, new skin, without color. I watched, fascinated, as she rubbed her finger over it, idly scratching. Another souvenir of the Germans? There was more of it, running up under her sleeve. How large had the burn been, the old skin blistering, coming off in peels? “Then he’s lying,” she said finally, startling me. I looked up from her arm. Her eyes were certain, not even a hint of doubt, so that suddenly I had to look away, ashamed somehow of feeling relieved, oddly elated.

“Are you sure?”

“The partisans in the Veneto were Communists. Does he seem to you a man who would help the Communists?”

“But not all—”

“Americans. Why is this so hard for you? Yes, Communists. Or people fighting with Communists. It comes to the same. Who else was fighting the Fascists? Not just at the end. And when the Nazis ran, who else was there to chase them? Hunt them down.”

“Were you there?” I said, trying to imagine it.

She nodded. “Of course.”

“A Communist?”

“My parents were. I was named for Rosa Luxemburg—my mother was her friend, in Berlin. So she had to leave, after they killed her, and my father was then in Milano—” She stopped. “Well, my parents, that’s for another day.”

“But not you.”

“Not when I work for the Americans.” She poured another cup of tea, then looked up. “This matters to you?”

“Just curious. So you were a partisan.”

“Yes, like everyone now. Then, not so many. Why do you think I do this work? I don’t forget what it was like, what the others did. The Magliones.”

“Both of them?”

“It’s the logic. Follow the dates,” she said, patting the folder again. “Paolo we know. A bastard. But his brother, no record. Paolo is killed by partisans. And now the brother appears on the guest list.”

“And not before?”

“No, I checked. After Paolo’s death. So now there’s another Maglione at Villa Raspelli. Why? The logic is, they appealed to him. ‘Help us avenge your brother.’ Does he say no? Then why go back? Not one visit, several.”

“And you don’t think he was treating anyone.”

“No, but at first I thought it could be. I only knew about the brother. Not this one, what he does, how he feels. That we have to guess. And then you tell us he’s reporting Jews to the SS. A doctor reporting Jews. You know this for a fact?”

“The daughter survived. She saw him do it.”

“Good. She would be willing to testify to this?”

“Yes,” I said, hesitant, wondering where she was going. “But—”

“So we have a link now. He helps the SS with the roundups. What else does he help them with? He’s not at Villa Raspelli to give aspirin, I think. It’s the logic.”

“But not the proof,” I said.

“No, not yet. But I’ll get it,” she said, scratching her arm again, excited.

“Proof of what?”

“After Paolo’s death, of course there were reprisals. This man was nothing to them, not really, but now he’s an excuse. Make an example for the partisans. Show them what happens when they—well, you can imagine. It’s the end, they’re desperate, and they were always butchers, so now they’re like crazy men. Torture. Terrible things. And it works. They begin to get the partisans, pick them off. Always it’s Communist uprisings they’re putting down, not the resistance. And once it’s very lucky—this time, a whole group. A house. And they burn it, with people inside. An atrocity. And the question is, who betrayed them?”

“But how could Gianni—?”

“No one betrayed them. Not that way. Someone led them to that house. It’s possible not even deliberately, not even knowing. I looked at everyone in that house, I made their files. Who would do it? No one.”