Midnight Mass in Manila

Midnight Mass on the Eve of Easter marked the first time since the horrific War in the Pacific had ended in 1946, that an Easter Mass was being celebrated publicly in the evening,

The Japanese had taken particular delight in the mistreatment and maltreatment of Filipinos during the war. Manila was the Pearl of the Orient, the capital of the American Empire. Under MANIFEST DESTINY, Presidents McKinley and his successor Theodore Roosevelt had set their sights on the Philippines, then a colony of a ruined and self-destructive Spain.

The principal reason was to thwart Japan’s expansionism and hegemony in the Pacific. America badly needed a colony in a strategic area of the Pacific. The Philippines was perfect. A population of twenty million souls with a high rate of literacy, higher than their South. Its position in the Malacca Straits meant that its dominion of the Straits constituted an important first step towards the American Empire. Being clever men, the American Rulers did not fail to see the vast natural resources. Sugar, gold, hemp, tobacco, cotton, pearls and copper. Then there was the most precious of all resources – the Filipinos themselves. All this and it was a Christian country too!!

Hiroshima and Nagasaki in Japan had witnessed first hand the horror of several hundred thousand corpses burnt and fried by radiation in a matter of seconds. The Japanese forces in the Philippines not only continued to fight on, they turned as brutal as they could towards the brave-hearted Filipinos who battled on in the swamps, mountains, rain forests and boondocks (boondocks) The Japanese executed 400 Filipinos for every Japanese killed by the Guerillas, They grieved but continued their struggle.

The liberation of Manila was a mass slaughter. The American forces had to take it room by room, forget house to house. Manila bore the brunt of the ugliness and inevitable Death of War.

Monsignor Enio Alberti and the Catholic Church in the Philippines as well as its most enlightened political, business and cultural leaders decided that the Celebration of Holy Saturday would be a genuine act of moving forward and looking ahead rather than turning constantly back to their irreplaceable loved ones and unspeakable anguish.

"As Manila goes so will the rest of the archipelago,” declared the Monsignor in his apostolic letter to the Bishops in the Philippine Dioceses.

In an unspoken but eloquent gesture, the people of Manila had accepted the challenge and their attendance at this High Mass in Latin was the proof.

Dona Esperanza slowly walked down the central nave if the Church of San Beda (Saint Bede) Her son and daughter-in law and then her daughters with their husbands in tow came closely behind. The Hakka Amahs held the hands of their respective "children".

Dona Esperanza had given them the choice of staying at home in their cozy beds and enjoying their well deserved sleep or coming with her, in other words no choice at all.

“Thank you, my Dona. I speak for us all. Even if we are a bit tired. We not miss this event for our Hakka people suffer and die too in Manila,” Ah Wei had replied.

“I have never seen so many people, there must be thousands inside and outside San Beda, marveled Dona Esperanza.

The thousands stretched from E. Mendiola Street where the Benedictine monks to honor Saint Bede, the learned and erudite monk, all the way to Aviles Street, had built San Beda Church in the early 17th century. The people stood before the locked gates of the Presidential Palace – Malacanang. It had been the official residence of most of the Spanish Governor- Generals who had ruled the 3,700 plus islands in the name of the King. The American military Governors had picked the splendidly white marbled Malacanang as their residence as well. They governed in the name of the President, Theodore Roosevelt, an imperial and illuminated political leader.

Giant loudspeakers placed atop trucks laden with heavily armed soldiers to enable the masses of faithful on the streets to follow the Mass inside San Beda. The leaders of the Philippine communities and its religious leaders led by the Nuncio feared terrorist attacks by the Marxist guerillas. Hence the soldiers armed to the teeth.

It was a joint military exercise. American soldiers could be spotted armed with rifles and telescopic sights standing on armored tanks.

“We are at peace? I would like to know from what and from whom. The war never ended. This is just called by another name – the Cold War. I think it is even more deadly than the one we have just survived. Helpless and Innocent people are being murdered in this War with the ugly name - Cold War. God help us,” prayed Esperanza.

“San Beda looks intimidating,” whispered Lucrezia.

“It’s scary,” agreed Zita.

Few candles were lit inside the church. The Faithful used flashlights to find their seats.

“It’s like scenes from the movies,” remarked several voices.

“Ssh. Quiet. “ Unseen voices murmured.

“I think they may be right. This is a form of spectacle,” said Esperanza softly.

“It’s a sacred spectacle Mamma,” affirmed Matthias, eldest son of Esperanza.

‘The waiting is the worst part,” stated Allegra, her youngest daughter, mother of Zita and Freckie.

‘Why did we come so early? “ Asked a perplexed Freckie.

"Cuz…Monsignor Alberti decided not to allow reserved seats for any of the VIPs."

“That would be our family and others like us,” pointed out Dolly.

“It’s first come, first served,” explained Heinzie.

Lucrezia turned her head slowly. Her pupils had by now adjusted themselves to the blackness, but she had difficulty making out the outlines of the altar of gold facing her. The gold glistened.

“Ahhh, that will guide me,” observed Lucrezia.

The Blessed Sacrament – the golden chalice holding the sacred host, which symbolically was both the body and blood of Jesus, was not exposed. There was a larger and more opulent chalice on the altar, but it was empty. The fragments of light striking it from the dome reminded the faithful it must be so.”

Multitudes terrorized her. “Since the ambush in the blue and green hills of Montalban, floods of people make me feel faint. It seems as if elephants are sitting on my chest. If I keep on thinking about it, I shall surely pass out. I must not and I won’t,” resolved Lucrezia.

She turned towards Ah Wei and clutched her hand. “Terrible and sad visions are appearing before my eyes. Why don’t we recite the sorrowful mysteries of the Rosary? (It dealt with the Passion and agony of Christ.)

“Child, you always forget. I pray in Hakka,”Ah Wei reminds her softly. “Bad memories must never crush you. You are never alone.”

Lucrezia sighed deeply. The darkness, the tumult, the roar of the masses of faithful praying sends icicles through her arms, chest and legs.

“Dear Jesus. Dear Guardian Angel Mahasiah who forms part of the chorus of the Seraphim – the Archangel Metatron, help me please. Remove my fears “

She closed her eyes and repeated over and over until she no longer felt her heart beating in her chest and her breath was slow and faint. She let the calmness descend over her.

A symphony of small bells suddenly began ringing. Dozens of altar boys in white carried them and rang them as they walked down the three aisles of the Church towards the Altar. A lone acolyte carrying a candle preceded them and lit the way for Monsignor Alberti. He wore dazzling orange vestments and he was carrying the sacred Chalice containing the body and blood of Christ to bring it back to its rightful place. On Holy Thursday and Good Friday it is removed from the altar.

The High Mass in Latin was about to initiate.

“Porca Miseria, dirty filthy Misery,” swore the Monsignor. He had tripped over a handbag, which had been thoughtlessly left in the aisle. No one took a breath. Even those who did not understand Italian could tell from the tone of his voice that he had tripped. He recovered his composure quickly and proceeded ramrod straight to the central altar.

“Introibi ad altare Dei,” I will go into the altar of God,” he intoned in his fine baritone voice.

“Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam,” replied the faithful.

“It means To God who is the joy of my youth,” Matt translated in a loud whisper for the benefit of is nephews and nieces.

“I know, thank you Uncle Matthias,” Lucrezia whispered back.

“Show off,” said Freckie standing with his parents Allegra and Armand in the pew in front of her.

“Silence,” ordered Dona Esperanza.

The High Mass was being sung entirely in Latin, except for the sermon or homily, which Monsignor always kept short, sweet and to the point. The choir was composed of some of the country’s finest sopranos and tenors.

“It’s electrifying. I have been transported somewhere else. As long as I live, I will never forget this moment,” mused Lucrezia as tears of joy and sadness rained down her face.

Freckie continued to fidget.” He is like those children in the Middle Ages who had been bitten by the tarantula spider. Their nervous systems induced them to move jerkily. In Spain and in Italy it was known as Saint Vitus’s dance,” said Camilla, Lucrezia’s mother.

Aunt Allegra swatted him lightly with her gilded fan. Freckie went on.

“Let us all ignore him,” suggested Dona Esperanza gruffly.

“Frightful Freckie has finally done it. We are embarrassed and mortified. Gran’s right. We must pay no attention,” reasoned Lucrezia.

“Gloria in Excelsis Deo,” Glory to God in the Highest.” proclaimed Monsignor.

And then there was Light once again the Universe. San Beda’s massive chandeliers blinded the faithful with light. They lit the candles which they had all brought with them and sang with the choir,” And on earth peace to men of good will.”

The reason why Saturday of Glory or Holy Saturday was so portentous to the early Christian converts as well as to the Roman, Catholic, Apostolic and Universal Church was because Jesus’ spirit and soul on that night between midnight and dawn of Easter descended into Hell. Some call it the blackness, the Satanic Hole and the dwelling of the Luciferian forces.

Jesus’ death had released many of the condemned. They could accompany him back into the forces of Light if they had once been human. They could once again join the Legions of Angels, if they had once been cast down into the bowels of the earth.

To enjoy eternal life they had to do two things.

“Forgive me Lord for my sin of pride. I believe in you as my Savior.”

The lights suddenly appeared in Aviles and e. Mendiola Street. The huge spotlights on the trucks turned midnight into daylight. The thousands shut their eyes for a few seconds.

“The Gospel on Easter Sunday is the longest ever. It takes about twenty minutes, because it recounts the passion and the agony of Christ as well as his Resurrection. Let us steel ourselves. The faithful realize they have now entered the first few minutes of Easter Sunday,” mused Dona Esperanza.

Monsignor Alberti did not ascend the steep steps into the pulpit to read the long Gospel. He steps down from the altar, and walks among the faithful. This is the first time the people have ever witnessed this.

The long wires of the microphones are smoothed out for him, as technicians try to follow him unobtrusively. All three national radio and television networks are broadcasting this important Easter mass.

“There’s our own DZRH,” pointed out Matt proudly.

Monsignor Alberti adjusted the height of the microphones and begun reading from the longest Gospel in the Easter Mass taken from John the Apostle.

They listened so quietly even the nervous coughing and clearing of throats ceased as if by divine intervention. When he had finished, he closed the golden missal of the New Testament. He gazed at all the faces around him.

"Happy Easter, Maligayang Pasko, and Felices Pascuas,” he boomed in English, Filipino and Spanish.

His greetings had stunned the people. For a few seconds they did not know hot to react.

“Well? Are you not going to wish me a Happy Easter too?”

“Happy Easter,” replied the thousands gaily.

“Louder please. His Holiness would like to hear a special and affectionate greeting from the only Catholic country in Asia. Ready? One, Two, Three. Go!”

Wave after wave of thunderous roars swept the church and the streets. “Happy Easter Monsignor. Happy Easter Holy Father!”

He waited serenely for another 15 minutes until the thunder abated. Then he went on. “Listen to me. You all know after all the years I have spent with you in the Philippines that I am not one for long and wordy sermons. I don’t like to preach to the faithful. The Resurrection of Jesus is about renewal. It is also about change. Jesus means eternal Life, Hope and Love. Many of you here present or watching us on television or listening on the radio must remember the Easter Sunday of 1946. There was Death, Devastation and some of you felt Despair. The stench of death never left our nostrils. Until June, masses of corpses kept being recovered from the ruins and the rubble. You allowed Jesus to take hold of your hearts and souls. Suddenly you felt joy even as you sobbed in grief. Despair had fled. You pulled up your shirtsleeves and began to remove piece by piece the signs of destruction. Manila was struck so horribly; many ruins are still among us.

“The Resurrection of Jesus gave you there-assurance that you would someday be reunited withal your dead. Jesus reminds us constantly that we should always look ahead, to our future and to our children and the future of our children’s children and so on…ad infinitum. This is timeless. I am talking about a future for all, rich, middleclass and poor. Those of you who think the poor want handouts and charity are wrong. Then, I must say that you don’t really know the poor. They want to work. They want jobs where they can give value for value. I pray that you will leave this celebration of Life and Light with the Love of Jesus, therefore with the love of your fellow men in your thoughts and deeds. This is not easy to do. Not for those listening neither to me, nor for me as I speak these words. Those of you, who can kneel, please do so now. The rest of you, please remain standing. I promise you the Lord understands. I am about to bestow His Holiness, Pope Pius Xll’s papal blessing on the Philippines.”

Iit was a very moving scene. Filipinos made room for each other so that many of them could kneel on the pavement and on the streets for the blessing. The soldiers laid down their rifles. Those standing on tanks descended and knelt on the ground.

Monsignor raised his hands and then made the Sign of the Cross. “In the name of the Father, the Son ad the Holy Spirit. Amen." He raised his arms once again.

“May Jesus bless each and every one of those present at this celebration of Easter; all of you who are devoutly listening by your radios wherever you are in the Archipelago, all who are patiently watching on television. The men and women in the prisons and in the jails. The beloved lepers in our own colony of Culion, a thousand miles from Manila. May Jesus bless those suffering from tuberculosis, malaria, dengue fever and meningitis and polio. Dear Jesus, bless the urchins peddling gum and cigarettes who have dropped out of school to help out their poor parents. May Jesus bless Tondo (a notorious slum) Remember Chinatown, where many pious Chinese work and live according to your tenets. May Jesus enlighten the misguided and duped terrorist Marxist and Communist guerillas that are devastating our country-side.

“Our own Manila has risen from the ashes, like a Holy Phoenix. The Pearl of the Orient no longer exists. But let us not forget that Manila is blessed with an incomparable moon shaped bay. The city has a potential to bea turquoise or even a sapphire. We beg Jesus to bless all the Philippine islands. May she bloom, thrive and grow. Thank you and Salamat." (the Filipino word taken from the Arab Salaam for thank you).

In a strong and beautiful voice Monsignor chanted, ”Ite Missa est.” The Mass is ended. Go in peace.

Wonderful, Wonderful Ganesh

Author's note: The following is a true story that was experienced by my youngest daughter, Cinzia. What prompted me to write this story was watching the new movie "Horton Hears a Who!" last night with my six year old grandson Niccolo, who happen to be her son.


The Puranas tell us that Shiva in a fit of rage tore everything in his path. He was so blinded with ire that he did not see his beloved son standing in his path of destruction and killed him. When calm returned to him, he saw the lifeless body of his son lying in thick layers of blood. His head had been ferociously and brutally cut off. Tears continued to flow out of his boy’s sightless eyes.

“What have I done? I have killed the son of my loins whom I loved because anger transported me into the darkness. I am going to die of grief!” And then he cried tears of blood.

The Goddess of Wisdom Saraswati appeared.

“Now you see with your own eyes what your hands have wrought out of anger?”

Shiva could not reply because he was weeping.

Saraswati saw that he was repentant and that anger would never enter his heart again. His son was brought back to life, with the head of an elephant – Ganesh.

“So be it,” Shiva replied. Ganesh will remind me never to lose my temper again.”

In Bangkok the Temple of Ganesh on Silom Road is a very unique place. Thailand is a Buddhist country with a Catholic and Muslim minority. Frequently, people of all faiths will enter the temple to leave a wreath of lotus blossoms or peonies as a way of giving thanks for answered prayers.

The adorable figure of Ganesh has always fascinated my youngest daughter Cinzia. I often repeated the tale of Shiva and Ganesh to show others the futility of anger and as a consequence – War.

Cinzia was a frequent listener to the highest rated radio and television show in Bangkok, which featured rock and roll and pop music. The DJ used to have contests wherein 8 bars of a song would be played and the listener who named the song and the band correctly won a fabulous prize – two weeks for two in a lavish suite at a seven star hotel in Chiang Mai. Well, Cinzia won and she was excited at the idea of staying all by herself in an opulent hotel. Indeed, she won so many times, that the producers of the show eventually banned her from participating ever again, but I digress.

One of my son’s classmates at Saint John’s Beaumont in Windsor and later at Stonyhurst, in Lancashire, the toney Jesuit Public School was in Bangkok for one of those adventurous trips only the very young set out to do.

“What? Did I hear you correctly? Simon and you are going trekking into the rain forests of Chiang Mai? I should think you would need to undergo rigorous training to go off traipsing into the rain forests.”

The reason I was incredulous was because Cinzia’s idea of exercise was riding a fine horse and putting him through the paces of dressage or going to the disco until the wee small hours of the morning.

Simon was allergic to every plant and substance known to man. I remember him getting hives at the sight of a wasp in our garden in Rome.

“Don’t worry Mama, Anand, the monk from the Temple of Kubera in Chiang Mai will be our guide/ He says you and I are magical creatures, and that nothing can ever harm us in the rain forest because we are not desecrators.”

I was worried – but some times the young have to do what the young need to do – learn through experience. Che sara, sara. What will be will be. I decided to set aside my Western thought and abandon myself to my eastern consciousness. With reluctance I gave in. My inner voices told me they would be safe, in spite of their conditions.

Anand kept reminding them that drinking Coca-Cola was very bad.

"Coca-Cola is even worse in the jungle," he declared.

They had natural spring water, mangoes, santol, and papayas for energy. He had a bag full of dried vegetables, which he could steam in a pinch. Their odyssey through the forest was calculated so that by nightfall they would be in a village or a settlement.

Without warning nausea overcame Cinzia. She retched all the Coca-Cola she had in her system and then she collapsed. She was unable to move. Simon, whether from stress or psychosomatic or psychogenic origin, began to gasp and choke.

“There is a village three kilometers away. I will go there and bring back some of the villagers with me. We will devise a way to carry you back to the village, “ Anand explained to them.

In the meantime, he gave Cinzia a drink of water from his clay jug. ‘’Now listen Kunying Chin Cha, Lady Chin Cha and Khun Simon – Mr. Simon. This is how you must breathe, through your nose slowly, hold and then expel slowly through your mouth. Do not attempt to stand or sit. Stay on the ground ka?”

Anand stood erect and serene, waiting for Cinzia’s reply.

“Yes Brother Anand. I will wait on the ground and Simon will wait with me.”

As soon as Simon feels stronger, in front of you is a banana tree heavy with small bananas. They are good for you. You must eat them. They have natural sugar and potassium. Just what you need.”

He clasped his hands together and bowed his head slightly in the Namaste Buddhist greeting and disappeared.

“I’m so sorry Cinzia. Please forgive me. I’m older. I should know better. It was my idea to go on this silly expedition.’’

“My brother will have you drawn and quartered if anything should happen to me,” said Cinzia, who never lost her black humor.

“Oh my Lord. Never mind Marco. I am scared witless about what your Mother will do to my entire family, and me,” rasped Simon.

“Merde, Simon. That comment was just my humor. I’m not so sure about my Mother and what her reactions would be. I don’t want to talk. I’m too tired. Just let me lie here in holy peace.“ They remained where they were for about an hour.

From nowhere a Mother elephant with her cub appeared. Their eyesight is not as acute as their sense of smell. She had picked up the scent of vomitus and of humans. She bellowed a greeting.

“Ciao Bella. Che faii qui? Avvicinati col tuo bel bambino.” Ciao, Beauty. What are you doing here? Come closer with your lovely baby, Cinzia said calmly.

Since Italian is considered the language of love, Cinzia surmised quite correctly as it turned out that the Mother elephant would react positively to Italian rather than to English. Some Pokka English had mercilessly hunted elephants in Northern Thailand. Elephants have long memories. It must be handed down through their genes.

The elephant was almost upon her. Cinzia could barely talk much less move. She remembered the acrid scent of the elephant and a teat dripping with milk wetting her boots.

Simon sat stupefied. He figured silence and stillness was golden in perilous times.

Mama nudged little elephant towards Cinzia’s inert body. He rolled his trunk underneath her tiny waist. Mama took over and guided baby to place the human on its back. She held on to Cinzia because she instinctively knew that this creature would fall off her baby’s back because it was to weak to balance itself with the movements.

Simon found the strength to stand up and lean against the baby elephant. The Mother coiled her trunk around him and lifted him on her cub’s back. He was now behind Cinzia. She barked an order, which Simon translated as “Hold on to her while I keep both of you safe and sound.”

Cinzia realized she was on the elephant cub’s back. She closed her eyes because the movements were making her dizzy. The baby was easily over six feet. They made slow progress through the trees, flowers and paths.

“Cinzia?”

“Yes Simon?”

“How do you feel?”

“Wonderful beyond belief. Let’s serenade them. It will take my mind off my lightheadedness.”

“You do it. They seem to like Italian.”

So Cinzia hummed the first movement of Brahms’s Fourth Symphony slowly and melodiously. They she sang Paganini’s Fourth Violin Concerto ’’Ta, Ta, Ti Ta, Ta, Riam, Ta, Ta, Ti, Ta, Ta, Rium…

She had just begun Bella Ciao, an Italian Partisan song of World War ll when Anand and the villagers joined them.

“Khunying Chin Cha we heard your singing. Human sound is not easy to detect among so many cries in the forest, but the villagers have experience. I recognized your voice at once even if it was very weak.”

It was decided by the headman in the village of the “tribes with no name” that the Mother would be cross if they attempted to remove Cinzia from her cub’s back.

“We don’t know these elephants. We have never seen them before. They are bound to have a family. Therefore we must be strangers to her. Let her look after the young people until we get to the village. She is intelligent. She will hand them over to us when the time is right.”

The Mother Elephant and her cub stayed on the outskirts of the village the whole night. The villagers gave them their favorite tubers to eat.

After a few hours of rest and proper food and drink, mangoes, sweet water fish,  steamed rice and fried bananas, Cinzia was well enough to walk towards the elephants.

“Grazie di cuore. Non-potro mai ripagarvi. Ma non-VI dimentichero mai.” Thank you from the bottom of my heart. I will never be able to repay you. But I’ll try to be more actively involved in protecting you. I will never forget you."  

I am a Roman Catholic, but as soon as I heard the story from my daughter‘s own lips, I had a huge bouquet of pink peonies prepared by the Hindu monks. Attired in a plain blue sari, I went to the Temple of Ganesh where I left them at the base of his statue.

Between Silom Road and Sathorn Road is a small road called Carmelite Road. It houses a splendid Carmelite Convent with a chapel dedicated to one of my most beloved saints – the Mystic and Doctor of the Church Teresa of Avila. On that day, and on my knees, I read her prayer book ”Let Nothing Disturb you”.


If you've never lived in the East … especially, India or Thailand, then you may not appreciate how special elephants can be. You would also not be surprised that while I was writing this, my husband Stevan,  saw a video of an elephant who could paint his own image on YouTube. It is just too great to be missed, and so I refer it to you as well.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=_LHoyB81LnE

Enjoy.

There's Only the Music

A winter’s dusk at the sixteenth century Villa of the Saracen, in Bellosguardo, Florence is an awe-inspiring experience. Writers like Henry James, who lived at the Villa as well as D. H. Lawrence who spent disturbing afternoons there wrote about its strange effect on its occupants.

Contessa Lucrezia von Remo has played all the murderous “Transcendental Studies” by Franz Liszt. No pianist can ever master the keyboard without the conquest of these almost impossible etudes.

“My hands are sore. I’ll beat you yet, you monster,” she declares, massaging her hands with extra virgin olive oil. She addresses her comments to a rare print of the composer, which hangs to the right of her grand piano – a Bosendorfer.

"You have been dead nearly a hundred years, but no other virtuoso has found studies to perfect one’s technique better than you."

She turns around in her piano stool. She has been so obsessed with Liszt, who is a taxing composer; she has not noticed darkness descending. Her children, Marco and Chinzia, are attending a birthday fest at the Castle of Montauto, a few hundred meters away from the Villa of the Saracen. They won’t be back until six or seven o’clock. Mely, their nanny is with them. Her driver and major-domo Ruffo is out on an errand. She is luxuriating in the fact that she is all alone in this section of the Villa.

Perhaps I might brew myself a cup of Lap sang Suchong tea and take a warm, ruminating bath.

Lucrezia, still entwining her fingers sensuously around each other, rises slowly to turn on the overhead lights from the Murano crystal chandelier. As she brushes against her walnut desk piled high with books, musical scores, letters and documents, her gaze is drawn to a yellow index card placed carefully on top of the tallest column of musical scores.

”Kid, wake me up at four. Come yourself. Ciao. Chet.”

It’s almost five! The clock with the golden putti (cherubs) on her desk stares back at her ominously. Lucrezia bolts across the library, indifferent to the fact that she has a long tweed skirt, which hugs her waist and hips. She tears through the Great Hall, wrenching the heavy and massive oak doors open, sprinting across the Loggia of Baccio D’Agnolo, teacher/preceptor of the young Michelangelo.

“Chet!” she yells. In the immense, vaulted ceilings of the Loggia her voice reverberates harshly.

Lucrezia is taking the steep stone steps two at a time, and her knees are in agony.

“Chet!” she yells louder with a sense of unavoidable doom. She is now dashing across the Loggia on the second floor.

“Chet! Chet!"

Nothing.

Lucrezia swings the massive oak door open with such force she startles Chet, who is on his knees, naked, with a needle protruding out of his groin. His face reminds her of the color of lumpy cornstarch.

"Like the painter Arcimboldo’s monsters." She shudders.

Eyes crossing and uncrossing. Foam dripping from his mouth. Body quivering, and teeth rattling.

“Orrk is the only sound out of him.

He’s trying to tell me something. Could it be overdose? Is he trying to mouth the word overdose?’ she asks herself again.

Over … gasps Chet.

Lucrezia falls on her knees beside him as he crumples towards her. She catches him in her arms, brings him to her lap and cradles him.

“Chet! Oh no! Oh God!"

What shall I do?

Lucrezia has seen people she loved die almost by her side. Uncle Rudolf‘s last desperate heaves of air, his chest, a mountain as he fought for air, his throat choked with the dissonant death rattle as his heart slowly stopped beating. She held on to his hand, while her Gran-Gran , the Matriarch Dona Esperanza stroked his other hand and recited the Pater Noster. The Our Father in Latin.

But not this horrifying death by your own injection, this Thanatos (death) wish.

A slow anger begins to possess her. She shakes him. This is a stupid way to leave this life.

“Don’t you dare die! Do you hear me?” she shouts.

He seems to be opening his mouth. She places her ear to his blue lips.

“What is it? I can’t make out what you’re saying!"

Lucrezia is in such a state of shock the thought of panicking is not even a remote possibility. Look around. Don’t be afraid. Voices seem to be guiding her.

On the Florentine cotto, (tile) next to a sixteenth century oak dresser is a syringe filled with liquid. Relying on her primal instincts, Lucrezia crawls with difficulty by moving her legs and sliding her hips towards the dresser, with Chet still collapsed on her lap.

For one so scrawny and Biafra thin, I can’t believe how heavy and leaden a dying body can be ... Let it be the right one! Please!

The syringe with the lifesaving epinephrine, to counteract the heroin!

The needle with the heroin is still stuck in Chet’s pathetically thin groin. Slivers of blood are on it and the syringe is half full. Chet is starting to convulse! She has to remove the needle, taking care that the heroin does not enter his blood stream. Liquid and blood ooze out of the puncture into her bronze colored Donegal tweed skirt.

I cannot stanch it. What if he has aids? I will have to do this with care to avoid any cuts.

One arm is still holding Chet and she is aware of it only because the numbness taking over her muscles sends out sharp punctures of pain. Never mind. It will pass.

The blood he is losing will not kill him.

“There! It’s out!”

She places the needle on the floor. It rolls under the bed. With Chet across her left arm and shoulder, Lucrezia lunges at the syringe on a table next to the dresser. She succeeds on her fourth attempt. She tries to inject the epinephrine on his upper arms, his wrists, his hips, buttocks and legs. The needle will not enter his veins; what are left of his muscles has all collapsed.

“Please, God, please!”
Chet is flailing his arms, striking her, some blows falling on her face and neck.

That’s it! I haven’t tried his neck! What if I kill him?

“I implore you, Chet! Help me. Can you hear me? I am not going to allow you to die in my Villa with my children and my pianos and books in it. You can die another time and in another place. Porco Diavolo! Filthy demon. Where shall I inject you?"

Lucrezia grabs one of his arms and places it on his neck. Chet is still convulsing and raining blows. She is determined not to feel the physical pain. The anguish of witnessing his self-destructive death is more than she can tolerate.

“Just show me, please! Show me! Bloody hell, Chet! You’ll never blow your horn again.”

A trembling claw seems to point and guide Lucrezia.

“I have to inject between the carotid and the jugular? Yes? No?” He seems unconscious.

I cannot feel if he is breathing. Oh God! I’m not doing this right. What if I kill him? You have given me very rotten choices.

She plunges the needle through resisting flesh and pushes the needle slowly and unsteadily.

“Why is it taking so long?” she asks, clasping her wrists hard in order to keep them from trembling.

At last! All the liquid is in.

Now we wait and we pray ... What beautiful music he used to play. And his voice was like velvet. Let him live! ... I’m holding his naked body but I can’t connect with him.

She sings Chet’s song quietly.

“My funny Valentine, sweet funny Valentine, you make me smile through my heart.”

“Hi.” The sound resembles a croak.

Chet opens his eyes. They are uncrossed though rimmed with blood.
Then a stronger but still tremulous “Hi, Kid."

Lucrezia enfolds him in her breasts. Thank you. Thank you. We made it. You’re out of danger. And now I am remembering the horrifying event, which has just taken place. I am going to lose my temper, I fear.

“You bastard! Damn you! You could have died! You bloody twat! Suppose I had killed you? You swore to me, to all of us, you were off the heroin. Only grass, you said. God damn it, Chet!”

“Kid, I’m a junkie, okay?” he tells her in a detached voice, still resting his head on her lap. “I lie. I’m good at it. I’m druggie trash.”

"No! That’s not true. You are first and foremost a gifted musician. A magician with the horn." She retorts angrily.

Lucrezia’s first instinct is to query him. She stops herself. Why raise questions when you already know the answers? Chet had suffered an overdose. It didn’t take an expert to make a calculated guess. The stuff was too good or too bad. Either way it could kill you. Lucrezia did not condemn, scold or preach at her friends for taking drugs. She suspended making judgments on their use and abuse of drugs.

Perhaps they are dying souls! Why? I have no answers.

“Thank God! You’re all right. Look at you. You’re a worm covered in suppurating ulcers!!! How can you live like this? What the bloody hell kind of life ...”

Chet stretches a bony arm towards her face, still lying on her lap.

“Kid. Listen. Listen, man. I ain’t got no life, there’s only the music! You know?”

“There’s only the music,” she repeats softly.

The statement bludgeons her. It grasps her soul. She feels she has a glimmer of comprehension into his ailing spirit.

“Let me help you up and into bed. I’ll light a cigarette for you.”

“It’s grass,” he replies in a mocking tone of voice.

“Light it yourself. Join me in the library as soon as you are able?”

“Sure thing. Ahm…where’s the stuff?” he asks.
“My God! You can’t be serious Chet."

He does not reply and remains motionless.

Chet needed a fix and he needed it now. Reasoning, pleading and threatening would never work. He might get withdrawal symptoms. I’d have to call a doctor. He would do his duty and report it to the police. Chet would be in jail. My options suck!“

Kid. The H, you know? It’s pure, good stuff. That’s why I OD’ed,” states Chet casually.

H as in Hell thinks Lucrezia.

Chet has festering sores on his arms and legs. His shriveled manhood-penis and testicles are a pitiful sight to behold.

I can’t refuse him the heroin. There’s more dignity in his mainlining it than being mocked by police in a cell as he shivers and trembles trying to detox alone and anguished.

“Look under the bed, Chet."

He grins; his dimples stand out on his sunken face.

"Thanks, Kid. Cool."

He shrugs before getting down on his hands and knees.

"I’ll give you some ointment for your skin ulcers."

"It don't do no good, Kid."

"Damn it, Chet. As long as you're in my house, you’ll use the ointment because I’ll bloody well put it on you myself.”

"Right, Kid. Don't wet your pants. Ok? For a lady you’re sure as hell swearin’ a lot.

"Chet. I'll see you in an hour."

Lucrezia walks slowly back to the library on the ground floor. In a delayed reaction, her hands begin to shake. She stumbles on the salmon= colored leather sofa and ponders.

Chet must have entered the library and brought the index card while I was occupied with the “Transcendental Studies”.

She catches a whiff of putrefied flesh from the sleeves of her cashmere pullover. Chet's rotting sores! She jumps up and rushes to her bedroom next to the library. Off with her orange pullover and matching turtleneck sweater. Begone beautiful bronze skirt. She strips naked. The clock by her bedside table shows 5:30 pm. An eternity has gone by in thirty minutes. Leaving her clothes in a pile on the floor, she makes up her mind to burn the orange and bronze ensemble in her fireplace later that evening when all are fast asleep. She sprints towards her orchid-filled bathroom covered from floor to ceiling with a rare yellow marble. She swiftly turns on the bronze shower handle carved in the shape of a swan. The cold water strikes her almost violently. She stands tall and trembling. She leans her torso against the gelid marble and shuts her eyes.

Pull yourself together Lucrezia. You will not faint nor will you vomit out your entrails.

She takes a series of long and deep breaths and begins to intone the Pater Noster, The Lord’s Prayer in Latin. Bit by bit, the stink of death is washed away. The death, which she had touched, held and clasped against her bosom.

The water has cleansed me. Deo Gratias. I thank the Lord.

In the paneled olive library with the Bosendorfer grand piano, a Petroff upright, and wall-to-wall books, Chet is drinking strong, black tea with a straw, both hands holding the rattling Limoges cup on his plate.

"Chet, could you mainline anywhere but in the villa?”

I know Chet will not comply. Why do I ask such useless questions? One more day to go and then he’s flying back to Amsterdam via Milan.

“I can't stand seeing you reduced to the state of a ...protozoa," she tells him.

"Yeah, but that doesn’t bother me at all," he drawls.

Then he smiles his dimpled smile. The only thing left in his ravaged body that still reminds her of the young and handsome Chet, so very long ago it seems.

The Chet, who so inflamed me with his horn and his voice together with his sexy good looks, is not the same man who now pitifully sits across me. I am gazing at a carcass. I secretly guarded an overpowering infatuation towards him for years. I confused the man with the music I have been in love with his music that will last for all eternity. I realize this in anguish as I find myself gazing at him and reflecting. I met him face to face at last at the private jazz club of Prince Pepito Pignatelli. He was playing there for ten days with his Quintet. We had both been thrilled that he would be staying at my Villa of the Saracen at Bellosguardo.

“You know the last chord you played early this morning in 'When Sunny Gets Blue'? When you change suddenly from flat to sharp, from major to minor, it's bad, Man. I love it," said Chet as casually as if nothing had happened.

It was over. There was only the music, like the man says.

"You comin' tonight, kiddo?"

"Yes, Chet."

"See ya! Hey man I gotta go practice. Ciao."

Epilogue:

For Chet Baker, the only thing that counted was the music. He breathed it and lived for it alone. By his own terms of reference, jazz was a lifestyle outside of which he ceased to exist. Day after day, night after night, he played each solo as if it were the last. We all came because we loved his music and feared that it might be the last. More often than not, we also loved him. He reminded us that, sometimes, true creators are unreasonable, cruel, destructive and alone. They crave alone-ness. Only the music and the drugs are their constant companions. The former brings as much joy as the latter surrounds them with pain. Thus, they are irremediably alone.

All of those who fell under his spell will forever be haunted by that simple, velvet artistry that was as obvious as it was instinctive. On trumpet or with his own voice, Chet, in a long disconcerting, sexy wail, distilled the same pain we feel with a rare intuitive use of suggestion . . .things left unsaid and undone. Music was the only real world in which he moved. The rest, all the rest, was a nightmare from which he awoke. Each time he did so, he took us with him.

Chet died in Amsterdam fourteen years ago. His corpse lay crumpled and broken on the rainy street when the police arrived. They knew, as the music and jazz world did, that he was a spellbinding musician and . . . a junkie.

Did an overdose kill him at last, as he lay alone and abandoned? Perhaps unknown assailants had thrown him over the balcony of his hotel room? It is not unusual for mainlining junkies to owe big sums of money to drug dealers.

Did he jump? Did he fall off the railing while in a drugged stupor? Accidental death. Homicide. Suicide. Subconscious death wish – the Thanatos the ancient Greeks discoursed about?

It didn’t matter anymore.

"There was only the Music. There will always be the Music."

THE END

Notes from the writer.

All the events, as described, took place in the sixteen-century Villa of the Saracen, about sixteen years ago. Only the name of the narrator, Contessa Lucrezia von Remo has been changed. Readers will note that the writer’s alter ego is Lucrezia.

CHARLES FERNLEY FAWCETT: Last of his Generation

Ecce Homo!

Charles Fernley Fawcett thirsted, hungered and lusted for Life. The Cosmic Forces gave much to CFF, but they wantonly took a great deal away throughout his long and fascinating life. He cried silently and laughed heartily at his fortunes and misfortunes. To his stoic nature, they both appeared as imposters.

The artist and painter Vincent van Gogh also lusted for life. But his passions burned quickly and consumed him in absinthe, opium and a persistent wish for Thanatos, finally ending in that greatest of violent acts committed against oneself- suicide.

Unlike van Gogh and countless other restless and self-destructive gifted individuals, Charlie held on to all the threads of life savoring every drop, breath, and sigh that came his way as if it were his last. He did all this with grace, never ending curiosity and everlasting joy.

There are very few men and women left in this world in which I can allow my sentiments and emotions to flow freely. Charlie was/is the last of his generation. I define this in reference to all those gallant men and women who risked their lives and limbs to help their fellow human beings. They had no thought for recompense, unlike the high priced mercenaries now supposedly “assisting” people in Iraq, Lebanon, Afghanistan, etc. Charlie and beings like him had ideals, hope, faith and charity. They had hearts and they used them. Death had stalked them for so long that they brought exhilaration into Life.

“Give me Life, we have seen too much death.“

No one was privy to more deep dark secrets than he was. Tycoons, Slave masters, War Masters, World Leaders, Courtesans, Warriors, Spymasters and spooks and crooks all confided in Charlie. They had to tell someone of their sinister deeds. Charlie would never, never tell. All the world’s secrets, including mine died with Charlie and will be entombed with him.

Hollywood? I speak of the state of mind more than the place. There was little or nothing he did not know behind the glitter of the glamorous litter, the horror of the wretched beginnings of some of the world’s greatest film makers, the miserable work houses they escaped from where all received numbered tattoos on their wrists as a means of identification. This pre-dated the German National Socialist camps by 15 to 20 years and was done in England, Poland and France. Some came from horrifying shetls in Poland, Byelorussia, Ukraine and Russia, where they faced not only the cruelty of the Christian inhabitants but also that of their own Talmudist Rabbis. Others had sold their beautiful bodies for a meal. Still others had cheated, stolen, and killed to survive. Never was there a peep from Charlie.

Why? I think it was because Charlie saw the good in the most vile and evil of individuals. Mind you, he did not imagine it; it was there because those people bared the bits of their solar nature only to Charlie. Over the years this is the most likely explanation I can think of.

“Darling I would like you to meet so and so… he/she is so nice and lovely.”

“But Charles, I read somewhere that they defrauded people of millions, dealt in armaments or are under investigation for the murder of…”

“Don’t close your mind and heart before you meet them. You don’t have to wed or bed them darling, just meet them.”

I never found the balls to tell Charlie that some of the people he defined as “nice” made the word monster or fiend seem insignificant.

This may explain why Charlie never published his memoirs. There was no way that Charlie was ever going to hurt anyone with his revelations. He was too pure and limpid for that. It must be said; there was no price a publisher could set which would have ever tempted him. He could and would not be bought. Full Stop. End of Story.

Charlie together with Varian Fry and other daring and eccentric Americans saved two thousand Judaic intellectuals in France. The Shoah was spared them. In 2006, he and five of his companions in those dangerous times were honored as Righteous Men at Yad Vashem.

He married seven women on paper so that they could immigrate to America. One of these women sought out his wealthy relatives and hit them up for money. Never a mean or nasty word from Charlie’s lips.

Don’t ever think for a minute that CFF was a fool. He was aware of everyone’s faults and weaknesses and vices, including his own. Again with age I must say that he followed the teachings of Jesus, the Buddha and Mohammed. I don’t know if he ever belonged to a particular church or denomination. I never asked. It did not matter. As with true Muslims, Buddhists, and Christians, Charlie practiced true Love and Tolerance.

One cannot talk about CFF without mentioning his extraordinary wife, April. Would he ever have married a bimbo? A simple and silly woman? One with an IQ in the nineties? Bloody hell No!

April was part owner of Models One, the well-known and successful modeling agency in Europe. She was the financial expert of the entire operation. April is every inch as fascinating as Charlie, perhaps with a great sense of the practical added into the equation. As a fellow Aries like me (indeed we share the same birth date) she is strong willed and brave.

I know she loved Charlie deeply and he reciprocated her feelings for him profoundly. I doubt Charlie would have lived to enjoy life till the age of ninety-two without April’s devotion and care. By that I don’t mean to imply that she wiped his nose. When one is committed to someone, care is automatic. She and Charlie both took their marriage vows seriously.

How did I meet this remarkable man? It was because of a relative who became one of Sukarno’s wives. I think my aunts and uncles had met Charlie during his peregrinations in the Far East, long before WWII broke out.

I was a bright and beautiful thirteen year old in my junior year in high school when my Auntie Amelia introduced me to Charlie in Beverly Hills. We had come during the summer break. He was larger than life. Tall, the bluest eyes, prematurely white locks, dimpled smiles and the softest, sexiest and mellifluous voice tinged with an upper class Virginia drawl. He was unaware of the Shakti he exuded. Perhaps he knew? He was an actor after all, but he was not self-conscious about it. I was mesmerized and made a mental note to look him up again when I was older. Karma and Dharma would see to it that our paths would cross again and often, almost to the end of his long days.

About Charlie in Afghanistan and Pakistan, I am going to write a separate essay. My readers may have encountered both Charlie and April in my blog on “Charlie Wilson’s War.”

The world is a much poorer place without Charles Fernley Fawcett. I thank God and the Cosmic Forces that my family and I were given an opportunity to return the friendship he gave us, no questions and no favors asked. The words Requiescat in Pacem - May you rest in peace are inadequate for one such as Charlie. His restless spirit lives on in the atmosphere and in the stratosphere. I don’t doubt that he is active in the music of the spheres, but a part of him will pine for his soul mate - April. Sorry about that Beloved Friend. We would all like to have April around for a long time, Inshaallah - God willing.

For a list of the movies he was in: http://imdb.com/name/nm0269485/

For more on who he saved in WWII: http://lipstadt.blogspot.com/2008/02/ask-not-for-whom-bell-tolls- death-of.html

For more photos of Charlie ... and a nice biography: http://www.varianfry.org/fawcett_en.htm

Strangers On A Train

If I had known this party was going to end up with everybody snorting cocaine, I never would have come. It’s time to leave, Lucrezia thought.

The April wind howled through the streets of Rome. She wound her rich floor length cape around her. She studied the under-soles of her mustard colored kid leather boots. Cocaine blanketed them. Ugh! These boots were made for walking, says the song. Here’s to adventure. I’ll take the Midnight Express to Florence.

The conductor blew his whistle. A tall young man dashed past Lucrezia, jumped into the last carriage and held the door open. "You have thirty five seconds," he yelled.

She raced towards the stranger. He reached out his hand and quickly pulled her through the door. Her body pressed against his as the train jerked and stared to move.

The train reeked of stale cigarette smoke, urine, and sweat soaked clothes. "My God, what kind of train is this?"

"Bella mia, this is the Midnight Express from deepest Sicily. It winds all the way to Switzerland and stops at every place you never heard of."

"It’s the pits – there aren't even any seats."

"It's not luxurious, but it’s a god send for these hard working people."

He’s right, she thought, these are good people concerned only with a better life for themselves and their families. She remained silent and gazed at the tired bodies of men, women and children sleeping on the floor. This is no time to be squeamish. I am falling asleep on my feet. She removed her safari jacket and used it to cover her Gucci bag. She spread her Saint Laurent cape on the floor and placed her head on top of the bag.

He sat next to her and asked, "what brought you to this fortuitous train?"

He stretched his body next to her and currents of electricity passed between them. "I walked away from a lurid party. I took the first train heading to Florence. Voila!"

She gazed at the tall dark man of great physical beauty stretched out beside her on the floor and her antenna perked up, remembering a tall man leaning against a building as she left the party. "Why are you here?"

"I followed you from Palazzo Belmonte. I know about the drug orgies, so I waited in the loggia to see that nothing happened to you."

"That’s sweet but I have a talent for keeping out of trouble all by myself." What she didn't say, but was thinking is why is he stalking me?

"Don’t be sarcastic. You haven’t asked for my name."

I'm not sure what he is up to, but let’s play the game. "You’re Percival, the Knight."

"In a way you are correct and so let's assume it is. I am on a mission and you are right to be suspicious of me. Don't deny it, I see it in your eyes, but I don't have much time. The Carabinieri will enter this compartment. It’s at the tail of the train. They reason that those on the run come here. Since the kidnapping of Prime Minister Aldo Moro, the Carabinieri have stopped everything on wheels, searching them thoroughly without success. Our train is overflowing with humanity, especially this car. They risk ill will if they board it."

"A bright and street savvy person like you still thinks the authorities care about the people’s wellbeing? Policemen the world over have no imagination. Intelligence is nothing without it."

"Bella, I am packing guns."

Who is this feral soul mate? Is he an infiltrator in the Red Brigades? An expert of Counter Terrorism? A lone assassin? "My Gucci bag holds a Walther P38, money, make-up and masses of jewelry."

They embraced and laughed as they looked into each others eyes.

"Let’s sleep. The train won’t be boarded until Arezzo, Cara mia."

The wheels of the old train creaked loudly as it braked to a full stop. The door swung open and a black-booted officer of the Carabinieri ascended the metal steps. "Good Morning. Documents please."

"She lifted her head from Percival’s chest, unwrapped her jacket, inserted her hand inside it and handed him her passport. He studied her photograph and returned it to her without a word.

"What’s inside the bag?" She opened it and showed him; expensive jewelry, perfume, money and cosmetics. Percival had already removed the gun.

Perceval rose, identity card in hand, the other hand close to wear he had stashed his gun. The Caribinieri glanced at it, but looked at her, "Are you two together?"

"Yes Sir," she said politely.

He turned and looked the man over closely, "Dissuade your lady from traveling on these dangerous trains. Goodnight." A few minutes he was gone, and the train continued.

They both got off in Florence. He took her in his arms and they stood wordlessly in passionate embrace for minutes.

"Arrivederci mio Percival."

"Arrivederci Lucrezia mia."

How I Was Introduced to Reinhard Heydrich

I first learned about the importance of Reinhard Heydrich from Count Otto von Skorzeny. The following is the tale of this meeting, and my recollections of our conversation.

I scrutinized the invitation. It was elaborately handwritten in sepia gold with a goose quill pen. A tall, good looking Berber clad in a red military uniform from the Moroccan Embassy in Madrid had politely insisted to Felix, our majordomo, “Tengo el deber de entregar este sobre en las manos de la Señora Condesa de Vacani. It is my duty to deliver this envelope to the Countess Vacani in person.”

The invitation was in French. I read it aloud in Castilian to the assembled members of my family that had gathered around the chestnut paneled library, enjoying churros and hot, thick chocolate for breakfast.

“His Excellency, Jacobo Bendahan, Minister and Privy Councilor to His Majesty King Hassan ll of the Royal Kingdom of Morocco, respectfully requests the pleasure of the company of Her Excellency Señora Condesa Isabel de Vacani to a dinner at Casa Tangiers, Puerta de Hierro, on the 27th day of May 1968. In honor of Her Royal Highness, Princess Lalla Aisha. Attire: Formal. Time: Eleven o’clock in the evening. R.S.V.P.”

“A dinner party at Jacobo Bendahan’s villa. He’s so fascinating. I’m bowled over!” I remarked, turning towards my mother Camilla and placing the invitation in her outstretched hand.

“Hmmm. He’s the famous Francoist financier. He is a cosmopolitan and a sophisticated man of the world,” observed Mother, passing the thick card to Uncle Matthias, her eldest brother.

“Jacobo is one of Madrid’s most important social arbiters as well,” he said, giving the card to Aunt Allegra.

“Ha! This has Nini’s fingerprints all over it,” she declared emphatically
.
Aunt Dahlia took the card and studied it carefully. “You all know he’s a Sephardic Jew. That means he and Jaime Pardo de Tavera are very close. Which means they both sent pots of money to Israel, especially during and after the Six Day War of 1966 ‘’

“Jacobo and Jaime are adept at navigating the tempests of Life and those of War,” opined Uncle Matthias taking a large sip of chocolate slowly.

Trust Aunt Dahlia to provoke people, thought I.

“Some say he’s a libertine,” added Aunt Allegra.

“That settles it, I’m going to accept the invitation. I’ll meet the most divine and dangerous individuals there. Ay! Por Dios! Do you realize I only have two weeks to think about the may-I-die-in-it gown I am going to wear?” I exclaimed, unable to contain my excitement.

“Just a minute, cariño. You’re eighteen years old. This invitation sounds like most of the guests will be at least twice your age,” declared my mother.

“That’s perfect. At the moment, I’m bored with people my own age. When the boys are not silly and sophomoric, they are dirty and revolutionary,” I retorted.

“She’s right, Camilla. I wouldn’t worry if I were you. It isn’t as if she can’t handle the likes of Jacobo or his guests. I’d consider it from another angle.”

All eyes were now on Uncle Matthias as he chuckled. “Do you think Jacobo and his guests can handle our Maribel?”

I prevailed. Aunt Nini (who was considered an adventuress by my family) had power and influence in Franco’s Spain. Her friendship with Generalissimo Francisco Franco dated back to the savage Civil War, which ravaged Spain from 1936 to 1939. Two million corpses haunted the land. They claimed that Nini had spied for the Nationalists while her sister Sissy opted to assist the Reds (the Communists) just to insure the survival of the family come what may.

“I am an old confidante of Jacobo, I have indeed maneuvered the invitation for you. We are living in very ambiguous times. I think you should immerse yourself in it as much as you can. This will restrain you from making rash judgments and pronouncements,” said Nini

“I am ever so grateful for this opportunity,” I murmured.

“There will be many more,” she announced.



An imperious Aunt Nini, in a black silk taffeta gown coutured by the Maestro Cristobal Balenciaga walked beside me. Ruby pendants three inches in length hang from her slender neck. I towered over her in spite of her spike heels but Nini had self-confidence to sell at any auction. We entered the foyer of Jacobo Bendahan’s mansion, “Casa Tangiers.”

“It could easily pass for a palace!” I remarked to Nini, as my eyes swept the Moorish inspired architecture, the fountains, arches and indoor courtyards.

’’Queridita, where do you think the Arabs or Moors who conquered Spain come from?”

‘’They came from Morocco,” she told me before I could open my mouth to reply. “You are to address me as Nini in all the High Society soirees. We’re supposed to be cousins,” she reminded me hastily.

I suppose calling her Auntie ages her in some way. "So be it,” I sighed softly and nodded in her direction.

“Hola! Nini. Que Tal?” Hola, guapa!” exclaimed Jacobo all in one breath.

He strode towards us, elegantly clad in a silk caftan embroidered in gold. His arms enfolded Nini. They kissed each other the Arab way. Right cheek, left cheek, then again on the right cheek. The number three was sacred to both Moroccan Arabs and Sephardic Jews. It appeared frequently in Cabalist and Sufi writings.

“Hola,” I replied, giving him my right hand to kiss. There is an art to this ritual. A man’s lips must never touch an unmarried woman’s skin. A gentleman accorded harlots this act of chivalry as well.

Jabobo was a spellbinding personality. Magnetism flowed out of his five foot four frame. He spoke in a resonant and soft voice. You had to concentrate on nothing and no one to hear what he had to say. He positioned himself between us and lightly guided us into the inner courtyard of Casa Tangiers where the guests were reclining on low divans or large and plump silk cushions.

A giant, well-muscled yet graceful man rose from the soft, yellow cushions and was alongside us in one stride. He clicked his heels softly, bowed ever so slightly at Aunt Nini as he kissed her hand.

That was smooth, I thought. I’ve seen many men emerge with a soft, red indentation on their right cheek after executing the besa mano. Aunt Nini was never parted from her 37-carat diamond, which had been a gift from Eva Peron. In the presence of strangers, she never referred to her as Evita.

“It is a desecration,” she claimed.

I almost didn’t catch the giant’s name because I was struck by the panache with which he carried a faint, long dueling scar on his left cheek.

“Count something von Skorzeny,” Jacobo had said. Then it struck me. THE Count von Skorzeny. ’That’s him!’ The colonel in the SS who had masterminded the daring rescue of Il Duce, Benito Mussolini from the perilous Mount Sasso and had flown the plane to Germany. On D-Day and its aftermath, General Dwight Eisenhower had called him “the most dangerous man in Europe.”

Every detail was still fresh in my mind. A few weeks ago, I had finished reading William Shirer’s powerful book, The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich.

“I can’t believe a beautiful, coquettish eighteen year old would let the world pass her by and stay up night after night reading heavy stuff like that,” my mother declared despairingly.

“You don’t understand. It’s like Tolstoy’s War and Peace, Pasternak’s Doctor Zhivago, Nietzsche’s Anti-Christ. Parties and beaus can wait. If they don’t, tant pis,” I had replied irritably because I had been forced to take my eyes off Shirer’s book.

“After twenty years that book will be so outdated, you’ll ever wonder how you could have placed it in the same breath as Tolstoy and the like,” chuckled my mother.

“Should I give him my hand to kiss?” I hesitated but only for a second. Jacobo had invited von Skorzeny. That made the circumstances mysterious and puzzling. Jacobo and his rich collection of nephews and nieces were cultured Sephardic conversant with the Torah, Quran and the Bible. Some served in the Israeli Army and others in the Moroccan Armed Forces.

I thought of Uncle Matthias’s remark, “Jacobo is adept at navigating in perilous waters.’’

Skorzeny bent towards my hand wordlessly. Wavy, brown hair with no grey stragglers. Dark blue eyes, full lips. Rugged good looks. Middle-aged with nary a wrinkle and exuding sex appeal from every pore. His movements were natural, his smile disarming.

I decided to let myself be swept by the flow. ’’En boca cerrada, no entran moscas ‘’ goes a popular Spanish aphorism meaning; Flies cannot enter a closed mouth. So, think rather than speak.

“A very good evening to you, Herr Graf von Skorzeny,” I murmured in the best Hoch Deutsch I could muster. Did I detect an amused twinkle in his eyes? A flash of attraction towards my youthful good looks and poise? I could not ponder it further because Jacobo steered my elbow towards a dusky youth in a golden caftan. I liked him instantly. We locked eyes

“Marhaba, Je suis Moulay Ali,” I am Moulay Ali. he declared in a low, seductive whisper.

Ah! King Hassan’s youngest brother. An unselfish hearted youth, I decided. Time and tragic events years later would prove me right.

“That was thoughtful and cunning of Jacobo to invite a group of young people,” I told myself.

The larger than life figure of Skorzeny kept intruding on my thoughts. William Shirer’s book had made me feel horror, revulsion, fascination and curiosity. Shirer’s book was a best selling book. Yet his persona was dwarfed by the larger than life swashbuckling figure of the SS pilot/spy/financier.

Something Jacobo had said to Baron Robert de Boisseson, Ambassador of France, caught my attention.

“You are aware, I’m sure, that we Sephardic are totally different from our Eastern European brethren. We came from Judea. When the Roman Emperor Titus ordered the Diaspora, we settled in Morocco, Iraq, Syria and Lebanon, eventually traveling to Spain with the invading Arabs as administrators and officers in their army. We are Semites. We would not put our hands in the fire for the Ashkenazim. They, according to legend, are of Turkic Mongol origin and came from Central Asia.”

I glanced quickly at von Skorzeny who was sitting across Jacobo at the long, low, oak banquet table. He was listening in rapt attention and made no attempt to dissimulate

I think it was my questioning mind that first drew me to Otto von Skorzeny. Why was Spanish aristocracy courting him? The Franco regime was his host. He lived in splendor in Puerta de Hierro, the ghetto of the super rich. Doris Duke, Barbara Hutton, Bobo Rockefeller, Perle Mesta, Doris Fondren, American heiresses all, swimming in millions and millions of money, vied for Skerzany’s attention and financial contributions to their favorite charities and balls in New York and Washington D.C.

In Paris, the Duke and Duchess of Windsor feted Skorszeny at their gay parties. Pauline Rothschild and Baron Philippe de Rothschild were frequent guests. That puzzled me. Philippe’s first wife had perished in a concentration camp. Dachau, I thought.

Then there was the attention Aristotle Onassis showered on Skorzeny. He had married Jacqueline Kennedy a few months earlier, so I thought his attention now was very intriguing. I asked Aunt Nini for clarification.

“Men who possess that kind of wealth don’t bother to have political convictions, scruples or ideologies. Lucre is their god. Onassis has always done business with Nazis, Fascists, Jews and Arabs, He has no prejudices and he is right in that attitude of business is business. The ancient Romans used to say that money has no odor,” she explained patiently.

“The rules are that there are no rules,” Onassis often remarked.

”I reflected that this reasoning applied to Otto von Skorzeny as well, and to society in general.

I decided to cultivate Skorzeny. I soon discovered we belonged to the same fencing academy. Would I be a good enough fencer to engage him in a match? Probably not. I was a fresh, new presence in society. Young, intelligent, talented and full of curiosity. I was well read for someone my age, spoke and wrote articles in English and Castilian.’ ’People and Places. News and Notes” was my byline in the Spanish Daily News, an English language newspaper, widely read by the international community throughout Spain. It was entirely financed by the C.I.A. but I would not be apprised of this until I became Head of Gucci Public Relations, in Rome and New York a few years later.

Quite a few men said I was intellectually brilliant. There was also a financial disinterest Skorzeny would appreciate. No begging bowls would be passed to donate money to my favorite charities. At least not yet. At that age I was narcissistic enough to believe that I should be the recipient of gifts and largesse from men. That was another point in my favor. My extreme youth and the history of my clan gave me a great deal of face. They were unabashedly friendly with Madame Chiang Kai Shek, General MacArthur, Ryoichi Sasakawa, a Japanese war criminal, Lady Chichibu of the Japanese Imperial family, the Baron Okura, who was Chief of the Kempeitai, the Japanese Imperial Secret Service, during the war in the Pacific, the Kadourie clan (Iraqi Jews in Hong Kong), the Pardo de Taveras, Masonic and Sephardic Jews in Manila, Marrakech and Madrid.

My grandmother Esperanza, who was in Sagaro, with her wealthy Catalan cousins in the Costa Brava, never cared much for the opinion of so called society. She cultivated friendships with men and women on the basis of realpolitik and heart, with equal blends of both.

“I’m thinking of writing someday when I’m much older and I have lived... about... a spectacular figure of Nazism,” I told Skorzeny, accosting him at the arched entrance of La Academia Real de la Esgrima.

He broke his steps. With clenched jaws, he studied my face. I did not play the blushing maiden or the cute coquette. I observed his face as well. A slight grin appeared. It was plain to him I must have made inquiries about his schedule, and that I had planned this with care.

“My partner has the grippe (influenza). If you concur, why don’t we practice some thrusts and feints?”

Was I adroit enough to duel with him? I reflected. I was much younger and swifter. He was older and more experienced. He was an accomplished SS.officer, close to the final chapters of his book of life. I was just opening mine.

“Perhaps I’ll be good enough to interest you to teach me the mechanics of some thrusts,” I ventured to comment, injecting some humility into my voice

Then he threw his head back and roared with laughter. “The cheekiness of youth,” he said.

“Is that a yes, Herr Graf von Skorzeny?”

He was still smiling when he chuckled, “Let’s get ready Condesa de Vacani. I try never to keep ladies waiting, especially when they are young.”

The liveried server padded quickly and gently towards us. The irony was too stark. Outside the salon, the clash of foils, sabers and rapiers was electrifying. Count von Skorzeny and I were drinking Lapsang Suchong black tea, the Austro-Hungarian way, out of small glasses with gold handles.

“Firstly,” he said, with a level expression and tone, “the word Nazi is incorrect. It is Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei . The English diplomats used National Socialist Deutsche Arbeit Partei, that’s close enough. We never used that word - Nazi. We referred to ourselves as National Socialists, or NSDAP. The English media for reasons of practicality probably coined the word. Nazi takes up less space in the headlines. Mind you, I am giving them the benefit of the doubt. It was psychological as well. By shortening our name NSDAP to Nazi, it was a form of degradation.”

“Thank you for the clarification. It is gracious of you to spend time explaining some portentous events in the early twentieth century,” I replied.

“It is difficult to write about events historical or personal while you are living it. You can’t really see the panorama. Time is the best and the worst comrade of history. Too much disappears yet many things also come to light as time goes by. The victors always write the books. Their opinions are those that prevail. Let there be no equivocation. They take the spoils and define the memories. It has ever been thus.”

He emptied his glass of tea. I had been so intrigued that I had ignored mine and it was cold. He ordered two more glasses. I resolved to enjoy the Lapsang Suchong and drink it this time around.

“Time is not kind to the victors. I am not referring to twenty or even fifty years. Any serious observer of history will tell you that,” he gazed at me and scrutinized my face. “Have you considered which figure in the Germany of the Reich of the twentieth century you find the most compelling?”

“I’m not sure. I can tell you which ones I will not tackle. Hitler... Himmler...Goering...Rosenberg...Goebbels, Perhaps even the grey Borman,” I declared.

“Ach! That’s smart. Everyone will write about the Fuhrer and,” he paused as he waited for the server to bring the tea on a gilded tray covered with a linen doily over to us. When he was out of earshot, von Skorzeny said, “The others don’t matter. They were appointed to their posts because they were the Fuhrer’s cronies. You must not underestimate them and think that they were stupid, only that they were unsuited for their jobs Hitler was not unique, Most leaders stuff their cabinets with their cronies and friends.”

There was a long pause. I sat still, thinking, The scent of the tea is sensuous. I must not let it get cold again. That would be a sin. I lifted the glass with the gold handles and took several sips slowly.

He kept studying me even as he lifted his glass towards me, drank the tea and put it down. The muscles of his face were soft but there was a hard glint in his eyes.

“You are going to need cojones for what I’m about to tell you. Most men and women think they have it, but it’s not true.”

As he lifted his glass, I followed suit. This time he clinked it against mine.

“Concentrate on Heydrich: my Chief,” he declared almost as ‘an aside except that his voice suddenly went wobbly. ‘’Heydrich.’’ He repeated for emphasis, ’Reinhard Heydrich.’ That is the way he introduced himself. Always.”

“He was a sort of Renaissance man, was he not? Gifted with every conceivable talent by the Gods,” I observed.

“He was that indeed. There was a man who never depended on cronies. He always sought out the best and the brightest. He even had Jews in the SS and in the SD, personally handpicked by him. That is a great quality in any man who is born to lead.”

“We are talking about Heydrich, the young head of the SS and the SD? I thought Himmler was the Chief. That’s what Shirer’s book says.”

“Himmler was an old crony of Hitler. He headed the SS in name only. Heydrich ran it. Heydrich ran everything. After his death in 1942, Himmler had to really take over and he botched it. Hitler appointed four men to take over Heydrich’s duties after he died. That gives you an idea just how valuable and tireless Heydrich was,” affirmed Skorzeny.

“I saw several photographs of Heydrich in William Shirer’s book when he was Head of the Eastern European provinces. He seemed so young,” I said.

“He was young, in his early thirties. By the way, the correct term is Reichsprotektor of Bohemia-Moravia. Remember, the vanquished are often ashamed, and stunned in defeat. Especially if their country lies in ruins as far as their eyes can see and there is famine everywhere. The people are broken in spirit. That’s another important component in war. They allow distortions and falsehoods to spread, much as they themselves once did. That’s the nature of men and of war.”

“Did you ever get to know Heydrich?’’

“He frequently visited the SS Academy to talk to us and sound us out on different topics. Almost all the cadets had a large photograph of the Chief in their rooms. That was taken when he won the Pentathlon for the SS.”

“Did you love him”?

“Heydrich never allowed anyone to get close enough to love or like him. We all admired and respected him. That’s what it was all about – Admiration and Respect. He did not want to be liked. Respect was what he sought. Believe me, he got it, even from Hitler.”

“Shirer refers to him as The Butcher of Prague. Is he mouthing propaganda?” I asked boldly.

Skorzeny smiled, took a last sip of tea and told me. “You are a beautiful debutante, Wait about thirty years. Live a constructive life. Study human beings. Learn to read them like books. Ask questions about everything. Don’t take the word of any government, writer or journalist. Think, and then decide. Heydrich did wonders in Bohemia/Moravia now called Czechoslovakia. His political success was spectacular. That’s why he had to be assassinated. Prague will not remain Communist forever. I give those Bolsheviks twenty to twenty five years at the most. I will not be alive. But please remember me and my statement.”

Then Skorzeny abruptly changed the subject. “What is your opinion of Oriana Fallaci’s interview of Ava Gardner?”

“She savaged and brutalized her. It’s almost as if she resented the beautiful, independent spirit of Ava Gardner and had to attempt to crush her. Only a woman could do that to another woman,” I declared angrily.

“Perhaps. It is not easy for any woman journalist to interview someone as beautiful as Ava Gardner. I think a man might have been worse. It is still a man’s world after all. If you want good journalism and reporting read Martha Gelhorn. She is brave, bright and beautiful. She knew Heydrich. If you ever meet her, ask her for her opinion.”

I hesitated’’ How did she and Heydrich come to meet? I was an enthusiastic admirer of Martha Gelhorn even if she claimed to dislike Germans. I wondered why Hollywood did not do a movie about her life.

“Martha Gelhorn used to be married to Ernest Hemingway, but I’m sure you are aware of that. She knows Spain much more profoundly than he.’’

“No”, I lied. Choosing not to show all I knew.

The Duke and Duchess of Windsor had dealings with Heydrich. Charles and Anne Morrow Lindbergh are more conversant, certainly more intelligent than either of those party loving aristocrats. Your aunt Nini might have met the Chief, perhaps during the Civil War in the thirties. She knew Himmler surely. He was often entertained by Grandees of Spain at Horchers Restaurant or the Jockey Club, both still very elegant, with exquisite food,” declared Skorzeny.

“I think I should also talk to Jews who might have had dealings with him,” I said.

“You must talk to as many people as you can, friends, enemies and detractors. Keep diaries, notes, make observations. Live your life to the fullest and wait. Regretfully, I don’t think I’ll be alive if and when you decide to write about my enigmatic chief: Heydrich. Time will truly give you many surprises about him. And not only about him,” he exclaimed.

That is an equivocal statement. What a mysterious man. He strikes me as one who loves his country. I wish I could plumb all his secrets. He’s telling me in between the lines that I must dig them out by myself.

All I could think of saying was “thank you, I’ll remember what you’ve said”.

“I travel frequently on business but whenever I am in Madrid, remember that I am at your disposal. You can leave a message with my wife if you call while I am away.”

He handed me a cream colored calling card embossed in brown letters. They contained his private telephone numbers.

“Auf Wiedersehen. I am sure we shall meet at Jacobo’s diffas and at other events,” I said trying to act with nonchalance.

A few months after the encounter at the Fencing Academy, Jacobo Bendahan invited me to a Grand Gala honoring Christian Dior. Baron Robert de Boisseson hosted it, the suave and worldly wise Ambassador of France. Jacobo and his party of 12 guests had ringside seats as the snooty models galloped down the runway. The movie star and legend Ava Gardner was also one of his guests. Her escort was none other than Count Otto von Skorzeny. It was now clear why he had asked me about Oriana Fallaci’s interview with her.

‘’But Jacobo’’ I asked, turning to look at him squarely in the face in his Rolls Royce, as his driver took the lane towards the Avenida de la Castellana, where I lived, ‘’I thought the S.S. exterminated millions of Jews and not only Jews.’’

‘’Hija, the truth is much more complicated and rarely as simple as others would have us believe’’ replied Jacobo. He then leaned back, closed his eyes for a few seconds. When he opened them he asked his driver to turn on the radio. They were playing Richard Strauss’ “Thus Spake Zarathustra”. It was clear Jacobo did not wish to elaborate on his sibylline statement. Good manners and prudence stopped me from probing any further.


London, May 27, 2001

I was gathering up my voluminous notes and books for my own book and screenplay “Checkmate” when one of my notebooks fell and accidentally hit the ‘’ON’’ button of the remote control. My husband and I watched the History and Biography channels frequently. Some of the documentaries shone by their impartiality. Others failed by the slant they chose to emphasize. Enough material fell between the cracks that it was useful if you knew how to distill what you heard, especially what you did not hear.

”Ooh, a program is just beginning’’ I cried out. It was on the Odessa File.

“The brains behind it was Colonel Otto von Skorzeny of the S.S.,” said the announcer.

“The news did not stun me. I looked at the Madrid diaries. The date of Jacobo’s Diffa in Marrakech had remained indelibly imprinted on my hippocampus.

The calm and confident manner he possessed, the affectionate way he had discussed Heydrich, his generosity regarding charitable events, his closeness with the Vatican Curia even with Pope Paul VI himself and his endless largess to the Red Cross as well as Unicef, it is to be expected that Skorzeny organized and ran the Odessa File.

I smiled at my husband with a conspiratorial air. He nodded. We sat down on the white leather sofa.

“Amore, don’t forget to tell me about Skorzeny after the documentary is over. You said you knew him in your dancing days in Madrid.”

Wordlessly, I showed Stevan the dates in my agenda
.
27 May 1942: Bomb attack on Reinhard Heydrich in Prague, Czech Republic.

27 May 1968: Diffa in Tangiers – Jacobo Bendahan’s villa Casa Tangiers, Madrid.

27 May 2001: In the morning, Documentary film on the Odessa File and Otto von Skorzeny. London.

27 May 2001: In the evening, I begun the first page of Checkmate: The Enigma of Reinhard Heydrich. I am now well past 800 pages, and can say I believe I fully understand and agree with Count Skorzeny when he told me he was the the most important man in the Third Reich.

A quartet of mere coincidences? Yes and No.