power do when they remove embarrassing documents from the State Archives. They can't do that to Dante or Manzoni, can they?' she asked speculatively, a question that really asked for an answer.
'No,' Brunetti agreed. 'But I suspect that's only because there are standard editions of the basic texts. Otherwise, I'm sure they'd try, if they thought they could get away with it’ He saw that he had her interest, so he added, I've always been afraid of people in possession of what they believe is the truth. They'll do anything to see that the facts are changed and whipped into shape to agree with it’
'Did you study history, Commissario?' she asked.
Brunetti took this as a compliment. 'If I had, I doubt I would have lasted the course, either.' He stopped and they exchanged a smile, both struck by how immediate and democratic was the union of people who sought and found intellectual solace within the pages of books. He went on, giving no thought to the propriety of saying this to someone who was not a member of the forces of order: I still spend most of my time listening to lies, but at least some of the people who tell them to me are presumed to be lying because they're criminals. Ifs not like having to listen to a lie from someone who holds the chair in history at the university’ He almost added, 'Or the Minister of Justice’ but stopped himself in time.
That makes the lies they tell all the more dangerous, doesn't it?' she asked instantly.
'Absolutely,' he agreed, pleased that she so immediately saw the consequences. Almost reluctantly, he took the conversation back to where it had been before becoming an examination of historical truth. 'But what is it you wanted to ask me?' When she didn't answer, he continued, ‘I think my wife told you that I can't give you any information until I know the details.'
‘You won't tell anyone?' she blurted out. The tone in which she asked this reminded Brunetti that the girl was not much older than his own children and that her intellectual sophistication didn't necessarily imply any other sort of maturity.
'No, not if there's no sign of ongoing criminal activity. If what you want to ask about happened far enough in the past, then it’s likely that the statute of limitations has run out or a general amnesty has been granted.' Because the information Paola had given him was so vague, he decided to leave it to the girl to tell him more if she chose to do so.
There followed a pause in which Brunetti had no idea what the girl might be thinking. It went on so long that he looked away from her, and his eyes were automatically drawn to the printed words on the paper on his desk. He found himself, in the silence, beginning to read, almost against his will.
More time passed. Finally, she said, 'As I told your wife, it’s about an old woman I've always thought of as my third grandmother. I need the information for her. She's Austrian, but she lived with my grandfather during the war. My father's father, that is.' She looked across at Brunetti, checking to see if this explanation would suffice; he met her glance, looking interested but certainly not eager.
'After the war, my grandfather was arrested. There was a trial, and during it the prosecution presented copies of articles he had written for newspapers and journals where he condemned 'alien art forms and practices'. Brunetti recognized this as the Fascist code for Jewish art or art by anyone who was Jewish. 'Despite the Amnesty, they were still admitted as evidence.'
She stopped. When it became evident that she was not going to say more unless he prodded, he asked, 'What happened at the trial?'
'Because of the Togliatti Amnesty he couldn't be prosecuted for political crimes, so he was charged with extortion. For other things that happened during the war,' she explained. 'At least, this is what my grandmother has told me’ she continued. 'When it looked as if he was likely to be convicted, he had a sort of breakdown, and his lawyer decided to plead insanity.' Anticipating Brunetti's question, she added, ‘I wondered about that, but my grandmother said it was a real breakdown, not a fake one like they have today’
‘I see’
'And the judges believed it, too, so when they sentenced him, they sent him to San Servolo’
It would have been better to have gone to prison, Brunetti found himself thinking, though this was an idea he decided to spare the girl. San Servolo had been closed decades ago, and it was perhaps best to forget the horrors of what had gone on there for so many years. What had happened, had happened, not only to the other inmates, but probably to her grandfather, and there was no changing it. A pardon, however, if such a thing were possible, might change the way people thought about him. If - he found a cynical voice saying - anyone bothered to think about such things any more or if anyone cared about what had happened during the war.
'And what is it you want to obtain for him? Or your grandmother wants to obtain’ he added, seeking this way to encourage her to be more forthcoming about the source of her request.
'Anything that would exonerate him and clear his name.' Then, lowering both her voice and her head, she added, ‘It’s the only thing I could give her.' Then, more softly, ‘It’ s the only thing she wants.'
This was an area of the law with which Brunetti was not familiar, so he could consider her request only in terms of legal principles. He lacked the courage, however, to tell the girl that the law as it was enacted was not always the result of those principles. 'I think, in legal terms, what might apply here is a legal reversal or overturning of the original judgment. Once it was determined that the verdict was incorrect, your grandfather would, in effect, be declared innocent.'
'Publicly?' she asked. 'Would there be some official document that I could show my grandmother?'
'If the courts issued a judgment, then there would have to be official notice of it’ was the best answer he could supply.
She considered this for so long that Brunetti finally broke into her silence and asked, 'Was his name the same as yours?'
'No. Mine is Leonardo.'
'But he was your father's father?'
She said simply, 'My parents weren't married. My father didn't acknowledge my paternity immediately, so I kept my mother's name.'
Thinking it best not to comment on this, Brunetti asked only, 'What was his name?'
'Guzzardi. Luca’
At the sound of the name, the faintest of faint bells sounded in the back reaches of Brunetti's memory. 'Was he Venetian?' he asked.
'No, the family was from Ferrara. But they were here during the war.'
The name of the city brought the memory no closer. While seeming to consider her answer, Brunetti was busy trying to think of whom he could ask about events in Venice during the war. Two candidates sprang instantly to mind: his friend Lele Bortoluzzi, the painter, and his father-in-law, Count Orazio Falier, both men of an age to have lived through the war and both possessed of excellent memories.
'But I still don't understand,' Brunetti said, thinking that a-display of confusion would be a better means of obtaining information than open curiosity, 'what the purpose of legal action now would be. The original case should have been passed to the Court of Appeals.'
That was done at the time, and the conviction was upheld; so was the decision to send him to San Servolo.'
Brunetti assumed a befuddled expression. 'Then I don't understand, not at all, how a reversal of judgment would be possible or why anyone would want one.'
She gave him such a penetrating glance that he wiped the country bumpkin expression from his face and felt distinct embarrassment at having attempted to trick her into revealing the name of this grandmother who wanted to obtain the pardon, a desire he knew was motivated by nothing more than curiosity.
She started to speak, stopped, studied him as if remembering his attempt to appear less intelligent than he was, then finally said, with an asperity far in advance of her years, 'I'm sorry but I'm not at liberty to tell you that. All I've asked you to do,' she went on, and he was struck by the dignity with which she spoke, claiming equality with him and basing that claim on the brotherhood they'd established in their talk about books, 'is to tell me if if s possible to clear his name.' Even before he could ask, she cut him off and added, 'Nothing more.'
‘I see’ he said, getting to his feet, uncertain that he could be of much help to her but sufficiently charmed by her youth and sincerity to want to try.
She stood up as well. He came around the desk to approach her, but it was she who was the first to extend a hand. They shook hands. Quickly she went to the door and let herself out of the office, leaving Brunetti with the nagging sense that he had behaved foolishly but also with the desire to discover what the memory was that had
