byThe fat man behind the desk peered near sightedly through the monocle at his papers. He wore the insignia of a colonel on his Gestapo uniform.
“You were in the concentration camp at Palmo, Musico?” he addressed the unshaven man who stood, flanked by two guards, before him.
Musico shrugged. His gaze was fixed on the corner of the desk, and he did not raise his eyes to meet the glare of his interrogator. He resented the presence of a Nazi behind the desk in the Italian Palazzo de Justicia. Mussolini and his boys might call it Axis collaboration, but back in the Chicago of Musico’s memory they had another name for it—muscling in.
The colonel referred again to the sheaf of papers in his hand.
“Your mother and your wife, they are in the camp at Napolo, no?” He tossed the paper on the desk
