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“Nothing?”
“Absolutely nothing,” Gurfein repeated. “We simply appealed to their sense of patriotism.”
He puffed on his cigar two times, heavily, exhaled audibly, then took the cigar into his hand and gestured toward Canidy with it as he made his point.
“You have to keep in mind that these Italians and Sicilians came to the United States for a better life and that many have family back in the old country, where Mussolini and the Fascists are making life a living hell. And keep in mind that Il Duce went after the mafioso in a vicious manner, appointing a special prefect with extraordinary powers to wipe them out; many wound up in penal colonies on those volcanic islands north of Sicily—the Liparis, in the Tyrrhenian Sea—while some of their bosses had to find refuge in Canada and elsewhere. So patriotism, on the surface—it’s not that hard a sell.”
He put the cigar back in his mouth and puffed.
Donovan said, “That’s not to say that they did not think there might be some consideration paid at a later time, especially if their help made a real difference—”
“But,” Gurfein, sitting up stiffly, shot back, “we offered nothing.”
Donovan smiled.
“Yes, Murray, I’m not disputing that. I’m putting myself in their shoes, considering how they might have perceived the situation.”
Gurfein looked at the director of the OSS a moment and realized he’d been overly defensive.
“Of course,” he finally said softly. “My apologies, sir.”
He slumped back in the couch.
“Not necessary but accepted,” Donovan said very agreeably. “There is also the very real possibility,” the director of the OSS went on, looking at Canidy, “that they were open to the idea because the more information collected meant the more they knew about the waterfront. It really was to their benefit.”
“And then there’s that patriotism thing,” Canidy said and beamed at Gurfein.
Gurfein looked at Canidy intensely, then realized he was having his chain pulled. He smiled.
“Okay, okay, I’m not that naïve. So there were possible plusses for both sides. Bottom line is, it worked. Slowly at first. Not every guy on the waterfront opened up immediately…or at all. Then someone—Lanza, I think—got the idea that with the right words said by the right people—the bosses—word would get out for everyone to cooperate. It’d grease the skids. And what better way to get the bosses to agree than to have the boss of bosses agree?”
“And it was off to see Luciano,” Canidy said.
“Polakoff first,” Donovan said, correcting him. “In the hotel bar, remember?”
Canidy’s eyebrows went up. “Right.”
“We got Luciano, without him knowing how or why, moved from Dannemora to Great Meadow,” Gurfein said, “after selling it to Louis Lyons, New York’s commissioner of corrections. His line was, ‘If it saves the life of one American sailor, I’m all for it.’” He looked at Canidy. “That patriotism thing.”
Canidy smiled. “Sure, but he’s supposed to be on our side.”
“A lot of people are supposed to be on our side but don’t always seem to be,” Gurfein replied.
“Some of my biggest enemies,” Donovan added solemnly, “are here in Washington, not in Europe.”
Canidy and Gurfein exchanged glances.
While exceedingly rare, it wasn’t the first time that Canidy had heard the OSS chief complain about having to fight more bureaucratic battles than real ones with bullets. But from the look on Gurfein’s face, it apparently was a first for him to hear such blasphemy.
“So,” Gurfein went on, “they swapped eight prisoners from each prison—”
“Wonder what the seven who moved with Luciano thought they’d done right to deserve better conditions,” Canidy thought aloud. “Or what the eight moved to Dannemora thought they’d done wrong.”
Gurfein looked at him a moment, then corrected him. “Eight—because Luciano didn’t know, either. Polakoff and Lansky had made the move as a condition of their getting Luciano to agree. Their reasoning was to have him closer so their commute to and from New York would be short, but ultimately it was, I think, a test to see how serious we were, to see if we could and would affect the transfer.”
“And did he?” Canidy said.
“Agree? Not at first. Ever careful, Luciano said he was not sure who was going to win the war, and he did not want anyone knowing he cooperated. He was also afraid of being deported back to Sicily and having to suffer the wrath of Mussolini or Hitler or—maybe worse—the mafia there. It was only after Luciano considered that he’d been moved to a better place, and there he would be allowed to meet with Lansky and his lawyer whenever he wanted—”
