Benito Mussolini's eye had lost its. glitter. Eight months had leafed away since his fall from power in Rome. In his Nazi-guarded villa on the shores of North Italy's Lago di Garda, he donned his grey general's uniform, began the day's mock routine of a mock Duce.*
No windy halls were here, no balconies for strutting. Laurel and cypress shut in the rococo house; stained glass windows kept its rooms in decadent twilight. Benito Mussolini shuffled to his desk, shuffled through a morning's paper work. His three physicians—two Italians, one German—had warned him sternly:...
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