The Confessor

by Daniel Silva

  Herr Luther was saying, “The program to bring about the final solution to the Jewish question in Europe is well under way. The document you have before you was presented to me at a conference in Berlin in January. As you can see, by our careful estimate, there are eleven million Jews in Europe at the moment. That estimate includes territory controlled by the Reich and its allies and in countries that remain neutral or allied with the enemy.”

  Herr Luther paused and looked at Bishop Lorenzi. “Does the girl speak German?”

  “No, no, Herr Luther. She is a poor girl from the Garda region. Her only language is Italian, and even that she speaks like a peasant. You may speak freely in front of her.”

  I turned and left the room, pretending not to have heard the terribly insulting things the prelate had just said about me to the German. My face must have shown my embarrassment, because when I entered the antechamber, Ciciotto said, “Is something wrong, Sister Regina?”

  “No, no, I’m fine. Just a little tired.”

  “Shall we continue to say the rosary, Sister?”

  “You say it, my child. But softly, please.”

  The boy resumed the rosary, but after a few moments he fell asleep with his head resting on my lap. I cracked the door a few inches so I could hear what was being said inside the common room. Herr Luther was still speaking. This is what I heard that night, recorded to the best of my recollection and ability.

  “Despite our best efforts to keep the evacuations secret, word unfortunately is beginning to trickle out. It is my understanding from our own ambassador to the Vatican that some of these reports are beginning to reach the ears of the Holy Father.”

  Bishop Lorenzi replied, “That is indeed the case, State Secretary Luther. I’m afraid news of the evacuations has indeed reached the Vatican. The British and Americans are putting enormous pressure on the Holy Father to speak out.”

  “May I speak bluntly, Bishop Lorenzi?”

  “That was the point of this gathering, was it not?”

  “This program to settle the Jewish question once and for all is under way. The machinery is in place, and there is nothing His Holiness can do to stop it. The only thing he can do is make matters worse for the Jews, and I know that is the last thing the Holy Father wishes to do.”

  “That is correct, Herr Luther. But how would a protest make matters worse for the Jews?”

  “It is imperative that the roundups and deportations go smoothly and with a minimum of struggle and histrionics. The element of surprise is a critical factor. If the Holy Father issues a protest, accompanied by an explicit warning about what deportation to the east truly means for the Jews, then it will make the roundups messy and difficult affairs. It will also mean that many Jews will go into hiding and escape our forces.”

  “One cannot argue with the logic of that statement, Herr Luther.”

  At this point, I felt it was time for me to offer the delegates more coffee. I eased the boy’s head off my lap, then knocked on the door and waited for Bishop Lorenzi to invite me to enter the room.

  “More coffee, Your Grace?”

  “Please, Sister Regina.”

  There was a pause in the conversation while I refilled their cups and exited the room. Then Herr Luther resumed. Once again I left the door ajar so that I could hear what was being said.

  “There is another reason why it is critical that the Holy Father not raise his voice in protest. Many of those who assist us in this necessary endeavor happen to be good Roman Catholics. If the Pope condemns their behavior, or threatens them with excommunication, it might make them think twice about the work that they are doing.”

  “You may rest assured, Herr Luther, that the last thing the Holy Father would do is excommunicate Roman Catholics at a time like this.”

  “I wouldn’t presume to give the Church advice on how to run its affairs, but there are reasons why papal silence on this matter would be best for all involved, including the Holy See.”

  “I’d be interested to hear your learned opinion, Herr Luther.”

  “Look at that figure I have laid before you. Imagine, eleven million Jews! A figure almost beyond comprehension! We are dealing with them as quickly and efficiently as possible, but it is a difficult task we have set for the Reich. What would happen if, God forbid, Germany should lose this war to Stalin and his gang of Jewish Bolsheviks? Try to imagine what would happen if there were millions of displaced Jews in Europe at the end of the war, alive and dispossessed, clamoring for the right to emigrate to Palestine. The Zionists and their friends in Washington and London would have their day. It would be impossible to prevent the creation of a Jewish national home in Palestine. Jewish control of Nazareth. Jewish control of Bethlehem. Jewish control of Jerusalem. Jewish control of all the holy sites! If they have their own state, they would have the right, as the Vatican does, to send their diplomats around the world. Judaism, the ancient enemy of the Church, would be placed on a footing equal to that of the Holy See. The Jewish state would become a platform for global Jewish domination. That would be a true disaster for the Roman Catholic Church, a setback of unimaginable proportions, and it looms just over the horizon, unless we complete the annihilation of the Jewish race in Europe.”

  There was a long silence. I could not see inside, but in my mind, I tried to picture the scene. Bishop Lorenzi, I imagined, was fuming at so grotesque and monstrous a speech. He was preparing, in my imagination, to shatter the man from Berlin with a ringing condemnation of the Nazis and their war against the Jews. Instead, this is what I heard though the half-open door that night.

  “As you know, Herr Luther, we members of Crux Vera have been very supportive of National Socialism and its crusade against the Bolsheviks. We have worked very quietly, yet diligently, to align the policies of the Vatican to meet our common goal: a world free of the Bolshevik menace. I cannot instruct the Pope what to say about this situation. I can only offer him my heartfelt advice, in the strongest possible terms, and hope that he accepts it. I can tell you this: At the moment, he is predisposed to say nothing about this matter. He believes a protest will only make the situation of German Catholics more tenuous. Furthermore, he has no love for the Jews, and he believes that in many respects they have brought this calamity upon themselves. Your thoughts on the future situation in Palestine give me a potent new weapon in my arsenal. I’m sure His Holiness will be very interested to hear about this. But at the same time, I beg of you to proceed in such a manner that you will not unintentionally force his hand. The Holy See would not want to be obliged to utter a word of disapproval.”

  “Obviously, I am very pleased to hear your remarks, Bishop Lorenzi. You have proven, once again, that you are a true friend of the German people and a trusted ally in our fight against Bolshevism and the Jews.”

  “And fortunately for you, Herr Luther, there is another true friend of the German people inside the Vatican—a man who outranks me significantly. He will listen to what I have to say. As for myself, I will be glad to be rid of them.”

  “I believe a toast is in order.”

  “As do I. Sister Regina?”

  I entered the room. My legs were trembling.

  “Bring us a bottle of champagne,” the bishop said to me in Italian, then added: “No, Sister, make that two bottles. Tonight is a night for celebration.”

  A moment later, I returned with the two bottles. One of them exploded when I opened it, and champagne spilled onto the floor and my habit. “I told you she was a peasant girl,” the bishop said. “She must have shaken it on the way.”

  The others had a good laugh at my expense, and once again, I had to smile and pretend as though I had not understood. I poured out the champagne and turned to leave, but Bishop Lorenzi took my arm. “Why don’t you join us in a glass, Sister Regina?”

  “No, I couldn’t, Your Grace. It wouldn’t be proper.”

  “Nonsense!” Then he turned to Herr Luther and, in German, asked whether it would be all right if I had a glass of cha
mpagne after all my hard work preparing the meal.

  “Ja, Ja,” shouted Herr Luther. “Indeed, I insist.”

  And so I stood there, in my stained habit, and I drank their champagne. And I pretended not to understand when they congratulated themselves on a very successful evening of work. And as they were leaving, I shook hands with the murderer named Luther and kissed the proffered ring of his accomplice, Bishop Lorenzi. I can still taste the bitterness on my lips.

  In my own room, I painstakingly transcribed the conversation I had just overheard. Then I lay awake in my bed until dawn. It was a night of perfect agony.

  I am writing this now on an evening in September in the year 1947. It is the eve of my wedding day, a day I never wanted. I am about to marry a man who I am fond of but whom I do not truly love. I am doing it because it is easier this way. How can I tell them the real reason I am leaving? Who would believe such a story?

  I have no plans to tell anyone about that night, no plans to show anyone this document. It is a document of shame. The deaths of six million weigh heavily upon my conscience. I had knowledge, and I kept silent. Some nights they come to me, with their emaciated bodies and ragged prison clothing, and they ask me why I did not speak up in their defense. I do not have an acceptable answer. I was just a simple nun from the north of Italy. They were the most powerful people in the world. What could I have done? What could any of us have done?

  Chiara stumbled into the powder room. A moment later, Gabriel could hear her being violently sick into the toilet. Antonella Huber sat silently, her eyes blank and damp, staring out the French doors at the garden, which was twisting in the wind. Gabriel stared at the pages in her lap; at the careful, precise script of Sister Regina Carcassi. It had been a torturous thing to hear, but at the same time he was overwhelmed by a swell of pride. An amazing document, those few yellowed pages. It dovetailed perfectly with things he had learned independently already. Had not Licio, the old man from the convent, told him about Sister Regina and Luther? Had not Alessio Rossi told him about the mysterious disappearances of two priests from the Germany desk of the Secretariat of State, Monsignors Felici and Manzini? Did not Sister Regina Carcassi place those same two priests at the side of Bishop Sebastiano Lorenzi, official of the Secretariat of State, member of Crux Vera, friend of Germany?

  “And fortunately for you, Herr Luther, there is another true friend of the German people inside the Vatican—a man who outranks me significantly.”

  Here was an explanation of the inexplicable. Why had Pius XII remained silent in the face of the greatest case of mass murder in history? Was it because Martin Luther convinced an influential member of the Secretariat of State, a member of the secret order known as Crux Vera, that a papal condemnation of the Holocaust would ultimately lead to the creation of a Jewish state in Palestine and Jewish control of Christian holy sites? If so, it explained why Crux Vera was so desperate to keep the meeting at Brenzone a secret, for it linked the order, and by extension the Church itself, to the murders of six million Jews in Europe.

  Chiara came out of the bathroom, her eyes damp and raw, and sat down next to Gabriel. Antonella Huber turned her gaze from the garden, and her dark eyes settled on Chiara’s face.

  “You are Jewish, yes?”

  Chiara nodded and lifted her chin. “I am from Venice.”

  “There was a terrible roundup in Venice, wasn’t there? While my mother was safe behind the walls of the Convent of the Sacred Heart, the Nazis and their friends were hunting down the Jews of Venice.” She turned from Chiara and looked at Gabriel. “And what about you?”

  “My family came from Germany.” He said nothing more. There was nothing else to be said.

  “Could my mother have done something to help them?” She looked out the French doors once more. “Am I guilty too? Do I bear my mother’s original sin?”

  “I don’t believe in collective guilt,” Gabriel said. “As for your mother, there was nothing she could have done. Even if she had defied the orders of the bishop and leaked word of the meeting at Brenzone, nothing would have changed. Herr Luther was right. The machinery was in place, the killing had begun, and nothing but the defeat of Nazi Germany was going to stop it. Besides, no one would have believed her.”

  “Maybe no one will believe her now.”

  “It’s a devastating document.”

  “It’s a death sentence,” she said. “They’ll just dismiss it as a forgery. They’ll say you’re out to destroy the Church. That’s what they do. That’s what they always do.”

  “I have enough corroborating evidence to make it impossible for them to dismiss it as a hoax. Your mother may have been powerless to do anything in 1942, but she’s not powerless any longer. Let me have this—the one she wrote with her own hand. It’s important that I have the original.”

  “You may have it on one condition.”

  “And that is?”

  “That you destroy the people who murdered my mother.”

  Gabriel held out his hand.

  23

  LE ROURET, PROVENCE

  GABRIEL EASED AWAY from Antonella Huber’s villa through the gathering darkness, accompanied by the savage barking of the Belgian shepherds. Chiara sat next to him, clutching the letter. At the bottom of the hill, he turned onto a two-lane highway and headed west toward Grasse. The day’s last light lay on the ridgeline of the distant hills like a scarlet wound.

  Five minutes later, he noticed the dark gray Fiat sedan. The man behind the wheel was too careful. He stayed in his own lane at all times, and even when Gabriel allowed his speed to dip well below the limit, the Fiat remained several car-lengths off his rear bumper. No, thought Gabriel, this is not your average suicidal Frenchman behind the wheel.

  He followed the highway into Grasse, then turned down the hill, into the old town center. It had been taken over long ago by Middle Eastern immigrants, and for a moment Gabriel might have imagined he was in Algiers or Marrakech.

  “Put away the letter.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “We’re being followed.”

  Gabriel made a series of quick turns and accelerations.

  “Is he still there?”

  “Still there.”

  “What do we do?”

  “Take him for a ride.”

  Gabriel left the old town and made his way back up the hill to the main highway, the Fiat following closely behind. He sped through the center of town, then turned onto the N85, a highway that runs from Grasse high into the Maritime Alps. Ten seconds later the Fiat swerved into his rearview mirror. Gabriel pressed the accelerator to the floor and pushed the Peugeot hard up the steep grade.

  Grasse gradually fell away. The road was winding, full of switchbacks and hairpin turns. To their right rose the scrub-covered slope of the mountain; to their left, a deep gorge, falling away toward the sea. The Peugeot had less power than Gabriel would have liked, and no matter how hard he pushed it, the Fiat sedan easily kept pace. Whenever a straight section of road stretched before him, he would lift his eyes into the rearview mirror and check on the Fiat: always there, a few car-lengths back. Once, he thought he could see the driver talking on a mobile phone. Who do you work for? Who are you calling? And how in the hell did you find us? Antonella Huber . . . They’d killed her mother. They probably had a man watching the villa.

  Ten minutes later, the village of St-Vallier appeared before them, quiet and tightly shuttered. Gabriel pulled over in the center of town, next to a small square, and traded places with Chiara. The Fiat parked on the opposite side of the square and waited. Gabriel told Chiara to take the D5 toward St-Cézaire, then he took out the Beretta nine-millimeter he’d been given by Shimon Pazner in Rome. The Fiat followed after them.

  It was a long descent, winding and difficult in some sections, straight and fast in others. Chiara drove the same way she’d handled the motor yacht, with skill and a certain easy confidence that Gabriel couldn’t help but find attractive.

  “Did you take t
he defensive driving classes at the Academy?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did you learn anything?”

  “Number one in my group.”

  “Show me.”

  She downshifted and slammed the accelerator to the floor. The Peugeot shot forward, engine screaming. She stayed in that gear, foot to the floor, until the needle topped the red zone, then power-shifted. Gabriel looked over at the speedometer and saw it inching toward 180 kilometers per hour. Her rapid acceleration seemed to catch the driver of the Fiat by surprise, but he recovered quickly and soon was sitting in his usual place, twenty meters off their rear bumper.

  “Our friend is back.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Make him work. I want his nerves on edge.”

  During a long downhill straightaway, Chiara pushed the Peugeot above two hundred. Then she entered a winding section, expertly downshifting and breaking in and out of the turns. Obviously, she had learned her lessons well at the Academy. The man in the Fiat was having trouble keeping pace. Twice, he nearly lost control in the turns.

  At the rate of speed they were traveling, it did not take long to reach St-Cézaire. It was a medieval town, walled in places and split in half by the D5. Chiara slowed. Gabriel shouted at her to go faster.

  “What if someone crosses the fucking road?”

  “I don’t care! Go faster, damn it!”

  “Gabriel!”

  They flashed through the darkened town in a blur. The driver of the Fiat did not have the courage to follow their lead, and slowed as he passed through the town. As a result, he emerged trailing them by some three hundred meters.

  “That was fucking insane. We could have killed someone.”

  “Don’t let him get any closer.”

  The road became a four-lane highway. On their left was a large nature area, famous for its caves and grottoes, and in the distance was a ridge of stark mountains, visible in the bright moonlight.