by Glenn Cooper
‘I’m a little feverish, maybe,’ Giovanni said.
‘There’s a pharmacy nearby,’ Forcisi said. ‘I’ll go get you some aspirin.’
‘While you’re there, could you get some gauze bandages too?’
‘Why?’
‘Down in the crypt, I cut my wrist on a bit of metal.’
‘Let me have a look.’
‘No!’
Forcisi was startled at the vehemence of the response.
‘All right, suit yourself. I’m only trying to be helpful. Are you going to want supper tonight?’
‘I only want to sleep.’
‘So you didn’t see his wrists?’ Cal said.
‘Not that day, not ever. When we returned home I didn’t see him until the day we were ordained. After the ceremony, one of the new priests told me he’d seen some blood on his cassock, but Giovanni denied it when I asked him about it later.’
‘And how was his behavior in that period between your return from Croatia and ordainment, his mood?’
‘Honestly, I saw very little of him. Not for lack of trying. He stayed with his mother and sister and didn’t want to go out. When I did come by to try to persuade him to socialize, he was without humor. He seemed like he was carrying a great weight. His family was very worried about him, but I couldn’t get him out of his shell. Now I know the burden he was hiding. Then, I couldn’t imagine.’
‘Have you seen him since his stigmata became known?’
‘He was assigned to Monte Sulla, I was sent to Naples. When I read about the stigmata I called him several times and eventually got through to him. I offered to visit but he said no. We’ve spoken regularly since then but it’s always me who has to initiate contact. We talk as colleagues, in generalities about pastoral life. He makes it clear he doesn’t wish to speak of his situation. It’s sad, really. I can say we are no longer the kind of friends we used to be, when we always had a good laugh and freely confided to one another about our hopes and dreams. He’s become the revered Padre Gio, but I’m still young Antonio. I pray for him every day, professor.’
Cal closed his notebook and pocketed his pen. It was a calculated gambit intended to lull the young priest into the belief that his next question was off the record.
‘Do you think he’s making his wrists bleed?’
Forcisi shook his head. ‘I almost wish he were because then, with psychological and spiritual help, his soul might be healed. But no, as someone who was there the day his wounds developed, I’m completely certain the stigmata are real. Something happened to him in that crypt. I told the same thing to the German monsignor.’
Giovanni was kneeling in prayer in his bedroom, when Sister Theresa knocked gently on his door.
‘Padre,’ she said. ‘There is a phone call for you, your friend Padre Antonio.’
Giovanni came downstairs and picked up the phone in the lounge. The wrap on his left wrist was already stained through with blood.
‘Hello, Antonio.’
‘Giovanni, how are you?’ Forcisi asked.
‘I am fine, fine. What news from Naples?’
‘I’ve had another visit from a Vatican representative, an American professor.’
‘Donovan,’ Giovanni said. ‘He saw me too.’
‘I know.’
‘So?’
‘He was very interested in our visit to St Athanasius.’
‘And what did you tell him?’
‘Only what happened. He said you told him I didn’t go into the crypt because I had claustrophobia.’
‘I may have said something like that.’
‘Why?’
‘This wasn’t a confession, Antonio. It was an inquisition. The Vatican doesn’t need to know everything about me.’
‘I’ve got to ask. I’ve always been respectful, Giovanni but I’ve got to ask. What happened down there?’
‘It’s not something I’m prepared to discuss. Don’t hate me for this.’
‘I don’t hate you. I love you. And God loves you.’
Giovanni teared up. ‘Thank you for that.’ He composed himself. ‘What did you think of him, of Donovan?’
‘He was thorough, efficient. He’s obviously an intelligent man. Very different from the German.’
‘What German?’
‘First the Vatican sent a German monsignor. He wasn’t clever at all, a crude man, if you ask me.’
‘I was spared him, I suppose.’
‘What do you think the Vatican wants?’
‘Honestly, I don’t know,’ Giovanni said. ‘Whatever it is, I will be humble and obedient.’
‘Of course you will. Tell me, how is your family?’
‘Mother is well enough. I hear she’s been baking. Irene is coming to visit today with bags of food.’
‘I saw a recent picture of you,’ Forcisi said. ‘You look like you’ve lost weight.’
Finally a chuckle. ‘It’s the only benefit from my situation.’
The nuns, Sister Theresa and Sister Vera, looked askance at the spread that Irene was laying out on Giovanni’s table, as if to say, you don’t think we can cook well enough for your brother?
‘Look, she made all your favorites,’ Irene said, lifting the lid on the Tupperware. ‘Maccheroni alla chitarra, polpette di formaggio, agnello, cacio e uova. And for dessert, parozzo Abruzzese and my only contribution, biscotti di Cocullo.’
Giovanni shook his head. ‘You don’t expect me to eat all that, do you?’
‘What you don’t eat today, you can eat tomorrow.’
‘What I don’t eat today,’ he said looking at the nuns, ‘my brothers and sisters will eat.’
‘We’ll leave you alone now,’ Sister Vera said curtly. ‘Let us know when you’re ready for coffee.’
When the nuns were gone, Irene told him she thought they were jealous.
‘They are protective,’ he said. ‘Like mother hens.’
Irene passed him a plate she’d filled for him. ‘Let me channel mama: mangia, mangia.’
As he lifted his utensils she stared at his wrapped wrists.
‘Yes, they’re still there,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s ok. I shouldn’t have been sarcastic.’ He tasted the pasta. ‘Tell mama her food is delicious.’
‘I will. So how are you holding up?’
He sighed. ‘I celebrate Mass, I take confessions, I talk to parishioners, I deliver blessings. I’m a priest. It’s what priests do.’
‘If you don’t want to talk about the elephant in the room, then ok,’ she said.
‘It’s tiresome,’ he said.
‘Maybe for you, but not for me. I’m worried about you. Mama is worried.’
‘Can’t you understand how tired I am of all this Padre Gio stuff?’
‘Of course I can. That’s why I think you should maybe take a break from the spotlight of Monte Sulla. Please think about asking your bishop to give you a leave of absence, to send you to someplace where you can rest in isolation.’
‘I’m sure the Vatican is already plotting something along those lines.’
‘Would it be so bad?’
He put his fork down. ‘I just want to live a normal life.’
‘I’m sorry, keep eating. I’m obligated to give a food report to mama.’
They continued in silence and then ventured into the safe area of small talk about their extended family.
Over slices of chocolate cake, Irene said, ‘Could I ask you something?’
He held up his wrists. ‘As long as it’s not about these.’
‘It’s not. At least I don’t think it is. If I’m wrong about that, please don’t be angry at me.’
He granted permission.
‘A while ago, I saw something I’m having trouble explaining. I was shopping on Viale Nettuno and I saw someone go into the gelateria.’
‘Who was it?’ he asked.
‘It was you, Giovanni.’
He looked at her strangely. ‘Obviously it wasn’
t. I can assure you I was here last week.’
‘I know you were. But it’s been troubling me and I had to bring it up. I didn’t think it was you. I knew it was you.’
‘All right, you knew it was me,’ he said blankly. ‘Would you kindly tell me what I said to you?’
‘You didn’t say anything. I followed you into the gelateria but you had disappeared.’
‘Into thin air? Or into a tub of gelato?’
She looked hurt. ‘Please don’t make fun of me. I know what I saw.’ She wiped away a tear. ‘Tell me, has anyone else had the same experience that I’m describing?’
‘I’m sorry I upset you,’ he said. ‘I can tell you in all seriousness that no one has ever told me something like this.’
She looked at her cake to avoid looking at her brother. ‘I went online, Giovanni. It’s called bilocation. It’s an ability some people have – maybe it’s a psychic ability, maybe it’s a spiritual – it’s an ability to appear to be in two places at the same time. Do you want to know who was supposed to do bilocation? Padre Pio.’
He said tartly, ‘Well, maybe I’m getting to be like his clone. I’ll have to grow a beard. He was supposed to smell like roses. Do I smell like roses?’
‘Look, here I go again, stepping into a minefield but I think you know you have some powers. When she came here a few months ago, Mama told me she had a strange experience, an overwhelmingly strong vision that came into her head when you hugged her.’
‘A vision of what?’ he asked.
‘She didn’t tell you?’
‘Maybe she did,’ he said quietly.
‘She said it was a vision of a person. She truly believes it was Christ. She said she saw his face, so close she felt she could touch it. When you stopped hugging her, the vision stopped. Is that why you won’t hug me anymore, Giovanni?’ she asked. ‘Is that why you won’t make any physical contact with me?’
He nodded and began to weep. ‘It’s happened to other people too. I’ll almost never touch anyone anymore.’
She told him she wished she could hold him, comfort him, but he rose from the table.
‘Did mama tell Calvin Donovan about this when he saw you?’
‘No, she didn’t say anything. Me neither. I didn’t trust him,’ she said. ‘Why do you mention him?’
‘Because he’s someone with whom I made an exception. I did touch him.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know,’ Giovanni said. ‘I felt a closeness.’
‘Closer than to me?’
‘Of course not. I can’t explain it. It was a kind of kinship.’
She vigorously shook her head. ‘Don’t let your guard down with him. I don’t know what the Vatican intends to do with you, but as far as I’m concerned they hired an American hitman. I didn’t like Calvin Donovan and I hope I never see him again.’
TWELVE
Berlin, present day
Toward the end of a long day, Lambret Schneider wearily stared out his office window at the night sky of Berlin. His secretaries had gone and he was quite certain he wouldn’t be interrupted, but still he took the precaution of locking his door. The urge to reexamine a precious document he hadn’t read in years had been growing since the morning. His personal safe was located at the rear of his coat closet. He deftly spun the dial to the combination he would never forget: the day, month and year of Oskar Hufnagel’s death.
On the top shelf of the safe was an A4-size envelope that he took back to his desk. When he undid the red-stringed closure, he carefully removed the gossamer sheets of onionskin paper. The single-spaced, typewritten report was faded with age.
Otto Rahn
SS-Untersturmführer
19 Oktober 1935
An den
Reichsführer-SS und Chef der Deutschen Polizei
Heinrich Himmler
Berlin SW 11
Reichsführer!
Schneider squinted at the dense, blurred words that followed. He could have sworn that the last time he had the report in his hands he’d been able to read it without glasses. He wasn’t getting any younger, he supposed, as he bitterly reached inside his desk for his readers.
Time was running out. He felt consumed by a sense of urgency.
Berlin, 1935
If you saw him once you never forgot him.
He favored black: long black trench coats over finely-tailored, black three-piece suits. His ever-present, wide-brimmed, black fedora was always at a rakish tilt over deeply sunken, shadowed eyes. In public, he liked to thrust his wedge of a chin forward in a gesture of superiority. He was whippet thin, almost emaciated in appearance, and when his unbuttoned coat billowed it seemed he might be swept off his feet into the air, like some winged gremlin.
As Otto Rahn and his taller, older companion, strutted down the bustling streets, a streetcar full of evening commuters passed them by. Some of them stared down at the young man, perhaps wondering if he was someone important, as only a celebrity would conduct himself so cockily.
His recently acquired, book-lined flat was not in the best of neighborhoods. On his return from Paris, if he hadn’t required so many bookcases, he could have afforded a more salubrious address, but his needs as a researcher came first. Puffing at the top of the fourth flight of stairs, his friend, a heavy smoker, gasped for breath while Rahn fiddled with both locks.
Inside, they tossed their hats onto chairs. Rahn’s hair was also black, swept back and heavily pomaded. Rahn’s guest slumped onto the sofa and loosened his tie knot.
‘Drink?’ Rahn asked, shedding his coat.
‘God yes,’ Huber said. He lit a cigarette. ‘Brandy.’
Rahn poured generously into a pair of large snifters.
Huber admired the stemware. ‘These are new. They look expensive.’
‘They were,’ Rahn said. ‘Very. Next to my books and my pens, I consider good brandy glasses essential, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘You’re reveling in being the dark horse, Otto,’ Huber said. ‘Two months ago you write to me from Paris, complaining about being as poor a church mouse and now you’re living the high life in Berlin.’
Rahn smiled mischievously. ‘Stay put. I want to show you something else new.’
With Rahn in the bedroom, Huber got up to pace around his friend’s study, scanning the open books on his desk and peeking at his neat notes. More of his usual: caverns, Pyrenees, Cathars, Montségur.
Through the closed door he heard, ‘Ready?’
‘Yes! I suppose I’m as ready as I can be,’ Huber called back.
Rahn emerged and Huber could only stare at him in dumbfounded shock.
Hand on hip, Rahn modeled his body-hugging, black, woolen uniform, complete with peaked military cap, high black boots and a swastika on the red armband.
‘Like it?’ Rahn said. ‘It’s my favorite color.’
Clearly, Huber was not amused. He glanced at the door as if expecting a raid.
‘What the hell are you doing, Otto? Take it off. It’s an offense to impersonate an officer of the SS.’
‘But I’m not an officer, at least not yet.’ He pointed to his collar. ‘See? No insignia. I’m told in short order I’ll be given the rank of Untersturmführer.’
‘You’re not joking, are you?’
‘I’m dead serious. I’m in the SS.’
Huber fumbled for another cigarette. ‘Tell me how. Tell me why.’
‘I received a telegram in Paris from an unknown benefactor who said he admired my work. If I agreed to return to Berlin, he said he would telegram me a substantial sum of money. Intrigued and impoverished, I agreed. When I arrived in Berlin, I was summoned to an address to meet this benefactor. He heaped praise on my book, Crusade against the Grail, and offered me a research job with an unlimited budget. Do you hear me, Huber, an unlimited budget? There were, of course, some conditions. Joining the SS was one of them.’
‘Who was this man?’
‘Heinrich Himmler.’
Huber’s co
mplexion blanched. ‘You made a pact with the devil,’ he hissed.
‘What was I supposed to do? Say no?’
‘But does he know about you?’
‘That I’m a homosexual? That I have some Jewish blood? I imagine so. He’s the chief of police. It didn’t come up. I assume I need to be discreet.’
‘You? Discreet?’
Rahn laughed and moved toward the bedroom door. ‘A little more discreet, maybe. So, my dear, put the cigarette out and come and help me get out of this tight uniform.’
Following his first meeting with Himmler, Rahn had not been able to stop shaking. He had tried to medicate himself with laudanum drops and a bottle of red wine but he couldn’t settle his nerves. Instinctively, he had written an entry in his personal journal. Writing always calmed him.
Now, with Huber sleeping soundly in his bed, Rahn picked up his journal and re-read the old entry.
When I saw that the address I was given on Prinz Albrecht Strasse was the police headquarters, my heart fell into my stomach. I thought I was going to be arrested, that all this had been an elaborate trap to ensnare this poor little rabbit. I considered running away but I sucked up my courage and entered. I am expected, I said to the clerk. My name was on his list and he sent me to a room on the third floor. Not just any room! The door was marked, Reichsführer-SS! I’m not a political man but I follow the news. These days only a fool would put his head in the sand. I know who holds this position, for God’s sake.
Himmler, a man not much larger than myself, was seated behind a huge desk. It made him appear smaller, which I’m sure was not the intended effect. He bade me to sit without rising or extending a hand. This put me even more ill at ease but then he made my anxieties disappear. Herr Rahn, he said, I have been looking forward to meeting you. He held up a copy of my Grail book and said, ‘your book was recommended to me. I enjoyed it immensely. I am your secret benefactor. I hear you have found a flat in Berlin.’ I am certain there is little the head of the police does not know. I made some small talk about the differences between Paris and Berlin. He appeared impatient and began quizzing me about my research.
He asked about my theory that the thirteenth-century Cathars in southern France were descended from the Druids and were closely associated with the Knights Templar. He was conversant with my arguments about the sacred geology of the Cathar’s holy mountain and their enclave at Montségur, its sunrise orientations and its relationship with other holy places. He knew all about my beliefs that the Cathars had long kept the Holy Grail within their mountain fortress and that, in 1244, they made their last futile stand against Catholic crusaders. And that, before the castle fell and all Cathars were slaughtered, three Cathars slipped away with the treasure. He was fascinated with my description of exploring the grottos of the Sabarthes area south of Montségur and though he had a bookmark on that section of my book, he wanted to hear it from my mouth. I told him about the massive cavern of Lombrives with walls covered in Templar symbols side by side with Carthar emblems. He was particularly interested in my description of the engraving of a lance.