by James R Benn
“Genoa, you say? There is a lot of refugee traffic there. Coming from France or Yugoslavia, or trying for Switzerland. We may be able to find something, but you will only learn of it when you have fully completed your task. Now, leave the belt and the pistol on the seat and take Monsieur Rossi with you, if he is still alive. Hurry.”
“I would appreciate the return of my uniform,” Dieter said as we carried the unconscious body of Severino Rossi over the line. Remke had intercepted the curious German guards and turned them away. Two Swiss Guard in their gray uniforms advanced with rifles at the ready, suspicious of a bloodied body being manhandled by Germans. “When it is convenient, of course.”
“Sure,” I said, feeling his boots pinch my toes. I looked around for a familiar face, and quickly spotted Kaz and Nini peering out at us from the shadows of the colonnade. I saw Kaz’s eyes widen as first he recognized me, and then saw the wreck of a man Dieter and I were holding up. He and Nini ran to us, speaking to the guards as they passed them. Officially, refugees were to be turned away. But, like most of the Swiss Guard, these two were sympathetic to Monsignor O’Flaherty, and stepped back, keeping a wary eye on Remke as he leaned against the hood of the car, one long step from the white border.
“Is this Rossi?” Kaz asked, taking one arm and hoisting it over his shoulder. He took in my clothes on Dieter and the uniform I wore, and gave Dieter a curt nod.
“Yeah,” I said. “We had to get him back from Banda Koch.”
“We?” Kaz asked as Nini felt Rossi for a pulse.
“It is a long story, Baron,” Remke said, raising his voice from the other side of the line. “Your friend is not without nerve. I trust tomorrow will not require it in a similar quantity.”
“Noon,” I said. “All three of them, and the names, Colonel.”
“In my army, lieutenants do not give orders to colonels,” Remke said.
“Yet you take them from an Austrian corporal,” Kaz said. After what the Germans had done to his family following the invasion of Poland, he had little love for any German, even one with a gun pointed at Hitler’s head.
“Yes, Baron. But perhaps not for long. Any demands from the lieutenant will only be considered once his obligation is met,” Remke said, his eyes hard and narrow. “Nerve will count for little if I am disappointed in this. Until tomorrow then.” He bowed in Nini’s direction and ignored me, which was good, since I was sure I wasn’t hiding my worry well.
“We must take him to Santa Marta,” Nini said. “The nuns have a small clinic there. He needs help, his pulse is very weak.”
“Okay, but not the clinic, it’s too public. We need a safe place to hide him,” I said.
“Hiding people is what we do,” Nini said. “I will ask Hugh-”
“No,” I said, as we clumsily carried Rossi through the Gate of the Bells. “Not even Monsignor O’Flaherty should know where he is. Where can we bring him?”
“My God, do you not trust even him?” Nini asked.
“It is to protect this poor soul,” Kaz said soothingly. “The fewer people who know where he is, the safer he’ll be.”
“All right then. We will take him around to the side entrance and he can have my room. The sisters know how to keep a secret.”
We skirted the German College and kept to the shadows as we crossed a small piazza to the Santa Marta. Nini produced a key ring and unlocked a side door. Rossi began to moan as we carried him up the narrow stairway as gently as we could.
“Who could do such a thing?” Nini said once we’d gotten Rossi laid out on her bed. She had a small sitting room and a separate bedroom. Spartan, but luxurious by Vatican standards. She began to clean the dried blood from Rossi’s face with a wet cloth, and instructed Kaz to fetch Sister Cecilia and her medical kit.
“Don’t worry, Billy,” Nini said after Kaz left. “Sister Cecilia is a trained nurse and quite discreet. I only hope this boy can be healed. He is the one they say killed Monsignor Corrigan, isn’t he?”
“That’s what Soletto said, but I wouldn’t put much faith in that.”
“Because he was murdered also?”
“Yes. I think Soletto was paid off by the killer to cover things up, and then got too greedy.”
“How much would you have to pay a policeman to cover up a murder?” Nini asked.
“Apparently more than Soletto did,” I said.
Rossi winced as Nini dabbed around his swollen eyes, which was a good sign. You had to be alive and conscious to feel pain.
“I’m pretty sure there were diamonds involved, but I don’t know in what quantity. Good quality, though.” Kaz and I had kept things quiet about the diamond we’d found in Corrigan’s room so far, but it seemed safe to tell Nini.
“That’s odd,” Nini said, pressing a damp cloth to Rossi’s lips.
“Why?”
“What you said about good quality. About a month ago, an envelope was left for the Mother Superior. In it were three diamonds.”
“Of excellent quality?” This was quite a surprise; perhaps Kaz and I should have told Nini about the diamond sooner. It would have helped to know this.
“Yes, and that was what was remarkable. As you know, diamonds are useful currency for refugees. We’ve seen some, but usually small and flawed. A jeweler told me these were excellent specimens.”
“You have no idea where they came from?”
“None at all. We were simply glad to be able to buy food with what we got for them. Quite a lot of food, and some bribes as well.”
“It’s sort of an open secret that Santa Marta houses hidden Jews and refugees, isn’t it?”
“That’s a good way to put it,” Nini said. “I always thought the diamonds came from a man who had money and identity papers, but was perhaps Jewish himself, and wanted to help without revealing who he was.”
“The diamonds were his,” I said, pointing at Rossi.
“Oh no,” Nini said. “Is that what this is all about? Simple greed?”
“I don’t know,” I said, and I didn’t. People killed for greed all the time. But if the motive had been greed here, why give away a small fortune in diamonds? A greedy man wouldn’t part with beautiful gems to help refugees. No, not a greedy man, or at least not a man greedy for lucre.
Sister Cecilia swept into the room, steel-blue habit swirling, medical kit in hand. She took charge, sending Nini for more water and shooing Kaz and me out of the room.
“You seem to have changed tailors,” Kaz said as he poured us both a glass of wine from a side table in Nini’s parlor.
I sat in an easy chair facing a wide window with a magnificent view of the dome of Saint Peter’s. It was odd how this place revolved around the basilica-physically, spiritually, and aesthetically. Even so, its aura of majesty and serenity did little to alter the human drama all around it. Was it mocking us, with our conflicts and struggles? Would it be here in another thousand years, when this war was forgotten? I didn’t know. All I knew was that my feet hurt.
“It belongs to Dieter. One of Remke’s men,” I said, pulling off the boots with some effort. “He has small feet.”
“I assume he didn’t simply take a fancy to your priestly attire,” Kaz said, sitting on the couch opposite.
“No.” I took a healthy slug of vino and unbuttoned the collar of my-Dieter’s-tunic. “Remke found out that Pietro Koch and his gang had taken Severino Rossi from Regina Coeli, for no other reason than to torture him.”
“Nini has told me stories,” Kaz said. “Koch was forced to move to his current location from his previous hotel after the neighbors complained about the cacophony of screams day and night.”
“Yeah. They had an opera going full blast on the phonograph to cover the sounds of torture. Anyway, Remke agreed to take Rossi from them, since he’d told me he would get him if he were still alive.”
“Interesting,” Kaz said. “A man of his word, it seems.”
“That might work against us, if he doesn’t like the letter we give him. We m
ight not get Diana and the others back.”
“Perhaps,” Kaz said. “But why the uniform?”
“I’d seen a photograph of Rossi, so I was the only one who could recognize him. We had no idea what we’d walk into, so it seemed best that I go along.”
“They gave Rossi up?”
“Yeah, Remke fed them a line about needing him for questioning, and there being a mix-up at the prison. Typical bureaucracy and they bought it. But that’s not the big news. I know where Zlatko disappeared to.”
“Tell me where, and I’ll tell you why,” Kaz said, raising a wine glass to his lips.
“Okay. He showed up at the Pensione Jaccarino, just as we were driving away. It wasn’t a coincidence, either. He pointed me out as an American to Koch, and there were a few wild shots fired to cover our escape. Now, why was he there?”
“Because Cardinal Boetto from Genoa arrived with a report on Bishop Zlatko’s activities in Croatia. A number of witnesses place him at a concentration camp run by a Franciscan monk. Also, his superior, Archbishop Ivan saric, has taken a number of Jewish properties for church and personal use, including one estate he signed over to Zlatko. Boetto wants Zlatko stripped of his bishopric, which would be an embarrassment for many in the Vatican who overlooked the clergy’s support of the Ustashi in Croatia.”
“It sounds like everyone was lining up against Zlatko,” I said.
“Yes. Since he is here, he is a convenient lightning rod for righteous indignation. The news got to Zlatko and he was seen crossing the border by one of the Swiss Guard.”
“Remke said that German intelligence hasn’t valued what Zlatko has been feeding them, but that Koch might take him on. It could be the only place Zlatko has left to go, if he doesn’t want to face the music here or back in Croatia when the Soviets roll in.”
“I pity the man if Banda Koch is his last resort. But he’s proved his worth to them already, by alerting them to your presence today. Leaving the Vatican tomorrow may be too dangerous, Billy.”
“We’ve changed the meeting spot to the church at the top of the Spanish Steps. I’ll dress in civilian clothes. There’s no sense in going out as a priest again.”
“Or a German,” Kaz said.
“Hard to believe we’ve thrown in with a German intelligence officer, against an Italian Fascist and a Croatian bishop.”
“The Vatican is not quite what I thought it would be,” Kaz said. “I am not a religious man, and what happened to my cousin colored my view of the church hierarchy. But there is much good here, as well as evil. In Poland, the priests were executed by the Nazis, along with all the others they butchered. In Croatia, it is the priests who lead the butchery, and the church does little to stop it. Yet many here risk their lives to save others. It leaves one confused, doesn’t it?”
“Only if you expect revelation,” I said, gazing out at the basilica. “I find it easier to set my sights lower. Just because people wear fancy robes, they don’t necessarily act decently. It’s who they were before they put on the robes that matters.”
“I think the robes do matter, Billy. Once they are donned, this becomes a place of absolutes. No shades of gray, only the glittering dome of heaven or the descent into hell. From O’Flaherty to Zlatko, they all act in the name of God, don’t they? I don’t know why I am surprised; perhaps I had more faith than I thought.”
“And now you’re disappointed?”
“It does leave me wishing for simpler times.”
“To simpler times to come,” I said, raising my glass and draining the last of the wine, wondering when those times might be. Kaz finished his drink and we sat quietly, the rays of the setting sun gathering around the dome, bathing the basilica in pure light.
“Do you think Remke can succeed with the plot against Hitler?” Even here, in private, Kaz lowered his voice to a whisper.
“If it can be done, it would take a man like Remke to do it. He won’t be the one pulling the trigger, but he does seem the type to set things in motion.”
“Speaking of him, we should get the letter from Montini. After I find you some new clothes.”
I went to the window as Kaz left to find a new set of duds for me. The sky had turned a deep red, the dome now dark against the fading light. Rossi cried out from the next room. I hoped my prayers about tomorrow actually meant something, and that I wasn’t committing a sin for thinking they didn’t.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
I was decked out in a nice blue suit, a little shiny on the knees and elbows, but it fit. I didn’t mind swapping the clerical collar for a dark-blue polka-dot tie either. Kaz ditched his cassock as well, since everyone within Vatican City seemed to know who we really were.
Monsignor Bruzzone was at his desk, and didn’t seem unhappy to leave the paperwork behind. “I suppose you have heard about Bishop Zlatko,” he said as he led us out of the Medieval Palace. “He has left the Holy See.”
“Just a step ahead of Cardinal Boetto,” I said.
“It appears so. His archbishop and Archbishop Boetto are bitter enemies. Since Bishop Zlatko is close at hand, he knew he would incur the wrath meant for Archbishop saric.”
“Not without reason,” Kaz said as we neared the entrance to the Apostolic Palace.
“No, of course not,” Bruzzone said, halting in the middle of the courtyard. It was cold, and not a single light showed anywhere. “I simply meant that the bishop saw the handwriting on the wall and acted to save himself. Or, perhaps he is the killer you seek, and thought you were close to apprehending him. Have you made any progress that might have frightened him?”
“No, nothing,” I said. “Once the business with this letter is settled, we might have something to investigate.”
“Ah yes, that is more important, isn’t it? Come, I will take you up.” Bruzzone pointed to the top floor of the darkened palace. Above us, the last remnants of light cast an inky glow across the sky. I shivered, and followed.
“Alois, come stanno sua moglie ed i bambini? Franco, come stai?”
Bruzzone chatted with Alois and Franco, who wore capes over their gray field uniforms. I heard our names and Montini’s mentioned, then the doors were opened and the guards gave us friendly nods.
“You and Monsignor O’Flaherty both seem to know all the Swiss Guard well,” I said.
“Of course we do. In our business; it pays to befriend those who stand guard at the gates, yes? I got to know them even more closely when their chaplain fell ill and I took over his duties for a brief time. They are good men, many of them willing to turn a blind eye when POWs or refugees show up in the piazza. Others even give their assistance willingly.”
“It seems orders from the top are not always carried out to the letter,” I said, remembering what Montini had said this morning about ignoring the Pope’s directive for refugees to be turned out of papal properties.
“But is it not the spirit we should be concerned with here?” Bruzzone gave a wink, and we followed him up the marble staircase to the third floor. He had a point, and I recalled what Kaz had said about this being a place of absolutes. True, there wasn’t a lot of middle ground between heaven and hell, but some of these guys managed to find room in the shadows to rationalize their own actions. As long as it was to my benefit, I had no problem with that. After all, a Boston cop learns rationalization at the knee of his daddy.
“Monsignor,” Bruzzone said as he knocked at the open door. Montini did double duty, working afternoons as the papal secretary. His office was at the edge of the Pope’s private living quarters, which stretched around one corner of the top floor. The single window was covered in blackout drapes, and heavy wood paneling deadened the sound, making Bruzzone’s voice sound meek and fearful.
“Yes, come in,” Montini said, rising from his chair. “You are here for the letter, I assume?”
“Yes, Monsignor,” I said.
“You have given up the priesthood, both of you?” Montini said with a sly grin. “I despair of losing two such resourcefu
l candidates for the clergy.”
“By now most people within these walls know we’re not for real,” I said.
“Correct. If prayer flew as quickly as gossip, all the saints in heaven could not keep up with it. But take care when you cross the border line to deliver this.” Montini handed Kaz a thick white envelope. “There is a copy in English as well as in German. I thought the former might imply delivery to the English or Americans.”
“That’s smart, Monsignor,” I said. “But what does the letter actually say?”
“It is addressed to Colonel Erich Remke, Excelsior Hotel, Rome,” Kaz said. Then he read.
As Minister of Ordinary Affairs for the Vatican State Secretariat, I acknowledge receipt of the document referred to as the Auschwitz Protocol, along with other documents related to the conflict which now engulfs the world.
The Holy See has received many reports of vast atrocities involving noncombatants, tormented as they are, for reasons of nationality or descent, destined to exterminatory measures. When soldiers turn their weapons against noncombatants to exercise these measures, whether from the air or on the ground, such acts are no longer part of jus ad bellum, the criteria for a just war, but must be called murder. Such reports beg the question, How should the honorable man act?
Should he not, over the ruins of a social order which has given such tragic proof of its ineptitude, gather together the hearts of all those who are magnanimous and upright, in the solemn vow not to rest until a vast legion shall be formed of those handfuls of men who, bent on bringing back society to its center of gravity, which is the very law of God, will take just action?
Mankind owes that vow to the countless dead who lie buried on the field of battle: The sacrifice of their lives is a holocaust offered for a new and better social order. Mankind owes that vow to the hundreds of thousands of persons who, without any fault on their part, sometimes only because of their nationality or race, have been consigned to death. Mankind owes that vow to the flood of tears and bitterness, to the accumulation of sorrow and suffering, emanating from the murderous ruin of this dreadful conflict and crying to Heaven to liberate the world from violence and terror.