by Alex Gerlis
And one of those villas was a safe house.
***
The priest hurried from his office in the Palazzo del Sant’ Uffizio on the southern edge of Vatican City and, despite the heavy rain, headed into Saint Peter’s Square. It was early in the afternoon at the beginning of December and the vast square had small groups of pilgrims and other visitors dotted around it. It was quite busy towards the centre, where people were grouped more closely together and Father Bartolomeo made a point of moving into the crowd. Once he was surrounded by people, he put on a capello romano hat that, with its round crown and wide brim, helped make him indistinguishable – he hoped – from any other priest hurrying around the Vatican. He couldn’t be sure he wasn’t being followed, but these days he worked on the assumption that he was. It was safer that way.
Going through Saint Peter’s and the Apostolic Palace would have been a quicker and certainly a drier route to where he was going, but he’d have been more exposed and far easier to follow in the wide, long corridors. He moved to the north side of the square, mingling briefly with another group of visitors outside the Colonatto del Bernini before moving through the colonnades, past the barracks of the Swiss Guard and into Via del Belvedere. He was now in what they called the business end of the Vatican, away from the public eye and where many of the routine functions of this tiny city state were carried out. He made a point of stopping at the telegram office to check if anything was waiting for him then left through a side door, emerging into a rain-soaked Via della Posta. Halfway down the street was a building with a larger array of brass nameplates and bells than its neighbours. As he was about to press one of the bells the large front door opened and an elderly bishop hobbled out. Father Bartolomeo slipped through the open door and climbed the steep stairs to the apartment on the top floor that, according to a fading notice taped to the frosted glass door was the British Diplomatic Mission to the Holy See. A dark-suited valet let him in and took him into an office where an older man, also in a dark suit, was waiting for him.
‘Are you well Father Bartolomeo?’
‘I am Sir Percy, thank you. And you, I trust?’
The British Minister to Vatican nodded. The valet had come in and poured whisky for the two men then left. ‘I received the message you need to see me, urgently,’ said the priest. ‘Is it about the pilots?’
‘No, I think all’s well with them. I don’t know how you keep finding these houses Father, but we admire your resourcefulness. I need to discuss a more pressing matter with you…’
The British diplomat pulled his jacket tightly around him as if he was cold and leaned towards the priest. ‘I know I’ve said this to you many times, Father, but we really are most terribly grateful for everything you do. We realise just how dangerous it is. I’m afraid that what we’re about to ask of you may be even more dangerous. We’ve had a message from London…’ He hesitated, struggling to phrase what he was about to say correctly. ‘Let me ask you a question first, Father: how easy would it be for you to travel to Vienna?’
The priest closed his eyes for a moment, somewhere between prayer and thought. ‘Easy may not be the best word. It’s possible, certainly. Of course the Vatican sends emissaries to the Cardinal in Vienna on a frequent basis, perhaps two or three times a month. If…’
‘... Could you become one of those emissaries?’
‘I see no reason why not: I’m a Vatican diplomat and travel under a diplomatic passport. I know the Bishop who’s in charge of these matters… he’s also from Turin and knows my uncle well. I could approach him…’
‘You’d need to do this in a way that wouldn’t arouse suspicion.’
‘Of course: but I’ve done this before. I’d mention to him I could do with being away from Rome for a few days and ask where he needs to send people to. That tends to be the way it works. From my experience he’ll mention a few places and there’s a chance Vienna will be one of them, so it’ll appear he’s offering Vienna to me rather than me mentioning it, if you get what I mean. It won’t be easy though. You should know that relations between the church in Austria and the Nazis are very bad: Cardinal Innitzer strongly resents the way the Nazis have diminished the authority of the church and he’s been quite outspoken. I understand visits there tend to be quite… tense. But with my diplomatic cover, it could be possible.’
‘When could you approach this Bishop?’
‘Tomorrow morning.’
‘Good. Before I explain what we’d like you to do in Vienna, I need to give you more background. Does the name Hubert Leitner mean anything to you?’
The priest leaned back in his chair and frowned, slowly shaking his head. ‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Sir Percy. ‘All you need to know is that, before the Anschluss, Hubert Leitner was perhaps the most respected politician in Austria. He’d been a senior officer in the Austro-Hungarian army in the Great War, where he fought with great distinction and was regarded as a hero. After the war he went into politics: he was a leading member of the Christian Social Party, which was strongly opposed to a union with Germany. When Austria became a one-party fascist state under Dollfuss, Leitner resigned from the Christian Social Party, forged links with the Social Democrats, and spoke out against Dollfuss and the Nazis. He had an enormous amount of public respect and was imprisoned once or twice, but never for very long. However, as soon as the Nazis took over in March 1938, he disappeared. No one had the faintest idea what’d happened to him, apart from an unconfirmed report he’d been killed trying to cross into Slovenia, in 1940.’
‘This is most interesting, Sir Percy, but I’m not sure why you’re telling me. Do I really need to know it? I can’t be here for too long.’
‘Bear with me,’ said Sir Percy patiently. ‘A few days ago our Head of Station in Bern was approached by a Swiss diplomat based in Vienna with an important message for British intelligence. According to this diplomat, not only is Leitner alive and well, but he’s in Vienna, where he’s been in hiding since the war began. This Swiss diplomat had been looking after him in a safe house but now he’s been transferred away from Vienna there’s some concern Leitner will have to leave too.’
‘And you want me to… rescue him?’ The priest sounded alarmed and stood up, walking over to the window and looking out of it. Instead of returning to his seat he paced around the room as Sir Percy continued.
‘No, no, no – nothing like that’ said the British diplomat. ‘Apart from any other consideration, it’d be far too dangerous to try to get Leitner out of Vienna. The man’s in his seventies and is very well-known. No. There’s someone in Vienna who works for us, but we need to get in contact with this person and they’ll move him to another safe house. But first, we need to get all this information to that person – about Leitner, where he is and all that. We’re asking you to go to Vienna and pass that message on. It has to be done in person, there can be nothing on paper, which is why I’ve given you all the background: you’ll need to memorise the address of where Leitner is at the moment.’
***
A fortnight later, as Vienna made some half-hearted gestures towards Christmas, Father Bartolomeo found himself in the city’s Archbishop’s Palace, on the other side of Schulerstrasse from the mighty Stephansdom cathedral. It was late in the afternoon, already dark and he’d arrived in Vienna an hour previously. He had left Rome early that morning: a Deutsche Lufthansa flight lasting nearly four hours from Rome to Munich, then a surprisingly straightforward train journey from Bavaria. He’d been taken immediately into an audience with Cardinal Innitzer, waiting during an awkward silence in his study while the Cardinal opened a series of sealed letters from the Vatican, glancing suspiciously up at Father Bartolomeo as he did so. Soon after the German takeover of Austria the Cardinal had famously announced to a congregation of thousands at the cathedral that ‘our Fuhrer is Christ’. That had earned him the wrath of the Nazis and now he trusted no one. Father Bartolomeo knew the feeling.
After evening Ma
ss and dinner he retired to a lounge in the palace with a Bishop he knew from Rome and some of the priests on the Cardinal’s staff. As the priests drifted away, one by one, the Bishop gestured for Father Bartolomeo to join him in a corner, by a large and uncomfortably hot fire.
‘We live in very testing times, Father Bartolomeo.’ The Bishop reminded Father Bartolomeo of a medieval monk: a rotund figure, bald, with a weathered face and the trace of a beard. The Bishop said no more for a while, gazing into the fire, the flames from it reflecting in his unblinking eyes and picking out thin threads of red veins on his face. ‘When I knew you in Rome, you were a man with a strong social conscience. Is that still the case?’
‘I’m not sure what you mean, My Lord.’
The Bishop turned around, checking the room was now empty. He leaned closer towards the priest. ‘I know you’re a discreet and careful man, Father Bartolomeo, but I also know you had views, shall we say, on the situation in Europe. You don’t need to respond, I trust you. The situation here is dreadful: do you know, we receive reports every day about the old and the sick simply disappearing from the places where they’re meant to be cared for. It’s no secret the Nazis have a euthanasia programme: they simply dispose of people they regard as being a burden. Whenever any of our priests or nuns complain about it, they’re arrested and some have even been killed. It is all so un-Christian.’
‘And what about the Jews?’
The Bishop shrugged, as if to indicate this was less of his concern. ‘There are hardly any left in Vienna.’ He held his hands outward, palms down and moved them across his body. Finished.
‘Your visit here… you’re not just a messenger, are you Father? I’d have thought you’re too senior for that.’
It was now Father Bartolomeo’s turn to look around to reassure himself they were alone in the room. ‘I’m told there’s a convent of the Daughters of Charity of Saint Vincent de Paul in the 9th District my Lord…’ he said in a tentative tone, letting the sentence remain unfinished, hoping the Bishop would do it for him. The older man said nothing but did raise his eyebrows. ‘If I um… wanted… needed… to contact one of the sisters there…?’
The Bishop sighed and dropped his head slightly: I thought as much. ‘Then it’d be safer for you to meet her here. You mustn’t leave the Palace; you’ll almost certainly be followed. I’ll send a messenger.’
***
After Mass the following morning, Sister Ursula was taken aside by her Mother Superior as she entered the refectory for breakfast: she’d been summoned to the Archbishop’s Palace; she was to go immediately. The Mother Superior placed a hand on her shoulder and gave her the puzzled and concerned look she always did when she suspected Sister Ursula was up to something. ‘Be careful, Sister.’
An hour later Sister Ursula was in a small study at the back of the palace, sitting opposite a priest she was told was ‘from Rome’. She’d been given no name and she studied him carefully as he walked around the room, checking the windows were closed and the door shut. She remembered a vet telling her that, after they’d passed the kitten stage, cats had two distinct phases to their lives: they were young then they were old. She’d come to believe the same applied to priests: when they were in their twenties they looked as if they were in their mid-thirties and this appearance would remain – seemingly unchanged – until their mid-fifties. Sometime after that, they would quite suddenly take on the appearance of an old man. There seemed to be no middle age, nothing in between, no discernible ageing process. The priest who now sat down opposite her looked in his mid-thirties, with a paler complexion than she’d have expected of an Italian, but thick black hair and dark eyes. A good-looking man, were she ever to admit to such feelings.
‘You don’t speak Italian I suppose?’ He was speaking to her in heavily accented German. She shook her head.
The priest coughed and closed his eyes, taking care with what he was about to say. ‘I bring you greetings from Doctor Huber. I understand you worked with him in the past?’ He spoke slowly and, as if he was reading, the intonation not quite right.
Since the early morning summons to the Palace, Sister Ursula had feared this: they’d returned. She could, however, at this point choose to fail to respond in the expected way to the first part of this coded message, in which case the other person would have instructions to abandon the dialogue. She also had the option of an answer that would indicate she was in danger, that she’d been compromised. Either way, they’d then leave her alone. She felt her throat tighten, her heart beat faster, and the fear and self-doubt begin to return.
She chose the other way. ‘Yes, I remember Doctor Huber: an anaesthetist, a fine man.’
The priest looked relieved. Her answer had been a long time coming but it was the correct one. ‘And his two daughters asked to be remembered to you too. Do you recall their names?’
‘Margarete and Ingrid, if I remember correctly. And his wife… please remind me of her name?’
The priest smiled, the exchange was going as Sir Percy had told him it would if all was well. ‘I understand Frau Huber’s first name is Emilie.’
The nun nodded: correct.
Father Bartolomeo paused, realising just how nervous he’d been. He exhaled, as if he’d been holding his breath and wiped beads of sweat from his forehead with the back of his shaking hand. ‘Is all well with you, Sister? My friends say they’ve not heard from you in a while.’
‘All’s well with me, thank you Father.’
‘The lack of contact… perhaps there’s a reason?’
‘As I say, all’s well with me, thank you.’
‘Good, in that case I have instructions for you. You’re to listen very carefully and memorise the details.’
***
It was two days before Sister Ursula travelled to Währing, the 18th District. The priest from Rome had insisted her visit was urgent, but she was determined to do nothing that could arouse suspicion, so she waited until she had a day off from the hospital. In the old days her absence from the convent would have been noticed and even remarked upon, but these were no longer the old days.
She took a series of trams into Währing, managing to avoid conversation with any of her fellow passengers. If anyone showed signs of wanting to talk – which some people took the nun’s habit as an invitation to do – they’d soon notice her eyes were closed in prayer and her lips moving with it, her fingers toying with the rosary.
She left the last tram some way before her destination then walked the last few streets to ensure she wasn’t being followed. It was a crisp, clear morning and noticeably quieter than in the centre of the city. She found the address she’d memorised: it was detached, in a comfortable road alongside the Türkenschanzpark, its front shaded and almost concealed by trees. It was also slightly shabby, so typical of Vienna these days. Such a smart city before the war, she thought, people took such pride in everything. Now that wasn’t such a priority.
The house is owned by a Frau Graf: we understand she’s in her sixties. It’s her you’re to see, no one else.
The door was opened by a stout girl in her twenties with what sounded like a Carinthian accent. She’d find Frau Graf, she said, appearing resentful at having to interrupt her housework. When Frau Graf finally appeared she was a tiny figure who looked to be more in her seventies than her sixties. She had that refined appearance so common among Viennese women, but like so many of them these days, she wasn’t quite as well-maintained as she once would have been. Like her house.
She ushered the nun into a lounge at the back of the house and told the maid they weren’t to be disturbed. Frau Graf perched on the end of a settee, tense and looking quizzically at her unexpected visitor. ‘How can I help you, Sister?’
‘I understand you take in lodgers? I’ve been told to tell you I have a nephew from Graz who may require accommodation.’
Frau Graf’s shoulders sagged in relief. ‘Oh thank goodness. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for someone to come along and sa
y those words? I’ll tell you…’ she paused and beckoned the nun closer to her, speaking now in a whisper. ‘I’ve had Herr Leitner here for nearly two years, two years! Can you imagine? When the Swiss diplomat asked me, it was to be for a few weeks. But what could I do? His father had been a dear friend of my late husband’s when he studied in Zürich and I felt obliged to help: he asked me in such a way that I couldn’t refuse, he was so persuasive. Of course I was – I am – a great admirer of Herr Leitner. But the strain of hiding him here has been terrible and, I have to tell you, he’s, how can I put it… difficult. I don’t want to speak out of order but he’s what my mother used to call grumpy. That was the word she used to describe my father when he came home from work and Herr Leitner is just like that: grumpy. Nothing’s ever quite good enough, you know? One day he…’
‘Frau Graf …’
‘No one knows, you realise? None of my family, my friends, no one. Heidi, the maid – she’s no idea. Herr Leitner is in the attic so she doesn’t go there, but on the days she does clean upstairs he hides. The strain has been terrible…’
‘And no one suspects?’ Sister Ursula was shocked at how indiscreet Frau Graf was being.
‘Of course not. You live in Vienna, Sister?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you’ll know that if people suspect anything they’ll inform. I trust no one, not even my own sister. I’ve become so secretive with her that she’s convinced I’m turning odd, just like our mother did. Perhaps it’s best for her to think that.’
‘I understand Herr Leitner has to leave here?’
‘Yes!’ Frau Graf leaned forward and clasped the nun’s hands in hers. ‘I’m so relieved. I’m so grateful to you.’