by Julie Thomas
He was in his late sixties, with short silver hair and a small cap on the back of his head. He had a presence about him, a sense of charisma that gave him dignity and authority. Levi couldn’t help thinking that even in trousers and a shirt he would have been able to command the room. The bishop held out his hand towards Don Aldo, who knelt and kissed the ring on his finger, then stood and shook the hand.
‘Your Grace, this is Levi Horowitz. He is hiding at Santa Croce as Friar Erik. He’s Jewish, from Berlin.’
Bishop Nicolini turned his dark eyes on Levi and scrutinised him. The bishop had a powerful face, strong yet calm and serene, his smooth skin remarkably unlined. Levi moved forward and kissed the outstretched hand.
‘It is an honour to meet you, Your Grace. I want to help with the work you do here.’
The bishop smiled. ‘You are welcome, my son. I can’t help but feel that God has sent you. Please, have some coffee and tell me about yourself.’
Levi told them more than he had intended. He kept to himself the murder of Rolf, the nature of his relationship with Erik and why Erik was sent to Dachau, but everything else came spilling out.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Assisi
February 1943
Levi’s false papers declared that he was Friar Erik Bartolli, Italian-born, but to German parents who took him back to Germany to raise him, which accounted for his German-accented Italian. After five nights at Santa Croce he said goodbye to the brothers and moved into a back bedroom in Don Aldo’s house. It was plain but comfortable and warm, and he attended one set of prayers daily, instead of eight.
One of his main jobs was to share the load of the creation and distribution of false ID cards. Once a refugee had an ID card they could acquire a ration card and get food, live in a hotel or private home, or travel. Many chose to stay in the convents and monasteries as they felt safer there, away from the public gaze, but if German soldiers stopped them on the streets of the city they had a valid card, with a new Italian name, and came from a southern Italian town.
Everything was rationed, bread, sugar, oil, wheat, rice, meat. The religious communities grew their own vegetables and had house cows and chickens, some had vineyards and made their own wine. Herbs could be gathered from the side of the road, and mushrooms flourished in the fields. Italian cuisine meant that with a little flour and salt and maybe an egg, some vegetables, or wild herbs and olive oil, you could create a hearty and filling meal. The more ration cards a religious community had, the better they all ate.
Levi rode his bicycle to the City Office in Perugia to meet Mrs Paladin. She was a local woman who risked her life every time she gave him a parcel of blank ID cards. They had a system for the handover.
‘Morning, Mrs Paladin,’ he said, handing her a basket of goodies from the bishop’s garden and kitchen.
‘Morning, Father, what have you got for me today?’
‘Some egg pasta and some brassicas from the garden, cauliflower and cavils nero. Eggs, milk, Father Wilhelm’s cheese and some of Monica’s chocolate cookies.’
She clapped her hands together with delight. ‘You spoil me! Wait here a moment,’ she said.
She took the basket into a back room, and when she returned it was filled to the brim with books. They both knew that hidden underneath, in the false bottom, was the bundle of ID cards.
‘Some more books for the bishop,’ she said, as she handed it over to him. Levi took his leave, balancing the basket expertly in the cane carrier on the front of his bicycle.
Several times a month, as he was leaving the city, he spied a German patrol checking all cyclists and pedestrians. Instead of risking a confrontation, he turned down a side street and made his way to the church of Santa Susanna. It appeared empty, but he knocked firmly on the side door. A coded message.
‘Who is it?’ came a voice from inside.
‘Father Erik,’ he said quietly, ‘from Assisi.’
The door swung opened and he was welcomed inside. A group of young Jewish men were hiding inside, and they were always delighted to see him. Some of Monica’s chocolate cookies had already made their way to the supper table, along with bread, wine and cheese. He sat with the men and talked about the war, about their homes, the things they missed, until it was time to lie down in the straw in the loft and sleep. In the morning he thanked them for their hospitality and made his way out into the cold dawn.
He took the blanks to Luigi Brizzi in his print shop in Assisi. Brizzi would create the ID cards using his skill and his massive printing press, and the finishing touches added by artistic Jews in hiding. Sometimes Levi had to cycle to Foligno to see a friend of Don Aldo’s who would add a stamp to make them look official.
Delivering the ID cards was always the best part of his job. These simple acts of kindness seemed like something Erik would approve of, almost as if this duty of care pierced through the grief and warmed Levi’s heart. If there were children in the family, he wrangled some amaretto sweets from Monica’s tin in the bishop’s kitchen, and the joy on their faces brightened his day. Treats were such a long-forgotten cause for happiness, and small things brought so much delight and helped to build trust. Once a villager gave him a football, left behind by a child long grown-up, and he took it to a family with three sons, hiding in a convent. The boys were thin and weak, but they were determined to kick that ball around, much to the consternation of the nuns. At night he often sat by the fire and fashioned dolls from corn stalks and scraps of material, for little girls who’d lost every toy they’d ever owned. Large eyes, full of fear, shone with sudden wonder when he handed out these treasures.
But the risks posed by the package buried in the basket, as he cycled through the cobbled streets, never left him. He thought often of the dark-haired girl he’d seen in Berlin the night he’d killed Rolf. Was she just putting up propaganda posters or was she delivering false papers and much-needed food? Doing what he did, but doing it on the treacherous streets of Berlin. Risking everything for others. Did she know, as he did, the terror in their eyes, the trust in their trembling hands, and the tears of gratitude?
The fascists were more dangerous than the German soldiers, who left the townspeople alone as long as their papers appeared in order. When the soldiers saw him they merely called out a greeting, which he answered with a wave of his hand. The fascists followed Don Aldo and the other friars around and took photos of them. They seemed convinced that something illegal was going on. Levi joined in the game that Don Aldo played with them, smiling and waving for the camera as he rode past on his bicycle. The knowledge that they were frustrated brought him deep satisfaction and was something he was sure he should take to confession, if he were truly a Catholic priest.
‘Hello, Father. Get off your bicycle.’
It was two fascist fighters, rifles slung over their shoulders, both smoking cigarettes. As Levi dismounted he thought about his partisan friends, who knew what real danger was. They didn’t have to pose and pretend to be important like these two.
‘Certainly gentlemen, what can I do for you?’ he asked mildly.
‘What’s in your basket?’ one snarled, peering into it. Levi wanted to say something sarcastic, but knew it wasn’t worth the trouble that would cause.
‘Books, for His Grace, the bishop.’
‘Empty them out.’
Levi felt a pang of fear. He could only hope the false bottom of the basket would hold up to any scrutiny. Impassively and slowly he took the books out one at a time, hoping they would grow tired of waiting and move on. One of the fascists kicked at the pile on the ground.
‘Hurry up!’
A flash of anger surged through Levi and he straightened. He was considerably taller than both of them. ‘Those are holy books and I’ll thank you to treat them with respect. You do our Catholic faith a disservice.’
They stepped back a pace, and Levi could see a frown of concern. He took the last of the books out and turned the bicycle so they could see.
‘Not
hing more,’ he said.
One moved over and ran his hand over the cane sides of the basket.
‘Frisk him. He’s hiding something, I know he is,’ the other ordered.
His companion turned towards him. ‘You frisk him, if you’re so sure. I’m not frisking a priest!’
The leader stood very close to Levi and looked up at him. Their eyes met. Levi held his gaze.
‘What are you hiding, Father? Why do you cycle to Perugia to pick up books?’
Levi smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘The bishop has read all the books in his own library.’
The man remained where he was for another minute, then dropped his stare and turned away. ‘On your bicycle. But remember, we’re watching you.’
Levi waved to them as he stacked the books. ‘Very good, gentlemen.’
Only the bishop and Don Aldo knew Levi’s real name and identity, to everyone else he was Father Erik. The noise pulled him from a deep sleep. He lay on his back in the dark and listened. Voices, multiple voices. And the sound of movement. He sat up and pulled his woollen habit over his bony frame.
Don Aldo stood in the centre of the kitchen. At the table sat a man, a woman and three children, two boys and a small girl. Snow flecked their clothes and their faces were flushed and wet. The eyes were all dark, sombre and exhausted.
‘Hello,’ Levi said cheerfully as he stepped into the room. They all shrank back slightly.
‘This is Father Erik, he will help me to help you,’ Don Aldo said gently. ‘Perhaps some coffee, Father Erik?’
‘Of course.’
Levi crossed to the stove and checked the kettle, filled it with water at the sink and put it on the flat element.
‘And who do we have here?’ he asked.
Don Aldo pointed to each in turn. ‘This is Mario and Catherina and these are their children, Pietro, Tony and little Maria. They’re Jews and fled from Milan before they could be rounded up by the Germans. They’ve walked a very long way.’
Levi reached for the terracotta biscuit barrel on the windowsill. ‘Who is hungry and would like a biscuit?’ he asked.
All three of the children shot their hands up into the air.
He took a plate from the cupboard and poured the biscuits onto it. He could see the gleam in their eyes. Hunger was familiar to him, and he knew that it would take more than a few biscuits to make up for what they lacked.
‘Mario is a dentist,’ Don Aldo said, as he took the kettle and poured cups of steaming coffee.
Levi grinned at the man. ‘That is good news indeed. I know of at least three in hiding who need their teeth attended to. They are in great pain.’
Don Aldo nodded. ‘That thought had occurred to me, too. I’m sure we can find, or borrow, the tools he needs, and he can set up a clinic in the convent. God’s blessing, indeed. How does that sound to you, Mario?’
The man nodded. ‘I would be pleased to help in any way I can,’ he said through a mouthful of biscuit.
‘Excellent! I am going to take you to Sister Francesca and she will look after you until we can get you false papers. She will have beds for you and a hearty breakfast in the morning.’
Catherina seized Don Aldo’s hand and kissed the back of it. ‘Thank you so much, Father. We knew if could just make here that G-d would look after us.’
‘Good morning,’ Don Aldo looked up from his newspaper as Levi came into the kitchen.
‘Good morning, Father Don Aldo,’ Levi answered as he sat down at the table.
‘There’s a pot of coffee on the stove.’ Don Aldo smiled at him and returned to his paper. ‘Our new family will need papers as quickly as we can get them. Can you ride over to the palace and tell the bishop about them? I’ll go see Luigi and we’ll create new identities for them.’
When he arrived at the bishop’s palace there was a large black car, a German staff car, parked outside. The sight of it sent tremors up his spine, and he nearly turned around and headed for home. But Monica, the bishop’s cook, saw him from the side garden and came to welcome him.
‘Who does the car belong to?’ he asked.
‘The new commander of the city, Colonel Valentin Müller. Come and meet him, the bishop will want you to.’
Reluctantly he followed her into the house, fiddling with his habit as he walked. The two men sat facing each other in the library. Müller was in uniform. They both rose to greet Levi. He couldn’t help it, the uniform made his stomach heave.
‘This is one of our hardest-working friars, Father Erik,’ the bishop said.
The man’s handshake was dry and firm. His eyes behind his glasses were reflective, wary but unusually kind for a Nazi. ‘Pleased to meet you, Father Erik,’ he said. It was a southern German accent.
‘You are from . . . Bavaria, I think?’ Levi asked.
The colonel smiled. ‘Very good. I was born in Zeilitzheim. You?’
Levi hesitated. ‘Berlin,’ he said softly.
‘Colonel Müller is a doctor, with hospital experience, and he is also a Catholic. I was just telling him that it is not the Third Reich that has sent him here, but God,’ the bishop said.
The colonel gave him a small nod. ‘I believe you’re right, Your Grace. I will attend mass every morning at the tomb of St Francis, 7 am sharp.’
He turned and looked at Levi. ‘Were you a member of the Hitler Youth?’ he asked.
Levi shook his head. ‘No, Colonel, I have never been a member of the Nazi party.’
Müller smiled at him, and Levi was surprised to see the warmth in his eyes. ‘Neither have I, Father Erik, but please don’t tell my superiors that. I think Berlin will be too busy with other problems, they will leave me to run Assisi as a hospital city.’
Over the next two months it became clear that they were indeed blessed to have Valentin Müller as the commander of their city. He set up his headquarters at the Hotel Subasio and his phone number, 210, became the most well-known number in the city. He made house calls, even visiting some of Don Aldo’s hidden Jews when they needed him, and he established six small hospital sites in the city. It was never stated, but his distaste for the government of his homeland and its policies was evident in his actions.
When two German soldiers confiscated bicycles from locals and rode away, he took the staff car, chased them down and made them return the bicycles. When women and children were bullied by German soldiers, Müller was quick to stop the behaviour and made it clear that such conduct would not be tolerated. These people were the true inhabitants of the city and they would be treated with respect. In return, the locals began to call him ‘Il Colonelo’ an affectionate term he was proud of.
‘I need your help with something,’ the bishop said. Levi sat waiting for him to finish writing a note that Levi was to take to Sister Francesca.
‘Anything, Your Grace, you know that,’ Levi said.
‘Usually I would use Father Don Aldo, but he is not well today, so I am going to trust you with this special task. Come with me.’
The bishop put down his pen, pulled out a drawer and removed a small bundle wrapped in a piece of linen.
‘Bring the candle,’ he said.
Levi picked up the candle, lit it from one burning in the candelabra on the sideboard, and followed him into the entrance chamber.
‘This way.’ The bishop held open a heavy door. ‘You go first and cast light back on the steps.’
They descended into the palace cellar. The bishop led the way over to a wall with two pick-axes leaning against it.
‘I hide things in here for people who cannot keep them safe’, the bishop explained as he unwrapped the cloth. Inside was a silver mezuzah, a miniature menorah and some scraps of parchment, as well as three sets of papers.
‘You hold the candle while I make a hole in the wall, in that corner. Not too deep . . . Hold it up higher.’
Levi did as he was told. The bishop used a pick-axe to make a small square hole, then he hid the items, safely wrapped in their cloth.
‘Now, we take some soil from over there and fill the hole, then I can plaster it shut. Did you know I was once a bricklayer?’ the Bishop asked.
‘No, Your Grace!’ Levi knew he sounded shocked, but also a touch amused.
‘Ah, son, the Lord uses the skills we have when he needs them. I live by “or et labora”, the Benedictine motto. It means “pray and work”. This way I can keep these treasures safe for our guests until they are ready to move on. We can’t keep records, it is too dangerous, and so I remember where I put each set of belongings.’
As he lit the steps for the bishop to climb back into the palace, Levi marvelled yet again at these humble men of G-d who risked their lives every day for strangers. He was acutely aware that not all who professed themselves to be Christians were so kind or so brave. He’d come across many in Berlin and since who would have said they believed in God, but who abused their fellow men, Jews, homosexuals, gypsies among them, without a second thought. The men of Assisi put their faith into action and followed commandments, and Levi could see the difference around him.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Assisi
May 1944
Winter gave way to spring and the fields around Assisi burst back into life. When he had time, Levi took a packed lunch and biked up into the low-lying mountain meadows. He knew that Erik would have loved this part of Italy, and often found himself talking to him about the work he was doing and the people he had met.
New arrivals brought news of bitter fighting further north, and that the English were pushing up rapidly in the south. They would reach, and liberate, Rome in a few weeks. For the first time Levi allowed himself to believe that Germany really would lose the war. He missed his newspapers. How were things going in the East with the Soviets, and on the Western Front? How much of Germany was being bombed, how were the Americans faring against the Japanese? Who would liberate Berlin? What would they do with Hitler? And Himmler, Goering, Goebbels, Bormann, the other men he had listened to. There must be war trials, they must be held accountable for the souls of the dead. The beliefs of his childhood told him that the men who had ordered such mass killing must die. They had sinned against G-d and his chosen people.