Inside the Apostolic Palace an impressive list of Vatican notables was present, including the Cardinal Secretary of State and his assistant, as well as various other cardinals and bishops, senior archivists and lesser officials, for this was considered to be a momentous occasion of unparalleled significance.
Usually, ambassadors would present their credentials in a papal audience without the kind of fanfare that this evening would entail. And, in fact, this had been done, back in July. But the members of the Curia knew just how important it was to curry favor with the new ambassador to the Holy See, Baron Ernst von Weizsäcker, who had served, prior to this tour of duty, under Joachim von Ribbentrop in the Foreign Office in Germany. He arrived at the reception accompanied by the German consul, Albrecht von Kessel, and other leading Nazi personalities. Due to the illustrious status of the guests, no expense or detail had been spared in this delayed, but well-planned, welcome celebration.
After a certain amount of prolonged deliberation, it had been quietly acknowledged behind closed doors ever since the arrival of the new ambassador during the summer, that the Holy See was ready to work closely with Weizsäcker to ensure the continued protected status of Vatican City and its various properties within Rome. Though no one articulated this out loud, at least not publicly, it was silently feared that failure to comply with the wishes of the Reich in matters pertaining to the Vatican’s political stance on certain delicate administrative matters would be ill advised at the very least, and perhaps potentially destructive to the Holy See in the long run. Rostoni himself had counseled the Pope that passive compliance, if not overt cooperation, was the order of the day.
Thus it was that on this fine, late summer evening, in the largest reception room of the Papal residence, that long tables had been arranged, laid carefully with flawlessly pressed white damask tablecloths that fell gracefully to the floor. Bavarian crystal goblets of all sizes and shapes—some for water, some for wine, some for champagne—were artistically placed in groupings on one such table. Bavarian crystal had specifically been chosen that evening, instead of the usual Lalique or Baccarat glassware that was more generally favored, in order to please the German guests and hint, in this subtle fashion, that the Germans could feel at home in the Apostolic Palace. That their tastes and preferences would always be catered to. That theirs was a commonality of sensibilities and perhaps twin purposes.
The crystal goblet service was surrounded by bottles of rare French vintage wines from the ancient cellars of the Vatican. Several magnums of champagne rested on ice in large sterling silver vats, ornate and heavily embossed, alongside some young Italian Barolo and Frascati varietals, the latter from the Pope’s own vineyards at his summer estate in Castel Gandolfo, high in the hillsides of the Castelli Romana outside Rome.
Matching crystal decanters stood beside a small selection of Rhine wines and young Mosels and Gewürztraminers. These wines would be decanted in front of the Germans only if requested, for it was tacitly assumed that the rarer French wines would naturally be preferred.
The selection was rounded out by fine Scotch whiskeys, aged for decades in oak casks, which took pride of place at another end of the table, with leaded cut crystal highball and shot glasses laid out nearby. And all was complemented by perfectly creased and folded white linen napkins that were scattered around the table for the convenience of the guests.
At another table, an assortment of cocktail tidbits was arranged on gleaming sterling silver platters and carefully attended to by white-gloved, tuxedoed waiters from the Vatican’s well-trained staff. Antipasti, trays of cheeses and cold meats, and several covered chafing dishes with hot appetizers rounded out the selection. Custom-made bone china plates of various sizes, bearing a Vatican crest in pure gold, all of museum quality, were stacked neatly, awaiting the hungry diners.
At yet another table an elaborate porcelain tea and coffee service of antique pedigree was laid out, with dozens upon dozens of tiered cake and pastry comports heavily laden with biscotti, tartlets glittering with generous layers of fruit glaze, and petit fours dripping with pastel-colored fondant. As a gesture to the German guests, several Sacher tortes, Linzer tortes, and apfel kuchen were added to the festive arrangement, together with such traditional Italian favorites as panforte di Siena and rich ricotta cake with toasted pignoli and mouthwatering black cherry preserves.
Elsewhere, outside the fortified walls of Vatican City, the population of Rome partook of its usual meager dinner fare, suffering from the constraints of rationing and the perpetual scarcity of many basic food products. Even those gifted with the most fantastic imaginations would have found it difficult to conjure up this scene of incredible bounty, a Barmecide feast to which they had not been invited.
The Pope was seated in the center of the room on a small, elevated dais, resplendent in his white robes, a golden crosier propped up at the side of the papal throne. He was surrounded by several of the Swiss Guards, who stood at attention, and flanked by the Cardinal Secretary of State and Mauro Rostoni. Weizsäcker advanced across the room, accompanied by Albrecht von Kessel, Field Marshal Albert Kesselring, and Major Herbert Kappler—the latter, Himmler’s special envoy from Berlin, who had been given the enviable assignment of dealing with Rome’s Jewish population. A round of applause met him as he approached the Holy Father.
Clicking his heels, Weizsäcker made a short courtly bow and briskly kissed the huge stone on the ring that adorned the Pope’s half-lifted hand. He greeted the Cardinal Secretary of State with a dignified handshake and then turned his attention to Rostoni, who had been asked to escort the German ambassador around the room and introduce him to the various clerical figures and dignitaries who’d been invited to this auspicious political event.
Several obsequious waiters passed by with trays in their hands, offering the ambassador champagne and hors d’oeuvres as he made his way through the crowds, pausing as he made his selection. Rostoni declined the offer of champagne with a cold look and a dismissive wave of his hand as he now directed Weizsäcker to a corner table, where the ambassador could sit for a few moments in peace.
Yet another waiter appeared with a velvet-lined, antique wooden box bearing Cuban cigars. Weizsäcker nodded, selected a cigar, and waited while another attendant clipped its end and produced a small silver lighter. Weizsäcker inclined his head, took a puff, and inhaled appreciatively. Smoke curled up around from the end of the cigar, and Rostoni coughed discreetly.
“Does the smoke bother you?” the ambassador asked.
“Not at all,” replied Rostoni soothingly. “Some seasonal allergies, that’s all. I hope the cigars are to your taste, Your Excellency,” he added.
“How could they not be?” came the reply. “One would never guess that there was a war going on here or in Europe at large,” Weizsäcker observed dryly, looking around the vast room. “The Pope certainly knows how to entertain his guests. Or have you had a hand in the arrangements, my friend? My sources tell me that you are quite close to the Holy Father.”
“Indeed? And who might those sources be?” said Rostoni archly, lifting an eyebrow and then narrowing his eyes almost imperceptibly.
“They would no longer be confidential sources, I would imagine, if I were to reveal their names.”
“Touché, Excellency, touché. Yes, I’ve been told that I’m—how shall we say?—indispensable to the Pope. As he is to me, I might add. As he is to me.”
Weizsäcker looked inquisitively at Rostoni and exhaled a cloud of smoke.
Meanwhile, the mellow strains of soft violin music being played in the background floated through the room, amid the raucous tones of brittle cocktail chatter. The Germans had not only brought to these festivities a large group of officers and attachés assigned to their war offices in Rome, but, as usual, had taken the liberty of inviting their mistresses and sundry female companions, some of whom flirted outrageously with the waiters and even with some of the younger priests who milled around the room.
Rostoni e
yed his guest and waited with carefully veiled impatience for him to continue the conversation. Weizsäcker, on the other hand, stared with undisguised curiosity at the guests mingling around the heavily laden tables and then addressed Rostoni once more.
“Mein lieber freund,” he began in the silky tones of a skilled diplomat. “Just who is that man over there, to the left, speaking to my illustrious colleague, Herr Kappler?”
“Him? Why that’s Paolo Orano, the author of a rather interesting little book on racial types in Italy, or more precisely, on the inferiority of the Jewish race. Gli Ebrei in Italia. Perhaps you’ve heard of it? It was published several years ago, back in 1937, and was very well received in certain quarters.”
Weizsäcker nodded his head in assent. “Of course,” he replied, slowly exhaling another puff of smoke from his cigar.
“Orano used to be the rector of the University of Perugia and has just published a new biography of Il Duce, I’m told. Mussolini da vicino. And Orano has now been appointed a deputy of the Fascist Party. Quite a feather in his cap, I would say.”
Rostoni paused for a moment and continued. “How’s your Italian? The title means ‘Mussolini up close.’ I imagine that it won’t take long for the first book to be translated into German. Would you like me to introduce you to him?”
“Most certainly,” Weizsäcker replied, rising from his seat. “I think we’ll find that we have a lot in common. Bitte schön.”
“And by the way,” Weizsäcker now said to Rostoni, “there’s someone I’d like you to meet, a German art agent named Bruno Lohse, whom we took the liberty of inviting here tonight, along with the rest of our entourage. He has been sent to Rome by Göring himself to find paintings for the Reich Marshal’s private collection, and for a larger project of ours, a very special museum that—how shall I say?—will be the only one of its kind in the world. Unique,” he reiterated. “Absolutely and completely unique.
“Perhaps you can introduce him to some of your people in the Vatican Museums. I’m sure that new pieces of good artwork come out on the Italian market all the time, especially nowadays,” he added with light emphasis. “And I’m equally sure that the Vatican does not need or wish to acquire all of them. After all, you already have one of the finest art collections in the world, do you not? Though perhaps we will eventually have one that will rival and outshine yours.”
Meanwhile, in another corner of the room, two German officers were seated on a luxurious, striped silk chaise longue with a timid, middle-aged priest who had been subtly maneuvered into joining them in a toast to the Reich and now appeared to be more than a bit tipsy. The two Germans had banked on the possibility that the awkward looking fellow never indulged in anything stronger than the occasional, few sips of Communion wine. The older of the two officers now took a taste from a crystal champagne flute and then offered it to the clearly intimidated priest, who made as if to refuse, but then swallowed the entire contents, fearful of offending these important guests of the Holy Father.
The older officer, who had the subtle air of a practiced predator about him, glanced furtively at his companion, a young man of about twenty-four named Helmut, who now rubbed his shoulder casually against that of the now indisputably inebriated cleric.
“Tell me about your work in the Archives,” he asked in a wheedling, intimate tone of voice that carefully masked the note of authority and deliberate intent behind it. “I imagine that you must do some pretty important work there. That you’ve seen rare manuscripts, perhaps even art work, that is generally off limits to the rest of us mere mortals, nein?”
“You give me far too much credit,” the priest replied modestly, sagging for a moment against the broad shoulder of the German lieutenant and barely stifling a hiccup. He blushed and then spoke hesitatingly, slurring his words slightly as he did so. “Actually, I could show you a thing or two if I wanted to.” He hiccupped again, and the two Germans exchanged covert glances, the older one now raising his eyebrow slightly.
“And what might that be?” asked the younger one, reaching out to straighten the dark skullcap on the cleric’s head, his hand pausing to lightly stroke the priest’s cheek in the process, as if by accident.
“Well, we have several underground annexes to the Museum which even I have never been inside of, but I know where the keys are kept. I’m told there’s some pretty valuable artwork there. Things no one really knows about that have never been displayed.”
The two Germans eyed each other conspiratorially, and Helmut now put his arm around the priest’s shoulder. “Perhaps we should go outside and get some fresh air, my friend. You look a bit pale. It’s rather stifling in here, wouldn’t you say?”
They assisted the priest to his feet and supported him as they walked towards a nearby door. As they did so, they glanced in the direction of Weizsäcker, who wordlessly acknowledged them with a nod and then continued his conversation with Paulo Orano.
In the meantime, Mauro Rostoni had begun to circulate among the guests and was now engaged in deep conversation with Kesselring on the subject of the protected status of the Holy See.
“I think you will understand, my dear Rostoni, being so close to the Holy Father, that our interests are actually quite similar,” said Kesselring. “Our Führer has made it quite clear that our common goal must be to keep the status quo as regards the Vatican. But naturally that requires a certain degree of—how shall we say? —flexibility and cooperation on your part.”
Rostoni nodded. “Perhaps you wish to explain yourself more precisely? I think that we need to understand each other completely, diplomatic circumlocutions notwithstanding.”
Kesselring smiled sardonically and began to clarify the German position. “Let us simply say that Major Kappler will be pursuing several courses of action that are necessary to achieve the goals of the Reich in the area of implementation of our racial policies, and we will expect the Vatican to remain neutral, even silent, on these issues. To be as precise as possible, as you have insisted, if the Vatican wishes to remain an independent entity, with our guarantee that its sovereignty will remain unquestioned and untouched, then full cooperation must be the order of the day.”
“I see,” said Rostoni dryly. “I am sure that will pose no difficulty whatsoever. I give you my personal pledge that I will speak to His Holiness tomorrow, during our usual private morning conference, and obtain both his understanding and consent.
“As you are no doubt aware—or we would not be having this little conversation,” he added, “the Pope relies on me to shield him from the vagaries of non-essential information and to process and convey other details to him on a need-to-know basis. It is my task,” he said with clear emphasis, “to be certain that he be troubled only by the most significant of temporal issues. And this, I believe, qualifies as such.”
“I’m glad to see that we understand one another fully,” Kesselring replied. “I will be sure to make mention of it in my next report to the Führer.” He clicked his heels together smartly, saluted, and made his way through the crowd towards Kappler.
Rostoni, watching him leave, now asked a nearby waiter for a glass of ice water, which was brought to him in a leaded crystal tumbler. He took a few sips, handed the glass back to the waiter and made his way back towards the elevated dais on which the Pope still sat. Preoccupied by his discussion with Kesselring, he passed by the Cardinal Secretary of State, who was engrossed in animated exchange with a German officer, without troubling himself to join the conversation.
The Pope glanced wanly at Rostoni and beckoned him to come closer. He looked pale, as if the mere effort to greet his guests was a trial to him. It was well known that he had little tolerance for matters that took him away from the writing of encyclicals and his private meditations and prayers. “Is it going well, my friend?” he inquired.
“Yes, indeed, Holiness. I believe that we can work well with the Germans. I have every assurance that it will be so. Perhaps we can go into greater detail tomorrow morning?” Rost
oni added.
“Si,” replied the Pope. “Si. And perhaps now you will return to our distinguished guests?” It was a command rather than a question, and Rostoni instantly complied, the shadow of something vaguely resembling a smile playing about his face.
Chapter Ten
The phone rang three times, perhaps more, before Rostoni made an effort to pick it up. He had been standing near a set of windows overlooking the Vatican gardens, in his private office down the corridor from the Pope’s study, lost in thought as he considered how best to present the Reich’s point of view to the Pope during this morning’s regularly scheduled meeting.
Sometimes the Pope could be stubbornly immersed in his own personal concerns, whether spiritual or otherwise, and thus could be almost totally detached from the exigencies, nay the realities, of the temporal world. As Rostoni had to admit, sometimes the Pope failed to understand the political needs of the moment, caught up, as he was, in his vision of an indomitable Church that would march triumphant throughout the centuries, dispelling the cloak of spiritual darkness that enveloped all those who did not subscribe to its beliefs, wielding the crucifix and flaming sword of the true believer, converting the benighted to the one true faith, and trailing bright clouds of Christian glory all the while.
There was still more than half an hour left before they would meet, and Rostoni had spent much of the previous evening, both during the reception for Weizsäcker and after it, attempting to formulate a plan that would be acceptable to the Germans and not unpalatable to the Holy See.
Not that he had actually lost any sleep over it. It was simply yet another challenge to his intelligence and skills that he both welcomed and, to an almost equal extent, resented. He worked hard for the Holy See, harder, he felt, than many in far more prominent positions did, including the Cardinal Secretary of State and other, older members of the Curia. Certainly, his ambitions had yet to be rewarded with full and public recognition, despite his extreme youth.
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