Much of his free time had been taken up with repeated flashbacks in which Elena had cowered against a wall as he threatened to denounce her family to the Blackshirts. His flesh positively tingled with lust as he recalled touching her ripe breasts for all too brief a moment. He had thought, at the time, that she would be frightened enough to do anything to save her family and her Jewish boyfriend—for so he had suspected the handsome Niccolò to be—but even her show of defiance had simply added to his titillation and consuming desire to possess her body once and for all.
Perhaps he should have forced himself on her in the adjacent alleyway while he had the opportunity, with the cooperative Giovanni standing guard. Yes, Giovanni would have enjoyed watching, he mused, or perhaps even taking a turn himself. It would even have been worth sharing the spoils of Elena’s virginity with his friend, if necessary, though he knew that Giovanni had a Jewish lover, a young girl of exceptional beauty who willingly traded her sexual favors for a steady supply of cash and contraband gifts of chocolate and silk stockings.
Giovanni’s friends had come back empty handed after their raid on Father Donato’s office in Santa Maria in Trastevere. That meddling old priest, Rostoni was convinced, must have had something to do with the girl’s disappearance, though there was nothing he could prove one way or the other. He had no regrets whatsoever about his own role in the arrest of Elena’s father and brother, who still languished in jail to the best of his knowledge, and the beating of her mother, who had probably died by now and been buried in an unmarked grave, in deservedly unhallowed soil. Serve them right for allowing a Jew into their home.
And as for that scum who had dared to defy the Racial Laws and had won the affections of Elena, as he supposed, well, Rostoni took comfort in the report of his death at the hands of his Blackshirt cronies and the arrest and deportation of his parents to a detention camp in northern Italy. As he knew from secret reports that had reached the Vatican, from there it was only a matter of time until the Rossi couple would find themselves en route to an extermination center in Poland.
Rostoni’s spies had searched everywhere for Elena in the days following the raids on the Rossi and Conti households. Neighbors had been questioned, train stations had been scoured, and several of Elena’s school friends had been interrogated under threat of denuncia themselves, though without results. At this distance of several months, Rostoni hoped that the elderly Father Donato would have let down his guard and that perhaps some information might be found in his parish office, perhaps in cryptic or coded form. But nothing of an incriminating nature had turned up.
He pounded his fist on the desk in frustration, just as a shy, bespectacled nun who assisted Mother Pasqualina knocked on his office door.
“Si?” Rostoni snapped, not bothering to disguise the annoyance in his voice.
“I’m sorry,” the faceless nun replied, her complexion turning an unbecoming shade of pink beneath her wimple, “but you are wanted most urgently by the Holy Father. Mother Pasqualina says you must come immediately.”
Rostoni looked up at her with a cold expression that turned her skin a deeper shade of scarlet, blotched with patches of white. He rose from his chair and followed her silently down the long corridor.
Chapter Twenty
It was now early October of 1943. Elena had been hidden in the convent for nearly two months. There was still no news about the fate of her parents or her brother, despite Mother Teresa’s attempts to make discreet inquiries. Patient lists had been scanned to see if Elena’s mother had been admitted to one of the local hospitals, and a partisan sympathizer in the municipality had quietly checked the registry for recent death certificates, but to no avail.
Elena, meanwhile, had integrated slowly but fully into life at the convent, participating in religious services and daily routines, though with an aura of quiet melancholy and acceptance that saddened Mother Teresa. More than once she had consulted with Father Donato on the subject of her young charge, but both she and the kindly priest were forced to acknowledge that it would take time for Elena to heal, to adjust to the fact that she was now essentially alone in a world that had become disjointed and forbidding. A world that would never be the same.
Neither one expected her to embrace the Church and be comforted by a life of service to God and others, for they realized that, if anything, Elena would eventually find an outlet in other, more worldly pursuits. Long heart-rending conversations with Elena had convinced the Mother Superior that, at the end of the war, Elena might find partial consolation in her future medical studies, though, at this point in time, Elena could not even consider taking matriculation exams, since it would compromise the safety of her hiding place.
As far as others in the convent were concerned, she was a young farm girl from the Friuli, whose parents had objected to her interest in the Church. She had made her way to Rome, so went her cover story, to escape a life of drudgery and a forced marriage of convenience to an elderly, widowed neighbor that would have made her miserable, but pleased her family, making possible the eventual incorporation of a large plot of adjoining land into her parents’ comparatively insubstantial holdings.
The nuns had listened to Mother Teresa’s version of the story with interest on the night of Elena’s arrival, silently congratulating the young novice, known to them simply as Chiara, on her decision to follow a spiritual calling. They took for granted that they were enjoined to silence, understanding fully that should her presence in the convent be discovered, she would be forcibly returned to her parents, for she was still underage and they remained her legal guardians.
Finally, in a desire to help Elena realize that she was not alone in being pursued and hunted down by enemies, Mother Teresa made a decision to entrust her with the knowledge that she and several of the other nuns at the Order of the Holy Sisters were actively involved with one of the Italian partisan groups operating in the Castelli Romana, just outside of Rome. It was important for Elena to understand that the dislocations of war had affected many others. That they too had lost their families, their property, their lives.
Yes, the good suffered while evildoers thrived, Mother Teresa agreed. But it was all part of God’s divine plan, which would work its way out as part of a pre-ordained historical imperative. It was not for mankind to judge nor even to passively accept, unless it had first done all it could to try and rid the world of hatred and tyranny.
“I have two younger brothers and one sister in the Resistenza,” Mother Teresa confided to Elena one day. “I’m from a village near Frascati, where my family has lived for generations. I grew up on a farm, with groves of almond and olive trees and a small vineyard that produced wines for the local villagers. As a matter of fact, we used to supply the communion wine for our church. My father, in his day, used to harvest the grapes himself,” she mused aloud. “I still remember how I helped lug the old oak casks into the storage huts to await fermentation. Well, those days are gone forever.”
She sighed and added, “Our farm was confiscated and my father shot as he tried to resist, so now my siblings are in hiding. But some day this war will end, and perhaps my family will get it back. I do what I can here in the convent to help the war effort and assist other victims of Fascism.”
Until now, Elena had been too absorbed in her own misery to take active notice of the fact that mysterious visitors were quietly whisked in and out of the convent at almost regular intervals, kept overnight, as she now learned, in hidden rooms or passageways that were connected to the convent’s library. These secret chambers, centuries old, were camouflaged by heavy bookcases that swung out only at the touch of a practiced hand.
Some who passed through the convent’s network on their way to freedom were older men, dressed in nondescript, tattered clothing, dark caps shadowing their faces, a haunted look in their eyes. Some were younger men whose wounds would be cleansed and dressed, and who would remain in the convent for several days to recuperate before being sent surreptitiously out of Rome to rejoi
n a partisan cell. And some were women with one or more small children, who would appear and disappear into the shadows after a brief stay, carefully concealed from the prying eyes of the inquisitive world beyond the convent walls.
These, Elena understood, without being told, were Jews whom the nuns were helping to go underground, as rumors of Nazi persecutions in Poland and Germany spread and enforcement of the Racial Laws in Italy made it clear to many that there was no longer a future for Jews in Italy. Most were provided with false identity papers, forged ration coupons, and eventually with safe passage out of Italy, usually through a partisan network that would conduct them to the Swiss border or help them make the difficult crossing over the Pyrenees mountains to a safe haven in Spain.
But others were provided with false working papers and found employment outside the convent, blending in with the local population so that they could earn enough money to buy their way to eventual freedom. Still others were forced to find a livelihood in order to help relatives who had found sanctuary in convents or monasteries less charitable than that of the Order of the Holy Sisters—places where they were expected to pay for their room and board or trust to the vagaries and caprice of the outside world.
Elena knew that, in the midst of her personal tragedy, she was fortunate to have found refuge in this particular convent and that things could have been far worse. She was safe here, for the time being. There was a sense of tranquility, of calm, that came with being removed from the busy streets of Rome and the constant reminders of privation and hostility that hung in the air like a heavy pall of grief. And conditions at the convent—including a plentiful food supply—were better than they were elsewhere.
But all this was only a temporary respite, she knew. For while no one but Mother Teresa knew her real background and the true reason why she was in hiding, it was becoming increasingly difficult for her to conceal from her beloved Mother Superior the one painful detail that had not yet been disclosed.
Within weeks of her arrival at the convent, it had become clear to Elena that she was carrying Niccolò’s child. She was weak and tired easily, and found it difficult to eat. Fortunately she had not suffered much from the nausea that generally accompanied most pregnancies. She had vomited only once or twice, fortuitously enough late at night, when no one was around to see or suspect. Her pallor, she hoped, was easily attributable to depression and continuing uncertainty about her future.
But her thin frame was starting to blossom with the new life that grew within her. Soon her swollen breasts and gently expanding belly would give her away, even beneath the novice’s robes that she now wore. She knew she had no choice but to confide the rest of her sad story to Mother Teresa and hope that somehow she would understand and forgive.
And so after compline later that evening, Elena knocked softly on the door of Mother Teresa’s room. They walked out in companionable silence into the small inner cloister of the convent, a peaceful sanctum ringed round by ancient stone pillars and gracefully carved arches.
The air was fragrant with the scent of evening primrose and early autumn flowers. A dusty sprinkling of stars peeked through the thick foliage of the fig and apple trees at the center of the garden, and for one brief moment Elena felt an illusory sense of reprieve from the world’s trouble and pain, as if time stood still and a prelapsarian world of innocence might yet be recaptured.
As they paused beneath a trailing canopy of purple wisteria, whose wavy tendrils wrapped themselves in wild abundance around the arched pillars, tears began to fill Elena’s eyes.
“Mother,” she began in a quavering voice that was almost a whisper, “there's something I must tell you. Something that will be very difficult for you to hear,” she said haltingly, “but that I can no longer keep secret. Even Father Donato doesn't know. . . . didn't know,” she corrected herself carefully, “when he brought me here to the convent. And even I didn't know then. Not for sure. Not with any degree of certainty.
“I’m pregnant,” she burst out suddenly. “My brother’s friend, the boy who'd been tutoring me, the boy who was murdered . . . we were lovers. Just once. Just that one time. But now I'm carrying his child.
“I have no regrets,” she continued, “for it’s all that’s left of him and his family, and I believe it must've been God’s will.” She paused as a tear slid unhindered down her cheek. “He was so young and so good. I loved him so much. So very much.”
Mother Teresa remained silent as Elena paused and then went on, somewhat more coherently. “But I can't remain here much longer. My pregnancy will soon become obvious to everyone. And I don’t know where I can go.”
“My dear,” she replied quietly, placing a comforting hand on Elena’s cheek, “you're not the first to have found refuge among us in such circumstances. But you're carrying a Jewish child, and that puts both you and your baby at risk.
“I'll confer with my colleagues to see what can be done. Meanwhile, you must carry on as usual. It will be difficult, but I will find a way to help you. As I've helped so many others,” she added, with a distant and troubled look in her eyes.
What Elena did not know—and what Mother Teresa did not choose to share with her just yet—was that Elena was no longer safe with the Holy Sisters, and not entirely because of her newly disclosed pregnancy. Only a few days ago, the Mother Superior had received a panicked phone call from Father Donato, who informed her that the Italian secret police, the Operazione di Vigilanza per la Repressione, known as OVRA, had sent some of its men to Santa Maria in Trastevere to demand access to its parish records. They had rifled through Father Donato’s desk, turned over filing cabinets and cupboards, and vandalized his office. His aged housekeeper had been thrust aside brutally as they entered the room and had suffered a broken arm and several cracked ribs. It was doubtful that she would ever recover fully.
As he cowered in the corner, fearful for his own safety despite a show of passive cooperation, Father Donato had overheard a disturbing exchange. One of the police thugs had shouted to the others that they should find all records dealing with the Conti family. “Giovanni has given us explicit instructions,” he had added cryptically. “Mauro will be furious that she’s slipped through his hands.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“Jahwohl, Helga,” Tom replied crisply, in perfect Berlin-accented German. “Danke. Yes, I would very much like a cup of coffee. With two sugars, bitte.”
While food basics were being rationed elsewhere in Italy and throughout Europe, here in Kappler’s office in Rome there was no shortage of real coffee or sugar. At least there were some perks to this dangerous mission, Tom reflected soberly. At the Allied Command back in London, ersatz tea was the only hot beverage available, so this was a welcome change, despite the surroundings in which the coffee was to be enjoyed.
Tom was sitting in a well-equipped office in the Villa Wolkonsky, at Gestapo headquarters, where he was ostensibly engaged in a variety of supervisory and administrative tasks. His room was located not far from Kappler’s spacious suite, which adjoined a locked records room that was off limits to most of the personnel in the building. Copies of classified correspondence between Berlin and Rome and between Berlin and the Vatican were filed here, as Tom had been given to understand from muted, half-whispered conversations overheard through the door of Kappler’s office.
It was vital to Allied intelligence that Tom gain access to the documents and photograph the most important of them, but so far, no opportunity had presented itself. He had only arrived at Gestapo headquarters a few weeks ago, and though it was simple enough for him to determine where the classified documents were kept, it was far more complicated to gain entry to the area and search for specific items.
Kappler’s secretary had been watching Tom closely on more than one occasion, but he had assumed that it was more a matter of interest in him as a potentially available, single male than any suspicion about his behavior or movements within the Villa Wolkonsky. Either form of interest, however, could be hazardo
us to his mission.
Fräulein Scheisster, or Helga, as she had asked him to call her, appeared to be in her early to mid-thirties. She was somewhat plump and not especially pretty, but apparently quite efficient and seemingly indispensable to Kappler and the rest of his staff.
In his guise as Jurgen Kessler, Tom had already hinted to her that he had a girlfriend waiting for him back in his hometown of Düsseldorf, but the covert looks and invitations to join him for coffee or lunch had continued unabated.
It was now late afternoon, and most of the staff had begun to leave the premises. Tom ducked into one of the private bathroom facilities, in the hope that when he finally emerged, the Villa would have been vacated for the night. A security guard knocked repeatedly on the locked door, and Tom called out that he was having stomach problems and would let himself out of the building when he was finished. No one asked him to identify himself, and as far as anyone was concerned, he could have been any one of the staff members with special security clearance for this section of Gestapo headquarters.
He waited quietly, listening for telltale sounds out in the corridor to dissipate. A glance at his wristwatch told him that approximately twenty minutes had passed since someone had last checked the bathroom door. He knew that there were several guards left on duty around the clock, but that they made their rounds throughout the building only at thirty-minute intervals, on the hour and on the half hour. This might be his only window of opportunity, and he would need to take immediate advantage of it.
Slipping out of the bathroom, he moved quickly towards the room adjacent to Kappler’s office, where he knew the most sensitive files were kept. He removed a small set of picklocks from his pocket, and within a few minutes the door was open. He placed a hand towel that he’d brought from the bathroom along the bottom of the door to muffle any possible sounds and block the light from the small flashlight that he now turned on. There were several filing cabinets in the tiny room, and he began to open their drawers gingerly one at time. Finally he found what he was looking for—two files were marked “Berlin - Correspondence with the Vatican” and another bore the ominous header, “The Jewish Problem in Rome.”
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