Rows of columns supported the roof. On the high ceiling, he could make out a ribbon swirl of several bright colors, and he thought of his father, whose rare biblical reference, on rainy days, was to the rainbow: Lookie there, Davy! Sign of God’s promise to Noah. No more floods! But a flood of hatred had swamped this place. So much for promises, including the One God’s.
On walls and columns, wires hung loosely from places where light fixtures had been ripped away. Tapestries had been half torn from the walls, and fell in tatters from the railings of a three-sided balcony. The great sanctuary, on the wall opposite the entrance, designed to house the Torah ark, a pulpit, and a reader’s stand, was wrecked beneath the collapse of a massive wooden canopy. All was still. A Jew’s fantasy. One God. Marguerite. Filtered shafts of twilight wedged through the air, with motes of dust floating before Warburg like souls. And then he saw, crumbled in a corner on the floor, a white cloth with black stripes, a tallit like his father’s, although this one was soiled with what could have been blood.
Six
Cleopatra’s Needle
ROBERTO LEHMANN PULLED the bell rope at the broad entrance to the Casa dello Spirito Santo. Though the nondescript, multistory façade showed nothing of the monastic enclosure it concealed, he could picture the scene within: stone tower, arched portico, colonnades of the cloister walk. He had begun his religious life as a boy in a Rhineland version of such a place, a dozen years before. How he had loved the aroma of incense, the stone-cooled air, the silence infused with the lilting echoes of chant. The monastery was his first taste of heaven.
He pulled on the bell rope again, with impatience. Finally the small portal within the much larger gate creaked slowly open. A hunchbacked gargoyle of a man, in the ubiquitous blue smock of a manual laborer, stepped to the threshold as if to block it. “Che cosa volete?” he asked brusquely. Only then did he look up from his stoop to see that the visitor was a soutaned cleric. He stepped back with an apologetic drop into near prostration. “Entrate, Padre. Entrate.”
Knowing full well there was no point in approaching the mother abbess, Lehmann instructed the man to take him to the priest. Moments later, he was standing in the rear shadows of the small chapel. A figure was bent in prayer, kneeling at a bench halfway to the sanctuary, from which the one permanent candle sent its red flickers around the darkened space. Lehmann heard something, then realized the sound was swallowed sobs. He slowly walked forward, aware of the alerting patter of his footsteps, and stood beside the white-robed priest, who responded by drawing himself up from his knees to sit. Otherwise the man made no move, and there was no acknowledgment.
“Padre Antonio,” Lehmann said.
“Sì.”
“Or should we speak in French?”
The old priest looked up. “Italian is good.”
“But you are from France.”
“Sì. And you?” But the old priest seemed to know. Lehmann liked to think his own Italian was accentless, but it wasn’t true.
“May we speak, Padre?” Lehmann assumed the priest would lead him out of the chapel, but he did not move. Lehmann sat on the bench, separated from the priest by several feet. “I know your history. You came to Rome in disgrace.”
“What is that to you?”
“How old is your child by now? A child no more.”
Padre Antonio said nothing.
“Does Mother Abbess know who her chaplain has been all these years? A renegade priest?”
Still Padre Antonio was silent, impossible to read.
“I have come from the Vicariate of the Holy See. I speak for the cardinal vicar. I am providing official notice of an apostolic visitation, pending a canonical reclassification of Casa dello Spirito Santo.”
“Official notice must go to Mother,” the French priest said.
“Mother has received such notices before,” Lehmann said, “but this one will be enforced. You are commanded by the cardinal vicar to inform her. The Congregation of Apostolic Visitation acts with solemn authority. The French Cistercians are to be transferred to the Convent of Santa Maria della Vittoria. Mother Abbess must prepare herself and her sisters. This monastery is to be restored to the Order of the Friars Minor.”
“German Franciscans?”
“Why do you say German?”
“You are German.”
“I am here on behalf of the Vicariate. Not Germany. The friars had canonical residence here for more than one hundred years.”
“Italian friars.”
“What province is of no matter. This is a simple restoration of canonical order. Franciscans do the Church’s work of charity.”
“And they need a Vatican dependency—exempt from searches by the police?”
“That is of no concern to you. This monastery will be a center of caring for refugees.”
“What refugees?”
“Those who turn to the Church. The contemplative sisters have no need of this place. In any case, they are French sisters who were received here, as you know, in an act of charity during the expulsions of the Third Republic. Anticlericalism in France is finished. If they choose, the sisters may return.”
“Anticlericalism is finished, yes,” Padre Antonio snorted, “because the Church embraces Vichy.”
“You are to facilitate Mother’s compliance.”
The old priest laughed. “The cardinal vicar does not know Mother.”
“The cardinal vicar knows the abbot primate. Mother will be dealt with by Sant’Anselmo. You tell her. You, too, are under obedience.”
“My vow is to the Lord.”
“To whom was your vow when you broke it in order to marry? What of your secret wife? And what of the matrimonial vow you took to her, a lie in the moment of love? You did not answer me before. Does Mother Abbess know your history?”
“She knows enough.”
“Ah, but does she know what became of your ‘wife’? Her suicide when she learned of your deceitful double life? You then resigned as a priest of the diocese of Marseille to join your penitential order, Cistercians of the Strict Observance. Hah! No observance, no matter how strict, atones for sin like yours. And what of your daughter, the child born of your illicit love? Your daughter remains in Marseille, your sin made flesh, an aging cocotte by now, having spent her life swallowing the smoke of sailors.” Lehmann paused, then turned the blade. “Your daughter never answered your letters.”
“My file in the Apostolic Congregation is under sacramental seal. How did you get it?”
Lehmann shrugged. “Under certain pressure, seals are known to break. Like vows, Father. I would expect you, of all people, to understand this. You will speak to Mother Abbess. Prepare her for the congregational visitation. And for solemn submission.”
Lehmann stood. He felt the crisp satisfaction of a duty successfully fulfilled, and that welcome sensation brought the monastery of his youth to mind once more—Mariae Mons. That first summer, as young Brother Roberto, he had come upon the monastery’s secret—that the mayor of nearby Mainz had refused to allow the swastika to be flown anywhere in the city, and had boycotted Chancellor Hitler’s visit during his triumphant tour of the Rhineland. Naturally, that made the mayor a fugitive, and, relying on boyhood friendships with certain of the monks, he had come to Mariae Mons to hide. This was done without the monastic vicar general’s knowledge.
Brother Roberto, as part of his duties as a kitchen helper, was one of those who’d brought the visitor bread and soup, without knowing who he was. One night, the frightened mayor had entrusted Lehmann with his story, making him promise not to tell the vicar general. The secret proved too heavy a load to carry. But, given his promise, whom could he tell? Just then, the monastery hosted a celebration of the treaty between the Church and the newly empowered Third Reich. German dignitaries attended, including Herr Hitler’s vice chancellor, Franz von Papen, the Catholic who had negotiated the treaty, and the vicar general’s friend.
So it was that, after the glorious Mass of celebration, the you
ng Brother Roberto had approached the black-uniformed officer hovering at von Papen’s side. Lehmann did not know Heinrich Himmler—who he was or who he would become. The earnest lad knew only that this stern-looking man of authority was the one to whom he would unburden himself. Lehmann told Himmler the monastery’s secret.
The fugitive in the attic soon disappeared. After that, the grateful vicar general knew Roberto’s name. Lehmann was promoted ahead of his mates, from postulant to novice and on through the orders. At the ceremony attending each advance, climaxing in ordination to the priesthood, his dear mother was present, letting him see her bliss. He had then been specially commissioned to serve as an aide to the archbishop of Mainz. When the war broke out, his assignment shifted, bringing him to Rome. Here, blending in with the clerics of the Curia, he had left his gray robes and monastic identity behind for something far better—especially once his mother joined him. And Obergruppenführer Himmler had stayed in touch.
Now, when Lehmann left Casa dello Spirito Santo, he stepped into the thick traffic of Via Sicilia, dodging trucks and pushcarts. The street was swarming with early-morning bustle, all Rome desperate to rediscover rhythms of the old routine. A man confident of his ability to maneuver through the clandestine chutes of catacombs and looted tombs, where the true pulse of the ancient city could be felt, the German priest was unaware of the street worker dressed in a peaked cap and soiled smock, like so many others, but who was following him.
For the sake of perspective when beheld from below, the Renaissance master Bernini had designed the grand staircase of the Apostolic Palace with each white marble step a slightly different height from every other. Monsignor Deane had never noticed that minuscule gradation before, but then he had never made the climb on crutches before. The cast on his leg had made it impossible to put on the black trousers that he always wore under his red-trimmed cassock, and he hated being turned out like one of those effete Italians—pantless wonders. Not to mention the draft on his bare legs beneath the skirt.
The stairs were such slow going that he was sure he would be late for his appointment. Vatican functionaries passed him, ascending and descending, all avoiding a direct look at him, as if crutches in this holy place were a sin against faith. Get up. Pick up your mat and walk! But the Lord had not yet healed Deane’s fracture. In truth, it still hurt like hell.
And so did his head, since he’d over-anesthetized himself with Chianti the night before. With both crutches under his right arm, left hand on the railing, he’d found the rhythm: step up with good leg, push down on crutches, up with broken leg, pause, then up with crutches—repeat. His nightmare had been that he would have to mount the stairs on his buttocks, but not so. Easy does it. One step at a time. There.
The message from Cardinal Maglione’s apostolic administrator had said 10:15, punto. Deane had been angling for a one-on-one meeting with the papal secretary of state since arriving in Rome, and if it took what the prelate regarded as an infraction to get it, well, Benedicamus Domino. From infraction to fracture, he was on a roll. Step. Crutch. Balance. There.
At the top of the stairs, standing in the shadow of a larger-than-life statue of Peter clutching keys, was a blue-uniformed papal gendarme, a revolver holstered at his side. Maglione’s bodyguard. It startled Deane to come upon the sinister-looking character, and because of the crutches he felt liable to be accused of some malfeasance. He nodded, but the Italian ignored him. Deane hobbled by, aware of being watched the entire stretch of the long, long corridor.
Compared to the cardinal’s residential apartment where the weekly lunches for resident diplomats were held, Maglione’s working offices were spartan. In the windowless outer room, a black-veiled nun sat at a desk. He thought of the nun he’d seen at Monsignor Tardini’s elbow. Nuns in offices, not just in laundries: Was this an effect of Mother Pascalina’s status as the Pope’s exec? Or was it just the war—women here, as everywhere, moving into the jobs of men?
Deane had a bit of trouble handling the large wooden door, and the woman stood up. Only then did he recognize her: she was the nun he’d glimpsed in Tardini’s office. He remembered how she’d taken custody of a sheaf of documents, as if she had more than a clerk’s authority over Vatican diplomacy.
“May I help you, Monsignor?” she said in brisk English, moving out from behind the desk and taking the weight of the door as he hopped into the room. He caught a quick look at the papers spread on her desk, sheets covered with rows and columns of numerals. Was she an accountant?
“Thank you, Sister.” He found it possible to grin at her. It had never occurred to him she wasn’t Italian, but: “Do I detect a touch of the Thames in your voice?”
She immediately faced away from him, returning to her desk, where she quickly turned the papers over one after the other, a repeat of what he’d seen her do in Tardini’s office. She said, “If you mean am I British, the answer is yes.” Once all of the pages were hidden, she looked up. “What happened to you?”
Deane let the grin overspread his face. “War wound.” He tugged on his cassock to display the cast. The toes of his foot were covered with a black sock. “The war was with my own three feet. I lost. A rout.”
“I saw you at Monsignor Tardini’s office not three days ago, and your leg was fine.”
“I broke it yesterday.”
“Storming into some apostolic office?”
“That was rude of me. I apologized to the Most Reverend Sir, and now I apologize to you. I could see that the business I interrupted was important.” He paused, as if to give her a chance to explain what her business was. She said nothing. “But it never occurred to me you were English.”
“English Dominican.”
“How do you come to be here—in the Secretariat, I mean. The inner sanctum of the Curia. A sister, a Brit.”
She did not reply, a pointed signal of no interest in the personal. As before, he was struck by her appearance, but now, looking more directly, he could see why. Amid the cloaking, only her face registered, hence its impact. The starched white linen at her forehead and temples framed an aquiline nose, sparkling blue eyes, a mouth made for what it had renounced. On any other woman, such fine features would be alluring, but on her they gave paradoxical emphasis to chaste unavailability. Guessing her age, he could not have come within a decade. Maybe fifty. Maybe thirty.
Deane remained standing, leaning on the crutches in front of a pair of swan chairs with frayed red velvet upholstery. Between the chairs was an oval leather-topped table. As if she’d offered him one of the chairs, he said, “I’ll just stand. It’s easier.”
“It won’t be long,” she said. “His Eminence is eager to see you.” She pulled a watch on a cord out from beneath the folds of her habit. “Indeed. It’s time.” She stood, turned, and opened the door, then stepped back so that Deane would have the space needed to enter. Passing her, he picked up the whiff of that certain aroma, the scent of a nun—plain soap, a hint of incense. Once behind him, she returned to her desk, removed a stenographer’s pad from a drawer, and followed him into the office. She took a seat in the corner by the door, adjusted the rosary beads hanging from her cincture, and crossed her legs under her habit, a pencil poised above the pad. The discreet record keeper.
This was another unadorned room, but its large window opened onto the broad vista of St. Peter’s Square, centered on Cleopatra’s Needle. Deane knew the Egyptian obelisk’s match in Central Park, behind the Met, but this one was different, he also knew, because Bernini had shaved its pointed cap so that a golden reliquary containing a piece of the True Cross could be affixed. The window, framing such a masterpiece and its surround, was enough to make the simple office magnificent.
At the outsized desk, bathed in morning light, sat the crimson-robed Cardinal Maglione, fountain pen in hand, bent over a document. The red zucchetto drew attention to the slight tremor in the prelate’s bald head—or skull, actually, since bone showed through the tissue-like flesh. The yellow pallor of his cheeks was mad
e more pronounced by the contrasting red silk of his getup. El Greco’s Saint Jerome, yes, but without the beard. Even seated, he looked frail and gaunt. His breathing was a wheeze. He neither looked up nor visibly registered Deane’s entrance.
On the wall opposite the window was the room’s only adornment, an ornately framed photograph of the present Pope. The famously ascetic pontiff’s stern expression was a Catholic cliché. The gold-leaf filigree of the frame was out of sync with the cheaply produced black-and-white picture; the frame had no doubt held the portraits of numerous popes. Across the centuries, Vatican secretaries of state, in effect prime ministers to a monarch, had wielded enormous power from this room, and Deane sensed its aura.
Finally the cardinal slammed down his pen. He brought his head up, equally sharply. If the sight of Deane’s crutches surprised Maglione, he didn’t show it. All at once there was nothing frail about him. “Come osate!” he said fiercely. How dare you!
Deane infused his voice with a deference not quite evident in his choice of words: “Your Eminence, the poor souls at Fossoli were worthy of our prayers.”
“Our prayers. Not our apostolic proclamation. By drawing attention to the camp, you encouraged the Waffen-SS to destroy it.”
“Not true, Your Eminence. The Acta Diurna mentioning Fossoli was never published. At your order. And if it had been published, it would have been after the fact. The Germans never knew of the Holy See’s interest. Which, in light of what happened, seems regrettable.”
“The Holy See had no interest there.”
Warburg in Rome Page 18