“What about His Holiness?”
Sister Thomas answered calmly, “His Holiness knows what is happening. He knows it all. He stays above. He has no response.”
“There’s a first principle embedded there, too. Qui tacet consentire videtur. Silence is consent, Sister. His Holiness may see himself as constrained, unable to act openly. But has he ordered anyone to stop? Rotta and Roncalli aren’t stopping, and neither are you. The Pope wants the Jews helped, doesn’t he?”
“Yes. Yes.”
“And if baptismal certificates are off limits, what about Vatican visas? Political documents.”
“To go where? How would we get visas to Budapest?”
“I know of someone here in Rome who can help with that. Sister, you have to encourage these nuncios. You control the communications. You can give them what they’re asking for. They want to do something! You can help them!”
“Monsignor, I cannot issue instruction in the name of the Secretariat.”
“Not instruction. Example. What if, say, you sent out a routine reiteration of the procedures involved in issuing Vatican employment visas? Persons carrying out the business of a neutral state are privileged with the exemptions appropriate to neutrality. It is up to the state to define its employment. Isn’t that another first principle? If Germans are respecting baptism, they will respect state assertions of neutrality.” Deane paused, adjusted his crutches. He realized that, for the first time since the basketball game, he’d forgotten the pain in his leg. “You could simply quote already promulgated procedures—no authorizing signature necessary. Here it is. What if you just replied to these Nuncio cables with citations from the Lateran Treaty, defining terms for the issuing of Vatican safe-conduct passes? Don’t you think those inclined to do so would take the point?”
“Employment visas are specific diplomas,” Sister Thomas said. “If you expect German recognition, documentation must be official. That requires the authenticating seal of the papal chancellery, embossed over the signatures upon issuance.”
“Do you know where such forms are kept? The accreditation stamp?”
“I know the sister who administers the employment office.” Sister Thomas hesitated. “But we could never send such material in the diplomatic pouch of the Holy See. Cardinal Maglione himself seals the pouch. There is no way to get the visa forms from here to Budapest.”
“Yes there is. I have a way.”
“The American you spoke of.”
“Yes.”
David Warburg had never seen a more beautiful sight: a dozen American Navy vessels, all at anchor across the great horseshoe bay, rhythmically keeping time with its tidal undulations, bows alike in nosing westward in the wind. The ships were already forming the line that would define their convoy, warships posted between troop and cargo ships, all strung out like knots in a rope. So aligned, and with luck, they would traverse the Mediterranean, slip through Gibraltar, and cross the Atlantic.
The sight was beautiful for being framed by Mount Vesuvius to the east and the cliff-hung peninsula of Sorrento to the south. A dozen mammoth cranes defined the harbor foreground, structures of renewal. Naples, formerly the site of an Axis submarine base, had been the most heavily bombed city in Italy, perhaps Europe. But that was months ago, and now the port was the active center of Allied supply and reinforcement. In addition to the forming-up convoy out in the bay, dozens of other ships, closer in, vied for channels and pier space. On shore, trucks and personnel carriers lined up for their brief shots at the quayside, to take on crates and squads of freshly arrived, gawking yardbirds. Sacks of grain, cartons of canned goods, pallets loaded with K rations, as well as machinery, weapons, racks of shells, raw materials, supplies of every kind—a cornucopia of American production. And, in the faces of its fresh legions of boys, a display of American determination, disciplined by fear. The meaning of such undefeated resolve was more apparent than ever at this crowded place of debarkation: the port of Naples was a snapshot of the coming victory.
But most pointedly, there was beauty in what Warburg beheld because one of those distant convoy vessels soon to weigh anchor was the USS Henry Gibbons, a troopship carrying, in its aft holds, a thousand wounded GIs and, forward, 982 guests of President Franklin D. Roosevelt, most of whom, before the ship had left the pier three hours before, Warburg had personally welcomed on board.
The refugees were brought to the port of Naples by Army trucks from four different camps in the environs of Rome. Before their arrival, Warburg had boarded the ship to inspect the cramped quarters—low-ceilinged, divided by rows of multitiered bunks—where they would spend the next three weeks. There was almost no space for stowing personal possessions, but, alas, that lack would burden few of these passengers.
With Sergeant Rossini and others of his operation, Warburg had taped to the bulkheads translated copies of President Roosevelt’s message to Congress dated June 12, 1944:
As the hour of the final defeat of the Hitlerite forces draws closer, the fury of their insane desire to wipe out the Jewish race in Europe continues undiminished.
Therefore, I wish to report to you today that arrangements have been made to bring immediately to this country approximately 1,000 refugees who have fled from their homelands to southern Italy. These refugees are predominantly women and children. They will be placed on their arrival in a vacated Army camp on the Atlantic Coast. The War Refugee Board is charged with over-all responsibility for this project.
When the refugees began to board the ship, Warburg had positioned himself at the head of one of the two gangplanks, with Lieutenant Benny Cogan at his elbow, a Flatbush boy who’d been raised in a Yiddish-speaking home. No matter their place of origin, most of the refugees seemed to know Yiddish, and their faces registered Cogan’s greeting, “Shalom aleichem!” Warburg took each one’s hand and said, “On behalf of the United States of America, I welcome you aboard and wish you a safe journey.” Cogan translated.
Most of the Jews were too exhausted or too wary to respond with more than a nod, but sometimes a man or woman would break into sobs as Cogan finished. For over an hour Warburg greeted them. As aware as he was of feeling gratitude to these people just for their being alive, he also experienced a kind of inner dislocation as the line moved slowly past.
If these were Jews, what was he? And who was he to have presumed a life that set him apart not only from this desperation, but from the unbroken bond of peoplehood that had so inflamed the enemies of Judaism, down the centuries to Hitler? And in what was that peoplehood rooted if not in the unbroken bond with the One God? The taste of ashes was on Warburg’s tongue. He felt ashamed of himself. For what? For not believing in that God.
When the last of the refugees was aboard, Lieutenant Cogan briskly saluted Warburg. All at once Warburg’s gratitude flowed to this one man, as if the snap of that martial gesture bestowed forgiveness. Warburg put his hand out. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Good luck.”
When Warburg had descended the gangplank and stepped ashore, ahead of the ship’s lumbering move away from the pier, the last of his team to do so, he’d felt numb. Three shrill blasts of the vessel’s whistle had given perfect expression to all that was buried beneath his calm demeanor.
Now, most of an hour later, with the Henry Gibbons in its proper column behind the convoy leader, far out in the bay, he was calm. He was finding it impossible to leave the pier until the ships were actually under way, and he assumed he would watch the departure until the ship of refugees dropped below the horizon. But he was interrupted.
“Well done, David.” It was Mates, having drawn up quietly beside him. He offered Warburg a cigarette, and Warburg took it. Mates was wearing dark aviator sunglasses. His crisp uniform jacket was snugly buttoned at his waist. A silver star gleamed from each of its epaulets. He’d been wearing the star for only a week, yet carried himself as if he’d been born to the rank. He asked, “You had the trucks where and when you needed them?”
“Yes. Thanks for that,” Warbu
rg replied. “And the escort squads you assigned were impressive. They were kind.”
“Christ, if anyone deserves a little kindness . . .”
“Right. Christ.”
“What’s needling you? And where the hell have you been? It’s been a week since you slept at the Barberini.”
“I have a cot in my office. I’ve been busy.”
“I thought you might be avoiding me.”
“Why would I do that?” The note of innocence Warburg struck was deliberately false. He had yet to confront Mates with what he knew—that Mates had business with the American monsignor, something besides the sacrament of confession.
“Because you’re keeping my interrogators away from the camps, that’s why.” Mates was pissed off and let it show. “You’re claiming authority you don’t have. We have a deal, and you’re not keeping it.”
“We’ve been through that, General. My authority, in its sphere, is total. Your interrogators have to wait.”
“You owe me, Warburg.”
“What? What do I owe you?”
“In addition to this, you mean?” Mates tossed his head toward the Henry Gibbons.
“It’s Roosevelt I owe for that.”
“Then your man in Budapest, Swedish minister plenipotentiary—what’s his name?”
“Wallenberg.”
“You owe me that. Without the OSS turning the screws at the Swedish embassy in Bern, Stockholm would never have bought your plan. And now Wallenberg’s hard at it. I hear that Jews are rushing to him.”
Warburg hesitated, then yielded the point. “It’s true. I do owe you that. Who knew that the Swedish ambassador in Bern is the king’s nephew?”
“I did.”
“You know everything. I forgot.”
“Not quite. What happens now? In Budapest, I mean. Wallenberg buys up properties, declares sovereignty, takes Jews in. Then what? How do they get out of Hungary?”
“Not clear yet, but the Church is helping. Baptismal certificates. Vatican visas.”
“The Church! Good God, the Church could care less about Jews.”
“Not so, General. Priests and nuns. Parishes and convents. Across the Alps, the papal nuncios are crucial. With luck, we’ll have a lot more refugees coming through Rome. Some Catholic will have helped every one of them.”
“But the Pope. The Pope could care less.”
“Perhaps. But perhaps not. Maybe it’s just that His Holiness is more worried about Communists. In that case, not so different from you. Which makes me wonder if you and the Holy See are doing business.”
“What sort of business?”
“You tell me.”
Mates’s declining to speak was answer enough.
Warburg shrugged. “I say let’s finish off Hitler. Worry about Stalin later.”
Mates countered, “Hitler became Hitler because we weren’t worried about him soon enough.”
Warburg turned to stare out at the convoy. “What I’m worried about, General, is my next ship. That’s all. Believe it or not, the Navy claims all upcoming transport billets are spoken for, looking ahead for weeks. No space for refugees, despite FDR. All returning troopships are scheduled over to transporting German POWs back to the States. Nazis! Headed to Nebraska! While my refugees are told to wait.”
“Clark wants the captured Krauts off his hands. There’s just no way to deal with POWs here.”
“Meanwhile, Roosevelt’s getting hell in Congress for singling out Jews. I was ordered at the last minute to round up some Catholics for inclusion today. Out there on that ship—seventy-four Catholics, twenty-eight Greek Orthodox, seven Protestants, just so the President can deny he’s helping only Jews. The Swedes are doing more at this point than we are.”
“The Gestapo in Budapest will never let that guy—what’s his name again?”
“Wallenberg.”
“Never let him get away with it.”
Yes, the convoy was setting sail. A plume of smoke burst from the funnel of the Henry Gibbons. Warburg welcomed the distraction, and its silencing of Mates. A bevy of small planes had taken off from the escort carrier, the start of the free-roaming air patrols that from now on would buzz around the ships like mosquitoes, looking out for enemy subs. General Mates was like a sub, Warburg thought, running silent below the surface of his own easy, slick manner.
Mates pulled the golden silk square from his breast pocket, and Warburg thought of the girl he’d seen leaving Mates’s bedroom that first morning. A child. Now Mates removed his sunglasses and began to polish the lenses. With his eyes now visible, he looked weary, somehow vulnerable. Lines creased the skin at his brows, a delta of wrinkles at each eye, a bruise-like shadow in its hollow. The burdens of time, if not of this war, were leaving marks on the general’s face. Or maybe it was the strain of hiding the truth of what he was up to.
Something caught Warburg’s eye, a flash of brown movement on the quayside. He looked again. Not brown, but nearly lost within the buff field of a canvas tarp stretched over the bed of a rolling truck was a faded red smirch—the shape of a cross. The Red Cross truck. Her. “I’ll be back,” he said, then began to move quickly along the quay, dodging stacked cartons and huge pieces of off-loaded machinery, pumps, oil tanks, bulging burlap sacks. His eyes were fixed on that red mark as he moved, waiting for the angle to shift so that he could see the driver. The truck, though, was also moving, and Warburg started to run, fearing that he would lose it.
He had lost her once already. On the day after learning, with Monsignor Deane, of the massacre at Fossoli, he had returned again to the Jewish library near the synagogue. He pounded on the door until someone finally answered. An old woman stood inside, back somewhat from the barely cracked opening. She spoke no English, and he was not able to make himself understood. He’d repeated the name “Lionni . . . Lionni!” And “Delegazione!” Her muttering response was as unintelligible as it was alarmed, and it horrified him to think that he was frightening her. When she firmly closed the door, he did not press further.
Since coming to Rome, he’d been introduced to perhaps a dozen men described as leaders of the Italian Jewish community, and over several days he’d asked among them for news of Lionni. They’d offered none, whether because they genuinely knew nothing or because they did not trust Warburg, he could not say. And then, the last time he was in the ghetto, Warburg had seen two British Army trucks pulled up in front of the library—the vehicles’ muddy brown color, the crown insignia on the doors. The sight stopped him until he saw a knot of six or seven uniformed soldiers exiting the synagogue. They wore the webbed harnesses and flat-brimmed, netted helmets distinctive to tommies, but two had removed their helmets, and each of them was wearing a yarmulke. Strange, he thought, then forgot about it.
He had to find her. He returned to the derelict rooming house in Trastevere where he’d dropped her off that night, but now he brought along Sergeant Rossini to translate. The old lady who answered there said that Signorina d’Erasmo had indeed come back to her flat two days before, but she had gone away again, without explanation—which was, the woman said, what she always did.
“Gee, Mr. Warburg, if you don’t mind my asking,” Rossini had said from his place at the wheel, “who is this dame?”
Indeed. Now Warburg was running hard, his tie flying, his stare fixed upon that cross without a god. Every night for the past week, Marguerite’s face was the last image in his mind as he went to sleep, and more than once he’d awakened with her name on his lips. He almost called it now, and was certain by the time he caught up with the truck that she was at the wheel. It was moving steadily as he leapt onto the passenger-side running board, reaching through the window. The driver was startled and immediately hit the brakes, almost throwing Warburg off.
The driver was a corpulent man, his forehead streaked with sweat, his cheeks bristling with an untrimmed growth of beard. Warburg brushed past the disappointment of not seeing her, and asked, “Per favore. Signorina d’Erasmo, sapere? Do you know?”
“Vada! Vada!” the man said with a wave of his fist. His eyes flashed angrily—crazily. But if there was madness here, Warburg realized, it was all his own. He jumped away from the rolling truck, and he landed hard.
PART TWO
POSTWAR
Seven
Road Out
IT WAS EVENING. The lilting chapel plainsong was disturbed by the suddenly stirred-up air, a summer wind that blew open the heavy oak door. It caught pages of the psalters, hems of the friars’ robes, flames licking candles. The golden light of the lowering sun washed in. One of the brothers got up from his knees and crossed quickly to close the door, but not before Roberto Lehmann felt the intrusion of weather as an omen. Which of the robed visitors had drawn the displeasure of nature? Or was it him? Lehmann thought back to how he’d finally come to be here, beginning with his onetime and ever discreet mentor, Heinrich Himmler.
By March, four months ago now, Himmler knew that all was lost. Claiming to be deathly ill, he abandoned the Führer by cabling his resignation to Berlin, not daring to face the man himself. He stripped his uniform of insignia, shaved his mustache, donned a disguising eye patch, and set out on foot for the border with Denmark. British soldiers caught him. Before they could begin an interrogation, he swallowed the cyanide capsule he had been carrying for two years.
Suicide had not begun as Himmler’s chosen mode of escape. Earlier, without informing the Führer, he had devised a better plan—Aussenweg, the Road Out. He had hoped to take it himself, but prepared it, in any case, for his most trusted brothers: a mythic road through Rome, where the gatekeeper would be the dependable Argentine-German priest, whose transfer from Mainz to Rome Himmler had arranged in the first place. Then, a year ago, Himmler had ordered Lehmann to see to the confiscation of the monastery on Via Sicilia—yes, for its diplomatic privilege.
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