Death's Door

by James R Benn

“But is it not the spirit we should be concerned with here?” Bruzzone gave a wink, and we followed him up the marble staircase to the third floor. He had a point, and I recalled what Kaz had said about this being a place of absolutes. True, there wasn’t a lot of middle ground between heaven and hell, but some of these guys managed to find room in the shadows to rationalize their own actions. As long as it was to my benefit, I had no problem with that. After all, a Boston cop learns rationalization at the knee of his daddy.

  “Monsignor,” Bruzzone said as he knocked at the open door. Montini did double duty, working afternoons as the papal secretary. His office was at the edge of the Pope’s private living quarters, which stretched around one corner of the top floor. The single window was covered in blackout drapes, and heavy wood paneling deadened the sound, making Bruzzone’s voice sound meek and fearful.

  “Yes, come in,” Montini said, rising from his chair. “You are here for the letter, I assume?”

  “Yes, Monsignor,” I said.

  “You have given up the priesthood, both of you?” Montini said with a sly grin. “I despair of losing two such resourceful candidates for the clergy.”

  “By now most people within these walls know we’re not for real,” I said.

  “Correct. If prayer flew as quickly as gossip, all the saints in heaven could not keep up with it. But take care when you cross the border line to deliver this.” Montini handed Kaz a thick white envelope. “There is a copy in English as well as in German. I thought the former might imply delivery to the English or Americans.”

  “That’s smart, Monsignor,” I said. “But what does the letter actually say?”

  “It is addressed to Colonel Erich Remke, Excelsior Hotel, Rome,” Kaz said. Then he read.

  As Minister of Ordinary Affairs for the Vatican State Secretariat, I acknowledge receipt of the document referred to as the Auschwitz Protocol, along with other documents related to the conflict which now engulfs the world.

  The Holy See has received many reports of vast atrocities involving noncombatants, tormented as they are, for reasons of nationality or descent, destined to exterminatory measures. When soldiers turn their weapons against noncombatants to exercise these measures, whether from the air or on the ground, such acts are no longer part of jus ad bellum, the criteria for a just war, but must be called murder. Such reports beg the question, How should the honorable man act?

  Should he not, over the ruins of a social order which has given such tragic proof of its ineptitude, gather together the hearts of all those who are magnanimous and upright, in the solemn vow not to rest until a vast legion shall be formed of those handfuls of men who, bent on bringing back society to its center of gravity, which is the very law of God, will take just action?

  Mankind owes that vow to the countless dead who lie buried on the field of battle: The sacrifice of their lives is a holocaust offered for a new and better social order. Mankind owes that vow to the hundreds of thousands of persons who, without any fault on their part, sometimes only because of their nationality or race, have been consigned to death. Mankind owes that vow to the flood of tears and bitterness, to the accumulation of sorrow and suffering, emanating from the murderous ruin of this dreadful conflict and crying to Heaven to liberate the world from violence and terror.

  “It is signed by Monsignor Montini,” Kaz said, offering me the letter. I shook my head, and he placed it in the envelope.

  “The Christmas message?” Bruzzone asked.

  “Yes,” Montini said. “I took the words His Holiness used in his Christmas message to the world in 1942. Since he had already uttered these sentiments, I saw no reason why they could not be stated once again.”

  “It’s a lot of words,” I said. It seemed to me that they were so convoluted and dense that it would take a dozen philosophers to decode it. Maybe that was the idea.

  “It is the style of writing which the Holy See calls for,” Bruzzone said apologetically. “Ornate, one might say.”

  Inscrutable and obscure, I might have added, but I didn’t want to sound ungrateful. It was all we had, and I knew it was all Montini could give. “Thank you, Monsignor Montini. I am sure it will appeal to Remke, especially the part about weapons from the air. He called it terror bombing.”

  “Please remember that while we work to assist those who are persecuted by the Nazi regime, we also pray for all those civilians whose lives have been taken in this war, however their deaths were delivered. We are indeed neutral, no matter how sympathetic we may be to decent men such as you.”

  “Thank you,” I said, although I wasn’t certain what exactly I was thanking him for. The slightest of compliments, following the condemnation of our air war?

  “You expected more, I know,” Montini said. “But there are limits to what can be done without involving His Holiness. Or with his involvement, as you know we cannot risk the neutrality of the Holy See.”

  “Men and women risk their lives for others all the time,” I said. “Even carpenters.”

  “God’s blessing on you,” Montini said, ignoring my remark and dismissing us as he returned to his paperwork.

  Bruzzone invited us back to his office for a drink, which sounded like the best idea of the day. We settled into chairs, our coats still on against the chill of the room, as he poured out three brandies.

  “Salute,” Bruzzone said. The brandy felt hot in my gut, and I declined a second. I needed my head screwed on straight to figure out how best to play the letter.

  “What do you think your Colonel Remke will make of Montini’s letter?” Bruzzone asked.

  “I don’t know. He might buy it, even without a direct reference to the coup.”

  “I am not so sure,” Kaz said. “From what you’ve told me, Remke sounds like a man who also deals in absolutes.”

  “Assoluto?” Bruzzone asked.

  “Billy and I were talking about how religion, particularly here at the Vatican, causes people to see the world in absolute terms. Heaven and hell, with little in between. No offense, Monsignor, but it does seem to come naturally to those who believe strongly.”

  “Yes, I understand. Anyone who believes strongly—in overthrowing a tyrant or in his own religion—such a person must believe absolutely. How could it be otherwise? Where else would your strength come from?”

  “The problem is that tyrants are the ultimate absolutists. It’s fine to believe in religion and the church, but if all it gets you is a watered-down letter using last year’s Christmas greeting, then I can’t say I’m impressed with the mighty power of the Vatican.”

  “You must understand how things work here, my friend.” Bruzzone leaned across his desk, as if proximity might improve his logic. “The Holy See is not of the temporal world. The church exists outside time, outside of the normal limits of human understanding. His Holiness—and yes, his advisors such as Monsignor Montini—they do not consider a problem in terms of months or years, but centuries. The rise of fascism in Europe is merely one incident in history. Tyrants come and go. They rise, they murder thousands, burn monasteries, shut down churches, propagate evil of all kinds. But they do not last. They never have. Words do nothing against them in the short term, so we bow to the storm winds and wait. We wait, and we have faith. The leaders of the Church are planning for eternity. What is the ‘Thousand-Year Reich’ in comparison to that? It will not last out the decade, and will soon be gone from Europe.”

  “But what of all who have died, while you bow into the wind?” Kaz asked. “All of the innocent noncombatants Monsignor Montini wrote of so eloquently?”

  “You ask us to solve that problem, a temporal problem, which we had no part in creating,” Bruzzone said with a heavy sigh. “You wish us to take a side in this struggle, and risk His Holiness, the Holy See, the treasures of the Church here in Rome. But we are not an army. We are not the Red Cross or the League of Nations. You wish for a stronger letter, to save your friends. This I understand. But such a letter, in the wrong hands, would bring the Gestapo
down upon us. Here, where Saint Peter built his church. What good would that do, to deliver His Holiness into the hands of Hitler?”

  “Your words make sense, Monsignor, but they are words spoken in a safe place, with good brandy at hand,” Kaz said. “Out in the world, beyond the white border line, things are not so clear.”

  “Do not forget, I too have been out in the world. I know what it is like to be hunted. Do not judge us too harshly, my friends. Our job is to care for souls, and do the best we can while we are here on earth. Perhaps we are weak and fearful, perhaps we make mistakes, but that is because we are human.”

  Bruzzone folded his hands in front of him. With his words hanging in the air, I slid my glass toward the bottle and he filled it. For that small gesture I was glad.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  I STOOD AT the foot of the bed, willing Severino Rossi to wake up. He was the key to solving the murder, I was certain. He looked much better, but I knew that was because he’d been cleaned up, laid out on clean sheets, and his filthy clothes replaced with white pajamas. His eyes were still swollen shut and wine-colored bruises decorated his cheeks. He had a splint on one arm and a bandage wound tightly across his thin chest. Each breath was labored, each gasp ragged. He looked like he’d been in a fight with Joe Louis and then stepped in front of a milk truck.

  “What do you think?” Kaz asked in a whisper. Sister Cecilia was asleep in an armchair near the bed and she blinked an eye open as we spoke.

  “I think we aren’t the only ones waiting to see if he wakes up,” I said, guiding Kaz out of the room.

  In the sitting room, Nini had laid out plates of pasta and glasses of wine. “Aglio e olio,” she said. Garlic in olive oil. It was pungent enough that I thought Severino might rise up and ask for a bowl.

  “Has he spoken at all?” I asked.

  “He whispered something in French,” Nini said. “I couldn’t make it out.”

  “In case anybody asks, say he’s in a coma. Probable brain injury.”

  “It may well be true,” Nini said. “Sister Cecilia says he was severely beaten, and certainly sustained a concussion. He should be in a hospital.”

  “We couldn’t protect him there,” Kaz said.

  “You must,” Nini said, her hand clenched into a fist. “That boy has suffered too much already.”

  “Kaz should stay here,” I said. “If that’s all right with you, Nini.”

  “Certainly. What do you think could happen?”

  “That’s just it—we don’t know. The killer could be anyone, even someone we all trust. Nini, you’ll have to be on guard against everyone,” I said.

  “Perhaps now is a good time to show you this,” Kaz said, pulling a Beretta automatic pistol from his coat. “I took this from that Fascist officer at the train yard. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to worry.”

  “We were under orders not to bring any firearms in neutral territory,” I explained to Nini. “But I’m damn glad you did,” I said to Kaz. “And that you didn’t tell me at the time. You may need it if the killer makes a move against Severino.” I reached for my wineglass, and when I rested my hand on the table, I saw it tremble. I hadn’t thought about the train yard in days. About killing the Italian. Necessary, we had told each other at the time. It was, but my hand still shook at the memory of it.

  “Then perhaps you should tempt him,” Nini said, with a glance at my hands that told me she’d noticed. “If we tell two people that he was awake and speaking, two hundred will hear that message within the hour.”

  “Not yet,” I said. “I have to deliver the letter to Remke tomorrow. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. But as soon as I get back, we’ll let it slip that Rossi made a miraculous recovery.”

  When I get back tomorrow. With Diana, Abe, and Rino in tow. There was no other option, nothing else I could think about but their safety. Abe and Rino were my responsibility. Diana was everything else. I struggled to focus on Rossi and work out the best way to use him to our advantage. When all that was behind us, I could focus on finding Corrigan’s killer. It was easy to forget the orders that had brought me here, being so far removed from the brass. One of the advantages of dangerous work: you don’t have senior officers watching over your shoulder.

  “You should take this,” Kaz said, sliding the Beretta across the table.

  “I will,” I said, pushing it back to him. “But you keep it tonight and stay here. Block the door and shoot anyone who tries to force their way in.”

  As Kaz reached to take the pistol, the door to Nini’s room opened and a stooped figure in a threadbare coat stared down at us. He was covered in dust from boots to beard, and he wore a blue workman’s coverall over his clothes. Kaz snatched the Beretta up and leveled it at the stranger’s belly. “Chi è?” he demanded, asking the man’s identity.

  “Would you shoot a harmless priest, Baron?” The Irish accent was unmistakable.

  “Hugh!” Nini exclaimed. “You know better than to sneak up and frighten people with your disguises. One day you will get yourself shot.”

  “Excuse me, Principessa. I thought I’d receive a warm welcome, but I never dreamed it would involve a small cannon. I’ll go wash up and return a changed man while the Baron puts away that pistola.” As he spoke he straightened himself, gaining six inches in height. Nini shook her head, as if exasperated at the antics of a young boy, and I thought that for all the danger to himself and others, Hugh O’Flaherty did manage to squeeze a sense of enjoyment out the situation. Ten minutes later he was at the table with us, the fake whiskers gone and the rest of him fairly well dusted off. I gave him a quick summary of the day’s events.

  “Can you keep things quiet about Rossi? His presence here puts Nini in danger, you know,” he said, taking a sip of wine.

  “Kaz will stay here tonight to guard them both,” I said. “We got in without too many people seeing us, so I hope that will buy some time.”

  “Are you satisfied with the letter from Montini?”

  “No, but it’s the best he could do. We’ll keep our fingers crossed.”

  “Do you know,” O’Flaherty said, pausing to take in a mouthful of pasta, “that crossed fingers were a sign the early Christians used to secretly identify each other? Making the cross, you see? It’s a good sign to make, but I’ll add a prayer or two tonight for your success.”

  “What were you doing today, Monsignor, to need such a disguise?” Kaz asked.

  “Trouble in some of the houses where we have people hidden. I had to travel across the city. Workmen are part of the background scenery in Rome. It helps me blend in, and the stoop does away with some of my height.”

  “What kind of trouble this time?” Nini asked.

  “All personal problems, nothing worse. It’s hard for a man to be hidden away in a home and not able to speak the same language. There was a British officer who was sure the family he was with hated him, since they dined separately. Served him his meals in a hidden attic room. He became afraid that they were going to betray him. It turned out that they were giving him the lion’s share of their food. If they got one egg, it went to him, to keep his strength up.”

  “And they didn’t want him to see what little they were left with,” Nini said.

  “Aye. I explained it to him and then there were tears and the shaking of hands all around. I promised to get more food sent to them. Then onto another family, where a young South African sergeant was paying too much attention to the wife of the house. I have to say, I’ll be glad when the Allies get here and take these fellows off our hands.”

  “How do you get around? You must wear out a lot of shoe leather,” I said.

  “With the help of the unsung heroes of the occupation of Rome,” he said. “The trolley conductors. Good fellows, each one. See, I used to conduct the early Mass in Saint Peter’s. Before dawn it was, and I’d finish up just before the first shift started for the trolleys. So I got to know them, and they me. Now I can go anywhere on a Rome trolley c
ar. I give the driver a wink and he sees through my disguise, lets me ride for free. Plus they know where all the roadblocks and identity checks are.”

  “I bet they can spot a tail as well,” I said.

  “They have a nose for policemen, sure. Do you want to take the trolley to Piazza Navona tomorrow?”

  “The rendezvous has been changed to the Spanish Steps. It would be good to know if anyone’s following me from here. Zlatko must have told Koch all about us by now. It would be a feather in his cap to pick me up, and he’s sure to have a blood feud going with Remke.”

  “Still at noon?” O’Flaherty asked in a low voice.

  “Yes. But I’d like to get there early and scout around. Koch could be following Remke as well as me.”

  “Smart. Let’s hope Colonel Remke is as wary and takes precautions himself. You can wait in the Trinità dei Monti church at the top of the steps, which will give you a good view all around. I’ll fetch you at seven o’clock for breakfast.”

  “In disguise, of course,” Nini said.

  “To be sure. Only, which one shall it be? I don’t make a very handsome nun, but it’s been done.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” I asked.

  “I don’t make a habit of it,” O’Flaherty said with a wink, finishing off his wine in one gulp.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  KAZ HAD A gun and a girl. I had neither.

  Instead I was alone in a darkened room, wishing for sleep, hoping that tomorrow I’d be here to say the same. I’d left Kaz and Nini with Severino, who still hadn’t moved as much as a finger. I’d waited until I heard them drag a bureau against door, then prowled around inside the building, watching for intruders and drawing irritated glances from the nuns who were still up and about. From there, I went outside, turning up my collar against the cold night air. I crossed to the Sacristy and kept to the shadows, eyeing the entrance to Santa Marta. Nobody else was out; no killer was casing the joint.

  I gave up on the stakeout and went back to the German College. The bells tolled midnight as I lay alone, thinking of what might happen tomorrow on the Spanish Steps. Or not happen. What if I came back empty-handed? What if, what if, what if? I heard the bells again, once, then twice.