The nun gathered the hem of her robes as she wound down the staircase. The rosary hanging from the white cincture at her waist clanked against the iron handrail. Deane had to duck to keep from hitting low-wattage light bulbs and was soon walking at an ever more stooped angle. The subterranean complex below the nineteenth-century edifice implied an archeological calendar, less cellars than caverns that once opened into pagan mausoleums, catacombs, the Vatican necropolis.
As Deane followed the nun through several arched thresholds, he thought of André Gide’s Caves of the Vatican, a work of bitter satire that ridiculed the blind wanderers amid the cloisters and catacombs of faith. But since the novel had been published, in the early twentieth century, the popular image had taken hold of a deeply buried labyrinth of dank tunnels coursing under Vatican Hill. Fanciful but false. Caves suited the anti-Catholic imagination. Instead, what Deane found was a mundane series of cement-paved corridors, lit and clean, with whitewashed walls. Stout wooden portals to which his escort paid no attention closed off numerous rooms and hallways, leading he knew not where.
Deane sensed that this underground realm was actually far from mundane. That human beings had lately been unspeakably hounded in the heart of Europe still left him short of words, and he was unable to shake the nagging worry that he was himself somehow tied to it. Whatever defined the facts of the Jewish condition north of the Alps, here, in the very heart of Catholicism, that condition had to have been different. Complaints of Roman Catholic unconcern, or worse, about the fate of Jews had to be untrue. Deane thought of that Jew on the airplane to Rome. He wished the man, Warburg, were at his side now, both of them seeing with their own eyes that the Church had not failed this test.
Finally the nun led him to an arched entranceway, sealed by a pair of peaked wooden doors; in the center of each was a closed iron grill, suggesting that once a prison had operated here. This was the heart of the labyrinth. With little effort the nun pushed the doors open; they were unlocked. A broad, rectangular room, low-ceilinged but bright, stretched before them. Several dozen cots were ordered in four rows, with blankets tucked into mattresses. Washstands, straight-backed wooden chairs, and cloth-draped shelves stood along the walls. Bundles sat at the feet of the narrow beds, but only here and there. A pair of Vincentian sisters, each with her winged headdress, were busy folding blankets, cleaning up a recently abandoned space.
Despite the impression of tidiness, a faint stench of overcrowding remained. Perhaps a dozen people were seated or stretched out on various cots, at a remove from one another. The nun explained in unadorned Italian that, until a few days before, more than one hundred people had been living in this space, including children. And this, she said, was only one cellar room among several that had served as dormitories. All but the few “guests” before them had promptly left when the Americans entered Rome.
“And these?” Deane asked.
“They are sick. Or they are not Romans, not Italians. They are perhaps travelers from abroad. Bohemia. They have no one to help them. They have nowhere to go. But they must leave. The bishop said they must depart.”
Deane left the nun’s side to approach an elderly woman who was sitting on the edge of her cot. Her head was covered with a firmly knotted scarf, and her possessions were bundled at her feet. Tears streaked her face. To Deane’s surprise, a rosary was wrapped around her cupped hands. Her lips were moving through the Aves. Deane gently touched her shoulder. “Vi benedica, Signora,” he said. She ignored him.
He returned to the nun. “What bishop?” he asked.
“Bishop Salerno. I asked Mother Pascalina for confirmation, but she said I was to defer to His Excellency.”
“I’ll speak to the bishop, Sister. We will let these people stay as long as they want.”
The nun did not reply.
“And the rosary, Sister. Why is she saying the rosary?”
The nun looked at him blankly.
“If she is Jewish. You told me this is where the Jews have been hidden.”
“Yes, Father,” the nun replied, “but they are baptized Jews. The Jews who come to His Holiness for protection, they are baptized.”
Within moments, Deane presented himself unannounced at Tardini’s office on the far side of St. Peter’s Square. The gatekeeper in the outer office, an aged Jesuit, recognized Deane from his welcome visit that morning and did not try to stop him when he brushed past, opening Tardini’s door without knocking. The stout prelate was seated at an overlarge desk. Standing beside him was a nun whose white habit was set off by her black veil—a Dominican. Both she and Tardini looked up at Deane with startled expressions. The nun had been leaning at Tardini’s side. She held a pencil, with which she had apparently been ticking off items on some document. Seeing Deane, she reached down to the document and turned it over.
“Please excuse my interruption, Most Reverend, Sir,” Deane said. But he, too, was startled. A nun at the prelate’s elbow? And what’s on that paper?
Tardini stared impassively at Deane, then forced a smile. He said, “No, no. We were just finishing.”
At that, the nun scooped up the document, and other papers, from the prelate’s desk and quickly moved away. She left the room without raising a glance toward Deane.
Tardini’s desk was positioned in front of tall windows, open to the square. Again Deane said, “Forgive my intrusion, Reverend Monsignor.”
A cigarette sat smoldering in an ashtray, and Tardini smothered his impatience with his reach. “What is it, Father?”
“I’ve just come from Santa Marta,” Deane said. “I’ve just been told that the Jews we’ve been protecting here in Vatican City are converted Jews. Catholic Jews. Can that be so?”
Through cigarette smoke, Tardini dumbly blinked up at the American monsignor. “What? What?”
Deane said, “I have heard the point made again and again, Monsignor. I’ve made it myself. Many dozens of Jews have been given sanctuary within the walls of the Vatican. This is the great rebuttal to the charge of the Holy Father’s indifference to Hitler’s crime against Jews. And now I learn that the Jews here are baptized?”
“Some are baptized, Father. Certainly. That must be true. Among so many.”
“But all? Or most? How many?”
“And some are the spouses of the baptized. They themselves are not Catholics. They are unconverted Jews. Many wives and husbands.”
“How many?”
Tardini shrugged.
“Monsignor, I have heard Archbishop Spellman describe the Vatican’s extraordinary—if discreet—rescue of Jews. He describes it to Jewish leaders in New York. He described it to President Roosevelt, when Roosevelt asked why His Holiness has not condemned the Nazis for—”
“Roosevelt has no right to ask . . . What has Roosevelt done?”
Aside from the invasion of Normandy? But Deane checked himself. “No one says the Vatican rescue is of baptized Jews.”
Tardini carefully returned his cigarette to the ashtray. He picked up a pen, capped it, and placed it beside a curved felt blotter. His lips were pressed together. “Dear Father Deane, Herr Hitler does not care if the Jews are baptized.” He leaned forward. His left hand trembled slightly when he raised a finger. “Do you think Hitler cares if they are baptized? They are still Jews. Catholic Jews, too, must be protected. And as it happens, the convertiti are mainly the ones that come to us. They trust us.”
“Convertiti?” Deane said. “Conversos?” The Inquisition-era word was a slur, carrying an implication of blood impurity. Deane thought of the other word for converted Jews—Marrano, meaning swine.
“Yes, Father—if you will, conversos. We have a special obligation to Catholic Jews.”
Once again Deane thought of the American Jew. How would this strike Warburg? But he knew. “Excuse me, Reverend Monsignor, but our obligation is to all.”
Tardini shrugged, an eloquent world-weariness, more than a touch of impatience. “If we could help all, we would. And our paramount obligation
is to do nothing that would make matters worse. As it is, we help those who come to us.”
“And send a message to other Jews about the benefit of conversion. Accept baptism, and we will protect you. Is that it?”
“Did you see a baptistry in Santa Marta? There are three hundred and twenty-nine parishes in Rome. I am told that most of them are hiding Jews. No one demands baptismal certificates.”
“I was asking about here. The Holy Father’s household.”
“And you have your answer.” Tardini snuffed his cigarette, picked up his pen. Dismissed.
Now, looking across Maglione’s drawing room at the jovial knot around Tardini, Deane had to stifle an urge to call out to von Weizsäcker and von Kessel, to ask if they knew that at Santa Marta they were sharing a residence with Jews. Rosary or not, the people downstairs from you are Jews! But he checked himself. If he could harbor an impulse to expose the cellar Jews to these Germans, it was because now the Germans were powerless, the Jews were safe.
Deane watched the Axis diplomats with their self-satisfied bowing, clicking of heels, and clinking of tulip glasses, but the disgust he felt was more at his fellow clergy, so thrilled to be in the company of these shits.
“You are the American monsignor.” Someone surprised Deane, coming from behind him, speaking accented English and touching him on the elbow. “We’ve heard of you.”
Deane turned and found the young German priest standing there. He had come from the table where the apéritif was being poured, and in addition to his own glass he was holding a fresh drink for Deane. “Here. Champagne. It’s better.” He took Deane’s empty glass and handed it to a passing waiter. Though the unadorned black of his cassock marked him as junior, the priest carried himself as if he were a regular at Maglione’s lunches. He’d entered with Archbishop Graz, the ranking German Catholic in Rome. Clearly this priest had made himself essential to the boss, a recognizable clerical type, the skilled factotum—from the Latin for “do everything.” But then, Deane thought, I should know.
“Thank you. I’m Kevin Deane.” He raised his glass.
The German clinked it. “Roberto Lehmann.”
“Roberto?”
Lehmann laughed. “Sí. I was born in Buenos Aires. But I am from Mainz. My mother is Argentinian. My father was an importer.” The German’s oiled hair gave him an exotic, Valentino-like appearance. His soutane was a well-tailored worsted. His fingernails were manicured.
“You are from New York.”
“Indeed so. Bronx Irish Catholic. Your English is good.”
“Necessity.” Lehmann smiled. “I learned your language yesterday.”
“General Clark would be flattered. Soon American slang will be heard in the streets of Rome,” Deane said, “if not on the Third Floor—the papal apartments.”
Lehmann smiled. “I know where the Pope’s quarters are.”
“Well then, perhaps you can answer a question.”
“I hope so.”
“I brought a personal gift from Archbishop Spellman for His Holiness. The archbishop instructed me to leave it with the papal valet. But yesterday a German nun headed me off—”
“Mother Pascalina.”
“Yes.”
“The Holy Hausfrau,” Lehmann said.
“What’s the story on her?” Deane asked. “She seemed to have real authority. She insisted on talking to me in German. Is it possible the woman speaks no Italian?”
Lehmann shrugged. “What was the gift?”
“An electric razor.”
Lehmann laughed, and then so did Deane, despite himself. He’d tried to tell Spellman to send something else, but the archbishop said the Pope loves the latest gadgets. “His Holiness shaves every morning, too,” Spellman added. “He puts his pants on one leg at a time, Kevin.”
“He wears pants?” Deane said, but Spellman did not laugh.
The German again touched Deane with easy familiarity. “So American—a razor with a motor. As for Mother Pascalina, she was the Pope’s housekeeper in Berlin when he was just the papal nuncio. She came with him here to Rome. Not Hausfrau, actually, but Oberhaupt. Mother Pascalina is from Freistaat Thüringen, the home of the Doberman pinscher.” Lehmann laughed again, then made a show of looking left before adding quietly, “You can be certain she took the razor for herself. The mustache nun.”
Deane made no comment, but thought it odd that a nun was the assistant to the Pope. And Tardini, too, depended on a nun. Was that Dominican sister also an Oberhaupt?
Lehmann offered a cigarette to Deane, who took it. Lehmann flipped his lighter, a fancy gold trinket with a cross engraved on its side. Holy smoke, thought Deane.
Exhaling, they looked out the window at the swelling crowd of pilgrims below. “It is good that Rome was spared from destruction,” Lehmann said. “The world owes that to him.” Turning, he used his glass to point at von Weizsäcker.
“How is that, Father?”
“The ambassador convinced Field Marshal Kesselring to base his Panzers outside the city. There were no major Wehrmacht setups in Rome. You say ‘setups’? Therefore, no targets for your Air Corps. Nothing for your bombers. On June 2, after meeting with von Weizsäcker, Kesselring chose to abandon Rome without a fight, leaving the way open for Clark.”
“So it was humane German goodwill that fended destructive American bombs and artillery.”
“Yes. That is sure.”
Deane said, “I suspect that Cardinal Maglione would say Rome was spared because of His Holiness. Look at the signs there.” In the square below, banners were being unfurled: Grazie, Sancta Papa! A huge poster showing the face of Pius XII was being dropped from Bernini’s colonnade. Deane asked, “Whose idea was it to invite Romans to come here to thank His Holiness for the liberation? It’s already being described as a spontaneous assembly. But haven’t you heard the loudspeaker trucks? ‘Come to St. Peter’s to thank the Holy Father.’ That’s Cardinal Maglione.”
“You object?”
“Of course not. Although I think a word of thanks to General Clark might be in order. Not to your ambassador—in point of fact.”
Squinting through his cigarette smoke, Lehmann turned from the window to eye the prelates and the German diplomats. He said coldly, “His Holiness would have been taken prisoner by the SS were it not for von Weizsäcker.”
Deane said, “And Ambassador von Weizsäcker came to his enlightened point of view with help from . . . ?”
“Yes. Archbishop Graz. Protecting His Holiness. Protecting Rome. It has been our daily work. Our daily prayer.” Lehmann brought his eyes back to Deane, whose own were there waiting.
“I know the game you play, Father,” Deane said.
“Because,” Lehmann replied, “you yourself are a master.”
“Tell me, is it true what they say about Regina Coeli?”
“The prison?”
“Where, three days ago, as your humane soldiers began their retreat, they lined up Partisan prisoners and trade union leaders against a wall and shot them.”
“I have not heard that.”
“At La Sorta, more than a hundred were lined up and forced to kneel. They were shot in the neck, from behind.”
“Is that what they say?”
“Yes. And they say that from the Ponte Milvio, where the emperor Constantine had his vision of the cross, there are corpses hanging today.”
“Constantine was from Germany, did you know that?”
“They say the Via Cassia has been sown with mines. Dozens of horses shot where they stood on the streets.”
“I have no idea if it is true. Of course, it could be.”
“Where does that leave your humane German goodwill?”
“Would you care to compare legends of atrocity, Monsignor?”
It seemed to Deane that the German was daring him to mention Jews.
Lehmann waited. When it was clear that Deane would not reply, the German went on, amiable again. “The point now, of course, is to emphasize the diplomacy ro
le the Holy Father can continue to play, perhaps in partnership with your Archbishop Spellman.”
“And with your Archbishop Graz?” Deane asked. “You’re thinking of the mediation fantasy.”
“Why do you say ‘fantasy,’ Monsignor? No one in the world is better placed than His Holiness to bring about a truce between the Allies and my country. Ambassador von Weizsäcker has spoken of just such a thing to Archbishop Graz. And with your Spellman reaching out to Washington . . . Archbishop Spellman’s position—”
Deane cut Lehmann off with a sharply raised hand. No speaking here of Spellman’s position, nor of his ambition, toward which the sly Kraut was aiming his arrow. “A German truce with the Allies?” Deane said. “Not all of the Allies, surely. Isn’t the idea for Washington and London to join forces with Berlin against Moscow, making Russia our former ally? Isn’t that it?”
“Are you aware of the Red Army’s rampage, moving west?” Lehmann asked. “The Catholic Church is civilization’s only hope against such godless brutality. And if I may add, Germany and Hitler are not the same thing.”
A faint gong sounded, and a pair of elaborately carved doors at the far end of the room swung open. The two dozen men began to move as one into a second equally opulent chamber. Tray-bearing waiters appeared on either side of the doorway, collecting glasses and cigarette butts.
With Cardinal Maglione at the head of the long, elaborately set banquet table, the men took their places according to precedence—Deane and Lehmann near the foot of the table. All remained standing. The cardinal intoned a Latin blessing. Everyone but the diplomats crossed himself and said “Amen.” With a rustle of chairs, they were seated. They snapped open their linen napkins.
Deane’s gaze went to a gold-framed object on the wall behind Lehmann—a blanket-sized print of an early-Renaissance map, sepia tones, faint blue meridian lines, a faded red compass rose. Not a print. An original. It showed the world, with the boot of Italy at dead center. A crescent-shaped swath of land to the left, across an ocean—a best guess of the shape of the New World. Something about the primitive cartography struck Deane as odd.
Warburg in Rome Page 10
