“You are on Vatican business?” the officer said in clipped, precise English.
“Aye, that I am,” I said, laying on the accent. “Seeing to the refugees up north, not to mention those right here. Was it the damn English who did this? They destroyed the Church of the Rosary, did you see, man?”
“Yes, it must have been the Englanders. Only the British bomb at night.”
“Cowards that they are,” I said.
“You are on your way back to Rome?”
“Yes, Father Dalakis and I are returning from an inspection of the refugee centers in the north. As you can see,” I said with a smile, pointing to the letters, which were written out in German and Italian.
“What was it like?” he asked.
“Up north? As you’d expect. Many families separated, not enough food, churches packed with refugees. And the bombings, by all the saints, it’s terrible,” I said, crossing myself at the invocation.
“Suchen Sie ihr Gepack,” he said to the guard, who took our suitcases and opened them. “My apologies, Fathers, but we have captured a number of saboteurs in clever disguises. There are also many prisoners of war on the loose, since the Italians surrendered, all trying to make their way to Rome. This is simply routine.”
It was. Underwear, socks, a clean shirt, a Bible, and that two-day-old newspaper from Rimini. The officer looked at the newspaper and nodded to the guard, who stepped back.
“All is in order,” he said. “You may take your bags.”
I felt a flood of relief and hoped it didn’t show. A priest in my position would be used to this by now. Exasperated, maybe, but not relieved. We closed up the suitcases, ready to buy our tickets.
“One more question, please,” the officer said as we began to walk away. I remembered what Kaz had said about the Gestapo. They’d treat you nicely as first, to soften you up, then hit you hard. I felt my hand shake and put it in my pocket, another nonchalant traveler with a suitcase and a train to catch.
“Certainly, Leutnant,” Kaz said. I tried to look bored.
“You came from Rimini by train?”
“Aye,” I said. “And points north.”
“Then please explain how you got through. Ancona was heavily bombed for the last two nights. There have been no trains.”
My mind went numb. Was this what Diana had felt? Cornered, outsmarted, with nowhere to hide? I stood, unable to speak, hoping the pounding in my chest couldn’t be heard as thoughts of Gestapo kitchens ran through my mind.
“You are misinformed, Leutnant,” Kaz said with certainty. I broke out in a sweat, and worked to keep from looking around for a place to run to. For a second, I couldn’t catch my breath until I realized I was holding it. “We visited the Duomo there. Do you know that cathedral is almost a thousand years old? It is magnificent.” Kaz chattered on about the architecture until the officer waved us along, bored with the recitation.
“Kaz,” I whispered as we entered the station. “How were you so sure about the railroad?”
“It was obviously a trick,” he said. “And if it wasn’t, we were dead men anyway, so why not?”
“It wasn’t obvious to me.”
“Father Boyle,” Kaz said in a low voice. “If the rail line had been cut between here and Rimini, how did Hamilton get the newspaper in your suitcase?”
“Bless you, Father Dalakis, that was quick thinking,” I said, giving Kaz his due.
It should have been obvious to me. Not only the newspaper, but the interrogation technique. It didn’t matter that we’d come in on the train as we’d said. The Leutnant was looking for a reaction, that flicker of guilt that gives a liar away when he’s been found out. And I almost gave it to him. I should have picked up on it, but my mind had gone right to Diana and what she must’ve gone through. I needed to get my wits about me and focus on getting to Rome, not to mention avoiding the Gestapo kitchens.
I listened to Kaz get our tickets and heard the cities named along the way. From Pescara to L’Aquila, then Terni, then Viterbo. He paid with a wad of lira, and we sat on hard wooden benches, waiting for our train. I practiced not thinking about Diana. It didn’t go well.
CHAPTER TEN
We didn’t talk much. Speaking in English was bound to attract attention, and whispering in English was likely to draw fire. The train was packed with a mix of civilians, Kraut soldiers, and Italians in the uniform of the Republican National Guard, the militia that stayed loyal to Mussolini after he was deposed and rescued by the Germans. Those were just the passengers. German military police walked through the cars at every stop, but they were more interested in their own troops, probably on the lookout for deserters. Our white collars seemed to make us invisible, two meek priests amidst uniforms and weapons of war. I tried to sleep, but the train rattled and rolled so much it was impossible. The locomotive chugged along, slowly, up steep mountain passes and through long tunnels carved out of rock.
I figured any good priest might read the Bible, so I took the one out of my suitcase. I had my own back home, of course, but I’d never actually read it. I skipped all the begats and tried to find the stories, the kind I remembered from Sunday school, anything to pass the time and look the part. It was in Acts that I stumbled across the tale of the Apostle Paul, who came to Rome to preach the new religion.
And when we came to Rome, the centurion delivered the prisoners to the captain of the guard… after three days Paul called the chief of the Jews together: and when they were come together, he said unto them, Men and brethren, though I have committed nothing against the people, or customs of our fathers, yet was I delivered prisoner from Jerusalem into the hands of the Romans.
“Kaz,” I said in a low voice. “Do you know what happened to Paul the Apostle?” He drew a finger across his throat. I shut the book and closed my eyes.
As night fell, blackout curtains were drawn and the lights dimmed. We ate the bread and cheese that had been packed for us, and shared a bottle of wine with no label. The air in the car was thick with tobacco smoke, the smell of stale food, and unwashed bodies. I prayed for sleep, and awoke hours later with a stiff neck and Kaz asleep on my shoulder. The conductor walked through, unleashing a string of Italian in a bored monotone.
“We are almost to Terni, Father Boyle,” Kaz said. “The train will stop for one hour.”
“Shall we stretch our legs then, Father Dalakis?” I said, putting on the brogue. By this time, the two odd priests were old hat to the other travelers, and as we stood, one departing German soldier gave us an “Auf Wiedersehen.”
In the station we found a bar serving coffee, and ordered “Due espressi, per favore.” As we sipped the bitter drink-no sugar to be had-two trucks pulled up outside and German soldiers piled out. For a moment I thought we were in trouble, but then I saw the medics, with their white helmets and big red crosses. They were unloading wounded, a few walking, most on stretchers. Kaz raised an eyebrow to let me know he was relieved as well. Some of the bandages were soaked with fresh blood; something had happened to these men not too far from here, and I hoped it wouldn’t stir up security. As we finished our espressos and left the bar, a German officer ran up to us. From the look on his face, it wasn’t to ask for our papers. His uniform was dark with soot, one arm bloodstained, and the blood didn’t seem to be his. He was wild-eyed, as if he might be in shock.
“Bitte, Vater, werden Sie einem sterbenden Soldaten letzte Riten geben? Er ist katholisch.”
“Letzte Riten? Ja, sicher,” Kaz said. “Father Boyle, one of his men requires last rites. Would you like to perform the sacrament? Er ist Irischer,” he added, for the benefit of the officer, a captain.
I understood from the look in Kaz’s eyes that he had no idea what to do. But I did, having seen police chaplains give emergency last rites to cops a couple of times, not that I was taking notes.