“Billy,” Kaz said, shaking me awake. I threw off the blanket-Kaz must have put that on me-and stood, realizing the noise was someone knocking at the door. I blinked myself awake, and noticed Kaz stashing something in his suitcase before going for the door.
“Welcome, Fathers,” a voice boomed out as soon as Kaz swung the door open. The accent was Italian, the pronunciation precise, as if he worried about getting every word right. “I am Monsignor Renato Bruzzone.” Bruzzone tossed off a cape, under which he wore a black cassock with red trim and a purple sash, showing off his rank of monsignor.
“Monsignor,” I said, unsure of how exactly to address one. “I am Father Boyle, and this is Father Dalakis.”
“Yes, yes, but I know these are not your real names. No matter, I am glad you are here.”
Monsignor Bruzzone had a full head of thick, black hair, and a good start on a five o’clock shadow. He was taller than me, with broad shoulders and dark, steady eyes that studied us, watching the confusion on our faces.
“Real names?” Kaz said, a look of practiced befuddlement worrying his brow.
“Come now, gentlemen, I am here to help. Sit, please.” He gestured to the table as if we had come to visit him. Rank has its privileges everywhere. “Your arrival has been noted by many. The Vatican is a small place, with many big ears and eyes. As well as tongues!” He chuckled at his little joke, lifting an eyebrow, inviting us to join in the laughter.
“How did you note our arrival, Monsignor?” Kaz asked.
“Some of those eyes and tongues work for me. It is helpful to watch the comings and goings here, especially in this building.”
“Why this building?” I asked.
“Surely you know?” Our blank stares answered his question. “This is one of the two buildings where escaped Allied prisoners of war live. The other is the barracks of the Swiss Guard. Amusing, isn’t it?”
“Monsignor, you certainly know more than we do,” I said. “But I do know you were a colleague of Monsignor Edward Corrigan’s. Have you come here to tell us what you know about his death?”
“Sadly, no,” he said, his lips pursed. He fished in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes and lit one up, his silver lighter polished and gleaming. He offered the pack to both of us, and we declined. They were Junos, a German brand. “These are terrible, but in times like these any tobacco will do. No, I cannot tell you much about Edward, except that he was a fine man. It is a shame for him to end that way.”
“Dead?”
“Well, yes, but to be attacked by someone he was trying to help, that was terrible.”
“How do you know he was trying to help the man who stabbed him?” Kaz asked.
“It stands to reason. He was a Jew with no place to hide. He must have escaped the roundup of Roman Jews last October and been at his wit’s end. You’d be surprised at how many refugees we have hidden here. Not just POWs, but Jews, antifascist Italians, and even German deserters. Somehow, this poor fellow must have heard about Edward and made contact. Perhaps he panicked, perhaps he had gone mad. Who knows? It could as well been myself, or Monsignor O’Flaherty.”
“Who does know?” I asked. “Where is this alleged murderer?”
“The Italian authorities took him. As part of the treaty between the Holy See and the Italian government, Saint Peter’s Square, while it is Vatican territory, is under the legal jurisdiction of Rome because of all the visitors who come here.”
“And what are the chances of a Jew turned over to the Fascist authorities still being alive?” Kaz asked.
“Next to none, I am sorry to say. The Nazis shipped all the Jews in Rome to those camps months ago. If he was not killed outright, he was sent north. To them, the greater crime is the religion of his birth. They are fiends, but you know that.”
“There was no thought of that at the time?” I asked.
“Truly, there could not be. Commissioner Soletto is pro-fascist, to be sure. You must have been warned about him. But even someone with the opposite viewpoint would have had to do the same. The Lateran Treaty, which outlines these territorial responsibilities, is quite precise. It even delineates exactly where the Italian authority ends: at the bottom of the steps leading into Saint Peter’s Basilica. We struggle constantly to maintain our rights within the treaty, which means the Holy See abides by the exact letter of that document. To do otherwise would be to open up the possibility of abrogation.”
“Which would mean the Germans take over,” Kaz said.
“Yes. Can you imagine? His Holiness taken to the Third Reich for his own protection, or some such nonsense? No, that must be avoided at all costs.”
“Yet you hide escapees and refugees here, on neutral ground,” Kaz said.
“Yes, we do. To do otherwise would be a sin. It is simply a matter of not getting caught! So far, we have not.”
“Does the Pope know about all this?” I asked.
“His Holiness has not told us not to proceed in this manner, and we know he has opened his summer residence at Castel Gandolfo to refugees without regard to religion. The estate is territory of the Vatican State, and many Jewish refugees have found sanctuary there.”
“So you have no direct orders from the Pope, but you think he approves?” Kaz said.
“Yes. He is a good friend to Monsignor Hugh O’Flaherty, the most visible of us. I have witnessed His Holiness looking down on the square from his palace windows, watching Hugh meet escaped POWs and direct them to safety. So, until Pius tells us to stop, we continue. You Americans have a saying, that something is done between a nod and a wink, yes?”
“It’s with a wink and a nod,” I said. “But I understand.”
“A wink and a nod. Yes, that is how we do things. Good.”
“You and Monsignors Corrigan and O’Flaherty worked together visiting POW camps?” I said.
“We did, until we were recalled. Our activities were too enthusiastic for some.”
“I heard you made a bishop look bad?”
“In part, but the real reason was we became involved in rescue efforts with Jewish refugees from France. You see, Italy occupied part of southern France, and the Italian anti-Jewish laws were not as harsh, or as strongly enforced, as the Vichy French laws. When Mussolini fell and the Italian Army withdrew from southern France, many Jews followed into Italy, hoping to avoid deportation. But they had no identity papers and little money. The archbishop of Genoa set up a network to provide funds, shelter, and papers. His Holiness sent money to the bishop to help.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “Your POW camp-inspection trip was a cover for that.”
“Yes, very good. It was, but the visits to the camps were important too. Many of the POWs who escaped after the fall of Mussolini remembered our names and came here seeking sanctuary.”
“What happened in Genoa?” Kaz asked.
“We became too visible. The Gestapo began questioning people we came into contact with. Our Vatican passports protected us, but not the other clergy in Genoa. So we turned over our funds to the Delegation for the Assistance of Jewish Emigrants, an underground group doing good work, especially with children.”
“Did the Gestapo know about Corrigan?” I asked, wondering if this had been a revenge hit.
“Yes, they questioned all of us. Politely, of course, given our diplomatic status. They said they were concerned about our safety, given the Jewish and Communist bandits who were running loose. The usual lies, but we understood the meaning.”
“What about here in Rome?” I asked, fishing for information about Diana. “Has the Gestapo been arresting clergy?”
“Father Boyle, there are many priests and nuns at the mercy of the Nazis. Little is ever heard of those taken.” Bruzzone lit another cigarette, flicking the lighter shut with a click, blowing smoke to the ceiling.
“If a member of the clergy is taken into custody, you are not informed? The Vatican, I mean.”
“If the person holds a Vatican passport, yes. But of the thousands of priests, nuns, and monks in Rome, very few do. Unless it was brought to the attention of Cardinal Maglione-he is the secretary of state for the Holy See-nothing could be done. Even then…” He ended with an eloquent lift of the shoulders. Who is to know?