“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.”