“For a while. I would like to make sure she is all right.”
“Yes, Padre.” The man bobbed and whisked out two keys with a tidy little nod. Then he crossed himself as if it had been a while since his last confession. Angelo didn’t know whether to smile or sigh. He had a tendency to make people chatty or nervous. It didn’t hurt that this man was nervous. He’d been easy to persuade.
“Do we need to move the lady’s things to her new room?”
“No. That won’t be necessary. She was so upset she was ready to leave the hotel altogether. I put her things in the cloakroom while she played. It will be easy enough to retrieve them.”
“Very good, Signore. I mean, Padre. Very good.” The man bobbed his head and crossed himself again.
The suite was lavish and large behind double doors with a small foyer that opened up into an elegant sitting room and well-appointed bathroom beyond that. The sitting room was built around the large windows that overlooked the Spanish Steps. But Angelo didn’t waste time staring out at the backdrop.
There were ten monasteries, convents, and churches sheltering Jews in Trastevere, with more Jews sprinkled among another twenty families in the area. If the whole west side was to be raided, the whole west side would need to be warned. He was put through to the Vatican and reached an assistant of Monsignor O’Flaherty. Angelo asked that he be told that O’Malley had called with news of the Midnight Mass being conducted that evening in Trastevere. Midnight Mass was code for a night raid.
There was a one-word warning that he had put in place with a few trusted runners who had access to telephones, people who could get a warning to a nearby convent, monastery, or religious institution sheltering refugees. Most convents and monasteries were not equipped with phones—few places were—and getting someone to answer, hear the warning, understand what it meant, and then pass it on would be almost miraculous. Angelo began the laborious task of waiting to be put through, via operator, over party lines that were far from private, sharing a message anyone could listen in on. But eventually, one by one, he was able to convey the warning to every runner except for the one for Santa Cecilia. He would have to warn them in person.
“You can’t go. What if there is a raid and you are there and Captain von Essen sees you?”
“I have to go,” he said simply. “I have to. Stay here. I promise I will come back for you.”
She nodded, just once, her face tight and her eyes huge and frightened in her beautiful face. He could see from her expression that she thought it was too dangerous, that to her it felt like her father heading to Austria all over again, destined for disaster. But she didn’t try to stop him, and he was struck by her courage. She rose and followed him to the door, a slim silhouette in a long black dress, a candle in the darkness.
“I was so proud of you tonight. Felix would have been proud too. You are a remarkable woman, Eva Bianco. A remarkable woman,” he said sincerely.
She looked as if she were holding back tears, and he turned away before he weakened and took her in his arms, pulling the door shut behind him instead. He was halfway down the stairs before he realized he had called her Eva Bianco—not Rosselli—like it was her actual name. Like she was truly his.
CHAPTER 18
THE CRYPT
Angelo was only a block from the Villa Medici, moving as quickly as his leg and cane would allow, when a long black car slid up alongside him and the window was lowered, revealing the top portion of Captain von Essen’s face. He was alone in the backseat.
“I’m sure you are aware it is after curfew, and even a man in your position can get in some trouble, Father Bianco,” he said silkily.
“I have a permit, and I don’t live far. A priest’s work is never done.” Angelo smiled and sighed, but his heart was pounding. The captain had murdered Aldo Finzi, and there was something very off about him. Maybe it was his tidy ways and his soft-spoken delivery that didn’t quite mask his glee at being a proud, card-carrying member of the Reich. He was the kind that inflicted torture while mournfully telling his victims it was all their fault.
“I will give you a ride, Father. Climb in.”
Angelo did not want a ride. He hesitated, unsure of how to refuse.
“I insist,” the captain said quietly. “You must let me do this as a courtesy to your sister, at the very least. You were there tonight to support her, I’m sure. Now you find yourself in a predicament, walking home after curfew.”
Angelo walked around the car, but the driver was quick to hop out and open the door. The courtesy made him breathe a little easier.
“I thought I saw your wife with you this evening, Captain,” Angelo mentioned as the door was closed behind him. She was not with him anymore, and Angelo’s anxiety rose once more.
“Yes. She was. She had some friends she wanted to visit with. I had business to attend to. A military man’s work is never done either, I fear. We have that in common.”
“I’m sure that is true,” Angelo said politely, folding his hands in his lap.
“Eva was wonderful tonight,” the captain murmured. “Magical. It was such a treat to hear her play. Herr Himmler was most impressed. Lieutenant Colonel Kappler as well.”
“Yes. She was wonderful.” Angelo wouldn’t let himself think of Himmler or Kappler or the attention they had given Eva. If he dwelled on it, he would do something dangerous, something stupid, and he couldn’t afford to do either.
“You two are close, yes? She told me she came to Rome to be near you. I was always close with my older sister. She was like a second mother to me. Of course, that’s not how it is with you and Eva, is it? You are the father.” He laughed at his play on words.
Angelo bristled but shook his head and shrugged easily. “No, it is not like that. We are only two years apart.”
“It is a good thing you are a priest. Otherwise, people might get the wrong idea,” the captain said softly. He was quiet then, staring out the window, and Angelo watched as the driver missed one turn and then another. He didn’t know where they were going, but they weren’t taking him home. The car rolled up in front of the Church of Santa Cecilia, treating the big piazza like a parking lot. The captain reached for the door. Angelo’s stomach sank.
“I have some business here. Maybe you can help me with it, Father. You speak German so well, and my Italian is limited. I may need a translator.” A truck pulled up behind the Mercedes, and a handful of SS men jumped out, rifles in hand.
“What are you doing?” Angelo gasped, climbing out of the car and rushing to get in front of the men with guns. He stretched out his hands, slowing them, bidding them to stop, praying that the people inside would have time to hide or prepare.
“It is a raid, Father,” von Essen said simply. “The Catholic Church is disdainful of our laws. We have reason to believe there are Jews being hidden all over Rome in convents just like this one.”
“There is no one here! I know this convent. I know the sisters here.”
“But, of course you do. Your own sister rents a room here. But you understand, we must check for ourselves.”
“No! I do not understand. Places of worship are sanctuaries. There is a cloister inside these walls. No one violates the cloister. Not a priest, or a German, or a Jew!”
“The Catholic Church—the Pope himself—cannot control a single SS officer. You do realize that, don’t you, Father?” The captain smiled at Angelo, but his eyes were cold and flat. He inclined his head to his men, and they immediately ran to the gate and started striking it with their rifle butts, the insistent clanging filling the cold air with dissonance and distress. Through the bars Angelo could see into the serene courtyard, the glass-like surface of the pool around the large urn reflecting moonlight and dark sky. It was late enough that the occupants could be in bed. Angelo prayed they weren’t. Sleepy and disoriented would not work in their favor.
He did a mental count of the refugees inside. The Sonninos had documents. But Mario’s flesh would give him away if the captain saw fit to go that route again. The two sisters who had escaped the October roundup did not have papers, but the nuns had been coaching them. They had habits, and if they had time to don them, they might be safe. The two brothers had papers and military releases, but their accents were problematic, and they faced the same threat Mario did. Their best chance of survival was to hide. The family with the two small boys did not have passes, and the father and his young daughter did not have false documents either. Their passes labeled them Jews. That made eight people inside who would be immediately arrested and taken if they were discovered, and several more who were extremely vulnerable to detection.
“I want you to call out to them, Father. Tell them to open the gate. Reassure them,” von Essen instructed. “Otherwise, we will have to damage their property to gain entrance. We don’t want to do that. We are reasonable men.”
The clanging ceased as Angelo raised his voice and called out to Mother Francesca, his mind separating from his mouth to pray to Saint Cecilia herself that she might protect the innocents within her walls.
“Mother Francesca, it is Father Bianco. I am here with Captain von Essen of the German Police. He is insisting on checking the premises for Jews.” He was almost grateful that he could call out the danger in no uncertain terms but didn’t know how that would help beyond scaring them to death. There wasn’t time to do much of anything.
Mother Francesca approached the gate with measured steps. Normally, Mother Francesca bustled, too busy about God’s work to move slowly. Now she practically dragged her feet, her hands folded piously, her face grim.
“Father Angelo,” she greeted, inclining her head slightly. She then looked at the captain.
“Open the gate,” von Essen commanded, his eyes holding hers.
She tipped her head as if she didn’t understand German. Angelo was quite certain she didn’t, but it was clear what the captain wanted.
“Tell her to open the gate!” von Essen snapped. Angelo did so, and Mother Francesca, with great deliberation, slowly opened the gate. The soldiers pushed past her, almost knocking her to the ground, but she clung to the gate and managed not to fall.