“Any indications which way the preliminary report is going to go?”
“As I said, we’re trying to let the historians work with as little interference from the Apostolic Palace as possible.”
Gabriel shot Donati a dubious glance over his wineglass. Were it not for the monsignor’s clerical suit and Roman collar, Gabriel would have assumed he was a professional spy. The notion that Donati didn’t have at least two sources on the Commission staff was insulting. Gabriel, between sips of frascati, expressed this view to Monsignor Donati. The priest confessed.
“All right, let’s say I’m not completely in the dark about the Commission.”
“And?”
“The report will take into account the enormous pressures on Pius, yet even so, I’m afraid it will not paint a terribly flattering portrait of his actions, or of the actions of the national churches in central and eastern Europe.”
“You sound nervous, Luigi.”
The priest leaned forward over the table and seemed to choose his next words carefully. “We’ve opened a Pandora’s box, my friend. Once a process like this is set in motion, it’s impossible to predict where it will end and what other areas of the Church it will affect. The liberals have seized on the Holy Father’s actions and are pleading for more: a Third Vatican Council. The reactionaries are screaming heresy.”
“Anything serious?”
Again, the monsignor took an inordinate amount of time before answering. “We’re picking up some very serious rumblings from some reactionaries in the Languedoc region of France—the sort of reactionaries who believe Vatican Two was the work of the Devil and that every pope since John the Twenty-third has been a heretic.”
“I thought the Church was full of people like that. I had my own run-in with a friendly group of prelates and laymen called Crux Vera.”
Donati smiled. “I’m afraid this group is cut from the same cloth, except, unlike Crux Vera, they don’t have a power base inside the Curia. They’re outsiders, barbarians beating at the gates. The Holy Father has very little control over them, and things have started to heat up.”
“Let me know if there’s something I can do to help.”
“Be careful, my friend, I might take you up on that.”
The filetti di baccalà arrived. Donati squeezed lemon juice over the plate and popped one of the fillets into his mouth whole. He washed down the fish with a drink of the frascati and sat back in his chair, his handsome features set in a look of pure contentment. For a priest working in the Vatican, the temporal world offered few delights more tantalizing than lunch on a sun-washed Roman square. He started on another filetti and asked Gabriel what he was doing in town.
“I guess you could say I’m working on a matter related to the work of the Historical Commission.”
“How so?”
“I have reason to suspect that shortly after the war ended, the Vatican may have helped a wanted SS man named Erich Radek escape Europe.”
Donati stopped chewing, his face suddenly serious. “Be careful with the terms you use and the assumptions you make, my friend. It’s quite possible this man Radek received help from someone in Rome, but it wasn’t the Vatican.”
“We believe it was Bishop Hudal of the Anima.”
The tension in Donati’s face eased. “Unfortunately, the good bishop did help a number of fugitive Nazis. There’s no denying that. What makes you think he helped this man Radek?”
“An educated guess. Radek was an Austrian Catholic. Hudal was rector of the German seminary in Rome and father confessor to the German and Austrian community. If Radek came to Rome looking for help, it would make sense that he would turn to Bishop Hudal.”
Donati nodded in agreement. “I can’t argue with that. Bishop Hudal was interested in protecting fellow citizens of his country from what he believed were the vengeful intentions of the Allied victors. But that doesn’t mean that he knew that Erich Radek was a war criminal. How could he know? Italy was flooded with millions of displaced persons after the war, all of them looking for help. If Radek came to Hudal and told him a sad story, it’s likely he would have been given sanctuary and help.”
“Shouldn’t Hudal have asked a man like Radek why he was on the run?”
“Perhaps he should have, but you’re being naïve if you assume that Radek would have answered the question truthfully. He would have lied, and Bishop Hudal would have had no way of knowing otherwise.”
“A man doesn’t become a fugitive for no reason, Luigi, and the Holocaust was no secret. Bishop Hudal should have realized he was helping war criminals escape justice.”
Donati waited to respond while the waiter served a pasta course. “What you have to understand is that there were many organizations and individuals at the time who assisted refugees, inside the Church and outside. Hudal wasn’t the only one.”
“Where did he get the money to finance his operation?”
“He claimed it all came from the accounts of the seminary.”
“And you believe that? Each SS man Hudal assisted required pocket money, passage on a ship, a visa, and a new life in a foreign country, not to mention the cost of providing them sanctuary in Rome until they could be shipped off. Hudal is thought to have helped hundreds of SS men in this way. That’s a lot of money, Luigi—hundreds of thousands of dollars. I find it hard to believe the Anima had that kind of spare change lying around.”
“So you’re assuming he was given money by someone,” Donati said, expertly twirling pasta onto his fork. “Someone like the Holy Father, for example.”
“The money had to come from somewhere.”
Donati laid down his fork and folded his hands thoughtfully. “There is evidence to suggest that Bishop Hudal did receive Vatican funds to pay for his refugee work.”
“They weren’t refugees, Luigi. Not all of them, at least. Many of them were guilty of unspeakable crimes. Are you telling me Pius had no idea Hudal was helping wanted war criminals escape justice?”
“Let us just say that, based on available documentary evidence and testimony from surviving witnesses, it would be very difficult to prove that charge.”
“I didn’t know you’d studied Canon Law, Luigi.” Gabriel repeated the question, slowly, with a prosecutorial emphasis on the relevant words. “Did the pope know Hudal was helping war criminals escape justice?”
“His Holiness opposed the Nuremberg trials because he believed they would only serve to further weaken Germany and embolden the Communists. He also believed the Allies were after vengeance and not justice. It’s quite possible the Holy Father knew Bishop Hudal was helping Nazis and that he approved. Proving that contention, however, is another matter.” Donati aimed the prongs of his fork at Gabriel’s untouched pasta. “You’d better eat that before it gets cold.”
“I’m afraid I’ve lost my appetite.”
Donati plunged his fork into Gabriel’s pasta. “So what is this Radek fellow alleged to have done?”
Gabriel gave a brief synopsis of Sturmbannführer Erich Radek’s illustrious SS career, beginning with his work for Adolf Eichmann’s Jewish emigration office in Vienna and concluding with his command of Aktion 1005. By the end of Gabriel’s account, Donati too had lost his appetite.
“Did they really believe they could conceal all the evidence of a crime so enormous?”
“I’m not sure whether they believed it was possible, but they succeeded to a large extent. Because of men like Erich Radek, we’ll never know how many people really perished in the Shoah.”
Donati contemplated his wine. “What is it you want to know about Bishop Hudal’s assistance to Radek?”
“We can assume that Radek needed a passport. For that, Hudal would have turned to the International Red Cross. I want to know the name on that passport. Radek would have also needed a place to go. He would have needed a visa.” Gabriel paused. “I know it was a long time ago, but Bishop Hudal kept records, didn’t he?”
Donati nodded slowly. “Bishop Hudal’s priv
ate papers are stored in the archives of the Anima. As you might expect, they are sealed.”
“If there’s anyone in Rome who can unseal them, it’s you, Luigi.”
“We can’t just barge into the Anima and ask to see the bishop’s papers. The current rector is Bishop Theodor Drexler, and he’s no fool. We’d need an excuse—a cover story, as they say in your trade.”
“We have one.”
“What’s that?”
“The Historical Commission.”
“You’re suggesting we tell the rector that the Commission has requested Hudal’s papers?”
“Precisely.”
“And if he balks?”
“Then we name-drop.”
“And who are you supposed to be?”
Gabriel reached into his pocket and produced a laminated identification card, complete with a photograph.
“Shmuel Rubenstein, professor of comparative religion at Hebrew University in Jerusalem.” Donati handed the card back to Gabriel and shook his head. “Theodor Drexler is a brilliant theologian. He’ll want to engage you in a discussion—perhaps something about the common roots of the two oldest religions in the western world. I’m quite confident you’ll fall flat on your face, and the bishop will see right through your little act.”
“It’s your job to see that doesn’t happen.”
“You overestimate my abilities, Gabriel.”
“Call him, Luigi. I need to see Bishop Hudal’s papers.”
“I will, but first, I have one question. Why?”
Donati, having heard Gabriel’s answer, dialed a number on his mobile phone and asked to be connected to the Anima.
19
ROME
T HE CHURCH OF Santa Maria dell’Anima is located in the Centro Storico, just to the west of the Piazza Navona. For four centuries it has been the German church in Rome. Pope Adrian VI, the son of a German shipbuilder from Utrecht and the last non-Italian pope before John Paul II, is buried in a magnificent tomb just to the right of the main altar. The adjoining seminary is reached from the Via della Pace, and it was there, standing in the cold shadows of the forecourt, where they met Bishop Theodor Drexler the following morning.
Monsignor Donati greeted him in excellent Italian-accented German, and introduced Gabriel as “the learned Professor Shmuel Rubenstein from Hebrew University.” Drexler offered his hand at such an angle that for an instant Gabriel wasn’t sure whether to shake it or kiss the ring. After a brief hesitation, he gave it one firm pump. The skin was as cool as church marble.
The rector led them upstairs into an unpresumptuous book-lined office. His soutane rustled as he settled himself into the largest chair in the seating area. His large gold pectoral cross shone in the sunlight slanting through the tall windows. He was short and well-fed, nearing seventy, with a gossamer halo of white hair and extremely pink cheeks. The corners of his tiny mouth were lifted perpetually into a smile—even now, when he was clearly unhappy—and his pale blue eyes sparkled with a condescending intelligence. It was a face that could comfort the sick and put the fear of God into a sinner. Monsignor Donati had been right. Gabriel would have to watch his step.
Donati and the bishop spent a few minutes exchanging pleasantries about the Holy Father. The bishop informed Donati that he was praying for the pontiff’s continued good health, while Donati announced that His Holiness was extraordinarily pleased with Bishop Drexler’s work at the Anima. He referred to the bishop as “Your Grace” as many times as possible. By the end of the exchange, Drexler was so buttered up that Gabriel feared he might slide off his chair.
When Monsignor Donati finally got around to the purpose of their visit to the Anima, Drexler’s mood darkened swiftly, as if a cloud had passed before the sun, though his smile remained firmly in place.
“I fail to see how a polemical investigation into Bishop Hudal’s work for German refugees after the war will aid the healing process between Roman Catholics and Jews.” His voice was soft and dry, his German Viennese-accented. “A fair and balanced investigation of Bishop Hudal’s activities would reveal that he helped a good many Jews as well.”
Gabriel leaned forward. It was time for the learned professor from Hebrew University to insert himself into the conversation. “Are you saying, Your Grace, that Bishop Hudal hid Jews during the Rome roundup?”
“Before the roundup and after. There were many Jews living within the walls of the Anima. Baptized Jews, of course.”
“And those who weren’t baptized?”
“They couldn’t be hidden here. It wouldn’t have been proper. They were sent elsewhere.”
“Forgive me, Your Grace, but how exactly did one tell a baptized Jew from an ordinary Jew?”
Monsignor Donati crossed his leg and carefully smoothed the crease in his trouser leg, a signal to cease and desist in this line of inquiry. The bishop drew a breath and answered the question.
“They might have been asked a few simple questions about matters of faith and Catholic doctrine. They might have been asked to recite the Lord’s Prayer or the Ave Maria. Usually, it became apparent quite quickly who was telling the truth and who was lying in order to gain sanctuary at the seminary.”
A knock at the door accomplished Luigi Donati’s goal of ending the exchange. A young novice entered the room, bearing a silver tray. He poured tea for Donati and Gabriel. The bishop drank hot water with a thin slice of lemon.
When the boy was gone, Drexler said, “But I’m sure you’re not interested in Bishop Hudal’s efforts to shield Jews from the Nazis, are you, Professor Rubenstein? You’re interested in the assistance he gave to German officers after the war?”
“Not German officers. Wanted SS war criminals.”
“He didn’t know they were criminals.”
“I’m afraid that defense strains credulity, Your Grace. Bishop Hudal was a committed anti-Semite and a supporter of Hitler’s regime. Does it not make sense that he would willingly help Austrians and Germans after the war, regardless of the crimes they had committed?”
“His opposition to Jews was theological in nature, not social. As for his support of the Nazi regime, I offer no defense. Bishop Hudal is condemned by his own words and his writings.”
“And his car,” Gabriel added, putting Moshe Rivlin’s file to good use. “Bishop Hudal flew the flag of the united Reich on his official limousine. He made no secret of where his sympathies lay.”
Drexler sipped his lemon water and turned his frozen gaze on Donati. “Like many others within the Church, I had my concerns about the Holy Father’s Historical Commission, but I kept those concerns to myself out of respect for His Holiness. Now it seems the Anima is under the microscope. I must draw the line. I will not have the reputation of this great institution dragged through the mud of history.”
Monsignor Donati pondered his trouser leg for a moment, then looked up. Beneath the calm exterior, the papal secretary was seething at the rector’s insolence. The bishop had pushed; Donati was about to push back. Somehow, he managed to keep his voice to a chapel murmur.
“Regardless of your concerns on this matter, Your Grace, it is the Holy Father’s desire that Professor Rubenstein be granted access to Bishop Hudal’s papers.”
A deep silence hung over the room. Drexler fingered his pectoral cross, looking for an escape hatch. There was none; resignation was the only honorable course of action. He toppled his king.
“I have no wish to defy His Holiness on this matter. You leave me no choice but to cooperate, Monsignor Donati.”
“The Holy Father will not forget this, Bishop Drexler.”
“Nor will I, Monsignor.”
Donati flashed an ironic smile. “It is my understanding that the bishop’s personal papers remain here at the Anima.”
“That is correct. They are stored in our archives. It will take a few days to locate them all and organize them in such a fashion that they can be read and understood by a scholar such as Professor Rubenstein.”
“How very
thoughtful of you, Your Grace,” said Monsignor Donati, “but we’d like to see them now.”
HE LED THEM down a corkscrew stone stairway with timeworn steps as slick as ice. At the bottom of the stairs was a heavy oaken door with cast-iron fittings. It had been built to withstand a battering ram but had proved no match for a clever priest from the Veneto and the “professor” from Jerusalem.
Bishop Drexler unlocked the door and shouldered it open. He groped in the gloom for a moment, then threw a switch that made a sharp, echoing snap. A series of overhead lights burst on, buzzing and humming with the sudden flow of electricity, revealing a long subterranean passage with an arched stone ceiling. The bishop silently beckoned them forward.
The vault had been constructed for smaller men. The diminutive bishop could walk the passage without altering his posture. Gabriel had only to dip his head to avoid the light fixtures, but Monsignor Donati, at well over six feet in height, was forced to bend at the waist like a man suffering from severe curvature of the spine. Here resided the institutional memory of the Anima and its seminary, four centuries’ worth of baptismal records, marriage certificates, and death notices. The records of the priests who’d served here and the students who’d studied within the walls of the seminary. Some of it was stored in pinewood file cabinets, some in crates or ordinary cardboard boxes. The newer additions were kept in modern plastic file containers. The smell of damp and rot was pervasive, and from somewhere in the walls came the trickle of water. Gabriel, who knew something about the detrimental effects of cold and damp on paper, rapidly lost hope of finding Bishop Hudal’s papers intact.
Near the end of the passage was a small, catacomblike side chamber. It contained several large trunks, secured by rusted padlocks. Bishop Drexler had a ring of keys. He inserted one into the first lock. It wouldn’t turn. He struggled for a moment before finally surrendering the keys to “Professor Rubenstein,” who had no problem prying open the old locks.
Bishop Drexler hovered over them for a moment and offered to assist in their search of the documents. Monsignor Donati patted him on the shoulder and said they could manage on their own. The portly little bishop made the sign of the cross and padded slowly away down the arched passageway.