Archbishop Ralph sat down, clenched his hands between his knees, stared rebelliously out the window at the doves soaring, golden in the setting sun, toward their cote. At forty-nine he was thinner than of yore, and was aging as splendidly as he did most things.
“Ralph, we are what we are. Men, but only as a secondary consideration. First we are priests.”
“That wasn’t how you listed our priorities when I came back from Australia, Vittorio.”
“I meant a different thing then, and you know it. You are being difficult. I mean now that we cannot think as men. We must think as priests, because that is the most important aspect of our lives. Whatever we may think or want to do as men, our allegiance is to the Church, and to no temporal power! Our loyalty lies only with the Holy Father! You vowed obedience, Ralph. Do you wish to break it again? The Holy Father is infallible in all matters affecting the welfare of God’s Church.”
“He’s wrong! His judgment’s biased. All of his energies are directed toward fighting Communism. He sees Germany as its greatest enemy, the only real factor preventing the westward spread of Communism. He wants Hitler to remain firmly in the German saddle, just as he was content to see Mussolini rule Italy.”
“Believe me, Ralph, there are things you do not know. He is the Pope, he is infallible! If you deny that, you deny your very faith.”
The door opened discreetly, but hastily.
“Your Eminence, Herr General Kesselring.”
Both prelates rose, their late differences smoothed from their faces, smiling.
“This is a great pleasure, Your Excellency. Won’t you sit down? Would you like tea?”
The conversation was conducted in German, since many of the senior members of the Vatican spoke it. The Holy Father was fond of speaking and listening to German.
“Thank you, Your Eminence, I would. Nowhere else in Rome does one get such superbly English tea.”
Cardinal Vittorio smiled guilelessly. “It is a habit I acquired while I was the Papal Legate in Australia, and which, for all my innate Italianness, I have not been able to break.”
“And you, Your Grace?”
“I’m an Irishman, Herr General. The Irish, too, are brought up on tea.”
General Albert Kesselring always responded to Archbishop de Bricassart as one man to another; after these slight, oily Italian prelates he was so refreshing, a man without subtlety or cunning, straightforward.
“As always, Your Grace, I am amazed at the purity of your German accent,” he complimented.
“I have an ear for languages, Herr General, which means it’s like all talents—not worth praising.”
“What may we do for Your Excellency?” asked the Cardinal sweetly.
“I presume you will have heard of the fate of II Duce by now?”
“Yes, Your Excellency, we have.”
“Then you will know in part why I came. To assure you that all is well, and to ask you if perhaps you would convey the message to those summering at Castel Gandolfo? I’m so busy at the moment it’s impossible for me to visit Castel Gandolfo myself.”
“The message will be conveyed. You are so busy?”
“Naturally. You must surely realize this is now an enemy country for us Germans?”
“This, Herr General? This is not Italian soil, and no man is an enemy here except those who are evil.”
“I beg your pardon, Your Eminence. Naturally I was referring to Italy, not to the Vatican. But in the matter of Italy I must act as my Führer commands. Italy will be occupied, and my troops, present until now as allies, will become