“In 1942, he visited several concentration camps, including Belzec, in Poland. While he was there, he witnessed the gassing of three thousand Jews. This was what he had joined the SS for. To gather evidence of outright extermination. He described what he had seen to the Swedish diplomat Baron von Otter, and the papal nuncio in Berlin, Father Cesare Orsenigo, as well as to the bishop. All promised to send word to London, and each did. When nothing but silence came of that, Bishop von Preysing wrote directly to the pope.”
“Diana,” Philby said, leaning forward to whisper to her. “Are you sure this chap isn’t mad? Surely I would have heard of such a report coming from Berlin. Perhaps he had an attack of conscience and fabricated the worst he could imagine.”
“You don’t understand,” Diana said. “What do you think is happening in these camps? Gerstein witnessed it all, the trains coming in, the few able-bodied separated to be worked to death, all the rest ushered into the gas chambers. They have them marked as showers, to disinfect for typhus. Jewish trustees tell them to fold their clothes and leave them on benches, to remember where they left them. Then they enter the chamber and the doors are locked behind them. The Zyklon B is dropped through vents in the ceiling. In twenty minutes they open the doors and pull out the dead. They pry the gold from their teeth and incinerate the bodies.”
“The very Zyklon B that Herr Gerstein so thoughtfully provided?”
“Yes. So that he could witness what was being done. So he could tell the world. But so far, the world hasn’t listened.” She slammed the table with the flat of her hand and her glass fell, staining the tablecloth with wine before it rolled off the table and shattered.
Philby sat in silence, haunted perhaps by visions of mass killing, or worried that he hadn’t been privy to reports smuggled out of Nazi Germany. Finally he stirred enough to chastise Diana about overreacting to Vatican gossip and to tell me to keep quiet about what I’d heard, and then left the table.
“What do you think, Billy?” Diana said, now that we were alone. I knew Diana was counting on me to believe her, to back her up. I squirmed in my seat, trying to find the words she wanted to hear, but I didn’t know what to say. It was all so insane, it was hard to come up with a logical thought. Then I remembered Sammy.
“I had a friend in high school, Sammy Vartanian. He was Armenian, and his father used to curse the Turks for killing over a million Armenians in 1915. I’d never heard of it, and I figured maybe Sammy’s old man was off his rocker. So I looked it up in the encyclopedia. Sure enough, there is was. The Armenian Genocide. I figure if something like that happened a few decades ago, and I never heard of it, then you could be right. Besides, I believe in you.”
“I’d heard talk among Jews we have hidden in Vatican City, but I thought it might be nothing more than rumors. Not the deportations and shootings, all that is well known. It’s the sheer scale of it all. Like a giant assembly line of death.”
“But you believe this report from Gerstein?”
“Yes. It all checks out. Bishop von Preysing vouches for him, and he’s completely reliable. He’s been anti-Nazi and quite outspoken about it, unlike most other German bishops. And thank you.”
“For what?”
“For believing in me.” Diana reached her hand toward mine, and her skin held an electrical charge. I pulled away, looking around to see if anyone had seen this Irish civilian hold hands with a nun. Diana blushed, the red flush stark against the white surrounding her face.
“Let’s go,” she said, and I followed her up the stairs, aware of the movement in her hips beneath the black cloth. My heart was beating fast, and I wondered if I should feel guilty about desiring her so soon after discussing the fate of millions. Then I wondered if I was going to hell for lusting after a nun, even a phony one. That made my heart beat even faster, but I didn’t have time to decide which to worry about, since we were in front of Diana’s door. Guilt and hell were pretty much the same thing in my upbringing, and I knew I could never explain this situation to a priest and ask for absolution.
“Listen,” I said, as she turned the key in the lock. “I’ll understand if you want to be alone, you know, after your long trip and all.”
Diana eyed me, then the hallway. It was empty. The only sounds were those drifting up from the restaurant two floors below. She pressed her body against mine, her face warm, her eyes half closed, her lips moist as we kissed. Our arms encircled each other, and I tasted the sweetness of her mouth and the saltiness of the tears that streaked her cheek. I reached for the unlocked door, pushed it open, and we entered like two dancers in tune with the music of longing. I kicked it shut as Diana pulled the white coif from her head, letting her long hair loose. She carefully removed the cross she wore around her neck and the rosary beads from her woolen belt, placing them on a small table by the gable window. Then she removed her scapular- the black apron draped over her shoulders-and covered them with it.
“I’ve missed you,” she said, kicking off her shoes and wiping a tear away.
“Is that why you’re crying?” I asked, taking her in my arms, feeling warm flesh beneath the nun’s habit and trying not to think about all the real nuns I’d known. This was not the time for visions of Sister Mary Margaret.
“I don’t know. It’s everything. The war, the innocent deaths, all the lives ripped apart. It’s too much to bear. I don’t want to think about it anymore, at least not now.”
We struggled out of our clothes, not wanting to separate for a second, eager to release our bodies from the confines of belts and buttons. I laughed when Diana pulled off her tunic, half expecting all the saints in Switzerland to barge through the door.
“What’s the matter, haven’t you ever seen a nun undress before?”
I laughed some more and Diana giggled as the pile of clothes by the side of the bed grew, layers of her undergarments mixing with my civvies, until we were under the duvet, basking in the warmth of our flesh on a cold winter night, safe from the murderous conflict that threatened from all points of the compass. The world had shrunk down to the two of us in this room. The war had burned away all the petty arguments, all the ill will that we’d let come between us. There were no questions about tomorrow or the next day, no expectations of the future, no wondering what would become of us. Fear, blood, and death had washed us clean, leaving only what survived, or what had burrowed deep into our hearts, as far from the danger as it could go and still be remembered. We caressed each other, coaxing those memories out, letting them breathe the air of joy and freedom before we put them away again.
We laughed, but I can’t say we were happy. We made love, but it was desperate and burning hot, as if we were keeping evil at bay by the very act. We cried, but our woes were so small that I was ashamed of the tears. We held each other, and knew it would not last.
We slept, but could not rest.
CHAPTER THREE
The next morning, he was waiting for us. A young guy, his face smooth and pink. He sat at our alcove table, pulling at his shirtsleeves to best display his gold cuff links. I squeezed Diana’s hand and stopped before he saw us. I watched as he sipped his coffee, resting his hands just so, allowing the gold to sparkle. A leather briefcase was on the chair next to him. His hair was brown and wavy, his expression bored, his fingers manicured. He’d been out in the sun, most likely on a ski slope. He had the healthy, athletic look of a college boy, and the well-tailored look that came from a rich daddy. His eyes weren’t on the other guests or the entrance. He didn’t even notice us a dozen steps away. He sipped his coffee and looked at his copy of the Neue Zurcher Zeitung, the major Swiss daily newspaper. Probably checking his stocks.
“Let’s go back,” I whispered, pulling Diana by the arm. She wore a silk blouse and tweed skirt from the clothes that had been provided for her and the sensation was appealing.
“Why? Because that boy is at our table?” She stood closer to me as we edged against the wall. Feeling the smooth silk against her skin, I hated the thought of leaving her so soon.
“He’s from the embassy. It can only be trouble.”
“How can you be sure?”
“He’s American. He’s not an agent, unless he’s in disguise as a Harvard twit. He’s too young to have any clout, which makes him a messenger boy. And messages from embassies are like telegrams-always bad news.”
