“Ah yes, that is more important, isn’t it? Come, I will take you up.” Bruzzone pointed to the top floor of the darkened palace. Above us, the last remnants of light cast an inky glow across the sky. I shivered, and followed.
“Alois, come stanno sua moglie ed i bambini? Franco, come stai?”
Bruzzone chatted with Alois and Franco, who wore capes over their gray field uniforms. I heard our names and Montini’s mentioned, then the doors were opened and the guards gave us friendly nods.
“You and Monsignor O’Flaherty both seem to know all the Swiss Guard well,” I said.
“Of course we do. In our business; it pays to befriend those who stand guard at the gates, yes? I got to know them even more closely when their chaplain fell ill and I took over his duties for a brief time. They are good men, many of them willing to turn a blind eye when POWs or refugees show up in the piazza. Others even give their assistance willingly.”
“It seems orders from the top are not always carried out to the letter,” I said, remembering what Montini had said this morning about ignoring the Pope’s directive for refugees to be turned out of papal properties.
“But is it not the spirit we should be concerned with here?” Bruzzone gave a wink, and we followed him up the marble staircase to the third floor. He had a point, and I recalled what Kaz had said about this being a place of absolutes. True, there wasn’t a lot of middle ground between heaven and hell, but some of these guys managed to find room in the shadows to rationalize their own actions. As long as it was to my benefit, I had no problem with that. After all, a Boston cop learns rationalization at the knee of his daddy.
“Monsignor,” Bruzzone said as he knocked at the open door. Montini did double duty, working afternoons as the papal secretary. His office was at the edge of the Pope’s private living quarters, which stretched around one corner of the top floor. The single window was covered in blackout drapes, and heavy wood paneling deadened the sound, making Bruzzone’s voice sound meek and fearful.
“Yes, come in,” Montini said, rising from his chair. “You are here for the letter, I assume?”
“Yes, Monsignor,” I said.
“You have given up the priesthood, both of you?” Montini said with a sly grin. “I despair of losing two such resourceful candidates for the clergy.”
“By now most people within these walls know we’re not for real,” I said.
“Correct. If prayer flew as quickly as gossip, all the saints in heaven could not keep up with it. But take care when you cross the border line to deliver this.” Montini handed Kaz a thick white envelope. “There is a copy in English as well as in German. I thought the former might imply delivery to the English or Americans.”
“That’s smart, Monsignor,” I said. “But what does the letter actually say?”
“It is addressed to Colonel Erich Remke, Excelsior Hotel, Rome,” Kaz said. Then he read.
As Minister of Ordinary Affairs for the Vatican State Secretariat, I acknowledge receipt of the document referred to as the Auschwitz Protocol, along with other documents related to the conflict which now engulfs the world.
The Holy See has received many reports of vast atrocities involving noncombatants, tormented as they are, for reasons of nationality or descent, destined to exterminatory measures. When soldiers turn their weapons against noncombatants to exercise these measures, whether from the air or on the ground, such acts are no longer part of jus ad bellum, the criteria for a just war, but must be called murder. Such reports beg the question, How should the honorable man act?
Should he not, over the ruins of a social order which has given such tragic proof of its ineptitude, gather together the hearts of all those who are magnanimous and upright, in the solemn vow not to rest until a vast legion shall be formed of those handfuls of men who, bent on bringing back society to its center of gravity, which is the very law of God, will take just action?
Mankind owes that vow to the countless dead who lie buried on the field of battle: The sacrifice of their lives is a holocaust offered for a new and better social order. Mankind owes that vow to the hundreds of thousands of persons who, without any fault on their part, sometimes only because of their nationality or race, have been consigned to death. Mankind owes that vow to the flood of tears and bitterness, to the accumulation of sorrow and suffering, emanating from the murderous ruin of this dreadful conflict and crying to Heaven to liberate the world from violence and terror.
“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
