The Lost Catacomb (29 page)
Mauro Rostoni leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows
in a proprietary gesture on the large antique desk that occupied at least half
the floor space of his small office in the Apostolic Palace.
Something would have to be done about
finding him new, more spacious accommodations, he reflected angrily.
This room, quite frankly, was more
crowded than he wished and not located close enough to the wellsprings of power
in the Holy See.
He knew that
Mother Pasqualina, the Pope
’
s
housekeeper, would object, since she was already jealous of the Pope
’
s reliance on him for
advice and assistance.
But that was
her problem, he thought with sadistic relish.
Though he had been ordained only a year ago, in that brief
period of time he had established himself as a figure to be reckoned with in
the Vatican.
He had begun as a
humble aide to the Cardinal Secretary of State, based on the enthusiastic
recommendation of his mentors at the Gregorian University
—
and, if the truth
were to be known, with support from the deep pockets of some family
connections, who had quietly donated ample funds to the Secretariat
’
s expense account and
the University
’
s
scholarship fund.
Rostoni had
quickly proven himself to be a man of many talents
—
politically astute, loyal, and above all
discreet, qualities that were rare even in more experienced members of the
Curia establishment.
He had been useful to Luigi Maglione, the Cardinal Secretary
of State, on more than one occasion and in delicate situations that required
unusual tact, so that Maglione could hardly object when, several months ago,
the Pope had called Rostoni into his private study for a personal conversation
that had led to his new position as the pontiff
’
s right-hand man.
Maglione, quite simply, would have to
find himself a new assistant.
Rostoni thought back to the point in time at which he had
made his career choice, for that was precisely what he considered it to
be.
For him, the Church and holy
orders were not a calling that filled a spiritual void in his life, a vocation
that gave purpose to his existence, or something that filled a deep-seated and
unshakeable need to help others.
Truthfully, the only person whom Rostoni had ever considered helping was
himself.
From his early adolescence and onwards, he had been
fascinated by the power of the Church and her formidable princes.
It was an irrefutable fact of life that
mighty Rome, symbolized by the throne of St. Peter, held sway over most of the
civilized world.
Its wealth was
incalculable, its supremacy unquestioned.
Its sheer dominance over the spiritual welfare and very lives of its
subjects transcended borders, cultures, and languages.
Its approval had been the making
—
or breaking
—
of kings and
kingdoms, of dictators and demagogues throughout the centuries.
For the young Rostoni, the Catholic Church had come to
represent the pinnacle of temporal achievement rather than the font of
spiritual authority.
Most
importantly, for his purposes, one did not need to be born with blue blood
flowing in one
’
s
veins in order to inherit the seat of power, for the Church cultivated an
aristocracy of talent, a meritocracy, an elite to which anyone could aspire,
given a bit of luck, the right timing, and the right connections.
And as Rostoni knew well from his close study of Church
history, celibacy and poverty did not need to be part of the package.
As for obedience, some were made to obey
and follow, but others were there to command and lead.
He would be one of the latter and take
his pleasures when and where he could, as had so many others before him.
Bishops and cardinals, popes and
prelates
—
why
the Borgia pope had even committed incest with his own daughter Lucrezia,
swiftly disposing of her in a hastily contrived alliance of lands and fortunes
when she became pregnant.
Had not the admirable
Duce
himself written a popular
novel,
L
’
amante
del cardinale
, back in 1909, on the subject of the liaison between the
beauteous Claudia Particella and Bishop Carlo Emanuele Madruzzo during the 17
th
Century?
Yes, Rostoni thought, he too had ambitions in this direction.
He would obtain his initial sexual
experience, not perhaps with a great lady of noble birth, as had the
protagonist of Mussolini
’
s
historical novel, but with easier prey
—
prey
that could be blackmailed or intimidated into submission.
Not for him the surreptitious nighttime
visits to brothels or establishments of dubious repute, like so many of his
acquaintances.
No, he had had his eye on the luscious little Elena Conti for
some time now and had thought he
’
d
found the perfect means of leverage over her.
But she had slipped through his
fingers.
Into thin air, as it
were.
The mere fact of her
disappearance had become almost an obsession with him, and finding her
—
punishing her for
rebuffing him and flouting the Racial Laws
—
had become a matter of pride that gave him no
rest.
Much of his free time had been taken up with repeated
flashbacks in which Elena had cowered against a wall as he threatened to
denounce her family to the Blackshirts.
His flesh positively tingled with lust as he recalled touching her ripe
breasts for all too brief a moment.
He had thought, at the time, that she would be frightened enough to do
anything to save her family and her Jewish boyfriend
—
for so he had suspected the handsome Niccol
ò
to be
—
but even her show
of defiance had simply added to his titillation and consuming desire to possess
her body once and for all.
Perhaps he should have forced himself on her in the adjacent
alleyway while he had the opportunity, with the cooperative Giovanni standing
guard.
Yes, Giovanni would have enjoyed
watching, he mused, or perhaps even taking a turn himself.
It would even have been worth sharing
the spoils of Elena
’
s
virginity with his friend, if necessary, though he knew that Giovanni had a
Jewish lover, a young girl of exceptional beauty who willingly traded her
sexual favors for a steady supply of cash and contraband gifts of chocolate and
silk stockings.
Giovanni
’
s
friends had come back empty handed after their raid on Father Donato
’
s office in Santa Maria
in Trastevere.
That meddling old priest,
Rostoni was convinced, must have had something to do with the girl
’
s disappearance, though
there was nothing he could prove one way or the other.
He had no regrets whatsoever about his
own role in the arrest of Elena
’
s
father and brother, who still languished in jail to the best of his knowledge,
and the beating of her mother, who had probably died by now and been buried in
an unmarked grave, in deservedly unhallowed soil.
Serve them right for allowing a Jew into
their home.
And as for that scum who had dared to defy the Racial Laws
and had won the affections of Elena, as he supposed, well, Rostoni took comfort
in the report of his death at the hands of his Blackshirt cronies and the
arrest and deportation of his parents to a detention camp in northern
Italy.
As he knew from secret
reports that had reached the Vatican, from there it was only a matter of time
until the Rossi couple would find themselves en route to an extermination
center in Poland.
Rostoni
’
s
spies had searched everywhere for Elena in the days following the raids on the
Rossi and Conti households.
Neighbors had been questioned, train stations had been scoured, and
several of Elena
’
s
school friends had been interrogated under threat of
denuncia
themselves, though without results.
At this distance of several months, Rostoni hoped that the elderly
Father Donato would have let down his guard and that perhaps some information
might be found in his parish office, perhaps in cryptic or coded form.
But nothing of an incriminating nature had
turned up.
He pounded his fist on the desk in frustration, just as a
shy, bespectacled nun who assisted Mother Pasqualina knocked on his office
door.
“
Si
?
”
Rostoni snapped, not
bothering to disguise the annoyance in his voice.
“
I
’
m sorry,
”
the faceless nun
replied, her complexion turning an unbecoming shade of pink beneath her wimple,
“
but you are
wanted most urgently by the Holy Father.
Mother Pasqualina says you must come immediately.
”
Rostoni looked up at her with a cold expression that turned
her skin a deeper shade of scarlet, blotched with patches of white.
He rose from his chair and followed her
silently down the long corridor.
It was now early October of 1943.
Elena had been hidden in the convent for
nearly two months.
There was still
no news about the fate of her parents or her brother, despite Mother Teresa
’
s attempts to make
discreet inquiries.
Patient lists
had been scanned to see if Elena
’
s
mother had been admitted to one of the local hospitals, and a partisan sympathizer
in the municipality had quietly checked the registry for recent death
certificates, but to no avail.
Elena, meanwhile, had integrated slowly but fully into life
at the convent, participating in religious services and daily routines, though
with an aura of quiet melancholy and acceptance that saddened Mother
Teresa.
More than once she had
consulted with Father Donato on the subject of her young charge, but both she
and the kindly priest were forced to acknowledge that it would take time for
Elena to heal, to adjust to the fact that she was now essentially alone in a
world that had become disjointed and forbidding.
A world that would never be the same.
Neither one expected her to embrace the Church and be
comforted by a life of service to God and others, for they realized that, if
anything, Elena would eventually find an outlet in other, more worldly
pursuits.
Long heart-rending
conversations with Elena had convinced the Mother Superior that, at the end of
the war, Elena might find partial consolation in her future medical studies,
though, at this point in time, Elena could not even consider taking
matriculation exams, since it would compromise the safety of her hiding place.
As far as others in the convent were concerned, she was a
young farm girl from the Friuli, whose parents had objected to her interest in
the Church.
She had made her way to
Rome, so went her cover story, to escape a life of drudgery and a forced
marriage of convenience to an elderly, widowed neighbor that would have made
her miserable, but pleased her family, making possible the eventual
incorporation of a large plot of adjoining land into her parents
’
comparatively
insubstantial holdings.
The nuns had listened to Mother Teresa
’
s version of the story with interest on the night of
Elena
’
s arrival,
silently congratulating the young novice, known to them simply as Chiara, on
her decision to follow a spiritual calling.
They took for granted that they were
enjoined to silence, understanding fully that should her presence in the
convent be discovered, she would be forcibly returned to her parents, for she
was still underage and they remained her legal guardians.
Finally, in a desire to help Elena realize that she was not
alone in being pursued and hunted down by enemies, Mother Teresa made a
decision to entrust her with the knowledge that she and several of the other
nuns at the Order of the Holy Sisters were actively involved with one of the
Italian partisan groups operating in the Castelli Romana, just outside of Rome.
It was important for Elena to understand
that the dislocations of war had affected many others.
That they too had lost their families,
their property, their lives.
Yes, the good suffered while evildoers thrived, Mother Teresa
agreed.
But it was all part of God
’
s divine plan, which
would work its way out as part of a pre-ordained historical imperative.
It was not for mankind to judge nor even
to passively accept, unless it had first done all it could to try and rid the
world of hatred and tyranny.
“
I
have two younger brothers and one sister in the
Resistenza
,
”
Mother Teresa confided
to Elena one day.
“
I
’
m from a village near
Frascati, where my family has lived for generations.
I grew up on a farm, with groves of
almond and olive trees and a small vineyard that produced wines for the local
villagers.
As a matter of fact, we
used to supply the communion wine for our church.
My father, in his day, used to harvest
the grapes himself,
”
she
mused aloud.
“
I still remember how I
helped lug the old oak casks into the storage huts to await fermentation.
Well, those days are gone forever.
”
She sighed and added,
“
Our farm was confiscated and my father shot as he
tried to resist, so now my siblings are in hiding.
But some day this war will end, and
perhaps my family will get it back.
I do what I can here in the convent to help the war effort and assist
other victims of Fascism.
”
Until now, Elena had been too absorbed in her own misery to
take active notice of the fact that mysterious visitors were quietly whisked in
and out of the convent at almost regular intervals, kept overnight, as she now
learned, in hidden rooms or passageways that were connected to the convent
’
s library.
These secret chambers, centuries old,
were camouflaged by heavy bookcases that swung out only at the touch of a
practiced hand.
Some who passed through the convent
’
s network on their way to freedom were older men,
dressed in nondescript, tattered clothing, dark caps shadowing their faces, a
haunted look in their eyes.
Some
were younger men whose wounds would be cleansed and dressed, and who would
remain in the convent for several days to recuperate before being sent
surreptitiously out of Rome to rejoin a partisan cell.
And some were women with one or more
small children, who would appear and disappear into the shadows after a brief
stay, carefully concealed from the prying eyes of the inquisitive world beyond
the convent walls.
These, Elena understood, without being told, were Jews whom
the nuns were helping to go underground, as rumors of Nazi persecutions in
Poland and Germany spread and enforcement of the Racial Laws in Italy made it
clear to many that there was no longer a future for Jews in Italy.
Most were provided with false
identity papers, forged ration coupons, and eventually with safe passage out of
Italy, usually through a partisan network that would conduct them to the Swiss
border or help them make the difficult crossing over the Pyrenees mountains to
a safe haven in Spain.
But others were provided with false working papers and found
employment outside the convent, blending in with the local population so that
they could earn enough money to buy their way to eventual freedom.
Still others were forced to find a
livelihood in order to help relatives who had found sanctuary in convents or
monasteries less charitable than that of the Order of the Holy Sisters
—
places where they
were expected to pay for their room and board or trust to the vagaries and
caprice of the outside world.
Elena knew that, in the midst of her personal tragedy, she
was fortunate to have found refuge in this particular convent and that things
could have been far worse.
She was
safe here, for the time being.
There was a sense of tranquility, of calm, that came with being removed
from the busy streets of Rome and the constant reminders of privation and
hostility that hung in the air like a heavy pall of grief.
And conditions at the convent
—
including a
plentiful food supply
—
were
better than they were elsewhere.
But all this was only a temporary respite, she knew.
For while no one but Mother Teresa knew
her real background and the true reason why she was in hiding, it was becoming
increasingly difficult for her to conceal from her beloved Mother Superior the
one painful detail that had not yet been disclosed.
Within weeks of her arrival at the convent, it had become
clear to Elena that she was carrying Niccol
ò’
s child.
She was weak and tired easily, and found it difficult to eat.
Fortunately she had not suffered much
from the nausea that generally accompanied most pregnancies.
She had vomited only once or twice,
fortuitously enough late at night, when no one was around to see or
suspect.
Her pallor, she hoped, was
easily attributable to depression and continuing uncertainty about her future.
But her thin frame was starting to blossom with the new life
that grew within her.
Soon her
swollen breasts and gently expanding belly would give her away, even beneath
the novice
’
s robes
that she now wore.
She knew
she had no choice but to confide the rest of her sad story to Mother Teresa and
hope that somehow she would understand and forgive.
And so after compline later that evening, Elena knocked
softly on the door of Mother Teresa
’
s
room.
They walked out in
companionable silence into the small inner cloister of the convent, a peaceful
sanctum ringed round by ancient stone pillars and gracefully carved arches.
The air was fragrant with the scent of evening primrose and
early autumn flowers.
A dusty
sprinkling of stars peeked through the thick foliage of the fig and apple trees
at the center of the garden, and for one brief moment Elena felt an illusory
sense of reprieve from the world
’
s
trouble and pain, as if time stood still and a prelapsarian world of innocence
might yet be recaptured.
As they paused beneath a trailing canopy of purple wisteria,
whose wavy tendrils wrapped themselves in wild abundance around the arched
pillars, tears began to fill Elena
’
s
eyes.
“
Mother,
”
she began in a
quavering voice that was almost a whisper,
“
there's something I must tell you.
Something that will be very difficult
for you to hear,
”
she
said haltingly,
“
but
that I can no longer keep secret.
Even Father Donato doesn't know.
.
.
. didn't know,
”
she corrected herself carefully,
“
when he brought me here
to the convent.
And even I
didn't know then.
Not for
sure.
Not with any degree of
certainty.
“
I
’
m pregnant,
”
she burst out
suddenly.
“
My brother
’
s
friend, the boy who'd been tutoring me, the boy who was murdered . . . we were
lovers.
Just once.
Just that one time.
But now I'm carrying his child.
“
I
have no regrets,
”
she
continued,
“
for it
’
s all that
’
s left of him and his
family, and I believe it must've been God
’
s will.
”
She paused as a tear slid
unhindered down her cheek.
“
He was so young and so
good.
I loved him so much.
So very much.
”
Mother Teresa remained silent as Elena paused and then went
on, somewhat more coherently.
“
But I can't remain here
much longer.
My pregnancy will soon
become obvious to everyone.
And I
don
’
t know where I
can go.
”
“
My
dear,
”
she replied
quietly, placing a comforting hand on Elena
’
s cheek,
“
you're
not the first to have found refuge among us in such circumstances.
But you're carrying a Jewish child, and
that puts both you and your baby at risk.
“
I'll
confer with my colleagues to see what can be done.
Meanwhile, you must carry on as
usual.
It
will
be difficult,
but I
will
find a way to help you.
As I've helped so many others,
”
she added, with a
distant and troubled look in her eyes.
