The Lost Catacomb (31 page)
The tall Gestapo officer snapped his heels together stiffly
and saluted,
“
Heil
Hitler
!
”
as
Mother Teresa nodded slightly and crossed herself.
“
God
go with you both,
”
she
said quietly.
He emerged from the shaded portico of the convent into the
early morning sunlight, accompanied by a nun of indeterminate age, her face
partially obscured by a wimple.
She appeared to be occupied with the capacious folds of her habit, which
she gathered absentmindedly about her.
The small leather satchel that hung from a strap on her left shoulder
was half hidden from view and seemed to be much heavier than its size
warranted.
Motioning in the
direction of a waiting automobile, the German indicated to her to sit in the
back seat, then opened the front door and joined the driver.
The car pulled away from the curb and turned left onto a
narrow tree-lined side street.
Several blocks away from the convent the two passengers got out, walked
around the corner, and entered a dark, battered looking vehicle whose dusty
windows were partially rolled down.
This second car wound its way through the streets of Rome in
the direction of the
autostrade
, where it eventually exited several
kilometers north of the village of Frascati.
At the edge of the village, its
driver turned off into a densely wooded area, where the nun and the officer
continued on foot for the next half hour through the hilly terrain until they
reached a small abandoned hut at the edge of a clearing.
The German whistled softly and an answering cough let him
know that the door was open.
Inside, two partisans belonging to the local Resistance cell addressed
him in subdued voices and handed him a change of clothing.
Now turning their attention to the nun,
who had remained silent throughout this whispered exchange, they gave her a
sack containing a faded blue dress, shoes, stockings, a scarf, and other
necessities.
The two partisans left the cabin with the German, who quickly
removed his uniform and jackboots in the shadows at the back of the cabin,
donned a threadbare shirt, pants, and workman
’
s shoes, and placed a well worn cap on his
head.
A brown neckerchief was
tucked into his pocket.
He handed his gray uniform over to the partisans, who assured
him that they would find good use for it in their next ambush of a Nazi patrol.
Patiently, the three of them waited for
the nun to signal that she had finished changing her clothing so they could add
her discarded attire to their collection of disguises.
Cautiously opening the door, the erstwhile Gestapo officer,
still speaking to the others in rapid Italian, nearly gasped in amazement as
his pale gray eyes caught the gaze of the beautiful young woman who had been
dressed as a nun.
The transformation was as complete as it was incredible.
She appeared to be about eighteen years old,
with thick, lustrous dark hair that curled in soft tendrils just above her
shoulders.
The shabby dress she now
wore, instead of the flowing habit, stretched tightly over her swelling breasts
and was loosely belted at the waist.
She blushed, and her dark eyes flashed as she said softly, in
lightly accented English,
“
I
believe we haven
’
t
been properly introduced.
My name
is Elena.
Elena Conti.
”
Elena and the man she now knew as Tom Keating were driving
along a winding, mountain road towards the south of France.
The route they were taking would have
been considered picturesque under any other circumstance, had they had time or
the inclination to pay attention to the breathtaking scenery, with its tall
conifers, steep inclines, and panoramic views.
Tom hoped to make contact with one of the local
R
é
sistance
groups
operating near the French border, which would then conduct Elena to a safe
house outside of Nice, where she would be able to remain for several days.
She would then need to decide where to
go next, for with the Germans now occupying the Vichy-governed territory of
France, no shelter was secure for very long.
As Tom explained to her, at least
she had convincing false identity papers, provided by the
Resistenza
, as
well as some money.
Her small
cache of various European currencies was as yet untouched, as was the jewelry
she had brought with her.
Both
could easily be exchanged for food or safe conduct, as needed.
But as she listened to Tom
’
s assessment of her situation, her eyes began to
fill with tears, and she soon found herself sobbing uncontrollably.
“
What
’
s wrong, Elena?
”
he asked.
“
How
can I help?
”
He pulled the old truck that they were driving in to the side
of the road, and leaning over, handed her his brown neckerchief.
She took it from him wordlessly,
dropping it in her lap as she continued to cry.
Finally she looked up at him, red-eyed, and began to speak,
this time in brisk Italian, which she had realized, while they were still in
Frascati, he readily understood.
Her English, back at the secluded cabin, had been a show of sheer
bravado, and it was too much of an effort to continue to pretend that she felt
confident and fearless.
She was
just a frightened young girl with nowhere to go, no one who cared about her, no
family that she knew of, and an uncertain future.
“
How
much of my story do you know?
”
she asked him finally, wiping the corners of her eyes with the back of
her hand.
“
Not
much, to tell the truth,
”
he replied.
“
I know that you had to
get out of Rome, that your life is in danger, and that some pretty powerful
people are trying to find you.
And
yes, the Mother Superior did mention that you're an orphan
—
that your parents
and brother were arrested and presumed dead after a Fascist reprisal.
”
She hesitated only for a moment and then decided to tell him
the rest.
She had nothing to lose,
she realized.
Things couldn't get
any worse, and she felt sure that he wouldn't abandon her at the side of the
road, in the middle of nowhere, just because of what she was about to
reveal.
She assumed that he was
about ten years older than she was, mature, apparently intelligent, and more
than capable of giving her advice.
She had no one else to turn to.
No one else to trust.
And
obviously Mother Teresa had felt confident enough to confide her to his care.
“
I
don
’
t know how to
say this,
”
she
said falteringly,
“
but
I have no choice.
There
’
s no way you can help
me decide
—
not
that it
’
s your
responsibility to help me decide
—
where
I go from here or what would be best under the circumstances.
”
A tear rolled down her cheek, and she dabbed at it with the
faded brown cloth that Tom had handed her.
“
My father
and brother were arrested by the
carabinieri
several months ago,
supposedly for violating the Racial Laws.
My mother was beaten to the point of unconsciousness with their rifle
butts when she tried to intervene, and she was taken away with them.
I don
’
t know if she
’
s dead or alive, but probably she
’
s dead.
”
She began to cry softly, but checked herself with great
effort and continued bravely.
“
I was told by some
neighbors that my father and Giulio
—
my
brother
—
were
taken away to Regina Coeli prison.
No one gets out of there alive.
And anyway, no one's been able to find out if they're even still there.
“
The
only reason I
’
m
still alive is that I was away from home when it happened.
I hid for several days with friends in a
different part of Rome and returned to our apartment only to gather some
documents and things.
Our apartment
had been vandalized, and it wasn
’
t
safe for me to stay there.
“
But
there
’
s more, much
more.
”
He nodded to let her know that he was listening closely, and
she continued, this time more reluctantly.
“
You
see, the Racial Law that we had supposedly violated was that I had a Jewish
tutor, someone who was helping me with math and physics over the summer.
I want .
.
. I wanted,
”
she
corrected herself,
“
to
go to medical school, and you need very high grades on the matriculation exams
for that.
Especially if you
’
re female.
“
Niccol
ò
was a friend of my
brother, of Giulio.
He
’
d been expelled from
the university simply because he was Jewish.
We knew we couldn
’
t employ him
—
it
’
s forbidden
—
though if he
’
d needed the money we
would've done it anyway.
But he
didn
’
t need the
money.
He just needed to have
something to do.
Something that
would keep him going.
Something to
make him feel that life was still normal.
That his university education hadn
’
t been wasted.
“
And
we fell in love.
”
Here Elena started crying again, but forced herself to
continue brokenly, through her tears.
“
Someone
with Fascist connections, someone from my parish, denounced us to the
carabinieri.
You said that you were told that powerful
people were after me?
Well, this
someone was a priest, newly ordained and working in the Vatican.
His brother and best friend are
Blackshirts.
He tried to blackmail
me into .
.
.
”
She
stopped, shuddering uncontrollably at the recollection.
“
He wanted me to exchange favors, sexual favors, for
my family
’
s
freedom from
denuncia
.
”
Tom looked at her in shock.
“
You
say this guy was a priest?
What
kind of priest would do a thing like that?
”
“
What
kind of priest?
”
she replied bitterly.
“
Well,
I
’
ve heard that he
’
s become an assistant
to the Holy Father himself.
That
’
s what kind of priest!
Someone with a lot of power who
’
s used to getting his
own way.
Who would believe me?
“
But
you see, there
’
s
more.
Niccol
ò
and his parents had also been denounced.
His mother and father were arrested and
deported.
But .
.
. ,
”
she
said, taking a deep breath,
“
he was murdered,
bludgeoned to death in front of his parents several weeks before my family was
arrested.
“
We
were so in love,
”
she
cried,
“
and now he
’
s dead.
I don
’
t even know where he
’
s buried.
And
—
and
I
’
m carrying his
child.
That
’
s why I had to leave the convent.
Mother Teresa said I was in danger of
discovery by that priest.
And my
baby will be part Jewish.
It was no
longer safe.
”
Tom looked at her in shock, but made no comment.
“
Please
don
’
t judge me,
”
she said sadly.
“
Even
Mother Teresa didn
’
t
judge me when I told her.
Niccol
ò
and I were lovers only
once.
It was just after that priest
threatened me, near a dark alleyway, on my way home from mass.
“
Things
just got out of control somehow between me and Niccol
ò
, just that one time.
All that fear.
All that desperation .
.
.
.
Things are different during a war.
I don
’
t know if you can possibly understand what I mean.
“
But
I
’
m not
sorry.
How can I be sorry, when
this baby is all that
’
s
left of him and his family?
He was
an only child.
There are no others.
“
I
’
m not even sure if I
believe in God anymore,
”
she
rambled on hurriedly,
“
but
what we did was sanctified, as surely as if we had exchanged vows in a church
or synagogue.
This baby was meant
to be.
I know it was meant to be.
”
He nodded sympathetically, still stunned by her confession,
and let her finish speaking.
“
So
now you can see just how terrible my situation is.
I
’
m an orphan, and soon enough I
’
m going to be an unwed
mother.
I have no relatives I can
turn to, and I don
’
t
know where to go.
I
’
m on my way to a safe
house somewhere in France, and from that point on, my future is a blank.
”
Tom looked at her appraisingly, impressed by her courage in
telling him all this.
“
I
’
ll think of something
to help you, Elena,
”
he
promised.
“
I won
’
t
just set you adrift in France.
Now
try to get some rest.
It
’
s late, and we need to
find shelter for the night.
We
’
ll talk then.
I give you my word.
”
