But, at this point, could he possibly refuse the assignment?
The Gospel reading that day had to do with workers who arrived to their jobs at different hours, some on time, some not, some on the first day of the workweek, some later. According to the scripture, Jesus wanted them all to be paid the same amount, and Paolo squirmed as he listened. The idea made no sense to him; the words had weight, yes, a weight he didn’t like. Father Costantino spoke them with great conviction in his deep, calm voice, and a few minutes later, during his sermon, tried to explain them this way: “There is the logic of earth and the logic of heaven. What seems unfair to us, with our earthly understanding—war, injustice, suffering—is all part of Christ’s plan, a plan that will make perfect sense once we’re safe and at peace in the next world. Look at what was done to the Son of God! Doesn’t that seem unfair? And yet, that was also part of God’s plan. We must accept His word, as we accept the word of the Holy Father, without questioning.”
Paolo tried with all his heart to accept God’s idea of fairness, but he’d seen too many workers in his years, good ones and lazy ones. If they were all treated the same, paid the same, spoken to the same way, there would be a revolt among the others. How could Jesus not know that?
During the second half of the Mass—the Consecration and Communion—he wrestled with the idea, praying silently, reminding himself to be humble, to trust. But the doubts persisted, and around them swirled a cloud of confusion that had enveloped him since sunrise. The Gospel was one thing: important, but abstract. Words from two thousand years ago. The early-morning conversation behind the boulder, so real and recent, weighed on him more heavily. He could see and hear the icy-eyed, beak-nosed young man telling him what the next assignment would be and how it would be carried out. It didn’t feel to Paolo like a Christian deed, and, looking at the crucifix above the altar, he couldn’t reconcile it with his faith.
After the Mass, while the others went out into the sunlight and chatted with friends from nearby estates, Paolo knelt in prayer for a few minutes, and then, when the confusion wouldn’t release its grip, he went and found Father Costantino in the small back room.
“You have the shadow of trouble on your face, Old Paolo,” the priest said. He seemed, almost, to be joking, even mocking. He was seated against one wall on an unpainted, backless bench and was taking off the gold-edged stole, folding it, setting it aside. The priest had come to them only a year ago, just at the time of the Signora’s illness, and no one could understand why a man of such spiritual achievement, a Milanese intellectual, would be assigned to a workers’ church in a poor village. Was it some kind of papal punishment? Like all the others, Paolo had been captivated from the first week by the man’s charisma and intelligence, his humor, his commentary on the Gospels and his firmness in the confessional. And then, this captivation—it was almost worship—had carried them into other conversations, and the conversations had taken a surprising turn, and led to the priest recruiting Paolo for what he called “God’s work. Fighting against the Nazi demons.” Small errands, they’d been, until today: carrying a note to a certain person when he made his deliveries; reporting back to the priest on the amount of hunger and unrest in the big cities; counting the number of vehicles on the road to Pisa or Florence or Rome; describing to him the train routes nearby.
Now, it seemed, now he was being led into another realm, a darker room in that secret house. He stood uneasily in the doorway, facing the priest, unable to speak. He thought of beginning with questions about the Gospel reading, but changed his mind—that would be dishonest—and so he simply stood there, mute, studying the priest’s face—the dark stubble, the dark eyes, the dark aura that seemed to encircle him. From what Paolo understood, there was a whole network of resistance fighters, and it was Father Costantino who gave orders to the beak-nosed young man, but perhaps it was the other way around. In any case, he was sure the priest must know about the assignment. “It seems a sin, Father, what I have been asked to do,” Paolo said after a moment.
Father Costantino studied him, then reached down to untie his polished black shoes. “It is a sin,” he said, and with those words Paolo felt as if he’d been pushed back hard against the wall. He started to say something more, but Father Costantino raised a hand, smiled, looked up. For a moment, one terrible second, the smile seemed almost evil. “But,” the priest went on, “your sin will cause there to be less suffering for the good people of this world. And because of that, the Lord of peace and love shall forgive you. One day He may ask you to do something difficult, as a penance, but He shall certainly forgive you, as He will forgive us all.”