The morning wore on, and the initial enthusiasm began to wane. The line thinned to a few donors, then to an old woman with a locket. Simple arithmetic told Sandro that if they collected gold at this rate, it would take them an entire month to accumulate the required weight. He stopped announcing the running tally, as the answers were intensifying their collective anxiety. The Ghetto families had given all they had, but they had far too little.
Sandro exchanged grave looks with his father, who stood with his mother and Rosa. None of them had to say a word, for the terrifying truth was plain to see. They grew deathly quiet. Their expressions fell into tense and drawn lines. The lethal deadline hung over them all.
His father crossed to Sandro and leaned next to his ear. “Chin up, for all of our sakes.”
Sandro forced a smile.
“I have to go out, son. I’ll return in a few hours.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’ll tell you later. Keep up the good work, and have faith.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
Massimo
27 September 1943
Monday Afternoon
Massimo reached Vatican City, breathless from the walk, then hurried up the majestic Via della Conciliazione. Crowds filled the massive Saint Peter’s Square, and among them he spotted Emedio, who was waiting for him in front of Saint Peter’s Basilica. Massimo had telephoned him, told him about Kappler’s demand, and asked for help.
Massimo scurried to him, his tie flying, and Emedio hustled forward, his cassock billowing. They met in the middle and embraced, clinging to each other a moment longer, as men do in times of distress.
Massimo released him. “Thank you for seeing me.”
“Of course. I’m sorry about your terrible trouble.”
“It’s horrifying, but we’re doing everything we can. Thank you for responding to my call, Emedio.” Massimo caught himself. “I’m sorry, should I call you Father Terrizzi here?”
“No, you needn’t.” Emedio smiled warmly. “Let’s go. I know time is of the essence.”
“It absolutely is.” Massimo checked his watch, and it was already five minutes after two o’clock.
“This way.” Emedio gestured to the left of the Basilica, and they fell in step toward the Bernini Colonnade. “I heard that Almansi and Foà have already petitioned our Holy Father for help. I believe they just left.”
“What did the Holy Father say? Will the Vatican help?”
“I hope so, but I’m not privy to that information. I’m glad you called me, though. Sometimes a back channel can accomplish what a formal method cannot, especially in Vatican City. Diplomacy is the watchword here.”
“That’s what I thought.” Massimo hurried to keep pace with Emedio, who had long legs. “I would be grateful for anything you can do. Fifty kilograms is an enormous amount of gold.”
“Yes, I know. Come this way.” Emedio led him under the Bernini Colonnade. “We’re going to the Collegium Teutonicum, the German College.”
“Inside the Vatican?” Massimo had never been within the walls of Vatican City.
“Not technically. The German College is on extraterritorial ground, like the German Cemetery and the Holy Office, where I work.”
“Oh.” Massimo still thought it was remarkable, and they hurried under an arch flanked by the Swiss guards in battle dress uniforms. “So what’s your idea?”
“I’m going to introduce you to Monsignor Hugh O’Flaherty. He’s helped a lot of foreign Jews get to convents and monasteries. He’s even helped them move into Vatican City.”
“Jews live in Vatican City?” Massimo asked, astonished. They hustled past a small cemetery set in a grassy hillock, surrounded by spiky cypresses and graceful palm trees.
“Yes.” Emedio nodded. “We have many Jewish refugees living at the College of Cardinals. There are over a thousand rooms in Vatican City, but only two hundred or so are occupied. Monsignor O’Flaherty has also hidden foreign Jews in apartments throughout the city, where they live freely.”
“How does he do that?” Massimo hurried to keep pace with Emedio. They were heading for a grand stucco building painted a soft golden hue, rising six or seven stories into the sky. Two levels of vaulted arches marked its entrance, which was at the other side of a beautifully landscaped courtyard.
“Monsignor O’Flaherty’s rank at the Vatican is scrittore, a writer, but he does whatever he thinks is needed, on his own initiative. Between you and me, I doubt he could operate without the tacit approval of our Holy Father. The monsignor has cultivated a confidential network of padroni di casa to help him, some fifty priests and theological students.”