“How does the monsignor rent the apartments?”
“Under assumed names, backed by false documenti.”
Massimo thought it was ingenious. “Where does he get the money?”
“From rich donors who want to help. He knows a lot of people in high society because he’s an expert golfer. He even taught Mussolini’s son-in-law, Count Ciano, to play at the Rome golf club.”
“What about the Nazis? How does he get away with this?”
“It’s very dangerous.” Emedio frowned with concern. “Kappler himself has targeted the monsignor, but he’s dedicated. He even disguises himself for his missions, so we call him the Pimpernel of Vatican City.”
Massimo’s heart lifted with hope. “He sounds like an amazing man. Do you think he’ll help?”
“I can’t promise anything, but I believe you can convince him.”
“So do I,” Massimo said, though he wasn’t sure. They reached the entrance to the Collegium Teutonicum, where priests and nuns stood talking in small groups. Standing alone in one archway was a monsignor with round, wire-rimmed glasses under his low-crowned black hat, in a long black robe with red facings. Remarkably, he was built like a world-class athlete, at about 188 centimeters tall.
“That’s Monsignor O’ Flaherty,” Emedio said, pointing.
“He’s so tall!”
“So are you, Massimo.”
“On the inside, maybe.”
“But that’s where it counts, isn’t it?”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE
Sandro
27 September 1943
Monday Afternoon Sandro checked the calculations for a gold necklace contributed by the De Veroli family, then thanked them and handed them the receipt. But there was nobody else in line. There were simply no other contributions.
His mother and Rosa maintained their smiles, but Sandro could tell it was effortful. No one knew where to look, averting their eyes from each other. The staff at the table busied themselves straightening papers or brushing away dust. Angelo coughed, the only interruption of the silence. Gloom burdened the room, as if the very air had acquired a weight measurable on one of the scales.
There was a commotion as new contributors arrived, and Sandro looked up to see that they were Beppe, Maria, and Marco. His throat thickened, and he felt moved that the Terrizzis had come. His gaze connected across the room with Marco’s, and he could see pain and sympathy etched into his best friend’s expression.
His mother and Rosa embraced the Terrizzis. “Maria, Beppe, thank you,” Rosa said, wiping her eyes under her glasses.
Maria hugged Rosa. “We’ll do anything we can to help.”
Beppe’s rugged face softened. “We’re deeply sorry, Gemma. It’s outrageous that this should happen in Rome.”
Sandro hadn’t realized until this moment how much he had missed his best friend. Seeing Marco again brought back memories of a better, sweeter time, of a past they shared, riding bicycles, horsing around in the street, and walking through Rome together, from when they were little boys.
His mother showed the Terrizzis to the table. “Look who’s here, Sandro,” she said, composing herself.
“Marco—” Sandro started to say, but words fell short. He rose, came around the table, and embraced his old friend.
“I’ve missed you, brother. I’m sorry this is happening, too. I’m sorry for what I said that night.”
“Thank you.” Sandro released Marco, touched. “And about Elisabetta, I want you to know, I never—”
“None of that matters now,” Marco interrupted him gently, his gaze glistening as he squeezed Sandro’s arms. “We’re best friends, you and me. We said it once, but I forgot our bond. I stand with you. We stand together.”
Sandro blinked. He felt the same way, and he could discern a new maturity in his old friend. “Thank you.”
“Here, take this.” Marco reached around his neck and took off a gold chain with a small crucifix, which Sandro had seen on his neck since boyhood.
Maria reached for her gold necklaces, one with a filigreed crucifix and the other with a corno. “Take mine, too.”
Beppe handed over a thick envelope, then took off his necklace, with a crucifix and a gold saint’s medal. “I’m hoping the money will come in handy if you need to buy additional gold.”
Sandro accepted the envelope and the necklaces. “Thank you, all of you.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR
Marco
27 September 1943