From Sand and Ash(76)

Angelo bristled but shook his head and shrugged easily. “No, it is not like that. We are only two years apart.”

“It is a good thing you are a priest. Otherwise, people might get the wrong idea,” the captain said softly. He was quiet then, staring out the window, and Angelo watched as the driver missed one turn and then another. He didn’t know where they were going, but they weren’t taking him home. The car rolled up in front of the Church of Santa Cecilia, treating the big piazza like a parking lot. The captain reached for the door. Angelo’s stomach sank.

“I have some business here. Maybe you can help me with it, Father. You speak German so well, and my Italian is limited. I may need a translator.” A truck pulled up behind the Mercedes, and a handful of SS men jumped out, rifles in hand.

“What are you doing?” Angelo gasped, climbing out of the car and rushing to get in front of the men with guns. He stretched out his hands, slowing them, bidding them to stop, praying that the people inside would have time to hide or prepare.

“It is a raid, Father,” von Essen said simply. “The Catholic Church is disdainful of our laws. We have reason to believe there are Jews being hidden all over Rome in convents just like this one.”

“There is no one here! I know this convent. I know the sisters here.”

“But, of course you do. Your own sister rents a room here. But you understand, we must check for ourselves.”

“No! I do not understand. Places of worship are sanctuaries. There is a cloister inside these walls. No one violates the cloister. Not a priest, or a German, or a Jew!”

“The Catholic Church—the Pope himself—cannot control a single SS officer. You do realize that, don’t you, Father?” The captain smiled at Angelo, but his eyes were cold and flat. He inclined his head to his men, and they immediately ran to the gate and started striking it with their rifle butts, the insistent clanging filling the cold air with dissonance and distress. Through the bars Angelo could see into the serene courtyard, the glass-like surface of the pool around the large urn reflecting moonlight and dark sky. It was late enough that the occupants could be in bed. Angelo prayed they weren’t. Sleepy and disoriented would not work in their favor.

He did a mental count of the refugees inside. The Sonninos had documents. But Mario’s flesh would give him away if the captain saw fit to go that route again. The two sisters who had escaped the October roundup did not have papers, but the nuns had been coaching them. They had habits, and if they had time to don them, they might be safe. The two brothers had papers and military releases, but their accents were problematic, and they faced the same threat Mario did. Their best chance of survival was to hide. The family with the two small boys did not have passes, and the father and his young daughter did not have false documents either. Their passes labeled them Jews. That made eight people inside who would be immediately arrested and taken if they were discovered, and several more who were extremely vulnerable to detection.

“I want you to call out to them, Father. Tell them to open the gate. Reassure them,” von Essen instructed. “Otherwise, we will have to damage their property to gain entrance. We don’t want to do that. We are reasonable men.”

The clanging ceased as Angelo raised his voice and called out to Mother Francesca, his mind separating from his mouth to pray to Saint Cecilia herself that she might protect the innocents within her walls.

“Mother Francesca, it is Father Bianco. I am here with Captain von Essen of the German Police. He is insisting on checking the premises for Jews.” He was almost grateful that he could call out the danger in no uncertain terms but didn’t know how that would help beyond scaring them to death. There wasn’t time to do much of anything.

Mother Francesca approached the gate with measured steps. Normally, Mother Francesca bustled, too busy about God’s work to move slowly. Now she practically dragged her feet, her hands folded piously, her face grim.

“Father Angelo,” she greeted, inclining her head slightly. She then looked at the captain.

“Open the gate,” von Essen commanded, his eyes holding hers.

She tipped her head as if she didn’t understand German. Angelo was quite certain she didn’t, but it was clear what the captain wanted.

“Tell her to open the gate!” von Essen snapped. Angelo did so, and Mother Francesca, with great deliberation, slowly opened the gate. The soldiers pushed past her, almost knocking her to the ground, but she clung to the gate and managed not to fall.

Captain von Essen produced a bullhorn through which he demanded everyone immediately come out into the courtyard or be shot.

Angelo took Mother Francesca by the arm, steadying her. He didn’t dare ask any questions or draw attention by a hushed conversation, but he translated the captain’s command.

“No! We have cloistered nuns here. They cannot come down to the courtyard! They can’t come out of the cloister!” she cried, rushing toward the captain. Angelo relayed her concerns.

“Well, then. By all means. We must go to them.” He spread his hands, bullhorn in one, as if he were being infinitely reasonable.

“No!” The abbess stamped her foot. “Kill me if you must! You will not go into the cloister.”

“You might not be the only one who dies, Mother,” Angelo said softly. “They will kill you, and they will still go into the cloister. Live to fight another day.”