“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.”
“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.
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,