The Lost Catacomb (22 page)
The bells of San Pietro had just rung out to the heavens,
triumphantly clanging in the cocktail hour of 8 PM and the official start of a
papal reception for the German ambassador and his entourage in the Apostolic
Palace.
Vespers had been celebrated
earlier in the basilica, and now all was quiet behind the massive locked doors
of the great church sanctuary.
In
the dark evening sky, Orion the hunter and Gemini the twins emerged from behind
a heavy mass of clouds and then disappeared from view.
Inside the Apostolic Palace an impressive list of Vatican
notables was present, including the Cardinal Secretary of State and his
assistant, as well as various other cardinals and bishops, senior archivists
and lesser officials, for this was considered to be a momentous occasion of
unparalleled significance.
Usually, ambassadors would present their credentials in a
papal audience without the kind of fanfare that this evening would entail.
And, in fact, this had been done, back
in July.
But the members of the
Curia knew just how important it was to curry favor with the new ambassador to
the Holy See, Baron Ernst von Weizs
ä
cker, who had served, prior to this tour of duty, under
Joachim von
Ribbentrop in the Foreign Office in
Germany.
He arrived at the
reception accompanied by the German consul, Albrecht von Kessel, and other
leading Nazi personalities.
Due to
the illustrious status of the guests, no expense or detail had been spared in
this delayed, but well-planned, welcome celebration.
After a certain amount of prolonged deliberation, it had
been quietly acknowledged behind closed doors ever since the arrival of the new
ambassador during the summer, that the Holy See was ready to work closely with
Weizs
ä
cker to ensure the continued protected status of Vatican
City and its various properties within Rome.
Though no one articulated this out loud,
at least not publicly, it was silently feared that failure to comply with the
wishes of the Reich in matters pertaining to the Vatican
’
s
political stance on certain delicate administrative matters would be ill
advised at the very least, and perhaps potentially destructive to the Holy See
in the long run.
Rostoni himself
had counseled the Pope that passive compliance, if not overt cooperation, was
the order of the day.
Thus it was that on this fine, late summer evening, in the
largest reception room of the Papal residence, that long tables had been
arranged, laid carefully with flawlessly pressed white damask tablecloths that
fell gracefully to the floor.
Bavarian crystal goblets of all sizes and shapes
—
some
for water, some for wine, some for champagne
—
were
artistically placed in groupings on one such table.
Bavarian crystal had specifically been
chosen that evening, instead of the usual Lalique or Baccarat glassware that
was more generally favored, in order to please the German guests and hint, in
this subtle fashion, that the Germans could feel at home in the Apostolic
Palace.
That their tastes and
preferences would always be catered to.
That theirs was a commonality of sensibilities and perhaps twin
purposes.
The crystal goblet service was surrounded by bottles of
rare French vintage wines from the ancient cellars of the Vatican.
Several magnums of champagne
rested on ice in large sterling silver vats, ornate and heavily embossed,
alongside some young Italian Barolo and Frascati varietals, the latter from the
Pope
’
s own vineyards at his summer estate in Castel Gandolfo,
high in the hillsides of the Castelli Romana outside Rome.
Matching crystal decanters stood beside a small selection
of Rhine wines and young Mosels and Gew
ü
rztraminers.
These wines would be
decanted in front of the Germans only if requested, for it was tacitly assumed
that the rarer French wines would naturally be preferred.
The selection was rounded out by fine Scotch whiskeys, aged
for decades in oak casks, which took pride of place at another end of the
table, with leaded cut crystal highball and shot glasses laid out nearby.
And all was complemented by perfectly
creased and folded white linen napkins that were scattered around the table for
the convenience of the guests.
At another table, an assortment of cocktail tidbits was
arranged on gleaming sterling silver platters and carefully attended to by
white-gloved, tuxedoed waiters from the Vatican
’
s
well-trained staff.
Antipasti, trays of cheeses and cold meats, and several covered chafing
dishes with hot appetizers rounded out the selection.
Custom-made bone china plates of various
sizes, bearing a Vatican crest in pure gold, all of museum quality, were
stacked neatly, awaiting the hungry diners.
At yet another table an elaborate porcelain tea and coffee
service of antique pedigree was laid out, with dozens upon dozens of tiered
cake and pastry comports heavily laden with biscotti, tartlets glittering with
generous layers of fruit glaze, and petit fours dripping with pastel-colored
fondant.
As a gesture to the
German guests, several Sacher tortes, Linzer tortes, and
apfel kuchen
were added to the festive arrangement, together with such traditional Italian
favorites as
panforte di Siena
and rich ricotta cake with toasted
pignoli
and mouthwatering black cherry preserves.
Elsewhere, outside the fortified walls of Vatican City, the
population of Rome partook of its usual meager dinner fare, suffering from the
constraints of rationing and the perpetual scarcity of many basic food
products.
Even those gifted with
the most fantastic imaginations would have found it difficult to conjure up
this scene of incredible bounty, a Barmecide feast to which they had not been
invited.
The Pope was seated in the center of the room on a small,
elevated dais, resplendent in his white robes, a golden crosier propped up at
the side of the papal throne.
He
was surrounded by several of the Swiss Guards, who stood at attention, and
flanked by the Cardinal Secretary of State and Mauro Rostoni.
Weizs
ä
cker
advanced across the room, accompanied by Albrecht von Kessel, Field Marshal
Albert Kesselring, and Major Herbert Kappler
—
the
latter, Himmler
’
s special envoy from Berlin, who had been given the
enviable assignment of dealing with Rome
’
s Jewish population.
A round of applause met him as he approached the Holy Father.
Clicking his heels, Weizs
ä
cker made
a short courtly bow and briskly kissed the huge stone on the ring that adorned
the Pope
’
s half-lifted hand.
He greeted the Cardinal Secretary of State with a dignified handshake
and then turned his attention to Rostoni, who had been asked to escort the
German ambassador around the room and introduce him to the various clerical
figures and dignitaries who
’
d been invited to this auspicious political event.
Several obsequious waiters passed by with trays in their
hands, offering the ambassador champagne and hors d
’
oeuvres as
he made his way through the crowds, pausing as he made his selection.
Rostoni declined the offer of champagne
with a cold look and a dismissive wave of his hand as he now directed Weizs
ä
cker to a
corner table, where the ambassador could sit for a few moments in peace.
Yet another waiter appeared with a velvet-lined, antique
wooden box bearing Cuban cigars.
Weizs
ä
cker nodded, selected a cigar, and waited while another
attendant clipped its end and produced a small silver lighter.
Weizs
ä
cker
inclined his head, took a puff, and inhaled appreciatively.
Smoke curled up around from the end of
the cigar, and Rostoni coughed discreetly.
“
Does the
smoke bother you?
”
the
ambassador asked.
“
Not at
all,
”
replied
Rostoni soothingly.
“
Some
seasonal allergies, that
’
s all.
I hope
the cigars are to your taste, Your Excellency,
”
he added.
“
How could
they not be?
”
came
the reply.
“
One would
never guess that there was a war going on here or in Europe at large,
”
Weizs
ä
cker
observed dryly, looking around the vast room.
“
The Pope certainly knows how to entertain his guests.
Or have you had a hand in the
arrangements, my friend?
My sources
tell me that you are quite close to the Holy Father.
”
“
Indeed?
And who might those sources be?
”
said
Rostoni archly, lifting an eyebrow and then narrowing his eyes almost
imperceptibly.
“
They would
no longer be confidential sources, I would imagine, if I were to reveal their
names.
”
“
Touch
é
,
Excellency,
touch
é
.
Yes, I
’
ve been
told that I
’
m
—
how shall we say?
—
indispensable to the Pope.
As he is to me, I might add.
As he is to me.
”
Weizs
ä
cker looked inquisitively at Rostoni and exhaled a cloud of
smoke.
Meanwhile, the mellow strains of soft violin music being
played in the background floated through the room, amid the raucous tones of
brittle cocktail chatter.
The
Germans had not only brought to these festivities a large group of officers and
attach
é
s assigned to their war offices in Rome, but, as usual, had
taken the liberty of inviting their mistresses and sundry female companions,
some of whom flirted outrageously with the waiters and even with some of the
younger priests who milled around the room.
Rostoni eyed his guest and waited with carefully veiled
impatience for him to continue the conversation.
Weizs
ä
cker, on
the other hand, stared with undisguised curiosity at the guests mingling around
the heavily laden tables and then addressed Rostoni once more.
“
Mein
lieber freund
,
”
he began in the silky tones of a
skilled diplomat.
“
Just who
is that man over there, to the left, speaking to my illustrious colleague, Herr
Kappler?
”
“
Him?
Why that
’
s Paolo
Orano, the author of a rather interesting little book on racial types in Italy,
or more precisely, on the inferiority of the Jewish race.
Gli Ebrei in Italia
.
Perhaps you
’
ve heard
of it?
It was published several
years ago, back in 1937, and was very well received in certain quarters.
”
Weizs
ä
cker nodded his head in assent.
“
Of course,
”
he
replied, slowly exhaling another puff of smoke from his cigar.