Warburg in Rome (19 page)

As a young priest, Kevin Deane had misunderstood the first words said to him in the sacred forum of the confessional. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” the young male penitent had begun. Then he added, “I kissed myself off.” A litany of other sins followed that one, mundane offenses against charity or the rules of fasting, white lies. But Deane was stuck on the penitent’s having—what?—kissed himself off? What in God’s holy mercy was that? A sexual sin, certainly. Masturbation, probably. But it embarrassed Deane never to have heard of it, not in the seminary’s careful run-up to ordination, and not in his prior life as a college jock. When another penitent, coming soon after, a woman whom he took to be older, began her confession, also with the same abject admission, he interrupted her. “You what?”

“I kiss myself off, Father.”

“You kiss what?”

A long silence. The confessional booth was dark, but the close air on both sides of the screen was filled with the red heat of blushing. Finally the woman whispered, “Not kiss, Father. Accuse. ‘I accuse myself of.’ These are my sins.”

When Deane related this story, which he did only to fellow priests over highballs in the rectory, they roared with laughter and relief, rattling ice cubes in their barely diluted Scotch. Then Deane would offer the punch line, “Kissing myself off. Something else I thought I was missing”—a crack to goose the slightly uneasy celibate laughter, make it raucous.

But the joke, in fact, was always on him, and the real power of the story was the reminder of what a prurient-minded fool he could be. The priest’s side of the confessional screen is no place to sit if you imagine you are better, and that lesson was in Deane’s mind now, sitting in the most sacred confessional of all, St. Peter’s Basilica, by God. Administering the sacrament in the Eternal City: not even Deane was immune to the inbuilt awe.

Awe was the point, for with the arrival in Rome of Clark’s legions, off-duty GIs, bearing names like Mulligan, Triozzi, and Dudziak, made a beeline to the Vatican. Entering the embrace of the Bernini colonnade, every one of them was entranced by the indelibly maternal greatness of the Roman Catholic Church. And then, after crossing the piazza, on into the harmonic vastness of the great basilica itself, each one automatically removed his peaked service cap. There, on the mammoth threshold of the largest church in the world, each one waited for his pupils to dilate, for his heart to slow down. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! More than twice the size of St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York!

Stepping inside, each GI dipped his fingers in the huge amber water basin and signed himself. He looked for a place to kneel, but there were no pews. Sixty thousand people could fit in here! His untethered gaze floated around the vast space that held not only the Chair of Peter himself, but a sense of connection to everything that mattered to him. Back home, this Catholic kid was accustomed to a Protestant culture’s condescension, but here he could see for himself the world-historic glories of Catholicism, centered in Michelangelo’s masterpiece, the greatest work of the greatest artist who ever lived. Jaw-dropping awe—you’re damn right.

On the lintel of the confessional booth in which Deane sat was a sign that said
English
. As an American priest, he had been conscripted by the papal master of ceremonies to take his turn here, for GIs by the hundreds were lining up nonstop to confess their sins in this place, whether for the tourist thrill, or because forgiveness seemed more certain here, or because the ubiquitous unease of war made it necessary. Even the foulmouthed, the schemers, the condom carriers felt the tug of conscience. A dozen booths, positioned at intervals, marked the length of each of the basilica’s side aisles. Indicating the makeup of the Allied forces, a few were labeled
Polska
, a few
Français
, but most, like Deane’s, said
English
. In an exceptional accommodation, said to have been ordered by the Pope himself, the sacrament was on offer through the daylight hours indefinitely. The lines of uniformed young men snaked around the statues of saints and the marble cenotaphs of emperor popes. It would have given the lads the willies if they’d known the monuments they brushed up against were tombs.

“God bless you, my son,” Deane said once more. Again and again he had turned from one side to the other, sliding the screens open and shut, a punctuation. In New York in recent years, Monsignor Deane had rarely been in a position to administer the sacrament of penance, and in truth he didn’t much miss it. But now he was profoundly moved to hear the whispers of these boys.

Deane himself routinely went onto his knees to confess his sins to a fellow priest, but compared to this, his admissions were studied abstractions addressing tendencies to arrogance, impatience—or, when he was really honest, doubt. He found it possible not to mention his overweening zeal for sly self-promotion, the unstated longing to be made a bishop.

Nor did he confess sins of the flesh, for the simple reason that he was not guilty of them. He had never been with a woman in his life, and it would never have occurred to him to think sexually of men. For decades now, he had stifled carnal feelings as a matter of discipline and will. Yet to listen to the subdued or even trembling GIs, one would think sex—if more fantasized than real—was at the center of every army’s mission. What the hell, maybe it was.

And his mission? The troubling image that lately came unbidden into Deane’s mind was of that old peasant woman sitting on the edge of a cot in the crypt beneath Santa Marta, her fingers entwined with rosary beads. Convert Jews in the caves of the Vatican had become his proximate occasion of sin, the storm of self-righteous indignation that had taken him to Tardini. Yet, Deane asked himself, who am I to think myself better than these others? Or was it that fellow from the airplane asking? David Warburg often came to mind—or was it conscience?

But
his
conscience was not the point now, not here on this side of the screen.

Occasionally some poor kid would struggle to make a wrenching admission that drew Deane closer. He heard what burp guns did to bodies, and grenades to huts, and flamethrowers to the faces of men. Or he heard—most abject of all—self-accusations of cowardice. To the utterances of one scorched conscience after another, Deane whispered, “You know what war does to us, my son.” With these kids, his compassion came in a rush. “What happens during the unwilled course of combat in a just war is not sinful. And this is a just war if ever there was one.”

“Thank you, Father,” the boy would whisper, sometimes with the telltale sound of snuffling.

In the face of such compunction, Deane would feel an overpowering sense of gratitude and respect. “No, son, it is I who thank you. Now say the act of contrition while I pronounce the words of absolution on behalf of your Lord and Savior.” And when, at the end, Deane said, “Go in peace,” the lad would.

But this time, Deane having opened with the ritual benediction, the person on the other side of the screen said nothing. In the shadows the man was immobile, yet Deane whiffed his cologne, and that told him. Deane let his head rest back against the wood, where across centuries confessors had found relief from the burden of human fallibility. He waited.

Finally Mates said quietly, “I’m a little late. I had to wait in line to get in here, but I was already late. I hate being late.”

Deane moved his head close to the screen, his ear only inches from Mates’s lips. “We’ll call that your confession, Colonel,” Deane whispered.

“Glad to get it over with, Monsignor. Now for the litany. Do you have it?”

“Yes. You’ll find a folded sheet of paper under the pad on your kneeler.”

After a moment Mates said, “I can’t read this in the dark.”

“It’s the names of contact clergy in Vienna. In each parish there’s a Catholic Action group, and the priests will serve as the coordinators. They are listed. But I—”

“Vienna
and Zagreb!
Yugoslavia is the firebreak, the first place to hold Stalin off. First Croatia,
then
Austria. You have to get me the Croats!”

“Sorting out the Croatians is complicated.”

“The Croats are key, Monsignor. The clergy in Zagreb have been leading the charge against the Reds. Those are the names I need.”

“Some of them are a little too
gemütlich
with the Nazis. I’m still working on it. But there’s something else.”

“What?”

“German Catholics are ahead of us on this thing. Archbishop Graz got to the Pope.”

“Who the hell is that?”

“Rector of the German national church here in Rome. They’ve come up with something called the Danube Federation.”

“A Habsburg restoration? Same idea?”

“Yes.”

“This can’t be seen as a German plan,” Mates said.

“The Pope has already agreed that Graz will be the archduke’s sponsor when he’s named to the Order of Malta.”

“Where’d this come from?”

“Von Weizsäcker. He plays Graz like a puppet. They’re using the Danube Federation as a wedge, aiming to pry open ‘unconditional surrender.’ If Washington will buy the Habsburg restoration to stop the Russians, the anti-Hitler generals in Berlin want to be selling it. It’s the green light they need to assassinate the Führer. The Pope is with them.”

“Fuck!”

“We keep our voices down in here, especially in French.”

“Sorry, Monsignor.”

“And the conferring of the papal knighthood on Otto is step one. It’s to be announced next week. Ceremony to follow. He’s already been told.”

“That’s too soon! We’re nowhere near ready.” Mates could barely rein in his agitation. “You don’t turn the deposed archduke into the Holy Roman Emperor from on high. There have to be pleas from the people first. The archduke
answering
the pleas. We’re just getting that going. I told you: first Zagreb, then Vienna.”

Deane said, “But the anti-Hitler group needs terms from Washington now, not later.”

“If you do it now,” Mates hissed, “the Soviets will see the Habsburg ploy for what it is. And this just can’t be German-sponsored. It’s got to be the Pope.”

“It
is
the Pope. Unfortunately, it is
also
German. German Catholics.”

Mates asked, “How did the Krauts get wise?”

“Obviously the Vatican faucets leak. Have you heard of Roberto Lehmann?”

“Who?”

“The priest who’s behind Graz. See if you have a file on him. He claims to be from Mainz.”

“Spell ‘Lehmann.’”

Deane did.

Then Mates asked, “Roberto?”

“Born in Argentina. Something fake about him. The Nazis must have left records behind. Who would have had him on their list? The Gestapo?”

“No, the Abwehr. Military intelligence—my counterpart.”

“If you can find him on a Nazi list, I may be able to head him off.”

“The Abwehr headquarters is a half-burned mess. We’ve just begun sorting through their records.”

“Check for Roberto Lehmann. The Abwehr had to be using him while they were here. Certainly von Weizsäcker is using him now.”

“We have the ambassador under surveillance. If he meets with a priest, we’ll know it.”

“You’re meeting with a priest.”

“We’re better than they are, Monsignor.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure, Colonel. Check out Santa Maria dell’Anima, the German church near the Piazza Navona. It’s where Lehmann has an office. He lives in a fancy apartment house across the piazza, with his mother. Lehmann is the key to this. If you can give me proof he was working with the Abwehr, I can force the issue with Cardinal Maglione. They’d have to cut him off. Archbishop Graz, too. Check on Graz.”

Deane heard the faint rattle of paper as Mates folded the sheet and stuffed it into his blouse.

“But I still need your priestly ward heelers,” Mates said. “Priests and monks to stir up parishioners for a new Holy Roman Empire. Assuming this Habsburg crate can still fly. Zagreb. Get me Zagreb.”

Deane drew closer to the screen. “And Budapest? Do you know what’s happening in Budapest, Colonel?”

“The Jews, you mean? Yes. I know.” Neither man spoke for a long time. Finally Mates said, “The Jews of Budapest will be finished with before anyone can do anything about it. Keep your eye on the ball, Monsignor. The ball is Stalin, not Hitler. Catholics, not Jews. It’s too late for Jews. We’re playing for central Europe, but for now the game that matters is here in Rome.”

“Some game,” Deane answered. He forced a shrug into his voice, but there was no shrug in what he felt. He thought of those people in Fossoli, the notice he’d put in
L’Osservatore Romano
, running tomorrow—the least he could do. Then it occurred to him: No wonder they hate us, if all we come up with is impotent resignation ahead of their murders, or guilt afterward—or both.
It’s too late for Jews
. He deflected all this with a brusque dismissal of Mates. “We both have work to do. I’ll make a point to be here same time tomorrow. Try not to be late, Colonel.”

“So now what?” Mates asked. “Do I just pull the curtain back and leave?”

“Bow your head, Colonel. Hunch your shoulders. Act like you’ve just met a merciful God.”

And Mates did, although not to the extent of trailing the other forgiven sinners to the kneelers that banked candle displays and side altars. Instead, having walked out of the booth like an actor entering from backstage, he moved into an open space and stood still for a few moments, as if talking to someone in his head. Then he drifted to the center of the huge church, where a flummoxed GI, surprised to see a man of rank, saluted, despite being indoors. Instead of rebuking the breach of regulations, the merciful Mates nodded.

From beside a stout marble pillar a few dozen yards away, Warburg stood watching. While waiting for Mates, he had found himself numbly resisting the spell of the church. He was aware of it when, through the great open doors, gusting wind blew in, a signal that the rains had begun to fall again, now in earnest. Severe weather outside only enhanced the mystical aura of this soaring interior. The closest he’d ever come to standing in such a place had been at the High Victorian Gothic chapel at Yale, where he’d gone occasionally to hear music, but this massive basilica was in a category of its own. Unaccountably, he thought of the synagogue in Burlington, a measly place—and he’d never been inside.