Warburg in Rome (25 page)

He blessed himself and resumed his gimpy lunging across the soap-smooth marble floor.

So also the sacristy—vacant. The room behind the sanctuary was surprisingly small and undecorated, low-ceilinged and dark. Through a small window poured a narrow wash of morning light that emphasized shadows in the corners. Beneath the angled beams, Deane waited, alone.

When Sister Thomas arrived, it was through a door obscured by the molding of the walnut paneling—not a hidden entrance, precisely, but surprise enough to, literally, throw Deane off balance. She carried a leather satchel. On the tabletop of the vestments case, she laid out its contents. “These are the dispatches from Archbishop Rotta. Also here are messages from Archbishop Roncalli, the nuncio in Istanbul, who joins in urging action for Budapest. Roncalli has traveled there. Roncalli is even more insistent than Rotta. Terrible things are happening. I am violating my solemn oath to show these cables to you.”

“Sister,” he began, as if to reassure her, but she brusquely cut him off, moving on to what mattered.

“Hundreds of Jews have crowded into the papal nunciature. Rotta and Roncalli are urgently asking for instructions. Jews are crowding into churches. Nazis are dragging them out. Lower clergy are confused. Hungary is mainly Catholic. Small minorities support the Arrow Cross and Nazis on one side, or the Communists on the other. The vast population is numb, thinking only of their own survival. They must be addressed. Here, in this dispatch . . .” She picked up a yellow page. Deane saw the careful handwriting, recognized a word or two of Latin. “. . . Archbishop Roncalli is asking that Vatican Radio broadcast a decree that helping Jews is an act of mercy approved by the Church.”

“Doesn’t that go without saying by now?”

Sister Thomas lifted her face toward Deane’s. “The Hungarian people are frightened. And many of their leaders—priests, bishops—welcome the removal of Jews. Roncalli wants the Holy See to overrule them.”

“What does Maglione say about a broadcast?”

“He waves his hand. ‘Unthinkable. The first principle holds.’”

“What’s that?”

“
Ad maiora mala vitanda
. Do nothing to make things worse. That principle. A Vatican broadcast would make everything worse. Defend Jews, and the Nazis round up Catholics.”

“Catholic
Jews
,” Deane said. “I’m told Maglione has repeatedly sent discreet messages about
conversos
. Defending the rights of the baptized Jews. As if other Jews are of no concern to the Church. Is that true?”

“I composed such statements for him myself. It is the most I could get him to do. Now Rotta and Roncalli are trapped by that.” She seized another page. “Roncalli asks if he must restrict assistance to the baptized. But clearly he seeks to do more. He and Rotta want to be
told
to do more.”

“Well, let’s tell them, then.” Deane waited for her to look at him. When she did, he said, “When they defend the baptized Jews, what do they do?”

“Roncalli arrived in Budapest with specially made sacramental certificates to give to baptized Jews. The Germans apparently are respecting them.”

“Well, why not supply certificates for everybody?”

“Roncalli proposed it. Cardinal Maglione misunderstood. He thought Roncalli wanted to begin
baptizing
Jews, to save them. ‘
Falso!
’ the cardinal said. Angrily. You saw what he is like. When I explained that the nuncio only wants to provide baptismal
certificates
, the cardinal repeated, ‘
Ad maiora mala vitanda
.’ A profane misuse of the sacrament. And furthermore, the issuing of false certificates is deceit. A sin.”

“What about His Holiness?”

Sister Thomas answered calmly, “His Holiness knows what is happening. He knows it all. He stays above. He has no response.”

“There’s a first principle embedded there, too.
Qui tacet consentire videtur
. Silence is consent, Sister. His Holiness may see himself as constrained, unable to act openly. But has he ordered anyone to stop? Rotta and Roncalli aren’t stopping, and neither are you. The Pope wants the Jews helped, doesn’t he?”

“Yes. Yes.”

“And if baptismal certificates are off limits, what about Vatican visas?
Political
documents.”

“To go where? How would we get visas to Budapest?”

“I know of someone here in Rome who can help with that. Sister, you have to encourage these nuncios. You control the communications. You can give them what they’re asking for. They want to do something! You can help them!”

“Monsignor, I cannot issue instruction in the name of the Secretariat.”

“Not instruction. Example. What if, say, you sent out a routine reiteration of the procedures involved in issuing Vatican employment visas? Persons carrying out the business of a neutral state are privileged with the exemptions appropriate to neutrality. It is up to the state to define its employment. Isn’t that another first principle? If Germans are respecting baptism, they will respect state assertions of neutrality.” Deane paused, adjusted his crutches. He realized that, for the first time since the basketball game, he’d forgotten the pain in his leg. “You could simply quote already promulgated procedures—no authorizing signature necessary.
Here
it is. What if you just replied to these Nuncio cables with citations from the Lateran Treaty, defining terms for the issuing of Vatican safe-conduct passes? Don’t you think those inclined to do so would take the point?”

“Employment visas are specific diplomas,” Sister Thomas said. “If you expect German recognition, documentation must be official. That requires the authenticating seal of the papal chancellery, embossed over the signatures upon issuance.”

“Do you know where such forms are kept? The accreditation stamp?”

“I know the sister who administers the employment office.” Sister Thomas hesitated. “But we could never send such material in the diplomatic pouch of the Holy See. Cardinal Maglione himself seals the pouch. There is no way to get the visa forms from here to Budapest.”

“Yes there is. I have a way.”

“The American you spoke of.”

“Yes.”

David Warburg had never seen a more beautiful sight: a dozen American Navy vessels, all at anchor across the great horseshoe bay, rhythmically keeping time with its tidal undulations, bows alike in nosing westward in the wind. The ships were already forming the line that would define their convoy, warships posted between troop and cargo ships, all strung out like knots in a rope. So aligned, and with luck, they would traverse the Mediterranean, slip through Gibraltar, and cross the Atlantic.

The sight was beautiful for being framed by Mount Vesuvius to the east and the cliff-hung peninsula of Sorrento to the south. A dozen mammoth cranes defined the harbor foreground, structures of renewal. Naples, formerly the site of an Axis submarine base, had been the most heavily bombed city in Italy, perhaps Europe. But that was months ago, and now the port was the active center of Allied supply and reinforcement. In addition to the forming-up convoy out in the bay, dozens of other ships, closer in, vied for channels and pier space. On shore, trucks and personnel carriers lined up for their brief shots at the quayside, to take on crates and squads of freshly arrived, gawking yardbirds. Sacks of grain, cartons of canned goods, pallets loaded with K rations, as well as machinery, weapons, racks of shells, raw materials, supplies of every kind—a cornucopia of American production. And, in the faces of its fresh legions of boys, a display of American determination, disciplined by fear. The meaning of such undefeated resolve was more apparent than ever at this crowded place of debarkation: the port of Naples was a snapshot of the coming victory.

But most pointedly, there was beauty in what Warburg beheld because one of those distant convoy vessels soon to weigh anchor was the USS
Henry Gibbons
, a troopship carrying, in its aft holds, a thousand wounded GIs and, forward, 982 guests of President Franklin D. Roosevelt, most of whom, before the ship had left the pier three hours before, Warburg had personally welcomed on board.

The refugees were brought to the port of Naples by Army trucks from four different camps in the environs of Rome. Before their arrival, Warburg had boarded the ship to inspect the cramped quarters—low-ceilinged, divided by rows of multitiered bunks—where they would spend the next three weeks. There was almost no space for stowing personal possessions, but, alas, that lack would burden few of these passengers.

With Sergeant Rossini and others of his operation, Warburg had taped to the bulkheads translated copies of President Roosevelt’s message to Congress dated June 12, 1944:

As the hour of the final defeat of the Hitlerite forces draws closer, the fury of their insane desire to wipe out the Jewish race in Europe continues undiminished.

Therefore, I wish to report to you today that arrangements have been made to bring immediately to this country approximately 1,000 refugees who have fled from their homelands to southern Italy. These refugees are predominantly women and children. They will be placed on their arrival in a vacated Army camp on the Atlantic Coast. The War Refugee Board is charged with over-all responsibility for this project.

When the refugees began to board the ship, Warburg had positioned himself at the head of one of the two gangplanks, with Lieutenant Benny Cogan at his elbow, a Flatbush boy who’d been raised in a Yiddish-speaking home. No matter their place of origin, most of the refugees seemed to know Yiddish, and their faces registered Cogan’s greeting, “
Shalom aleichem!
” Warburg took each one’s hand and said, “On behalf of the United States of America, I welcome you aboard and wish you a safe journey.” Cogan translated.

Most of the Jews were too exhausted or too wary to respond with more than a nod, but sometimes a man or woman would break into sobs as Cogan finished. For over an hour Warburg greeted them. As aware as he was of feeling gratitude to these people just for their being alive, he also experienced a kind of inner dislocation as the line moved slowly past.

If these were Jews, what was he? And who was he to have presumed a life that set him apart not only from this desperation, but from the unbroken bond of peoplehood that had so inflamed the enemies of Judaism, down the centuries to Hitler? And in what was that peoplehood rooted if not in the unbroken bond with the One God? The taste of ashes was on Warburg’s tongue. He felt ashamed of himself. For what? For not believing in that God.

When the last of the refugees was aboard, Lieutenant Cogan briskly saluted Warburg. All at once Warburg’s gratitude flowed to this one man, as if the snap of that martial gesture bestowed forgiveness. Warburg put his hand out. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Good luck.”

When Warburg had descended the gangplank and stepped ashore, ahead of the ship’s lumbering move away from the pier, the last of his team to do so, he’d felt numb. Three shrill blasts of the vessel’s whistle had given perfect expression to all that was buried beneath his calm demeanor.

Now, most of an hour later, with the
Henry Gibbons
in its proper column behind the convoy leader, far out in the bay, he was calm. He was finding it impossible to leave the pier until the ships were actually under way, and he assumed he would watch the departure until the ship of refugees dropped below the horizon. But he was interrupted.

“Well done, David.” It was Mates, having drawn up quietly beside him. He offered Warburg a cigarette, and Warburg took it. Mates was wearing dark aviator sunglasses. His crisp uniform jacket was snugly buttoned at his waist. A silver star gleamed from each of its epaulets. He’d been wearing the star for only a week, yet carried himself as if he’d been born to the rank. He asked, “You had the trucks where and when you needed them?”

“Yes. Thanks for that,” Warburg replied. “And the escort squads you assigned were impressive. They were kind.”

“Christ, if anyone deserves a little kindness . . .”

“Right. Christ.”

“What’s needling you? And where the hell have you been? It’s been a week since you slept at the Barberini.”

“I have a cot in my office. I’ve been busy.”

“I thought you might be avoiding me.”

“Why would I do that?” The note of innocence Warburg struck was deliberately false. He had yet to confront Mates with what he knew—that Mates had business with the American monsignor, something besides the sacrament of confession.

“Because you’re keeping my interrogators away from the camps, that’s why.” Mates was pissed off and let it show. “You’re claiming authority you don’t have. We have a deal, and you’re not keeping it.”

“We’ve been through that, General. My authority, in its sphere, is total. Your interrogators have to wait.”

“You owe me, Warburg.”

“What? What do I owe you?”

“In addition to this, you mean?” Mates tossed his head toward the
Henry Gibbons
.

“It’s Roosevelt I owe for that.”

“Then your man in Budapest, Swedish minister plenipotentiary—what’s his name?”

“Wallenberg.”

“You owe me that. Without the OSS turning the screws at the Swedish embassy in Bern, Stockholm would never have bought your plan. And now Wallenberg’s hard at it. I hear that Jews are rushing to him.”

Warburg hesitated, then yielded the point. “It’s true. I do owe you that. Who knew that the Swedish ambassador in Bern is the king’s nephew?”

“I did.”

“You know everything. I forgot.”

“Not quite. What happens now? In Budapest, I mean. Wallenberg buys up properties, declares sovereignty, takes Jews in. Then what? How do they get out of Hungary?”

“Not clear yet, but the Church is helping. Baptismal certificates. Vatican visas.”

“The Church! Good God, the Church could care less about Jews.”

“Not so, General. Priests and nuns. Parishes and convents. Across the Alps, the papal nuncios are crucial. With luck, we’ll have a lot more refugees coming through Rome. Some Catholic will have helped every one of them.”