The Ardeatine Connection

By Ken Kreckel

Meeting his Italian relatives for the first time, Ross Cameron receives a request from his gravely ill great uncle Ercole. “The Pope must be stopped,” he tells Ross, following it with a command “to find the Prophecies.” Teaming up with the man’s devoted granddaughter, a blond named Sabrina, Ross sets out to fulfill the man’s request. Knowing only the Prophecies have something to do with Fatima, the pair find themselves on the highest peak of the Apennines, searching for a mysterious chapel where Ercole’s few clues lead them.

The stakes are raised when Ross and Sabrina, after locating the missing papers, narrowly escape the mountain with their lives. Delivering their find to Ercole’s friend, an enigmatic monk named Giotto, they are dismayed to find they have recovered only two of the missing Prophecies. The subsequent search for the all important Third Mystery takes them to Rome, where they are immersed in a deadly competition to locate it. Along the way, they find they are looking for more than just a religious document. Indeed, an even more damaging secret awaits.

Interspersed throughout the narrative, events from a half century ago gain importance. It is 1943, and German occupied Rome is a powder keg. Jews are being rounded up in the streets. The threat of the bombing is a daily reality. Allied forces, aiming for the capital, are advancing up the boot of Italy. German armies, resolutely seeking to stop them, prepare to fight in the streets of Rome itself. Communist cells plan terrorist attacks. One Vatican priest, seeing an Allied victory as the only solution, works behind the scenes for the liberation of the city. Another, a monsignor of the Curia, collaborates with the occupiers. Repelled by this, a crusading priest from Croatia rebels openly against the Pope’s authority, calling on him to resist the Nazi’s. A terrified Pope attempts a desperate balancing act to guide the Church through these dangers. All comes to a head at the Ardeatine Grotto, where the Nazi’s massacre over three hundred innocent people.

The crimes of the those days, refusing to stay buried, comprise the secret awaiting Ross and Sabrina. They discover that the evils of war, far from remaining in the past, reverberate right up to the present day, putting both their lives in great danger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ken Kreckel
• Release date: Jul 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466130586

Ken Kreckel

Ken Kreckel writes historical fiction, mysteries, travel, as well as technical publications. As a feature editor of the Historical Novels Review, he has published hundreds of reviews, countless interviews with authors, and features dealing with historical fiction. He has contributed many other articles to various magazines and newspapers. Fascinated with some of the lesser known aspects of history, his novels mainly deal with mysteries associated with the Second World War. For example, The Rommel Mission focuses on the attempted surrender of German forces just after D-day. As a professional geophysicist who has worked throughout North America and Europe, he has personally researched many of the settings for his work. He lives in Wyoming, where he teaches at Casper College and consults for environmental organizations in the Oil and Gas field.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

June 2005

Il Papa. Deve essere arrestato! the old man on the bed suddenly cried out. He sat bolt upright, eyes wild, an expression of pleading contorting his face. Two of his daughters, old women themselves, rushed forward to calm him. Gabriella, the one who owned the house, reached him first. As she began gently forcing him backwards, Yolanda reached the other side of the bed. Both women lowered the man to the mattress, rearranging the pillows just before his head touched them. The old man kept talking, unintelligibly, at least to me, in Italian, but with decreasing volume. As the women continued to comfort him, his speaking descended into mutterings, barely audible above the cooing and soothing words coming from the daughters. In another moment, he resumed his fitful sleep.

Yolanda, a look of concern painted on her face, turned to me, Il mio padre e molto ammalato. Non prestare attenzione. She looked at me expectantly, as if I understood her Italian. Gabriella joined in, issuing a torrent of sentences. All I could do is to look back at them, in a pleasant but uncomprehending manner. I know they meant well, but I couldn’t understand a thing.

I had only arrived in Gabriella’s house that afternoon. I left Rome in the morning, armed with directions to the little village of Isola Gran Sasso, gleaned from a Michelin map, and detailed instructions from Biagio, Yolonda’s son who met me at the airport. A beautiful two hour drive on the Autostrada east from the Eternal City across the Apennines followed. Then a short drive on twisting roads laid out across the foothills of the great mountain range brought me to the village. Once here, it had taken quite awhile to find the correct house, in the end only making it due to the efforts of one particularly helpful villager, who, upon observing my hapless wanderings, approached. Fortunately he knew enough English to help. The house, he said, was in the newer portion of the town. Directing me past the walls that surrounded the medieval part of the city, he pointed out a two story house on a hill. Minutes later I arrived at the front door. After two knocks, I was confronted by the two women in the doorway. It was only with great difficulty that I identified myself as Ross, their relative from America. As this was greeted with blank looks, I mentioned that I was the son of their cousin, Anna. That got their attention, but they still looked at me anxiously. I quickly added Anna was the daughter of Guiliano. At the sound of his name, a chorus of chatter emerged, and I was escorted into the entryway.

Benvenuto, sta qui al fine, they kept repeating in unison, pulling me down the hall and into a small kitchen.

Mangia mangia, they continued, pantomiming eating. Even someone as unstudied in Italian as I could grasp the meaning. A chair was pulled out and I was compelled to sit.

What followed could only be described as a force feeding. A great flurry of activity ensued, plates, forks, knives and glasses appeared in front of me. In an instant an enormous plate of spaghetti was placed on the table, and Yolanda began spooning out huge heaps onto my plate. A glass was filled with wine, and another with water. The two women then stepped back from the table, watching me expectantly.

Although taken aback by the realization they were not going to sit down themselves, I resolutely dug into the pasta. The first mouthful was indeed excellent, and I flashed the women a smile after swallowing it. Their faces broke out into broad smiles, followed by a volcano of Italian. They spoke to themselves, and spoke to me, not at all concerned by my incomprehension. They simply seemed to enjoy having me in their house.

My joy at my reception soon grew to concern however. I ate and ate but the plate of spaghetti only seemed to grow larger with each forkful. I had already eaten more than I would have for dinner, and this was only lunch! Thankfully, as if reading my mind, Yolanda removed the serving tray of pasta. My joy upon seeing this was short-lived, as Gabriella replaced it with a tray of meat. A dish of cheese likewise appeared. To my horror I realized that I had only been served the pasta course. The main entree, in this case, steak, and the cheese servings were still to go!

Swallowing hard, I was just preparing to make an attempt at the steak when my hosts’ attention flashed to the doorway behind me. Much Italian prattling ensued, followed by the voice of someone new. From the sound, it was a woman, one likely much younger than my two hosts.

This was confirmed when the newcomer entered the kitchen.

Ross? Ross Cameron?

I turned at the mention of my name. Behind me, framed by the doorway, stood a young woman. She was shortish, no more than 5’4", and younger than I, perhaps in her middle thirties. She was smartly dressed, with black slacks that hung straight and creased, topped by a salt and pepper turtleneck. She had a distinctly non Italian look due to her very blonde hair, done in a short pageboy type cut. Attractive and modern, she stood in great contrast to my hosts.

I am Sabrina, she said in a loud voice, extending her hand.

When I stood and grasped her hand, her eyes brought me up short. They were most definitely Italian, a smoldering deep brown, but with a glistening and lively surface. They spoke of passion and life.

Misinterpreting my lack of response, she explained, I am your cousin, Gabriella’s granddaughter.

Of course, I replied. Biagio told me she would be my main contact, as she was the only relative who knew English. She shook my hand forthrightly.

She shot out a torrent of Italian to the older women, who replied in kind. Then, turning back to me, Please sit, and eat. My grandmother and aunt, they both wanted to cook for you. It is good, no?

It is good, I agreed and I retook my seat, but entirely too much. Please join me.

Oh no, she replied as she took a chair opposite, this is for you. Even before the words were out, a plate appeared in front of her. After another exchange of Italian, she took up a fork. She was not to escape the food.

As she dug into her lunch, Sabrina filled me in on what was happening. Gabriella, her mother, was caring for her grandfather, Ercole. Sabrina’s aunt Yolanda was here to assist her. Even though busy with their nursing duties, the two women had nevertheless been overjoyed upon hearing a relative from America was arriving, so had prepared a traditional welcome. The feast, she explained, was not only expected of them, but required. These were the old ways, but the old ways were still followed in such places as Isola, a village which, like the rest of Abruzzo, was steeped in tradition.

Through the rest of the meal, as I struggled to at least sample all the fare, Sabrina filled me in on family. I was very interested in this, as one of the goals of my trip was to learn more of my mother’s family history. She had always been proud of it, and I recalled many stories of the old ways and the Italian relatives, but I was never really interested until her passing, just two years before. Then a great curiosity boiled up within me, as if by knowing more of her background, I would retain more of her. As a consequence, I had become a reasonably talented genealogist, scouring the Internet for names and clues. It was this interest, at least in part, that had taken me to Italy. I had wanted to meet the Italian relatives, but most of all see the village in which my grandfather Guiliano had been born and raised. It was here that at the age of 14, he made the decision to leave his parents and his younger brother Ercole to make his way to America. Now here I was, in the very house.

Upon finishing, even before the table was cleared, Gabriella and Yolonda began speaking to me, gesturing with their hands that I should get up. Sabrina explained they wanted me to see her grandfather, Ercole, who was resting in the upper bedroom. I got up, but Sabrina remained behind to clear the dishes.

That’s how I came to be in the small bedroom of an Isola house, observing an obviously gravely ill old man in a distinctly restless slumber. The two woman still occasionally attempted to make themselves understood, by speaking in loud Italian accompanied by grandiose hand gestures. As one twirled her finger in a circular motion, pointing towards her head, Sabrina rejoined us.

They are trying to tell you he is sick, ah, what’s the word, delirious.

I nodded. He did cry out a moment ago. Something about il Papa.

Sabrina caught her breath, but said nothing. We remained standing for a long minute before she again spoke. He was a wonderful man, but now he is old, and quite out of it I’m afraid. I don't think he knows what he is saying.

Again I nodded, but there was something in the tone of her voice which indicated otherwise. Something wasn’t right. Before I could consider the thought, however, the old man stirred.

He’s waking, Sabrina said, Let me introduce you. As she said the latter, a small hand gently pushed at the small of my back. Startled at the personal contact, I lurched forward and took the three steps towards the left side of the bed. When I reached it, the old man’s eyes opened.

Grandfather, she began. The old man smiled weakly at her. "I’d like you to meet your brother Guiliano’s grandson.

He looked at me blankly.

From America, she continued.

The words ‘from America’ electrified him. He sat up, chattering away in Italian. Although I didn't understand it, I did make out the word ‘Papa’ several times, and the occasional ‘America’.

Brushing me aside, Sabrina went to him, attempting to soothe him as the older ladies had done.

Still he persisted, crying out in an even louder voice, Il Papa! Il Papa e fascista! Then, perhaps reading my look of incomprehension, tried to explain, Il profezia. Di Fatioma. Ottenga il profezia!

Sabrina tried to quiet him, putting a finger to his lips. That caused him to lower his voice, but still he continued. Even in his Italian which I couldn't understand, his words took on the aspect of ravings. He went on excitedly for perhaps two full minutes. All the while, Sabrina’s efforts to calm him failed to take hold. She knelt beside him, trying to push him back onto the bed. In time she was successful, as his speaking quieted to a murmur and he relaxed back onto the bed. Before he quieted completely however, he spent several seconds whispering into Sabrina’s ear.

When he was finally still, she arose to stand next to me.

Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea, she explained as she fluffed the pillows around him and pulled the coverlet, which had partially fallen to the floor, back up to his chin.

He certainly seemed excited. I heard the word America several times.

Si. That word did it. I’ve never seen him like this.

She dutifully finished smoothing the covers over him. We stayed for several minutes, Sabrina wanting to make sure her grandfather was truly asleep. Once satisfied that he had indeed fallen into a deep slumber, she took me by the arm and led me to the stairs, leaving the two older women to care for him.

Once out of the room, I asked, What was he saying? What was so exciting about an American visiting?

Pay no attention. He’s just delirious, she rushed to explain, as if trying to dispense with the question as quickly as possible.

I thought he said something about Fatima. Is that right?

Sabrina nodded.

Fatima profezia. Profezia, I repeated. I mulled the words over in my mind. Porfezia. Prophesies. Of course, the Fatima prophesies!

Yes, yes, prophesies. Now come on. She led me down the stairs.

And what was this papa business? I continued when we reached the first floor.

Nothing, she insisted, Nothing at all.

It hardly seemed like nothing. And this Fascist thing? I thought he said something about the Fascists.

His mind is in the past.

I considered this for a moment, Perhaps, but his intensity?

She shot me an annoyed look.

Still, I persisted, Why should my visit set him off so?

She now looked distressed. When I attempted to continue, she cut me off. Enough! I don’t want to speak of it, don't you understand? I don’t want to talk about it any more.

CHAPTER 2

October, 1943

Two priests stood at a large window overlooking St. Peter’s Square, squinting through the early morning sun. Although the piazza was virtually deserted at this hour, they could see a steady convoy of German army trucks, packed with civilians, passing through the nearest cross street. The civilians, at least those on the left side of the vehicles, from the littlest children to the oldest seniors, looked pleadingly to the Vatican as they passed. After watching the fourth one go by, one in which several of the occupants cried out to the Holy Father, one of the priests stepped away from the window.

The Pope must be told, Father Stopellini. This tragedy must be stopped.

The other priest remained at the window, still staring at the scene below. At length he replied, My dear Father Debac, what makes you think he hasn't been informed?

Debac regarded the Vatican priest with incredulity, taken aback by his comment. After a moment he managed, He couldn't have been. He has said nothing. This has been going on for hours!

I admit his Holiness has not made any public statements, but I assure you that he has not been idle. I know he has been greatly moved by the plight of these poor unfortunate people.

What? What has he done? Debac asked.

Stopellini stepped away from his window and sat in his desk chair. Please, Father Debac, sit.

Debac reluctantly took the chair nearest window, where he could survey the scene outside by looking past Stopellini.

The Vatican priest regarded the man for a moment, noticing his bare feet clad only in sandals. His tattered cassock and the rough hewn wooden cross around his neck added to the presentation of an outsider. It was true, he thought, he is an ascetic, a man of God. One could almost take him for a hermit. But his eyes gave lie to that impression. They were lively, burning from an intense inner light. This man was not one retiring from life, but rather one battling it. He could see the stories about this Debac might very well be true. He could be the radical reformer that the Vatican had been warned about.

Well? Debac asked with obvious impatience. "Just what is the Pope doing?

Stopellini answered in a deliberate measured voice, not unlike his superior, his Holiness Pope Pius XII. He has been in contact with the German embassy. I have it on good authority that he has met with Ambassador Weizacker this very morning.

But still it goes on, Father Stopellini. Jews all over Rome, perhaps across all of Italy, are being rounded up. Thus far, the Church has not made a single protest. The people, the people are looking towards him for guidance, for leadership. He simply must protest this violation of basic human rights.

My dear Father Debac, I’m sure you appreciate His Holiness is in a difficult position. Italy is, after all, an occupied country. The Nazis could crush us at any time. It is his responsibility to preserve the Church’s authority in this most difficult of situations.

It is his responsibility to speak the truth, and to stand up for what is right.

Stopellini sighed, But he is doing that. He is working behind the scenes. I told you he has already met personally with the German ambassador. The Holy Father feels that is the correct way to handle the situation. He fears a public proclamation would do no good, and might actually do harm. It might provoke the Germans into making things far worse for the Jews.

Debac stood. Worse? Worse? he cried out. How could it be worse for these people? He approached the desk, and placing both palms on either side of the top, leaned in close to the Vatican priest. You know as well as I do these people are going to their deaths. In a month, two at the latest, they will all be dead. How could things possibly be made worse?

Stopellini pulled away from the man, concerned that the wild eyed young priest might physically assault him. I assure you, he began again in his most soothing voice, his Holiness is doing what is best for the Church as a whole. You can’t expect him to risk the wrath of our occupiers, simply for a moral gesture. Working behind the scenes will prove to be the more effective, and safer course of action.

You underestimate his influence, Father. The Germans will not dare move openly against him. All of Italy would go up in flames at such an infamy. The German army too--there are a great many Catholics serving in the German Army--would likewise be traumatized. No, he can speak with little danger of being silenced, and what he could say would, most certainly, affect this situation. His eyes bore into those of the Vatican priest, He could save these people, if he really wanted to.

Stopellini stood, facing the impudent young priest, That is an unwarranted accusation. I will not stand for it in my office.

No need to get excited, Debac replied, moving back towards the door. I see my efforts here are largely wasted. What I most feared may indeed by true. I am seeing, in my lifetime, the fulfillment of the third Fatima prophesy. May God have mercy on the Pope, and you, Father Stopellini.

_____

SS Major Hans Kepler also watched the trucks roll by, from the vantage point of his staff car parked next to the Castel San Angelo. Here he had a full view of the long column rolling past St. Peter’s Square. The trucks themselves seemed insignificant, dwarfed by the colonnades that lined the square and the massive splendor of the great Dome beyond. What they were carrying, however, was far from insignificant. The major feared that what they were doing would prove to be a huge mistake.

Things had not settled yet down in Rome. Since the events of the summer, which saw the invasion of Sicily and the subsequent fall of Mussolini, tension was running high. The new Italian government had been playing a duplicitous game, negotiating with the Allies while maintaining relations with Germany. Alarmed, the Führer acted to resolve the situation in Germany’s favor, first by rescuing his friend Mussolini from his imprisonment, and then by deposing the Italian government. Kepler had only been in the city since September, when he arrived as part of the occupation force charged with disarming the Italian Army and restoring order to the country. Since then the Germans had two concerns. The first was fighting the Americans and British, who had landed near Naples and other points in southern Italy. The second was keeping a firm hold on the rest of the country. The latter was part of Kepler’s responsibility.

The major looked on, disgusted. Not only was this move by that worm Eichmann unnecessary, it was actually hurting the war effort. He feared this provocative move could very well bring out a response from the Vatican. A public condemnation by the Pope could prove to be very troublesome, making his job infinitely more difficult. He feared the Italian population might be moved at last to active resistance which would then require the services of many more units for internal security, soldiers that would be more usefully employed in fighting the Allies. Sure they were held in check for now, but the pressure on their lines would no doubt grow. Every available soldier, Army or SS, would be needed at the front. Each soldier transferred to security duties was one less to fight the Allies. This Jewish thing was not good for the war.

Moreover the officer sent by Eichmann to carry out this roundup of the Jews was that insufferable Hauptsturmführer Dannecker. The major had had quite enough of the strutting Dannecker the one other time he had encountered him, back in Berlin, during a presentation of his boss Eichmann’s ‘Final Solution’. The whole business was disgusting then, and more so now. The very idea of rounding up all of Europe’s Jews for ‘resettlement’ struck Kepler as madness--an impossible waste of resources. The effort was not only wasteful, but here in Italy, deliberately counterproductive. The Italians by and large had no problem with the Jews. What’s more, the Jews themselves could be useful. Why not employ them as labor? They could be, right now, building fortifications, defenses that will be sorely needed in the coming year, when the Allies at last made their way towards Rome. He had argued for such a plan. His superior, SS General Karl Wolff, had urged much the same. All to no avail, it was ruled the operation would go on. Every one of Italy's 58,000 Jews were to be rounded up and deported, most of them in a single day.

To accomplish this, Kepler had been forced to loan some of his Waffen SS to Dannecker. It grated on him, his highly trained grenadiers employed as police. It would not help their morale, of that he was certain. Moreover, he was sure he would need them, this very day perhaps, to quell the insurrection that would surely follow the Pope’s expected public protest. They would all be in the soup then, Kepler thought. Perhaps even Dannecker would have to do some real fighting, against men, instead of the women and children he was used to making war on. No doubt he’ll cower in fear when it comes to that.

_____

Monsignor Heuer, sitting in his opulent office in the Papal apartments, just next to the Sistine Chapel, had no such fear. The Pope would make no public pronouncement. He smiled, remembering his meeting with the Vatican Secretariat of State and the German ambassador that very morning.

It was a curious meeting. The German Weizacker presented himself at the Vatican, anxious to discuss the Papal response to the deportations. There was much pressure, he reported, for the Pope to make a strong statement. Much of this pressure, he said, came from the German legation itself, especially the consul, Albrecht von Kessel. Apparently Kessel feared that the deportations would trigger a violent reaction from the Italian population. A protest from the Pope, in Kessel’s view, would stop the deportations and pacify the Italians. Thus the Germans were urging the Pope to make the protest. Paradoxically, it was the Vatican taking the opposite line.

Although Heuer was present in his capacity as personal advisor to the Pope, it was Cardinal Maglione who did much of the talking. He reminded the ambassador that the Holy See had not done the least thing to antagonize the German people during four long years of war. The Cardinal said he had no wish to be put in a position where it would be necessary for the Pope to protest. He did suggest, however, that the ambassador himself might intervene for the sake of humanity and Christian charity.

Heuer was pleased. The sanctity of the Church and that of His Holiness should not be risked for the sake of a few Jews. After all, weren’t many of the Jews in league with that great scourge of mankind, the Communists? That was the true enemy, the godless Communists. With the Germans fighting the good fight, that is the great crusade against the Soviet Union, would it be wise to antagonize them over this relatively minor affair? Besides, Heuer reasoned, hadn't the Jews brought this all on themselves?

That very morning Heuer had reminded the Pope of all of this, recalling their early days together in Munich, when the threat from the Communists was very real. There the Jews had been involved with the Communists. Hadn’t the Nazi’s, thanks to men like Herr Hitler, prevented the formation of the Bavarian Soviet? When the Pope commented on the suffering of the people, Heuer counseled that one must keep one’s eyes on the ultimate goal, that of the defeat of the Soviet Union. Hadn’t the Holy Mother herself, in her appearances at Fatima, ordered the conversion of Russia? If that was not done, the Monsignor recalled for the Pope, calamities would befall the whole world, and the Church itself.

His friend Pacelli, Pope Pius XII, distressed over the plight of these people, suggested they pray on it. When that was done, the Holy Father emerged bathed in a holy light. Spiritual matters are more important than the affairs of the body, he commented to Heuer. The work of the Church must go on, for the good of the whole Church. He would not issue a public protest.

_____

Dominic Delaurentis paced in the small upper room of his flat off the Piazza Sonnino. His comrade and sometime mistress, Valentina, watched him walk back and forth, now and then stealing furtive glances of the scene below.

Stop, Dominic, there’s nothing you can do.

Don't you see, you silly girl, that’s what’s bothering me, he shot back as he paced unabated.

No sense taking it out on me, save it for the Germans, she retorted, fire in her eyes.

He stopped, staring at the dark-haired beauty before him. That is exactly what I will do. I will kill many Germans.

We will kill many Germans, she corrected, when the time is right.

He glanced out the window. I wish it were now, he murmured. Then, in a clearer voice, he addressed Valentina, It’s been going on since early morning, this rounding up of the Jews. Even now there are more trucks, filled to the bursting. His eyes again turned to the scene outside, fixing on a small boy at the back of one of them, peering up at him, his face contorted by fear. Dominic looked away.

It is as our comrades in Poland have said. On the appointed day, they will come to where the Jews are, where they have always been, here in Trastevere. They will collect all of them, at one time.

All of them that they can find, he replied, resuming his pacing, his great bulk shaking the floorboards. A few will slip through, the lucky ones, the smart ones, the resourceful ones.

I heard some are holed up in the Vatican, Valentina offered.

No doubt a very few. The Church is being very careful.

Perhaps that is why the Pope says nothing. Why doesn’t he come out and put a stop to this. Surely even the Germans will listen.

Delaurentis shook his head, I don't know, the Pope seems more interested in saving his own neck.

And dispensing with ours. I heard he has been instructing his bishops not to support the Resistance, lest reprisals be carried out against the Church.

Well we don't need his help. When the time is right, we will act.

It’ll be too late for the people in those trucks, I’m afraid, Valentina spoke, her voice heavy with sadness.

Yes, too late, Dominic repeated, watching the truck with the small boy disappear towards the Tiber. Too late for him.

_____

Sister Anna Saveria entered the papal study, tray in hand. The pope, sitting at his writing desk, his back to her, didn't acknowledged her presence. As she placed the tray down on an empty space on the right-hand side of the desk, he didn't stir. She noticed his eyes were closed, his breathing even. It was as if he were asleep, but the nun, his chief domestic, knew better. He was praying.

She waited, standing motionless beside him. She stayed this way for several minutes, unmoving, engaging in a short prayer herself. After a few minutes, however, the Pope opened his eyes, and without acknowledging her, motioned for the tea. Dutifully she poured a cup, adding just a hint of cream. His Holiness liked just a spot of white, and she knew how to measure the correct amount exactly. When she finished, she placed the gold rimmed cup with its saucer before the Pope.

Pius XII moved the cup to his lips and took just a sip. Sighing, he nodded, Excellent, as always, sister.

She remained poker faced, but smiled inside. Nothing was as important than pleasing His Holiness, especially in this time of trial.

This is truly a sad day.

Sister Anna’s face didn’t betray her surprise. It was most unusual for the Pope to comment on current events. Yes, your Holiness, it is.

If only I could do something to alleviate their suffering, he sighed.

You have done everything humanly possible, your Holiness. You have been an inspiration to Catholics worldwide during these most uncertain of times.

He smiled weakly, But still it goes on.

More importantly, you go on, your Holiness. It is your survival, and the Church’s survival that is important. You cannot risk all this for the sake of these few.

Yes, surely, but we can pray for them. We must pray for them.

They will be in my prayers this very night, your Holiness.

And mine as well, sister.

_____

At the end of a long, tiring day, Father Stopellini looked out his window at the lavender hues of a Roman evening now coloring the columns surrounding St. Peter’s. With a bit of surprise he noted the flow of trucks moving past St. Peter’s had ceased. He had become so used to their noise all this day that their absence seemed something of an oddity. Perhaps the Germans had stopped, he thought, or more chillingly, they had already carted off the entire Jewish population. He didn't know which. All he really knew was that many, many Jewish lives were at risk.

Although he had been hard on Father Debac, the truth was he didn't wholly disagree with him. Perhaps the Pope should have publicly condemned the deportations, or at least attempt to censure the Nazi’s. Didn’t the Good Shepherd himself advise abandoning the flock for the sake of the one lost sheep? The parable said nothing about acting cautiously, or securing the safety of the many. Indeed, it counseled abandoning the many for the sake of the one.

Still the Holy Father knew what he was doing. The Holy Spirit guided him, as indeed He did the Church as a whole. There must be a reason for this abandonment of the Jews. Still, they were nevertheless Italian citizens, like many of their flock. It was an uncomfortable fact to live with.

But the whole war was an uncomfortable fact. Even more distressing was this current situation of being surrounded by Nazi’s, who could, at a moment’s notice, overrun the whole of the Vatican. Prudence therefore, demanded caution. It was, no question, an intolerable situation. As long as the occupation went on, the Pope’s actions would be circumscribed. Only one thing would change this, the Allies must get to Rome as soon as possible.

_____

Captain James Hogan watched a motorized column of the American 34th Infantry Division move across a pontoon bridge over the Volturno River. Although frequently held up by German rear guards, the division was making good progress overall. The landings at Salerno more than a month ago had been a touch and go thing, but in the end, the American Fifth Army and British 8th Army had emerged victorious, first taking Naples, then cautiously moving towards the Volturno. From this vantage point he could see the great mountains to the north, their impressive bulk emerging from the dawn mist. In his morning intelligence report to General Clark’s Headquarters he estimated the Germans would make their stand along that forbidding chain of mountains that marked the southern and western borders of the province of Abruzzo. This was their so-called Winter Line. The captain hoped it would prove to be just that, a so-called defense. Still the huge relief of the mountains might just make that boast true. It very well might hold the Allied advance all winter long.

Also in his morning report he noted that the Germans had changed tactics. Whereas during September they attempted to block roads by placing assault guns and machine gun nests near sharp curves, they now changed the delaying action to the forward slopes of the foothills, placing mortars and artillery on the reverse slopes. Small groups of infantry were often left behind, concealed in abandoned buildings and so forth, to suddenly open fire on the rear of the Allied troops after they passed. The new tactics were effective at slowing the Allied advance, but they still were making good progress. Captain Hogan calculated by November they would be at the foot of the mountains forming the Winter Line. At this place over a hundred kilometers south of Rome they would find out just how hard the Germans intended to defend the Italian peninsula.

CHAPTER 3

June 2005

Ross.

I heard the whisper in my dream.

Ross. Wake up.

This time the whisper was accompanied by a gentle nudge of my shoulder. The voice was real. I sensed a pleasant fragrance, though what it was I didn't know. My mind struggled to free itself of its sleep. An eyelid rose. A pretty face, with an almost comically serious expression, looked back. It was Sabrina.

You must get up, she whispered again. It’s my grandfather.

The voice seethed of urgency. I pulled myself upright in the bed, keeping the covers gathered around me. OK, I replied, while looking about the darkened room for my clothes. There was just enough moonlight seeping through the open window to see them on a chair about two feet on the other side of the bed. I shot Sabrina an anxious look.

She instantly grasped what was going through my mind. Mama mia, I’m not a child. I've seen men before.

Sure she has, but not middle aged ones, I thought as I swung around to the far side of the bed. I struggled to retain some modesty as I slipped out the side of the bed and grabbed my khaki’s. I didn't dare look back at her while I slipped them on, and pulled my polo shirt over my head. When I finished dressing, I was relieved to find her gazing out the window at the rolling hills of Abruzzo, lit by a three quarter moon.

Seeing me dressed, she took my hand and pulled me towards the door. Shhh, she whispered, I don’t want to wake anyone.

But I thought it was an emergency. I thought your grandfather must be....

He’s OK, better even than this afternoon. In fact, he’s remarkably in control. He wishes to see you. It is very important.

I was so surprised by her reply that I didn't argue, or even question her. She pulled me along the hallway, scarcely breathing as she padded along the wooden floor. I held my own breath as we passed first Yolanda’s, then Gabriella’s room. She took a deep breath as we made our way beyond her own room, finally reaching the one on the end, the largest bedroom in the house, where grandfather Ercole lay.

The room looked larger than earlier in the day, when several people had nearly filled it. The large wooden bed dominated the room. A single light on a bed stand to its left cast long shadows on the walls, giving an aspect of an old chapel. The impression was strengthened by two votive candles burning near the window. The aroma of melting beeswax recalled my days as an altar boy.

As we approached the bed, I noticed the old man was sitting up, calmly watching us enter. His face, more clearly seen in soft light of the lamp, looked younger and more alive. Indeed, his eyes sparkled as we approached. It was as if I was seeing the man for the first time. Gone were the wild eyes and uncontrolled gesturing of this afternoon. Missing as well was the fitful sleep of his quieter times. He seemed at once calm and alert. His eyes, although set in a old and frail body, revealed a lively mind burning within.

Two chairs were set up close to the bed, on the same side as the bed lamp. We each took a chair, Sabrina directing me to the one closest to her grandfather. When I settled in, she spoke, My Grandfather Ercole requested I bring you here, so he could speak with you in private. He very much regrets that you saw him this afternoon, when he was not at his best....

I looked at Ercole. He beamed back, obviously approving of his granddaughter.

She continued, but he is better now, and wishes to speak with you.

I’m glad, I replied, looking directly Ercole, but why me?

He took a great breath before speaking. You come from my brother, Guiliano, no? His voice was clear, but raspy around the edges.

Yes, he is my grandfather, I answered, surprised to be hearing English.

My grandfather speaks very well, does he not? Sabrina answered my confused look.

Before I could reply, Ercole continued, You resemble him a great deal, young man. He paused, his eyes flickering across mine. I can see his spirit within you.

I smiled self consciously, thinking of a suitable reply to the implied compliment, but Ercole continued, In addition, you are an American. I know Americans quite well. They saved my people, you know.

In the war, you mean.

My grandfather held a very important position during the war, Sabrina interjected.

I was in a position to serve, Ercole replied modestly.

In the government? I asked without thinking.

God forbid, not with the Fascista. Nor even the ones that followed. I served the Church, young man. Then, as if remembering something, added a qualifier, With the true Church, that is.

The last comment piqued my interest. I was about to ask what constituted the ‘true Church’, when he again beat me to the punch.

As I was saying, I know Americans quite well. You Americans are a talented, energetic people. You have a knack for getting things done. Like the Germans, he gestured in the air, but without the evil. It is for this reason, and the fact you are my brother’s grandchild, that I asked you to come here so late this night. He took a great breath, then fell silent.

I scrambled for something to fill the pause. I felt complimented both for my bloodline and citizenship, although uneasy because I achieved neither through my own efforts. It was just an accident of my birth. In addition, I began to feel uncomfortable with the importance he seemed to be bestowing on me.

As if reading my thoughts, he continued, I’m sure you must be confused as to why I’m telling you these things, and why I requested you come here, to me, at this hour. He looked at me expectantly.

Yes, yes I am. Is there something you wish me to do?

His eyes lit up. Exactly! There is something, something rather large, I'm afraid. It is so big, and so important that I hesitate to ask, yet.... He paused, looking down at his own unmoving lower body. I need to ask someone. There is something important that must be done.

Sabrina spoke up, her voice tinged with impatience, I’ve told you grand papa, that I could do this for you. I’m quite capable you know. We have no need of....

Ercole held up his hand, silencing her. He gave her a smile, that of a parent to a young child, one of pride, but of condescension as well. He then turned to me. She is a good girl. She will be of enormous help to you. But she forgets sometimes she is a girl. She cannot do all that I require.

She blew an exasperated sigh, but said nothing in return.

But then, Ercole continued, I haven’t really asked you, have I?

I shook my head no.

You must retrieve some documents, and deliver them to my friend, Brother Giotto, in Norcia.

OK, I’d be happy to, I answered, wondering what was so difficult that he needed me to do it. Just give me the documents and I’ll go tomorrow.

He frowned, You don’t understand. They are hidden. You must first go.... His voice trailed off. No more words came out of him. His eyes began to glaze over. His whole body slumped, as if the air had suddenly gone out of it. In an instant he looked diminished, smaller, once more the man I had met this afternoon.

Sabrina leapt to the bed, cradling the man and preventing him from falling forward. She got hold of him, gently lowering him to the stack of pillows behind. As she did so, he turned in her arms towards me.

On the top of the Gran Sasso, he whispered, his voice contaminated with congestion. The chapel! Go to the chapel!

Sabrina stroked his head, Be still, grandfather, rest.

It seemed as if her comforting urged him on all the more. On the Campo Imperatore, he rasped. It’s near Mussolini’s Albergo. Look for the chapel, the chapel of the Celestines. The documents are there.

He stopped, the air once again going out of him. His head slumped, and Sabrina lowered it all the way to the pillows. His breathing became more even. He fell into a deep, unmoving sleep.

He will rest now, Sabrina whispered, turning to me but continuing to pat the old man’s head. This was a mistake, I think. He is not strong enough.

I reached forward and took her free hand. But it seemed to be important to him. You did what he wanted. I think you made him happy.

Yes, she replied, but still I’m not sure I should have. He just gets so worked up. You saw him this afternoon. I was hoping this nighttime visit might be better.

And it was. Look, he seems to be sleeping peacefully enough.

We looked down at the old man. He was indeed resting comfortably, his breathing regular, his features softened. We stared at him for several minutes, until, satisfied that he was indeed in a restful sleep, Sabrina arose.

I think we can go now, she announced in a whisper.

I was about to comply when the old man suddenly reached out his hand, grabbing mine in a surprisingly strong grip.

Look for the chapel of the Celestines!

He dropped my hand, and once again fell quiet.

CHAPTER 4

November 1943

I’ve been trying to talk him out of it for months, General der Waffen SS Karl Wolff complained.

Major Kepler gave a sympathetic nod. He was impressed, as always by his superior, who, in addition to being a competent administrator as well as an excellent soldier, also seemed to be on quite intimate terms with the Führer. Since coming to work for the General two months before, on the occasion of Wolff’s appointment as commander of all the SS in Italy, he had come to see his boss as something of a superman. He seemed to embody the very essence of the ideal member of the Waffen SS, no less a modern knight. But what he was telling him now was a shock.

"You mean the Führer has ordered