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Authors: James Carroll
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Elizabethan slang for ‘brothel.’”
Warburg ignored the correction. “I know that Jews are coming out of hiding all over Rome today,” he said.
“Including out of Vatican City itself,” Deane said coldly.
“I hadn’t heard that.”
The two stared at each other for a long moment, a thick silence. Finally Warburg said, “Look, I understand that no Jew will have escaped this nightmare without some Catholic having helped. That’s obvious.” He paused before adding, “I’m also aware that far from all Roman Jews were protected. You know of last October’s arrests, when the Vatican said nothing.”
“Yes. Tragic. Deeply tragic. I wish it could have been prevented. But every able-bodied Italian male has been hunted by the Gestapo through these full nine months. Thousands of them are in slave labor camps, too. The terror has been total, David.”
“And also quite particular, Father. We know by now that there are slave labor camps and there are death camps. Not the same thing. The Pope criticizes Allied bombing, but not Nazi horrors.”
“Yes. Knowing the Allies will not take his words out on innocents. Unlike Hitler.” Deane slapped his prayer book shut.
The car slowed, entering another village. This one was different: a throng of people clogged the small fountain square. The sun had climbed in the sky, and the piazza was awash in the full morning glare. On one side, rubble from a collapsed building had been pushed out of the road. Ripped mattresses and broken bits of furniture were strewn about. Deane’s driver leaned on the horn. As the vehicle breasted through, men and women had to hop away from the bumper, and when their eyes took in the Vatican flags, some shook fists. Some faces twisted with curses.
The driver snarled a phrase back toward his passengers, and Deane explained, “A Red town. Communist.”
All at once, the car was adjacent to the fountain, and there the crowd was more compactly gathered. In its midst, balanced on an improvised pit of smoldering coals, was a steaming open kettle. Beside that stood a naked young woman, each of whose arms was being pinned by other women.
Deane craned forward toward the driver and asked his question: What’s going on? But the driver was gape-mouthed and did not reply. He dropped the car out of gear, but it continued to inch forward. Most of the people, several dozen, were too intent on the naked woman to notice the car. A heavy bearded man had shears at the woman’s head, hacking at her hair. Her submissiveness was total. Out of the nearby cauldron rose the fumes of boiling tar, and to the side, a clutch of boys were wrestling with chicken carcasses, stripping them of feathers.
The car was still rolling slowly forward when Deane opened his door. Warburg did the same with his. What the hell—?
When the car stopped, the two men got out and, mirroring each other, moved silently forward. They towered over the people in the square. Their height and the sight of Deane’s clerical garb subdued them. Now the papal flags fixed to the car’s bumper could be seen to fully register. The man with the shears stopped cutting, and the women holding the girl loosened their grip. She slumped to the ground, hiding her nakedness in a crouch. With one hand she covered her scalp.
“ Che cosa? ” Deane asked.
“ Puttana dei tedeschi! ” one of the women snarled.
While Deane spoke to her, and then exchanged unpleasant words with the man holding the shears and with others in the crowd, Warburg removed his suit coat and went to the girl. He stooped and draped his coat around her. Coaxing her to her feet, he turned her toward the car. A large bald man blocked his way. “Move!” Warburg said. The man stepped to the side. While the priest continued his rebukes, Warburg led the girl away.
The intimidated chauffeur had not stirred from his seat. Warburg gestured for the girl to get into the back of the car. He followed her in and closed the door. Taking that as his
Warburg ignored the correction. “I know that Jews are coming out of hiding all over Rome today,” he said.
“Including out of Vatican City itself,” Deane said coldly.
“I hadn’t heard that.”
The two stared at each other for a long moment, a thick silence. Finally Warburg said, “Look, I understand that no Jew will have escaped this nightmare without some Catholic having helped. That’s obvious.” He paused before adding, “I’m also aware that far from all Roman Jews were protected. You know of last October’s arrests, when the Vatican said nothing.”
“Yes. Tragic. Deeply tragic. I wish it could have been prevented. But every able-bodied Italian male has been hunted by the Gestapo through these full nine months. Thousands of them are in slave labor camps, too. The terror has been total, David.”
“And also quite particular, Father. We know by now that there are slave labor camps and there are death camps. Not the same thing. The Pope criticizes Allied bombing, but not Nazi horrors.”
“Yes. Knowing the Allies will not take his words out on innocents. Unlike Hitler.” Deane slapped his prayer book shut.
The car slowed, entering another village. This one was different: a throng of people clogged the small fountain square. The sun had climbed in the sky, and the piazza was awash in the full morning glare. On one side, rubble from a collapsed building had been pushed out of the road. Ripped mattresses and broken bits of furniture were strewn about. Deane’s driver leaned on the horn. As the vehicle breasted through, men and women had to hop away from the bumper, and when their eyes took in the Vatican flags, some shook fists. Some faces twisted with curses.
The driver snarled a phrase back toward his passengers, and Deane explained, “A Red town. Communist.”
All at once, the car was adjacent to the fountain, and there the crowd was more compactly gathered. In its midst, balanced on an improvised pit of smoldering coals, was a steaming open kettle. Beside that stood a naked young woman, each of whose arms was being pinned by other women.
Deane craned forward toward the driver and asked his question: What’s going on? But the driver was gape-mouthed and did not reply. He dropped the car out of gear, but it continued to inch forward. Most of the people, several dozen, were too intent on the naked woman to notice the car. A heavy bearded man had shears at the woman’s head, hacking at her hair. Her submissiveness was total. Out of the nearby cauldron rose the fumes of boiling tar, and to the side, a clutch of boys were wrestling with chicken carcasses, stripping them of feathers.
The car was still rolling slowly forward when Deane opened his door. Warburg did the same with his. What the hell—?
When the car stopped, the two men got out and, mirroring each other, moved silently forward. They towered over the people in the square. Their height and the sight of Deane’s clerical garb subdued them. Now the papal flags fixed to the car’s bumper could be seen to fully register. The man with the shears stopped cutting, and the women holding the girl loosened their grip. She slumped to the ground, hiding her nakedness in a crouch. With one hand she covered her scalp.
“ Che cosa? ” Deane asked.
“ Puttana dei tedeschi! ” one of the women snarled.
While Deane spoke to her, and then exchanged unpleasant words with the man holding the shears and with others in the crowd, Warburg removed his suit coat and went to the girl. He stooped and draped his coat around her. Coaxing her to her feet, he turned her toward the car. A large bald man blocked his way. “Move!” Warburg said. The man stepped to the side. While the priest continued his rebukes, Warburg led the girl away.
The intimidated chauffeur had not stirred from his seat. Warburg gestured for the girl to get into the back of the car. He followed her in and closed the door. Taking that as his
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