A lberto Felici leaned forward in the worn but comfortable armchair in Archbishop Roncalli’s book-lined study in the Vatican Embassy on Olcek Sokak.
‘The Cardinal Secretary of State is sympathetic to the plight of any people who are oppressed, Excellency; but you must realise there are greater issues at play here than the fate of the Jews,’ he insisted.
‘I’d be interested to know what you might consider a greater issue than the lives of children,’ Roncalli replied stonily. ‘Hitler and the Third Reich represent a grave threat to world peace.’
‘That’s not a view shared by Cardinal Pacelli, Excellency. He believes Communism poses a far greater threat to the Holy Church than Hitler. And,’ Felici added pointedly, ‘with the Holy Father now gravely ill, Cardinal Pacelli may well be next to fill the Shoes of the Fisherman.’
‘That will be a matter for the next conclave. It is poor taste, don’t you think, Signor, to be discussing the next Pope before the current one is dead?’ Roncalli’s dislike for the Italian banker-turned-papal envoy grew by the minute. ‘In the meantime Istanbul will remain one of the main escape routes for the Jews. The Nazis have stripped them of everything they have, and I need more funds to help them. But more importantly Rome must understand that the Nazis are committing mass murder. Instead of sending Hitler congratulatory birthday telegrams, Cardinal Pacelli should be urging the Holy Father to condemn this massacre in the strongest possible terms. If the Vatican won’t condemn genocide, what hope do we have?’
‘You don’t seem to understand, Excellency -’ Felici’s protestations were cut off by the strident ringing of the phone on Roncalli’s desk.
‘Angelo Roncalli.’ The archbishop leaned forward into the Bakelite mouthpiece.
‘Angelo, it’s Mordecai Herschel. There’s been a terrible accident in the Bosphorus. The Wilhelm Kohler has been sunk in a collision with a Russian freighter.’
‘Oh, no… the children?’
‘We don’t know yet. I’m on my way to the Kandilli Turn. We may not be able to get the children to Palestine now, but there’s another steamer leaving for Central America tomorrow night. I’ll keep you posted.’
‘I will pray for them,’ Roncalli whispered, and he replaced the receiver. He turned to Felici. ‘I’m afraid I have to go, Signor. The Wilhelm Kohler, a ship bringing Jewish children out of Austria, has sunk in the Bosphorus.’
Obersturmbannfuhrer von Hei?en signalled the waiter. ‘Another bottle of Chateau Latour.’
The Pera Palas dining room was one of Istanbul’s finest. A magnificent crystal chandelier, heavy velvet drapes, crisp linen tablecloths and silver cutlery were complemented by a cellar containing some of the world’s finest wines.
‘Do you think the Vatican Bank proposal will go ahead, Alberto?’
Felici nodded. ‘I suspect Pacelli will be the next Pope, and he’s very keen to establish it. It’s confidential, of course, but he’s already asked me to be a delegate to the board.’
‘Excellent news, Alberto.’ Von Hei?en raised his glass. ‘I should imagine such a bank will be very well capitalised.’
‘I expect that for the right clients, we’ll be able to offer services more than comparable to those of any of our competitors in Zurich,’ Felici replied smoothly.
Von Hei?en smiled, momentarily thinking of the contents of the strong room beneath the SS headquarters in Mauthausen.
‘On another issue,’ Felici continued, ‘I was with Archbishop Roncalli earlier this evening. There’s apparently been a collision on the Bosphorus. It seems one of the ships was carrying Jewish children from Vienna.’
‘Is that so? Well, it is a dangerous stretch of water,’ von Hei?en replied, choosing his words carefully. ‘Any word on survivors?’
‘Not yet, but Roncalli is taking a very keen interest in them.’
‘How many were saved?’ Roncalli asked the Mother Superior as he arrived at the Sisters of Sion Monastery in the old Pangalti Quarter of the city.
‘Just three, Excellency. A boy and two older girls,’ Sister Marta replied, leading the way down a narrow stone-walled corridor to a makeshift ward.
Roncalli took a deep breath and crossed himself. Eighteen young souls taken… At times like this he questioned God’s presence in the world.
‘The little boy in the last bed,’ Sister Marta said quietly, ‘his name is Ariel. His father was murdered by the Nazis; his mother is in a German concentration camp, and he lost his sister in the collision.’ Her eyes filled with tears.
Roncalli held Ariel’s hand in his. What could he say to this young boy who had already suffered so much in his short life? ‘I’m so very, very sorry,’ he said finally. ‘I just want you to know you’re not alone.’
Ariel nodded numbly, wiping away a tear.
Roncalli turned to find another of the sisters at his side. ‘There’s a German officer at the front door, Excellency,’ she whispered.
Roncalli nodded. ‘Tell him I’m coming.’
Ariel watched Roncalli walk from the room, sensing this was a man he could trust. He checked again under his pillow, and sighed in relief. The maps were still there.
A tall, immaculately uniformed SS officer was waiting for Roncalli at the front door. Everything in Roncalli recoiled at the sight of him, but he moved forward.
‘Can I help you, officer?’ he inquired mildly.
‘I am Obersturmbannfuhrer Karl von Hei?en, Excellency. I have come to offer the condolences of the German government and my personal best wishes to the survivors. A shocking tragedy.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Obersturmbannfuhrer. I’m sure you’ll understand, however, that the children are still in shock. It may be some days before they’re allowed visitors. Do you think you could come back the day after tomorrow… say just after lunch?’
Von Hei?en fought to control his irritation. ‘But of course, Excellency – the day after tomorrow.’
It was well after midnight by the time Roncalli and Mordecai Herschel had arranged for Ariel and the other children to be transferred to the greater security of the Vatican Embassy.
A candle flickered feebly on Roncalli’s desk as he and Herschel worked on into the small hours of the morning. Never had certificates of Conversion to Catholicism been prepared with such loving care.
‘The SS Belize Star sails tomorrow night for British Honduras and Guatemala,’ Herschel said, rubbing his eyes. ‘I’ve organised three berths, and we’ve an agent in Guatemala City who will meet the children. I’ll take these papers down to the Immigration Department tomorrow morning and arrange Turkish passports.’
Roncalli smiled. ‘Where I come from, that would take weeks… domani, domani, always domani.’
‘Fortunately we’re not in Italy, Angelo, and I have a contact who is sympathetic. I just hope the children will be fit to travel.’
‘Children can be remarkably resilient, Mordecai, although I’m worried about Ariel Weizman,’ Roncalli said. He’s been through more than any adult should endure in a lifetime.’
Archbishop Roncalli drove his battered Fiat slowly along the darkened dockside on the southern shore of the Golden Horn. The concrete was still wet from an earlier shower, and the rail lines glinted in the feeble yellow light thrown from the portholes of steamers tied up at the dock.
‘That’s her,’ Herschel said quietly, ‘at the end of the pier.’ Smoke was issuing from the Belize Star ’s single stack, her crew preparing to sail. Roncalli brought the old car to a stop near the rickety gangplank, but as he pulled on the handbrake, the darkness was pierced by two powerful headlight beams from a Mercedes parked in the shadows. A tall, blond SS officer stepped out from the passenger side. Roncalli recognised him immediately.
‘So, what brings you down to the docks so late at night, Excellency?’ Von Hei?en tapped his leather cane once, twice against his palm.
‘I might ask you the same question, Obersturmbannfuhrer,’ Roncalli replied evenly, getting out of his car.
‘I do hope you weren’t planning to spirit these children out of the country,’ von Hei?en said politely, looking past Roncalli’s shoulder to the three children in the back seat of the Fiat. ‘I’m afraid my government has serious questions about the validity of these children’s papers and how they themselves came to be in Istanbul.’
Fear gripped Ariel in the depths of his stomach. He looked his father’s killer in the eye, not knowing that his mother, too, was dead. Ariel loathed the German with every fibre of his young being.
‘I would have thought the Reich had better things to do than worry about the immigration of children, Obersturmbannfuhrer.’
‘What’s going on? We’re about to sail!’ the short, stocky captain of the Belize Star demanded in a heavy Spanish accent as he descended the gangplank.
‘These Jewish children are wards of the German government, Captain,’ von Hei?en said. ‘If you take them on board, you will be guilty of kidnapping. I doubt your employers would be too pleased if their ship were impounded at your next port.’
Roncalli stepped forward. ‘The Obersturmbannfuhrer is mistaken, Captain. All these children are Catholic and in the care of the Sisters of Sion Monastery here in Istanbul.’ He took the children’s papers and passports from his briefcase.
The captain of the Belize Star glanced at the papers and shrugged at Roncalli. ‘If there’s doubt, that’s not my problem, signor,’ he said, turning back to his ship.
A slow smile spread across von Hei?en’s face.
Mordecai Herschel took three strides and intercepted the captain at the bottom of the gangplank. ‘Their papers are perfectly in order, Captain, and the German government has no jurisdiction on a Turkish dock.’ He fished a large wad of Turkish lire from his pocket. The captain’s eyes glinted, his gaze shifting from the money to the children and back to the money. ‘Get them on board,’ he said finally, ‘we sail in ten minutes.’
Ariel reached the rusted deck of the tramp steamer, one hand in his pocket, checking for the hundredth time on the maps his father had said were so important.