Michael Russell - The City of Shadows

‘I think under the circumstances he took it very well.’

They got up and headed for the door. Three boys in Hitler Youth uniforms, fifteen or sixteen, were coming in carrying handfuls of election leaflets. They recognised the High Commissioner. Their hands shot up in the air. ‘Heil Hitler!’ Sean Lester smiled amiably at them. One of them smiled back, holding the door open. As Lester walked past, the boy spat in his face.

By the time Stefan Gillespie arrived at the cathedral, the Schutzpolizei were there too. They were patrolling the park and a truckload of officers stood around the cathedral doors, smoking. Arthur Greiser had done what he could to put a positive spin on the matter. The police had been told they were there because of a threat to the bishop from unspecified anti-social elements, code for communists, socialists and the opposition in general. That wouldn’t convince anyone but the Party faithful. As it was, the Schutzpolizei assumed they were just there to intimidate the opposition as usual. But orders and threats had filtered down through the Gestapo, the SS and the SA to ensure that anyone who knew anything no longer knew anything, and that nothing that had been planned had ever been planned after all. The death of Kriminaloberassistent Rothe was proving unexpectedly useful. Most of those involved in the plot assumed he had been shot by the Party, to make the point that Arthur Greiser meant business. It was how things were done.

Stefan didn’t know any of that. But if it had felt like it was all over, sitting in the Senate President’s office with Sean Lester, it didn’t seem that simple as he walked past the police guns into the cathedral that evening. He still had a job to do. He still had to get Hannah out of Danzig.

The cathedral was crowded for vespers. Over the slow reverberation of the great organ the choir sang the Magnificat. He recognised Mozart’s music, though he had last heard it when he sang in St Patrick’s at barely eleven years old. There were some things that stayed inside you. ‘Magnificat anima mea Dominum.’ My soul doth magnify the Lord. ‘Et exultavit spiritus meus in Deo salutari meo.’ And my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour. ‘Suscepit Israel puerum suum recordatus misericordiae suae.’ He remembering his mercy hath holpen his servant Israel. Stefan looked at the Nazi uniforms scattered through the congregation around him. Beside him two men in brown shirts gazed towards the high altar, their lips moving silently, almost in unison, as rosary beads slipped through their fingers. It was not usual for the Bishop of Danzig to lead vespers, but he was here as he had been at every Mass throughout that election day. If all he could do was to stand he would stand; nothing that had happened would change his mind about doing so, not even the threat of an assassin’s bullet. When he stepped forward to speak the final prayer and bless his people there were many who spoke the words with him. ‘A cunctis nos, quaesumus, Domine, defende perculis.’ Defend us we beseech thee, O Lord, from all dangers. It was a prayer the Nazis in the cathedral heard only as familiar ritual. There were others in the congregation that evening who heard it very differently.

The cathedral cleared slowly. The men in uniform were the first to leave with their families, hurrying back into the city for the end of the election and the celebrations that would follow. The overwhelming feeling that this was their day, the day that would change everything, shone in their faces. It was what they had prayed for, standing beside those who were praying for anything but that change. Other people were slower to go, stopping to talk to friends, sitting quietly in the pews, lighting candles, standing in the quiet evening light beyond the cathedral doors. They were more reluctant to take the trams home to Oliva, Zoppot, Langfuhr, Brosen, Weichselmunde and Danzig itself, where they too would pour into the red, white and black streets to celebrate what they had prayed would not happen.

Stefan sat at the end of a pew until the cathedral was almost empty. He looked up to see a nun approaching him. She spoke to him in English.

‘Please follow me. The bishop is waiting.’

She walked to one side of the nave and opened a small door. It led out to a cloister. There was still sunlight on the tree at its centre but they were walking in deep shadow. Stefan’s feet sounded on the stone floor. Her footsteps were silent. He remembered the moment when Hannah Rosen had slapped the Mother Superior at the Convent of the Good Shepherd. It seemed a long time ago now, and it seemed as if every decision along the way had been someone else’s. Whether it was the wall around the death of Susan Field, the threat that still hung over his son, his suspension from the Gardai, even coming to Danzig, he felt as if he had been dragged along by events he had no control over. Perhaps he’d only kidded himself it had ever been different since Maeve died. What had he done in that time? When had his decisions or his actions made anything at all happen? Hannah was the reason he was here, the only reason. He’d thought that was his decision but it wasn’t. He’d been dragged to Danzig too, to find her. And that would be over soon. They had to leave. And when it was all over they wouldn’t really talk about what they felt. He had found her again. Now she was only something else to lose.

An archway on the other side of the cloister led to a cold, stone passage. There was a row of ancient, oak doors. The nun stopped at one of them and knocked. There was a voice from inside. She opened the door and waited for Stefan to go in. He was in a bare, white-walled room. It contained little more than a bed, a small writing table and a bookcase. It was lit by a lamp on the table. The only natural light came from an iron grille high up on a wall. It reminded him of a police cell. On the bed the vestments Edward O’Rourke had been wearing at vespers had been dumped in an untidy heap. The bishop emerged through a door at the side of the cell, doing up his shirt.

‘Lester tells me I’m quite likely to survive.’

‘He seems confident enough now, sir.’

‘I suppose that’s something.’ He sat down on the bed, pushing aside the vestments to put on his shoes and socks. He looked at Stefan and smiled.

‘Thank you, Mr Gillespie.’

Stefan nodded awkwardly.

‘I’m not as nonchalant about death as I’m supposed to be in my profession, I assure you, but there are other things to think about, and other deaths too, real ones. Several people have died in all this, is that right?’

‘Yes.’ He assumed O’Rourke knew no more than that.

‘I shall pray for them all, including the ones who were involved in the plot to kill me. It doesn’t come easily, but it goes with the job. You saw the two Jewish men who were murdered? Miss Rosen explained a little. It makes sense of course. If the lie is big enough, isn’t that what they say? The desire to believe the Jews are responsible for every evil you care to mention is a madness even decent people seem unable to resist. The Church has a lot to answer for, but it’s more than that I’m afraid. Have you read Hitler’s book?’

‘No.’

‘People tell me the Jewish question is peripheral to what he believes. It’s all about a strong Germany and a good life for everyone. But that’s the self-deceit that’s required to stomach the man. They want to believe he doesn’t know what he’s saying. Read his book. His hatred of the Jews is everything. It’s all there is. It’s the rest that is peripheral, even Germany.’ As he stood, he pulled up his braces. He reached for a black jacket and put it on.

‘Let’s find Miss Rosen.’

Stefan followed the bishop back into the cold corridor.