Michael Russell - The City of Shadows

‘The palace is being renovated at the moment. The intention is to turn part of it into a museum. Not that there’s much involved in that; it’s already a museum. I’ve never warmed to the idea of living in a museum. The sisters are letting me use a room in the convent’s guest wing. People come and go, so sometimes I’m in one cell, sometimes another. But it’s really all I need. And do you know the best thing about it? Nobody knows where I am.’

They walked along another corridor lined with doors, upstairs, along another corridor, downstairs to another one that looked identical to the first.

‘Can I ask you something about Father Byrne, Your Excellency?’

‘I don’t promise to be able to answer.’

‘He worked very closely with a priest in Ireland, Robert Fitzpatrick.’

‘I know who Monsignor Fitzpatrick is.’

‘Did he talk about him?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘I’m asking because I’m a policeman.’

‘I met the monsignor only once, in Dublin in 1932, at the Eucharistic Congress. I can’t say I liked him. I like his ideas even less. God must have a reason for allowing such people before his altar. I think it’s to make sure we don’t forget who delivered Christ to the Romans for crucifixion. It doesn’t matter in the least that they were Jews; what matters is that they were priests. But much as I dislike the man’s views, why would they interest the police?’

‘Monsignor Fitzpatrick helped to provide us with a statement from Father Byrne. In it Father Byrne lied about his relationship with Susan Field, whose death is the subject of a police investigation. But then you know that.’

O’Rourke simply nodded.

‘I’m not suggesting the monsignor is in any way involved in what happened, of course, but I think he has information that could help us, that he may have been reluctant to give, because of his friendship with Father Byrne.’ He was being careful with his words. However different Edward O’Rourke was from Robert Fitzpatrick he knew that the Church still looked after its own.

‘I think friendship would be overstating it, Sergeant Gillespie.’

‘They really had fallen out then?’

‘You seem to know that already. I’m not an easy man to interrogate. I’ll tell you what I know, because I think Francis would have wanted me to. Monsignor Fitzpatrick represents a vision of the Church that isn’t very far from the ranting of Adolf Hitler as far as I’m concerned. We’re all at the mercy of a Jewish-Communist-Capitalist-Masonic-Atheist conspiracy that has as its only aim the destruction of Christian civilisation. You’d think that kind of insanity would get pretty short shrift in the Church these days, but I’m afraid not. Having identified a phantom enemy, too many of my colleagues want to believe that our enemy’s enemy is our friend. They see democracy itself as the root of the problem and quietly, very quietly they whisper that Hitler may save us from it. They want a pope who will stand above it all and won’t point out the darkness. They want a man who will only ask what’s best for the Church when he should ask what Christ would do. The monsignor represents the noisier end of all that. Father Byrne was his protege when I first met him. I thought he was worth more, as a man and as a priest. I couldn’t change his opinions. He was as fanatical as Fitzpatrick. It was the woman he fell in love with who took away the poison. Whatever sins he committed by loving her, I think she saved him from worse ones.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘None of that is of any use to you of course, Sergeant.’

‘No.’

‘I know Monsignor Fitzpatrick put Francis in touch with the man Keller. He did tell me that.’

‘Knowing he was an abortionist?’

‘So it seems.’ The bishop stopped at a door.

‘But why?’

‘You must ask him. In the light of what you think happened that’s your job, whether anyone else likes it or not. We all have our jobs, Stefan.’

He smiled again in a way that made Stefan feel that the bishop didn’t much like his own job very much, but that somehow that wasn’t the point. He knocked gently on the door then turned and walked away. The door opened. It was Hannah. She was laughing with relief, seeing him there now. Even though she knew he was all right she needed to see him. She needed to touch him. She pulled him into the room. It was another simple cell; the same bed, table, chair. He took her in his arms and kissed her. And he left the thought that it would soon be over between them somewhere else.

They spent the last night back at the Hotel Danziger Hof. It would be a noisy night in the hotel and in the Kohlenmarkt outside. The bar and the restaurant were already full of Nazi uniforms, black and brown; wives and girlfriends hung on the arms of the uniforms. Trays of beer and sekt circulated in the lobby for anyone who wanted them. It was obvious they had been circulating for some time, and since somewhere the people of Danzig would be picking up the tab for all this the waiters were as drunk as everyone else. As Hannah and Stefan stood at the reception desk two glasses of sekt were thrust into their hands. An SS officer clapped them both on the shoulders and laughed. Words were unnecessary. It was the man who had winked at Hannah that first morning. He winked again. As the hotel manager handed them the key he smiled a satisfied and supercilious smile that said, unmistakably, ‘That’ll show you, you arseholes.’ He still didn’t know who they were, but he knew they were trouble-makers and foreigners, and she was a Jewess. Still, it wouldn’t be very long now before he didn’t have to put up with Jews in his hotel.

They walked towards the staircase. Unless they wanted to join the celebrations the bedroom was the safest place. As they reached the bottom of the stairs the band in the dining room stopped playing abruptly. A ripple of excitement spread through the lobby. There was a crackle of static, very loud. People laughed and then started to grab for every drink in sight. Bottles of sekt were popping all around. There was cheering and applause. The static was coming from speakers that had been fixed to pillars all round the Danziger Hof. Then, as the manager tuned the dial on the radio behind the reception desk, there was music. A military band played. The music faded. ‘Gauleiter Forster will now read the results of the Danzig election.’ Hands shot up in salute. ‘Heil Hitler!’ And then there was an expectant silence.

Stefan and Hannah stood by the stairs, listening with everyone else. There was the rustling of papers and what sounded like a hesitant cough. The voice of the leader of Danzig’s Nazis, the protege of Hitler, Albert Forster, was quiet and deliberate. It felt like a man who was weighing every word. ‘The full count of the votes cast in the election to Danzig’s Volkstag gives yet another victory to the National Socialist German Workers’ Party, another victory for German Danzig, another step on the road to reunification with the fatherland, and another step towards — ’ There was silence. Forster’s voice had become quieter as he spoke. It was hesitancy. This was not a man weighing words to find the right way to celebrate the landslide they all expected — it was a man who didn’t know what to say. ‘Towards victory! Sieg Heil!’ All around Hannah and Stefan people raised their arms again and echoed the cry of victory. But they had all heard the hesitation. There were too many victories in there somehow to believe in victory. Where was the full count they wanted to hear? Where was the ninety per cent of the votes that would sweep away the opposition and the decadent constitution of the League of Nations and the interfering Poles and the High Commissioner and let them do whatever they wished? They weren’t expecting steps; they wanted leaps.