James Benn - Death

“The gendarme outside is okay, even if he works for Soletto?”

“He’s one of the best. That’s why he’s guarding your door. Have a rest and don’t worry. I imagine your journey must have been difficult.”

“Interesting,” Kaz said after May had left. “Two men, Brackett and May, in the same circumstances. One retreats inward, not daring to take any chances. The other seems to thrive, rising above the situation he finds himself in.”

“You never know about a guy,” I said. “Before the war, Brackett was probably a big shot, and May a servant. War, even if it isn’t a shooting war, puts pressure on everyone. Some can take it, others can’t. There’s no predicting.” I looked at Kaz, who’d been a skinny student before the war. He probably never thought he’d go near a gun or harm anyone. Now he was a scar-faced killer-wiry, wary, and strong.

“No,” Kaz agreed. “Life is strange, Billy. It is why I have come to appreciate it.”

We washed up, changed, and waited. Our window looked out upon a small, well-tended cemetery, bordered by a brick wall and decorated with cypresses and palm trees. This was the German College, so I figured it was filled with dead Germans, as was a lot of Italy.

“We made it, Kaz,” I said, thinking about how close we’d come to the wrong side of the grass. “There were times I wasn’t sure we would.”

“You’re a priest now, Billy, you must have faith,” Kaz said, adjusting his new cassock. Kaz managed to wear anything well, including these ankle-length priestly garments.

“Faith was easier back in Boston.”

“When you were a choirboy?”

“Yeah. And when there wasn’t a war chewing up half the world. Back then, everything had its proper place, you know? Church on Sunday, carrying in the candles, every week like clockwork. Seemed it would stay that way forever. Safe, predictable.”

“I think the church wants you to have faith in more than ritual,” Kaz said. “Although they certainly do love that.”

“I know,” I said, sitting on my bed and swinging my legs up. “It’s all the death, destruction, and fear that makes it tough. Hard to imagine this is all part of God’s plan.” Fear was the big one for me. Fear of dying, fear of mutilation, fear for Diana. It was hard to shake. Shattered buildings could be restored, better than new, but not the heart and soul after fear had gnawed at them.

“That’s why they came up with the idea of faith,” Kaz said. “It answers all questions without giving anything away. Clever.”

“You’re not big on faith yourself, are you?” I asked.

“No,” Kaz said, gazing out the window. “Dust to dust, I think it is no more than that.”

“I see now why you had a short career as an altar boy.”

“Yes.” Kaz laughed. “My thoughts on theology were not welcome. Nor was my suggestion that the church should give all its riches away for the poor. Now here we are, at the Vatican itself, surrounded by immense wealth and an ample supply of coal. Yet, we are chilled to the bone. As I said, in life one encounters many strange things.”

“Like giving the last rites to a dying soldier. He had the ceremony, but not the absolution. We have fuel, but no warmth.”

“He is dead, Billy. You gave him comfort in his last moments. That is all that matters. Priest or no priest, it makes no difference.”

“I wish I were that sure, Kaz.” I laid my head down on the pillow, closing my eyes as if that would stop the doubts and questions.

I tried to think through what I knew about this murder. That didn’t take long, and a heavy blanket of weariness weighed on me as confused images swam through my mind. Dreams of burning cities, dead soldiers, priests in their billowing, black cassocks, and a sharp, pounding noise that wouldn’t go away.

“Billy,” Kaz said, shaking me awake. I threw off the blanket-Kaz must have put that on me-and stood, realizing the noise was someone knocking at the door. I blinked myself awake, and noticed Kaz stashing something in his suitcase before going for the door.

“Welcome, Fathers,” a voice boomed out as soon as Kaz swung the door open. The accent was Italian, the pronunciation precise, as if he worried about getting every word right. “I am Monsignor Renato Bruzzone.” Bruzzone tossed off a cape, under which he wore a black cassock with red trim and a purple sash, showing off his rank of monsignor.

“Monsignor,” I said, unsure of how exactly to address one. “I am Father Boyle, and this is Father Dalakis.”

“Yes, yes, but I know these are not your real names. No matter, I am glad you are here.”

Monsignor Bruzzone had a full head of thick, black hair, and a good start on a five o’clock shadow. He was taller than me, with broad shoulders and dark, steady eyes that studied us, watching the confusion on our faces.

“Real names?” Kaz said, a look of practiced befuddlement worrying his brow.

“Come now, gentlemen, I am here to help. Sit, please.” He gestured to the table as if we had come to visit him. Rank has its privileges everywhere. “Your arrival has been noted by many. The Vatican is a small place, with many big ears and eyes. As well as tongues!” He chuckled at his little joke, lifting an eyebrow, inviting us to join in the laughter.

“How did you note our arrival, Monsignor?” Kaz asked.

“Some of those eyes and tongues work for me. It is helpful to watch the comings and goings here, especially in this building.”

“Why this building?” I asked.

“Surely you know?” Our blank stares answered his question. “This is one of the two buildings where escaped Allied prisoners of war live. The other is the barracks of the Swiss Guard. Amusing, isn’t it?”

“Monsignor, you certainly know more than we do,” I said. “But I do know you were a colleague of Monsignor Edward Corrigan’s. Have you come here to tell us what you know about his death?”

“Sadly, no,” he said, his lips pursed. He fished in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes and lit one up, his silver lighter polished and gleaming. He offered the pack to both of us, and we declined. They were Junos, a German brand. “These are terrible, but in times like these any tobacco will do. No, I cannot tell you much about Edward, except that he was a fine man. It is a shame for him to end that way.”

“Dead?”

“Well, yes, but to be attacked by someone he was trying to help, that was terrible.”

“How do you know he was trying to help the man who stabbed him?” Kaz asked.

“It stands to reason. He was a Jew with no place to hide. He must have escaped the roundup of Roman Jews last October and been at his wit’s end. You’d be surprised at how many refugees we have hidden here. Not just POWs, but Jews, antifascist Italians, and even German deserters. Somehow, this poor fellow must have heard about Edward and made contact. Perhaps he panicked, perhaps he had gone mad. Who knows? It could as well been myself, or Monsignor O’Flaherty.”

“Who does know?” I asked. “Where is this alleged murderer?”

“The Italian authorities took him. As part of the treaty between the Holy See and the Italian government, Saint Peter’s Square, while it is Vatican territory, is under the legal jurisdiction of Rome because of all the visitors who come here.”

“And what are the chances of a Jew turned over to the Fascist authorities still being alive?” Kaz asked.

“Next to none, I am sorry to say. The Nazis shipped all the Jews in Rome to those camps months ago. If he was not killed outright, he was sent north. To them, the greater crime is the religion of his birth. They are fiends, but you know that.”

“There was no thought of that at the time?” I asked.