The Confessor (12 page)

The town of Brenzone was shrugging off the drowsiness of the
siesta,
awnings opening in the bars and cafés along the waterfront, shopkeepers placing goods in the narrow cobblestone streets rising up the steep slope of Monte Baldo. Gabriel made his way along the lakeshore until he found the Grand Hotel, a saffron-colored villa at the end of town.

As Gabriel pulled into the courtyard, a bellman set upon him with the enthusiasm of a shut-in grateful for company. The lobby was a place from another time. Indeed, Gabriel would not have been surprised to see Kafka perched on the edge of a dusty wing chair, scribbling away at a manuscript in the deep shadows. In the adjoining dining room, a pair of bored waiters slowly set a dozen tables for dinner. If their languorous pace was any indication, most of the tables would not be occupied this evening.

The clerk behind the counter stiffened formally at Gabriel’s approach. Gabriel looked at the silver-and-black nametag pinned to the left breast of his blazer:
GIANCOMO
. Blond and blue-eyed, with the square-shouldered bearing of a Prussian military officer, he eyed Gabriel with a vague curiosity from behind the dais.

In labored but fluent Italian, Gabriel introduced himself as Ehud Landau from Tel Aviv. The clerk seemed pleased by this. When Gabriel asked about a man who had visited the hotel two months earlier—a professor named Benjamin Stern who left behind a pair of eyeglasses—the clerk shook his head slowly. The fifty euros that Gabriel slipped into his palm seemed to stir his memory. “Ah, yes, Herr
Stern
!” The blue eyes danced. “The writer from Munich. I remember him well. He stayed three nights.”

“Professor Stern was my brother.”

“
Was
?”

“He was murdered in Munich ten days ago.”

“Please accept my condolences, Signor Landau, but perhaps I should be talking to the police about Professor Stern and not to his brother.”

When Gabriel said he was conducting his own investigation, the concierge frowned thoughtfully. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything of value, except that I’m quite certain Professor Stern’s death had nothing to do with his stay in Brenzone. You see, your brother spent most of his time at the convent.”

“The convent?”

The concierge stepped around the counter. “Follow me.”

He led Gabriel across the lobby and through a set of French doors. They crossed a terrace overlooking the lake and paused at the balustrade. A short distance away, perched on an outcropping of rock at the edge of the lake, was a crenellated castle.

“The Convent of the Sacred Heart. In the nineteenth century it was a sanatorium. The sisters took over the property before the First War and have been there ever since.”

“Do you know what my brother was doing there?”

“I’m afraid not. But why don’t you ask Mother Vincenza? She’s the Mother Superior. A lovely woman. I’m sure she’d be very happy to help you.”

“Do you have a telephone number?”

The hotelier shook his head. “No phone. The sisters take their privacy very seriously.”

A PAIR
of towering cypress trees stood like sentinels on either side of the tall iron gate. As Gabriel pressed the bell, a cold wind rose from the lake and swirled in the courtyard, stirring the limbs of the olive trees. A moment later, an old man appeared, dressed in soiled coveralls. When Gabriel said he wished to have a brief word with Mother Vincenza, the old man nodded and disappeared into the convent. Returning a moment later, he unchained the gate and gestured for Gabriel to follow him.

The nun was waiting in the entrance hall. Her oval face was framed by a gray-and-white habit. A pair of thick glasses magnified a steadfast gaze. When Gabriel mentioned Benjamin’s name, her face broke into a wide genuine smile. “Yes, of course I remember him,” she said, seizing Gabriel’s hand. “Such a lovely man. So intelligent. I enjoyed the time we spent together.”

Then Gabriel told her the news. Mother Vincenza made the sign of the cross and clasped her hands beneath her chin. Her large eyes seemed on the verge of tears. She took Gabriel by the forearm. “Come with me. You must tell me everything.”

The sisters of Brenzone may have taken vows of poverty, but their convent surely occupied one of the most coveted properties in all of Italy. The common room into which Gabriel was shown was a large rectangular gallery with furniture arranged into several separate seating areas. Through the large windows, Gabriel could see a terrace and balustrade and a bright fingernail moon rising over the lake.

They sat in a pair of threadbare armchairs near the window. Mother Vincenza rang a small bell, and when a young nun appeared, the Mother Superior asked for coffee. The nun moved away so smoothly and silently that Gabriel wondered whether she had a set of casters beneath her habit.

Gabriel then told her about the murder of Benjamin. He carefully edited the account so as not to shock the religious woman seated before him. Even so, with each new revelation, Mother Vincenza sighed heavily and crossed herself slowly. By the time Gabriel finished, she was in a state of high distress. The tiny cup of sweetened espresso, brought by the silent young nun, seemed to calm her nerves.

“You knew Benjamin was a writer?” Gabriel asked.

“Of course. That’s why he was here in Brenzone.”

“He was working on a book?”

“Indeed.”

Mother Vincenza paused as the groundskeeper entered the room with a bundle of olive wood in his arms. “Thank you, Licio,” she said as the old man laid the wood in a basket by the fire and crept out again.

The nun continued: “If you are his brother, why do you not know the subject of this book?”

“For some reason, Benjamin was very secretive about his project. He kept the nature of it from his friends and family.” Gabriel recalled his conversation in Munich with Professor Berger. “Even the head of Benjamin’s department at Ludwig-Maximilian University didn’t know what he was working on.”

Mother Vincenza seemed to accept this explanation, because after a moment of careful appraisal she said, “Your brother was working on a book about the Jews who took refuge in Church properties during the war.”

Gabriel considered her statement for a moment.
A book on Jews hiding in convents?
He supposed it was possible, but it didn’t really sound like a subject Benjamin would embrace. Nor would it explain his unusual secrecy. He decided to play along.

“What brought him here?”

Mother Vincenza studied him over the rim of her coffee cup. “Finish your drink,” she said. “Then I’ll show you why your brother came to Brenzone.”

THEY DESCENDED
the steep stone staircase by flashlight, the nun’s warm hand resting lightly on Gabriel’s forearm. At the base of the stairs the smell of damp greeted them, and Gabriel could see his breath. A narrow passageway lay before them, lined with arched portals. There was something of the catacombs in this place. Gabriel had a sudden vision of hunted souls moving about by torchlight and speaking in whispers.

Mother Vincenza led him along the passageway, pausing at each portal to play the beam of her flashlight over the interior of a cramped chamber. The stonework shone with damp, and the smell of the lake was overwhelming. Gabriel thought he could hear water lapping above their heads.

“It was the only place where the sisters thought the refugees would be safe,” the nun said finally, disturbing the silence. “As you can feel for yourself, it was bitterly cold in the winter. I’m afraid they suffered terribly, especially the children.”

“How many?”

“Usually about a dozen. Sometimes more. Sometimes fewer.”

“Why fewer?”

“Some moved on to other
conventi
. One family tried to make it to Switzerland. They were caught at the border by a Swiss patrol and handed over to the Germans. I’m told they died at Auschwitz. I was just a little girl during the war, of course. My family lived in Turin.”

“It must have been very dangerous for the women living here.”

“Yes, very. In those days, Fascist gangs were roaming the country looking for Jews. Bribes were paid. Jews were denounced for money. Anyone who concealed Jews was subject to terrible reprisals. The sisters accepted these people at great risk to themselves.”

“So why did they do it?”

She smiled warmly and squeezed his arm. “There is a great tradition in the Church, Signor Landau. Priests and nuns feel a special duty to assist fugitives. To help those unjustly accused. The sisters of Brenzone helped the Jews out of Christian goodness. And they did it because the Holy Father told them to do it.”

“Pope Pius instructed the convents to take in Jews?”

The nun’s eyes widened. “Indeed. Convents, monasteries, schools, hospitals. All Church institutions and properties were ordered by the Holy Father to throw open their doors to the Jews.”

The beam of Mother Vincenza’s flashlight fell upon an obese rat. It scurried away, claws scratching against the stones, yellow eyes glowing.

“Thank you, Mother Vincenza,” Gabriel said. “I think I’ve seen enough.”

“As you wish.” The nun remained motionless, her unfaltering gaze lingering on him. “You should not be saddened by this place, Signor Landau. Because of the sisters of Brenzone, the people who took shelter here managed to survive. This is no place for tears. It is a place of joy. Of hope.”

When Gabriel made no response, Mother Vincenza turned and led him up the stairs. As she walked across the gravel forecourt, the night wind lifted the skirt of her habit.

“We’re about to sit down for our evening meal. You’re welcome to join us if you like.”

“You’re very kind, but I wouldn’t want to intrude. Besides, I’ve taken enough of your time.”

“Not at all.”

At the front gate Gabriel stopped and turned to face her. “Do you know the names of the people who took shelter here?” he asked suddenly.

The nun seemed surprised by his question. She studied him a moment, then shook her head deliberately. “I’m afraid the names have been lost over the years.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Yes,” she said, nodding slowly.

“May I ask you one more question, Mother Vincenza?”

“Certainly.”

“Did the Vatican give you permission to speak with Benjamin?”

She lifted her chin defiantly. “I don’t need some bureaucrat in the Curia to tell me when to talk and when to keep silent. Only my God can tell me that, and God told me to talk to your brother about the Jews of Brenzone.”

MOTHER VINCENZA
kept a small office on the second floor of the convent, in a pleasant room overlooking the lake. She closed and locked the door, then sat down at her modest desk and pulled open the top drawer. There, concealed behind a small cardboard box filled with pencils and paper clips, was a sleek cellular telephone. Technically, it was against the strict rules of the convent to keep such a device, but the man from the Vatican had assured her that, given the circumstances, it would not constitute a violation, moral or otherwise.

She powered on the phone, just as he had taught her, and carefully entered the number in Rome. After a few seconds of silence, she could hear a telephone ringing. This surprised her. A moment later, when a male voice came on the line, it surprised her even more.

“This is Mother Vincenza—”

“I know who this is,” the man said, his tone brusque and businesslike. Then she remembered his instructions about never using names on the telephone. She felt a fool.