Hide and Seek: The Irish Priest in the Vatican who Defied the Nazi Command. The dramatic true story of rivalry and survival during WWII.

Hide and Seek: The Irish Priest in the Vatican who Defied the Nazi Command. The dramatic true story of rivalry and survival during WWII. Stephen Walker Irish Sunday Times BestsellerA true story of war, peace and friendship: a Nazi colonel and an Irish priestThe story begins in Rome at the outbreak of WWII, when ardent Nazi Herbert Kappler, SS Obersturmbanf?hrer, and Monsignor Hugh O'Flaherty would become adversaries in a real-life game of 'cat and mouse' of epic proportions. Hide and Seek chronicles the intimate and intensely personal war between them. A fiercely fought rivalry that would culminate in failed attempts by Kappler to kidnap and then murder his Irish opponent.In July 1943 Rome was bombed for the first time during the war. As the swastika flew above the city, it was a time of fear, and a moment of choice: collaborate and compromise, or resist and revolt. O'Flaherty decided to quietly resist and fight the new rulers.Dubbed 'Ireland's Oscar Schindler', he masterminded a large-scale operation from within the Vatican, to help Jews and escaped Allied prisoners on the run from the Nazis. He used a series of safe houses and church buildings and sheltered around 500 Jews in the Holy See, and it is believed that sanctuary was found for some 4000 Jews across Rome, and 4000 Allied escapees.After the Resistance killed 32 German soldiers in a bombing, Hitler was enraged, and declared that he wanted a revenge attack to "make the world tremble". He instructed Kappler to draw up plans. Eventually, 335 people would be executed in the Ardeatine Caves, a labyrinth of tunnels outside the city. The massacre would become the worst atrocity committed on Italian soil during WWII.Kappler's handiwork would remain secret until Rome was liberated by the Allies in June 1944. The Nazi Colonel was found guilty on all the charges relating to the caves massacre. He was sentenced to life imprisonment with no parole. Amazingly, O'Flaherty would continue his relationship with Kappler, going to see his former rival in prison. The discussions of the two men would become intense and searching, and a friendship grew between them. In later life, after much soul-searching Kappler became a Catholic, and was baptised by the Irish Monsignor. STEPHEN WALKER HIDE & SEEK THE IRISH PRIEST IN THE VATICAN WHO DEFIED THE NAZI COMMAND THE DRAMATIC TRUE STORY OF RIVALRY AND SURVIVAL DURING WWII Contents Cover (#udd91c991-5d9f-5934-843e-e0e25598fdf4) Title Page (#ue2c36ce8-04e4-5f2c-9f42-cdf862e0e2c0) Prologue Chapter 1 - APPOINTMENT TO KILL Chapter 2 - DESTINATION ITALY Chapter 3 - ROME IS HOME Chapter 4 - SECRETS AND SPIES Chapter 5 - THE END OF MUSSOLINI Chapter 6 - OPERATION ESCAPE Chapter 7 - OCCUPATION Chapter 8 - TARGET O’FLAHERTY Chapter 9 - CLOSING THE NET Chapter 10 - RAIDS AND ARRESTS Chapter 11 - RESISTANCE AND REVENGE Chapter 12 - MASSACRE Chapter 13 - CLAMPDOWN Chapter 14 - LIBERATION Chapter 15 - CONVICTION AND CONVERSION Chapter 16 - KERRY CALLING Chapter 17 - DEAR HERBERT Chapter 18 - THE GREAT ESCAPE Chapter 19 - GOODBYE Chapter 20 - ROME REVISITED Picture Section Notes and Sources Index Acknowledgements About the Author Copyright About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo) PROLOGUE (#ulink_e538a8da-698f-5eee-a227-6461429bc4b2) 14 August 1977 At the military hospital everything was quiet. In the small hours those tasked with watching the patients had little to do. During the day the building was a different place. Then, the corridors and rooms which looked out towards the Colosseum were alive with the sound of people. At night the atmosphere seemed almost reverential and, for those watching the clock until the sun rose, the pace of life was slow. It was a holiday week in August. From the windows of the complex on the Caelian Hill, night staff could look down on the lights of Rome. The city beneath was asleep, unaware of the drama that was about to unfold. After midnight, in a room on the third floor, Anneliese, a blonde-haired woman, was spending time with her elderly husband, who was being treated for cancer. The pair were about to embark on the most dramatic hours of their married lives. For a few moments they stood by the open window. Outside, apart from the sound of an occasional passing car, the night was still. Then the plan began in earnest. Carefully Anneliese manoeuvred her frail husband, dressed in his best suit, towards the doorway. He was skeletal, weighing not much more than seven stone. Gently she shuffled him across the floor holding his arm as they moved towards the landing. Weeks of planning were now at risk as she made her way down to the ground floor. Holding him close, Anneliese helped her husband negotiate each step. On the ground floor the guard was not around so they quickly made their way outside. Then they made their way to a hire car which had been parked close to the building. She told him to get into the back of the car and lie down and when he was inside she covered him with a blanket. She put her bags in the car alongside some fresh flowers, turned on the car stereo, lit a cigarette, and drove slowly to the main gate. With her passenger well hidden, she approached the security barrier, the sounds of the radio filling the air. Her early-morning departure did little to raise suspicions. The staff were used to seeing her coming and going at all hours, and she had built up a friendly rapport with most of the hospital workers. She had planned everything and as usual had left a bottle of good German wine for one of the guards. She had also told the gate staff what time she would be leaving. If she could make her visit seem normal she knew her plan had a good chance of succeeding. In her husband’s empty bed a pillow had been placed strategically to fool anyone who might casually glance through the window of his room. A note handwritten in Italian, saying, ‘Please not disturb me before 10 a.m.’ was stuck on his door. The instruction was intended to ward off enquiring nurses and buy much-needed escape time. A friendly guard approached the car, as he often did when he saw Frau Kappler. He stopped to practise his German, smiled, and began talking. Another soldier, keen to while away the boredom of night duty, sauntered over for a chat. On any other night the visitor would have relished the conversation. Tonight was different. Even though she was in a hurry and nervous, she knew she had to remain calm. However, the guards were in no hurry to wave her on. Had they spotted something? Would they suddenly decide to search the car? Had someone seen her husband escape and tipped them off? Anneliese desperately wanted to leave quickly and told the guards she was in a hurry because she needed to get some medicine. At last the barrier was opened. She drove away from the hospital along Via Druso and past the ruins of the ancient baths. Rome was quiet. She stopped briefly and asked her husband if he was all right. ‘Yes, everything is fine,’ came the muffled reply. There was little traffic and she quickly made for the Grand Hotel. There she met her son. She led him to the back of the car and for the first time in his life he saw his stepfather as a free man. Hours later, when Rome awoke, the city’s most notorious prisoner was declared missing. By then Herbert Kappler had been driven out of the country by car. His driver was his German wife Anneliese, who had married him in prison and had now helped him to freedom. By mid-morning the most wanted man in Italy was heading for a safe house in West Germany. After over thirty years in custody the former Nazi officer was free. Defying life imprisonment for war crimes, he had masterminded a great escape, from the very city he had terrorized as a Gestapo chief some three decades earlier. The hunter was now the hunted. Chapter One APPOINTMENT TO KILL (#ulink_b0482d4e-3f93-5c88-8188-cd84edfb62b2) ‘I don’t want to see him alive again’ Herbert Kappler plots to kill Hugh O’Flaherty Rome, 1944 Standing alone, six feet two inches tall, weighing nearly fifteen stone, and dressed in his distinctive black and red clerical vestments – most other priests wore only black – Monsignor Hugh O’Flaherty was easy to spot. Every day the bespectacled Irishman stood and surveyed the evening scene as Romans went about their daily business. Around him, people made their way to and from work. Some chatted in a leisurely fashion with friends, others, maybe late for appointments, hurried along looking anxious. From his vantage point on the top step that led to St Peter’s Basilica, the monsignor could look out over St Peter’s Square. When the weather was good it was a perfect place to watch the day end. Cradling his breviary, O’Flaherty would read and occasionally look up and watch as the Vatican buzzed with life. His daily devotion was an act of faith but it was also a display of defiance. And across the piazza his behaviour was being watched carefully. Beyond the white line that had been painted around the cobbled square to mark the Holy See’s neutral territory, Rome’s rulers looked on. Through field binoculars, armed German paratroops studied the priest. They were tasked to watch his every move. Each day the routine continued. O’Flaherty stood and looked out at his observers, who in turn carefully noted all his movements. This was the monsignor’s territory. A Vatican veteran, O’Flaherty had first graced Rome’s streets in 1922 and was a well-known figure throughout the city. He was hundreds of miles from his birthplace, but he felt completely at home. St Peter’s Square was his open-air office. Nuns and priests would pass by and say a quick hello; others would pause and stop for a longer chat. To the casual observer these meetings and encounters seemed normal and harmless. In reality they were part of O’Flaherty’s operation to gather information and pass messages and money on to those harbouring Allied servicemen. The vantage point was well chosen. From the steps O’Flaherty could see and be seen. He could keep a close eye on German soldiers at the Vatican’s boundary, by Bernini’s magnificent colonnade. The ever-present Swiss Guards, the Vatican’s loyal protectors, could quickly intervene if trouble arose. From his nearby study window Pope Pius XII could also look down and see the Irishman. It was a perfect spot. Home to emperors, kings and cardinals, Rome had witnessed over 2,000 years of history. In 1944 it was a dangerous place. The final years of the Second World War were dark days of violence, fear and hunger. Rome was a racial and political mix: a world of German Nazis, Italian fascists and Resistance fighters, spies, diplomats, Catholics and Jews. Into this arena arrived British, American and French servicemen, escapees from Italian prisoner-of-war camps. The Allied landings in the south of the country had caused Italians there to surrender unconditionally and many POWs were simply walking out of the unguarded camps and making their way through the countryside. It was the biggest mass escape in history, but, without maps or guidance, many didn’t know where to go. Encouraged by BBC radio, some set out for the Vatican on the basis that it was free from Nazi interference. Many were caught quickly by the Germans, rounded up and transported to prison camps in Germany. Those who made it to Rome were hoping to be offered shelter by a secret underground unit headed by Monsignor O’Flaherty. Even though the Germans controlled the city, uncovering the Allied escape organization was proving very difficult for them because the Vatican was beyond their control. By the spring of 1944 the struggle was becoming increasingly personal. One March morning a dark car pulled up at the entrance to St Peter’s Square and from it emerged three men. Two plain-clothed members of the Gestapo accompanied a suave, black-booted figure in his late thirties. With blue eyes, fair hair, and a three-inch duelling scar on his cheek, Obersturmbannf?hrer Herbert Kappler was the face of the Nazis in Rome. The lieutenant colonel had a reputation for ruthlessness, and his word was not to be challenged on the city’s streets. An experienced SS officer, he had worked his way through the ranks after showing an early talent for secret police work. Handpicked to lead the Gestapo in Rome, Kappler was articulate, well-spoken and confident. He displayed his loyalty like a badge of honour, wearing on one finger a steel ring decorated with the Death’s Head and swastikas and inscribed ‘To Herbert from his Himmler’. In Rome Kappler was head of the Sicherheitsdienst, or SD, the security service of the SS and the Nazi Party. The SD was originally set up by Reinhard Heydrich and by 1944 it had effectively been merged with the state police and was universally known as the Gestapo. On this particular morning Kappler hadn’t come to check on his subordinates but had journeyed to the Vatican’s boundary to cast an eye over his opponent and make final preparations for a kidnap. The target was Monsignor O’Flaherty. The 46-year-old priest had become the organizer of the Allied escape operation in Rome by chance rather than by design. In the summer of 1943 a British soldier arrived at the Vatican seeking sanctuary and Hugh O’Flaherty helped him find refuge in one of the many Vatican buildings in which he would stay for the duration of the Nazi occupation. It was the start of an initiative which would eventually offer hundreds of men and women shelter and escape from occupied Italy. A few weeks later three more British soldiers arrived and they too were given accommodation. By September the original trickle of escapees had turned into a flood. That autumn, St Peter’s Square became the main destination for Allied servicemen seeking safe accommodation in Rome, and their contact there was Hugh O’Flaherty. It was an open secret what was happening inside the Vatican, and soon intelligence reports landed on Kappler’s desk. The Gestapo chief knew what O’Flaherty’s role was and he suspected that the priest was using rooms in the Vatican and other buildings across Rome to hide the escapees. He gave orders that O’Flaherty be followed and that suspected supporters of what came to be known as the Rome Escape Line be kept under surveillance. Raids were routinely carried out on the homes of Italians sympathetic to the Allies, in the hope of catching escaped soldiers, but Kappler was having little success. By early 1944 Herbert Kappler and Hugh O’Flaherty were locked in a dangerous game of hide and seek. And it was a battle that the monsignor was winning. Kappler was in no doubt that the Irishman was at the centre of the escape organization, but he needed to catch him red-handed. However, in addition to plotting to stop the monsignor’s activities, he had plenty of other work to do. Kappler and his team spent a great deal of time tracking the movements of members of the Resistance, and the Gestapo were also heavily involved in the interrogation of Rome’s Jews and their deportation to concentration camps. Kappler could claim to his superiors that he was enacting Nazi rule in Rome and keeping anti-fascist dissent at bay, but he knew he was making little progress with the Allied escape operation. He concluded that the only way to crush the organization was to remove the monsignor, and that meant killing him. Without O’Flaherty he was sure the entire network would crumble. The daring and controversial move to seize the priest was fraught with difficulties, both political and practical. It would bring Kappler into conflict with the Catholic Church. By March 1944 68-year-old Eugenio Pacelli had just completed his fifth year as Pope Pius XII. He was worried about the impact of the war on the Church and the Vatican State. For much of the conflict the fighting across Europe had seemed distant. However, the arrival of Allied troops in Sicily in July of the previous year, and the air attacks on Rome some months before that, had brought the war to his doorstep. The German occupation of Rome had created a dilemma for the Pope. Desperate to maintain the independence of the 2,000-year-old Catholic Church, he was fearful that the Nazis would invade the Vatican itself and prevent it functioning. Within days of capturing Rome, Adolf Hitler had promised him that he would respect his sovereignty and protect the Vatican from the fighting. But Pius XII knew Hitler’s guarantee was worthless, since the very presence of German troops in Rome led Allied bombers to regard the Eternal City as a target. The Pope was trying to keep both sides happy in the hope that the Church and its property would survive unscathed. He gained some reassurance from the fact that under international law the Vatican City and all its land and property constituted a neutral state which the Germans were forbidden to enter. For Kappler this caused some logistical problems, for the kidnap of O’Flaherty would have to be cleverly orchestrated to take place away from Church property. But the Gestapo commander had a plan. It was crude, but he thought it could work. Two plain-clothed SS men would attend early mass and afterwards, as the crowds dispersed, they would simply manhandle the monsignor into German territory. As he squinted across St Peter’s Square at O’Flaherty that sunny March morning, Kappler told the two men, ‘Seize him, hustle him down the steps, and across the line. When you get him into a side-street, free him for a moment. I don’t want to see him alive again and we certainly don’t want any formal trials. He will have been shot while escaping. Understood?’ The instructions seemed straightforward enough. Kappler then got into his car and was driven out of the square, hoping that he had just looked at Hugh O’Flaherty for the last time. That night, however, just hours before the kidnap was about to occur, the plan began to unravel. In the evening, as he often did, the monsignor was working in his office. Ironically, O’Flaherty lived and worked in the Collegium Teutonicum, the German College, as an official of the Holy Office. Although this building was technically apart from the Vatican, it had some protection under international law. Despite its name, the German College was probably the safest place in Rome from which to run an Allied escape operation as it stood very near the walls of the Vatican and a few hundred yards from the British legation. Church scholars studied at the college, which was under the stewardship of a German rector who was helped by a group of nuns. The place had an international feel to it, and O’Flaherty’s neighbours included a German historian and several Hungarian scholars. When he first arrived in Rome, O’Flaherty became a student at the Propaganda College, where he became vice rector. He was ordained in 1925 and obtained doctorates in Divinity, Canon Law and Philosophy. While still in his mid-thirties he was promoted to monsignor. This title, bestowed on a number of priests by the Pope, indicated how the upper echelons of the Church viewed the Irishman’s potential. In the German College, where O’Flaherty would spend most of his career, the accommodation was basic but comfortable. His room had a wardrobe, a few chairs, bookshelves, and a desk always crammed with papers, with his prized typewriter beside them. Nearby stood his golf clubs. A curtain divided off a part of the room and behind it were a single bed and a washbasin. A radio kept the monsignor in touch with world events. That evening, as O’Flaherty worked at his desk, there was a knock on the door. Seconds later, in came John May. Of medium build, with bushy eyebrows and a shock of dark hair, he worked as a butler for Sir D’Arcy Osborne, the British Minister to the Holy See. May was O’Flaherty’s ‘eyes and ears’, a fixer who had contacts throughout the city and an uncanny ability to find supplies officially deemed unobtainable. May’s success at sourcing rare items in wartime Rome was legendary and O’Flaherty would declare that he was a ‘genius’, the ‘most magnificent scrounger I have ever come across’. When May called on O’Flaherty, he looked every inch the English manservant, dressed formally in a white shirt, grey tie, black jacket and dark, striped trousers. In his broad cockney accent, May came straight to the point, telling the monsignor what he had just discovered from a contact who had access to Kappler’s plans. Having revealed details of the kidnap operation, he insisted that the monsignor should avoid the next morning’s early mass and disappear from view for a few days. O’Flaherty, who had been a boxer in his younger days, dismissed his visitor’s concern and responded characteristically: ‘So long as they don’t use guns I can tackle any two or three of them with ease. Though a scrap would be a bit undignified on the very steps of St Peter’s itself, would it not?’ The next day May arrived at mass in good time, keen to make sure the kidnap attempt would be foiled. As expected, two SS men sat in the congregation and tried to blend in, unaware that their hosts had prepared a welcome for them. Even though the would-be kidnappers were dressed in plain clothes, they stood out from other church-goers. Throughout mass May kept his eyes on them at all times. When the service ended, the worshippers rose and slowly made their way towards the exits. As the crowd moved towards the daylight that streamed in from the square, several Vatican gendarmes suddenly appeared at the shoulders of the SS men. Outnumbered, the unwelcome visitors were then ushered outside into the morning air, past their intended victim, who was standing close to the door. The monsignor simply watched as the two men were bundled into a side-street and disappeared from view. It was over. O’Flaherty had outfoxed his rival. Soon afterwards Kappler was informed that the kidnapping had not succeeded. The battle against the escape organization would continue, but he knew he would need to adopt new tactics. For a man so used to getting things his own way, the failure to remove O’Flaherty from the scene was a rare setback. Kappler controlled the city from the former offices of the German embassy’s cultural section. Number 20 Via Tasso housed the Gestapo headquarters as well as a prison and interrogation centre, and all over Rome the address spelled police brutality and torture. Here partisans, Jews, communists, gypsies and those who harboured Allied soldiers were interrogated and physically abused. Few came out of Via Tasso unscathed. Chapter Two DESTINATION ITALY (#ulink_fd380f63-41b0-5eda-9cb9-c5abc953800a) ‘Catholicity makes us pure-minded, charitable, truthful and generous’ Hugh O’Flaherty September 1943 In the four years during which Herbert Kappler had lived in Rome he had come to love the city. He felt at home, so comfortable in fact that he encouraged his parents to move there from Germany. Well-read and politically literate, he knew much about his hosts, having studied Italian history. But he was a loner, with few friends, and was trapped in an unhappy marriage. Hoping to divorce his wife, he meanwhile embarked on a series of extramarital affairs. During his time in Rome he would have a string of mistresses, among them a Dutch woman who worked alongside him as an intelligence agent. Outside work, Kappler’s interests included growing roses, walking his dogs, and photography. He also enjoyed good food and had a penchant for collecting Etruscan vases. He loved to spend time with his adopted son Wolfgang, who was a product of the Lebensborn programme, a Nazi social experiment where children were procreated by Germans deemed to be of pure Aryan stock. The project had the blessing of Reichsf?hrer-SS Heinrich Himmler, who encouraged his officers to have children with true Aryan women. Born into a middle-class family in Stuttgart in September 1907, as a young man Kappler showed little interest in a career in the police or the military. After secondary school he wanted to learn a trade, so he studied to be an electrician and obtained jobs with various firms. By his mid-twenties he had decided that his future lay elsewhere. In the early 1930s Germany was undergoing enormous social and political change. The Nazi Party was on the rise and Kappler was becoming increasingly attracted to its ideals. In August 1931 he joined the Sturmabteilung, or SA, a paramilitary group which had a key role in the Nazi Party and played an important part in Hitler’s rise to power in the 1920s and 1930s. However, when Hitler seized control of Germany in January 1933, banning political opposition and turning the country into a one-party state, the Schutzstaffel, or SS, came to prominence and would be placed under the control of Heinrich Himmler. SS members generally came from middle-class backgrounds whereas the SA had a more working-class membership. In December 1932 Herbert Kappler made the move to the SS. As the world around Kappler was changing, so too was his personal life. In September 1934 he married 27-year-old Leonore Janns, a native of Heilbronn, and they took an apartment in Stuttgart. With German rearmament in full swing, Kappler was called up to complete military training three times between the summer of 1935 and the autumn of 1936. By now he had secured his first promotion, to SS-Scharf?hrer (sergeant), and worked in Stuttgart’s main Gestapo office. His potential was spotted by his superiors, among them Reinhard Heydrich, who, as head of the Gestapo from April 1934, was already a key figure in the Nazi regime. This connection in particular would help Kappler later in his career. Another promotion followed for the ambitious Kappler and as an SS-Oberscharf?hrer (staff sergeant) he was later selected to attend the Sicherheitspolizei, or Security Police, leadership school in Berlin, becoming the first non-Prussian to graduate from the institution. Now he was a Criminal Commissioner and clearly destined for higher things. He was fast-tracked and shortly before the Second World War broke out he was posted to Innsbruck, which, after the Anschluss, was within Hitler’s Reich. Kappler’s work in Austria caught the attention of senior military figures in Berlin and he had soon established a reputation as a hardworking, loyal Nazi who acted swiftly against opponents. Not surprisingly, his stay in Austria was brief. In the autumn of 1939, as Britain and France went to war with Germany, Kappler’s travels continued and he found himself in Rome, working as a police attach? at the German embassy. He had been selected to join a new wave of staff who would work out of German diplomatic missions. Kappler replaced Dr Theodor Helmerking, whose time in Rome had been regarded by senior figures in German intelligence as disappointing because he was not interested in the work. By contrast, Kappler was viewed as both ambitious and clever and his superiors in Berlin were convinced his arrival in Rome would mark a noticeable change. His job was to advise the German Ambassador to Italy, work with the local Fascist police force, and organize intelligence and espionage operations in the city. Across the city, the man who would become Kappler’s wartime adversary was also settling into a new job. Hugh O’Flaherty had been away from Rome for a few years, posted to Haiti and Czechoslovakia, but by 1938 he was once again working in the Vatican. His title was Scrittore, or Writer, in the Holy Office, his task being to examine the Church’s teachings and important doctrinal matters. He was delighted with his new role. O’Flaherty’s journey to Rome had begun in the rugged countryside of rural Ireland. Born in Cork in February 1898, he spent the early years of his life in Killarney, in County Kerry, where his father was a policeman with the Royal Irish Constabulary. The eldest of four children, Hugh, like his brothers Jim and Neil, went to the town’s Monastery School, which was run by the Presentation Brothers, a traditional Catholic body with the twin values of faith and discipline at its core. The school’s religious ethos was to have a lasting and life-changing effect on the young Hugh. From an early age he made no secret of his wish to become a priest. However, his path to taking holy orders was not a straightforward one. At the young age of 15 he secured a junior teaching post and taught for three years. Originally Hugh had thought the teaching profession would satisfy him, but he clearly wanted to do something else with his life. In his heart he always knew he wanted to be a priest, and so, despite the fact that he was older than most other applicants, he applied to Mungret College. The former agricultural school enjoyed an idyllic setting, on farmland surrounded by woods south of the River Shannon, some three miles from the city of Limerick. Formally known as the Apostolic School of the Sacred Heart, the college was run by the Jesuit Order. There were two schools on the site: a secondary school for young boys and an apostolic boarding college for older students. O’Flaherty joined the older boys, who, once their studies were complete, were expected to travel abroad to spread God’s word as missionaries. Even though Hugh had no Latin and was by now 20, two years older than the upper age limit, he was offered a place. In the late summer of 1918, as the Great War entered its final months, Hugh O’Flaherty stood at the grand columned entrance of Mungret College clutching his bags and books. His new home was an impressive sight. The handsome stone building housed a chapel, dormitories and classrooms with views onto fields where cattle grazed. Within days he was out exploring the rolling countryside. Nature walks were part of college life and every month the boys went out to enjoy the area’s beauty spots. The new entrant clearly relished his studies and soon established a reputation as a creative thinker. The young O’Flaherty wrote an award-winning essay entitled ‘The Best Means of Spreading Irish Culture’, speaking with admiration of those who had died for the ideal of a Gaelic Ireland. He argued that there were two ‘beacon lights’ which offered the way forward, ‘Catholicity and Nationality’. To him it was already clear that ‘Catholicity makes us pure-minded, charitable, truthful and generous’. At the same time, the growth of modern music and dance exercised the young student’s mind. He proclaimed that much of it was ‘degenerating’ and ‘demoralizing’ and it should be banned because the dances were the ‘unchristian productions of African savages’. As in many Jesuit schools, the regime at Mungret was strict. Boys who stepped out of line received corporal punishment. Those found guilty of an offence were issued with a docket and told to report to a priest, who would administer the appropriate number of slaps. In this structured and morally strict environment O’Flaherty blossomed personally and academically. He studied philosophy, ecclesiastical history, theology and scripture, and often came top of the class. He also became proficient in Latin. The seminarian was also a fervent advocate of the Irish language. He maintained that it should be spoken as much as possible and argued that his fellow students should spend a few weeks of their holidays in an Irish-speaking district. The priests who taught them worked hard to promote the use of Ireland’s native tongue. One teacher wrote in the college journal that the boys should study Irish ‘to render you immune against the worst forms of Anglicization’. Hugh and his classmates were also encouraged to discuss current affairs and O’Flaherty enjoyed the college’s debates. On one occasion, in the packed sports hall in front of teachers and students, Hugh’s team was assigned to speak for a motion which called for the prohibition of alcohol. O’Flaherty’s arguments helped to win the debate. The trainee priest had some knowledge of abstinence. He was a teetotaller, having made a pledge to refrain from drinking or smoking when his brother Jim had fallen seriously ill with pneumonia. Should his brother regain his health, he vowed, he would never drink or smoke. Jim recovered and Hugh kept his promise. O’Flaherty’s rhetorical skills were not confined to the discussion of social issues. In another debate he argued against the motion ‘The USA stands for the world’s peace’. The seminarian declared, ‘The American government is run by Freemasons and wealthy speculators and it is to their interest to have the European countries at war.’ It was an interesting argument for a man who, some twenty-five years later during the war, would find himself saving the lives of American servicemen. Away from studying and debating, Mungret set great store by sport. The boys were encouraged to play cricket, rugby and soccer, but emphasis was placed on Gaelic sports too. However, it was golf that became O’Flaherty’s passion, and he would enjoy it for the rest of his life. Since the college’s central purpose was to prepare young men for a life working overseas as priests, O’Flaherty and his friends spent much time wondering where in the world they would be sent. The much-admired map in the college’s study room was heavily smudged with the fingerprints of students speculating about their future. But matters closer to home were also occupying the thoughts of many in the dormitories of Mungret. Ireland was in turmoil as Britain’s rule was being challenged in a guerrilla war waged by the Irish Republican Army. As violence raged across the country it was impossible for the college authorities to shield their charges from the events of the outside world. One morning in December 1920, with the Christmas holidays about to begin, the dining hall was filled with an air of happiness. However, within minutes all that would change. On cue, as he did every day, a college prefect who was circling the tables began to hand out the morning post. He passed O’Flaherty and gave him a letter. The mature student paused, opened the envelope, read the note inside, and then shared the dreadful news. ‘Chris Lucy has been shot,’ he told his friends. Lucy, a former Mungret boy, had joined the 1st Battalion of the IRA in County Cork and had been killed some weeks earlier. The boys listened in silence. Then their shock turned to anger. This was the fourth time in recent months that they had heard how one of their friends had been killed by British forces. Raised teenage voices now echoed across the refectory. ‘One day we will sink the whole British Navy,’ one voice yelled defiantly. It was Hugh O’Flaherty who made this vow, for his political views were by now well formed. Not long before he left Mungret, the young O’Flaherty’s dislike of Ireland’s rulers was reinforced by an encounter with them at first hand. In Limerick in March 1921 British soldiers shot dead the city’s mayor and former mayor. O’Flaherty and two classmates, Martin and Leo, decided to visit the men’s grieving families to pay their condolences. The three of them left the college grounds and walked into Limerick, unaware that every visit to the homes of the dead men was being monitored by British troops. To the watching eyes the three young seminarians were seen as IRA sympathizers. After they had met the families, O’Flaherty and his two friends set off for Mungret. As they passed the police barracks in William Street they were rapidly surrounded by members of the ‘Black and Tans’, a British unit of temporary police constables, so called because of the colours of their fatigues. Constantly on the lookout for IRA units, they had a fearsome reputation and had been responsible for the deaths of hundreds of civilians. ‘We will take a look at you in the Barracks,’ one of the constables told the students, who were then arrested and ordered inside the building. The three young men insisted that they were students and explained that their visits had been simply pastoral. Convinced they were being misled, the ‘Tans’ continued their questioning. But luck was on the side of the students, because as they were being taken into the barracks a passer-by had spotted that they were from Mungret. The dean of the college was alerted, he contacted the police station to substantiate his students’ story, and they were released. For the young O’Flaherty the episode was another reminder of why he opposed British rule in Ireland. In the college journal he wrote of the affair in the understated manner which would become his trademark during his days in Rome. He recorded that some boys had ‘gone off to Limerick for the day’ and added coyly that ‘some had exciting experiences, arrests, escapes, etc’. As 1921 drew to a close and Ireland faced an uncertain future, Hugh O’Flaherty’s life became a little clearer. The young student heard that he was to be sent to Rome to continue his theological studies. Chapter Three ROME IS HOME (#ulink_ed3eb8ff-6505-5dfd-b3ed-4ae5f19d618f) ‘I don’t think there is anything to choose between Britain and Germany’ Hugh O’Flaherty On a fairway at Rome Golf Club, the Japanese Ambassador could only watch with amazement and a little envy as his opponent’s ball arced high and long and then landed close to the green. The tee-off was textbook. It was perfect, a wonderful drive that set up the second shot beautifully. It was 1928 and this was the diplomat’s farewell game, a last chance to enjoy eighteen holes in the company of friends before returning to Tokyo. And it was not going according to plan. He was playing a man who had a lifetime of practice that had begun on the greens of Killarney. It was a rather one-sided contest. The monsignor was in fine form and clearly relishing the day a little more than his playing partner. At the picturesque club, sited on grassland outside Rome, Hugh O’Flaherty’s golfing skills were often the topic of conversation. To some the gifted player seemed unconventional. He didn’t dress like a golfer, sometimes wearing grey trousers and a favourite orange jumper, and his unusual grip was frequently the butt of jokes. ‘Why don’t you hold the club like any other human being?’ one player teased him, remarking that the monsignor seemed to grip the golf club rather like the stick used in hurling, a sport favoured by O’Flaherty’s countrymen. The priest was very capable of taking the banter and shot back a detailed reply. ‘For the correct grip in hurling, the left hand is held below the right. I am holding my golf club just the opposite, my right hand is below the left,’ he explained with a smile on his face to all those present. The technicalities were probably lost on his opponents but his ability to play and win the game wasn’t. His continued success on the greens meant that he had to concede a couple of shots to less able players. The par for the course was seventy-one and O’Flaherty regularly came close to that. His fellow players also wondered how a busy priest weighed down with church duties had time to play golf. For O’Flaherty it was an opportunity to relax and forget the cares and worries of the job. He told a friend that there was ‘nothing like golf for knocking all the troubles of this poor world out of your mind’. Even though he loved the game, there were times when the distance he had to travel and the price of playing seemed too high. In a letter home he wrote, ‘The links are far from the city and, besides, to be a member one must know how to rob a bank and keep what is robbed.’ Despite his reservations about spending hours driving, chipping and putting, there were other benefits to his favourite pastime. The club had a very influential membership and O’Flaherty began meeting many leading members of Roman society – including royalty, aristocrats, diplomats and politicians – who would prove useful to his escape network. Those who regularly played the course included Count Galeazzo Ciano, who was married to Mussolini’s daughter Edda. Ciano was the Italian Foreign Minister and O’Flaherty is credited with teaching him the finer points of the game. Another regular player at the club was the former King of Spain, Alfonso. It was on the golf course that the monsignor was introduced to Sir D’Arcy Osborne. Like O’Flaherty, the British diplomat loved nothing more than taking the Italian air with his clubs on his back. The game was part of Osborne’s life; so much so that he often used golfing references in his correspondence. Exasperated by the intransigence of a position taken by the powerful of the Vatican, he once wrote that trying to get them to change their mind was like ‘trying to sink a long putt using a live eel as a putter’. With a direct line to the Papacy, Osborne was one of the most influential people in Rome. He was the image of the English gentleman: well-mannered, charming and courteous. A bachelor, he was tall and slim and always immaculately dressed. As a career diplomat he was highly regarded in London and as a cousin of the Duke of Leeds he was well connected and counted the Duke and Duchess of York as friends. Osborne had a deep affection for Italy, a country he had first visited at the turn of the century, when he had been won over by the people and the scenery. He joined the diplomatic service and after postings in Washington, Lisbon and The Hague he became Britain’s Minister to the Holy See in 1936. He spoke Italian and French and loved art, expensive shoes and fine wine. Like all those who occupied the position of ambassador to the Vatican, he was a Protestant, in case there was a conflict of loyalties. Given O’Flaherty’s Irish nationalist background and Osborne’s British establishment credentials, the pair were an unlikely match. Yet over time they became good friends and would meet both in the club house and at the Vatican. In the early weeks of the Second World War Osborne’s knowledge and diplomatic skills were much in demand. There was a fevered debate about when Italy would enter the conflict and much concern in Vatican circles over how this would affect its protected status. As Britain’s representative to the Vatican, Osborne’s views were sought by the leaders of the Catholic Church and he was used to test ideas and opinions. In the spring of 1939 a new resident was holding court in the Vatican’s Apostolic Palace. On 2 March Cardinal Eugenio Pacelli had become Pope on his sixty-third birthday. In one of the shortest conclaves in the Church’s history he was elected by sixty-two cardinals. The first Roman-born Pope in over 200 years, Pacelli took the name of Pius XII, in honour of his predecessor Pius XI. The new Pontiff had had little time to settle into office when, on 15 March, the Germans entered Prague. Over the next few months papal envoys would become involved in shuttle diplomacy with Mussolini, Hitler and the Polish and French governments in a bid to avert war. The discussions did not succeed. On 1 September 1939 Hitler invaded Poland, and two days later Britain and France declared war on Germany. In his office in Rome Kappler had begun to gather information from all over the city on both anti-fascists and under-cover agents he could employ. He was watching the new regime of Pius XII with particular interest as he wanted to recruit informers within the Vatican. But, before he could make much progress, he was instructed to return to Germany. Two incidents had occurred, just hours apart, which would focus attention on Hitler’s leadership; events which required the skills of Herbert Kappler. These two investigations would not only enhance the police attach?’s reputation but bring him into direct contact with the F?hrer. When Kappler arrived in Berlin there was only one story occupying the minds of the Nazi leadership. Days earlier, in a Munich beer hall, Hitler had acknowledged the adoring crowds as he stood in front of a swastika-draped stage. Hundreds of supporters had come to hear the F?hrer speak at an annual get-together for the Nazi Party’s old guard. At 9.07 p.m. he finished his speech, earlier than planned, and left the building. Hitler had planned to fly back to Berlin, but poor weather made this impossible and he was taken to the railway station instead. The decision to change his travel plans saved Hitler’s life. At 9.20 p.m. a bomb, hidden in a pillar close to where he had been speaking, exploded. The ceiling and balcony collapsed, killing eight people and injuring many others. As Hitler made his way back to Berlin, German police held in custody a 36-year-old carpenter from W?rttemberg who had been arrested as he tried to leave the country and enter Switzerland. Georg Elser had travelled by train from Munich and had been spotted trying to cross over at the border town of Konstanz. A trade unionist and an opponent of Nazism, he had first gone to Munich a year earlier to observe the F?hrer deliver his annual speech at the Burgerbr?ukeller. Over the next twelve months the carpenter planned his attack for the following year’s event at the beer hall. He became a regular diner there and over time he built a bomb which he would eventually place in a pillar close to the hall’s podium. As anticipated, on 8 November Hitler was to deliver a speech in the Burgerbr?ukeller in the evening and Elser had timed the device to go off at around 9.20 p.m. Shocked at how close someone had come to killing the F?hrer, the Nazi high command handed the investigation over to the Gestapo. When Kappler arrived in Berlin he was assigned to be part of the team interrogating Elser, who initially had refused to say anything. The police attach? had been in this position many times before: in Austria he had interrogated anti-Nazi dissidents and in Rome he had begun the same work. Now, as he sat opposite Elser, his main job was to break the man’s silence. Elser was bombarded with questions. How did he prepare the bomb? When did he go to Munich? But perhaps most interesting for Kappler and his Gestapo colleagues was the question of who had helped the carpenter. They began to track down anyone who knew Elser and had been in contact with him in recent months. Investigators caught up with Else Stephan, Elser’s girlfriend, who was questioned personally by Himmler and then taken to Hitler. Of the latter encounter she later said, ‘Behind a table sat a man in a field-grey uniform. He didn’t look up when one of the SS men reported: “My F?hrer! This is the woman!” Good Lord, it really was Hitler. Hitler put down a folder he had been reading and looked at me. He didn’t say anything. I felt most embarrassed. I wanted to salute but I just couldn’t raise my arm.’ Hitler looked at his visitor for a while before speaking. Then he said, ‘So you are Elser’s woman. Well, tell me about it.’ Else Stephan told Hitler her story just as she had done with Himmler, who was in charge of the investigation. Eventually, after Elser was beaten, investigators secured a confession. Postcards from the Burgerbr?ukeller had been found in his coat and one of the waitresses recognized him as a regular customer. Elser was then tortured by the Gestapo, who initially found it difficult to accept that the carpenter had acted alone. Hitler himself was convinced that he had been helped by British Secret Service agents. Under questioning Elser insisted that he had carried out the operation without any help. Himmler personally took part in a number of the interrogations and on one occasion told the suspect, ‘I’ll have you burnt alive, you swine. Limb by limb quite slowly … do you understand?’ Kappler would maintain in an interview some years later that he treated Elser properly during the interrogations. ‘I always spoke to Elser very calmly. He opened up to me without reservation. And I also had the impression that he was telling us the truth on all points – and this was corroborated when his statements were checked.’ Elser made a confession that ran to hundreds of pages. He would be imprisoned at Sachsenhausen and Dachau concentration camps, remaining at the second until the final weeks of the war, when he was taken from his cell and killed. The American forces were nearby but with the war about to end the German high command clearly had some old scores to settle. Back in 1939, hours after Elser’s arrest, Kappler would find himself examining another ‘plot’ to topple Hitler. This one, bizarre and complicated, did involve Britain’s Secret Service at the highest level. It began one winter’s morning and involved two British intelligence agents and one Dutch. Before dawn, Sigismund Payne Best was awake. A man in his fifties, he headed Britain’s highly secretive Section Z in the Netherlands. He got up and as he shaved he thought of what lay ahead over the next few hours, and he was nervous. He had reservations but knew he had little choice. He kissed his wife goodbye, told her he might be late, then hurried to his office. There he glanced at the morning paper. A stop-press item about the attempt on Hitler’s life in a beer hall caught his eye. It reported how the F?hrer had escaped but others had been killed. Best then headed to meet some colleagues, all the time wondering if the incident in Munich he had just read about had anything to do with a group of German officers he had recently become acquainted with. Payne Best called at a house to pick up two colleagues. Richard Stevens, a less experienced British intelligence officer likewise based in The Hague, was an agent with whom he had recently begun working. The other man was Dirk Klop, who had been seconded from the Dutch intelligence service. The three men chatted about the day ahead and Stevens produced loaded Browning automatic pistols which they each pocketed. Then, as storm clouds gathered, they made their way to the border with Germany. In the cold November air they arrived at Caf? Backus, an eating house near the Dutch town of Venlo, close to the border with Germany. The men were familiar with the building, which was of red brick with a veranda and at the back had a large garden with children’s swings. The venue for the meeting had been carefully chosen. It was in the Netherlands, but stood in a stretch of land between the German and Dutch customs posts. Best, Stevens and Klop had come to the border to continue discussions with high-ranking Nazi officers who wanted to overthrow Hitler. In previous meetings the trio had been told that there was support for Hitler’s removal and the restoration of democracy, which would lead to an Anglo-German front against the Soviet Union. In London senior military officials and politicians including the Prime Minister were kept informed about the discussions. The story had one problem. It was not true. The British and Dutch intelligence officers had been duped as part of a ‘sting’ organized by the German intelligence service. Best and Stevens had been dealing with an officer named Major Sch?mmel, who claimed to be a member of an anti-Hitler plot. Sch?mmel was in fact Walter Schellenberg, a rising star in the world of German military intelligence who would later become the head of the SS’s foreign-intelligence section. When the three agents arrived at the caf? the scene was peaceful. A little girl was playing ball with a dog in the middle of the road and nearby a German customs officer was standing watching for traffic. However, this time something seemed different. When they had been to the caf? before, the barrier to the German side had been closed, but they now noticed that it had been raised. Best sensed danger. As they drove into the car park their contact Sch?mmel spotted them and waved at them from the veranda. At that moment a large car came from the German side of the border and drew up behind the visitors. Within seconds shots were fired in the air and the two Britons, Dirk Klop and their driver were surrounded by German soldiers and ordered to surrender. Stevens turned to his colleague and said simply, ‘Our number is up, Best.’ They would be the last words the pair would exchange for five years. Within hours they were in Berlin and Herbert Kappler had more interviews to conduct. The so-called Venlo incident was a coup for German military intelligence and a source of embarrassment for the British government. The Germans had captured senior British intelligence figures and their removal from clandestine activities was also a crucial blow to British espionage efforts across Europe. Kappler remained in Berlin to help in the interrogation of Best and Stevens. The pair were questioned at length and were later imprisoned at Sachsenhausen and Dachau, where Best reportedly came into contact with Hitler’s would-be assassin Georg Elser. The Elser affair kept the issue of Hitler’s leadership in the headlines and stories about plots and coups against the Nazi leader continued to surface. When Kappler returned to Rome to resume his duties as police attach? there, Hitler’s future was a subject that was dominating the chatter among the city’s diplomatic circles. In January 1940 Sir D’Arcy Osborne was called to meet Pope Pius for a private audience. The pair discussed the war and considered a series of scenarios. The Pope claimed he knew the names of German generals who said that Hitler was planning an offensive through the Netherlands in the weeks ahead. He said this need not happen if the generals could be guaranteed a peace deal by the Allies that would see Hitler deposed, and in return Poland and Czechoslovakia would be free of German rule. The Pope was nervous and asked Osborne to keep the contents of the discussion secret, telling him, ‘If anything should become known, the lives of the unnamed German generals would be forfeit.’ Osborne refused the Holy Father’s request and reported the contents of the encounter to officials in London. In his official report the Minister to the Holy See wrote that he thought the discussions had been vague and reminded him of the Venlo incident. His words carried extra weight because the arrest of the three British intelligence officers was still an embarrassment to many in London. The following month Osborne again met the Pope, who told him that, according to information he had been given by prominent German generals, Hitler was planning to invade Belgium. As he had done before, the Pope talked about a potential uprising against the F?hrer in Germany. He suggested that there could be a civil war and a new anti-Hitler government might have to start as a military dictatorship. Again the Pope wanted to know what, if the F?hrer was overthrown and a new regime was put in place, would be the basis of negotiations with the Allies. The Pope insisted that these details be kept to a small number of people. He agreed, however, that Osborne could mention them in a letter to Lord Halifax, the Foreign Secretary, in the hope that this would have a limited readership. The Pope’s obsession with secrecy was understandable. Everyone was being watched. Every visitor was recorded, every meeting noted. Osborne’s daily habits were routinely logged and the details were stored at the headquarters of the Italian secret police. The Vatican was also in the sights of the German police attach?, who was now recruiting informers across the city to spy on the occupants of the Holy See. Although Italy had yet to officially declare hostilities against the Allies, in Rome an intelligence war was well underway. Caught up in this battle, the Pope knew that a diplomatic process had to be maintained and at the same time was determined that nothing would threaten the status of the Catholic Church. To protect the Church’s interests, he kept lines of communication open with both the Allies and the Germans. Under the Lateran Treaty of 1929 the Vatican was guaranteed independence. This accord between the Holy See and the Italian state established diplomatic conventions as well as agreements on physical access. Italy recognized the 108-acre site, which included the Vatican and St Peter’s, as an independent sovereign state. The agreement also covered fifty acres outside the Vatican walls and gave protected status to a number of extra-territorial buildings, including three basilicas and Castel Gandolfo, the Pope’s country retreat. The accord made the Vatican City the smallest state in the world. In response the Holy See recognized Rome as the capital of the Italian state and pledged to remain neutral in international conflicts. The Pope was not allowed to interfere in Italian politics. While he felt entitled to speak out in general terms about the war, he was worried that his private discussions with Sir D’Arcy Osborne would become public and his role could be misinterpreted. By the early summer of 1940 some of the Pope’s predictions had come true and, although the overthrow of Hitler by his generals did not happen as expected, the Germans had arrived in the Low Countries that May. A month later, despite a plea from Britain’s Prime Minister Winston Churchill, Benito Mussolini declared war on the Allies. The move would have an immediate personal effect on Sir D’Arcy Osborne. Could he continue to stay in Rome as a British representative while Italy was now at war with Britain? The Vatican solved the predicament and informed the Italian government that it could offer lodgings for diplomats within the Vatican City. As a neutral state, the Vatican could allow ambassadors and other diplomats to reside on its territory. Back in London, Osborne’s bosses were worried that, although a move into the Vatican would enhance his personal safety, it might make communication between London and Rome more difficult. They offered him the use of a secret radio transmitter. Aware of the dangers of being caught and how such activity would compromise his new hosts, he declined the offer. Three days after Mussolini’s declaration of war, Osborne took down the British coat of arms at his office, gathered up his belongings and furniture, and moved to a pilgrims’ hostel on the south side of St Peter’s, inside the Vatican. He was to be housed temporarily in an annexe of the Santa Marta Hospice known as the Palazzina. There he was given four rooms. He took with him his typist Miss Tindall, his butler John May and his cairn terrier Jeremy. Osborne was now in a new environment, a tiny enclave shut off from the immediate dangers of war, a place where he clearly felt safe. His temporary home was eventually transformed and at vast expense a new kitchen, bathroom and lavatory were installed. Osborne made himself comfortable, putting up paintings, portraits of the royal family, and maps of western Europe to plot the progress of the war. For the next four years this would be the headquarters of the British Vatican envoy. Sir D’Arcy Osborne and Hugh O’Flaherty were now neighbours. Theirs was a relationship which would be crucial to the operation of the Allied Escape Line. Osborne’s new address placed him high on the list of the Italian secret police. They put him under surveillance and wanted to know if he was spying for British intelligence or passing on messages to anti-fascists in Italy. The British envoy knew he was being watched and he recorded his thoughts: ‘I believe that daily reports are sent out on our doings. They must be damned dull reading.’ As it did for Osborne, the war would have a profound effect on O’Flaherty’s daily life. While hostilities continued across Europe, the monsignor’s official job in the Holy Office started to change. By 1941 tens of thousands of Allied servicemen were being held in prisoner of war camps across Italy. The Vatican accepted that it was important that the POWs’ welfare was routinely checked to ensure they were being held in accord with international conventions. Pope Pius wanted two of his officials to visit the camps regularly. He appointed Monsignor Borgoncini Duca as his Papal Nuncio and, needing an English speaker to deal with the British prisoners, he asked Monsignor O’Flaherty to act as Duca’s secretary and interpreter. The Pope’s decision changed O’Flaherty’s life. The monsignor would develop empathy for prisoners and would become more sympathetic to the Allied cause. Duca and O’Flaherty began to travel around the country together, but they took very different approaches to the job. Duca was more relaxed and seemed unhurried and when he travelled by car he usually managed to see only one prison camp a day. O’Flaherty used his time differently. He accompanied the Papal Nuncio to the camps, but in the intervals between visits he would return to Rome on the overnight train. Once back in the capital he would pass on messages from prisoners to Vatican Radio to ensure that their relatives knew they were safe. The monsignor also speeded up the delivery of Red Cross parcels and clothing and helped in the collection of thousands of books for the prisoners. O’Flaherty’s work clearly improved the morale of the POWs, but he did more than supply them with creature comforts. He became their champion, a significant move for a man who in his youth had little good to say about those who wore the uniform of the British Army. The monsignor began to lodge complaints about the way the men were being treated and his protestations led to the removal of the commandants at the hospitals at Modena and Piacenza. He also visited South African and Australian prisoners at a camp near Brindisi. There he distributed musical instruments including mandolins and guitars. Much to the annoyance of the prison’s management, the trip boosted the morale of the inmates and lowered that of their captors. By now the monsignor was seen by the Italian military’s high command as a troublemaker. Pressure was exerted on the Vatican to remove him and eventually O’Flaherty resigned his position. Officially the Italian authorities claimed that the monsignor’s neutrality had been compromised. They said he had told a prisoner that the war was going well. It was a feeble excuse. Unofficially they wanted him out of the way because he was exposing the mistreatment of prisoners. His visits to the prison camps made O’Flaherty increasingly aware that more needed to be done to help those who were suffering during the war. He may not have realized it at the time, but it seems likely that his meetings with Allied POWs helped to crystallize his thinking. When hostilities had first begun across Europe, he had viewed the conflict as an independent neutral observer, deliberately refraining from taking sides. He had always felt that both the Allies and the Germans were guilty of propaganda and he didn’t know what to believe. He had even once remarked, ‘I don’t think there is anything to choose between Britain and Germany.’ Now, as the war came ever closer to the streets of Rome, Hugh O’Flaherty discovered where his loyalties lay. Chapter Four SECRETS AND SPIES (#ulink_940f6b7c-b41d-5aca-995c-fbb471ba1e1b) ‘I take my hat off to him’ Sir D’Arcy Osborne on British escapee Albert Penny Autumn 1942 Gripping the handlebars of his bicycle, Albert Penny nonchalantly pedalled his way into St Peter’s Square. Dressed in workman’s overalls, he blended in with the crowd and managed to evade the gaze of the normally observant Swiss Guards. As escape bids went it was a first-class display of chutzpah. Days earlier the young British seaman had walked out of a POW camp at Viterbo, obtained some clothes, and under his own steam made his way to Rome. In the shadow of the Basilica, he confidently rode around the fountains and slipped into the gardens of the Vatican and soon found himself outside the Santa Marta Hospice. It was an extraordinary stroke of luck. Suddenly he was approached by Anton Call, who was most surprised to have discovered a British serviceman on the run. Call, with eight years’ experience in the Vatican gendarmerie under his belt, had a vague recollection that the Vatican’s special international status might help in this situation. Instead of returning the sailor to the Italian police, he contacted Sir D’Arcy Osborne, who was just yards away on the top floor of Santa Marta. The British envoy admired Penny’s courage, later declaring, ‘I take my hat off to him.’ He officially petitioned the Vatican authorities to allow the escapee to stay, arguing that this was permissible as the Vatican was a neutral state. Permission was given and Penny lived in Osborne’s flat while his fate was decided, and eventually he was exchanged for an Italian prisoner. The episode clearly struck a chord with Osborne and his neighbour Hugh O’Flaherty. Now for the first time they had an escaped Allied serviceman to deal with. By the end of 1942 the monsignor had ended his work as an official Red Cross visitor to the Allied POW camps but he still wanted to help Allied servicemen. O’Flaherty and Osborne probably did not realize it then but the Penny episode was about to be repeated on their doorstep dozens of times. The seaman had not intentionally decided to become a trail-blazer but with his daring escapade on a bicycle he would become a forerunner for the many hundreds of servicemen who would later make a beeline for the Vatican. The incident was not without repercussions and the biggest loser was Anton Call, the sympathetic policeman who had discovered Penny and handed him over to Sir D’Arcy Osborne rather than taking him to his superiors. The Italian authorities blamed Call for the affair. The policeman was arrested on a trumped-up charge, expelled from the Vatican and put in prison, although he was later released and given a minor role with the carabinieri. Osborne was furious about Call’s treatment and would record his thoughts privately: ‘It all makes me, against my will, very anti-Vatican and anti-Italian.’ By the autumn of 1942, watching the activities of the Vatican had become one of Herbert Kappler’s top priorities. In October the head of the Gestapo, Heinrich Himmler, paid a three-day visit to Rome. He was temporarily running the Reichssicherheitshauptamt (RSHA), the Reich Security Main Office, because its head, Reinhard Heydrich, had been killed by Czech resistance fighters some months earlier. In this capacity Himmler was interested in the continued presence of foreign diplomats in the Vatican. He was convinced they were spying for their respective countries and he wanted the Vatican to expel them. It was made clear to Kappler who should be targeted. In Himmler’s sights were two diplomats in particular: the British Minister to the Holy See, Sir D’Arcy Osborne, and the USA’s Charg? d’Affaires to the Holy See, Harold Tittmann. After the bombing of Pearl Harbor in December 1941 and the Americans’ entry into the war, Tittmann was asked by his bosses in Washington to move into the Vatican. The American diplomat lived under the same terms as Osborne and, like his British counterpart, resided in the Santa Marta Hospice. German surveillance of the Vatican took many forms. Some of it was done by simply watching and listening. Diplomats such as Osborne and Tittmann also assumed that, as well as being observed, their mail and phone conversations were monitored. Osborne began to resent it and at one stage complained that it was like being ‘a prisoner in a concentration camp’. Much of the minutiae of the targets’ daily life was recorded. In the case of Osborne and O’Flaherty, details of their visitors, their lunch partners, and anyone they met on walks around the Vatican were all catalogued. Kappler had first become interested in O’Flaherty’s activities when the monsignor visited Allied POW camps, and he knew that he was a close friend of Osborne. At this stage O’Flaherty and Osborne had not begun to operate the Escape Line and Kappler’s suspicions about them simply revolved around suggestions that they were passing on intelligence to the Allies. Kappler desperately wanted evidence that the two men were spying, for this would put pressure on the Vatican authorities to act against them. Ambitious and keen to show his superiors in Berlin that he was effective, he knew this evidence needed to be good. Kappler’s most reliable information about the personalities in the Holy See came from a 28-year-old translator named Alexander Kurtna, who worked in the Vatican. Kurtna had first been recruited by Kappler in 1939 and the police attach? regarded him as his best source. In recent months Kappler had been able to inundate his bosses in Berlin with intelligence reports peppered with Kurtna’s observations. Kurtna’s personal journey to becoming an agent in Rome was a fascinating one. He was born in 1914 in Tsarist Estonia, where his father was a civil servant and his mother a teacher. After spending time in the Estonian Army he decided to become a Catholic priest. He converted from Russian Orthodox and attended a Polish seminary run by the Jesuits. He was then awarded a scholarship and went to Rome to study at the Pontifical Russian College, which educated priests who were to be sent on missions to the Soviet Union. But life in the holy orders was clearly not for Kurtna. Although he was academically gifted and fluent in several languages, including Russian and German, the Jesuits decided that the young Estonian was not suited for the priesthood. He left the Pontifical Russian College and managed to get work as a translator with the Congregation for the Eastern Churches, a Vatican department which looked after priests based in eastern Europe. Kurtna’s new job required him to translate letters and reports and brought him into contact with a small circle of priests, monsignors and Vatican officials. He became acquainted with Cardinal Eug?ne Tisserant and Monsignor Giovanni Montini. Before long Kurtna took on outside work, putting his language skills to greater use. Keen to develop his contacts, he began to make connections with Rome’s German community. He met Dr Ferdinand Bock, the director of the German Historical Institute, which officially supported a series of research projects and unofficially was a cover for a German spying network. Bock and the young translator got on well and the academic agreed to fund Kurtna to carry out research. It is clear Bock had other reasons to support a young student with good connections within the Vatican. Kurtna’s skills were now in demand. His frequent trips to Russian-occupied Estonia and his relationship with the Vatican had also been spotted by Soviet intelligence officers. The Russians were particularly interested in Kurtna’s relationship with Cardinal Eug?ne Tisserant, the director of the Congregation for the Eastern Churches, the group that Kurtna translated for. The cardinal was believed to be trying to smuggle priests into eastern Europe to promote Catholicism. Kurtna was asked to watch events in the Vatican and report back to a Russian diplomat based at the embassy in Rome. He agreed. The former seminarian was now living an exciting life and playing a dangerous game and it was about to become even more complicated. Dr Bock was a friend of one of the most important people in Rome: Herbert Kappler. It was a friendship that would ultimately benefit Kurtna. Within days he found himself sitting opposite Kappler in his office at the German embassy. As they talked the SS commander was impressed by the Estonian’s contacts and experience, and a deal was struck. Kurtna was quickly put to use by the police attach? and tasked with preparing reports on Vatican–German relations and in particular the activities of the Catholic Church in Poland and the Baltic States. Using his contacts in the Vatican and through his role as a translator, Kurtna was able to discover much confidential information on the Church’s work in German-occupied areas of eastern Europe. Kappler’s relationship with the young man was complex and problematic. He knew that Kurtna was a double agent and understood that whatever information the Estonian discovered about the Vatican would go straight back to Moscow. He also knew that Kurtna could report German activities as well, which meant he could get the translator to feed his Soviet handlers misleading information. Even though the entire exercise was difficult, Kappler clearly felt it was a risk worth taking. The former seminarian offered the police attach? an insight into the Vatican which to date no one else had been able to match. In his reports to Berlin Kappler did not hide Kurtna’s Soviet links and, while he did not identify his source, he put the Russian connection to good use, informing his boss that he had established links with the Soviet intelligence service. Kappler’s dossiers would be passed to the foreign ministry of the RSHA, based in Berlin. The RSHA was one of twelve SS administrations and had been set up in 1939 to bring together the Nazi Party and other similar government groups. It had a foreign-intelligence division, Amt VI, and Reinhard Heydrich, its overall head until his assassination in June 1942, had made the gathering of such intelligence a priority. Heydrich also had a track record of targeting the Vatican. In an instruction to staff in 1940 he had encouraged his agents in the field to exploit intelligence opportunities surrounding bishops and priests and to step up surveillance relating to theological students in Rome. In particular, Heydrich was keen to learn more about Cardinal Eug?ne Tisserant, one of Kurtna’s main contacts. In the wake of the German advance across eastern Europe, he was sure that the French-born cardinal wanted to spread the Catholic faith to Russia and other Baltic states. The RSHA firmly believed that the Vatican’s ultimate goal was to convert thousands of people so that Germany would eventually be surrounded by Catholic countries. The ambitious Kappler, keen to keep his boss Heydrich happy, used Kurtna’s information to the full. His star agent’s discoveries formed the basis for a series of his reports, and the police attach? felt that he was making great progress in infiltrating the Vatican and keeping tabs on its leading personalities. But it didn’t last for long, for Kurtna was unmasked by Italian military intelligence through a piece of old-fashioned detective work. Having placed a flat in Rome under surveillance, they raided it and discovered a transmitter hidden behind a radiator which was being used to communicate with Moscow. The Italians then intercepted radio messages from Russia. One transmission had directed the contact to go to another flat in the city to deliver a message to the occupants. The messenger was told that when he went to the apartment he would meet a couple, a blonde woman and a man dressed as a priest. The man who would have the appearance of a priest was in fact Kurtna; the woman was his wife, Anna Hablitz from Leningrad, whom he had just married. Members of Italy’s military intelligence arrested Hablitz outside her flat and then waited at the railway station for her husband, who was returning from Estonia. Kurtna’s arrest and incarceration in the summer of 1942 brought to an end Kappler’s drip-feed of quality information on figures within the Vatican. The Estonian had been his most important source inside the Vatican, so it was an enormous blow to the police attach?. Other contacts continued to pass on details of Church matters to Kappler, but their intelligence could not match that of the Estonian. Two German nationals provided occasional pieces of information. They were an academic called Engelfried and a woman, Frau K?hn-Steinhausen, who worked in the Vatican’s Archives. Kurtna’s detention by the Italians meant Kappler had to rely on a disparate and often bizarre group of potential informers who were motivated by politics, personal circumstances, and very often money. One such individual was Charles Bewley, who had served as the Irish Ambassador to Germany and the Vatican. Bewley had an impressive background and a close examination of his CV shows why he was of interest to German intelligence. A member of a Dublin family well known in business circles, he had been brought up as a Quaker and became a Catholic while a student at Oxford. He had a successful academic career in England and was the only Irishman apart from Oscar Wilde to win the Newdigate Prize for English verse. He returned to Dublin to practise law and became involved in politics, supporting Sinn Fein during its early years. Fervently anti-English and holding pro-Nazi views, he had gained experience of dealing with German officials during his years in Berlin. When Bewley was appointed as Ireland’s envoy to the Vatican one journalist prophetically wrote, ‘As a student of affairs he is well aware that the first representative of the Irish government will need to walk very warily if he is to avoid pitfalls.’ When Bewley left the Irish diplomatic service he retired to Italy and kept up his German and Vatican contacts. Kappler was informed by his bosses in Berlin that Bewley was an Amt VI agent and was paid monthly. The Irishman was a regular on the social scene and used such occasions to garner information which he included in the reports he sent to Berlin. For Kappler it may also have seemed an ideal way to target Hugh O’Flaherty. On paper it would have seemed logical that Bewley as an Irishman with what appeared to be good contacts in the Vatican was well placed to uncover details about the activities of his fellow countryman in Rome. However, there was a major problem with Bewley’s ‘intelligence’: it was mainly gossip he had picked up from parties or from Vatican contacts and he was unable to answer specific questions Kappler put to him. At one stage German intelligence chiefs thought it would be possible to use Bewley’s Irish connections to good effect. Kappler was told to ask the former ambassador to make contact with Irish theology students who were in the Vatican, in the hope of gaining some intelligence. Bewley was unable to provide a list of the students’ names and in the end the idea was abandoned. By now the war had entered its most frightening stage, for the Nazis had begun to put in place the Final Solution, an unprecedented plan to exterminate millions of Jews. Deportations from Germany began and death camps were established in remote areas of German-controlled Poland. By the summer of 1942 a million Jews within Nazi-controlled Europe had died. German military intelligence chiefs were anxious to know how Pope Pius XII would respond to the mass deportations of Jews. If he condemned the Nazi regime’s actions, how would this change its relationship with the Vatican? Berlin decided to put extra effort into intelligence-gathering in Rome and Kappler was now helped with extra staff, including Helmut Loos, who became his special assistant and had specific responsibility for organizing intelligence on the Holy See. The arrival of Loos aided Kappler’s efforts to penetrate the Vatican, for his new assistant had an exemplary track record. He had worked as a Vatican specialist for Amt VI, the RSHA’s foreign-intelligence section, and had experience of running agents. In Rome he quickly made contact with a series of people who had been recruited by Amt VI. They included people such as aspiring journalists, translators and publishers. Even so, the quality of information Loos was offered varied greatly. Some of it was of genuine interest, but, like the material offered by Charles Bewley, much of it was merely gossip and rumour. For Kappler and his assistant it was crucial to learn how to differentiate fact from fiction. Their intelligence-gathering operation received a boost when Berlin approved the installation of a radio transmitter on the roof at Via Tasso. It meant Kappler could send reports back to Germany in an instant. Previously he had used the German embassy’s radio transmitter, which was considered safer than the telephone. As Kappler and Loos’s fight against the Vatican entered a new phase, on the coast of Sicily dramatic events were about to change the course of the war. In the early hours of 10 July 1943 British, American and Commonwealth troops landed. The arrival of a 160,000-strong force raised hopes among the people of Italy that Mussolini’s men would surrender soon and that it would speed up an Allied march on Rome. The Italian capital was now in the sights of British and American commanders, but, worryingly for those in the Vatican, the Allies were looking at the city from the air and not the ground. Chapter Five THE END OF MUSSOLINI (#ulink_e90b9340-455d-5dcc-8997-c0e7f8385964) ‘At this moment you are the most hated man in the country’ King Victor Emmanuel III of Italy to Benito Mussolini 19 July 1943 Pope Pius XII spent most of the day gazing at the sky through binoculars as wave after wave of Allied bombs pounded his beloved city. From a window in the Vatican’s Apostolic Palace he watched as 300 bombers blitzed the south-eastern part of the capital. The attack killed nearly 1,500 people and injured many thousands more. As the Bishop of Rome, he had long feared and indeed predicted this moment. So grave were the Pope’s fears that back in June 1940, on the day that Italy entered the war, he had lobbied Sir D’Arcy Osborne to ask the British not to bomb Rome. The British government agreed to do its best to avoid damaging the Vatican City, but they could not guarantee that their bombers would avoid the surrounding area. Weeks before this first air raid on the city, Osborne met the Pope and the prospect of an aerial bombardment was raised again. This time the Pope was reported to be ‘worried sick’. He had every reason to be concerned. When the bombs came they tore through university buildings, houses, and struck the medieval basilica and the railway yards in San Lorenzo. The church there was held sacred as the burial place of Pope Pio Nono. The explosions also shook the earth at Campo Verano cemetery, where Pius XII’s brother and parents were buried. Late that afternoon, as the smoke still hung in the air and the light faded, the Pope did something he had not done since the summer of 1940. He called for a car and decided to leave the confines of the Vatican. Shortly before 5.30 p.m. a black Mercedes, decked out in the papal colours, left the Vatican City and took the Pope and one of his deputies, Monsignor Montini, across the city. They arrived at San Lorenzo to view the damage and meet the victims. Dressed in his skullcap and flowing white cassock, the Pope embraced the crowd that surrounded the car. Held back by policemen and troops, the people shouted ‘Long live the Pope.’ Amid the rubble and close to the bodies which had been pulled from the buildings, he knelt and prayed. He said the De Profundis and for two hours he talked with and walked among the survivors. As the Pope talked, Monsignor Montini handed out cash to the homeless and the bereaved. When the two men returned to the car, Pope Pius’s clothes were marked with blood. Back in the Vatican, the Pope took stock of what he had witnessed and heard. The city that he regarded as his own was shocked, bewildered and angry. The day marked a turning point in the war. The Eternal City was wounded and Romans were paralysed with fear. Many wondered when more Allied air attacks would happen and others were frightened that the Fascist police would use the opportunity to launch more raids on those who opposed them politically. Their predictions proved correct. The police believed an illegal radio was transmitting within the city and eventually it was traced to the home of one of Rome’s ancient families. Princess Nina Pallavicini, a widow who was opposed to Mussolini, lived in the Palazzo Pallavicini-Rospigliosi, near the Quirinale. Within hours of the Allied bombs ripping through the city a raiding party came looking for the princess and the radio. Fortune favoured the young woman and she heard the visitors arrive. She quickly prised open a window at the rear of the house and jumped to the ground and ran for her life. She hurried through the streets to the Vatican, where she asked to see her friend Hugh O’Flaherty. The monsignor took her in and hid her in the German College. The princess was the first person to be offered long-term sanctuary by O’Flaherty and would become one of the most useful members of the Escape Line. She would spend the remainder of the war making false documents for Allied escapees and would often escort them around Rome. Princess Nina was soon joined by another fugitive keen to escape the clutches of the authorities. Private Gino Rosati, a member of the Royal West Kent Regiment, listened to the sounds of the bombing of Rome in his cell in Regina Coeli prison, where the Italian authorities held many Allied prisoners. Born in England to Italian parents, Rosati had joined the British Army and seen action in North Africa at El Alamein in September 1942. He had been wounded and was transferred to Naples before being taken to Rome. Ironically his name may have aided the British soldier’s escape. In the Italian capital he was placed in the political prisoners’ section because the authorities were convinced he was an Italian citizen. Wearing British Army battledress, he had managed to slip past the guards and get outside the prison complex. He encountered a friendly Italian soldier who generously showed him the way to St Peter’s Square. He was taken into the barracks of the Vatican gendarmerie, where he was interrogated by an officer and then handed over to Sir D’Arcy Osborne. It was essential to establish, through close questioning, the bona fides of escaped prisoners who sought sanctuary in Vatican territory. In Rosati’s case, his name may have initially raised suspicions that he was a spy. But Osborne, ever conscious that he could become the victim of an Italian or German police trap, satisfied himself that the young soldier was genuinely on the run and allowed him to stay in the British legation. As a servant of the Church, O’Flaherty knew he had to keep his activities clandestine and could not publicly do anything which might undermine the neutrality of the Vatican. As the British government’s representative to the Vatican State, Osborne also knew he had to tread a fine diplomatic line. He was an official guest of the Pope, so his work with escaped prisoners had to remain hidden, and it made practical sense to remain distant from the everyday running of the group. Nevertheless, one evening he told O’Flaherty he could offer some assistance. ‘I will help you personally with funds as far as I am able, but I cannot use official funds, even if I could get enough, and I must not be seen to be doing anything to compromise the tacit conditions under which I am here in the Vatican State.’ Osborne’s financial support was accepted gladly. But the diplomat went further by volunteering the services of his butler. John May became the unofficial liaison officer between the monsignor and the minister. Fluent in Italian, with a wealth of contacts across Rome, May was an ideal choice and in the months ahead it was his job to source supplies for escapees and to identify those Swiss Guards who were ready to turn a blind eye to the escape operation, which was still in its infancy. May and O’Flaherty started to work in tandem, and soon many more escapees would arrive on their doorstep. Kappler’s men continued to closely watch Hugh O’Flaherty and Sir D’Arcy Osborne, still convinced that they were passing information on to the Allies. But Kappler’s surveillance of the Vatican temporarily took a back seat when he became involved in one of the most dramatic twists of the war. For some time Italians had voiced criticism of Mussolini’s regime. Across the country people were hungry and in the south many were close to starvation. There was little support for Mussolini’s regime and within days of the Allied bombing of Rome his colleagues turned on him when the Fascist Grand Council met and voted by 19 to 8 to have him removed as leader. The next day King Victor Emmanuel knew he had to act. He sent a message to Mussolini and called him to a meeting at the royal residence. Rome was bathed in sunshine as the Fascist leader made his way to Villa Savoia. At 5 p.m. his driver swung the car through the iron gates leading into the royal grounds and stopped in front of the steps of the house. Their host was waiting near the entrance, dressed in the uniform of the Marshal of Italy. The two men shook hands and walked slowly inside. In the familiar surroundings of the drawing room they began to talk, first about the weather and about the Grand Council’s vote. Mussolini dismissed the vote, saying it had no legal standing and he remained confident of his position. Then the King struck. Turning to his guest, he said, ‘At this moment you are the most hated man in the country. I am your only remaining friend. That is why I tell you that you need have no fears for your safety. I will see you are protected.’ Mussolini listened in silence and was now pale. When at last he spoke again, he intoned quietly, ‘Then it is over.’ He said the words several times. The meeting ended, the two men shook hands, and outside Mussolini was placed in a waiting ambulance, which quickly left the royal estate. The twenty-one-year Mussolini era had ended. The King was now in charge. Mussolini was replaced by Marshal Pietro Badoglio, formerly Governor General of Libya. Now in his seventies, Badoglio had enjoyed a long career as a soldier and had led the Italians to a military victory in Ethiopia. He was an odd choice. He had no political experience but had a reputation for being a ditherer and was an alcoholic. However, within hours he had established a temporary administration made up of generals and civil servants. Badoglio may have performed this task with a touch of Schadenfreude, since Mussolini had sacked him in 1940. As the former Fascist leader was experiencing his first evening in protective custody, the King announced on the radio to the Italian nation that he had accepted Mussolini’s resignation. Badoglio also went on the airwaves, to proclaim that the war against the Allies would continue and the alliance with Germany would continue. Hitler was sitting in the conference room in the ‘Wolf’s Lair’ when he heard the news. The building, tucked away in dense evergreen forest in East Prussia, was an inner sanctum where the F?hrer met members of his high command. When he learnt what had happened in Rome, he was furious. The coup had caught him unawares and, while he knew there was anti-Mussolini feeling across Italy, he had not believed it would be acted upon. Moreover he distrusted Pietro Badoglio, fearing correctly that he was preparing to negotiate a peace deal with the Allies. Hitler suspected that the Americans and the British were in some way involved in the Mussolini coup. In addition he judged that further Allied landings on the Italian mainland could prompt an Italian surrender and that therefore it was essential to organize a countercoup in Rome and seize the city. Hitler was in a race against time. He spoke on the telephone to senior commanders, held meetings and read briefing papers, then started to put together a plan which he would christen ‘Operation Oak’. On paper it looked straightforward, but in practice it would prove very different. The mission consisted of three stages: Mussolini would be found, he would be restored to power, and the German–Italian alliance would be strengthened. First, the former Fascist leader had to be traced. Twenty-four hours after the kidnapping Hitler hand-picked the man to lead Operation Oak. Otto Skorzeny, a young Austrian commando captain, six feet four inches tall and well built, was his choice. Skorzeny set up his headquarters in the ancient town of Frascati, a picturesque suburb of Rome about ten miles from the capital. Known for its vineyards, it was also home to the General Headquarters for German troops in Italy and housed the offices of Marshal Albert Kesselring, the Supreme Commander of the Southern Front, in charge of military operations in the Mediterranean region and North Africa. For the next six weeks it would also be the command centre of Skorzeny’s secret mission. Skorzeny needed local help and called on the services of Herbert Kappler and Eugen Dollmann. Like Kappler, Dollmann was an SS man and had lived in Rome for a number of years. The two were rivals and did not get on with each other. Dollmann, a colonel, was highly rated by Himmler and was his personal representative in Rome. Kappler may well have been envious of Dollmann, who was better educated and also was the favourite of General Karl Wolff, the commander of the SS in Italy. When Skorzeny told Himmler he needed help in Rome, Kappler and Dollmann were volunteered. The two SS men were summoned from Rome to Skorzeny’s headquarters in Frascati to have dinner with him. After they had eaten, Skorzeny explained to his guests what his plans were. Privately both Kappler and Dollmann thought the mission was flawed. They saw Fascism in Italy as finished and believed there was little point in bringing Mussolini back into power. However, they kept their thoughts to themselves. When Skorzeny met them both at Kappler’s office some days later, Dollmann had considered being honest with the commando captain. ‘Once again it would have been heroic of me if I had told the State Security Bureau’s agent flatly what I thought of his plans for Rome, but I naturally refrained from doing so,’ he would later record in his diary. Like his colleague, Kappler kept quiet, but eventually he made an attempt to change Skorzeny’s mind. He flew to meet Heinrich Himmler and expressed his reservations. He said that the operation planned by Skorzeny was pointless and advised Himmler that Mussolini would only be able to return to power by ‘the strength of German bayonets’. It was a pointless trip. As Reichsf?hrer-SS, Himmler was Skorzeny’s boss and one of the most important men in the Third Reich. He was committed to the plan. So Operation Oak began in earnest, with a reluctant Kappler an important part of it. With a small staff Kappler could not offer manpower to Skorzeny’s operation. But what he could provide was good local knowledge and a wide range of contacts. Skorzeny provided forged banknotes, and with these Kappler was able to tempt his spies to sell information about Mussolini’s movements. For the next few weeks seeking out the former Fascist leader would become the police attach?’s priority. Chapter Six OPERATION ESCAPE (#ulink_2736ce0e-c096-5ea6-902b-8ebe78260c98) ‘God will protect us all’ Henrietta Chevalier to Hugh O’Flaherty One evening in 1943, as the light was fading, Hugh O’Flaherty left the Vatican and made his way to the other side of Rome. At Piazza Salerno he walked round a corner, then went through an archway between a grocer’s shop and a butcher’s. Slowly he climbed three flights of steps. He read the numbers on the doors and then, finding the correct address, rang the bell. He was quickly ushered in. Once inside the flat in Via Imperia, he towered over Henrietta Chevalier, who stood just five feet four inches tall. The attractive middle-aged woman had neat hair and wore earrings and a necklace. A widow from Malta living on a small pension, she had lost her husband just before the start of the war. Her English was perfect, though she spoke with a trace of a Maltese accent. She had six daughters and two sons, and one of her boys worked at the Swiss embassy, while the other was being held in a prison camp. Although her home was small she had agreed to house two escaped French soldiers. O’Flaherty was delighted that she was willing to help, but he needed to impress on her the dangers of taking in escaped prisoners. ‘You do not have to do it,’ he told her, adding that those found harbouring prisoners of war could be executed. He said he would take the men away if she had any doubts about their staying in her home. If Henrietta was scared, she certainly did not show it. In fact she seemed quite relaxed about the priest’s warning. ‘What are you worrying about, Monsignor?’ she replied. ‘God will protect us all.’ A quick glance round the flat showed the monsignor how important Henrietta’s faith was to her. Fittingly, a tapestry of Our Lady of Pompeii, who traditionally helped those in need, hung in one of the two bedrooms. On a table sat a small statue of St Paul. Prayer was an important part of Henrietta’s daily life. She firmly believed she and her family would be safe and told her visitor she was happy to help for as long as possible. O’Flaherty’s new-found Maltese friend would stick to that promise. From that night on, the Chevaliers’ tiny flat would never be the same again. Their military guests would sleep on mattresses and Henrietta and her children would share the beds. Space would be at a premium and soon there would be a daily queue for the bathroom. The changed circumstances would have to be kept secret. The flat was now out of bounds to all but family members. The Chevaliers’ friends couldn’t come to see them and the girls could not invite visitors. But it wasn’t all bad news. For the younger daughters the new male house guests were a novelty and brought a sense of fun. Within days flat number nine would echo to the strains of endless gramophone records and Henrietta’s young girls would have a choice of dancing partners. Back in his room in the German College, Hugh O’Flaherty was happy in the knowledge that he had secured shelter and a willing host for the two escapees. By September 1943 the Germans were edging closer to taking over Rome. In the same month O’Flaherty had three new arrivals to welcome. Henry Byrnes was a captain in the Royal Canadian Army Corps. He arrived in style at the Holy See. A prisoner of war, he was being marched to the Castro Pretorio barracks in Rome when he and two colleagues gave the soldiers guarding them the slip. Byrnes, John Munroe Sym, a major in the Seaforth Highlanders, and Roy Elliot, a sub-lieutenant in the Royal Navy, met an Italian doctor. Fortunately Luigi Meri de Vita was a friendly soul, well disposed towards escaped Allied servicemen. He put the three escapees in his car and drove them across Rome to the Vatican. After managing to get into the Holy See, the three men quickly found their way to Hugh O’Flaherty’s door. The monsignor immediately put Byrnes and Elliot to work. The pair began to compile a list of Allied servicemen they knew were in hiding across Italy. Once the paperwork was complete, Byrnes passed the details on to Father Owen Sneddon, a contemporary of the monsignor who was now assisting the Escape Line. Sneddon, a New Zealander, worked as a broadcaster for the English-language Vatican Radio service. The station was part of the Vatican’s communication network and, although the Pope technically controlled it, it was run day to day by the Jesuit Father Filippo Soccorsi. The station was an important tool for the Escape Line, but broadcasters had to be careful because the Germans monitored the output and each broadcast was translated. Once Father Sneddon was ready he peppered his broadcasts with the names supplied by Byrnes and Elliot. The details were picked up by the War Office in London, which informed the men’s families that their loved ones were alive. It was an old trick that O’Flaherty had first perfected when he was an official visitor to the POW camps. When the monsignor returned to Rome from seeing prisoners, he would pass on their personal details to Father Sneddon. It was a simple way to let people know that their relative was alive, and this method went undetected by the Germans. The Vatican reflected the outside world and the atmosphere in the Holy See was nervous and apprehensive. Osborne and O’Flaherty wondered what their lives would be like in a post-Mussolini world. Rumours filled the void of uncertainty. There was much talk about an Italian surrender followed by a German invasion of Rome. One fear that wouldn’t go away was a suggestion that the Germans would capture the Vatican and seize the Pope and take him abroad. There was good reason for this worry. Days after Mussolini’s kidnapping, in the Wolf’s Lair an angry Hitler berated the Pope and the Holy See: ‘Do you think the Vatican impresses me? I couldn’t care less. We will clear out that gang of swine.’ Hitler was considering kidnapping the Pope, arresting the King and Marshal Badoglio, and occupying the Vatican City. The threat to seize Pope Pius XII was believed to be so likely that, in early August, the Vatican’s Secretary of State, Cardinal Maglione, summoned all the cardinals in Rome to a special meeting. He explained that the Germans had plans to seize Rome and then take control of the Vatican buildings and remove the Pope. The threat was regarded as so plausible that the commander of the Pope’s Swiss Guards was ordered not to offer any resistance when the German troops tried to gain access to the Vatican. Staff inside the Holy See started to take precautions should the Germans seize the site. Sensitive Church documents were hidden across the Vatican and some diplomatic papers were burnt. Sir D’Arcy Osborne, now beginning to worry that his personal diary would be seized if the Nazis took over, had to think carefully about what he was committing to paper. He made some entries designed to fool prying eyes and others which were light on detail. At one stage he wrote: ‘I wish I could put down all the facts and rumours these days, but I can’t. It is a pity for the sake of the diary.’ The Germans were continuing to watch the Vatican intently, and the behaviour of Badoglio’s administration was put under constant scrutiny. The Nazis knew that an Italian surrender was coming after German code-breakers listened to a conversation between Franklin D. Roosevelt and Winston Churchill in which the two leaders discussed an armistice. The Nazis had also discovered that secret talks were underway between the Allies and the Italians and were able to dismiss Badoglio’s official response that he was fully supportive of the Nazi war effort. Because they suspected that it was only a matter of time before the Italians surrendered, the discovery and restoration of Benito Mussolini as leader was becoming urgent. The events in Rome and the questions surrounding Italy’s future in the war had initially overshadowed the efforts to find Mussolini, but now senior Nazis were becoming restless. They put pressure on Kappler, making it clear that he must locate the former dictator within days. Kappler’s network of informers, who were being partially funded by Skorzeny’s fake banknotes, had so far failed to deliver solid intelligence on Mussolini’s whereabouts. Rumours abounded as to his precise location. Every time a story surfaced or there was an alleged sighting of the man, Kappler and his team had to investigate it. One rumour suggested that he was being held in hospital in Rome awaiting an operation, but Kappler discovered this to be untrue. There was another story that Mussolini hadn’t left the royal residence at Villa Savoia, but that also proved a false trail. Each alleged sighting of Il Duce contradicted the last one. Trying to stay one step ahead of the Germans, the Badoglio administration began to move Mussolini around. Through a contact in the Italian police, Kappler had learnt that the country’s most famous prisoner had first been taken by ambulance from Villa Savoia to the Podgora barracks in Via Quintino Sella, a thirty-minute high-speed drive from the royal residence. Kappler was also able to establish which part of the building Mussolini had been held in. He now knew that he had slept in a camp bed, in a small office which overlooked the parade ground where the cadets marched. Fascinating though this information was, for Kappler it was all too late. Mussolini’s captors had already moved their precious charge on. He had been driven from Rome to the port of Gaeta, where he was put aboard a vessel named the Persefone and taken to the island of Ponza, twenty-five miles to the north. Ponza, which was around five miles long, had a history as a penal colony. Kappler’s efforts to find Mussolini did not go unnoticed. The F?hrer himself was keeping an eye on his attempts to track down the former dictator. The previous month, August 1943, Hitler had called the police attach? in to see him. Having completed four years in Rome, Kappler thought he was about to be moved elsewhere in the Third Reich, but Hitler had other ideas. For the young SS man the meeting went better than he had expected. Hitler praised him and made it clear that his work in Rome was very important. He told him that he valued his contacts and that he was needed in the hunt for Mussolini and for future work organizing surveillance in the city. Ironically the very mission that Kappler had doubts about, the rescue of Mussolini, had secured his future in Rome. Day by day Kappler’s office tried to piece together Mussolini’s secret journey from Villa Savoia. The police attach?’s staff tried a variety of methods. Pro-Nazi officers in the Italian Army and police force were constantly badgered for titbits of information. Staff also monitored the airwaves for any unusual reports or coded messages. Finally they made a breakthrough. One of Kappler’s agents, who had been listening to Italian communication networks, came across an intriguing phrase. He heard the words, ‘Security preparations around the Gran Sasso complete.’ The message had been sent by an officer named Gueli, one of Mussolini’s captors, and was meant for one of his superiors. At 9 p.m. on 5 September Kappler sent a cable to senior offices in Berlin informing them that it was extremely likely that Mussolini was in the vicinity of the Gran Sasso mountain. He also informed that he had sent out a fresh reconnaissance party which would report back shortly. Kappler’s team would quickly discover that the former dictator was indeed where they suspected, in the Apennine mountains in the Abruzzo region of eastern Italy. He had been taken by boat from the island of Ponza around Italy to a villa on Maddalena, an island off Sardinia, and from there was flown to the winter resort of Campo Imperatore, near the Gran Sasso. The Italians had chosen Mussolini’s final hiding place wisely. They put him in a room in the Hotel Campo Imperatore, some 7,000 feet above sea level. As a hiding place the secluded location was ideal, as it was close to the highest peak in the Apennines and could be reached only by a ten-minute ride in a cable car. Although he was surrounded by hotel staff and policemen, Mussolini was the only official guest at the hotel. In conversations with his captors, Gueli and Faiola, he referred to his new surroundings as the ‘highest prison in the world’. As he played cards, read and listened to the radio, Mussolini was unaware that his German allies, after six weeks of searching, were just one step away from rescuing him. Kappler, although a reluctant participant in the manhunt, had proved his worth. As the rescue plans were finalized the Allies and the Italians struck in different ways. Allied bombers took to the skies over Italy. This time one of their targets was the major headquarters for German troops at Frascati. In a lunchtime attack 400 tonnes of explosives fell on the town, killing and injuring many hundreds of residents and German soldiers. The German military complex was hit and Otto Skorzeny’s quarters were wrecked. Field Marshal Kesselring climbed from the wreckage unharmed. He sensed the bombing was only part of a planned series of events. Kesselring was right. The attack was a forerunner to an Allied landing in Salerno, but there was more news to come. That evening, as smoke still hung over large parts of Italy, Marshal Badoglio announced on the radio that Italy had surrendered. The Italian leader said that he had requested an armistice from the Allied Commander, General Eisenhower, which had been accepted. Badoglio’s radio address took the Germans by surprise. They had known it was coming, but not when. The timing, rather like that of Mussolini’s kidnap in July, had caught them out. Colonel Eugen Dollmann, who had been assisting Kappler in the search for Mussolini, was tasked with finding out what was happening on the streets of Rome. There was great confusion in the city, and the rumours were many and varied. These ranged from reports that Allied troops were arriving to seize Rome to stories that German troops were about to take control. At the German embassy there was an altogether different atmosphere. Staff there, convinced that they were about to be ordered to leave the city, had begun to burn documents. However, amid all the chatter and speculation, Dollmann had secured one critical piece of hard information. When he reported back to Kesselring at the Frascati headquarters, the commander-in-chief of the Southern Front was intrigued. Dollmann had discovered that before the armistice announcement an American general, Maxwell Taylor, had been smuggled into Rome for secret discussions with Badoglio. Taylor, second-in-command of a US airborne unit, had been on a reconnaissance mission to examine the possibility of an airdrop of paratroops close to Rome. The discussions between Taylor and Badoglio had turned into farce when the Italian leader changed his mind about an airdrop and asked for the armistice announcement to be postponed. Angered by the Italian dithering, Eisenhower agreed to abandon the airdrop but refused to accept a cancellation of the announcement. Kesselring didn’t know this detail but assumed General Taylor’s presence in Rome meant that an Allied airdrop around Rome was imminent. He told Dollmann that if Allied paratroops landed, the goal of securing Rome was lost. Kesselring knew he had to act fast. He began by attempting to block all the entry points into Rome. When the King and Badoglio heard of the Germans’ intentions they too acted quickly. In darkness, clutching a few of their possessions, the royal family, along with Badoglio and his ministers, fled the city. No orders were left with the army and no one was given military command. As dawn broke on 9 September, Rome was at the mercy of the Germans. Over the course of the day gunfire could be heard across the city as pockets of Italians made up of soldiers and civilians began to resist the German troops who were edging their way towards the centre of Rome. The resistance was patchy and uncoordinated. Some of the Italians were bedraggled and appeared to be hungry, and many had no ammunition. The Germans had the upper hand militarily and tactically. On 10 September the battle for Rome entered its final phase. With the city under siege, Hugh O’Flaherty and Sir D’Arcy Osborne could only watch and wait as they stayed in the Vatican. They could see and hear the sounds of battle, and for the moment they were like prisoners of war themselves. The Pope was now seriously worried that the Germans would first take Rome and then move into the Vatican. He told his staff to keep their suitcases packed and then asked Cardinal Maglione to contact the German Ambassador to the Vatican, Baron Ernst von Weizs?cker, for some clarification. Maglione asked him if the Germans would respect the neutrality and extra-territorial status of the Holy See’s property. As gun battles continued across the city, Weizs?cker contacted his masters in Berlin and the Pope had to bide his time. By now German ‘Tiger’ tanks were moving through the streets and the last lines of resistance were being overcome. The initial unease felt in the Vatican had now turned to panic. Everyone in the Holy See was on full alert. In an unprecedented move, St Peter’s Basilica was closed off and the gates to the Vatican City were shut. The Swiss Guards, who normally patrolled with ornamental pikes, were issued with firearms. The Pope had good reason to seal off the Vatican City, as he wished to keep the whole site immune from the chaos that was engulfing Rome. Across the city there was fear and uncertainty. Burglaries, assaults, rape and murder had spread to all districts as Romans took matters into their own hands. But Friday night was their last evening of unrestrained lawlessness. By the following evening the city was swarming with SS men, infantrymen and German troops of all descriptions. The battle was over and as darkness fell Rome had new rulers. Field Marshal Kesselring declared martial law and his ten-point proclamation was pasted on walls throughout the city. His decree stated that Rome was under his command and all crimes would be judged according to German laws of war. He also made it clear that snipers, strikers and saboteurs would be executed. All private correspondence was prohibited and all phone calls would be monitored. That night, at the Wolf’s Lair, Hitler recorded a special broadcast which was transmitted shortly afterwards on Radio Rome. His delight at having captured the Italian capital was obvious, though it was punctuated with a series of warnings and he declared that Italy would suffer for deposing its once-favourite son. Clearly Mussolini was on the F?hrer’s mind. Hours later the mission to rescue him from the heights of the Gran Sasso began. The Nazi high command had also become worried that the intelligence work and planning organized before the Italian surrender would go to waste. Even during the battle for Rome, Himmler had sent a message to Captain Skorzeny and General Kurt Student, the commander of Germany’s airborne forces, reminding them that Mussolini’s rescue was still a top priority. Both men concluded there were three ways to carry out the rescue. They could arrive at the Gran Sasso by parachute, perform a landing by glider, or launch a ground attack. On the afternoon of Sunday, 12 September a group of gliders carrying German paratroops made their way to the remote mountain resort. Mussolini was sitting by the window in his room and saw Skorzeny’s glider crash land outside the hotel. The young captain climbed out and ran towards the building. He overpowered a radio operator and bundled a number of carabinieri out of the way. He climbed the stairs and on the second floor turned right. Moments later he found himself face to face with the man he had been hunting for six weeks, Benito Mussolini. Skorzeny spoke first. ‘Duce, the F?hrer has sent me to set you free.’ ‘I knew my friend Adolf Hitler would not abandon me,’ Mussolini replied. By now the other paratroops had secured the building and the cable car, and the underground passage that linked the hotel and the resort’s station was in German hands. The kidnapping had taken its toll on Mussolini: he looked tired and ill and a little unkempt. Wearing an oversize overcoat and a felt hat, he walked out of the hotel and his every movement was tracked by a German newsreel cameraman who had come along to record the rescue. He made his way to one of the gliders and then, tucked behind the cockpit, he sat beside Skorzeny. The take-off from the mountaintop nearly ended in disaster. The glider shot down into a chasm but the pilot was able to pull out of the nose-dive. An hour later they landed safely and then Mussolini and Skorzeny were put on another plane. Aboard the Heinkel 111, they were flown for an overnight stay in Austria. Back in Rome Herbert Kappler was anxiously waiting for news and when it came he quickly passed it on to officials in Berlin. Shortly after six o’clock he cabled a message informing them that the rescue of Mussolini had been carried out successfully and that a meeting had been arranged with senior officers in Vienna. The next day Skorzeny and Mussolini were due to fly to Munich, where the former dictator would meet up with his wife. Before he retired to bed Skorzeny received a telephone call. It was Hitler, who told the young captain, ‘Today you have carried out a mission that will go down in history and I have given you the Knight’s Cross and promoted you to Sturmbannf?hrer.’ The F?hrer was thrilled that Mussolini had been freed and he was clearly in the mood to congratulate those who had helped in the rescue mission. After Skorzeny was honoured, there were others to be recognized. Herbert Kappler was also on the list and he was given the Iron Cross for his work. However, for him there was another reward to come. He was promoted to Obersturmbannf?hrer, the highest rank of his career. Five weeks earlier he had been ordered to stay in Rome by the F?hrer and told to concentrate on police intelligence work. Now, with the city in German hands, Lieutenant Colonel Kappler had an even bigger job to do. Chapter Seven OCCUPATION (#ulink_eac73d02-97f2-55fd-90ff-498ecf73d013) ‘We Germans regard you only as Jews, and thus our enemy’ Herbert Kappler Hungry and poorly dressed, a group of fourteen Allied servicemen arrived at the entrance of the Holy See looking for shelter and food. They were taking an enormous risk by travelling in such a large group and looking out of place. But they were lucky, for a friendly priest from St Monica’s monastery offered them respite and made contact with Anton Call, a carabiniere who was on close terms with Monsignor O’Flaherty and Sir D’Arcy Osborne and had helped to hide Albert Penny, the British seaman who had arrived at the Vatican on a bicycle. Call advised the new arrivals to approach the Vatican in twos and threes. He said once they got inside they should declare they were prisoners of war and ask to be handed over to Osborne’s butler, John May. The next day Call discovered that the servicemen were in a local barracks. The plan had failed. The escapees had managed to fool the Swiss Guards but not the gendarmes, who handed them to the carabinieri in St Peter’s Square. All fourteen men were taken to the Vittorio Emmanuele barracks. That night Call visited O’Flaherty. The police officer gave the priest details of the new detainees and O’Flaherty gave him 3,000 lire to buy food for the escapees. Within hours the men were well fed and well dressed. O’Flaherty considered the police barracks a safe place to leave the servicemen as the Germans did not visit the place. But the men’s freedom was short-lived, for in late October the Germans unexpectedly arrived at the barracks. Two of the group managed to escape but the remaining twelve were rounded up. For O’Flaherty the episode was a clear reminder that the escape operation needed more space and resources. For Herbert Kappler the discovery of the escapees justified his policy of keeping the Vatican under surveillance and confirmed that he was right to keep a close watch on O’Flaherty. In his developing battle with the monsignor it was an enjoyable early triumph. Even so, for every escapee Kappler’s men caught there were many more who evaded detection. O’Flaherty took huge personal risks. On one occasion he met three South African escaped servicemen in Rome and while he was taking them to the apartment he had found for them they were stopped by three SS men. Luckily the Germans were lost and just wanted directions. Another time he escorted two more South Africans from a railway station to their safe house. He visited hospitals where escapees were being treated and regularly secured their release to pro-Allied families in the city. It was an open secret that O’Flaherty was the man behind the escape operation. By late October 1943 around 1,000 servicemen had been placed in safety in homes across Rome and in farms and buildings outside the city. Kappler wanted to catch the monsignor red-handed but knew he could only arrest him away from Vatican territory. By now the monsignor and his friend and collaborator John May realized that the two of them could not handle the escape operation on their own. ‘Look, Monsignor, this thing is too big for one man, you can’t handle it alone … and it’s hardly begun!’ May said. O’Flaherty agreed that another senior figure was needed to share the workload of recruiting host families, raising money and visiting suitable accommodation for the escapees. Count Sarsfield Salazar of the Swiss legation was approached. Salazar had been interned when Italy declared war but had later been released. He had originally joined the staff of the American embassy and gained experience dealing with prisoners of war when he visited internment camps as an official inspector. And now, as a diplomat for a neutral country, he had the ideal background. Salazar agreed to join May and O’Flaherty. The trio’s first priority was to secure more accommodation, so O’Flaherty went house hunting, criss-crossing the city by tram and on foot looking for suitable houses and apartments. After living in Rome for nearly two decades he knew the city intimately and soon found a flat in Via Firenze and another, about a mile away, in Via Chelini. But, as well as premises, the Escape Line needed cash to pay for food and clothes for the escapees. The issue of money was discussed at night-time meetings between Osborne, O’Flaherty and May. The British Minister agreed to seek financial assistance from the Foreign Office in London and over the next nine months large sums of money were made available. Eventually Foreign Office officials would secure a loan through the Vatican Bank of three million lire. It was a risky strategy for them because they knew a paper trail leading to Osborne could jeopardize his position in Rome. One senior British civil servant summed up the arguments and concluded that it was best to make funds available: ‘It is worth taking a good many risks, including that of compromising his position in the Vatican, to send money to British prisoners, wherever they may be in Italy.’ Money would also come from other sources, including a Jesuit account and the American government through its charg? d’affaires Harold Tittmann. While sitting in his room in the Vatican, O’Flaherty answered the phone and heard the unmistakable voice of Prince Filippo Doria Pamphili. A member of one of Rome’s oldest families, the prince could trace his ancestors back to Admiral Andrea Doria, known as the liberator of Genoa. He was a friend of the monsignor and sympathetic towards his Escape Line. An opponent of Fascism, he had refused to accept Mussolini’s rule. Pamphili had declined to fly the Italian flag from his palace to mark the Fascist leader’s anniversary – a move that had particularly angered Mussolini because the prince’s residence was across the street from where crowds used to gather to hear the leader speak. Pamphili was imprisoned and then banished to southern Italy, but in recent months he had been allowed to return to Rome. He had become friendly with O’Flaherty before the war and the monsignor had often been to parties at his home. Having secretly become involved in anti-fascist groups which helped refugees, the prince was now telephoning O’Flaherty to say he wanted to see him. The journey from the Vatican to the Palazzo Doria in Via del Corso didn’t take long. There the two men adjourned to the prince’s impressive picture gallery, where they were surrounded by renaissance and baroque paintings, some of the city’s finest works of art. Ever conscious of watching eyes and listening ears, the prince told O’Flaherty, ‘Even in my own palazzo I am not safe from spies now.’ He then explained that he wanted to help the escape organization, and handed over 150,000 lire, which at the time was equal to some ?2,000. O’Flaherty was being watched by Kappler’s men, who noted his trip to the prince’s residence. As autumn arrived Kappler was adjusting to his new life as the chief of the Gestapo in Rome. Now he had the entire city under his control. One day specific orders came from Berlin. Kappler’s secretary put the call through to her boss, who listened intently. First the caller congratulated him on his promotion and then there were words of praise for his deputy, Erich Priebke, who, like Kappler, had been awarded the Iron Cross for his work in finding Mussolini. Kappler had made sure his work tracking down the former dictator had not gone unnoticed by his superiors in Berlin. He had sent one cable reminding them that Mussolini was discovered ‘exclusively from intelligence sources controlled by me’. After the good wishes came the instructions, relayed in stark terms from Heinrich Himmler’s office. The deportation of Rome’s Jews was to be Kappler’s first task following his promotion. This command, he was told during the phone call, would be followed by a radio message which would confirm that he was to begin the ‘Final Solution’ in the city. He had been in his new post only a few days but he was already once again at odds with his bosses in Berlin. Just as he had initially opposed the plan to rescue Mussolini, he found this latest plan objectionable. He didn’t agree with the order he had just received. He felt he knew Rome well, certainly better than those sitting behind desks in Germany. He believed any attempt to deport the city’s Jews would do little to engender sympathy among a local population already angered by the German occupation. Then there were the practicalities of a mass round-up. How could widespread deportations be organized? Days earlier Kappler had been instructed in a message from Berlin to secure the routes in and out of the Vatican. He had questioned whether he had the manpower for such measures and replied that ‘instructions to this effect can only be carried out if additional forces are brought up’. Kappler was sure he did not have enough SS men and what staff he did have lacked any experience in these matters. It was a bad plan, but he knew he had to do more than simply object to it. If he was to successfully oppose this latest order from Berlin, he needed allies. He travelled the short distance to Frascati to meet Field Marshal Kesselring. He reminded Kesselring how he had dealt with Jews on a previous occasion in Tunisia. Rather than carry out mass deportations, Kesselring had formed the Tunisian Jews into work gangs, and Jewish leaders who had been arrested were released after payment of a fine. When Kappler told him how many men he would need to organize deportations across Rome, the field marshal was alarmed. Kesselring said he could not afford to have men tied up in such matters because they were needed to defend Rome. Kappler had found his ally. The new head of the Gestapo in Rome then started to put together his own plan. Kappler summoned the city’s Jewish leaders. On the last Sunday of September he ordered two of Rome’s leading Jewish representatives to attend a meeting with him. Shortly after 6 p.m. Ugo Foa and Dante Almansi stood outside Kappler’s office in Villa Wolkonsky. They had not been told why he wanted to see them. At first their host was polite and the conversation was pleasant, but Kappler’s mood changed and he told his two visitors, ‘We Germans regard you only as Jews, and thus our enemy.’ He then chillingly warned them that unless the Jewish community handed over 50 kg of gold within the next thirty-six hours, 200 Jews would be deported to Germany. If the gold was handed over no one would be harmed. Kappler’s plan had no official sanction and he was operating alone in the hope that his actions would delay the deportations. Angry and worried, Foa and Almansi left their meeting with Kappler knowing they needed advice and help. Foa, a former magistrate, and Almansi, President of the Union of Jewish Communities, were both well connected in Rome. They spoke with contacts in the city’s Fascist police, but there was little the Italian police could do to change Kappler’s mind. The two Jewish leaders knew they had to act. Word of the Gestapo chief’s ultimatum quickly spread among the city’s 12,000-strong Jewish community. Foa and Almansi felt they could raise the amount demanded but they were concerned that they could not do it within Kappler’s deadline. They set to work immediately. In an office close to the River Tiber, beside the central synagogue, donations were left. As darkness fell, a queue had formed to hand over rings, chains, pendants and bracelets. Even gold fillings were removed from teeth, and slowly the amount collected edged towards 50 kg. Twice Foa and Almansi appealed to Kappler to give them more time, and twice he agreed. The Vatican had also been informed of the demand Kappler had placed on the Jewish community. Aware of the difficulties in reaching Kappler’s figure, Pope Pius XII offered to loan them gold if there was a shortfall. The Holy See said the loan could be arranged for any amount and could be repaid in instalments without interest. However, the Vatican’s loan was not needed. By early afternoon on Tuesday, 28 September, Kappler’s target was finally reached. Packed into ten boxes, the gold was taken under police guard across the city to Villa Wolkonsky, where Kappler had issued the demand nearly two days earlier. The Obersturmbannf?hrer was conspicuous by his absence and declined to see Foa and Almansi. The two Jewish leaders were then told to take the gold to Via Tasso, a short distance away. There they were greeted by a young SS captain who in error under-weighed the amount and then, after much delay, correctly measured the gold. The correct amount had been delivered and the two men prepared to leave. As a parting gesture, Foa declared that he would personally go to Germany at some stage to retrieve the gold. As darkness fell, Foa and Almansi returned to their families and friends and Rome’s Jewish community felt a sense of relief. Across Europe Jews were being rounded up and transported to death camps. Yet to date it seemed that Italy was exempt, and the Jews of Rome believed that the payment of gold would prevent any deportations from their own city. It was a false hope. Within hours SS men were at their door, raiding the offices of Rome’s Jewish community, the very place where the gold had been handed in. They took money and documents, including details of Jews who had donated gold. Two weeks later they returned and took away old manuscripts and rare books. Kappler still hoped he could win the argument that the deportation of the Jews should be abandoned. He had all the rings, bracelets and other gold items put into one box and sent off to Berlin. The package was marked for the attention of Obergruppenf?hrer Ernst Kaltenbrunner, who was Himmler’s deputy in the Reich security empire. Kappler attached a covering letter. In his note he explained why he was against the planned deportation of Jews. Such a move, he wrote, would deprive him of the chance to exploit the Jewish community for intelligence purposes. He added that Field Marshal Kesselring had approved plans to use Roman Jews in labour gangs across the city. When Kaltenbrunner opened the box he was indifferent to the gold and unconvinced by Kappler’s reasons for abandoning the deportation of Jews. The gold was of little consequence and would remain in Kaltenbrunner’s office untouched until the war ended. Kappler’s arguments he tackled head-on. He contacted Kappler and instructed him that the deportation must be his top priority: he must ‘proceed with the evacuation of the Jews without further delay’. Kaltenbrunner’s tone was equally direct as he told Kappler that ‘it is precisely the immediate and thorough eradication of the Jews in Italy which is the special interest of the present internal political situation and the general security in Italy’. He dismissed any suggestion that the operation should be delayed and added that ‘the longer the delay the more the Jews who are doubtless reckoning on evacuation measures have an opportunity by moving to the houses of pro-Jewish families’. By now Kappler’s opposition to conducting the deportations was causing much anxiety in the corridors of power in Berlin. If the Final Solution was to be enacted in Rome, the Nazi leaders knew they had to put their own man in. In the first week of October an SS captain and a detachment of Waffen SS men were dispatched to Rome to hasten the rounding up of Jews. If Kappler was uncomfortable receiving questionable orders on the telephone, he probably felt even more uneasy hearing them in person in his own office. At Villa Wolkonsky the newly arrived Captain Dannecker sat opposite Kappler. Even though Kappler outranked him, he knew his guest had to be taken seriously. Theodor Dannecker was a troubleshooter, sent from Berlin with Himmler’s blessing. He had a track record of carrying out Jewish deportations and twelve months earlier had organized round-ups of Jews in Paris. Dannecker told Kappler that he required manpower of at least one motorized battalion and wanted the operation to be surrounded by secrecy. He also needed the names and addresses of Rome’s Jews. Kappler was running out of excuses and time. Realizing he had lost the argument, he simply handed over the list. On Saturday, 16 October, as rain fell on the streets of Rome, lines of SS officers and military policemen made their way to the city’s Jewish ghetto. This time the Nazi policemen had not come for gold, money or documents. This time they wanted men, women and children. Kappler’s attempt to delay the deportations had failed. Armed with submachine guns, the SS police and Waffen SS ordered around 1,200 people out of their homes. Frightened, wet and cold, and clinging to what small possessions they could carry, the captives were placed into open army trucks. Most of them were still in their nightclothes. As the children cried and screamed and the adults openly prayed, they were driven to the Italian Military College, close to the Tiber. It was a carbon copy of the raids Dannecker had led in Paris. By mid-afternoon the operation was over. Nearly 900 of those arrested were women and children. At the military college the prisoners were examined and interviewed and around 230 non-Jews were released. The news of the deportations reached the Vatican very quickly. As the German raids began, Princess Enza Pignatelli Aragona Cortes, a young aristocrat well known on the Rome social scene and involved in charity work, was woken by a phone call from a friend. The caller lived near the Jewish ghetto and informed her of the German raids. The princess decided she must inform the Pope. She had known Pius XII for some time and had been received by him in the Holy See. The princess left her home and travelled to the Jewish ghetto to witness what was happening. She then went directly to the Vatican and, although she had no appointment to see the Pontiff, was quickly granted an audience. In his study the princess informed the Pope what was happening and told him he must act to stop the deportations. The Pope seemed genuinely surprised to hear the news. He said he had believed the Jews would remain untouched after the payment of gold. Then he made a phone call and, as he saw the princess out, promised that he would do all he could to help. Cardinal Luigi Maglione, the Vatican’s Secretary of State and one of the Pope’s aides, summoned the German ambassador to attend the Vatican. Maglione asked Ernst von Weizs?cker to use his influence and intervene to stop the deportations, saying, ‘It is painful for the Holy Father, painful beyond words, that right here in Rome, under the eyes of the Common Father, so many people are made to suffer because of their particular descent.’ The ambassador considered Maglione’s comments and asked, ‘What would the Holy See do if these things continued?’ It was the key question and clearly referred to the morning raids. The cardinal replied, ‘The Holy See would not wish to be put in a situation where it was necessary to utter a word of disapproval.’ Weizs?cker responded with a series of compliments about the Vatican. He praised the Catholic Church for steering a neutral course in the war and then suggested it would be wise if the Holy See refrained from making a protest, telling the cardinal, ‘I am thinking of the consequences that a step by the Holy See would provoke …’ He added that these measures came from ‘the highest level’ and stressed that their conversation must be regarded as confidential. In response Maglione asked Weizs?cker to intervene by appealing to his ‘sentiments of humanity’. The meeting was cordial and diplomatic. Even so, Weizs?cker’s reference to the ‘highest level’ was seen as a threat by an already nervous Vatican. The Pope did not want a showdown with Rome’s new rulers. There were too many uncertainties. If he protested too strongly about the deportations, would the relationship he had established with the Germans change for the worse? Would Berlin continue to respect the independence of the Vatican State? Such questions were considered against a backdrop of persistent rumours that the Germans would invade the Holy See and seize the Pope. Just as he had done since the start of the war in 1939, Pius XII knew he had a diplomatic game to play. That night Kappler worked until late, as he had to file a report on the day’s events for Himmler. Just before midnight he finalized his dispatch and had it transmitted to the office of the Reichsf?hrer-SS in Berlin. Kappler reported that the ‘action against the Jews started and finished today in accordance with a plan worked out as well as possible by the office’. Even though he stated that there were insufficient numbers of German police, he stated that 1,259 people had been arrested but those of mixed blood and foreigners had been released, leaving just over 1,000 still in custody. Kappler also noted that the operation had gone ahead without any opposition and that the use of firearms had not proved necessary. Two days later all the prisoners were taken to a railway station and squeezed into trucks and transported to Auschwitz. Within a week 800 would be dead. On the day the Jews left Rome’s Tiburtina Station on their one-way journey to Auschwitz, Sir D’Arcy Osborne met the Pope. There was only one topic of conversation. The British Minister told the Pope that he had ‘underestimated his own moral authority’ and talked of ‘the reluctant respect in which he was held by the Nazis because of the Catholic population of Germany’. Osborne was gently pushing the Pontiff to be more forceful. He asked him to consider that an occasion could arise that might involve his taking a ‘strong line’. They discussed the security situation in Rome and the behaviour of the German army and police. The Pope said he had no complaints about either organization and told Osborne that he would never leave Rome unless he was removed by force. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/stephen-walker/hide-and-seek-the-irish-priest-in-the-vatican-who-defied-th/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.