should imagine,” he said calmly, “that the other parties involved have not forgotten.”
Santini’s head was spinning with questions. But right now, he knew, he had to show firm leadership, focusing only on those facts which would help him lay down a clear plan of action.
“In theory, we don’t need to make that letter public until 2019,” Verti added. “Although if we were to release the archive early, in accordance with your instructions—”
“We won’t be releasing it early,” Santini said. “Clearly. We won’t be releasing it at all. Is there anything else that points to the same, the same…” He struggled to find the right word. “Scandal”, “betrayal”, “catastrophe” – none of these was adequate. “The same conclusion,” he said euphemistically.
Tonatelli shrugged. “There are eighty-five kilometres of shelving in the Archivio Segreto. We haven’t even counted the number of documents that relate to the war years yet. Almost certainly, that letter’s just the tip of the iceberg.”
“Then you must find the rest. Immediately.”
“Destroying documents now, if that is what you are intending, will only give the impression later that we had something to hide,” the friar said mildly.
But we do , Santini thought. “Do you have a better suggestion, Reverendissimo?”
Tonatelli looked at him calmly. “I think your policy of openness is the right one – in fact, I think in the long term it is the only one. But we should adopt it in the knowledge that the conclusions people draw from our transparency will not necessarily be favourable.”
Santini picked up the sheet of paper again, staring at each brief paragraph as if somewhere in the wording he might find room for ambiguity or reinterpretation. Transparency was surely unthinkable now. “People will say that if it happened then, it could have gone on happening.” He glanced up, horrified. “It didn’t, did it?”
No one replied.
He looked again at the bottom of the letter, where the author had both signed and typed his name. The handwriting was familiar to him from a thousand documents and decrees, although he usually encountered it using a different name.
Giovanni Battista Montini
Protonotary Apostolic for Extraordinary Affairs
5th October, 1944
He was looking at the signature of the man who had gone on to become Pope Paul VI, attached to a document that, were it to become public, would surely blacken the name of his papacy for ever.
EIGHT
KAT HAD BEEN to the American base at Vicenza before, but not to the military housing area that lay to the south of it. Following the directions Holly had texted, she turned off the ring road on to Viale della Pace – “the Road of Peace”; was it already called that when the Americans came, she wondered, or had some town planner with a sense of irony renamed it since? – and came to a security barrier manned by an American MP. The sight of her gazzella , as the Carabinieri’s cars were universally known, wasn’t by itself enough to get the barrier raised. She had to show her ID and have the vehicle checked underneath with mirrors before she was allowed through.
The place was vast. She drove past institutional-looking barracks, then street after street of apartment blocks, interspersed with a medical clinic, a veterinary centre and two schools. After that came individual houses, each one with a small square of lawn and a white-painted fence. These must be the officers’ homes. Some had garages as well as gardens, an almost unheard-of luxury in Italy. The American flag seemed to be everywhere.
Struggling with Holly’s directions – It’s 611: that means the eleventh house after the Sixth Street intersection – she was relieved to come across another gazzella , parked outside a house that was otherwise indistinguishable from its neighbours. The bell was answered by a man of about forty-five. His buzz cut seemed a little too youthful for his face, but under his
Santini’s head was spinning with questions. But right now, he knew, he had to show firm leadership, focusing only on those facts which would help him lay down a clear plan of action.
“In theory, we don’t need to make that letter public until 2019,” Verti added. “Although if we were to release the archive early, in accordance with your instructions—”
“We won’t be releasing it early,” Santini said. “Clearly. We won’t be releasing it at all. Is there anything else that points to the same, the same…” He struggled to find the right word. “Scandal”, “betrayal”, “catastrophe” – none of these was adequate. “The same conclusion,” he said euphemistically.
Tonatelli shrugged. “There are eighty-five kilometres of shelving in the Archivio Segreto. We haven’t even counted the number of documents that relate to the war years yet. Almost certainly, that letter’s just the tip of the iceberg.”
“Then you must find the rest. Immediately.”
“Destroying documents now, if that is what you are intending, will only give the impression later that we had something to hide,” the friar said mildly.
But we do , Santini thought. “Do you have a better suggestion, Reverendissimo?”
Tonatelli looked at him calmly. “I think your policy of openness is the right one – in fact, I think in the long term it is the only one. But we should adopt it in the knowledge that the conclusions people draw from our transparency will not necessarily be favourable.”
Santini picked up the sheet of paper again, staring at each brief paragraph as if somewhere in the wording he might find room for ambiguity or reinterpretation. Transparency was surely unthinkable now. “People will say that if it happened then, it could have gone on happening.” He glanced up, horrified. “It didn’t, did it?”
No one replied.
He looked again at the bottom of the letter, where the author had both signed and typed his name. The handwriting was familiar to him from a thousand documents and decrees, although he usually encountered it using a different name.
Giovanni Battista Montini
Protonotary Apostolic for Extraordinary Affairs
5th October, 1944
He was looking at the signature of the man who had gone on to become Pope Paul VI, attached to a document that, were it to become public, would surely blacken the name of his papacy for ever.
EIGHT
KAT HAD BEEN to the American base at Vicenza before, but not to the military housing area that lay to the south of it. Following the directions Holly had texted, she turned off the ring road on to Viale della Pace – “the Road of Peace”; was it already called that when the Americans came, she wondered, or had some town planner with a sense of irony renamed it since? – and came to a security barrier manned by an American MP. The sight of her gazzella , as the Carabinieri’s cars were universally known, wasn’t by itself enough to get the barrier raised. She had to show her ID and have the vehicle checked underneath with mirrors before she was allowed through.
The place was vast. She drove past institutional-looking barracks, then street after street of apartment blocks, interspersed with a medical clinic, a veterinary centre and two schools. After that came individual houses, each one with a small square of lawn and a white-painted fence. These must be the officers’ homes. Some had garages as well as gardens, an almost unheard-of luxury in Italy. The American flag seemed to be everywhere.
Struggling with Holly’s directions – It’s 611: that means the eleventh house after the Sixth Street intersection – she was relieved to come across another gazzella , parked outside a house that was otherwise indistinguishable from its neighbours. The bell was answered by a man of about forty-five. His buzz cut seemed a little too youthful for his face, but under his
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