“Tommaso, it is so good to see you, my son,” said Father Leiber. “But you must get out of Rome right away. The Gestapo has been here several times already, looking for you. They want to question you about something that happened in Sicily. Apparently, they had no idea that you were in Chieti, praise Jesus. One hand has no idea what the other is doing.”
“It is good to see you, Father. I hope you are well. How do I get out of Italy?”
“That's a good question. I am not sure I can help you, my son. The Germans are watching us. We are expecting them to overrun the Vatican at any moment, particularly now that the Italians have surrendered. The Germans are now in charge. You need to either go south, to meet up with your forces, or head north, to get to Switzerland. How you do that, I don’t know. There is nothing moving in either direction, that I know of.”
“How about Josef, Josef Muller?” inquired Mac.
“What about him?”
“Can you contact him for me. Tell him I need a ride to Bern.”
“Tommaso, Josef Muller has been arrested by the Gestapo. He has been sent to Flossenburg, a camp near the Czech border. Jesus save him.”
“That's terrible. My prayers are with him. He's such a good man.”
“What will you do?”
“I will figure that out, Father. Don’t worry about me. I am very resourceful. I will contact you in a couple of days. Please give my regards to the Holy Father?”
“I don’t think that is advisable, Tommaso. You do not want to put the pontiff in the position of having to admit that you were here, should the Gestapo question him. I will pass on your best wishes at the appropriate time.”
Just then, the door to Father Leiber's office opened unceremoniously, as the Pontiff walked in in his white vestments and red shoes.
“Tommaso, my son. I knew it was your voice I was hearing. It is so good to see you, alive.”
“It has been a long couple of years, your Grace. My life has been more than interesting. God has willed me through some very trying times.”
“Does Carla know you are free?”
“I do not know what she knows, your Grace. I am doing my best to get home.”
“Be careful, my son. The Germans are not the Italians. Everything is closed. No one goes anywhere at this point.”
“I must try, your Grace. I have been away from my family for too long.
“Very well, my son. God bless you. My prayers are with you.”
“I will find a way to contact you, Father Leiber, when I know what I am doing.”
Mac kneeled before the Pontiff, kissing his ring. Pope Pius made the sign of the cross on his head. Both men looked wistful as Mac left the room.
As Mac returned to the Inn on foot, he saw men in black uniforms stationed outside the front door, the smoke from their cigarettes billowing in clouds above their heads. He quickly turned into Via Mario de’ Fiori, across the street, just before the Inn, deciding to make his way to Alberto's house.
The beige three-story stucco house was just as he remembered it, albeit somewhat worse for wear. The bombing of Rome was now incessant, and a rolling haze of smoke invaded the city like a conquering army, seeking paths of least resistance. While the DeFelice home was yet physically untouched by the bombing, the soot that covered the once white proudly painted stucco served as a vivid reminder of the ravages of war.
Mac knocked on the door. Receiving no response, he turned the doorknob, walking into the unlocked home.
“Alberto!” Mac called.
No answer.
“Teresa!” Mac called.
Again, no answer.
Mac went to the icebox to see if there was any fresh food, trying to determine if they were still in Rome. The icebox was warm, and it was empty, but for a few bottles of beer, and some old, moldy looking bread.
Nevertheless, Mac decided to spend the day inside the DeFelice home, waiting for nightfall, before moving on. He poured himself a glass of scotch from Alberto's study, and he lit up one of his old cigars. He sat there in the quiet Italian home, thinking about his family, and how he would get out of Italy.
As night fell on the city, Mac left the DeFelice home, making his way back to Piazza di Spagna to see if anyone was still in the offices of Sullivan and Cromwell. As Mac climbed the back stairs to the sixth floor, he found Balsieri alone in the reception area, looking somewhat disheveled, readying himself to leave for the day.
“Tommaso!” yelled Balsieri. “What are you doing here? The Germans have been here five times today looking for you. Here, quick, come to my office.”
“Grazie, Balls; I didn’t know where else to go. I must get out of Rome. Any ideas?”
“Sit down, Mac. Where have you been? What is going on?”
Mac told Balsieri of his time in the prison camp, and of his being saved by Betty Pack. He related how Father Leiber indicated that the Vatican could not help getting him out of Italy, and how no one was apparently at the DeFelice home.
“Teresa went home to her mother. Alberto sent her away long ago. He is holed up with Ciano in their offices, not knowing who to fear more, the Germans or the Americans. Maybe, you could get to Palombara; hide out for a while.”
“I must try to get home, Balls. I am thinking I should try to get to Switzerland. Dulles will get me out.”
“That is a tough trek. The borders are being monitored very closely. The only way is through the mountains, praying that you do not get captured by the Germans, or by the resistance, for that matter. Everyone seems to be just shooting first, before asking any questions. I don’t know, Mac. It would be far safer to stay with your family in Palombara.”
“I was hoping that Joseph Muller could fly me across the mountains, but I heard he was arrested by the Gestapo. The Germans put him in camp. Madonna!”
“That is crazy, Mac. It is too dangerous. If you could fly over the mountains, the Germans would shoot you down before you land.”
“Muller made the trip over and over again.”
“I know, I know, and he is crazy too. Apparently, I heard that he had a protégé that has taken over in the cockpit.”
“What? Who? I want to talk to him.”
“His name is Maurizio Marchini. I have met him in Leiber's office.”
“Why didn’t they tell me?”
“Perhaps he does not want to involve the Holy Father in schemes to get Americans out of the country, particularly Americans of your now notoriety.”
“Balls, you must get this guy Marchini for me. Get him to fly me to Switzerland.”
“I will get Leiber to allow me to talk to Marchini, the next time he flies in. He owes you at least that.”
“In the meantime, I will make my way up north, getting as close to the border as I can. If you need to leave me a message, send it to Iris Origo. She will see that I get it. Please, Balls, I am counting on you.”
“I will do my best, Mac, but I would not rely on it. Now, get out of here. I will have Lorenzo get you out of town. You remember Lorenzo? Of course, you do. He will meet you by the foot of the steps in fifteen minutes. Tell him where you want to go, my friend. You can trust him with your life.”
“I know, Balls. He is a good man. Thank you, my brother.”
Mac left the offices by the same back stairs, waiting fifteen minutes in the back alley before heading for the steps. Just as he arrived, a gray sedan pulled up, the front passenger door swinging open to receive him.
“Lorenzo. Thank you,” said Mac, as he closed the car door behind. “Can you get me to Palombara Sabina?”
“Madonna! Palombara?”
“Is that possible?”
“You know I will get you there, sir.”
“Thank you, Lorenzo. Be careful.”
“Perhaps it would be safer if I dropped you off here, at the bottom of the hill,” offered Lorenzo, waking up Mac as they headed into Palombara.
“I think you are right, my friend. I will walk the rest of the way. I thank you, Lorenzo. Please take care of yourself.”
Mac walked the cobblestone and broken cement streets of the old town of his people, past the stucco and sandstone buildings in all kinds of disrepair. He waved to the few people he encountered in the streets, and even to the German soldiers he came upon, standing outside a café smoking cigarettes. He looked the part, spoke the language, and thus, was able to pass by with no impediment. Round and round he went, through the winding streets of Palombara Sabina, making his way past the DeFelice home, up the hill to the home of his grandparents.
Mac walked in the front door after a short knock, announcing himself as he crossed the family eating area. Dinner was done, but that did not stop his grandmother from putting out a feast for her favorite grandson.
“Tommaso!” cried Carmela Martini, as the rest of the family came out front to greet Mac.
The family sat around the peasant wood table as they told stories of what was happening in Palombara, and what Mac had been doing since they last saw him. Mac thrilled them all with his spy stories; they thrilled him with talk of local resistance to the Germans.
“How long will you be staying, Tommaso,” asked his grandfather.
“I will be leaving in the morning, grandpa. It's too dangerous for all of you for me to stay here. Too many Germans here.”
“Nonsense,” exclaimed Carmela. “We are safe here. What do the Germans want with us?”
“They are looking for me, Grandma. I cannot stay here. I wanted to see you before I try to get back to my wife.”
“Oh Tommaso,” cried Carmela, as she forked spaghetti into the ceramic bowl she had put before Mac. “You eat up, my bambino. Keep up your strength,” she continued, as she spooned meatballs and sauce on top of the spaghetti.
“Not too much, Grandma. You will slow me up.”
“Where will you go, Tommaso?” asked Alex.
“I will head north, Grandpa. I will cross the border into Switzerland,” said Mac, not wanting to worry his grandparents with talk of crossing the Alps in a single engine airplane.
“You can go with your cousins in the morning,” said Alex. “They will take you north. You will fit in with them. The Germans do not bother with them much.”
“I do not want to put them in danger, Grandpa.”
“Nonsense. They want to be of use.”
“Maybe, they can take me out to the beach. I can get help there to get north.”
“Stop talking, Tommaso! Eat!” insisted Carmella.
“Yes, Grandma,” laughed Mac, as he filled himself up on his grandmother's delicious cooking.