A Death in Vienna

many men of his era, had seen much death and destruction. He had also committed acts for which he was deeply ashamed and in need of absolution.”
    “And you granted that absolution?”
    “I granted him peace of mind, Monsieur Duran. I heard his confessions, I ordered penance. Within the confines of Catholic belief, I prepared his soul to meet Christ. But do I, a simple priest from a rural parish, really possess the power to absolve such sins? Even I’m not sure about that.”
    “May I ask you about some of the things you discussed?” Gabriel asked tentatively. He knew he was on shaky theological ground, and the answer was what he expected.
    “Many of my discussions with Herr Krebs were conducted under the seal of confession. The rest were conducted under the seal of friendship. It would not be proper for me to relate the nature of those conversations to you now.”
    “But he’s been dead for twenty years.”
    “Even the dead have a right to privacy.”
    Gabriel heard the voice of his mother, the opening line of her testimony:I will not tell all the things I saw. I cannot. I owe this much to the dead.
    “It might help me determine whether this man is my uncle.”
    Father Morales gave a disarming smile. “I’m a simple country priest, Monsieur Duran, but I’m not a complete fool. I also know my parishioners very well. Do you really believe you’re the first person to come here pretending to be looking for a lost relative? I’m quite certain that Otto Krebs could not possibly be your uncle. I’m less certain that you’re really René Duran from Montreal. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
    He turned to leave. Gabriel touched his arm.
    “Will you at least show me his grave?”
    The priest sighed, then looked up at the stained-glass windows. They had turned to black.
    “It’s dark,” he said. “Give me a moment.”
    He crossed the altar and disappeared into the vestry. A moment later he emerged wearing a tan windbreaker and carrying a large flashlight. He led them out a side portal, then along a gravel walkway between the church and the rectory. At the end of the path was a lych-gate. Father Morales lifted the latch, then switched on the flashlight and led the way into the cemetery. Gabriel walked at the priest’s side along a narrow footpath overgrown with weeds. Chiara was a step behind.
    “Did you celebrate his funeral mass, Father Morales?”
    “Yes, of course. In fact, I had to see to the arrangements myself. There was no one else to do it.”
    A cat slipped out from behind a grave marker and paused on the footpath in front of them, its eyes reflecting like yellow beacons in the glow of the priest’s flashlight. Father Morales hissed, and the cat vanished into the tall grass.
    They drew nearer the trees at the bottom of the cemetery. The priest turned left and led them through knee-deep grass. Here the path was too narrow to walk side by side, so they moved single file, with Chiara holding Gabriel’s hand for support.
    Father Morales, nearing the end of a row of gravestones, stopped walking and shone his flashlight down at a 45-degree angle. The beam fell upon a simple headstone bearing the name OTTOKREBS. It listed the year of his birth as 1913 and the year of his death as 1983. Above the name, beneath a small oval of scratched and weathered glass, was a photograph.
    GABRIEL CROUCHED AND,brushing away a layer of powdery dust, examined the face. Evidently it had been taken some years before his death, because the man it depicted was middle-aged, perhaps in his late forties. Gabriel was certain of only one thing. It was not the face of Erich Radek.
    “I assume it’s not youruncle, Monsieur Duran?”
    “Are you certain the photograph is of him?”
    “Yes, of course. I found it myself, in a strongbox containing a few of his private things.”
    “I don’t suppose you’d allow me to see his things?”
    “I no longer have them. And even if I did—”
    Father Morales, leaving the thought unfinished, handed Gabriel the flashlight. “I’ll leave you alone now. I can find my way without the light. If you would be so kind as to leave it at the rectory door on your way out. It was a pleasure meeting you, Monsieur Duran.”
    With that, he turned and vanished among the gravestones.
    Gabriel looked up at Chiara. “It should be Radek’s picture. Radek went to Rome and obtained a Red Cross passport in the name of Otto Krebs. Krebs went to Damascus in 1948, then emigrated to Argentina in 1963.