The Confessor

side of the tall iron gate. As Gabriel pressed the bell, a cold wind rose from the lake and swirled in the courtyard, stirring the limbs of the olive trees. A moment later, an old man appeared, dressed in soiled coveralls. When Gabriel said he wished to have a brief word with Mother Vincenza, the old man nodded and disappeared into the convent. Returning a moment later, he unchained the gate and gestured for Gabriel to follow him.
    The nun was waiting in the entrance hall. Her oval face was framed by a gray-and-white habit. A pair of thick glasses magnified a steadfast gaze. When Gabriel mentioned Benjamin's name, her ace broke into a wide genuine smile. "Yes, of course I remember
    arched portals. There was something of the catacombs in this place. Gabriel had a sudden vision of hunted souls moving about by torchlight and speaking in whispers.
    Mother Vincenza led him along the passageway, pausing at each portal to play the beam of her flashlight over the interior of a cramped chamber. The stonework shone with damp, and the smell of the lake was overwhelming. Gabriel thought he could hear water lapping above their heads.
    "It was the only place where the sisters thought the refugees would be safe," the nun said finally, disturbing the silence. "As you can feel for yourself, it was bitterly cold in the winter. I'm afraid they suffered terribly, especially the children."
    "How many?"
    "Usually about a dozen. Sometimes more. Sometimes fewer."
    "Why fewer?"
    "Some moved on to other conventi. One family tried to make it to Switzerland. They were caught at the border by a Swiss patrol and handed over to the Germans. I'm told they died at Auschwitz. I was just a little girl during the war, of course. My family lived in Turin."
    "It must have been very dangerous for the women living here."
    "Yes, very. In those days, Fascist gangs were roaming the country looking for Jews. Bribes were paid. Jews were denounced for money. Anyone who concealed Jews was subject to terrible reprisals. The sisters accepted these people at great risk to themselves."
    "So why did they do it?"
    She smiled warmly and squeezed his arm. "There is a great tradition in the Church, Signor Landau. Priests and nuns feel a special duty to assist fugitives. To help those unjustly accused. The sisters of Brenzone helped the Jews out of Christian goodness. And they did it because the Holy Father told them to do it."
    "Pope Pius instructed the convents to take in Jews?" The nuns eyes widened. "Indeed. Convents, monasteries, schools, hospitals. All Church institutions and properties were ordered by the Holy Father to throw open their doors to the Jews."
    The beam of Mother Vincenza's flashlight fell upon an obese rat. It scurried away, claws scratching against the stones, yellow eyes
    glowing.
    "Thank you, Mother Vincenza," Gabriel said. "I think I've seen
    enough."
    "As you wish." The nun remained motionless, her unfaltering gaze lingering on him. "You should not be saddened by this place, Signor Landau. Because of the sisters of Brenzone, the people who took shelter here managed to survive. This is no place for tears. It is a place of joy. Of hope."
    When Gabriel made no response, Mother Vincenza turned and led him up the stairs. As she walked across the gravel forecourt, the night wind lifted the skirt of her habit.
    "We're about to sit down for our evening meal. You're welcome to join us if you like."
    "You're very kind, but I wouldn't want to intrude. Besides, I've taken enough of your time."
    "Not at all."
    At the front gate Gabriel stopped and turned to face her. "Do you know the names of people who took shelter here?" he asked suddenly.
    The nun seemed surprised by his question. She studied him a moment, then shook her head deliberately. "I'm afraid the names have been lost over the years."
    "That's a shame."
    "Yes," she said, nodding slowly.
    "May I ask you one more question, Mother Vincenza?"
    "Certainly."
    "Did the Vatican give you permission to speak with Benjamin?"
    She lifted her chin defiantly. "I don't need some bureaucrat in
    the Curia to tell me when to talk and when to keep silent. Only my
    God can tell me that, and God told me to talk to your brother about
    the Jews of Brenzone."
    Mother Vincenza kept a small office on the second floor of the convent, in a pleasant room overlooking the lake. She closed and locked the door, then sat down at her modest desk and pulled open the top drawer. There, concealed behind a small cardboard box filled with