In The Name of The Father (7 page)

There had been a rapid feedback with several suggestions but the report on this one had been conclusive. It had come from Bishop Severin of Szeged in Hungary, a man whose judgment the Cardinal much respected. He reported that Sister Anna fitted the description exactly, except that she was only twenty-six years old. However he was sure that in all other aspects she more than compensated for that.

Indeed Mennini could see the strength in her face. It was an attractive face - very attractive. She was Polish and he guessed that there was Tartar blood there, for her cheekbones were very high, her eyes slightly slanted and her skin olive. She had a high forehead balanced by a wide, full mouth and the sweep of a symmetrical jaw. He looked at her arms and hands. The fingers were long and slender and he guessed that her figure would be similar. She was not at all embarrassed by his silent inspection. She gazed back at him, modest but composed. He questioned her for a few minutes and learned that she was an orphan who had been brought up by nuns in Zamose. She had been much influenced by her Mother Superior and from her earliest years had wanted to be nothing else but a nun. Recognising her intellect early, they had sent her to a school run by the Order in Austria. There she developed her linguistic talents, becoming fluent in Russian, English, Italian, German, Czech and Hungarian, as well as her native Polish. She also discovered a second vocation: teaching. After taking her final vows she had been sent to teach in a school run by the Order in Hungary. She was happy there, getting much joy from her work and also continuing her own studies and beginning to show a particular interest in Oriental languages. She hoped one day to be able to teach with the Order in Japan when she was fluent in that language.

She had a husky rasp to her voice. Not unattractive but curious, and a way of emphasising her words by lifting her chin slightly after completing a sentence. Within a few minutes the Cardinal was convinced that Bishop Severin’s judgment had been correct and should be endorsed.

He marshalled his thoughts and then said slowly, ‘Sister Anna, you have been selected for a mission which is of vital concern to our Church and the well-being of our beloved Holy Father.’ He watched her face for a reaction but she stared back intent but impassive. ‘Your life as a devout sister will have prepared you for some aspects of this mission . . . but not for others. You will need training. However, before going into further details there is something that you must see.’

He reached to his left and pulled a gold embossed leather folder in front of him. Slowly he opened it and looked at the single sheet of heavy cloth paper and the firm thick handwriting.

‘I assume you read Latin.’

‘Yes, Your Eminence.’

He turned the folder and pushed it towards her. She leaned forward. This time there was a reaction. Her eyes widened slightly as she saw, at the bottom of the paper, the red circle of wax and embossed into it the Papal seal. Her eyes moved up and her lips moved silently as she translated the Latin in her mind. ‘To our beloved Sister Anna.’

By the time she was half way down the page her lips had stopped moving. They moved again as she read the signature: John Paul II.

She crossed herself and then looked up at the Cardinal. He thought her eyes were slightly glazed.

‘Have you ever seen one of those before, Sister Anna?’

‘No, Your Eminence.’

‘But you understand it?’

‘I think so, Your Eminence.’

He reached out and pulled the folder back to him, looked down at the paper for a moment and then firmly closed the folder. Musingly, as if to himself, he said, ‘No, not many people ever get to see a Papal dispensation of that nature.’ He pushed the folder to one side and looked up. ‘In essence, Sister Anna, it gives you special dispensation - to set aside your sacred vows during this mission. You will of course be a nun always in your heart. Now I am going to tell you the very brief details of that mission. You may after that refuse it, if you wish.’

She glanced at the folder and in her husky voice said, ‘I cannot refuse the wish of the Holy Father.’

He nodded in approval. ‘Good. Now, what I have to say is, of course, a sacred secret. You understand that? A sacred secret now and for ever.’

He watched her nod solemnly and then in measured tones said, ‘Sister Anna, your mission will be to travel and live with a man for several weeks . . . to travel and live with him as his wife.’ He saw the shock in her eyes and her lips open to ask the immediate question. He held up a hand. ‘No, Sister. As his wife only in appearance, although you will of course have to share accommodation with him and in public act towards him with wifely affection.’ He could detect a measure of relief in her eyes. ‘I must tell you that he is not a good man. In fact in some ways he is very evil. He is an atheist and in the past has been a terrible enemy of the Church. This now has changed. Although he remains an atheist this mission is to the good of the Church and to the good of our beloved Holy Father.’ He paused and took a white lace handkerchief from the sash at his waist and dabbed at his thin lips. Then, with a sigh he went on. ‘I must also tell you that this journey will take you through Eastern Europe to Moscow. Therefore it will be dangerous. Your mission ends in Moscow and you will then return to us here and to our eternal thanks . . . Now, are you willing to go?’

She replied immediately. ‘Yes, Your Eminence . . . But what exactly is the mission?’

‘Just that, my dear. Of course, you must help this man as much as possible. You are travelling with him so that the authorities will think you are man and wife. You will have papers proving it. In essence you are there to make his journey appear innocent.’

‘And it is not?’

He inserted a slightly stern note into his voice. ‘All you need to know, Sister, is that it is to the good of our Church. You know that very often we have to act with great caution in the Soviet bloc.’

He watched her nod dutifully. Satisfied, he opened a drawer, took out an envelope and handed it to her. ‘Tomorrow you report at eight a.m. to the Collegio Russico on Via Carlino Cattaneo, here in Rome.

There you will meet a Father Van Burgh and place yourself under his obedience. He will tell you more. He is in charge of this mission. He will supervise your training over the coming days.’

He looked up at the clock and then rose. She did the same. He came around the desk and took her hands in his and said gently, ‘It will be difficult, Sister Anna, sometimes embarrassing. But remember what I told you. In your heart you will always be a nun.’

She murmured, ‘I will always remember it, Your Eminence. Please give me your blessing.’

He did so and she kissed his ring. As he led her to the door he smiled and said, ‘Of course during this time you will have to revert to your birth name. It’s Ania, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, Your Eminence. Ania Krol.’

He patted her on the shoulder. ‘Ania; it’s a nice name.’

No sooner had he closed the door than his phone rang. With a tired sigh he crossed the room and picked it up. His secretary informed him that the
soffrigenti
were here. He sighed again and told his secretary to wait ten minutes, then show them in. He settled himself in his chair and struggled to compose some words in his mind. His election as head of the one hundred thousand strong Order had taken place six months before and with it more work and problems than he could ever have imagined. Occasionally over the months he had received small delegations of what the Order called
soffrigenti.
These were priests who, in the course of their work around the globe, had suffered greatly. Some had been imprisoned for decades, others tortured, some maimed. There were also those who had spent lifetimes in solitary, obsessive study. It was the Order’s policy that, when possible, such priests should come to Rome to receive the thanks of their leader and his blessing and inspiration. This was one such delegation, assembled from priests who worked and who had suffered in the Soviet bloc.

Mennini was very conscious that the words he spoke to them would always be remembered. Every single word must have profound significance. He must be for them a father and a mother and a rock on which to cement their own faith. Their final allegiance, of course, was to the Holy Father, but it was definitely channelled through him. He hated to repeat himself on such occasions and struggled to find words which would sound fresh and inspiring. It was difficult. His eyes were constantly drawn to the leather folder on his desk and its single content. He opened it and read again the sheet of paper. Marvelled at the perfection of the signature and seal. He had seen both many times. These contained not a trace of deviation. The Bacon Priest was truly a genius. That reflection was replaced by another. By its use and what lay beyond, he, Cardinal Angelo Mennini, was committing a cardinal sin. Was it a sign to test his real faith?

Much troubled, he opened a drawer and slid in the file. He turned the lock and slipped the key into a hidden pocket of his gown, hoping, in a way, to lock away the thoughts. He turned his mind again to formulating words but it was hopeless. He would have to rely on his visitors to give him inspiration.

They did. Seven old men filed into the room. The youngest was in his early sixties. The oldest over eighty. Mennini greeted them all by name as they kissed his ring. The oldest, Father Samostan from Yugoslavia, tried to kneel. Very gently Mennini lifted him up and enfolded him in his arms and then led him slowly to a comfortable chair. The others sat on two angled settees. They had already been given refreshments in the anteroom. The audience would last no more than ten or fifteen minutes. Mennini studied them. Seven tips of the Order’s tentacles. They were in the forefront of the Order’s battle, but they did not look like warriors. Just seven bent, black-clad old men. There was Botyan from Hungary. Over forty years a secret priest, hunted and haunted by a solitary life; bald head, cadaverous face, eyes deep in their sockets. But what eyes! They were luminous in faith, honesty and determination.

Next to him sat Klasztor from Poland. Eighteen years in the Gulags. The Bacon Priest had somehow got him out five years before. He had refused to retire comfortably to the West but insisted on doing pastoral work in his native land. Dangerous pastoral work. Mennini knew the histories of all these men. Inevitably his attention was drawn to the bony figure sitting at the end of one of the settees. This man was Father Jan Panrowski, the youngest of the group. He did not appear the youngest. His frail body was twisted as if by terrible arthritis. His hair was stark white and down his right cheek ran four parallel pink scars half an inch apart. Mennini had met several of the others but not this priest. He knew that of all of them he had suffered perhaps the most. Also a Pole, he had been put into a concentration camp by the Nazis in 1941 because he gave food to the Resistance. He miraculously escaped and made his way East and again worked with the Resistance, but in the Russians’ eyes he had been in the wrong group. When they rolled through towards Warsaw they shot most of his group. He again was spared, after a fashion. They sent him further East into Russia itself where, for seven years, he was made to work virtually as a slave. He combined this labour with a huge effort to give spiritual love and solace to his fellow slaves. With the death of Stalin he was one of the lucky few to be released and the Order managed to bring him out to Rome. However, like Klasztor, he had refused the comforts of a quiet secure life and in 1958 had gone as a secret priest to work in Czechoslovakia - the most virulent anti-Church state in the Soviet bloc. For two years he worked in an agricultural machinery factory in Liberec and then he was caught one afternoon saying the Angelus. He had spent the next eighteen years in solitary confinement in the notorious Bakoy Prison in Kladno. Solitary confinement, except for the times when they had taken him to the torture rooms. They let him out in 1980. After six months in a Rome hospital and a further six months in a monastery near the Pope’s summer residence in Castel Gandolfo, he had sought an audience with the then head of the Order and begged to be allowed to return to his birthplace in Poland, the city of Olsztyn. His mother and an aunt, both in their nineties, were still alive and he wished to care for them. The city also had an ancient seminary and he would like to teach. He was reluctantly allowed to go. That city was also on one of Van Burgh’s pipelines out of Russia and occasionally he proved helpful. Several times travellers going the other way dropped off a slab of bacon.

He sat now like a bent sparrow, his eyes on his leader. Eyes that sent out a miasma of remembered pain.

Mennini looked at all their faces and into all their eyes. The phrases he had composed vanished into the sea of his compassion. He started to say, ‘I am made humble before . . .’

Then he broke down. He did not lower his head. He sat there erect while the tears filled his eyes and rolled down his cheeks.

The tears had more eloquence than words. His visitors knew him to be an austere unemotional man. They looked at the tears and the humility in his wet eyes and they too wept in response. All except Father Panrowski. He put his arms around his bony shoulders and sank back deeper into the corner of the settee. He lowered his chin to his chest as though once more experiencing physical pain. All his tears had long since been shed.

The Cardinal recovered. Father Botyan offered him a handkerchief which he accepted with a wan smile. He dried his eyes and face and when he tried to hand it back the old priest merely smiled and shook his head. Mennini tucked it into his sash with a grateful gesture of acceptance. Then he completed his sentence.

‘I am made humble before your suffering and your faith.’

He heard their murmurs of deprecation. Now the words came easily to him. In a strong voice he talked about the martyrs and saints of the Order and how their faith and devotion had changed history and the face and mind of the world. He talked to them as equals about his hopes for the future, both for the Order and for the Church as a whole. He invoked their prayers for the beloved Holy Father.