Mr.Churchill's Secretary(24)

“Me, too,” he said, his face inscrutable. “On both counts.” The fate of his relatives must be weighing on David in a way that Maggie could never really know.

“But going back to your original question, no, I don’t think Germans are inherently evil. However, I do think Hitler is, and he’s surrounded himself with any number of madmen who probably grew up pulling wings off flies and drowning kittens for jollies. Like the Boss, I don’t believe in so-called pariah nations. I see this as a war against Hitler and Nazism, not against the German people.”

“But why?” Maggie insisted, images of the bombing—and now David’s family—impossible to clear from her mind.

“The Germans must be made to feel they’re not pariahs. They own and have produced much that’s admired, and their former enemies must be willing to trust them and the new government they’ll choose to elect. If this can be done, then I believe they’ll respond in kind.”

He finished his hash and put down his fork and knife. “Germany’s given us Goethe’s Faust, Beethoven’s ‘Ode to Joy,’ Bach’s Double Violin Concerto in D Minor, and, and”—he paused to think—“sauerbraten and Sacher torte … or is that Austrian?” He shook his head. “Regardless. It’s just lost its way. For now.”

Maggie considered what he said and wondered if he could be right. Maybe it was the only way to stop the cycle of violence and hatred. But it wouldn’t be easy. “You do realize convincing other people—the French and the English, especially—this is the best way to go after the war will be difficult, if not downright impossible?”

“Oh, I do,” he said, snagging one of the untouched, cold bangers from her plate.

“And you sincerely feel what you’ve described is the only way to spare future generations endlessly recurring wars?”

He grinned. “Have I convinced you?”

“I can see where you’re going with it, but it requires a superhuman amount of compassion, don’t you think?” Maggie looked at him. “I might just have to start calling you Saint David, if you keep this up.”

“Still Jewish,” he said sweetly. “Why does no one ever remember?”

The board outside read Church of the Holy Apostles—Repent Ye, for Judgment Day May Be Close at Hand, with the times of the Masses and confession in chipped gold-painted Roman lettering. Claire climbed the steep stone steps and pulled open the imposing iron-hinged doors.

The interior was silent, cavernous, and dimly lit, with banks of votives flickering, making shadows dance along the walls. A statue of the Virgin with a halo of gold and robes of forget-me-not blue presided over a side altar.

Claire dipped her fingers in holy water, made the sign of the cross, and genuflected to the carved wooden altar, then walked down the aisle, her heels clicking on the black marble tiles. She made her way past ruby, sapphire, amber, and emerald stained-glass windows to the dark wood confessional boxes that stood to one side. The sweet smell of smoky incense lingered in the air.

Besides Claire, the church was empty—not surprising, since confession was listed as hours away.

She resolutely made her way to the confessional farthest from the altar, went inside, and took a seat in the shadows.

Then waited in silence until she heard the grille slide open.

“Yes, my child?” she heard a low voice say.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

There was a long pause. Even though she had done this many, many times before, Claire held her breath.

Then she heard his voice.

“I’ll say you have.” The light switched on in the box.

“Michael!” she exclaimed, her face beaming.

“In the flesh, me love,” the man replied.

Claire put her hand up to the grille, and Murphy covered it with his. They stared at each other a moment, and then she laughed.

“What?” he said, his dark eyes now stern.

“It’s just—I can’t get over the sight of you like that.”

Murphy was dressed in a priest’s black robes and white collar, with the traditional purple stole draped over his wiry shoulders. “What? Don’t you like it?”

“It’s just—don’t you feel bad? Wearing the collar and not really being one?”

“I’ve done a lot worse in the name of our cause. And besides,” he continued, “it makes the old birds happy—handsome priest listening to their petty little sins. I swear, some of the nuns stretch out their confessions just to sit in the dark and—”

“Michael!”

“That’s Father Murphy to you, my child.” His eyes became serious. “So, what news?”