Second Chance

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Vatican Rocked

The Vatican

Rome

12^th September 1940

Father O’Reilly paced the luxurious rooms that he’d been given and wondered when the Holy Father would accede to his request for a personal meeting. He’d taken five days to reach Rome, passing through countless German checkpoints with the help of a friendly – and very anti-German – Italian priest, but, once he’d explained his mission, the Vatican had given him the rooms, and left him to cool his heels for five days.

At least they took the material, Father O’Reilly thought, and wondered if it had been a bad idea to bring it. Pope Pius didn’t have the best of reputations; history had judged him as the man who could have averted the Holocaust with a word, and he’d done almost nothing. Absently, he tapped the sophisticated communications system he’d brought with him; he was still in communication with the Emergency Catholic Council in Britain. It had taken nearly a week for some of the implications to sink in – and, unlike the Muslims, we lacked an up-and-coming young man willing to beard the lion in his den, he thought sourly.

The basic problem facing the Emergency Catholic Council had been simple. Quite apart from the basic questions of original sins that had never been committed by a person alive in 1940, there were questions of Church doctrine at stake. The good news about the Transition, as Shahan McLachlan had discovered, was that it put more bums on pews. The bad news was that differences between the 1940 Church and the 2015 Church were pronounced – and Father O’Reilly was from a very different Church. Indeed, one suggestion – from a Protestant – was that the entire 2015 Church would be excommunicated at once the very moment the Pope heard what had happened.

Father O’Reilly shook his head and wandered over to the windows. The hand of Germany was light upon most of Rome, but the Vatican was always guarded by a group of SS troopers. How would they react to the news of thousands of scandals in the Church’s later history? What would the population of Europe say to the abusive priests? Would the Church survive the loss of a large portion of its believers?

Like many other religious people, Father O’Reilly had confronted inner demons and doubts, emerging stronger than he had been before. That was an individual action, however; how would Pius react to the news of the future changes in the Church? No one in the Vatican had ever heard of the Vatican II rulings, let alone the Vatican III declaration of 2010. In Britain – and to a far greater extent in the future America – Mass was no longer given in Latin, and there were subtle differences in many other aspects. Vatican III, furthermore, had authorised the use of contraceptives, passed under the force of many non-governmental organisations demanding change in Africa.

And, of course, many people considered the Pope an irrelevance, at best.

Father O’Reilly understood, as well as anyone could, the stakes involved for the Church. The Pope could declare Vatican II and Vatican III to be hearsay, threatening anyone who refused to return to the old ways with excommunication. The result, Father O’Reilly suspected, would be a sudden and alarming drop in Church attendance, and perhaps even a demand for independence from the Pope.

How the Protestants would laugh, Father O’Reilly thought bitterly. The Emergency Catholic Council had been divided; a number had wanted to stick to the new-old ways, others had been certain that Pius would see the logic of their case, and still others thought that Pius should be removed at once as a threat to the Church. Finally, they’d agreed to send a representative to Rome, and to wait. For the moment, Priests were ordered to stay with the 2015 version – and wait for Pius to have his say.

A door opened soundlessly behind him; a white-haired man dressed in the garments of a priest stepped through. When he spoke, he spoke in a German accent; a priest on the run from the Gestapo perhaps. Father O’Reilly knew that a number of refugees had been given sanctuary in the Vatican, before the Germans sealed it off.

“The Holy Father will see you now,” he said finally. Father O’Reilly took a deep breath and followed him, walking into the private audience chamber. Pope Pius XII, former Cardinal Eugenio Pacelli, stood there, waiting for him.

“Greetings in Christ,” he said, as Father O’Reilly knelt to kiss his ring. He’d met Pope John before the Transition; he could not help, but think that Pius cut a far less impressive picture. “You have brought us a fascinating puzzle.”

“I wish I could claim that I understood what had happened,” Father O’Reilly said, taking the preferred seat. A private meeting was more than he had dared hope for. “You see that there are many issues at hand.”

“The authority of the Church must remain unquestioned,” Pius said, and Father O’Reilly felt his heart sink. “You must understand that the Pope is Christ’s vicar on Earth.”

Father O’Reilly found himself lost for words. With a silent prayer, he pressed on. “Holy Father, we have a serious question of dogma,” he said grimly. “As you may have observed in the documents we brought, the power and authority of the Church has been much reduced.”

“I read the documents,” Pius said. Father O’Reilly was reminded uncomfortably of a schoolmaster. “Part of the problem seems to have been concessions made by my… successors, on ill-judged issues.”

Father O’Reilly scowled. “I believe the problem began when the Vatican failed to act against the destruction of the Jews, Holy Father,” he said. “You were willing to work with Hitler and…”

“Had we failed to agree to strict terms of conduct, and to have our authority over Church matters stated clearly, we would be in a far worse position,” Pius said. “Hitler may be bad, but Stalin is hell incarnate.”

“Hitler has begun… exterminating the Poles, many of whom are Catholics,” Father O’Reilly said. “Holy Father, the most famous pope of recent years my have been killed before even being born!”

“We cannot proceed on the assumption that a soul is already damned or saved,” Pius said. “We have the assurance that that, at least, is a mortal sin. The events in Ireland are deeply distressing.”

“With all due respect, the Irish are reacting to the news of horrors that will be committed, either in secret now, or in the future,” Father O’Reilly said softly. “Holy Father, are you going to act to prevent the genocide?”

“The preservation of the Church’s authority is paramount,” Pius said. “If we take an open stand against Hitler, we will face destruction. Hitler has… crossed the lines of his Reichskonkordat already; how much more will he do if we provoke him? We have a duty to minister to the members of the Church, which we cannot do if Hitler prevents us from operating…”

“Some of your members are being massacred,” Father O’Reilly snapped. “The Reichskonkordat tells Hitler that you will support him!” He knew that it was an exaggeration, legally speaking, but Hitler considered it as such. “Hitler has already begun to weaken you still further; you know how much of your power has been removed, and priests have been thrown in jail…”

“Something that your information has aided,” Pius said. “We have formally protested to Prime Minister De Valera.”

“Did Hitler himself not say that ‘The Third Reich does not desire a modus vivendi with the Catholic Church, but rather its destruction with lies and dishonour, in order to make room for a German Church in which the German race will be glorified?’” Father O’Reilly asked. “Holy Father, the Church must confront the evil openly and wholeheartedly…”

“We cannot,” Pius said. “We are vulnerable here; the Germans will intervene and burn the Holy See to the ground if we oppose them openly.”

Father O’Reilly felt dismay and a cold sense of resolution. “Holy Father, have you no faith in your lord?”

“You overstep yourself,” Pius snapped, showing the first trace of anger. “I have to preserve the Church itself for the ages, something my successors clearly failed to do. By making concessions to demands, they fatally weakened the Church’s authority.”

It was on the tip of Father O’Reilly’s tongue to expose the hypocrisy. He held himself back, barely, from bursting out with anger. “I cannot make the same mistakes, again,” Pius said. “I must issue a formal dogmatic definition, one ordering the Catholics on Britain and Ireland to return to the… standard conventions of this time, and to crease persecuting priests…”

“If you had been more careful in your supervision of the priests, there would have been no scandal,” Father O’Reilly snapped. “The Church resisted the temptation to confront evil until it was almost too late…”

“The Church is the supreme arbiter of who serves it or not,” Pius said, gently, as if he wasn’t inclined to argue at all. “As thou well knowst, my son.”

“I know no such thing,” Father O’Reilly said sadly. “Holy Father…”

“You will take my decision, made with the authority vested in me, back to Britain,” Pius said. “The Vatican Council will review the history texts you brought with you; they will recommend further steps to avoid the disasters we would have suffered. Your arrival may be a gift from God, a way to correct mistakes before they were ever made.”

As soon as he had been dismissed, Father O’Reilly made his way back to his apartment. He felt dreadfully cold inside; the Pope refused to recognise the seriousness of the situation. He didn’t know why it had been a surprise, or why it hurt so much; historically the Church had been unwilling to recognise problems until it had been – almost – too late. The attempt to exterminate the Jews, the certainty of destruction at the hands of Stalin and his communist state – although no one knew in what respect it was a union, soviet, socialist or a republic, the growing number of exposed paedophilic priests… the Church had staggered from disaster to disaster, often refusing to admit that a problem existed.

“God help me,” he said aloud, and lay on the bed. He prayed silently, wishing that he had someone else to take the burden from him. Pius had promised transport back to Britain, but Father O’Reilly rather expected that the Germans would object, or try to slip an agent in with the Papal mission. The promise of a direct representative didn’t bode well; Pius clearly wanted to supervise proceedings directly.

“Perhaps the money-changers are really within the temple after all,” he said. Intellectually, he could sympathise with the Pope’s problems, the need to walk a fine line between doing what was right and doing what was expedient, but the world needed better. Catholicism deserved better. The Pope had a duty to the Poles, to the thousands of millions threatened by the Germans, and he had no right to shirk that duty.

Grimly, before his memory faded, he went back to his laptop and typed up a full account of the meeting. The Emergency Catholic Council would have to know what had happened here, before the Pope’s representative could arrive. They had to decide what to do, before Pius could force the issue.

Undisclosed Location

Berlin, Germany

12^th September 1940

“Come with us,” the SS guard snapped. Professor Horton kissed Jasmine once, then rose and followed the two guards. Despite his aging body and limited stamina, they insisted on treating him as if he was armed and dangerous; a Mauser was pointed at his chest at all times. Feeling nervous, he followed the guards through the corridors of the massive underground complex, wondering if he’d be allowed out this time. He hadn’t seen the light of day for a long time; he’d lost track of time underground. The primitive lights, always glowing a steady bright glow, burned away, hurting his head. The painkillers the Germans had supplied really didn’t help much; he’d run out of the ones salvaged from the crashed plane.

“In here,” the guard said, and waved him into an office. Horton looked inside and found himself looking into the eyes of Reichsführer-SS Heinrich Himmler. He flinched back; he could have sworn he saw the glinting of a snake’s eyes behind the little pair of spectacles.

“A very good evening to you, Professor Horton,” Himmler said cheerfully. “I need your information again, I fear.”

The warm tone only chilled Horton more. Himmler had worked away on his memories until he’d built up a reasonably clear picture of his own future. Whatever his strange beliefs in supernatural entities – which had allowed him to come to grips with the situation far quicker than Horton would have preferred – he was also a careful and intelligent person.

“General Franco has finally, under heavy pressure, agreed to join us,” Himmler said calmly, as always. “What are his chances of taking Gibraltar, with or without our help?”

Horton considered. The presence of him alone altered history, placing him inside the event sequence and rendering his knowledge of less use in an active setting than putting words to paper. The presence of all of Britain, as incredible as that sounded, altered events beyond recognition; Himmler had allowed him to read the classified Luffwaffe and Wehrmacht reports that proved that history had been altered beyond recognition.

“I imagine that he could shut the fortress down,” Horton said finally. “The Rock’s main vulnerability was always in its food and water supply; if the sea lanes can be closed down by shelling and the water cisterns can be broken open, then the Governor would have the choice of surrendering or dying of thirst.” He shrugged. “I’m no tactical expert, but I think that a frontal attack would be very dangerous.”

“So the Wehrmacht insists,” Himmler said. “They are obedient to the Fuhrer, of course, and he has ordered the Rock to be taken, but they have warned that losses will be severe. Fortunately, the priority is to shut the place down, rather than take it intact.” Himmler smiled softly; the expression was chilling. “How will Franco’s position be affected by this?”

Horton shivered. He knew a great deal about the events leading up to World War Two, but British historians hadn’t concentrated much on post-civil war Spain. He knew enough, he hoped, to satisfy Himmler, but what if he was wrong?

“If I recall correctly,” he said finally, “Franco possessed no power base equivalent to Hitler, Stalin or Mussolini’s. In fact…”

“The fat spaghetti-eater’s power base deserted him rather quickly,” Himmler observed. “Do carry on.”

“Franco holds his position by virtue of playing the forces of Army, Church and… upper classes against one another,” Horton said, hoping to God that he remembered correctly. “If the balance is tilted in one direction, it could unbalance Spain and start a second civil war.”

“How interesting,” Himmler said. “Carry on.”

Horton winced. “If Spain takes possession of Gibraltar,” he said, “they will probably be quite pleased about it, and it will give Franco a boost, particularly if there are no other demands on them. If the attack is a bloody failure, he won’t be boosted, and if he appears to be under your control, he will be treated the same way as Napoleon’s puppet king.”

“We have no intention of dispatching major Wehrmacht units to Spain,” Himmler assured him. “The priority is to close the sea lanes, nothing else.” He smiled at Horton. “Now, what about the Turks?”

“I don’t think that they will cooperate,” Horton said. Himmler lifted an eyebrow. “You’re working with the Russians,” Horton said, “and they fear and hate the Russians. They would probably be delighted to be able to lay claim to parts of Iraq, but they would be very reluctant to get involved – hell, they were very reluctant – to get involved with Britain. Given the chaos in Syria, they would be worried about problems coming from that region.”

Himmler nodded slowly, unpleasantly. French-controlled Syria had not been attacked by the British, but its government had collapsed anyway under a revolution by some army officials who believed that the only way to avoid Syria being given to its own people was to throw out the German-dominated Vichy French government. In the many-sided fighting the state had collapsed into anarchy.

“As always, you give good advice,” Himmler said. “Tell me, why would a news reporter wish to interview the Fuhrer?”

Horton blinked. “A news reporter wishes to interview the Fuhrer?”

“Yes,” Himmler said. “She has requested permission to visit Berlin to conduct such an interview, with a view to remaining in Berlin as a correspondent, along with the handful of American reporters who remain in the city.”

“I wonder if William Shirer is still here,” Horton said, without thinking.

“The American reporter?” Himmler purred. “How did he enter the history books?”

“He wrote a book on Germany after the war,” Horton said, choosing his words carefully. “I never read it; it wasn’t considered very… ah, accurate, and was considered too pro-Nazi.”

Himmler smiled. Horton realised that his careful lie had pleased Himmler. “Perhaps we’ll find a role for him,” he said. “However, what about the reporter?”

“I expect that the stupid girl thinks that you will extend the same respect to reporters that all the little tyrants will in the future,” Horton said. “The reports from the reporters can influence policy.”

“Oh?” Himmler asked. “Elaborate.”

Horton winced. “In the Gulf War, there was an accident that hit a market place and killed a lot of citizens,” he said. “The bombing program was suspended and it was restricted in the future for the end of the war. Since then, all targets were chosen to avoid civilian casualties.”

Himmler smiled. “I had wondered why the dams hadn’t been struck,” he said. “They certainly could smash them down, but the cost to civilian life would be awesome.” He leered; it was an alarming expression. “We could move the concentration camps to under the dams or near high-value targets, and dare them to fire.

“So, what about the reporter?”

Horton realised that Himmler would not be distracted. “She will come into Berlin and demand an interview,” he said. “Whatever she records will be broadcast back to Britain and shown to everyone with a TV set.”

Himmler considered it. “How interesting,” he said. “Now, I have one final piece of information for you.” He leered again. “As you know, your existence within the bunker has been watched.”

“Yes,” Horton said, with a sinking feeling.

“The assistant matron, Irma Grese, brought it to my attention,” Himmler said. Horton shuddered; the sixteen-year-old girl combined a devotion to Nazism with a devotion to the Bund Deutscher Mädel, the League of German Girls. The name had sounded familiar, but it had taken a week to remember where he’d heard it. Irma Grese had, or would have, been an Oberaufseherin at Auschwitz. Himmler, he suspected, had combed the files for loyal people and snapped them up earlier.

I knew there was a reason why Jasmine doesn’t like her, he thought, even though Irma had taken good care of the children.

“Your wife… ah, has not had her… ah, period for two months,” Himmler said. Horton realised with a sudden flicker of amusement, and then cold horror, that Himmler was actually blushing. “You know what that means?”

Horton felt his blood run cold, but he pasted a smile on his face. “I’m going to be a father again,” he said, and knew that Himmler now had another hold on him.