A soft summer breeze danced through the curtains, whispering the tale of a door that had been gently pushed open. Pacelli, nestled in his chair, sat with his eyes closed, lost in silent prayer as the staff member delicately positioned the plate laden with the local harvest’s succulent bounty before him. He counted the rhythmic ticking of the clock, anticipating the thirty seconds or so it would take to hear the sound of the door closing, signaling the staff member’s departure from his presence. With his eyes still veiled, he drew in a deep breath, savoring the vibrant aroma of basil and tomato intertwining with the robust scent of the Chianti wine. He waited with saintly patience, ready to relish his meal in solitude once the staff made their discreet exit.
The tantalizing fragrances given off by his humble feast were practically intoxicating, pulling him into a trancelike state. Pacelli, absorbed by the heavenly bouquet, took some time before he finally noticed the customary creak of the door signaling the departure of his staff had not come.
A chilling sense of being observed crept over him. The pope opened his eyes and gazed at the entry door; there he found the staff member staring back at him apprehensively, disregarding all established protocols.
Suppressing his irritation at this blatant disregard for his privacy, he growled, “You must be new.”
“I am, Your Holiness.”
“Did your supervisor neglect to inform you about the specific demands I have regarding the delivery of my meals?”
“He did, Your Holiness,” the striking young woman replied, her figure accentuated by the snug fit of her waitstaff uniform.
“Then why are we engaging in this conversation? Please leave.” Pope Pius XII concluded his directive by reaching for the goblet of Chianti to cleanse his palate before indulging in his meal. As he lifted the cup to his lips, savoring the scent of tannins, he realized he still didn’t hear the expected sound of the door opening and closing.
“Woman, what is your purpose here?”
“I need to speak with you, Your Holiness.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Hannah Goldstein. I escaped from a Nazi extermination camp. You are my last resort to save my parents.”
“You escaped from an extermination camp?” The pope found his initial annoyance replaced by a spark of interest.
“I switched places with a prostitute brought to camp to entertain the Nazi soldiers,” Hannah confessed, tugging at the hem of her skirt that was a size too small. Having infiltrated the palace, she’d had to make do with whatever uniform she could find to secure an audience with the pope.
“Come closer, my child,” Pius XII beckoned, wanting the young woman to approach so he could get a better look at her.
Hannah moved closer to his dining table. “I’m very sorry to interrupt your meal. I understand this is a sacred time for you, but I am desperate.”
“What is it you believe I can do for you?”
“My parents are still prisoners in the concentration camp. They were still alive when I escaped. I’m hoping you could use your influence to secure their release. They have substantial wealth and property that could be used to help grease the negotiations.”
The pope reclined in his chair, his gaze cool and calculating as he assessed this girl and the intriguing mention of her family’s property and wealth. He maintained a strategic silence, his mind whirring as he evaluated the situation. Hannah had demonstrated cunning in her escape from a Nazi concentration camp and in securing an audience with him. He knew he could turn her apparent desperation to his advantage.
“And what lengths would you . . . go to, to secure your parents’ release?” he asked, his voice a low murmur.
“I would do anything to get my parents back, Your Holiness,” she replied, her voice trembling with determination.
He remained silent, contemplating Hannah’s complete surrender to whatever he desired. Gazing her body up and down, he appreciated the way she fit inside the tighter-than-normal uniform. She was a very attractive young lady, likely no more than twenty years old. She could prove a very satisfying delicacy for his sexual desires.
“Remove that uniform. It doesn’t suit you.”
The command hung in the air, heavy and unexpected. Hannah’s eyes widened, her gaze locked onto the Vicar of Jesus Christ, searching for any signs of jest. But the pope’s expression remained unyielding, his demand met only by silence.
With trembling fingers, Hannah began to unfasten her dress, the fabric whispering to the floor. Now clad only in her undergarments and black shoes, she stood vulnerable before the Supreme Pontiff.
“The rest.”
With a swift, deliberate motion, Hannah reached behind her and unclasped her bra, allowing it to tumble to the ground. She bent forward, her fingers deftly unbuckling her shoes. She stepped out of them, her bare feet making contact with the cold marble floor. With a final act of surrender, she slid her panties down, unveiling her slender alabaster body in its entirety.
“Stay there,” Pope Pius XII commanded as he rose and strode past Hannah towards the door. A glint of a key in the keyhole was followed by a loud metallic click that echoed ominously throughout the chamber. Turning around, his gaze fell upon the exquisite silhouette of the young woman standing bare in the room. She remained motionless. Her earlier words, ‘I would do anything to get my parents back, Your Holiness’, sounded in his mind like a haunting melody.
With a calculated stride, he bridged the gap between them, his hand descending gently to rest upon her shoulder. His touch was an unspoken command, steering her towards the luxurious couch nestled in the room’s farthest corner.
A shiver ran down Hannah’s spine at the icy touch, yet she complied with the silent directive. Pope Pius XII guided Hannah, bending her over the back of the couch, positioning her in a way that left her vulnerable to him. Lifting his cassock to reveal his arousal, he breached the boundary of this supplicant young woman.
Hannah was utterly devastated by this shocking twist of fate. She found it inconceivable that she was bartering her own flesh and blood to the Holy See.
Each individual has their own demons, she mused.
She tried to detach her mind from the sacrilegious act being committed by her Supreme Pontiff, who was now becoming increasingly forceful. Even the pope, she realized, was not immune to the carnal cravings of the human body. His breaths were becoming more labored now; Hannah’s thoughts shifted to the imminent liberation of her parents from the concentration camp. The thought of their reunion filled her with a sense of joy that was almost overwhelming. Her mind flooded with memories of a time not so long ago when the Nazi regime plunged Europe into chaos with their radical ideologies. She vividly recalled the heart-wrenching moment she’d been torn away from her parents upon entering the Treblinka extermination camp. She was herded with the other attractive females in one direction while her parents were led away to the labor camp.
Engulfed in her own mental fortress, distanced from physical reality, she barely heard the pope release his long guttural groan, a clear indication he had climaxed within her. She remained still, a statue frozen in time, until the Supreme Pontiff’s spasms subsided. Using her hips for support, he retreated from Hannah, his cassock falling back into place, concealing any trace of their illicit encounter.
Still bent over, her fingers white-knuckled as they gripped the back of the couch, Hannah remained statuelike, her mind racing with thoughts of what to do next. She dared to glance sideways, catching a glimpse of the pope in her peripheral vision. He stood there motionless, his gaze fixed on her.
“Turn around,” he commanded.
Summoning the strength to push away from the back of the couch, Hannah straightened, turning to face the pope. Overwhelmed by humiliation, she didn’t even attempt to shield her exposed body, instead locking her gaze with the man who had just violated her.
“You will ensure this matter remains our secret, my child.”
The words “my child” rolling off the Supreme Pontiff’s tongue broke her—a wave of revulsion swept through Hannah. After their encounter, she was far from the innocent girl she had once was. Driven by the desperate need to free her parents from their prison, she had been willing to do whatever it took. She just hadn’t anticipated it would come to this.
“Of course, Your . . . Holiness.”
“I will see what I can do to get your parents freed from prison,” Pius XII declared, then retreated to his table by the window to indulge in his meal.
Hannah swiftly comprehended that their clandestine rendezvous had reached its conclusion. She darted over to her discarded garments and dressed with a haste born of desperation. Tying off her ribbons, she snatched up her shoes and made a beeline for the door, eager to escape the pope’s private chambers. She turned the key and slipped out the door, praying she could avoid any unwanted encounters with the other staff of the castel.
The meal Hannah had brought was now a quarter of an hour past its prime. Pope Pius XII reached for the glass of Chianti, indulging in a customary sip before commencing his midday repast. As he gazed out at the serene expanse of Lake Albano, a sense of relaxation washed over him, a postcoital tranquility. A gentle breeze played with the sleeves of his cassock, and the pontiff found himself contemplating a leisurely siesta.
Chapter 55
21 August 1941
Castel Gandolfo, Italy
Hannah received a sealed letter from the hands of a palace servant, a missive from the pope himself. She held her breath, waiting until the servant had retreated from her room before she dared break the official wax seal. Her heart pounded with anticipation and dread for the news the missive might contain about her parents.
August 21, 1941
My beloved child Hannah,
It is with a heavy heart that I must relay to you the tragic news that your parents have perished in the Treblinka extermination camp. They were taken from this world before I could reach out to the camp Kommandant.
