***
The shrill sound of the whistle echoed twice, a chilling signal that sliced through the frigid night air like a knife. The gate guard, an imposing figure silhouetted against the harsh glare of floodlights, gave the Wehrmacht truck driver a stern nod, granting him permission to depart from the grim confines of the death camp. With a sudden lurch, the truck roared to life, its heavy wheels crunching gravel as it trudged through the camp’s imposing double gates into the night. The truck was destined to return in a month’s time, its cargo of pleasure providing a fleeting distraction for the guards once again. But when it did return, one woman would be conspicuously absent.
Hannah, her body curled into a protective hunch, kept her head buried in her knees, her tears falling silently onto the rough canvas floor of the truck. Hers were tears of relief, of joy, of the overwhelming realization she was finally escaping the specter of extermination. Freedom, a concept long so distant and elusive she had almost forgotten what it was, was now within her grasp.
The young woman beside her shifted closer, her hand gently stroking Hannah’s hair in a comforting gesture. Despite their circumstances, this call-girl found a well of compassion swelling up within her for the young escapee. Now that the women were all safely beyond the camp’s barbed-and-razor-wired fences, headed back to the relative safety of the brothel, a sense of relief had washed over them. Tonight, no one else would die—except for the unfortunate young woman whose fate had already been sealed thanks to her bearing a striking resemblance to Hannah.
Chapter 54
9 August 1941
Castel Gandolfo, Italy
Nestled just south of Rome, an enchanting hamlet lay perched on the edge of the serene Lake Albano. Cradled within the lush grassy embrace of the Alban Hills, the majestic Apostolic Palace of Castel Gandolfo had served as a tranquil sanctuary for the pope for centuries. This sprawling estate, spanning a breathtaking one hundred thirty-five acres, boasted a grand seventeenth-century villa as its crown jewel—the papal palace. A symbol of divine opulence, it had come into the papacy’s possession in 1596, a result of the previous owners’ unfortunate inability to settle their debts with the Vatican. As pope, Eugenio Pacelli often sought solace in Castel Gandolfo’s splendid seclusion, basking in the splendor of the magnificent summer retreat.
In the palace’s bustling kitchen, a trio of dedicated staff were meticulously crafting the pope’s meal, their hands deftly moving with practiced ease. The newest addition to the team, a young woman with a spark of determination in her eyes, had proven her culinary competency, and today had been granted the honor of delivering the pope’s lunch.
Meanwhile, in the solitude of his private quarters, Pacelli sat in tranquil meditation, patiently awaiting his midday meal. His lunch was to be a study in simplicity and elegance: a vibrant Caprese salad, featuring heirloom tomatoes, fresh basil, and creamy mozzarella, accompanied by crusty ciabatta bread, a drizzle of locally sourced olive oil, and a glass of rich, full-bodied Chianti. This was his preferred meal, a humble yet satisfying feast that reflected his modest tastes.
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.
