Monsignor O'Flaherty
Enemies.
On July 19, 1943, the Allies bombed Rome. The Italian Fascist administration crumbled, and Mussolini was arrested. By September 8, surrender to the Allies had been arranged. Prisoners-of-war began to pour out of the now unguarded camps, and head in droves to Rome. But their hopes were premature. Between September 11th and 23rd, the Germans occupied Rome, rescued Mussolini, and set up a military government. The danger was greater than ever. And there were two men in particular to be very frightened of.One was Herbert Kappler. Born in Stuttgart, Germany, he had risen to the rank of Colonel in the SS, and was now appointed chief of the Gestapo in Rome. One of his first acts was to demand a ransom of two million pounds of gold from the Jews of Rome – if it was not paid, they would be deported to Germany. With the help of many Italians, the amount was raised. But the deportation went ahead anyway, supervised by Kappler. Some 1,000 Jews were sent to Auschwitz. About 16 survived.
Later in the war, Communist resistance fighters set off a bomb that killed 32 German soldiers. In retaliation, Kappler chose ten Italians for every German killed, marched them to the Ardeatine Caves at Domitilla, and machine-gunned them down. When the killing was finished, the entrances to the caves were blown up, sealing the victims, whether dead or wounded, behind tons of rock.
Then there was Ludwig Koch. An Austrian by birth, he was head of interrogation for the Italian Fascists and the Gestapo, and was known as “an acknowledged master of tortures both crude and refined.” Gallagher describes a few of Koch’s methods: sometimes he would strap the subject into a leather belt studded with narrow steel spikes, and slowly tighten it. Another trick was to systematically file to the subject’s teeth down to the sensitive roots. Undeniably a sadist, Koch liked to supervise SS torture sessions and was probably the most hated person in Rome.
Friends.
These, then, were the men that O’Flaherty had to defy if he wanted to stand for humanity in the face of horror. And the numbers of those in danger was rising daily. O’Flaherty decided to ask for help. The first person he approached, although a logical choice, was not someone O’Flaherty would normally befriend: Sir Francis Godolphin D’Arcy Osborne, English gentleman, cousin to the Duke of Leeds, and British Minister to the Holy See. Since most of the escaped POWs were British, O’Flaherty assumed that Sir D’Arcy would want to do something. The Minister thought the whole situation was “acutely embarrassing for H.M. Government,” but unfortunately he could not risk compromising the Vatican’s neutrality. Seeing that O’Flaherty’s Irish blood was close to boiling after this speech, D’Arcy suggested the priest have a “quiet chat” with the Minister’s butler: a small, inscrutable Cockney named John May. “I don’t want to know any details,” said the Minister, “but I have a good idea he can help you!”
John May, O’Flaherty would later say, was a special kind of genius. His gift was for finding things that weren’t supposed to exist. Did they need to buy shoes or clothes for the escapers, without any questions asked? Did they need more food than wartime rationing allowed? John May could get it. Like O’Flaherty, May had friends everywhere, particularly in the Black Market. Numerous useful people owed him favors. As shrewd and careful as O’Flaherty was large-hearted and innocent, John May proved to be the perfect counterpart to the Monsignor. Also involved was Count Sarsfield Salazar of the Swiss Legation, very helpful in procuring neutral Swiss identity papers and oiling diplomatic wheels. Sir D’Arcy quietly supplied money. With these men aiding O’Flaherty, the rescue effort started to take on the appearance of an organization.