Hide and Seek: The Irish Priest in the Vatican who Defied the Nazi Command. The dramatic true story of rivalry and survival during WWII.. Stephen Walker
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questioning. But luck was on the side of the students, because as they were being taken into the barracks a passer-by had spotted that they were from Mungret. The dean of the college was alerted, he contacted the police station to substantiate his students’ story, and they were released. For the young O’Flaherty the episode was another reminder of why he opposed British rule in Ireland. In the college journal he wrote of the affair in the understated manner which would become his trademark during his days in Rome. He recorded that some boys had ‘gone off to Limerick for the day’ and added coyly that ‘some had exciting experiences, arrests, escapes, etc’. As 1921 drew to a close and Ireland faced an uncertain future, Hugh O’Flaherty’s life became a little clearer. The young student heard that he was to be sent to Rome to continue his theological studies.
‘I don’t think there is anything to choose
between Britain and Germany’ Hugh O’Flaherty
On a fairway at Rome Golf Club, the Japanese Ambassador could only watch with amazement and a little envy as his opponent’s ball arced high and long and then landed close to the green. The tee-off was textbook. It was perfect, a wonderful drive that set up the second shot beautifully. It was 1928 and this was the diplomat’s farewell game, a last chance to enjoy eighteen holes in the company of friends before returning to Tokyo. And it was not going according to plan. He was playing a man who had a lifetime of practice that had begun on the greens of Killarney. It was a rather one-sided contest. The monsignor was in fine form and clearly relishing the day a little more than his playing partner.
At the picturesque club, sited on grassland outside Rome, Hugh O’Flaherty’s golfing skills were often the topic of conversation. To some the gifted player seemed unconventional. He didn’t dress like a golfer, sometimes wearing grey trousers and a favourite orange jumper, and his unusual grip was frequently the butt of jokes. ‘Why don’t you hold the club like any other human being?’ one player teased him, remarking that the monsignor seemed to grip the golf club rather like the stick used in hurling, a sport favoured by O’Flaherty’s countrymen.
The priest was very capable of taking the banter and shot back a detailed reply. ‘For the correct grip in hurling, the left hand is held below the right. I am holding my golf club just the opposite, my right hand is below the left,’ he explained with a smile on his face to all those present.
The technicalities were probably lost on his opponents but his ability to play and win the game wasn’t. His continued success on the greens meant that he had to concede a couple of shots to less able players. The par for the course was seventy-one and O’Flaherty regularly came close to that.
His fellow players also wondered how a busy priest weighed down with church duties had time to play golf. For O’Flaherty it was an opportunity to relax and forget the cares and worries of the job. He told a friend that there was ‘nothing like golf for knocking all the troubles of this poor world out of your mind’.
Even though he loved the game, there were times when the distance he had to travel and the price of playing seemed too high. In a letter home he wrote, ‘The links are far from the city and, besides, to be a member one must know how to rob a bank and keep what is robbed.’ Despite his reservations about spending hours driving, chipping and putting, there were other benefits to his favourite pastime. The club had a very influential membership and O’Flaherty began meeting many leading members of Roman society – including royalty, aristocrats, diplomats and politicians – who would prove useful to his escape network.
Those who regularly played the course included Count Galeazzo Ciano, who was married to Mussolini’s daughter Edda. Ciano was the Italian Foreign Minister and O’Flaherty is credited with teaching him the finer points of the game. Another regular player at the club was the former King of Spain, Alfonso.
It was on the golf course that the monsignor was introduced to Sir D’Arcy Osborne. Like O’Flaherty, the British diplomat loved nothing more than taking the Italian air with his clubs on his back. The game was part of Osborne’s life; so much so that he often used golfing references in his correspondence. Exasperated by the intransigence of a position taken by the powerful of the Vatican, he once wrote that trying to get them to change their mind was like ‘trying to sink a long putt using a live eel as a putter’.
With a direct line to the Papacy, Osborne was one of the most influential people in Rome. He was the image of the English gentleman: well-mannered, charming and courteous. A bachelor, he was tall and slim and always immaculately dressed. As a career diplomat he was highly regarded in London and as a cousin of the Duke of Leeds he was well connected and counted the Duke and Duchess of York as friends.
Osborne had a deep affection for Italy, a country he had first visited at the turn of the century, when he had been won over by the people and the scenery. He joined the diplomatic service and after postings in Washington, Lisbon and The Hague he became Britain’s Minister to the Holy See in 1936. He spoke Italian and French and loved art, expensive shoes and fine wine. Like all those who occupied the position of ambassador to the Vatican, he was a Protestant, in case there was a conflict of loyalties. Given O’Flaherty’s Irish nationalist background and Osborne’s British establishment credentials, the pair were an unlikely match. Yet over time they became good friends and would meet both in the club house and at the Vatican.
In the early weeks of the Second World War Osborne’s knowledge and diplomatic skills were much in demand. There was a fevered debate about when Italy would enter the conflict and much concern in Vatican circles over how this would affect its protected status. As Britain’s representative to the Vatican, Osborne’s views were sought by the leaders of the Catholic Church and he was used to test ideas and opinions.
In the spring of 1939 a new resident was holding court in the Vatican’s Apostolic Palace. On 2 March Cardinal Eugenio Pacelli had become Pope on his sixty-third birthday. In one of the shortest conclaves in the Church’s history he was elected by sixty-two cardinals. The first Roman-born Pope in over 200 years, Pacelli took the name of Pius XII, in honour of his predecessor Pius XI.
The new Pontiff had had little time to settle into office when, on 15 March, the Germans entered Prague. Over the next few months papal envoys would become involved in shuttle diplomacy with Mussolini, Hitler and the Polish and French governments in a bid to avert war. The discussions did not succeed. On 1 September 1939 Hitler invaded Poland, and two days later Britain and France declared war on Germany.
In his office in Rome Kappler had begun to gather information from all over the city on both anti-fascists and under-cover agents he could employ. He was watching the new regime of Pius XII with particular interest as he wanted to recruit informers within the Vatican. But, before he could make much progress, he was instructed to return to Germany.
Two incidents had occurred, just hours apart, which would focus attention on Hitler’s leadership; events which required the skills of Herbert Kappler. These two investigations would not only enhance the police attaché’s reputation but bring him into direct contact with the Führer. When Kappler arrived in Berlin there was only one story occupying the minds of the Nazi leadership. Days earlier, in a Munich beer hall, Hitler had acknowledged the adoring crowds as he stood in front of a swastika-draped stage. Hundreds of supporters had come to hear the Führer speak at an annual get-together for the Nazi Party’s old guard. At 9.07 p.m. he finished his speech, earlier than planned, and left the building. Hitler had planned to fly back to Berlin, but poor weather made this impossible and he was taken to the railway station instead.
The decision to change his travel plans saved Hitler’s life. At 9.20 p.m. a bomb, hidden in a pillar close to where he had been speaking, exploded. The ceiling and balcony collapsed, killing eight people and injuring many others.
As Hitler made his way back to Berlin, German police held in custody a 36-year-old carpenter from Württemberg who had been arrested as he tried to leave the country and enter Switzerland. Georg Elser had travelled by train from Munich and had been spotted trying to cross over at the border town of Konstanz. A trade unionist and an opponent of Nazism, he had first gone to Munich