The Street Had No Name

Chapter 31

THE BASQUE LANDS, 1942

The day wore on. Neither said much and it was as the day before. The goings on above; those of a village church in a devout pocket of humanity that were aware it was the 20th century but couldn’t really be bothered about it one way or the other.

The old priest had brought them their lunch and had spoken with them for a few minutes. Bidderman had remarked that he really should stay upstairs as a member of the congregation could come looking for him at any time and that it would not do him any good to be found with them if it all went bad.

The old man just smiled and dismissed him with a wave of his hand and in French replied that they knew him well enough now after almost 40 years in this village. This was his time alone. He smiled then and said that he had just chosen to spend it with the pair of them.

They spoke in silent whispers and Benelli told the old man of their flight from France and admitted Bidderman’s true person. He said nothing of The Scroll of course, for it was just not necessary for this good and kind old man to be weighed down with it would serve no useful purpose.

“These blasted fascists are everywhere and no one is beyond the grinding of the heal of their jackboot.” The old man said. “I have heard a little of the treatment the sons’ of David are getting; it is not of God and, as such, you and any of your kind are welcome in,” he paused for a moment and with the slightest of smiles continued “this God’s house.”

Bidderman knew he would like this man given the time to get to know him. Right now though, he had no time and trying to manufacture some would serve no useful purpose so the Rabbi just smiled and nodded his appreciation of his sentiment.

Benelli continued, explaining to the old priest that they had requested assistance and soon someone would come to remove them.

“Gazte Alfredo,” the priest replied using the honorific young which was obviously a carry-over from their time before, “we have been this road before you and I. So be it. Stay, go; as you please,” he turned to Bidderman and continued “just do it safely.”

Later, as the afternoon shadows lengthened and the noises above subsided Bidderman asked of the Monk’s relationship with the old priest.

“Father Alberro helped me in the past Rab. When I was a very young man and being pursued in much the way we are now.” Bidderman keened that he was talking about the time Benelli had last ran from The Order, the time the young man had broken away.

“I was sixteen, afraid and alone.”

“Tell me Alfredo,” Bidderman stopped himself, looked at the young man who he had decided that he was going to trust completely, in fact the decision was not based on high moral grounds, it was just that he was too tired not to; and continued with a correction “Ludwig; what made you decide?”

“What; to leave?” then Monk completed the sentence.

“Yes, well that and that The Order was not the way you wished to go. I believe that they are two completely different things. You could decide about The Order but you needed help to leave surely?”

“Deciding about The Order was something I had done at a very early age. I did not feel what my father felt. My heart just wasn’t in it. I tried but couldn’t do it. I was trained to it from my first memories but never felt it was my destiny.” He stood and stretched and moved closer to the Rabbi, proof that this answer needed more talk and, in the basement of the church with people above, this needed to be done conspiratorially.

“I managed to hide this from everyone. After all, they did not consider I would ever disavow my birth right so they never looked. My younger brother Klaus was a different matter.” The Monk sat back against the wall and Bidderman took this as a cue to settle in also.