The night was cold and the streets of Rome were empty. Monsignor Hugh O’Flaherty stood at the back door of the Vatican, wearing a plain black coat instead of his priest’s robes. In front of him were eight frightened Jewish children and their mother.
“Quickly now, and no talking,” he whispered, his Irish accent cutting through the darkness.
He led them through back alleys and hidden passages he had learned by heart. Every few minutes he stopped, listening for German boots. When he heard a patrol coming, he pushed the family into a doorway and stood in front of them like a shield, pretending to read his prayer book until the soldiers passed.
Finally they reached a small convent. The nuns were waiting. As the mother stepped inside with tears in her eyes, she turned to O’Flaherty and whispered, “Why are you risking your life for us?”
The priest smiled gently. “Because you’re God’s children, same as me. And tonight, that’s all that matters.”
He gave the youngest girl a little wink, closed the convent door, and disappeared back into the shadows to fetch the next family.
