“Isn’t it?” He grinned. “It’s been brewed here to the same recipe for hundreds of years. Perhaps that’s why many of us stay.”

His voice was quiet and he was well-spoken, which made me think I might have misheard him when, after I finished eating, he explained that the monastery—and, in particular, the St. Raphael Community that was based there—had been helping German Catholic émigrés since 1871, and that many of these had been non-Aryan Catholics.

“Did you say ‘non-Aryan Catholics’?”

He nodded.

“Is that just a fancy Church term for an Italian?” I asked.

“No, no. That’s what we used to call the Jews we helped. Many of them became Catholics, of course. But some others we just called Catholics in order to persuade countries like Brazil and Argentina to take them.”

“Wasn’t that rather dangerous?” I said.

“Oh yes. Very. The Gestapo in Kempten had us under surveillance for almost a decade. One of our brethren even died in a concentration camp for helping Jews.”

I wondered if the irony of his helping Eric Gruen, the vilest of war criminals, was apparent to him. I soon learned that it was.

“It is the will of God that the Saint Raphael Community should help those who once organized its persecution,” he said. “Besides, it’s a different enemy now, but one no less dangerous. An enemy that regards religion as an opiate poisoning the minds of people.”

But none of this was as surprising as what was to follow.

I was to be accommodated not in the cloister, with the rest of the monks, but in the infirmary, where, Father Bandolini assured me, I would be much more comfortable. “For one thing,” he said, leading me across the huge quadrangle, “it’s a lot warmer there. Fires are permitted in the rooms. There are comfortable armchairs and the bathroom facilities are superior to anything in the cloister. Your meals will be brought to you, but you’re free to join us for Mass in the basilica. And let me know if you seek absolution. I’ll send a priest to you.” He opened a heavy wooden door and led me through a chapter house into the infirmary. “You won’t be on your own,” he added. “We have two other guests staying with us at the moment. Gentlemen like yourself. They’ll probably show you the ropes. Both of them are waiting to emigrate to South America. I’ll introduce you. But don’t worry. We don’t encourage the use of old names here, for obvious reasons. If you don’t mind I’ll use your new name. The name that will be in your passport when eventually it arrives from Vienna.”

“How long does that usually take?” I asked him.