During the Nazi occupation of Rome, a Catholic church in the Prati neighborhood became a secret refuge for people fleeing persecution. Hidden behind a brick wall in the church attic, as many as 35 people found shelter at San Gioacchino in Prati, where priests, religious sisters, and laypeople risked their lives to keep them safe.

While Pope Pius XII publicly upheld Vatican City’s neutrality, the Pope and the Vatican quietly encouraged Catholic institutions to shelter those fleeing Nazi persecution, including Jews, Allied prisoners of war, and political dissidents. Across Rome, churches became places of refuge. San Gioacchino was among them.

The forgotten story of this refuge came to light in 1984, when Redemptorist Father Ezio Marcelli discovered the hidden space and began piecing together the lives of those who had taken shelter there.

A secret refuge above the church

Over the course of the occupation, 35 people hid in the attic of San Gioacchino, although the number varied as some refugees were able to leave and others arrived. On an average day, approximately 10 to 15 people lived in the concealed space.

Father Marcelli explains that the operation was carefully organized by four people, led by engineer Pietro Lestini, who knew the church’s rooms and passageways.

“Because the Germans had decided to inspect churches and convents as well, he made the decision to hide them in the church attic,” Father Marcelli recalls.

Lestini worked with the parish priest, who was ultimately responsible for the operation, and his daughter, a student who helped manage correspondence with the refugees’ families. Sister Margherita Bernes, from the Institute of the Daughters of Charity across the street, also played an essential role.

“Above all, there was Sister Margherita Bernes […] She was the one who, in practice, managed to secure food and provisions for them throughout those eight months,” Father Marcelli explains.

Hidden behind a brick wall

Despite being 95 years old, Father Marcelli guides visitors through the church’s narrow stairways and corridors to the attic where the refugees once lived.

There, he points out the doorway that was deliberately sealed with bricks to conceal the hiding place.

“Here it is. This is the door that was walled up. The remains of that masonry are still visible. It has remained sealed ever since.”

The refugees had to disappear completely from view. Food supplies and waste were passed through a small round opening, and every movement had to take place at night.

“Everything had to be done at night, and great care was taken to ensure that moonlight did not illuminate the church façade,” Father Marcelli explains. Otherwise, the packages being hauled up and lowered down might have been seen.

The small opening was also essential for communication with the outside world. The refugees attached notes for relatives living in Rome and lowered them to the church floor.

“Through this opening, the refugees would attach notes for their relatives living in Rome and lower them down to the floor of the church,” Father Marcelli says.

Engineer Lestini would collect the messages and pass them to his daughter, who delivered them to the families and ensured that replies made their way back to those in hiding.

Art, letters, and life in hiding

When Father Marcelli uncovered the refuge in 1984, he also discovered traces of the lives that had unfolded behind the walls.

Three large charcoal drawings remained on the attic walls: Christ crowned with thorns, the Madonna and Child, and a man sitting with his head in his hands, believed to be a portrait of one of the refugees.

Although the drawings are unsigned, Father Marcelli believes they were almost certainly made by Luigi de Simone, one of the men who took refuge there. The archives also contained sketches bearing de Simone’s signature, offering a glimpse into the refugees’ daily lives.

Despite their isolation, the people hiding in the attic found ways to occupy their time.

“They were also able to receive newspapers, along with paper-based games such as crossword puzzles, playing cards, checkers, and chess,” Father Marcelli recounts.

Before long, they began creating their own stories, writing plays, and composing poems, leaving behind a record of their lives in hiding.

A refuge that saved lives

Among those who hid at San Gioacchino was Poldo Moscati, who was approximately 15 years old at the time.

Father Marcelli later tracked him down after discovering the forgotten story and arranged for him to return to the church with his daughter, 40 years after Rome’s liberation.

“This is Poldo Moscati at the age he was confined here. He was about 15 years old at the time. And this is the same Poldo Moscati 40 years later,” Father Marcelli explains.

But returning to the place where he had spent those months in hiding was too emotional for Moscati. “He did not have the courage to go back inside. The experience was simply too emotional for him.”

During the German occupation of Italy, 81% of the country’s 39,000 Jews were saved. Among them were those who found refuge at San Gioacchino in Prati.

In 2016, the church was recognized as a “House of Life” by the Raoul Wallenberg Foundation. Poldo Moscati’s daughters, Miriam and Gianna, attended the recognition ceremony, offering a living connection to the people whose lives had been protected within the church’s walls.

The hidden attic of San Gioacchino remains a testament to the courage of those who risked everything to protect others during one of the darkest periods in European history.

Javier Romero contributed to this story. Adapted by Jacob Stein.