The Confessions a Priest Should Never Hear

Father Tadeo Wisniewski was born in 1938, in a village near Wrocław, when the tanks were already roaring on the border. His mother gave birth to him in a cellar while the first bombs fell; his father never came back from Gdańsk. He grew up among ruins, hungry, stealing potatoes and praying at the same time, convinced that God understood necessity.

In adolescence, the flesh began to speak louder than hunger. He fell madly in love with a blonde girl named Wanda, the daughter of a partisan. They kissed behind the ruined church, among rubble and nettles. She smelled of cheap soap and wood smoke. Tadeo felt then, for the first time, that desire was stronger than fear. When she left with a Soviet officer, he decided that only God could fill that void. He entered the seminary at seventeen, almost fleeing.

Those were years of fierce discipline. He learned Latin, theology, and how to master the body. But the body, stubborn, remembered: on winter nights he would wake sweating, dreaming of curves under Sunday blouses. He lashed himself with the cincture of his habit until guilt became indistinguishable from relief.

Ordained at twenty-six, he served in poor parishes in Silesia. Decades later he was called to Rome “for his quiet fidelity” and assigned to the church of Santa Croce, in the Monti district, a baroque temple full of tourists and Roman women who smell of vanilla and sin.

At eighty-seven, Tadeo is still tall, only slightly hunched, with large hands and faded blue eyes that still gleam when some young parishioner kneels in the confessional. Sometimes, upon hearing “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” his mind betrays him: he imagines the brush of a knee against the grille, the warm breath fogging the wood, the perfume seeping through the slats. He bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood and answers in a calm voice: speak, my daughter.

***

The grille creaks ever so slightly. A perfumed shadow kneels.

—Ave María Purísima… —Tadeo begins, in an old velvet voice.

—Sin pecado concebida —she answers, and the priest instantly recognizes that hoarse timbre, half cigarette, half summer night. It is Marta, twenty-seven years old, the Pilates instructor who comes on Sundays in leggings that seem painted on and a high ponytail that swings like a challenge.

Silence. Her breathing can be heard, fast.

—Father… it’s been three weeks since I last confessed.

—God is glad to see you, daughter. —So am I, he thinks, and bites his tongue.

—I have sinned in thought, word, deed, and omission. Especially in deed.

Tadeo swallows.

—Tell me, no hurry.

—I’m married, Father. Bruno is good, works hard… but for six months now I’ve been with someone else. With two, actually. Sometimes all three together. —Marta’s voice drops until it becomes a hot whisper that slips through the little holes in the grille like fingers—. The first is my Pilates student. Thirty-two years old, a statue’s body. He bends me over the mat when everyone’s gone. He covers my mouth with his hand so I won’t scream and… Father, I like having my mouth covered.

Tadeo feels the cassock cling to his back. He presses his thighs together under the seat.

—The second is his best friend. One night I invited them both over while Bruno was in Turin. They started kissing me at the same time, one in front and one behind. They used me both at once, in front of the bedroom mirror, so I could see for myself what I’m capable of being.

A gasp escapes the priest, disguised as a cough. Marta goes on, now lower, almost brushing the wood with her lips.

—And the worst thing, Father… is that it turns me on to tell you. Knowing you’re there, listening, imagining me. Can you picture it, Father? Do you picture me naked, open, soaked?

Tadeo’s heart is pounding so hard he fears she can hear it. He closes his eyes and sees it: Marta’s long legs tangled in other legs, her mouth half open, sweat gleaming between her breasts. He feels the traitorous erection, old but insolent, and digs his nails into his palms.

—My daughter… —he begins, and his voice comes out rough—. What you’re telling me is very serious. Multiple adultery, lust… do you repent?

Marta is silent for a second. Then, almost in a mischievous child’s whisper:

—I repent… that you weren’t watching.

Tadeo grips the edge of the seat. The confessional smells of old incense, warm wood, and now his own repressed desire.

—You will say three Our Fathers and ten Hail Marys. And promise me you will not go back to…

—What if I come back next week, Father? Will you punish me harder?

He breathes deeply, counts to five, remembers the flagellation, the blood.

—Go in peace, Marta. And may the Lord… give you strength.

The scrape of knees as she stands, the slow click of heels, the church door closing. Tadeo is left alone, trembling. He loosens his collar as if it were burning him, and murmurs toward the empty grille:

—My God… next time tell her to confess on her knees and in a short skirt. Amen.

***

The bench creaks under a different weight, heavier, more tired. It smells of black tobacco and lotion from three days ago.

—Ave María Purísima…

—Sin pecado concebida, Father —answers a hoarse voice, broken by years of grappa and shouting in the stadium.

It is Cosimo, seventy-six years old, widowed for twelve, former tram driver, always in the third row on Sundays, with his beret pulled low even indoors. Tadeo knows him well: he brings communion to his house when arthritis leaves him stiff as a board.

—It’s been… it’s been a long time since I last confessed, Father. Since we buried my Carla, I think.

—God has been waiting for you, Cosimo. Speak when you’re ready.

Long silence. You can hear him sniffing.

—I have a granddaughter… Elena. She just turned eighteen. She’s lived with me since her mother ran off to Belgium with that useless man. She is… she is gorgeous, Father. She looks like an actress from those old films. And I’m an old pig.

Tadeo straightens slowly. He notices his throat going dry.

—Go on, son.

—At first it was normal. I saw her in pajamas in the morning, wearing those short T-shirts… she teased me, hugged me tight. But one July night, with the heat keeping us awake, I heard her in her room. She was moaning softly, saying my name. “Nonno… nonno…” I thought she was dreaming, but no. I went in. She didn’t cover herself. She looked at me with her grandmother’s green eyes and said, “Come here, I’m hot.”

Cosimo breathes as if a yoke were weighing on him.

—And it wasn’t just once, Father. I lock the door and she comes in and gets into my bed and treats me as if I were thirty. She says “nonno” while she falls apart, and I cry from pleasure and shame. Yesterday she asked me to record her with my phone… so she can watch it when she’s alone at university. And I did.

Tadeo feels cold and heat at the same time. The image is brutal: Cosimo’s old, wrinkled body and that peach-skinned girl, the two of them tangled beneath the same sheet that smelled of Carla for half a century.

—Do you repent, Cosimo?

—I repent and I don’t repent, Father. I’m terrified of dying and burning forever… but I’m also terrified that she’ll go off to university and leave me dry and alone. I’m a monster, aren’t I?

The old man is crying openly now, snot and tears. Tadeo closes his eyes. He thinks of his own treacherous flesh, of Marta, of the grille that cannot protect anyone. He speaks slowly, his voice barely trembling.

—Listen to me carefully, Cosimo. What you have done is very serious. It is incest, it is abuse of your authority over her… even if she wants it, even if she seeks you out. God’s law is clear. And human law would tear you apart too.

Silence.

—But God is greater than our sin. Go home, delete that video, sit down with Elena and tell her this ends today. You will tell her that her grandfather is sick in soul and needs help. You will take her to talk to a psychologist, her aunt, whoever… but away from your bed. And you will come here every day to pray the full rosary until I tell you otherwise.

—And absolution, Father?

—I’ll give it to you… when I see you’ve begun to repair the harm. For now, pray three acts of contrition with me. And then go home and lock your door tonight. For the love you had for Carla, do it.

The murmur of prayers was heard, broken by sobs. When Cosimo got up, his knees creaked like old wood. Before leaving, he rested his forehead against the grille.

—Thank you, Father. Even if you condemn me, thank you.

The church door shut with a dull thud. Tadeo brought a hand to his chest, as if he could stop the furious pounding. Then, almost without voice:

—Lord… how easy it is to judge when one doesn’t have someone at home calling him “nonno” in the dark.

***

The grille moves ever so slightly, as if whoever is kneeling weighs very little and, at the same time, too much. It smells of starch, Marseille soap, and something else, something sweet and forbidden that slips between the bars.

—Ave María Purísima…

—Sin pecado concebida —answers a very soft voice, almost childish, but with an adult tremor that betrays it.

Tadeo recognizes the habit: Sister Inés, thirty-three years old, from the Carmelite convent in Garbatella. She comes to confess once a month, always at the same time, always with the same excuse: “errands for the mother abbess.” She is petite, porcelain-skinned, with huge black eyes that drop too quickly when they meet his.

—Father… I’ve fallen again. Worse than ever.

—Speak, daughter. The Lord already knows. —And I’m beginning to suspect it, thinks Tadeo, feeling a stab below his navel.

Silence. The rustle of her veil against the wood can be heard.

—In the convent there is a new novice. Her name is Renata. Nineteen, from Bari. She has the most beautiful mouth I’ve ever seen. Red, always moist. And when she prays Psalm 51, her lips move as if they were kissing me.

Tadeo shifts on the seat. The cassock clings to him.

—One night, after Compline, I stayed in the chapel to pray penance. She came to ask me for help with discipline: she said she didn’t dare do it to herself. I lifted her habit… and underneath she had nothing on, Father. Nothing. She looked at me over her shoulder and whispered, “Teach me to suffer for love.”

A very slight gasp, almost a sigh of pleasure disguised as weeping.

—I used the cord on her. Hard. She arched… and I got so aroused I had to sit down on the bench so I wouldn’t fall. Then I knelt behind her and kissed her until she cried from pleasure. And it wasn’t once, Father. Now we meet in the linen room, among the sheets the whole community will later use. We touch with our fingers, with our tongues… Sometimes I wake with her taste still in my mouth and relieve myself by praying the office. I come undone whispering “mea culpa, mea máxima culpa” and then I hate myself… but the next day I go looking for her again.

Tadeo runs his tongue over dry lips. He speaks with difficulty.

—Inés… what you’re telling me is very serious. Profanation, impure acts, scandal in a sacred place… You have broken the three vows at once.

—I know, Father. That’s why I come to you. —And she lowers her voice even more, almost a hot breath against the grille—. Because when I confess to you… I imagine it is your tongue punishing me.

The old priest shuts his eyes tightly. He feels the painful, shameful erection, impossible to hide beneath the wood.

—Daughter… kneel outside the confessional. Now.

Sister Inés obeys at once. The rustle of her habit can be heard, the scrape of knees on stone. Tadeo opens the little door just enough to see her pale face, eyes bright with tears and desire.

—Look at me —he orders in a voice that no longer sounds like a priest’s—. Repeat after me: never again. You will never touch that girl again. You will never profane the house of God again. If you fall again, I will denounce you myself to the mother abbess. Understood?

Sister Inés nods, trembling.

—Now go. And for every night you spend without sinning, you will pray fifteen decades of the rosary kneeling on chickpeas. Until you learn to suffer for real.

She bows, kisses the floor in front of his black shoes, and whispers:

—Thank you, Father… no punishment has ever pleased me so much.

Tadeo slams the door shut. He remains inside, panting, forehead pressed to the wood.

—Holy Virgin… if all nuns sin like this, no wonder the convents are full.

***

The church door opens and a gust of cold November air comes in. High heels, assured, echoing like verses on marble. Then, silence. The shadow kneels with feline grace.

—Ave María Purísima…

—Sin pecado concebida, Father —answers a fresh, cultivated voice, with that Piedmontese accent that sounds like old wine and an ancient library.

Tadeo already knows her by sight: Donatella, twenty years old, very long black hair, cat eyes, always with books under her arm and skirts that end precisely where the trouble begins. She lives in an attic near the station and comes to Mass every so often “for aesthetics,” she says.

—Father… I’ve brought a long list. Do you have time?

—As much as you need, daughter. —And I already feel like I’m going to have blood to spare in my veins, he thinks.

Donatella sighs, almost amused.

—I study Philosophy at the university. My scholarships aren’t enough, rent is robbery… so I found sponsors. Very generous ones. Professors, mostly. And a professor. And classmates who pay to watch.

A playful silence.

—I started with Contemporary Literature. Sixty-two years old, married, very decorated. He asked me to meet him to “talk about my work,” shut the office door, and lifted my skirt without asking permission. When it was over he left five hundred euros on top of a book of poems: “for inspiration,” he said. Then the professor of Philology came along. She tied my wrists with her scarf and made me come three times while reciting verses in French.

Donatella chuckles softly, like someone telling a party anecdote.

—Now I have a group. Five boys and two girls from my class. They pay admission to see me with whoever I want. Last week it was 1,200 euros in one night: they all had me while the others watched and filmed. I like being filmed, Father. It turns me on to know they get off watching me afterward.

The old priest feels his face burning. He imagines that milk-skinned girl, naked, surrounded by young bodies, books thrown on the floor, moans mixed with quotations from dead poets.

—And don’t you feel… ashamed, Donatella?

—Not ashamed, Father. Pleasure and pride. My body is my best text. And thanks to it I’m going to graduate with honors without asking my father for a cent. —She leans closer to the grille; Tadeo smells her perfume, something expensive and citrusy—. Sometimes I think of you while I do it. I imagine it’s your voice giving me orders. Would you like to see me, Father? I’ll pay, this one time.

Tadeo’s heart lurches so hard he thinks it might come out through his mouth.

—Donatella… —his voice comes out rough, almost a growl—, what you’re doing is prostitution. Serious, habitual, and scandalous. You are selling what God gave you for free.

—God gave it to me to use, Father. And I use it in style.

Dense silence. Tadeo breathes deeply, clutching the crucifix at his throat.

—Listen carefully. You are closing that group today. You are deleting the videos. You are going to find a decent job, even if it’s scrubbing stairwells. And you will come here every Friday to confess until I see that you’ve stopped. Otherwise, I’ll speak to your faculty dean. I know half the staff.

Donatella falls silent for a second. Then, in a sweet and dangerous voice:

—And if instead of punishing me you give me communion on my knees, Father?

Tadeo closes his eyes. He feels the cassock lift all by itself, traitorous.

—Go, Donatella. And pray one hundred Hail Marys thinking of every bill you earned with your body. Let your knees hurt for real.

The clicking heels are heard receding, slow, provocative. Before leaving, she whispers back over her shoulder:

—They’ll be raw by next Friday, Father. I promise.

***

The last “ego te absolvo” fades in the empty church. Tadeo remains one minute longer, leaning against the confessional wall, breathing like someone coming out of a shipwreck. His knees are trembling. The cassock smells of old sweat and another’s desire.

He comes out slowly, locks the little door —today more than ever he needs no one to enter—. He turns off the lights one by one; only the candles on the main altar remain, flickering as if they too were ashamed. He kneels before the tabernacle. He does not pray. He only looks at the crucifix and says, in Polish, very softly:

—Forgive me, Lord… but sinners do it so well.

He gets up, crosses himself with holy water that burns his fingers. He takes the long black coat, puts it over the wrinkled cassock, and steps out into the already dark square, cold, smelling of roasted chestnuts and river water. He walks slowly to the bridge, stops in the middle, and rests his elbows on the railing. Rome shines below, dirty and beautiful.

He takes the rosary from his pocket, but does not pray. He only lets the beads pass through his fingers while he thinks of Marta on the mat, of Cosimo broken by his own granddaughter, of Sister Inés licking tears and sin, of Donatella counting bills. He sighs, deeply, almost a moan, and smiles faintly, with that smile of an old wolf who no longer hunts but still scents the prey.

He puts the rosary away. He looks at the black sky, without stars.

—Until the next batch, Lord —he murmurs—. May they be just as sinful… or worse.

He adjusts his collar and disappears into the alleyways, heading toward the parish house. Tomorrow there will be eight o’clock Mass. And at four, the confessional will open again. He pours himself a finger of Polish grappa he keeps for special occasions and, before sleeping, whispers into the pillow:

—Good night, my dear sinners… dream of me.

And he turns off the light.