Santa Maria dell'Anima

Step off the narrow street and the noise of Rome drops away almost at once. The air inside is cool and still. Your footsteps carry across a pale stone floor, and the light falls evenly from high windows rather than in sharp shafts. Just a few steps from the crowds of Piazza Navona, you are standing inside one of the quietest churches in the centre of the city.

This is Santa Maria dell'Anima, the national church of German-speaking Catholics in Rome. For centuries, pilgrims, merchants, clergy and craftsmen from the lands north of the Alps found a piece of home here. Today the church still serves that community. Masses are held in German, and the noticeboards near the door often carry German text. It is a small corner of central Europe, tucked into a Roman side street.

The story begins not with a church, but with a hospice. In the fourteenth century, a couple from the Low Countries set up a modest house here to shelter pilgrims from the Holy Roman Empire. Travel to Rome was long and dangerous, and arriving sick or penniless in a foreign city was common. The hospice offered beds, food and care in a familiar language. Over time, a chapel grew alongside it, and the community grew with it.

The church you see now went up in the early sixteenth century, in the years of the High Renaissance. Look closely at the shape of the interior. The three aisles rise to nearly the same height, so the space feels like one wide, open hall. This is called a hall church. It is a form common in Germany and Austria, but very rare in Rome. The builders brought a northern idea and dressed it in Italian Renaissance details.

Now consider the name. "Anima" is the Latin and Italian word for soul. Above the main doorway on the facade, a sculpture shows the Virgin Mary with two small figures kneeling on either side of her. These figures represent souls in Purgatory, asking for her help. That image gave the church its name — Saint Mary of the Soul. If you came in from the side, it is worth walking out to the main facade to find it.

Inside, walk toward the area near the high altar. On the right side of the choir you will find one of the most remarkable tombs in Rome. It belongs to Pope Adrian the Sixth, who died in 1523. He was born in Utrecht, in what is now the Netherlands. And here is the surprise — he was the last non-Italian pope for more than four hundred and fifty years, until John Paul the Second was elected in 1978.

Adrian's time in Rome was short and unhappy. He was a strict, serious scholar who arrived in a city that loved display and pleasure. He tried to cut spending and reform the papal court, and many Romans disliked him for it. He died after less than two years in office. His tomb was later moved here, among people who shared his northern roots.

The monument itself is a grand Renaissance composition in marble, generally attributed to the painter and architect Baldassarre Peruzzi. The pope lies on top of the sarcophagus, resting on one elbow as if asleep. Below him, a relief shows his arrival in Rome. On the tomb there is a Latin inscription. It says, in short, that even the best person's virtue depends on the times in which they happen to live. Many visitors read it as a quiet comment on Adrian's own fate.

Now turn your eyes to the high altar. The large painting above it is by Giulio Romano, the leading pupil of Raphael. It shows the Holy Family together with saints. Notice the warm colours and the strong, sculptural figures — signs of Raphael's influence. Painted works by such a close follower of Raphael are not so easy to find in Roman churches, so this one rewards a slow look.

As you walk along the side chapels, you will see a mixture of styles and centuries. Some chapels hold paintings and tombs of German and Flemish families who lived and worked in Rome. Coats of arms, Latin epitaphs and northern names appear again and again. Together, they form a kind of record in stone of the foreign community that made this church its own.

The church also has a darker chapter, and it is important to tell it honestly. After the Second World War, the rector of the college attached to this church, Bishop Alois Hudal, helped a number of Nazi fugitives escape from Europe. Historians have documented his role in some detail. The church community today openly acknowledges this history. It is a reminder that buildings like this one carry difficult memories as well as beautiful art.

Before you leave, step back outside and look up. If you walk a short way toward Piazza Navona and look back over the rooftops, you may spot the bell tower. Its upper part is covered in coloured glazed tiles that catch the sun. This bright, patterned roof is a northern touch too, and it is one of the few colourful spires in this part of Rome. Most people crossing the square never notice it.

The streets around the church are worth a slow walk. Via della Pace and the lanes nearby are full of old palace walls, small cafes and ivy-covered corners. You are in the heart of baroque Rome, yet many visitors pass these streets without stopping. The church fits this setting well. It does not shout for attention. You have to come looking for it.

So take a last moment here. Listen to how quiet it is. Notice the cool air, the soft light, the pale columns rising evenly toward the vault. Outside, the voices and scooters of Rome are waiting. As you step back into them, remember the pilgrims who walked these same streets centuries ago, tired and far from home, and found a door open to them here.