The Bible of Clay (57 page)

"If they'd ever discovered you . . . ," Hans said.

"I don't know what they'd have done to us, but they'd certainly have made the doctor pay," Bruno reflected.

"You were tougher then than you're acting now—you certainly didn't cry as much," said Carlo, attempting to lighten the mood.

Mercedes wiped away her tears with Hans' handkerchief and took a sip of water. She even tried to laugh with Carlo.

"I'm sorry . . . I'm . . . I'm going to wash my face. I'll be back."

When she left, the three friends looked at one another, their faces still troubled.

"I don't know how that monster was able to live all these years in the Middle East without being recognized and reported. His name alone should have exposed him." Bruno shook his head.

"A lot of Nazis took refuge in Syria, Egypt, Iraq, just as they did in Brazil, Paraguay, and other Latin American countries. Tannenberg's case is not the only one; there are still Nazis living very respectable lives, old men nobody pays any mind to," said Hans.

"Don't forget that the grand mufti of Jerusalem was one of Hitler's staunch allies and that the Arabs were supporters of the Nazi regime. We shouldn't be surprised by Tannenberg," Carlo said.

"But why weren't we able to find him for so many years?" Bruno asked.

"Because even if a person changes his name, it's easier to find him in a democratic country than in an autocracy," replied Carlo.

Mercedes came back looking more composed, although her eyes were still red.

"I still haven't thanked you all for coming," she said, smiling uncertainly.

"We all needed to see one another again," replied Hans.

"God, what a long road it's been!" Mercedes exclaimed.

"Yes, but it's all been worth it. All these years of suffering, of nightmares, and we've finally been repaid. Vengeance," Bruno said, "is ours."

"Vengeance, yes, vengeance," said Mercedes, her eyes filled with tears but her voice strong and hard. "Not for a single minute in all these years have I doubted that we would keep our vow. What we went through
...
It was
...
it was hell, and that's why I don't care if God exists; his punishment could never be worse than Mauthausen."

"Did you talk to Tom Martin again?" Carlo asked Hans, trying to distract Mercedes.

"Yes, and I told him that they were to finish the job, the sooner the better. He assured me that his man would do what he'd been hired to do, but he underscored the tremendous difficulties he's already had to face with Alfred. He keeps saying that we can't fathom the obstacles he had to overcome to kill a man under the protection of Saddam in Iraq," Hans replied.

"It's certainly taken long enough," remarked Bruno.

"And that's why it's cost us a fortune. But in the final analysis, our man did it—we have to be grateful for that. Global Group isn't staffed by thugs and hoodlums; if they were, they would never have been able to kill Tannenberg. Anyway, I told him that the second half of the job had to be done, and quicker than the first," Hans said.

"Getting rid of Clara Tannenberg may be even more complicated than getting rid of the old man; when the war starts, it won't be easy for Martin's man to finish what he started. And the Americans have made

their decision. There's a great deal at stake, including saving face," Carlo said with a hint of concern.

"You know, it's always surprised me that you could be a Communist," Hans said to him.

Carlo laughed, although his laughter was bitter.

"My mother was in Mauthausen for being a Communist, or rather, because my father was a Communist. He died before he got to the camp, and my mother . . . my mother worshipped him, so she became a Communist for him—though her parents had also been Reds. What could I do? What can I do? I still believe there's value in Communism, despite the horrors that Stalin perpetrated, all that went on behind the Iron Curtain, in the gulags and all that."

"I'm torn about this war, although I'll never be anti-American—we owe them our lives," Bruno said.

"How many innocent people died to free us?" Hans replied. "If the United States hadn't sacrificed thousands of its own men, we'd have died in Mauthausen."

They fell silent, adrift in their thoughts. Their view of the world had been irrevocably colored by the horror of the camp.

Carlo got up out of the chair he was sitting in, clapped his hands once, and in a tone of voice that strove for cheerfulness, suggested that they all go out to dinner to celebrate.

"You're our hostess, Mercedes. Surprise us. But it better be memorable—we've been waiting for this moment for sixty years."

All four of them knew that they needed to make an effort to get past the emotions of the last hours. Mercedes promised that she'd take them to the best dinner they could ever dream of. None of them had ever gotten over their experience of starvation. It had been many years since they'd left Mauthausen physically, but pain and hunger were with them always.

47

"shamas! wake up! wake up!"

Lia's voice was filled with fear. Shamas opened his eyes and sat up in his bed. Through the window came the first light of day.

"What is it?"

"Ili has sent for you. You must go to the temple." "So early? Did he say why?"

"No, the servant who came said only that Ili wished to see you."

Shamas dressed quickly and left for the temple, filled with worry by his old master's call.

When he reached the rectangular room in which Ili and a number of other scribes awaited him, his misgivings were confirmed. Something grave had clearly happened.

"Shamas, the lord of Safran has demanded our lands," Ili told him. "He is envious of the temple's prosperity."

"What does he want of us?"

"All that we have: wheat, the fruits of our trees, the date palms, our water. He wants our livestock and our houses. He says that there is little fruit in his lands, and that the waters of his streams have dried up. He demands that we increase our tributes to him, for he says that in comparison with what we have, we pay little."

"We have enough grain in the storehouses so that there will be no want of it."

"That is not the problem, Shamas. The truth is that the lord of the palace lacks nothing but wants everything. He sees that we have much, and he would have it. He is the grandson of my predecessor, the last grand master, and he thinks that it is his birthright to govern not just the palace but the temple as well. He shall seek to place an administrator over us, to oversee our labors and decide what portion of our harvests shall be sent to the royal treasury and what portion shall remain here.

"I withheld this from you yesterday, so as not to mar your ceremony. But I received the lord's orders several days ago, and today, before dawn, one of his soldiers came to demand my answer. I believed that we could continue to talk about the matter, that I might persuade him of the injustice of his demands, but I was mistaken."

"And is there no way to oppose him? Can we not rise up against him?"

"He would destroy us—he would salt our land, sack our storehouses. . . . We have no choice. We are men of peace; we know not how to make war," said Ili.

The scribes, distraught, were silent, pondering what tribulations their lord's demand might bring upon them. Some looked toward Shamas, hoping that his restless mind might find a solution.

"We can seek aid from the king of Ur," said Shamas. "He is more powerful than our lord, who would not dare match arms against him."

They agreed to send an emissary to Ur to seek the king's aid and implore his protection. Ili appointed a young scribe and bade him set out immediately. But the question they all asked themselves was whether the king of Ur would hear their pleas. Kings were capricious beings, and their logic was not the logic of men. Thus, it was possible that the king of Ur might ask in exchange
for
his
aid
a price larger than that demanded by the lord of Safran. They were left to await their fate.

The sun was shining in all its splendor, bathing the yellow land of Safran with light, when the cry of a man rose above the noise of the market.

Ili and Shamas looked at each other, knowing that that cry was the augury of death and destruction.

All the scribes ran to the doors of the temple, where soldiers from the lord of Safran were already making ready to enter. The crackling of flames and the weeping of women rose toward the sky, and citizens shouted as the soldiers attacked men's houses and their defenseless inhabitants.

Shamas realized that there was nothing they could do but bend like the rushes along the banks of the Euphrates, waiting for the storm to pass. But his instinct was more powerful than his reason, and he confronted the soldiers, though Ili begged him to stand aside.

He knew that his effort would be futile, but he would not surrender to the injustice that was being done against them.

How much time had passed? Perhaps a second, perhaps hours—he felt profoundly weary, and confusion reigned within his mind.

No man is eternal, even a king. Someday someone in this temple will live once again in peace, hoking after the fields and pastures, caring for the livestock and the houses
of
men who trust in the good work
of
scribes who, as we have, labor from dawn to dusk to bring order and justice to the community,
thought Shamas as he was dragged away by a soldier.

He saw Ili, his master, lying on the ground, with a wound to his face from which a stream of blood was flowing. Other scribes lay motionless around him, and among the bodies were also servants of the temple who had run to defend the place where until today peace and tranquillity had reigned.

His head hurt, his limbs were heavy, he could hardly move one of his arms, and his eyesight was clouded.

Am I dying, like the others? Am I already dead?

Then he realized that the pain he was feeling was too intense for the dead. He knew that there still remained in him some breath of life, but how much? And Lia—was Lia still alive? The soldier kicked him in the face and left him to die—Shamas was hardly breathing, and the soldier feared little that he would stand again.

Why has God willed that this should be my end?
Shamas thought. Then he smiled to himself—Ili would have reproached him for asking such a question at a moment like this, a question to God. But would the others not ask the same of Marduk?

If Abraham were here, Shamas would ask him why God allowed His creatures to die violent deaths. Was such an end truly necessary?

He was not certain whether his eyes were closed, but he could not see; his life was ebbing away, all because of one man's greed. How absurd that seemed to him! Where was God? Would he see Him in the end? He heard a voice, the voice of Abraham, begging him to trust in God. Then a white light illuminated the corner in which he lay, and he felt a firm hand help him stand. He felt no more pain and melted into eternity.

48

GIAN MARIA WAS CAREFULLY CLEANING A TABLET ON WHICH

the marks of cuneiform were barely visible when a laborer practically ran over him. "Come, come!" he shouted. "There is another room! A wall has fallen!"

"What wall? What's happened?"

He received no answer from the man, who took off running back toward the excavation site. Gian Maria followed with curiosity. Ayed Sahadi, looking very excited, was shouting orders to a group of laborers.

"What's happened?" Gian Maria asked the foreman.

"That man there hit the wall with his pick—it just collapsed. We've found another room full of tablets. I've sent for Clara."

Clara herself ran up at that precise moment, with Fatima, her head still wrapped in bandages, not far behind.

"What have they found?" Clara asked breathlessly.

"Another room and more tablets," Gian Maria told her.

Clara gave instructions to the laborers to shore up what was left of the wall and erect supports to hold up the ceiling—but first, wherever possible, to gather up the tablets. Gian Maria sat down on the floor to have a look at the new finds. His eyes were burning from trying to read

so much cuneiform blurred by time, but he knew that sooner or later, Clara would want him to examine all these new tablets.

He found none that were particularly interesting, but with Ante's help he carefully began lining them up so the laborers could transport them to the camp, where over the last few days they had been putting together some of the pieces that Picot had left behind when he and his team left Safran.

It occurred to Gian Maria how fortunate they were that Ante Plaskic had come back. Ahmed had called Clara to tell her that at the last minute Ante had decided, against Picot's advice, to stay in Iraq and return to Safran. He'd then convinced Ahmed to arrange transportation for him, despite the fact that Clara would be staying no more than a week longer. But the effort had paid off—since Ante had returned to the camp, he'd done nothing but work; he was with them at the dig every moment.

"Is there anything there?" Clara asked, walking over to where Gian Maria was concentrating on categorizing the tablets under Ante's watchful eye.

"I'm not sure; there are shards of commercial transactions, and some prayers, but I haven't had time to review them closely. We'll gather them all up—I imagine you'll want to take them with you to Baghdad."

"Yes, but I wish you'd try to . . . well, examine them more closely before then, just in case," Clara prodded.

"I'll try, Clara, but we have to be realistic about what we can still hope to accomplish. There are hardly any laborers left. Ayed is doing all he can, but the army is calling up most of the men. And others . . . Well, you know what's happening; they want to be at home with their families."

"We have two days, Gian Maria—in two days Ahmed is going to take us out. The ministry is terminating the expedition."

Ante Plaskic listened in silence to their conversation. Clara had been keyed up and driven since her grandfather's murder; she seemed to have inherited her grandfather's all-consuming obsession with the tablets. It hadn't mattered to her that Ante had come back to the camp—she hadn't even questioned his motives. She'd greeted him ab-sentmindedly and put him to work with the others.

It had been only a few days since Picot and his team had left, but to Clara it seemed an eternity. Where the camp had once stood, with all its frenetic activity, there was now nothing but the empty mud houses and the permanent calm of the desert. Time had stopped once more in the remote enclave.

Gian Maria was right: There were hardly any workers left. And those who remained looked at Clara differently now. The absence of her grandfather had stripped her of her authority, even her ability to command respect.

Only the presence of Ayed Sahadi fostered a certain degree of order and ensured that the workers kept at it.

As for Clara herself, her mind was a mass of contradictions—she knew that the war was going to start on March
20
and that she had to be out of Iraq by March 19, yet she felt that something was holding her in that dusty land. She also knew full well of course, that if she stayed she could easily die. Fighter planes make no distinction between friends and enemies, those who betrayed the country and those who were loyal to it. And then there were the tablets . . .

It was five a.m. when her cell phone woke her.

"Clara . . ." Ahmed's unsteady voice scared her.

"Ahmed! What's wrong?"

"Clara, you need to get out now."

"Has there been . . . has there been some change?"

"I'm worried."

"You're panicking."

"Call it what you want, but you can't wait until the last minute. All hell is about to break loose. And listen, I spoke to Picot last night—you need to be there, keeping an eye on the exhibition planning."

"Where is he?"

"In Paris."

"Paris?" sighed Clara.

"He says things have already started coming together and he wants to know whether you're going with them." "Going where?"

"I don't know, wherever they're putting it together. I didn't ask." "What about you, Ahmed? Are you going?"

"I'd like to go with you," he answered carefully. He knew that the Ministry of the Interior recorded every conversation, and after the murder of Alfred Tannenberg an exhaustive investigation had been launched. Saddam and his circle had always been obsessed with betrayal, so of course they believed that Tannenberg's murderer must have been a close friend, family member, or ally.

"It's five o'clock in the morning; if you don't have anything else to tell me—"

"I'm telling you that you need to come out now. Today is the eighteenth of March—"

"I know what day it is. I'm staying until the nineteenth; we found another room yesterday and several dozen new tablets. We're close, Ahmed. I can feel it."

"Clara, you should be in Baghdad, in your own house. The army is mobilizing every man; you won't have any workers."

"One more day, Ahmed."

"No, Clara, no—I'll send the helicopter later today." "I'm not leaving today, Ahmed." "Tomorrow, then, at sunrise."

Gian Maria hadn't slept all night. He'd stayed up to classify the last tablets they'd found, before the workers packed them up and sealed them in the container destined for Baghdad.

His eyes were killing him, but he still had quite a few tablets to decipher. He picked one up at random, and as he looked at it, he gave a start and almost dropped it—across the top was incised the name
Shamas.
He could feel his heart beat faster and his breathing become shallower as he passed his finger over the lines of cuneiform.

As dictated to me by our patriarch Abraham:

In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and the darkness was upon the face
of
the deep. And the spirit
of
God moved upon the face
of
the waters.

And God said, Let there be light: and there was light. And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the light from the darkness. And God called the light Day, and the darkness He called Night. And the evening and the morning were the first day.

Tears flowed from the priest's eyes. He was profoundly moved, and he felt an irresistible need to fall on his knees and give thanks to God.

Here in his hands he held the story of the Creation, its words pressed into wet clay over three thousand years ago by the scribe Shamas himself so that men might learn the truth. This clay tablet bore the very words of Abraham the patriarch, inspired by God, the words which many centuries later would be gathered into the book called the Bible.

Gian Maria could hardly go on reading, so great was the emotion he was feeling.

And God said, Let there be a firmament in the midst
of
the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters. And God made the firmament and divided the waters which were under the firmament from the waters which were above the firmament: and it was so. And God called the firmament Heaven. And the evening and the morning were the second day.

He went on reading, not realizing that he was doing so out loud. He felt closer to God than he had ever felt before. And then he realized that in the stack of tablets he had not yet examined, there were yet others bearing the distinctive mark of Shamas.

He began to search feverishly through the tablets, scanning the top of each one, where the scribes wrote their names. First he found one piece of tablet, then others, and in a while he had managed to find eight—eight pieces, some shards and some whole, inscribed by Shamas.

Gian Maria prayed, laughed, cried, such was the chaos of emotions that swept over him as he found clay tablet after clay tablet containing the words of Abraham.

He knew he should tell Clara, but he felt the need to be alone with them in this moment so charged with a spirituality that probably only he felt. It was a miracle, and he gave thanks to God for having allowed him to be the one to discover this clay fired with the mark of the deity.

The Bible made no mention of Shamas, so as Gian Maria tried to decipher the signs carefully incised by Shamas' stylus, he wondered who this scribe might have been, how he knew Abraham, and how Abraham had come to tell him the story of the Creation. He also wondered about the strange wanderings of this man who first announced that Abraham was going to tell him the story of Genesis on two tablets that had been secreted in Haran. And yet Shamas had left traces of himself here in Safran too, in the temple near Ur, where the team had found shards of legal statements, official reports and communications, lists of plants, poems. . . .

The room where these new tablets had been found was not distinguished from the others in any way. It was rather small, actually, undec-orated, defined only by the slots in the walls where there had once been shelves upon which the scribes would line up their tablets. Clara had mentioned that it may not have been a ceremonial room in the temple but rather, a man's private room—the study, perhaps, of an um-mi-a, a master scribe.

Gian Maria mused on the turn his life had taken over the last few months. He had left the security of the Vatican's walls, left the comfortable routine he shared with other priests, the tranquillity of spirit. He no longer remembered the last time he had slept comfortably through the whole night, since hearing that terrifying confession months ago.

Once again, his eyes filled with tears as he read the words that transported him back to the moment when God created man:

And God said, Let
us
make a man in our image, after our likeness: and let him have dominion over the fish
of
the sea, and over the fowl
of
the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth.

So God created man in His own image, in the image
of
God created He him; male and female created He them.

And God blessed them, and God said unto them, Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue it: and have dominion over the fish
of
the sea, and over the fowl
of
the air, and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth.

And God said, Behold, I have given you every herb bearing seed, which is upon the face
of
all the earth, and every tree, in which is the fruit
of
a tree yielding seed: to you it shall be for meat.

Light was beginning to come through the window when Gian Maria realized that Ante Plaskic was watching him. He'd been so engrossed in reading the tablets that he hadn't been aware of the Croatian's arrival.

"Ante, you can't imagine what I've found!"

"What?" he asked casually.

"Clara's grandfather was right—he always thought that Abraham had been aware of the story of Genesis. Here it is. The tablets he spent his life looking for. They exist! Look
..."

Ante came over to Gian Maria and picked up one of the tablets. It was hard to believe that people could kill over something as simple as a piece of dried clay, but they did, and he wouldn't hesitate to do so as well if anyone tried to stop him from taking them now.

"How many are there?" he asked the priest.

"Eight, I've found eight. Thank God for allowing me to do this work!" Gian Maria answered joyously.

"We should wrap them carefully to keep them intact. Let me help."

"No, no, we have to tell Clara first. Nothing can compensate for the loss of her grandfather, but at least she's finally made his dream come true. This is a miracle!"

Just then, Ayed Sahadi entered the room and eyed the men.

"What's happened?" he asked in a tone of voice that matched his suspicious look.

"Ayed, we've found the tablets!" Gian Maria exclaimed, excited as a child, all traces of his characteristic shyness absent. "The tablets? What tablets?" Ayed asked.

"The Bible of Clay! Mr. Tannenberg was right. Clara was right. Abraham told the story of creation to a scribe. It's a revolutionary discovery, one of the greatest in history," Gian Maria explained, emerging from the shock of the discovery and his spiritual reflections and growing more excited by the second.

The foreman came over to the workbench where the eight tablets were laid out side by side, three of them reconstructed from broken pieces—pieces that fit together perfectly after Gian Maria had solved their jigsaw puzzle. The tablets couldn't be restored in Safran, though; that had to be done by experts, and Gian Maria prayed that Clara would let him take them to Rome, where they could be examined and authenticated by Vatican authorities, even reconstructed with the advanced techniques developed in Europe.