The Columbus Affair: A Novel (40 page)

Marc shook his head. “And when he finally realized that, at the end of his fourth voyage, he hid the treasure in his New World. Luis de Torres was there and assumed the duty of guardian, calling himself the Levite. I am his successor.”

“You know where our precious objects rest?”

“That I do. To reveal this to anyone is a violation of my duty, but what happened during the war changes things. I need your help, good friend. This is something I cannot do alone. You are the most honest man I know.”

He smiled at the compliment. “I would say the same about you.”

Marc reached out and grasped his shoulder. “When I first came here and climbed to the loft, and you followed, I knew then that you were a man I could trust. The world has changed and this duty that I have been given must change, too.”

“He told me where the treasure was located,” Berlinger said to Tom. “We were standing not far from where you and I are right now, though these streets looked much different in 1954.”

Tom imagined that was true. The Nazis would have left a mark, then the Soviets made it worse.

“Our synagogues were in ruins,” the rabbi said. “The Germans had gutted the interiors, using the buildings for storage. Nothing had been repaired. The Soviets hated us as much as the Germans did, and they killed us, too. Only slower, over a longer period of time.”

They stood at a street corner, down from the town hall, everything busy with morning activity. Most were tour groups, here for the day.

“They come from all over,” Berlinger said. “I’ve often wondered, what do they take away from the experience?”

“That to be Jewish is dangerous.”

“It can be. But I would be nothing else. Your daughter said you are no longer one of us. Is that true?”

“I renounced twenty years ago and was baptized Christian. My way of pleasing a new wife.”

Berlinger lightly pounded his chest. “But in here, what are you?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

And he meant it.

“Then why are you in Prague?”

“I came because I thought my daughter was in trouble. I’ve since discovered that is not the case. She’s a liar. Naïve, as hell, but still a liar. She doesn’t need my help.”

“I think she does. Zachariah Simon is dangerous.”

“How did you know the connection?”

“They are together, right now. I watched as you left the hall. I watched her, too. I’ve never cared for Simon.”

He could see that this 102-year-old man had lost none of his edge. “What did you do for my grandfather?”

Berlinger smiled. “Now, that’s a story I will never forget.”

“It’s in Jamaica,” Marc told him. “That’s where Columbus hid the treasure. In a mine the natives showed him. He blocked its entrance, left the island and the New World, and never returned. He was dead two years later.”

“Have you seen our treasures?” Berlinger asked
.

“I’ve touched them. Held them. Hauled them from one location to another. I changed the place. It had to be done. De Torres left coded instructions on how to find the mine. They are impossible to now decipher. Every landmark that existed in his time is gone. So I’ve changed those instructions.”

“How did you move them? Are not the menorah, the divine table, and the trumpets heavy?”

“They are, but I had some help. My wife and a few others, more good men I can trust. We floated them out of the cave where they rested, down a river to another cave. There I found my own golem to help protect our treasures. A remarkable creature. I know you think that golems are not real. But I tell you, they are.”

He sensed something. A foreboding. “What is it, old friend?”

“This may be the last time you and I speak face-to-face.”

He hated to hear that
.

“The Cold War is heating up. Travel into Eastern Europe will become next to impossible. My duty is done. I’ve protected the treasure the best I can, placed it where it should be safe.”

“I made the box, as you asked.”

Marc had specified the size, about thirty centimeters square, modeled after the treasury containers nearly every synagogue possessed. Usually they were made of iron and held important documents, or money, or sacred utensils. This one was of silver. No decoration adorned its exterior, the emphasis on the safety the container provided to its contents rather than appearance. An internal lock sealed the lid. He found the key in his pocket and handed it over. His friend examined it
.

“Lovely. The Stars of David on the end are well crafted.”

“There’s engraving.”

He watched as Marc brought the brass close to his eyes and studied the stem
.

“Po nikbar,” Marc said, interpreting the two Hebrew letters. “Here lies. That it does. And you did a good job on the hooked X.”

His friend had specifically requested the symbol
.

“These markings will ensure this is the correct key,” Marc told him. “If anyone ever appears here with this, you decide if they are worthy, then show them the box. If it never happens during your lifetime, choose someone to carry on the duty.”

They stood at the base of the east wall of the Old-New Synagogue, the iron rungs above them leading up to the loft
.

“I changed everything,” Marc said. “But I tried to stay with the tradition. Place the box up there, in the loft, where it will be safe, among the old papers.” Cross paused. “Where your golem can look after them.”

He smiled, then nodded, acknowledging his duty
.

“Before leaving Prague that last time,” Berlinger said, “Marc placed something in the box and locked it. I stored it in the loft. Your grandfather told me nothing else. He said it was better that way. The box stayed in the loft for thirty years, until finally removed during a renovation. Luckily, I was still here to ensure its safety.”

“You never looked inside?”

Berlinger shook his head. “Marc took the key with him.”

Tom rubbed his tired eyes and tried to make sense of what he was hearing.

“This was once a central point in the Jewish quarter,” Berlinger said, motioning to their surroundings. “Now it’s just another part of Prague. Everything we built is nearly gone. Only memories remain, and most of those are too painful for any of us to recall. Your grandfather was one of the finest men I ever knew. He trusted me with a duty. It was my task to pass that duty on to someone else, and I have made a choice for when that happens.”

“But now I’m here.”

The rabbi nodded. “So I will pass what I know to you. I want you
to know that if there had been a way for me to find the treasure, I would have. We deserve to have it back. That was the one thing Marc and I disagreed on, but I was in no position to argue with him. He was the chosen one, not me. Now the choice
is
mine. I should like to see those objects once again in a temple.”

“I’ll find them.” He removed the key from his pocket. “Where’s the box this opens?”

Berlinger pointed right.

“Not far.”

T
OM WALKED WITH
B
ERLINGER AWAY FROM THE
O
LD-
N
EW
S
YNAGOGUE
following a street labeled Malselova. Shops and cafés, busy with people, huddled close to the cobbled lane. He knew what building sat just around the bend. The Maisel Synagogue, built by Mordecai Maisel in 1591. He’d visited it several times while writing his article on Prague. Maisel had been a wealthy Jew who ingratiated himself with Emperor Rudolph II, becoming a trusted adviser and eventually securing a special permit that allowed the building’s construction. For over a century it was the largest and most lavish structure in the quarter. But it burned in the fires of 1689, rebuilt in the late 19th century then completely restored, he recalled, in 1995. Services were no longer conducted inside. Now it held a permanent exhibition dedicated to the history of Czech’s Jews.

They entered the vestibule and Tom admired the stylish vaulting and the stained-glass windows. The towering walls were a warm shade of yellow. People milled back and forth, admiring display cases filled with silver objects. Little sound could be heard, besides their footsteps. Berlinger nodded to a woman behind the ticket counter and they were waved through.

“This was where the Nazis brought the artifacts stolen from all the synagogues,” the rabbi whispered. “They were to be displayed as part of their museum to our extinct race. Those precious objects were piled into this building and several more. I saw them myself. A terrible sight.”

They wandered into the nave, beneath unusual chandeliers, their
bright lights inverted, pointing downward. Above him, a second floor was visible past a balustrade that lined the nave on two sides, broken by archways that each displayed a shiny menorah.

“Those artifacts are now gone, returned from where they came. We could not find the home for some, so they stayed here. Eventually, we decided this would be the best place to exhibit our heritage. A museum not to an extinct race, but to one that is still quite alive.”

He caught the pride in the old warrior’s voice.

“You and your daughter,” Berlinger said. “Is there any way to salvage that relationship?”

“Probably not. I had a chance, long ago, and I let it go.”

“What she said about you, faking a news article. I looked into that. You were once a respected journalist.”

The word
once
stung. “Still am, and that woman knows the truth.”

“I know, and if you could prove that you were not a fraud?”

“Then things would change.”

“I don’t know any more than I told you. She was most mysterious, but also most persuasive.”

“What do you know?”

“Only that with most things in life, there is more to the story.”

His spine stiffened. “Why would you say that?”

“And I suspect there is but one person you care to be vindicated with.”

He noticed that his question had gone ignored, so he decided to return the favor.

“During the war,” Berlinger said. “I was forced to do things that no decent man should ever be forced to do. I headed the council at Terezín. We had to decide life and death every day. Thousands perished, many because of the decisions we made. Only time has brought what happened there into focus.”

Memories seemed to have captured the old man’s attention.

“My own son. May God rest his soul.”

He stood silent.

“I have to tell you something,” the rabbi said. “In the war, many
were sent to camps. Before I was sent, something happened. Marc and I talked of it. May I share it with you?”

They kicked down the farmhouse door
.

Berlinger stood back as two men and Erik, his fifteen-year-old son, rushed inside, dragging the house’s sole occupant out into the night. Summer had brought warmth, and the man was barely dressed. He was called Yiri, a Czech whom Berlinger knew from before the war. A simple, quiet man who’d made a huge mistake
.

“What do you want?” Yiri said. “Why are you here?”

He was shoved to his knees
.

“I have done nothing. I work my fields. I bother no one. Why are you here? I told the Nazis nothing.”

Berlinger caught the last part. “You speak to Nazis?”

They were all armed, even Erik who’d learned to handle a pistol with great skill. So far, all four had avoided detention, escaping into the forest and resisting. He wished more Jews could join them, but their number was dwindling by the day
.

Yiri’s head shook. “No. No. I talk to no Nazis. I tell them nothing about the Jews in the forest.”

Which was why they’d come. A family had escaped Prague and managed to hide in the woods outside of town. Yiri had been supplying them with food, a good thing, what should be expected from a countryman. But when the family’s money ran out, Yiri had turned them in for the reward. He wasn’t alone. Others had done the same
.

“Please. Please. I had no choice. They would have killed me. I had no choice. I helped that family for many weeks.”

“Until they couldn’t pay you anymore,” one of the men spit out
.

Berlinger saw the hatred in his compatriots’ eyes. Even Erik’s were filled with disgust. He’d never seen that in his boy before. But the war was changing them all
.

“What do you want me to do? You Jews have no chance. There’s nothing that can be done. You have to—”

A shot echoed in the night
.

Yiri’s head exploded, then his body smacked the ground
.

Erik lowered his gun
.

“Yashar Koyach,”
one of the men said, and the others joined in slapping Erik on the back
.

May your strength increase
.

What was said after reading from the Torah
.

Now it had become a salutation for murder
.

“We had not come to kill the man,” Berlinger said. “Or at least that’s what I thought. To do that would be no different than what the Germans were doing to us.”