The Last Secret Of The Temple (2 page)

He took the boy's face in his hands.

'You alone are now our hope, David son of Judah. With you alone the flame shall burn. Tell this secret to no-one. Guard it with your life. Pass it to your sons, and your sons' sons, and their sons after them, until the time shall come for it to be revealed.'

The boy stared up at him.

'But when, master?' he whispered. 'How will I know the time is right?'

The priest held his gaze a moment longer, then straightened and turned back to the Menorah, staring at the flickering lamps, his eyes gradually closing, as if he was slipping into a trance. The silence around them deepened and thickened; the gemstones on his breastplate seemed to burn with an inner light.

'Three signs to guide you,' he said softly, his voice suddenly distant, as if he was speaking from a great height. 'First, the greatest of the twelve shall come and in his hand a hawk; second, a son of Ishmael and a son of Isaac shall stand together as friends in the House of God; third, the lion and the shepherd shall be as one, and about their neck a lamp. When these things come to pass, then it will be time.'

Ahead of them the veil across the Holy of Holies seemed to billow slightly, and the boy felt a soft, cool breeze pass across his face. Strange voices seemed to echo in his ears, his skin tingled; there was a curious smell, rich and musty, like Time itself, if Time can be said to have a smell. It lasted only a moment and then suddenly, shockingly, there was a great boom and a crash from outside, and the cry of a thousand voices lifted in terror and despair. The priest's eyes snapped open.

'It is the end,' he said. 'Repeat the signs to me!'

The boy repeated them, stumbling over the words. The old man made him do it again, and again, until he had them perfect. The sounds of battle were now rushing into the sanctuary like a flood – screams of pain, the clang of weapons, the crash of falling masonry. Matthias hurried across the hall, looked through the entrance, then hurried back again.

'They have passed the Nicanor Gate!' he cried. 'You cannot go back that way. Come, help me!'

Stepping forward, the old man grasped the stem of the Menorah and started pulling, inching it across the floor. The boy joined him and together they moved it a metre to the left, revealing a square marble slab with two handholds sunk into it. These the priest grasped, heaving the slab away to reveal a dark cavity within which a narrow stone stairway spiralled downwards into blackness.

'The Temple has many secret ways,' he said, seizing the boy's arm and guiding him into the opening, 'and this the most secret of them all. Go down the stair and follow the tunnel. Do not deviate to left or right. It will take you far out of the city, south, well beyond the Roman palisade.'

'But what about—'

'There is no time! Go! You are now the hope of our people. I name you Shomer Ha-Or. Take this name. Keep it. Have pride in it. Pass it down. God will guard you. And judge you too.'

He leant forward, kissed the boy on each cheek and then, placing his hand on his head, pushed him downwards. He heaved the marble slab back into the hole and, grasping the Menorah, scraped it across the floor, grunting with the strain. He only just had time to get it back in position before there were cries from the far end of the hall, and the ring of clashing blades. Eleazar the Goldsmith staggered backwards through the entrance, one arm hanging limp at his side, a bloody stump where his hand had been, his other hand clutching his hammer with which he swung madly at a wall of legionaries coming after him. For a moment he managed to hold them at bay. Then, with a roar, they rushed forward and he was overpowered, stumbling backwards onto the floor where his limbs were hacked off and his body trampled.

'Yahweh!' he screamed. 'Yahweh!'

The High Priest watched, his face expressionless, then turned away, taking a handful of incense and casting it onto the coals of the golden altar. A cloud of perfumed steam spiralled upwards into the air. Behind him he could hear the Romans approaching, their iron-shod boots clinking on the floor, the rattle of their armour echoing around the walls.

'The Lord has become like an enemy,' he whispered, repeating the words of the Prophet Jeremiah. 'He has destroyed Israel; he has destroyed all its palaces, laid in ruins its strongholds.'

The Romans were at his back now. He closed his eyes. There was laughter, and the soft whoosh of a sword being raised high into the air. For a moment Time seemed to stand still; then the sword was driven downwards, drilling between the High Priest's shoulder blades and right the way through his body. He staggered forward and slumped to his knees.

'In Babylon let it rest!' he coughed, blood bubbling from the corners of his mouth. 'In Babylon, in the house of Abner.'

And with that he crashed face down at the foot of the great Menorah, dead. The legionaries kicked away his corpse, hefted the Temple treasures onto their shoulders and carried them from the sanctuary.

'Vicerunt Romani! Victi Iudaei! Vivat Titus!'
they cried. 'Rome has conquered! The Jews are defeated! Long live Titus!'

Yitzhak Edelstein hugged his striped work fatigues around him and blew onto his hands, which had turned purple with the cold. Leaning forward, he tried to peer out of the back of the truck but could see little beneath the low canvas flap other than damp tarmac, tree-trunks and the bumper of the truck behind. He turned and pressed his face to a rip in the side of the canvas, briefly glimpsing steep, tree-covered slopes, white with snow, before a rifle butt banged into his ankle.

'Face forward. Sit still.'

He straightened and peered down at his feet, sockless, thrust into battered boots, scant protection against the freezing winter weather. Beside him the rabbi had started coughing again, his frail body trembling as though someone was shaking him. Yitzhak took the old man's hands between his own and rubbed them, trying to impart some warmth.

'Leave it,' snapped the guard.

'But he's—'

'Are you deaf? I said leave it.'

He levelled his gun at Yitzhak. The old man withdrew his hands.

'Don't you worry about me, my young friend. Us rabbis are a lot tougher than you think.'

He smiled weakly and they lapsed into silence, eyes fixed on the floor, shivering, swaying into one another as the truck turned this way and that.

There were six of them, excluding the two guards: four Jews, one homosexual, one communist. They had been herded from the camp and into the truck at dawn and had been driving ever since, east and south, Yitzhak thought, although he couldn't be sure. Initially the land had been flat and damp, the road straight. For the past hour, however, they had been winding steadily upwards, the pastures and forests gradually turning white with snow. There was another truck behind theirs, with a driver and one other man in the cab. No prisoners in the back, so far as Yitzhak could tell.

He ran his hand over his shaved head – even after four years he still couldn't get used to the feel – and, clasping his hands between his thighs and hunching his shoulders, tried to let his mind drift, fighting off the cold and hunger with thoughts of warmer and better times. Family dinners at their house in Dresden; Mishnah studies at the old
yeshiva;
the joy of the Holy days, especially Hanukkah, the festival of lights, his favourite of all the commemorative feasts. And of course Rivka, beautiful Rivka, his little sister. 'Yitzi, schmitzy, itzy bitzy!' she had used to chant, flicking at his
pe'ot,
tugging the tassles of his
tallit katan.
'Yitzi, witzy, mitzy, ditzy!' How funny she had been with her tangle of coal-black hair and flaming eyes! How wilful and naughty! 'You pigs!' she had screamed when they had dragged their father out into the street and cut off his side curls. 'You filthy, dirty pigs!' For which they had ripped out hunks of her hair, pushed her against a wall and shot her.

Thirteen years old, and so beautiful. Poor Rivka. Poor little Rivka.

The truck hit a rut and jumped violently, jerking him back to the present. Glancing out of the back, he saw that they were passing through a large village. He craned his neck and through the rip in the canvas caught sight of a signpost beside the road: Berchtesgaden. The name sounded vaguely familiar, although he couldn't place it.

'Face forward,' growled the guard. 'I won't tell you again.'

They drove for another thirty minutes, the road climbing ever more steeply, the bends getting ever tighter, until eventually there was a sharp toot from the truck behind and they pulled over.

'Out!' ordered the guards, jabbing at them with their guns.

They struggled from the truck, billows of steam ballooning from their mouths. They were in the middle of a thick pine forest, parked in a lay-by beside an old stone building with empty windows and a caved-in roof. Far below, between snow-laden branches, patches of green pasture were visible, with houses here and there, small as toys, curls of smoke rising from their chimneys. Above, heavily wooded slopes ran steeply upwards, disappearing into a haze of mist and cloud within which a deeper darkness suggested high mountains. It was very quiet, and very, very cold. Yitzhak stamped his feet to stop them going numb.

The second truck had pulled in behind theirs. Leaning from the window, the man in the passenger seat, who wore a high-collared leather coat and seemed to be in overall charge, said something to one of the guards, motioning with his hand.

'Right,' shouted the guard, 'get over here.'

They were herded round to the back of the second truck. The canvas flap was thrown up, revealing a large wooden crate.

'Get it out! Come on! Hurry!'

Yitzhak and the communist, an emaciated middle-aged man with a red triangle sewn onto the leg of his trousers – Yitzhak wore overlapping yellow triangles to denote that he was a Jew – clambered into the truck and grasped the sides of the crate. It was heavy, and it took both of them just to shunt it across the metal floor and get it level with the tail-board. The others then took hold of it, and slowly they manhandled it onto the icy road.

'No, no, no!' shouted the man in the coat, leaning from the cab window. 'They carry it. There.' He pointed past the ruined building to where a narrow avenue of virgin snow ran upwards into the trees above, presumably some sort of road or track. 'And make sure they're careful with it!'

The prisoners looked at one another, silently communicating their fear and exhaustion, then bent down and, slowly, heaved the crate up again, one on each corner, two in the middle, grunting with the strain.

'This is going to be bad,' mumbled the communist. 'This is going to be very bad.'

They started into the forest, feet sinking into the snow up to their calves. The guards and the man in the leather coat followed, although Yitzhak dared not look round for fear of losing his balance. In front of him the rabbi was coughing violently.

'Let me take a little of the weight,' Yitzhak whispered. 'I am strong. It is easy for me.'

'You're a liar, Yitzhak,' croaked the old man. 'And a bad one at that.'

'Shut up!' cried one of the guards behind them. 'No talking.'

They staggered onwards, grunting with exertion, skin burning with the cold. The track, which had initially followed a fold in the land, rising reasonably gently, now began to climb at a harsher gradient, coiling upwards through the trees, switching back on itself, the snow getting ever deeper. On one particularly steep section the homosexual lost his footing and stumbled, causing the crate to lurch forwards and smash against a tree-trunk, its top left-hand corner cracking and splintering.

'Idiot!' screamed the man in the leather coat. 'Get him up!'

The guards waded forward and hoisted the man to his feet, forcing him to heave the crate back onto his shoulders.

'My shoe,' he pleaded, indicating his left boot, which had somehow come off and was lying half-buried in the snow.

The guards laughed and, kicking the boot away, ordered them all to get moving again.

'God help him,' whispered the rabbi. 'God help the poor boy.'

Up and up they climbed, higher and higher, gasping and groaning, every step seeming to suck a little bit more life out of them, until eventually, at a point when Yitzhak felt that he must surely drop and die, the track suddenly came level and emerged from the trees into what looked like an abandoned quarry cut deep into the hillside. At the same moment the clouds above them drew back, revealing a huge mountain rearing overhead with, far away to the right, a small building perched on the edge of a cliff. The vision lasted only a few seconds and was then lost again behind a heavy curtain of mist, disappearing so quickly that Yitzhak wondered whether he had not just imagined it in his exhaustion and despair.

'Over there,' shouted the man in the leather coat. 'Into the mine!'

At the back of the quarry rose a vertical rock-face, in the centre of which gaped a doorway, wide and black, like a screaming mouth. They stumbled towards it, past heaps of snow-covered rock and slag, a broken winching device and an upturned cart with a single rusted wheel, picking their way carefully over the uneven ground. As they reached the opening Yitzhak noticed the words GLÜCK AUF crudely scratched into the rock above its lintel, and beneath it, in white paint, no bigger than the size of half a thumb, the legend SW16.

'Go on! Inside! Take it in!'

They did as they were told, bending their knees and backs so as not to smash the crate on the low ceiling. One of the guards produced a torch and shone it ahead into the blackness, revealing a long corridor running back into the hillside, supported at regular intervals by wooden props. Iron rails ran along the flat stone floor; the walls were rough and uneven, hewn out of the bare grey rock, with here and there thick veins of orangey-pink crystal exploding through the stone like forks of lightning across a dark sky. Abandoned tools lay scattered on the ground – a rusted oil lamp, a pick-axe head, an old tin bucket – giving the place an eerie, abandoned feel.