The Lost Catacomb (10 page)
By now they had reached Bruno
’
s car and stood for a moment in the street before he
opened the door.
The usual crowds
of people lingered in the nearby piazza and adjoining alleyways.
The ghetto was a popular nightspot, with
restaurants and outdoor caf
é
s
that catered to a young, mostly native Italian crowd.
The sound of laughter, animated
conversation, and the clinking of silverware and glasses made them forget, if
only fleetingly, that a more solemn occasion had brought them here this
evening.
“
By
the way,
”
Bruno
continued,
“
my
mother
’
s older
brother didn
’
t
accompany them to Switzerland.
He'd
been ill for several years with tuberculosis and had finally been sent to a
sanatorium somewhere in the Dolomite Mountains several months before the Racial
Laws were passed.
I think he used a
false name when he was admitted as a patient.
At least that
’
s what my mother recalls.
It was assumed in those days that your
future employment prospects were seriously compromised if it were known you
’
d spent time in one of
those places.
Hence the need for
secrecy, even before they knew it would save his life.
“
At
any rate, no one in the facility knew that he was Jewish.
Or if they suspected it, they kept their
mouths shut.
He stayed there until
the war was over, by which time he
’
d
been cured, and later rejoined the rest of his family when they returned to
Italy.
”
“
How
terrible,
”
Nicola
said.
“
But at least they all survived and found each other
again.
”
“
True,
”
Bruno agreed.
“
Many
didn
’
t, and many
could tell you stories equally unusual or almost miraculous.
My father actually hid on Tiberina
Island, in the Fatebenefratelli Hospital, right smack in the middle of the
Tiber, practically across the street from the ghetto.
He was disguised as a patient.
When the Gestapo came, they overlooked
him.
No papers, no I.D.
They couldn
’
t prove who he was or wasn
’
t, and left him there.
“
Apparently
the nurses had had some warning about when the Germans would arrive, so they
’
d given him something
to make him vomit uncontrollably.
Not very pleasant, but no one wanted to take a closer look at him, and that
was probably what saved him.
This
may surprise you
—
or
even shock you
—
but
some Jews even hid in the local lunatic asylum when they couldn
’
t find shelter anywhere
else.
That
’
s how desperate the situation was.
”
An amused look suddenly animated his features.
“
I
can
’
t believe that
I almost forgot this, but many of the patients in the hospital had what the
doctors called
‘
K
’
s disease.
’”
“‘
K
’
s disease
’
?
”
Nicola asked in puzzlement.
“
I
’
ve never heard of it
.
”
Bruno smiled wryly.
“
Kappler
’
s disease.
It was what had brought many of the
patients to the hospital in the first place.
Kappler was the head of the Gestapo in
Rome.
I guess some people are
always able to find humor even in the worst of situations.
”
Nicola nodded and sighed.
“
Thank
God, none of my family had to go through anything like that.
I
’
ve told you that my grandmother was Italian and grew
up in Rome, but like all good Catholics she didn
’
t suffer the way your relatives did during the
German occupation.
Or at least I
don
’
t think she
did.
“
It
’
s funny, though,
”
Nicola reflected
aloud.
“
She never talks about the war.
I think she might have been an only
child, born to my great grandparents at a time when they
’
d almost despaired of ever having children.
“
My
grandfather
—
my
very handsome and dashing American grandfather, I might add,
”
she said, her eyes
lighting up,
“
was
here with the Allied forces and whisked her away to the United States at the
end of the war.
I really don
’
t know anything about
any relatives she might have left behind in Rome or elsewhere in Italy, for
that matter.
As I
’
ve said, that
’
s the one subject she
won
’
t speak of
with me
—
that
she actually refuses to talk about.
“
I
sometimes think it
’
s
like being an adopted child.
You
know you have birth parents, and perhaps siblings, somewhere out there, but you
don
’
t search for
them out of deference to your adoptive family.
Although, I must admit, I
’
ve begun to fantasize
recently about unearthing the long buried truth about my Italian roots.
”
“
Her
personal history certainly sounds very romantic,
”
Bruno commented,
“
being rescued by a knight in shining armor, so to
speak.
And she was very lucky, I
think, to have been spared the difficulties of living in post-war Italy.
“
As
for my extended family, many of whom survived the war, some hid in various
convents or monasteries throughout the city.
But, you know, it wasn
’
t all sweetness and
light or acts of charity.
Some Jews
actually had to pay for room and board or they were asked to leave the places
that took them in.
”
Nicola looked at him in surprise.
“
That
’
s unbelievable,
”
she remarked.
“
Anyway,
tomorrow, if you like, I
’
ll
show you one of the most famous places that sheltered Jews during the war,
although I
’
m sure
you
’
ve been there
before
—
the
Palazzo Lateranense, near the Basilica of San Giovanni in Laterano.
I thought we could also have a look at
the bronze pillars in the north transept of the church.
“
There
’
s an interesting legend
about them that I came across in a medieval chronicle I found in Italian
translation recently.
It
’
s called
The Travels
of Benjamin of Tudela
.
It seems
that the writer was from Spain and traveled extensively in Europe and Asia,
which was rather unusual in those days.
He mentions that the pillars were believed to have come from the Temple of
Solomon and that they release beads of moisture, almost like tears, on the
Ninth of Av.
“
Incidentally,
the other, competing legend is that the pillars are actually gilded wood taken
from one of Cleopatra
’
s
ships and brought as booty to Rome,
”
he added mischievously.
“
You can take your pick.
”
Nicola carefully eased the scroll out of the amphora.
It was made of heavy parchment and tied
with what appeared to be a silken cord, whose original indigo color, she
conjectured, had apparently faded long ago to a pale blue.
She remembered that there was some type
of shellfish from which dark blue dyes were produced in ancient times.
Heavily scented bits of spices fell out
of the clay vessel as she lifted the scroll. Cloves and some sort of sweet
smelling resin, reminiscent of embalming ingredients, she thought.
Perhaps they had helped to preserve the
document, but she was still terrified that it would crumble to fragments and
dust in her hands.
This was their third visit to the catacombs that week, and
while Nicola had given up on the rather lurid idea of opening the sarcophagi,
at least for the moment, she had systematically inspected every block of
tufa
near each of the
loculi
, pressing on them painstakingly from various
angles, attempting to move them as gently and carefully as possible so as not
to disturb the integrity of the crypt.
Maybe a loose brick masked a secret niche, she insisted, and might hold
the key to the puzzling iconography of the two elaborate, yet anonymous,
graves.
Bruno had been skeptical that her efforts would bear fruit,
but as he soon realized, Nicola was determined to leave no stone unturned,
quite literally, in her search for anything that might be helpful.
Finally that morning, after several
hours of persistent work, one of the bricks had in fact swung inward, revealing
the hidden amphora which she now held in her hands.
“
Bruno, can
you move the light a bit closer, please?
”
she
asked.
“
Not too
close.
Okay, that
’
s
fine.
I don
’
t know
whether the heat will affect the parchment.
The writing seems to be legible, but I
have no idea yet what type of ink was used and how susceptible it might be to a
drastic change in temperature or light.
”
Sitting down on a collapsible stool, she began to unroll
the parchment scroll, exposing a wide column of dense script, apparently in
Latin.
She began to peruse it, then
nearly dropped it in shock.
“
My God,
Bruno!
Look at this!
”
she
exclaimed.
He moved his stool
closer to hers, and they began to read.
“
I
write this scroll in secret, by candlelight, in a small hidden cellar that few
know of, now that the others have finally gone to sleep in their cells. I have
left my narrow room and returned to the place where, several days ago, I hid a
sufficient length of parchment and as many quills and pots of ink as I could
safely remove unnoticed from the scribal hall, carrying them beneath my
robes.
Above all, I fear
discovery by those who have already silenced our most sainted Father, the
Bishop of Rome.
They will not
hesitate to contrive my disappearance if they know I suspect anything.
“
O
’
my beloved
Pope, what have they done to you?
And all because you dared to love a Jewess, the mater synagogus,
Mariamne, who came to you to plead for her people.
Who could have known that you were being
pressured, against your better wisdom, into decreeing ever-greater taxes for
the Jews of Rome?
And who could
have known that the archisynagogi, the heads of the Jewish synagogue, would
send such an articulate spokesman, in the earthly guise of a wise, young, and
beautiful woman, to argue their case and persuade you otherwise?
“
But
I ramble, and I must record the events more rationally and quickly, for perhaps
little time remains.
“
The
council of bishops, greedy and ever eager to fill the coffers of the Church,
prevailed upon the Pope to decree a new tax, to be paid twice a year by the
Jewish communities of Rome.
Already
heavily taxed by the Church, they sent delegates from each of their eleven local
synagogues, including the congregation in the port city of Ostia, to beg him to
rescind the order.
Their chief
representative, their spokesman, was a comely young woman, as yet unmarried,
named Mariamne Rufina, who argued eloquently on behalf of her fellow Jews.
“
The
Holy Father dismissed all observers from the room, sending out the small group
of powerful bishops who had brought this situation about.
I alone was left in the room with him,
for I have long been his confidant and sincere friend, as he gave the young
woman a chance to further plead her case, for it was not seemly that the Bishop
of Rome should be behind closed doors with any woman, no matter what her
age.
And in this case, even I,
steadfastly sworn to a life of celibacy and chastity
—
I too was dazzled by the beauty of her face and mien, and
by the rhetorical wit and wisdom of her tongue.
I could see him warm to her arguments
and finally agree to a postponement of the decree.
“
It
was fateful decision that was to cost him his life.
“
The
following week, the Holy Father sent me as his messenger to the home of young
Mariamne, requesting her presence at the papal court.
Again, I remained in the room as the
Pope questioned the young woman about her family, her education
—
for one as articulate as she could not but be well schooled
—
and then he asked about the religious practices of her
people.
Parrying back and forth,
their conversation was almost like a theological disputation, in which both
sides argued admirably and no side would concede defeat.
“
And
then the Holy Father promised to show her something that would convince her of
the Church
’
s superiority to the Synagogue
—
treasures of such immense value that God Himself would not
have allowed the Church to be possessed of them were it not worthy of
such.
These treasures were hidden
away, and only a handful of people, he told her, knew of their existence.
“
It
was the first time I had learned of the existence of these artifacts, which I
now know to be spoils taken by Roman legionnaires from the destroyed Temple in
Jerusalem.
“
She
saw them.
She pleaded once more
—
this time for their return to the Jewish people, whose
rightful owners she claimed they were.
And as before, her eloquence
and beauty won the day . . .
“
I
must be brief.
There are footsteps
in the corridor outside my hiding place.
He died the next day, suddenly
—
murdered,
I believe, by poison placed in the sacramental wine at Holy
Communion.
I have no concrete proof, apart from some whispered conversations, some
covert glances as his body was removed from the chapel, and the spilling of the
remaining wine from the chalice onto the cold stone floor, as if by accident,
after the Pope had drunk.
“
I
do not know how they knew.
I do not
know how they heard.
Perhaps, just
as I have discovered this secret hiding place in which I now record the most
heinous murder in all of Christendom, they have discovered a way to eavesdrop
on the secret counsels of the Pope.
“
He
is to be buried quietly tomorrow, but not in the usual crypt designated for the
Bishops of Rome.
They have not said
why, only that it is to be so.
I
have been told I may attend, for we were as close as brothers.
“
I
will be silent, observing the others even as I weep.
G-d grant that someday someone will find
this scroll and learn the truth.
G-d grant that somehow I will live
‘
til the
morrow to bury this with him.
“
Requiescat
in pacem, my dear Father.
Rest,
rest in eternal peace.
”
Nicola looked up at Bruno, her eyes glistening with
tears.
They sat silently for
several minutes, staring at the parchment scroll, stunned by this discovery
which had the power to move them, unaccountably, centuries after it had
transpired.
Wiping away a tear that had rolled down her cheek, Nicola
now turned to Bruno.
“
What can
we do?
Whom can we tell?
”
she
asked.
“
This is
awful!
We have to do
some
thing!
Maybe we should arrange for a
pathologist to test the remains for poison, assuming that we can find the body.
”
“
Slow down,
”
Bruno
advised, as he tried to analyze the repercussions of their discovery.
“
We need to think this through carefully. If the scroll is
what it appears to be, the scandal would be terrible. The murder of this
unnamed pope is one thing, but the possibility that the Church had the Temple
treasures at some point in time could be terribly embarrassing to the Vatican.
”
Nicola blew her nose and pocketed the tissue she had
used.
“
Well,
maybe we should start by trying to figure out just who was murdered.
There are no names mentioned here
—
not
the pope
’
s, not that of his close friend.
Just that of the young woman, Mariamne
Rufina.
“
You know,
Bruno,
”
she
suddenly gasped in surprise, turning towards him,
“
maybe this
first grave is hers.
The initials M
and R appear on the plaque, and there
’
s a fresco of a seated woman.
Remember that we thought the grave
marker was a bit strange?
This sort
of tomb usually isn
’
t anonymous.
There are always names, occupations, some indication of social position,
dates, whose spouse the person was, or how many children were left behind.
Some
thing.
“
And
remember how we couldn
’
t figure out if a man or woman was buried in the second
sarcophagus?
”
she
went on almost feverishly.
“
Well, I
think we have our answer now.
It
must have been the pope who loved this woman Mariamne.
My God, I bet she was murdered by the
same people who got rid of him for daring to love her.
”
“
Or for
daring to consider relinquishing the Temple treasures,
”
Bruno
interjected.
“
We can
’
t ignore
that possibility.
Maybe a double
motive.
How can we be sure?
”
Nicola now interrupted him, her thoughts almost
outstripping the speed at which she spoke.
“
Some of the symbols were definitely Jewish on the gold
glasses.
A Star of David, a
candelabrum, a Torah scroll.
Or
what looks like one.
Maybe the
Torah scroll wasn
’
t meant to be a Torah scroll at all.
Just a regular one.
Maybe that was supposed to be a hint at
what to look for.
