The Lost Catacomb (45 page)
“
It
is
a museum,
Nicola,
”
Bruno
said in shock as he approached one of the display cases.
“
Look!
Everything is labeled.
Even the paintings have explanatory
plaques near them in two languages
—
German
and Italian,
”
he
showed her as he moved closer to one of the walls.
‘
From
the private collection of the David-Weill family, France, 1943,
’ ”
he read aloud.
“
And there
’
s even some sort of
primitive climate control equipment,
”
Nicola gasped in wonderment, pointing to the ceiling.
“
Here, in the
catacombs!
My God, what is this
place supposed to be?
”
she
exclaimed, turning to Bruno.
His
features hardened as he answered her.
“
I think we
’
ve found the location
of the stolen artifacts that Matt was looking for.
But this isn
’
t just a hoard of Greek or Iberian objects,
Nicola.
Look at all these oils,
”
and he pointed towards
a series of paintings that were clearly by Monet and Sisley.
“
They
look like the so-called degenerate art that the Nazis expropriated throughout
Europe, mainly from private Jewish collectors and Jewish-owned art galleries.
“
I think we
’
ve found something
similar to the Museum of Dead Nations that the Nazis had planned to build
before they lost the war.
”
She
looked at Bruno and stammered,
“
‘
Museum of . . .
’
What on earth are you talking
about, Bruno?
”
His
dark eyes narrowed and he began to explain, an edge of unmistakable anger to
his words.
“
There
’
s
a lot of documentation about a Museum of Dead Nations that the Nazis intended
to construct to commemorate the elimination of the Jews and Jewish culture. The
Poles were also going to be
‘
memorialized
’
there, so to speak, as
well as the Gypsies and their culture.
“
Look at what
’
s been stored here all
these years,
”
he
said with a sweeping gesture.
“
And not just stored
—
this has been
carefully organized, down to the last detail.
There are Impressionist oil paintings,
old Dutch masters, and look over there,
”
he said, pointing to another wall.
“
Those are
some Italian pieces that could be by Tiepolo.
That one is definitely something by
Giotto.
I
’
ve never even seen a description or mention of any
of these works anywhere.
They must
have come from private collections all over Europe that were never open to
public view.
And all of these must
have been owned by dead Jews,
”
he added with bitterness.
“
Just look at these gold
and silver Torah accessories, the ritual ornaments, and all of these
illuminated manuscripts in Hebrew.
”
He walked over to one of the
glass-encased
loculi
.
“
There are about twenty
Torah pointers on exhibit here.
Like the one we found at the Vigna Randanini.
“
I think this must have
been some sort of major storage point for the Nazis.
And they obviously had someone helping
them here in Rome.
Someone whose
initials were
‘
M.R.,
’”
he said in
disgust.
“
All of those crates that were on the inventory list
of items shipped to Catholic Charities International must have been transferred
here.
It
’
s the only credible explanation.
And his illustrious Eminence, Cardinal
Mauro Rostoni, appears to be the maker of this museum.
”
“
So he wasn
’
t just a Fascist
sympathizer,
”
Nicola
said with undisguised hatred in her voice.
“
He actually colluded with the Germans in stealing
Jewish property.
I guess that
’
s why it
’
s all here, and not in
the Vatican.
Clearly he was working
independently and not for the Church.
This must be part of some larger conspiracy.
”
She
began to pace back and forth, rapidly surveying the artifacts.
“
What
could he possibly have intended to do with this collection?
”
she went on
angrily.
“
Maybe he was hoping
—
maybe he
’
s still hoping
—
that some sort of Fourth Reich will be established
and that he
’
ll be
celebrated for amassing this priceless collection of stolen art.
”
“
You're probably
right.
And I guess that also means
that he was somehow responsible for that revolting antechamber of horrors back
there,
”
Bruno
added in repugnance, pointing in the direction of the crypt with the frozen
Nazi cadavers.
“
He had to have known
about it. There's no other possible explanation.
”
Nicola,
in the meantime, had walked over to the largest display case in the center of the
room and read the sign aloud:
“
Religious artifacts
from the dead community of Corfu.
Torah scrolls, embroidered velvet Torah covers,
Rimmonim
,
shofars
,
and silver Torah crowns, ca. 1432, originating in Spain.
”
“
How about this one?
”
Bruno asked.
“
It
has full-page illuminated Bible manuscripts, Passover
Haggadahs,
and the
Mishnah Torah
of Maimonides.
‘
Microcalligraphy,
Mudjar style, 14
th
century, dead community of Marrano Jews,
Portugal.
From the Greek archives
of the Beit Sfarad Synagogue of Crete.
’
And here
’
s
another, with lusterware
Seder
plates and silver wine goblets.
‘
Dead
Jewish community of Thessaloniki, Greece, 1942.
’”
As
they moved from exhibit to exhibit, they found to their increasing horror that
each commemorated a different Jewish group that had been exterminated during
the Second World War.
“
You realize the
significance of what we
’
ve
found, don
’
t you,
Nicola?
The Museum of Dead Nations
is still alive and kicking.
”
Continuing
to walk around the vast chamber, overwhelmed by the sheer number of artifacts
on display, they suddenly noticed a narrow doorway leading to a smaller
gallery.
It had been barely visible
between the crowded array of paintings and art objects, and they had nearly
overlooked it.
At its center, there
stood a massive silver
Menorah
nearly five feet tall.
Encased in glass and resting on a low
mahogany stand, it almost touched the ceiling of the catacomb.
Ornate and elaborately embossed, with
inscriptions in both Ladino and Hebrew, it had probably been intended for the
lighting of
Hanukkah
candles in some underground place of worship, far
from the watchful eyes of the Inquisition.
“
Look, Nicola,
”
Bruno said as he
opened the glass doors to examine the inscriptions on the
Menorah
.
“
This
was apparently owned by Greek descendents of a Marrano family.
Their name appears on the candelabrum
itself, with the dates of their flight from Lisbon and their subsequent arrival
in Thessaloniki.
And instead
of the traditional reference to the miracle of the holiday, it quotes some lines
about God
’
s
vengeance
—‘
For
the blood of His servants He will avenge, and the land will atone for His
nation.
’
That
’
s a loose translation, more or less, from
Deuteronomy.
“
But this is even more
peculiar,
”
he went
on, mystified by what he saw as he continued to survey the object.
“
The
Menorah
doesn
’
t
have the usual cup-like receptacles for oil and wicks.
It has actual candleholders, with tall
heavy spikes to stabilize the tapers.
This is extremely rare, at least
for that period of time,
”
he added, reaching up tentatively, on tiptoe, to touch one of the thick
spikes, whose razor-sharp tip nearly pierced his latex gloves.
Next
he walked over to a display of silver wine goblets, anchored in the center by
an unusually large Cup of Elijah, a ceremonial chalice that was traditionally
used at the Passover
Seder
.
Opening the showcase, Bruno picked it up, turning it over in both hands
to inspect the beautiful engravings and Hebrew lettering.
“
Wow!
This is even heavier than it looks,
”
he said in surprise, and he replaced it, for the moment, on a nearby
table.
“
What does the
inscription say?
”
Nicola
asked.
“
On the cup?
It quotes a prayer from the Passover
Haggadah
,
asking God to pour out His wrath on the nations that have tried to destroy the
Jewish people throughout every generation.
I guess that the two quotations, here and on the
Menorah
, must
have been a response to the terrible persecutions of the Spanish Inquisition.
“
You know, it
’
s pretty ironic that
both of these ritual objects, with these specific quotations, should have wound
up here, in this . . . well, I guess we can call it a branch of the Museum of
Dead Nations.
A museum obviously
intended, by none other than Cardinal Rostoni,
”
he said with loathing,
“
to venerate the Nazi dream of total eradication of
the Jews.
”
Nicola
stared at him in incredulity, her eyes now blazing with anger.
“
I
can
’
t believe that
all of this has been here since . . . what? . . . the 1940s, and no one knew to
look for it. We have to tell someone about this.
We have to call Father Benedetto.
Or maybe go to the newspapers.
This needs to be exposed.
And so does Rostoni
’
s collusion with the
Nazis.
”
“
I don
’
t think so,
”
growled a low voice
behind them suddenly.
They whirled
around in shock to see a dark shape with a gun, standing between the display
cases.
“
So, I see that you
’
ve found out our little
secret,
”
said
Luciano with a sinister smirk as he moved towards them, a Glock pointed at them
menacingly.
“
You,
”
he motioned to Bruno
with his free arm,
“
over
there, to the right, near the wall.
And as for you, bitch, you
’
re
not going to expose anything to anyone.
”
He lunged forward and grabbed
Nicola
’
s arm,
pointing the gun at her head.
“
One false move and you
’
re dead.
”
“
My God, it
’
s one of the librarians
from the Secret Archives,
”
Nicola breathed in a ragged voice.
“
How every clever of you
to notice,
”
Luciano
said contemptuously.
He twisted
Nicola
’
s arm
behind her, and she cried out in pain.
Moving with measured steps towards
Bruno, he thrust Nicola in front of himself, for protection.
“
And now, before I kill
you both, whom else have you told about this place?
Remember,
”
he said, prodding Nicola roughly with the gun,
“
I can make this very
quick, or very painful.
Your
choice.
”
An hour earlier, two motorcyclists had pulled over to the
side of the road, near the bored
carabinieri
.
Both were dressed entirely in black,
though one appeared to be substantially younger than the other, who was paunchy
and silver-haired beneath his dark helmet.
The two had trailed Nicola and Bruno on their Vespas from a discreet
distance as they
’
d made their way to the catacombs.
Ever since his arrival in Rome, Josef had followed Bruno
and Nicola, overseeing the surveillance of Bruno
’
s
apartment, and one of his associates had placed a small but sophisticated
tracking device on the bottom of the rented Smart Car after Bruno had parked it
down the block late that afternoon.
Unknown to Bruno, his green Brava had had a similar device attached to
the underside of its front bumper the previous week, and his movements had been
traced ever since.
“
I think we
’
re lost,
”
Josef said
innocently, as he dismounted the Vespa and pulled out a map to show the
policemen.
“
We need to
find . . .
”
And
as the
carabinieri
pored over the map
—
relieved
to have something to occupy them
—
Josef backed away quietly.
In a flash, Luciano approached, held his
breath, and sprayed something oddly sweet-smelling directly onto their
surprised faces.
“
The
halothane should work for the next four hours, at least,
”
Josef
said, holding his breath as he grabbed the canister from his companion and
quickly sprayed the
carabinieri
’
s faces once more, for good measure.
“
I
’
ll stay here to keep an eye out for trouble.
You go into the catacombs.
Try to find where the woman and the Jew
have gone and why.
”
Luciano
handed him his helmet, and Josef hung it on one of the Vespas, together with
his own.
As Luciano moved rapidly towards the entrance to the Vigna
Randanini, he tripped over a pile of rocks, and the small canister of
anesthetic slipped unnoticed out of his pocket, dropping with a muffled thud
onto a soft pile of fallen leaves.
Finding the door to the catacombs unlocked, he entered, and
using a diagram provided by Giovanni easily made his way to the disputed
hypogeum
.
Using the stool that had been left
there, he climbed through the gaping hole in the wall, slipping and landing
abruptly on all fours on the floor of the tunnel.
He cried out in pain and flashed his
light onto the bottom of the passageway, where he saw that he had cut himself
on a pile of jagged marble shards that had managed to pierce his black leather
gloves.
He removed the gloves and
wiped his bleeding hands on his dark sweatpants, swearing under his breath, and
then made his way down the corridor, limping slightly, as he followed the
luminous yellow twine towards the secret catacomb and its stolen treasures.
“
So,
”
Luciano
gloated, a note of triumph in his voice as he tightened his hold on Nicola
’
s arm and
aimed the Glock at her head,
“
you seem to have discovered our little secret.
Too bad no one will ever know about it.
”
Suddenly Bruno sprang towards the gun and knocked it out of
Luciano
’
s hands, grappling him to the ground and punching him
repeatedly as the Glock went spinning to the other side of the room.
“
Run,
Nicola,
”
he
cried, but she cowered in fear behind a display case that glittered in the now
flickering overhead lights, seemingly unable to move.
Finally she pulled herself together,
smashed the glass with a well-aimed kick, and removed a large twisted ram
’
s horn,
brandishing it tightly in her hand as she ran towards Bruno and Luciano.
The two men thrashed around the floor, barely
distinguishable from each other in their black clothing, knocking over tables
and glass-encased exhibits, which crashed to the ground, disgorging their
precious contents everywhere.
Bruno broke free momentarily and dashed towards the doorway
to the
hypogeum
where the ghoulish Nazi cadavers were displayed.
Shouting a string of obscenities,
Luciano sprinted after him and disappeared through the arch, with Nicola
following at a slight distance.
Amid muffled sounds of grunts and punches, the two men crashed over and
over again against the coffin-like cases, ripping and dislodging the wiring
from the generator that had kept the cryonic system working for more than half
a century.
The reinforced glass
began to crack and then shattered, releasing the coolant, which now leaked and
sloshed onto the broad stone floor, flooding the chamber in a rush of
vile-smelling effluvia.
Slipping on the thick, viscous liquid, Bruno and Luciano
skidded and rolled towards an open doorway that led to yet another wide stone
staircase, and the lights suddenly went out.
Nicola could hear a series of loud thuds
and thumps as the two men fell down the stairwell and, turning on her
flashlight, she waded cautiously through the slimy fluid towards the steps.
Heart pounding in her throat, she heard some muted cries
followed by labored footsteps and the harsh sounds of heavy breathing.
She tucked the small flashlight into her
waistband and raised the heavy
shofar
, poised to use it as a weapon as
she backed into the adjoining gallery.
She held her breath and stood silently, praying that she
wouldn
’
t faint from terror, wondering if it was Bruno or Luciano.
The footfalls stopped for a moment and then continued, coming towards her, step
by step, slowly but relentlessly.
The tension was nearly unbearable.
Was it Bruno? Or Rostoni
’
s
thug?
She tightened her grasp on
the weapon.
Suddenly she gasped in fear as a figure emerged from the
shadows. The
shofar
fell out of her hand, shattering on the stone
floor.
It was Bruno.
“
Thank God,
”
she
whispered over and over again, trembling uncontrollably as he limped towards
her and pulled her to him wordlessly in a tight embrace.
“
Are you all right?
”
she
asked over and over again as she held him close, afraid to let go.
Tears of relief filled her eyes and slid
down her cheeks unheeded.
His black jersey was torn at the shoulder and soaked in the
foul-smelling coolant, and she saw that his left cheek was bruised a dark
purple, his face covered with a multitude of scratches and contusions.
“
I think he
’
s dead,
”
Bruno
said, ignoring her question as he took a deep gulp of air.
“
I hit him with this.
”
He held up the massive Cup of Elijah, which he had placed
on one of the tables a short while ago, instead of returning it to the display
case.
Remembering that it was
there, he had managed to grab it in a desperate maneuver as he wrestled with
Luciano.
The enormous goblet was
bent out of shape at the stem and covered with gouts of blood.
He dropped it on a nearby table,
exhausted.
“
We have to
get out of here, Nicola,
”
he
urged, holding onto her shoulder for support as he stretched, trying to limber
up his arms and legs.
“
We have to
save ourselves, but we also need to expose this.
It
’
s our only
chance of staying alive
—
if others know. We have to get to the newspapers.
To a news agency.
”
As quickly as they could manage
—
this
time with Nicola leading the way, flashlight in hand
—
they
retraced their steps through the dark tunnel that led back to the Vigna
Randanini, following the luminous yellow twine that marked the way.
The oxy lamps still shone brightly
through the opening in the wall, their flickering tongues of light enabling
Nicola to reposition the stool that Luciano had knocked over when he followed
them into the tunnel.
She
climbed onto it and hoisted herself through the aperture.
Stretching out her hand through the gap
in the wall, she helped Bruno climb through to the other side.
Now on familiar ground, they ran down the long corridor
leading away from the
hypogeum
and exited the catacombs, no longer
caring if the heavy metal door was securely closed or not.
They sprinted towards the gated entrance
of the estate and in their haste only narrowly avoided some scattered rocks and
piles of fallen leaves.
Suddenly
Nicola tripped over something in the dark.
“
What
’
s this,
Bruno?
”
she
whispered as she picked up a small metal canister and examined its label.
“
Halothane,
”
she
said softly, in puzzlement.
“
Manufactured
in Switzerland.
It sounds
familiar.
Hey, wait. Isn
’
t that an
anesthetic of some sort?
Some sort
of pulmonary or cardiac depressant?
Luciano must have used it to knock out the
carabinieri
,
”
she said,
looking in the direction of the policemen who were supposed to be protecting
the catacombs, but who had clearly collapsed onto the dashboard of their
vehicle.
She pocketed the canister and they started walking towards
their small black car.
All at once,
Bruno noticed that there were two motorcycles parked alongside the high brick
walls encircling the Marchesa
’
s property.
“
Oh, no,
”
he
groaned, looking quickly around him, but seeing no one else nearby.
“
I think there must have been two of them.
I wonder what happened to the other one.
“
But look,
they
’
ve left their keys in the ignition,
”
he said,
quickly hopping onto one of the motorbikes and looking around him once more.
“
I think it
’
ll be
safer if we split up and go separately
—
I
’
ll take one of the Vespas and you take the car.
I
’
ll go to the Reuters office in town and tell them about our
discovery.
I think the only way we
can protect ourselves from Rostoni
’
s henchmen is by exposing this immediately.
If we bring reporters, he won
’
t be able
to silence this.
The press can come
out here to take photographs and print an exclusive story in the morning.
“
You head
back to my apartment and lock yourself inside. Try to reach Father Benedetto.
”
