The Lost Catacomb (9 page)
Nowadays, the Ardeatine Caves resemble a large, impressive
park on the grounds of a well-tended country estate.
Its grass is tidily groomed, its lush
shrubbery pruned with infinite care, and a wide, white-pebbled courtyard
stretches out to welcome visitors.
A massive gate of black ironwork, like heavy lace
—
or perhaps a symbolic
crown of thorns
—
encloses
the property.
In the courtyard
itself a sculpture of heroic proportions, on a massive pedestal, dominates one
corner.
Three men, larger than
life, in pale concrete finish, are chained together
—
separate, yet forever linked.
In their unusual solidity,
reminiscent of the bulk of Botero sculptures, they are unlike the tortured,
starved figures in so many other Holocaust memorials.
One represents an artisan, another an intellectual, and the
last, an adolescent
—
for
the youngest victim of Nazi brutality here had been only fifteen years
old.
The figures face outward, as
if they would somehow stride away from this scene, which they have been fated
to commemorate for all time, detained here against their will.
To the left of the caves, an open air vault houses the
victims of the
Fosse Ardeatine
massacre, buried in orderly rows of flat
identical tombs, with bouquets of flowers in metal vases attached to the foot
of each grave.
Of the 335 bodies
that were found in the caves, 322 were ultimately identified by a forensic
specialist, Dr. Attilio Ascarelli.
Thirteen victims, however
—
thirteen
men whose families would never know for certain how or where they had perished
—
remain anonymous
to this very day.
Once a year, on March 24
th
, municipal officials in
Rome honor the dead
—
335
innocent victims murdered by the Germans on the orders of
Obersturmbannf
ü
hrer
Herbert
Kappler as retribution for a partisan attack on a group of SS soldiers on the
Via Rassella in the heart of Rome in 1944.
Ironically, the so-called German soldiers who had been killed by the
Resistenza
were actually troops from the southern Tyrol area, a section of Austria that
had at one time been annexed to Italy, a fact that was conveniently ignored by
the SS.
In a typical Nazi revision of mathematics and the logic of
accountability, Kappler had ordered that ten people be killed for every dead
German.
Massive retaliation
and collective responsibility
—
those
were the keystones of Nazi policy.
Kappler
’
s
victims, seventy-nine of them Jewish, were taken without prior warning from
where they languished in Regina Coeli prison and the torture cells of Gestapo
headquarters at the Villa Wolkonsky, many of them already the victims of bad
luck,
denuncia
, and the random misfortunes of war.
The name of the prison,
“
Queen of Heaven,
”
which had once been a monastery, was an ironic
misnomer, for conditions there were fearsome and harsh.
But even it was preferable to the fate
that awaited the victims of the massacre.
For those among them who were Catholic, the Queen of Heaven, the Holy
Virgin, would not intervene to save them, and for their Jewish compatriots
there would be no salvation either.
Under the efficient command of
Hauptsturmf
ü
hrer
Theodor
Dannecker, who had been handpicked to implement Kappler
’
s orders, the prisoners were chained together in
groups of three and taken deep into the caves, where they were given the Nazi
“
pill,
”
the final cure for all
ailments and ills
—
a
bullet in the head or neck
—
and
left to die. Assisting in this hideously conceived enterprise were
Hauptsturmf
ü
hrer
Erik Priebke
and
Standartenf
ü
hrer
Karl Hass.
The reprisal was carried out at exactly 3:30 PM, on March 24,
one day, to the minute, after the partisan attack on the Via Rassella had taken
place.
With typical German
precision, exactly sixty seconds were allotted for the execution of each
victim.
The bodies were then piled
on top of each other in layers and the entrance to the caves carefully
dynamited to destroy all evidence of the carnage.
And so this monstrous Nazi secret was
safe for a while.
Now that Nicola was actually here, she felt a surprising
twinge of guilt over her lack of effort to see the caves on any of her previous
visits to Rome.
It was as if she
had somehow failed to come up to the mark, to some sort of collective or
universally acknowledged standard of empathy that should have been there as
part of her innate moral, and even emotional, awareness.
She saw with unexpected clarity and an unsettling sense of
personal failure that each time she had passed the Ardeatine Caves and told
herself that she would visit them some day
—
but not now
—
that she had failed to acknowledge, on the
simplest and most conscious of levels, the legacy of pain that had produced this
memorial to the dead
—
pain
to which she should have felt some sort of link simply because her grandmother
was Italian, even if she knew nothing at all about Elena's past.
What was the point, Nicola thought, of all her academic
pursuits if their only goals were career advancement and what she now perceived
to be perhaps nothing more than self-indulgent intellectual gratification?
What was the point of all her knowledge about frescoes and
catacombs if there were no lesson, moral or spiritual, to be learned from them,
no deeply felt connection between the relics of the past and the people who had
created them
—
not
merely as cultural artifacts, but as evidence of the existential meaning of
their lives and deaths?
The Ardeatine Caves, she now realized, were more than a
silent tribute to the voiceless dead, conceived and executed in colorless rock
and cold, passionless stone.
Even
the tiny pebbles that comprised the approach to this place of quiet horror now
seemed, to her heightened senses, to echo, somehow, the infinite smallness of
man in an indifferent, perhaps Godless, universe.
She understood all at once, in something
strangely akin to a religious epiphany, that the catacombs and frescoes to
which she had devoted so much of her professional life were more than static
monuments to the history of vanished people and dead nations.
There was much to learn, she realized,
from Bruno's inherently felt sense of the human element that was so
inextricably bound up with his country's archaeological heritage.
“
By
the way,
”
Bruno
said, interrupting her reverie as they stood in the shadow of the huge concrete
sculpture,
“
one of
the executed men was actually betrayed to the Gestapo by a fellow Jew, a young
woman of eighteen named Celeste Di Porto, who was responsible for the deaths of
over fifty other Roman Jews.
She
had a Fascist boyfriend who arranged for her to receive a bounty for each Jew
that she turned in.
”
“
That
’
s horrible,
”
Nicola exclaimed in
disbelief.
“
Do you mean to say that she actually turned in
people she knew to the Nazis
—
for
money
—
knowing
what would happen to them?
”
“
Yes,
as shocking as it sounds, it
’
s
true.
In the case I just mentioned,
her brother had been picked up by the Gestapo after the attack on the Via
Rassella and placed on the list of those to be executed.
The young man who wound up taking his
place left a note which was later found in his prison cell, accusing her of
denouncing him.
”
“
How
tragic,
”
she said,
her eyes glistening with unexpected tears.
“
I can
’
t
even begin to imagine how terrible it must have been to live in Rome during the
war years, for Jews or gentiles.
Thank God, my grandmother left when she did.
She was one of the lucky ones, I guess,
to have escaped it all, though I really don
’
t know any of the details.
And, thank God, your family
managed to survive.
You will tell
me about it someday, won't you?
”
she begged.
It was the ninth day of the Hebrew lunar month of Av, when
Jews everywhere mourned the destruction of the first and second Holy
Temples.
For Nicola it was
difficult to understand how an event that had taken place so many thousands of
years ago could still be relevant, or why anyone would bother to commemorate it
with a fast and special prayers in synagogues world-wide.
Bruno had thought she might find it interesting to accompany
him to services at the
Tempio Maggiore
, the largest, most opulent
synagogue in Rome, given that their analysis of the new crypt seemed to require
close consideration of the ancient Jewish communities of Rome.
Despite her expertise in the history of
the early Empire, Nicola had to admit that she was not entirely conversant with
Jewish rituals or customs stemming from that period.
He picked her up at the Villa Mirafiori just after sunset,
outside the heavy iron gates, in the broad cobble-stoned driveway along the
boulevard.
It was a sultry evening
typical of Rome, hot, with a slight gust blowing through the tall treetops that
lined the Via Nomentana.
As they
pulled away from the curb, a motorcyclist who had been sitting idly on a Vespa
across the street, his features obscured by a dark helmet, lurched out of his
parking space with a sudden screech.
Zigzagging through the heavy traffic, he followed them most of the way
to the ghetto, where Bruno made a sudden turn as he spotted a parking space
near the Teatro de Marcello and the Portico d'Ottavia, with its crumbling gray
fa
ç
ade and ruined
columns.
Passing the stark memorial plaque to the Jews of Rome, who
were rounded up by the Nazis in the rainy predawn hours of
Sabato Nero
,
in October 1943, Nicola and Bruno walked over to the imposing synagogue along
Lungotevere Cenci and the Via Catalana.
A short distance away, the muddy waters of the Tiber coursed silently,
as they had for centuries, along a steep embankment bisected by gray stone
bridges.
Though Bruno and his family were not particularly
traditional, there were certain religious holidays and customs that were part
of his identity as an Italian Jew.
He did not keep the Sabbath or the dietary laws of
kashruth
, but
he had attended a Jewish elementary school as a child and knew much more than
he professed to practice.
He always
fasted on Yom Kippur and attended services on the Jewish New Year, but that was
the extent of his religious observance.
In fact, it had been many years since he had been to a synagogue on the
Ninth of Av.
Security was tight.
As Bruno had recommended, Nicola brought her passport to avoid
complications.
Carabinieri
were always posted around the synagogues
of Rome as a precaution against possible terrorist attacks, and on holidays and
the Sabbath they were joined by special security guards employed by the Jewish
community itself to question and check anyone who wished to enter the premises.
The security guards knew precisely what to look for
—
the bulging
pockets, the capacious raincoat or jacket worn inappropriately in hot weather,
the thick waistline that might hide a belt of explosives, a wire protruding
from a sleeve, an uneasy manner or heavy breathing, or perhaps a nervous tic of
the eye.
Any or all of these,
coupled with a Middle Eastern, swarthy appearance could signal trouble. The
profiling here in the ghetto had paid off and had quietly quashed several
incidents whose details had never reached the newspapers in Rome, let alone the
ever-eager lenses of TV cameramen and reporters.
Nicola placed her handbag in an outdoor locker, and Bruno
pocketed the key for safekeeping as they entered the building.
It was a large, impressive structure,
set back from the street in a paved courtyard surrounded by a tall wrought-iron
fence.
From afar, its pale concrete
fa
ç
ade looked
almost like marble, with tall stained glass windows interspersed with Doric and
Ionic pilasters.
The building
appeared to have some Iberian, or perhaps Moorish, architectural inspiration,
though all the tour books Nicola had read claimed an Assyrian-Babylonian
influence.
Groups of tall
palm trees waved their leafy fronds in the evening breeze, augmenting the
exotic effect.
The high-ceilinged interior had a mosaic-tiled floor, whose
intricate black and white designs were inlaid here and there with pale red and
ocher.
Ornate brass chandeliers
hung everywhere, and the dark wooden benches that filled the sanctuary were
comfortably upholstered, with built-in shelves for prayer books.
As in all traditional synagogues, the men sat separately from
the women.
On the Sabbath, the main
floor of the
Tempio
was reserved for the men, while the women occupied
the upper balcony. Tonight, however, the women sat downstairs on the polished
benches, while the men sat on the floor, in an age-old gesture of mourning,
along the edge of the elevated
bima,
the platform on which the Holy Ark
stood.
The chandeliers had been dimmed as a sign of collective
grief, and now they were extinguished altogether, their faint illumination
replaced by candlelight.
Upon
entering the synagogue, each of the worshippers had been given a tall, lighted
taper, whose unlit end rested in a brown paper bag designed to catch the wax
drippings. The effect was eerie, as if a s
é
ance were about to take place.
At last the service began.
Bruno led Nicola to an aisle seat,
making sure to provide her with a copy of the scroll of
Lamentations,
which
had been chanted to the same melancholy liturgical tune ever since the prophet
Jeremiah had composed it shortly after the destruction of the first
Temple.
Nicola
’
s copy of the text
included translations into English and Italian, and to her surprise, while
perusing it, she found her eyes filling with tears at the metaphoric grace of
the poetry.
The incantatory melody, the glow of the candlelight, the
vast, dark room in which she sat, her reflections on her grandmother
’
s widowhood and her
deep sense of loss that stemmed from ignorance of her family
’
s past
—
all these, she
realized as the tears came, had evoked this unforeseen emotional response to an
ancient text, written in a language she could neither read nor understand, but
which somehow sounded more beautiful, more haunting, than any translation could
possibly render it.
“
How
solitary does the once populous city sit, like a lonely widow grieving for her
husband.
She weeps bitterly in the
night; her tears are on her cheeks, for there are none to comfort her.
“
All
of her friends have betrayed her; they have become her enemies.
Is this the city that was once called
the perfection of beauty, the joy of all the earth?
”
Lost in her thoughts, quietly weeping, Nicola finally
realized that the service had ended when she felt someone gently tap her
shoulder.
She looked up to find
Bruno standing next to her, a lighted taper still in his hand.
He gazed at her with softness in his
eyes, but said nothing as she brushed away a tear.
The sanctuary remained dark, the only
illumination being the pale glow of the candles, which would be extinguished
outside the building.
Reaching into his pocket, he offered her a handkerchief and
then asked,
“
What
did you think of the service?
I
imagine this is the first time you
’
ve
been to a synagogue.
”
Nicola sighed.
“
Actually, it's the
first time in years that I
’
ve
attended any religious service at all.
I was raised Catholic,
”
she continued,
“
at
least nominally.
I even attended
First Communion in a frilly white organdy dress, like all my friends.
But as a teenager, I stopped going to
mass.
My grandmother was Catholic,
my grandfather vaguely Protestant, but formal religion was never emphasized.
“
I
guess I should mention,
”
she
added parenthetically,
“
that
my parents were killed in a car accident when I was three, and that my
grandparents became my legal guardians.
“
Anyway,
the atmosphere in their home was basically ecumenical.
All they really cared about was ethical
behavior.
Love thy neighbor.
Do unto others.
You know what I mean.
I think my grandmother felt that
organized religion wasn
’
t
really necessary.
Something to do with
her childhood in Italy, she once said.
But she never gave me any details.
”
“
I
do know what you mean about formal religion,
”
Bruno replied.
“
My parents
never observed any of the rituals.
We never kept the dietary laws, never bothered with holiday celebrations,
except for the occasional Passover
Seder
,
since it was a good
excuse to get together with the extended family.
But somehow, as an adult, I
’
ve become interested in
tradition, at least in an intellectual way.
“
Probably
it has something to do with the profession I chose,
”
he continued.
“
I guess I felt that here I was, an expert on ancient
civilization and the history of Rome, and that I was actually part of a culture
even older than that, from which I
’
m
basically estranged.
“
You
probably didn
’
t know
this before, but Jews first settled in Rome in the 2
nd
Century B.C.,
and by the time of Julius Caesar, there were already tens of thousands of them
here.
After 70 A.D., when the
Temple in Jerusalem was destroyed, the number increased, when Jewish slaves
were brought to Rome in a triumphal pageant.
Of course, that
’
s the event that
’
s being commemorated tonight.
”
He waited as Nicola opened the metal locker in which her
passport and purse had been stored during the services and handed the key back
to one of the guards.
“
Anyway,
my parents did send me to a Jewish school as a child,
”
he now added as they walked along the bank of the
Tiber, along Lungotevere Cenci.
“
It was the thing to do,
even for non-observant families.
But most likely it had a lot to do with the fact that my mother and
father managed to survive World War II under the most extraordinary of
circumstances.
I guess it was part
of their cultural identification with Judaism.
”
“
Really?
How did they manage to survive?
I thought that most of the Jews of
Rome were rounded up in 1943 and sent to concentration camps,
”
Nicola said.
“
Well,
my mother
’
s family
took their life savings
—
and
the family jewels, so to speak, sewn into their clothing
—
and fled north, to the Swiss border.
They had hired a guide to take them into
Switzerland, but my grandparents were turned away on some technicality.
My mother was very pretty and apparently
quite mature looking as a young girl, and it seems that she flirted with a few
of the guards for several hours while the matter was being decided
—
and the requisite
bribes were being accepted, I might add.
Even before the war, the Swiss
would only take in children up to age ten, at least officially.
“
To
make a long story short, they all crossed the border and made their way to a
small village near Locarno, where they stayed for the duration of the war,
using false identities.
With
the Swiss, no one could ever be sure that the neutrality policy would last.
”
