Shout in the Dark (18 page)

He had picked up some exciting news. The
Allies had landed at the coast. The German soldiers said they
expected the British and Americans to be in Rome at any time.
Unseasoned troops like his helpers in the truck were being rushed
to defend the Holy City. Their sergeant who spoke Italian had
scoffed at the idea, calling this a typical panic response by his
chiefs. He predicted a considerable delay while the Allies dug in
as they tried to strengthen their positions at Anzio.

Unnoticed by both the Italians and the
Germans, Israel made his way along the river to the Via della
Conciliazione, the wide street leading to the vast Piazza Santo
Pietro. The wind made his eyes water, but in front of him stood the
hallmark of his son's faith: the massive Basilica of Saint
Peter.

On the skyline, over the red and amber roof
tiles of the city, the insipid blue of the winter sky gave way to a
horizon of stark white clouds: a reminder again of the Promised
Land he would never reach with his family. Israel felt a desperate
desire to escape from this evil world, to be at rest. But his
household was already there, getting ready to greet him when his
time came.

The German sentries hardly gave a second
glance. And why should they? Italians were always coming and going
across the white line on the ground that separated the Vatican from
the ancient city of Rome. An old woman in black returning from
confession said something to him softly, but Israel ignored her.
His thoughts were on the intimate ordeal ahead.

It felt strange to be entering the portals
of the very faith that had caused him so much pain. Strange too, as
a Jew, to be entering a place or worship with his head uncovered.
It was many years since he had entered a Christian church. How
could he look at the statues that lined the walls? To him, these
aids to Christian faith were anathema.

No one came to challenge his presence.
Perhaps Christians could wander freely within this vast shrine of
shadows, stopping for prayer or meditation whenever they felt the
need. A young man wearing the long black cassock of a priest
approached briskly, sandals slapping on the marble floor.

Feeling guilty with his bare head, he
nodded in the priest's direction. "I am looking for a young
seminarian. His name is ... Levi. Angelo Levi." The words were
difficult to form. The name of Angelo had long been banished from
his lips. "Do you know where I can find him? It is most
urgent."

The priest nodded in silence, raising a
finger and beckoning. A large white marble statue towered high in a
side chapel. The crucified Christ, dead, cradled on his mother's
lap. The look on the mother's face reflected Israel's anguish. This
was the Pietà, which even a Jew could recognize as the famous
Michelangelo statue. Israel shook his head. Death, terrible death,
followed man every step of his life.

The priest turned, breaking into Israel's
gloom. "You are not, I think, of our faith, old man. If you are
seeking protection you must not stay here. Come with me to my
humble quarters. My friends can arrange safety for you and your
family."

"
My family is already safe from this world." Israel felt his
voice become an involuntary whisper. "Please, I have urgent
business with young Levi."

The priest placed a hand on his shoulder.
"He is here at prayer, signore. You must not disturb
him."

A young man sat in the shadow, dressed in
a suit of clerical black. Israel ignored the priest and hurried to
the dark, narrow bench. "Angelo," he whispered urgently.

THE PRIEST FOUND a discreet position from
which to watch. The two men sat beneath a massive Bernini
marble monument that reached up
into the dark haze of smoke from the few candles the pious could
still afford. They flung their arms around each other, embracing
with tears in their eyes.

"
Father, my papa, forgive me."

"
My son, my blessed son, it is both God and I who forgive
you. Perhaps you will also forgive me, for turning my back on you
-- for the things I thought and said."

The priest moved away. He had duties to
attend to. To watch for longer would be to intrude. An hour later
he passed by again. The two men were now in deep conversation.

ISRAEL FELT AT peace. He had delivered the
relic in the khaki bag. Wearily he stood to leave.

"
Papa, stay here. There's nowhere for you to go." Angelo
reached up, his voice shaking with emotion. "You won't be safe on
the city streets. You're a Jew."

"
And how will they know? I have the right papers. Your
priests are very good at organizing passes for Jews. My papers will
stand the closest scrutiny. The Germans will not recognize
me
as a son of
Abraham."

Angelo shook his head. "Papa, you once
knew the city well, but the streets are more dangerous now. It is
not the Germans you have to fear. Our own fascist gangs are skilled
at recognizing Jews. Why, even the Jews have turned against each
other. Informers are everywhere, watching from every doorway and
window."

Israel's tears had made his nose run. He
sniffed. "Nonsense."

Angelo shifted uneasily on the hard seat.
"That Jewish prostitute girl, Di Porto, they call her the Black
Panther. She's betrayed so many. And the Koch Fascists are growing
more powerful and dangerous. There are Christian priests you cannot
trust any more. Be careful; be very careful, when you go onto the
streets. And remember the curfew. It's all so different now, Papa.
Please, let me fix it for you to stay here in the Vatican. We are
the only two left in our family, and we need each
other."

Israel hesitated, feeling for the Leica
and the small leather box concealed under his jacket. The parchment
from the box was in the sack with the head. They belonged together.
"I shall be back, Angelo. There are things I have to sell. I cannot
allow you to provide for me; I have been too full of hatred. And if
I do not return, make sure you guard that sacred treasure. The
monks told me it represents the face of your Jesus, who you call
the Christ."

The sack lay half open on Angelo's lap.
Israel realized his son had only glanced at the contents. It was
natural. Even a holy relic must take second place to this long
overdue reunion. He smiled wryly at the sight of Angelo sitting
within the safety of this house of God, then he slipped out into
the streets of the Rome that had been his home before the Germans
came.

His first visit to a jeweler friend was
unsuccessful. The abandoned property showed signs of recent
looting. He must find Ben-ami Rossetti and his family, including
his attractive daughter, who lived in an apartment in a
twisting
vicolo
near here
... unless the Nazis had arrested them for transportation to
Germany.

The apartment was empty, the Rossetti family
gone, their rooms stripped of every piece of furniture. So many
families had disappeared last October.

Israel knew that the curfew had been
brought forward by one hour. Anti-Nazi partisans were bombing and
assassinating German soldiers in the very heart of the city.
Bicycles were banned. It was too easy for these enemies of the
Nazis to slip in and out of military areas with small bombs,
leaving death and devastation in their wake.

Any person found on the streets after five
o'clock would be arrested instantly. Israel shrugged. It was
probably all so much bluff, and no one would pay attention. He felt
the chill strike through his thin clothing. Things seemed different
today. The work places and shops were deserted, the citizens
hurrying to the safety of their homes before
coprifuoco
, curfew.

Two hours after leaving the safety of
Saint Peter's, at five-fifteen, Israel was horrified to find the
streets completely empty. Outlined against the damp cobbles he felt
exposed. He stood anxiously on the corner of the Via di Monserrato
and the Piazza Farnese.

A German soldier noticed him on the corner
of the deserted piazza. As Israel was knocked to the ground and
kicked, the Leica camera bearing the insignia of the Third Reich
fell from his jacket.

With the gun pressing into his back, he
rose painfully and stumbled ahead of the soldier to be pushed into
the back of a truck and taken through the Piazza San Giovanni in
Laterano and into the narrow Via Tasso. The darkness amplified his
fear. Here was the most terrifying address in the whole of Rome, a
modern square block building -- Number 145, the Gestapo barracks
and prison, filled with unlit cells where torture and death were
rumored to be as routine as eating and sleeping.

STURMBANNFÜHRER Kessel insisted on
interviewing the trembling Jew. The Leica, stolen at the monastery,
was easy to identify
--
and so was the small leather box.

"
We must all hope the camera is undamaged." The
Sturmbannführer signaled to one of the guards. "Take this to
Untersturmführer Bayer. Tell him to check it for a film -- and
process what he finds.
Now!
"

As the guard sprang forward, Kessel turned
his attention to the figure crouching naked on the bare marble
floor. "You will tell me, old man, exactly what you have done with
the holy relic." He kicked at the frail ribs. "And tell me where
the document has gone from the leather box --
pig!
"

It might be a childish pleasure, but he
enjoyed watching the Jew writhe.

WITHIN AN HOUR, Israel became too weak to
cry for mercy. Degraded and broken
, he had watched others go through this, and no
one survived. No one was meant to survive.

Sobbing with the agony of torture, he
thanked God that the Christian relic was safe with his son in Saint
Peter's. Safe with Angelo, the son who had deserted the faith, but
seemed to worship a God of love. And if there was any love at all
in God, and many of his fellow Jews wanted to know if God was
sleeping, then perhaps the Christians who risked their lives to
shelter Jews were somehow in touch with him.

Whatever the pain, whatever the degradation,
he would stay silent. Fear of death would not make him tell the
animal Kessel where he had taken that holy relic from the monastery
at Monte Sisto.

Tied naked to an iron bar on the wall, the
cold and the pain at last became too great. The Vatican, yes, he
would admit that the Vatican now had the relic. But the name of
Angelo, the son with whom he had finally been reunited, was too
precious to pass between the gaps in his teeth and his bleeding
lips.

MANFRED KESSEL knew he had extracted all
he could expect from such a feeble sample of the Jewish race. So,
the obstinate fool either did not know who he had given it to, or
he would not tell. Not that it mattered. The Vatican feared the
German powers and would be only too relieved to return the
item
-- once he had
applied enough pressure. Applying pressure on the Vatican would not
be easy, but it could be done. He went to his rooms in the
adjoining SS SD headquarters and left the old man to
die.

At five-thirty the next morning the guard
looked into the cell, cut free the ice-cold body, and began to hose
the blood and excrement from the floor.

Kessel had too many worries on his mind to
supervise the disposal of the corpse. He gave instructions for it
to be taken, with two others, to the Regina Coeli. Everything
seemed to be going wrong. Those left-wing Gapists were causing too
much trouble in the streets with their terrorist tactics. The
Communists had always been trouble, and Mussolini had let his
people down by tolerating such violation of freedom in the years
leading up to the war. On top of that, the dolt Bayer claimed that
his camera had run out because the film was shorter than the
standard length. The idiot accused the suppliers at Köln of cutting
short lengths from the large rolls they received from Dresden.
Could it be true? Probably not. The Untersturmführer seemed unhappy
when ordered to send his film to headquarters for
examination.

The coveted prize was slipping away fast.
The old Jew had taken it to someone in Saint Peter's. If he had
just one clear photograph of the relic it would be much easier to
confront the Vatican officials and claim it back. The single sheet
of Latin parchment had gone from the small leather box. He tried to
recall the translation the monk had read out to him at the
monastery. The document was clearly several hundred years old. It
told of a sacred head from a statue of Christ seen by the writer
Eusebius, sent as a gift to a monastery by Donato Bramante. And
that
untermenschlich
Jew had stolen the head and the document.

He walked back to his quarters at number
155 in the Via Tasso in the early evening, full of regret that he
had let the old man die so easily. Who was this Eusebius? Probably
an ancient historian. Surely the great libraries in Rome would have
information on so important a relic. Wearily he climbed the white
marble staircase and went towards his rooms.

He turned at the sound of female
footsteps. The woman coming down the stairs from the next floor
with her small son had been fascinating him for some weeks. A
cleaner in the Via Tasso headquarters, the attractive brunette
seemed curiously out of place in these squalid surroundings, where
nearly every room had been turned into a hastily converted cell.
Kessel smiled. She should be serving aristocratic customers in
Berlin, in a Ku'damm department store, not cleaning this hellhole
in Rome. Her supple body in the cheap black dress aroused him every
time she passed. With his parents dead, and with no brothers or
sisters, the family line would die out unless he found a wife soon.
Not this woman, of course. She was Italian, and probably no better
than a tramp. He called her from the doorway of his
room.