The Gene of Life

by Tetsuo Ted Takashima

  “This is a passage secretly constructed by the pope hundreds of years ago,” Feldman told Max under his breath.

  Yunov clearly knew where he was going. He must have gone down this passage countless times before.

  “Where does it lead?”

  “That, I don’t know.”

  Eventually, they reached an iron door identical to the previous one. Once again, Yunov took out his key and inserted it into the rusty keyhole. Beyond the door was another staircase. Father Yunov ascended with slow but steady footing. Before long, they reached the Vatican Museum.

  Yunov entered the Sistine Chapel, the others following behind. The chapel was brightly lit, the lights that were turned off in the daytime illuminated it even brighter than during the day.

  All three of them suddenly stopped. Within this enormous building, they were hit with the odd illusion that countless people were squirming and wriggling.

  The huge fresco that covered the ceiling depicted the works of God, as he created light, the stars, and the moon . . . Adam and Eve . . . and more. The Prophet Jonah, St. Bartholomew, the Virgin Mary, and Christ the Judge stared at the four visitors standing still in their chapel. All around them sprawled the masterwork of Michelangelo.

  On the wall behind the altar, the image of the Last Judgment faced them. Seeing it in the still of night with no one else around, the mural created an aura of magnificence that was much more moving than what could be experienced during the day. Max felt chills from neither fear nor admiration. In a word, it was awe.

  Yunov approached the altar and knelt. He looked up at the fresco.

  Time passed without a word. A few minutes, perhaps it was only a few seconds. But it felt like an eternity, like the flow of time was being sucked into the cosmos and painted in the chapel.

  Yunov hung his head and knelt in prayer. The other three remained standing behind him, staring at his back. Max’s brain was lulled into the feeling that time had stopped. There was something there, he knew it. And it was beyond what he feared and hated. Something was enfolding him. No, he was being enfolded. He felt a serenity he’d never felt before.

  Yunov finished praying, stood up, and turned to face the others. “That’s Christ the Judge in the center,” he said. His calm, gentle voice sounded young. It echoed in the spacious chapel and all but penetrated it.

  Christ the Judge was a young, strong, and bold depiction of the Savior. His right arm was raised as though he was about to strike someone. Beside him, the Virgin Mary averted her gaze and looked downward. Surrounding them were the chosen of God and the transgressors—those who were helped up to heaven, and those who were dragged to hell.

  “Perhaps Christ suffered on the cross to obtain eternal youth,” Yunov said, his eyes on the center of the giant fresco. He stared at it, as though identifying each figure one by one. “St. Peter, St. Bartholomew, and the woman falling to hell . . .” Yunov’s voice wavered.

  The face of a muscular woman was twisted with dismay and remorse. A devil was gripping her legs, and trying to drag her down to hell. One could practically hear her sobbing and shrieking. Max’s mind was overtaken by a peculiar sensation. Until now, death had been what Max feared most. Death had been an ugly, hideous thing, an eternal stretch of nothingness, a boundless darkness. It was twined around Max’s body at all times, gnawing at his soul despite never revealing itself, and laughing at Max’s trembling body. But now, even though the spectacle before his eyes was not unrelated to his image of death, it rid him of the fear he’d been harboring. Michelangelo’s depiction of the horrors of hell and the glories of heaven had captivated him.

  “I disobeyed God,” Yunov murmured. “After the war, the Vatican hid Nazis. People are not allowed to judge other people; only God can judge. That is what we told ourselves. At times, more than two hundred Nazis stayed here. They escaped abroad through various organizations. And the Vatican helped them do it.” He sighed deeply. “I’ve been acting as a de facto point of contact between the Vatican and Nazis. I didn’t turn away Nazis that escaped the Allied Forces.”

  Feldman took a step toward him.

  “We believed that the only ones that could stand up to the encroaching menace of communism were the Nazis. Everything we did, we did in the belief it would protect God’s country.”

  “If that is the case, why hide it?” Feldman said, his words lashing Yunov’s back.

  “People are not gods. The pope can make mistakes.”

  “Isn’t it the duty of those who serve God to acknowledge and apologize for those mistakes?”

  “It was too great a mistake. Great enough to rock the world. Think of the believers who revere the Vatican and follow its commandments.” His voice grew slightly shriller. “The Church suppressed it, buried it. And the world chose not to pursue the matter.” Yunov breathed a sigh of relief. Silence fell upon them for a while, until Yunov slowly turned to face them. “I made an even greater mistake,” he said, his voice wavering, and tears welling in his eyes. “I was asked to read and decipher ancient Church documents. I found a report from a missionary who had been sent to South America in the eighteenth century. A letter from distant South America written in Latin. I was so absorbed that I forgot to eat or sleep and I lost track of the hour.”

  Yunov looked up to the ceiling and raised his arms up high. “There is a peculiar race inhabiting his land, as he has by all appearances lived for centuries, and to believe his wondrous condition to be an act of Providence would be justifiable indeed. Embraced by the great earth and the trees, the womenfolk possess the smooth skin of lasses, in addition to their black and lustrous hair. Not only do they boast unimpaired faculties of sight and hearing, but their bodies, brimming with life and beauty, know not aging or wasting away, and verily it is as though God dwells within them. The fountain of life that abides in the bodies of the womenfolk . . . He who drinks of the water of that fountain shall obtain life without death.” Yunov’s voice grew louder and louder, echoing in the chapel. “The missive made clear that he had discovered a tribe with perennial youth. And the name of that land was Domba. According to the map, it lay near the border between modern-day Brazil, Peru, and Colombia. I reported my discovery to my superiors. But no one put any credence in the account. And that is how that story ought to have come to an end.” Yunov dropped his shoulders and took a deep breath.

  “But the Nazis believed it, and sent people there,” Feldman said.

  “Under Hitler’s orders, the Nazis sent a team to investigate. Before the team reached a conclusion, the Allies were nearing Berlin, Hitler committed suicide, and Germany capitulated. Their empire had collapsed. But many survived to inherit his will.”

  “Gehlen, Benchell . . . ,” Feldman murmured.

  “After the war, the Vatican tried to cut off their relationship with them. But Benchell was cunning and merciless. He took measures to ensure we couldn’t escape.”

  “Did he blackmail the Church?” asked Feldman. “Did he threaten to go public with the Vatican’s Nazi link? Or—” Feldman’s voice trembled.

  “A few within the group of Nazis that fled overseas made another demand. And we couldn’t refuse it. We had no choice but to do as they said,” Yunov said quietly.

  “They demanded research funds,” Feldman said.

  Yunov nodded. “In return for hiding Nazis, the Vatican received works of art that the Nazis plundered from all over Europe during the war. Many of them fell into the hands of individuals within the Vatican, and were secretly whisked overseas to be sold off. The Nazis then demanded that the vast amount of stolen artwork they owned be turned into money through the Vatican. Then they demanded money of the Vatican directly.

  “The Aztec Foundation,” Katya said.

  Yunov didn’t reply. “The Church’s reach and financial muscle are vast. We collected money from all over the world, and could transfer it legally to anywhere in the world.”

  “They made use of that organization and provided funding for Aztec Labs.”

  �
��That’s another one.”

  “The Vatican knew about the Nazis’ research. Having seen you, how could they not?”

  Yunov looked away. “At first, I thought I would decline their offer indefinitely. But I gave into temptation. I sold my soul to the Devil, and acquired eternal life in exchange.” Yunov sighed. His clenched fists were trembling. “Something even more fearsome is happening,” he continued. “Among the young monks, there are some who think I am God. After all, someone who has obtained eternal life must be God.” He made the sign of the cross and looked up at the altar to the beautiful body of the youthful Christ. “What do you think people who think they’ve found God on Earth begin to desire?”

  “They start to want to be gods themselves,” said Max.

  Yunov nodded. “The moment they began revering me as ‘God,’ they began to want to be like me. I asked His Holiness to take my life. But, as someone who serves God, it is not allowed. I’m not even permitted to take my own life.”

  “I can take your life.” Feldman was suddenly holding a gun.

  Yunov didn’t react to it at all.

  Max stood between the two. “This isn’t like you. Your mission is to round up Nazis and those who aided them so they can face judgment.”

  “I can’t forgive him. I believe in God as well. I can’t stand by a so-called servant of God joining forces with agents of evil. He’s a mere pawn now. In God’s name, I—”

  “Why did you want to speak to us?” Max asked, interrupting Feldman.

  “Look.” Yunov looked up at the ceiling fresco. “Depicted in this fresco is everything a person can experience: joy, sorrow, anger, compassion, hatred. Life, and yes, death. All of these were bestowed upon humanity by God. Life and death are both a part of us. To lose either would be to stop being human. Both are part of God’s plan.”

  “But you—” will no longer die. But Max held his tongue.

  “The people I loved, and the people who loved me, and the people who helped me, they’re all gone now. Look at what I’ve become.” Yunov turned to them and opened his cassock at the chest using both hands. His skin was as glossy and fair as that of the Christ in the fresco.

  “I am no longer the man that God created. I have been molded by the Devil this way, I know that now. Every second I spend in this holy place, I ask where my fate lies.”

  Yunov looked at the Last Judgment, and raised his arms overhead. Max saw what he saw: a woman descending to hell in a serpent’s clutches.

  “Every night I am racked by terror. And I have come to a conclusion: were I to continue living, it would be nothing but torture. One has but one life to live, and a timely death brings that life to a fitting completion. By extending my life, God is punishing me,” he said, as he viewed the painting. “I’m already in hell. I must live here for an eternity in isolation, where no one can see me. That is hell. I now fear life and loathe my own existence. I fear and loathe myself. Death is what makes us human. A man who does not die is not a man. What am I?” Yunov heaved a deep sigh.

  “What are Benchell and his men trying to do?” Max asked. “They’ve already wiped out a Brazilian village and the women who were carriers of the gene of life. I’d like you to tell us what you know about Aztec Labs.”

  “I don’t know much,” Yunov said. “They simply extended my life, in order to gain control over the Vatican.” Yunov paused to think. “I don’t know,” he added quietly. Then he knelt in prayer once again.

  “We know that Aska . . .” Katya added, “that a girl came here. The girl with the gene that gave you your youth. She’s mixed white and Indigenous Brazilian, and the daughter of Dona and Gehlen.”

  Yunov’s expression clouded.

  “You do know her.”

  “The ritual. That’s what they called it.” Yunov closed his eyes, and kept them closed for some time.

  “What does that mean?” Max asked.

  “They put me to sleep. Probably by injecting me with some anesthetic or soporific drug. And then they conducted some manner of ritual while I was knocked out.”

  “You mean you don’t even know what they did to you?”

  Silence.

  Yunov’s eyes regarded the scene above. The silence lasted for so long that time and space melted together. At last, his eyes rested on a point in the painting, and he spoke: “At one point, years and years ago, they began the ritual without realizing I wasn’t unconscious. I fought to remain conscious, and I heard a female voice. I saw her, too. I thought that it was just some dream. But with time, that memory gradually grew clearer, sharper.” He shuddered, a fear from long ago rushing back. “I slept face down in bed. The woman was taken in by two men who were holding her by the arms. She was nude. Tanned skin, black hair. She wasn’t white.”

  “That was Aska,” Katya said quietly. “Wait, no, it was Dona.”

  “She lay face down on the sofa beside the bed. And her back, they stuck a needle in my back as well. It didn’t hurt. I don’t remember what happened after that. When I came to, it was the same as always: I was in bed, and all alone in the room.”

  “Did you feel strange at all?” Max asked.

  “My back felt heavy, but that was overshadowed by the overflowing energy. It was as though new life force entered into my body after each ritual.”

  “Those were marrow transplants. The Nazis transplanted the bone marrow of the Indigenous woman who possessed the gene of life into you. Until now, they’d used Dona. And this time, they brought her daughter, Aska.”

  “Where is she?” Katya asked. “Where is Aska?”

  “Last night they came. They put me to sleep and conducted the ritual. The person they brought for it may be the person you’re looking for.”

  “Aska . . . ,” Katya murmured. “So, where is she?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t even see her face.”

  “You’re extending your life by draining hers.”

  “Oh, God . . . please, God . . . ,” Yunov moaned.

  “Why are they keeping you alive like this, anyway?”

  “Because my very existence allows them to manipulate the Vatican. I am what they have wrought—I am living proof of their deeds. Thanks to my presence, the Vatican can’t reject their demands,” he said, his voice quivering.

  “Do you know a town named La Cruz? It’s a small town in California.”

  Father Yunov didn’t reply. It was clear he did know of it.

  “Is Aska there?”

  Still no reply.

  “In that town, there is a bioscience laboratory complex named Aztec Labs. Perhaps Aska was taken back there? Please tell us what you know.”

  Max peered at Yunov’s expression, but it was too emotionless to read.

  “Tell us!” Katya shouted. “Her whole circle of loved ones got slaughtered. I want to save at least her!”

  Yunov slowly got to his feet, and walked toward the chapel’s exit.

  They came to the veranda of St. Peter’s Basilica. Deep darkness shrouded the square below. Max looked out at Rome. Across the Tiber, the lights of the ancient capital’s skyline extended as far as he could see.

  Suddenly, Max thought he saw a red light. In ancient times, Nero purportedly set fire to the city, indulging in a feast and reciting poetry as he watched from his veranda the people flee from their burning homes. At the Colosseum, slaves would have to fight to survive, and Christians willingly let themselves be eaten by lions in order to be with God. The city of death . . .

  Katya’s shriek snapped Max back to reality. Yunov was standing on the rail. His arms were outstretched, almost like Christ’s on the cross, and he was looking up at the heavens.

  “I have committed a sin. And as a servant who fears God, I was about to commit a grave sin. God, show me the path I must follow,” he spoke into the darkness. “Those who value their own lives lose it, and those who loathe life in this world live forever. Lord, I return to your bosom.” Yunov looked at the three, and grimaced almost imperceptibly. Perhaps he was crying. Perhaps he was
smiling.

  “No!” Feldman shouted.

  “God is eternity. Those are the words that will open every door,” Yunov said quietly, before exclaiming: “Liberate te ex inferis!”

  His white cassock, fluttering in the wind, he vanished from the veranda. Katya screamed.

  “His God prohibits taking one’s own life,” Feldman said. “So, he has sinned in the eyes of his God.”

  “Fermatevi!” Guards with guns surrounded them. “Stop right there!” the guards shouted.

  Feldman thrust his hand in his jacket pocket. He grabbed his gun.

  “Put down those guns,” said a quiet but forceful voice from behind the guards.

  They looked in the voice’s direction. Standing in the dim moonlight and guarded by several monks, the man was wearing a white cassock. His expression was gentle, but also vaguely somber, and the tranquil eyes under his head of silver hair were staring at the three of them.

  They were frozen in place, as though they’d been tied up with wire. Their eyes were fixed intently on him, and the tension drained from their faces.

  The guards lowered their guns and fell back. The man approached them. His eyes radiated love, kindness, and affection; their serenity could engulf even the plants, let alone people and animals.

  “The pope . . . ,” Katya said.

  The pope stared at the darkness where Yunov had stood. “It’s over now. Was it all God’s will?” His voice carried through the dim light like an echo from the heavens. It contained sorrow, compassion, and the magnanimity to tolerate all.

  The pope made the sign of the cross, signaled the guards with his eyes, and returned to the palace.

  The guards escorted them out through the exit.

  CHAPTER 25

  Max, Feldman, and Katya sat silently. The lights of Rome shone through the window. Ever since they’d returned to the hotel, they had been drinking whiskey in Feldman’s room. Two-thirds of the bottle was already gone, but nobody was drunk. No matter how much they drank, the spectacle of mere hours prior replayed fresh in their minds.