Shout in the Dark

by Christopher Wright

  Chapter 14

  Monte Sisto

  Tuesday January 25 1944

  "THE SS, FATHER?"

  The bitter wind pierced the lookout in the bell tower and quickly stripped all feeling from the older man's face. He was head of the monastic order, trying to maintain a pretence of inner calm for the sake of the young brother at his side. They had already counted twelve German soldiers climbing up the path from the valley.

  Brother Antoni moved closer as they both leaned out through the window in the high wall. When the young brother repeated his question his voice became high pitched with fear. "Are they the SS, Father?"

  Father Guido said nothing. The monastery of Monte Sisto had clung to the hill for five hundred years. Without the climbing soldiers and their modern weapons of war it might have stood for another five.

  Father Guido struggled to control his emotions. "Brother Antoni, may the Lord not find any of us wanting in our faith." He reached up, his numbed fingers gripping desperately to the rope. "Make your peace with God. The end is near for us all." He regretted that the ringing bell could never be made to sound urgent. The mellow tone might be summoning the Brothers for prayer, rather than warning them of certain death from troops of the Third Reich. There was no mercy for those who sheltered Jews.

  Brother Antoni refused to move, frozen by a mixture of horror and fascination. He rephrased his unanswered question. "They are the SS aren't they, Father?"

  "Indeed they are." Father Guido gave up his attempt to hold the harsh rope. He reached out awkwardly to touch the young man's shoulder. Never before had he made physical contact with one of the Brothers. The tears in his eyes were no longer caused by the cold wind. The embrace was an act of innocent compassion, a sharing of their mortality.

  "I love you all, just as I love the Lord." His voice shook with emotion. "If only we had been more prepared. We knew the Germans are hunting for refugees. We even knew…" But the words refused to come. He held Brother Antoni tightly, the thin body giving him more comfort than he could give in return.

  Why had they been so slow to react to the reports reaching them almost daily? Not just gossip in the village of Monte Sisto, but reports from visitors describing in terrible detail the Nazis' relentless search for victims and bounty.

  Brother Antoni trembled as he gripped the small handrail. "Perhaps the door will keep the soldiers out."

  Father Guido released his hold of Brother Antoni and wiped the tears from the young man's face with the coarse brown fabric of his habit. Only a wooden door between themselves and eternity. The end was coming for them all. In the cellar, deep within the ancient foundations, a terrified family of refugees was hiding between casks of wine prepared by the Brothers during the peaceful summer months. Father Guido took the youngest brother by the arm and led the way towards the narrow stairs from the bell tower.

  "We have prayed, Brother Antoni, and now we must wait."

  They both shivered uncontrollably. The chill of the January morning was intensified by an icy fear.

  HELMUT BAYER felt happy and lucky. Happy with his promotion to Untersturmführer-SS, and happy with his job as official SD photographer. He had also been extremely lucky while on leave with his latest girl. A clean-up operation the Sturmbannführer called today's task, and all he had to do was take official photographs for a training manual. It might be cold, but army life was not too demanding.

  Admittedly he did have reservations about these raids, because they were never clean in their cleaning-up. But they had been told -- told many times -- that an example had to be made of certain people. An example to frighten Italians who were sheltering Jews, and other refugees, into handing them over to the proper authorities. Helmut shrugged. It sounded all right when he looked at it like that. The proper authorities had the facilities to deal with these criminals correctly.

  He'd never wanted to be another Heinrich Hoffmann, Hitler's personal photographer. Portraits of the Führer striking poses all over Europe would be just too much trouble to organize. All he wanted was a camera and a pretty girl -- and even the camera was optional.

  He turned to his Sturmbannführer. "On a bright day like this I think I'll photograph the treasures outside."

  He watched Sturmbannführer Kessel stop on the steep path and turn his blond, Aryan head upwards. The Sturmbannführer turned. "Then hurry, Bayer, or it will be dark outside as well as in!"

  "The glorious Reich is somewhat short of flashbulbs," explained Helmut, ignoring the Sturmbannführer's sarcasm in favor of his own.

  Sturmbannführer Manfred Kessel said nothing. He seemed to be in no mood for a slanging match, but perhaps he was only waiting until he could think of a suitable retort. Helmut Bayer knew that the men held their Sturmbannführer in respect. Respect was natural, given the man's background -- the background he boasted about so often. Kessel's amazing father had apparently shown great foresight in leaving the Tannenburg -- before an untimely death -- to turn to Hitler and National Socialism in 1926. Sturmbannführer Kessel reveled in recounting how in 1936 he had been specially selected to instruct the Hitler Youth in the Total Education program personally devised by Adolf Hitler. It was the only organization at that time to bear the Führer's name.

  Helmut Bayer stifled a yawn. So, the Sturmbannführer's eager pupils had been prepared for the rigors of the Adolf Hitler Schule, where squad competed against squad. Sturmbannführer Kessel boasted that his highly trained young men had invariably finished with the highest honors. Bayer removed his Leica camera from the bag at his feet and watched his leader climb without even needing to pause for breath. Little wonder the Sturmbannführer had gone on to leadership in the Sicherheitsdienst. He turned to glance behind, and saw the small group of men struggling to stay close.

  Kessel waited for the trailing soldiers to catch up before speaking loudly. "The trouble is, Untersturmführer, the best things always happen in the darkest cellars. And that's where we're going to be. In the cellars you don't need lights to know if there are Jews and Communists hiding. You shout, 'Who's in there!' and listen for the knees knocking."

  The laughter that followed from the SD troops who had now caught up was more than dutiful. Bayer guessed that memories of earlier searches and arrests were flooding back. Each man had been involved in the October roundup of Jews in Rome; but with so many raids on farms and religious communities, the initial excitement had turned to boredom. It was rare for anything significant to happen that would lessen the monotony of the capture and execution of these pathetic fugitives from German custody. The local informers were very reliable.

  Helmut Bayer blew on his fingers to warm them, then set the controls on the top of his camera. They had sent him to Köln to collect this Leica, and at the same time take part in a short training course. The modern lightweight camera, with its miniature film in thirty-six exposure cassettes, had been introduced into the military because the small negatives saved valuable film. He was about to use it for the first time -- on official work. Suddenly he could feel the blood draining from his cheeks. He had been guilty of misusing military property. The delectable Monika Schulte in Köln had been too great a temptation to try out the newly acquired equipment. Admittedly, all film was in critically short supply, but leave time was also precious. And hadn't Monika looked so enticing lying on the sofa naked apart from his army jacket, complete with the new Untersturmführer-SS insignia? And then without it.

  The first ten exposures on the scarce film were of the delicious Monika. Ten valuable exposures already used up. On leaving their trucks in the valley, Sturmbannführer Kessel had announced his intention to use every one of the thirty-six shots in the Leica -- and spare film was unobtainable. He swallowed hard. The significance of the remark had finally got through.

  FATHER GUIDO could hear persistent hammering on the old door. The ancient timbers would provide little resistance to such an onslaught. The monastery's most precious treasure had been hurriedly covered with a mix of plaster and white paint only yesterday
, when news came of Germans moving through the area. Father Guido recalled how Brother Antoni had insisted on keeping the sacred surface from the eyes of the profane, before concealing the sacred relic behind the paneling in the library. The youngest brother, for all his wild talk, had somehow foreseen this day of terror.

  The remaining treasures, whose importance paled into insignificance in comparison, were already laid almost casually on the table and shelves, in the vain hope that this would divert the Nazis from a fuller search. A sudden explosion was followed by a frantic flutter of wings, as the white doves that normally found peace and solitude within the red stone walls flew upwards in confusion.

  Father Guido watched his home for fifty-three years being torn apart. How foolish to think that experts like the SD, the Sicherheitsdienst, the secret intelligence group of the Nazi SS, would be content to take a few religious treasures, but leave the cellars and roof unprobed. Four soldiers were already going through the sacred gold, the silverware and the art treasures for a full inventory.

  HELMUT BAYER screwed the large flashgun to the bracket on his Leica and accompanied the Sturmbannführer, along with five men armed with MP38s, for a search of the cellars. There were similarities between the soldiers' machine pistols with their aluminum frames, and his lightweight camera. It was a case of specialist work calling for the latest specialist tools.

  A burst of automatic fire through the wine casks sent a shower of wood splinters and splashes of blood red wine across the white walls and ceiling. The effect was immediate. A trembling family stood upright behind the casks.

  Kessel turned. "Quickly, Bayer, the camera!" He spoke in Italian now. "If the garbage from the back streets of Rome stay where they are for one moment, we will take a family portrait."

  Helmut pressed the shutter release, and a brilliant flash of light froze the white faces behind the barrels. Then he fired another flash bulb as the family was lined up in height order in front.

  "Come, Bayer!" ordered Kessel, making his way quickly towards the small patch of daylight at the top of the stone staircase. "We will see how the inventory is going."

  While the soldiers herded the family into the courtyard, Helmut Bayer accompanied his superior to the somber library. An excited soldier was pulling a large white bust and a small leather box from behind the smashed paneling. The other soldiers rushed forward, obviously hoping to find gold. On seeing the camera the men paused to take up a proud stance. Bayer waited until his leader nodded approval. Another flash bulb flared with a sharp crackle.

  The Sturmbannführer bent down to examine the life-size head, expressing surprise at its light weight. "I thought it was stone, but it's hollow metal. Tell me, Bayer, why would the monks take so much trouble to hide this object?"

  Helmut neither knew nor cared. "Because it's valuable?"

  He watched Sturmbannführer Kessel take the head carefully, almost reverently, in his hands. "Oh yes, Untersturmführer Bayer, I believe it could be of considerable value -- to the finder."

  BROTHER ANTONI stood in the library with his fellow monks, terrified of two soldiers holding their guns at the ready. He felt himself shaking. "Why is God allowing the Germans to touch the holy object, Father? Do they not know it is our Lord?"

  "Say nothing more, my son." Father Guido raised a finger in caution. "The German officer speaks excellent Italian."

  Outwardly Brother Antoni protected himself with the sign of the cross. Inwardly he cursed himself. Perhaps he could call up Divine intervention, some sign of disapproval from heaven; but Divine intervention might be directed against him for speaking too much. It could not be guaranteed to punish the bullying Germans.

  He watched the Nazi put the head down, open the leather box, and remove a document to examine it. After several minutes, the officer looked at him, brutal eyes making contact with his own.

  "You there! The one they call Antoni. Can you read Latin?"

  He felt his head nod involuntarily.

  "Excellent. I wish to question you."

  With his heart racing wildly, the young brother became aware of urine running down his legs. The warm liquid seemed to turn to ice as it reached his ankles.

  IN THE HERB garden an old man was being closely watched. The black monastery cat, well fed and normally unstirred by the monastic life, had been thrown into a state of torment. Obviously terrified by the arrival of the men, it now stared angrily at the elderly intruder of its favorite garden, its tail moving slowly from side to side.

  Old Israel Levi found the cat's presence equally disturbing. He tried to ignore it. The sudden ringing of the monastery bell had surprised him. There was no need to look for the reason. An explosion and raised German voices on the steep path told him everything. He paused to consider his position. He was old, and he was Jewish. There was no future for Jews in Europe. But he had survived the Rome roundup in October, so why give himself up to the Nazis after the ordeal of the past months?

  He had chosen to take the part of Moses, leading his family from Rome to the Promised Land -- the Promised Land of Switzerland, whose borders were rumored to be open to Jewish refugees. Someone in the village of Monte Sisto said the Italian-Swiss border had been open since before the start of the Christian New Year. If only they had known; if only they had made this journey a few weeks earlier.

  Israel's concern for his own safety turned to horror as he watched the Nazis push his son and daughter-in-law, his daughter and his cherished grandchildren -- and the Brothers who had sheltered them -- into the monastery garden. The soldiers were lining them up against the wall. Of the remaining family, only his rebellious son Angelo was safe, because his desertion to the Christian faith had kept him in Rome.

  Two Germans carried the young monk Antoni into the garden and flung him to the ground. His face was swollen, his eyes lost in a mass of blood. The man, once a source of humor at mealtimes, was surely already dead. Some oaf with a camera was fixing up a tripod. Israel crouched motionless beneath the shrubs. There was no mistaking the Nazis' intention.

  The soldiers threw spades towards the monks and ordered them to dig. Meekly they obeyed. It came as no surprise to Israel. He had seen it many times. Faced with death, the people would quietly comply and dig their own graves.

  Were they insane?

  The Germans continued to bring the monastery's treasures into the open, but Israel had no doubts that the pit was being made ready for his family, not for the spoils of war. The camera on the tripod had been set to face the high stone wall. The Nazis obviously planned to record their cruelty for posterity.

  His youngest grandchild looked round in surprise. "Mamma, Mamma, where's Grandpapa?"

  "Oh, my child! Sssh."

  Israel watched his daughter Nathania place a hand gently but firmly over the offending lips. But she need not have worried. The soldiers probably spoke no more Italian than little Roberto spoke German.

  Israel took it as a sign. His family wanted to protect him, even in the face of execution. He could die with them -- or he could stay in hiding. No longer able to lead his family to the Promised Land, he had a duty to escape. One day he would try to tell an unbelieving world.

  The senior Nazi seemed especially interested in the large bust that had been covered in a white plaster before being hidden last night by the Brothers. The officer motioned to the soldier with the camera, who shook his head. For a moment there was an angry exchange of words. The camera must have jammed or run out of film. The officer's voice conveyed trouble in any language.

  Israel stared across at the painted head. It was unlike the busts in Rome's museums but it could be part of a statue. The Brothers said it was the likeness of Jesus the Christ, worshipped by Christians. The German officer was a thief, taking it for his personal gain. Why else had he placed it on the ground with a small leather box, away from the other treasures?

  Israel could feel the onset of cramp, but if he moved he knew the Germans would see him. Mercifully the cat had wandered away. A mound of dusty red soi
l showed just how large a grave was being prepared. The soldiers were ordered to assist the exhausted monks in finishing the deep trench, while an unhappy-looking photographer removed the small camera from the tripod and placed it with the head.

  MANFRED KESSEL decided it was probably just as well Bayer's film had run out -- before the executions. The Allies now working their way up through Italy would doubtless be more than interested to discover the death of civilians captured on film.

  He looked again at the painted head and felt excited. If that frightened monk Antoni was telling the truth in his last moments, this was a vital yet unknown Christian relic. And in the small leather box was a document that the young monk said proved its authenticity. Excellent. His SS group could be trusted to remain silent. After the war he would get it valued and find a wealthy buyer.

  The monks were obstinate, and the family was worthless. Execution was not obligatory, and Kessel knew the choice was his. He could take the Jews and monks back to Rome to stand trial, or he could kill every one of them now. It made no sense to fill military trucks with offensive sub-human cargo.

  He turned to his armed soldiers, anticipation surging through his chest, and gave the order to fire.

  THE EXPLOSION of automatic gunshot. The smell and smoke of cordite. Israel Levi put his hands to his ears to block out the sounds of the dying: his son, daughters, grandchildren -- and the monks. Little Roberto caught sight of his grandfather, his Nonno. Before he could call out and run for the safety and comfort of the loving arms he fell, his chest and stomach ripped open by the deadly bullets.

  Disfigured flesh and smashed bodies lay in front of the high wall. The Nazis showed no mercy for Italians of any faith caught disobeying orders of the Third Reich.

  While the white doves flew anxiously overhead, the soldiers put down their weapons of war and talked while they smoked together as though nothing of importance had happened.

  A thirst for revenge filled Israel's frantic mind. He was literally shaking with rage and remorse. That relic had meant something to the Christian Brothers. Since his arrival at the monastery, he had sensed the sacred value placed on it. To the Brothers, the object had been literally an article of their faith. If only to avenge little Roberto, he must make sure the Nazis would never have it.

  He had always thought of himself as indestructible. Surviving had become the only way of life since those terrifying weeks in Rome during the October roundup. He had somehow learned to cope when his wife had been horrifyingly mutilated, and left to die without pity in the Regina Coeli prison.

  Taking the Nazi property would be easy. The men were facing away as they filled in the trench. Others continued packing the sacks with their plunder. The officer and the photographer had gone inside, perhaps to make certain they had stripped every wall and cupboard of the Italians' heritage.

  Israel moved forward slowly. Dense cypress trees separated the small herb patch from the monastery garden. One more step would take him into the open. Then, without a care for his own safety he walked forward and picked up the head, the camera, and the leather box.

  He hurried from the grounds and down the steep track. When the hillside leveled off he turned onto a faint path towards a small graveyard on a plateau above the olive trees. He had to get back to Rome, to find the son he had not seen for many years. Israel felt a sudden shame. Could he make peace with Angelo at last?

  He pulled off his jacket as he reached the road some distance from the Germans' trucks, and wrapped it round the bronze head. It would be a long and painful walk back to Rome; a long, cold walk without a coat. But the relic must be kept out of sight. This was a holy object, the image of their Christ, and he had just watched men die for it.

  Suddenly the flash of an explosion, followed by flames, lit the darkening winter sky. The sound became a roar as it echoed between the stone walls and the bare olive trees. In terror, Israel fell face down onto the frozen soil. These Nazis were evil. Nothing was sacred to them. First the innocent people and now the monastery. This destruction was a senseless act of anger.

  Retribution was always without pity.