The Lost Catacomb

by Shifra Hochberg

  Mariamne’s maidservant laid the silver-backed hairbrush down on a nearby table, next to the open jars of sandalwood, myrrh, and lemon-scented balm, whose soft fragrance filled the room. “Will there be anything else, my lady?” she asked as she placed a small clay oil lamp near Mariamne’s bedside.

  “No,” Mariamne replied. “Sleep well, Domitilla,” she added as the young girl left the room.

  Climbing into bed, Mariamne settled herself against the downy pillows and pulled the crimson silken coverlet up to her chin. But sleep evaded her, as it had for so many nights on end. She thought of the last time she had seen the Pope. She knew she had convinced him of the worthiness of her people and was certain that the new tax would soon be cancelled.

  But none of that explained the gentle expression, the fleeting look of sad regret in his eyes when he bade her farewell, for what might possibly be the last time. Unlike their other meetings, which had ended with a curtsey on her part and an acknowledging bow of the head on his, he had taken her hand and looked deep into her eyes. In that one reckless moment, whose recalled air of unreality still stirred her very soul, she had thought—perhaps only imagined—that he had wished for something more, a brotherly kiss or perhaps a tender embrace.

  Her eyes glistened with tears as she thought of that lost moment, which might never return, and fearful of being overheard by the servants, she wept silently into her pillow for what could never be.

  For her business at the papal court was all but concluded, and Mariamne realized, in a wave of heartbroken misery, that she might never see her beloved Benedictus again.

  Chapter Nine

  Four horsemen galloped apace under the cover of a starless night, their dark faces hooded by inky cloaks that streamed out behind them in the bitter wind. The black stallions they rode frothed at the mouth, their hooves pounding the hilly terrain that led to the densely forested outskirts of Ostia.

  Half a mile from the slumbering port city, the riders dismounted and made their way on foot to a thickly knotted grove of gnarled olive and fig trees, where they left their horses and moved silently, swords in hand, to the villa where Mariamne and her household rested tranquilly.

  A few dry leaves crackled on the ground as they approached the high stone walls surrounding the villa and climbed into the outer courtyard. Somewhere in the night, an owl screeched and a wolf howled its lonely cry to the vanished moon.

  “Secure the place,” the leader growled in a low voice. “Kill anyone you find, whether or not they resist. I’ll look for the girl.”

  He paused for a moment to admire the rich furnishings of Mariamne’s home, as he moved noiselessly down a wide corridor. He knew that his reward for this night’s work would enable him to acquire anything he had ever desired, and possibly more. It would not be necessary for him to loot the villa.

  Suddenly he was aware of someone standing at the end of the hallway, outside an open door. It was an old man, in nightclothes, a small torch in his hand. “My lady,” the old servant called out. “Is that you? Are you all right? Is there anything you need?”

  The dark figure rushed forward, and the faithful Severinus hobbled into Mariamne’s chamber, hoping to protect her. A sweep of the assassin’s sword severed his neck, and Severinus fell bleeding onto his mistress’ bed, as Mariamne shrieked over and over again in terror, scrambling to back away from the headless corpse.

  “What do you want with me?” she pleaded hysterically. “What have I done?”

  “You know what you have done, and now you must pay,” he snarled as he neared the bed. “Your servants are all dead. There is no one to help you. No one who will hear your cries.

  “And your beloved Pope is dead too,” he taunted her, as he threw down his sword and pulled a small dagger from the depths of his inky cloak.

  “No!” she cried, shrinking back into the bed as he moved towards her. “No! It’s not possible! Oh, my beloved!” she sobbed helplessly. “My true, my only love!”

  And as she collapsed in an agony of unbearable grief, the dark figure stepped forward, and with a single, sudden thrust of his blade, he slit her alabaster throat.

  The Present

  "Though lovers be lost love shall not;

  And death shall have no dominion."

  ~~ Dylan Thomas, "And Death Shall Have No Dominion"

  Chapter One

  “I have a person-to-person, collect call for Nicola Page. The party placing the call is a Dr. Sedgwick, from Mount Sinai Medical Center in New York. Will you accept the charges?” an operator asked briskly as Nicola answered her cell phone.

  “Dr. Sedgwick?” Nicola responded in a puzzled tone of voice. “I don’t know anyone by that name. Could you ask what this is about, please?”

  There was silence for a few moments on the other end of the line, and then the operator returned, explaining that Dr. Sedgwick was the attending physician in the Neurology ward at Mount Sinai and that Ms. Page’s phone number and address abroad had been found in the wallet of someone named Elena Keating.

  Nicola turned pale and looked at Bruno in panic as she took the call.

  “Ms. Page?” said a businesslike female voice at the other end of the line. “I’m sorry to have caught you off guard, but your phone number was found in Ms. Keating’s possession, and we assumed that you were the correct person to contact in case of an emergency.”

  “Oh my God,” Nicola gasped. “What’s happened?”

  “Ms. Keating appears to have suffered a mild cerebral hemorrhage or possibly a myocardial infarction. She was found unconscious in a dressing room at Saks Fifth Avenue by one of the sales personnel and has just been brought by ambulance to Mount Sinai.

  “Are you a friend or a relative of hers?” Dr. Sedgwick asked. “We need some consent forms signed, and we’re not sure whom to ask.”

  “I’m her granddaughter,” Nicola replied. “I . . . . I can’t think straight. Give me a second.” She paused and sat down awkwardly on a nearby chair.

  “Look,” she continued, trying to regain some of her composure, “please fax me whatever you need signed. I’ll authorize whatever’s necessary. But meantime, you have my verbal consent for anything you need to do. And please, if she . . . no, . . . when she wakes up, please tell her that I’m on my way home. I’ll get a flight out of Rome as soon as I can.”

  Nicola disconnected the phone and burst into tears. Between sobs she explained, somewhat disjointedly, what had happened. When Bruno had finally calmed her down, he called the travel agency used by “La Sapienza” and booked her on an Alitalia flight that was scheduled to leave Rome for New York in four hours.

  “Look, Nicola,” he said, stroking her cheek gently, “you need to pack a few things, and you need time to get out to Fiumicino. Don’t worry. I’ll take you back to the Villa Mirafiori right now. You’ll want to travel light so you don’t have to wait for your luggage at JFK, and from there you can easily take a cab to the hospital.

  “Please, carissima, please don’t cry,” he said as he put his arm around her shoulder and kissed the top of her head. She looked up at him with tears in her eyes. “If you feel that you need me, I can grab a flight to New York myself,” he added. “All you have to do is let me know. You do know that, don’t you?” he asked, kissing her again and holding her close. “And I’ll make sure my telefonino is turned on, in addition to my regular phone line. Even overnight. Okay?”

  Chapter Two

  “Excuse me,” Nicola said, as she stopped a young nurse in the corridor of the Neurology department. “Can you tell me where I can find a patient named Elena Keating? She was brought here about twelve hours ago.”

  “Oh, you mean the elderly woman whose relatives we had trouble locating?”

  Nicola nodded wearily.

  “She’s just down there, to the left, in 1324C.” The nurse gestured vaguely in the correct direction and continued on her way.

  Wheeling a heavy flight bag behind her, her purse swinging precariously from her shoulder, Nicola moved
quickly down the hall and entered her grandmother’s room. She dropped her things quietly near the door and approached Elena’s bed. Reaching out to touch her grandmother’s hand, she was surprised to see Elena open her eyes.

  “Nonna,” she whispered. “Oh, Nonna,” and she burst into tears. She had never seen Elena look so pale and drawn, so frail, and she was terrified that she was about to lose her.

  Elena smiled feebly at Nicola and tried to squeeze her hand. “Nicola, is it really you? I thought you were in Italy. Why are you crying? I’m fine, cara. Don’t worry. I’m fine. But where am I? What happened to me?” she now added, looking around the room.

  It was clear to Nicola that while her grandmother was lucid enough to recognize her, she was nonetheless disoriented, so Nicola proceeded to explain what little she knew of the circumstances of Elena’s hospitalization, how she’d been phoned by an attending physician at Mount Sinai, and how she’d taken a flight out of Rome almost immediately.

  At this point a nurse walked into the room and, pleasantly surprised by the condition of the patient, hurried out to bring one of the senior staff, who examined Elena briefly and scheduled some tests for early morning to reassess her condition.

  It was already past midnight, and Nicola was exhausted, more from the emotional strain than from jet lag or unexpected travel. The nurse asked if she would like to spend the night in Elena’s room, in which case she could use the vinyl armchair in the corner, which folded out into a fairly comfortable reclining bed.

  Before leaving Rome, Nicola had phoned her friend Laura, who lived on the upper West Side, to ask if she could stay there for the night. She knew that even if she had the physical strength to take a taxi to her brownstone in the Village after seeing her grandmother, her nerves were so shattered that she couldn’t bear to face a lonely apartment on her own. Now, however, she elected to remain at Elena’s side overnight. There would be time to arrange for a private nurse, if necessary, but meanwhile she wanted to be there, in case her grandmother needed something or there was a sudden change in her condition.

  Though she was greatly relieved that Elena had gained consciousness and could recognize her, she worried nonetheless that it might only be temporary. She moved the chair closer to her grandmother’s bed and dozed off.

  About two hours later, she woke up, having thought she’d heard someone call her name. As she looked up, feeling somewhat disoriented herself, she realized that her grandmother had spoken, and thinking that she might want a glass of water, she poured some from a bottle on the nightstand and helped Elena drink.

  “Grazie, cara, but what I really wanted was to tell you something,” Elena said weakly. “We have to talk.”

  “But it’s three o’clock in the morning, Nonna. Can’t it wait until you’re more rested?” she begged tearfully. “I don’t want you to have a relapse.”

  “No, Nicola. I need to tell you some things that you should have been told years ago. But I couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. I don’t know why. I guess I was afraid. Afraid of remembering it all. . . of recalling the pain.

  “But now, it seems, I have no choice. There are things you need to know, and we may never have another opportunity. I might never have the courage to do it again.”

  She sank back into her pillow, exhausted by the sheer effort of speaking.

  “Please, Nonna, are you sure this is necessary just now? You’re going to be fine. I just know you are. I’m sure it can wait now that you’ve finally decided to tell me.”

  “No, Nicola,” she said again. “I must insist. There is no choice. So just listen. And don’t worry,” Elena added in gentler tones. “This is not a deathbed confession. I don’t intend to die quite yet.”

  Nicola smiled through her tears and touched Elena’s hand softly.

  “I’ve never told you anything about my life in Italy,” she began. “It was just too difficult to speak about. So I kept it to myself. Only Grandpa Tom knew what had happened to me and my family during the war. He rescued me from all of it, after all. Gave me a new life. Saved me. And even he knew better than to speak of it unless I raised the subject, which I rarely did.

  “Oh, Nicola, this is so hard for me.” She paused and looked at her granddaughter, who’d been rendered speechless by all of this. “But you have to know. And please, I beg you not to speak until I’ve finished. Not a word. Not a syllable. Please.”

  Nicola nodded in assent.

  “Cara, I know this will shock you,” Elena began determinedly, “but . . . .”

  And slowly, inexorably, her eyes filling with tears, she drifted back into the misty regions of the distant past.

  1943 - 1944

  “I knew that, on a foggy night, I would be extinguished suddenly, like a star

  Hidden in the mists,

  And no star would know the place of my burial.”

  ~~ Chaim Nachman Bialik, “On a Foggy Night”

  Chapter One

  “Elena,” Giulio called out as he knocked softly on his sister’s door. “I have a visitor I’d like you to meet.”

  Elena came out of the bedroom and followed her brother into the salon of their apartment, where a tall, handsome young man, about the same age as Giulio, sat in one of the armchairs. He now stood up and crossed the room to shake Elena’s hand.

  “I’m Niccolò Rossi,” he said, introducing himself. “I was a classmate of Giulio at the university.” He paused and looked at Giulio before continuing in a somewhat embarrassed manner. “That is, I was at the university until the Racial Laws made it impossible for me to continue, because I’m Jewish. Your brother mentioned that you needed some tutoring in physics and mathematics, and so I've volunteered to help out.

  “I won’t take any money, of course, since gentiles aren’t allowed to employ Jews either in or out of their homes,” he said matter-of-factly. “And besides, my family is doing just fine, so far, in that respect. Your brother and I kind of came up with the idea simultaneously—I’m bored now that I can no longer attend classes, and apparently you are trying to improve your already very impressive grades in the sciences.”

  Elena colored slightly and nodded.

  “So, despite the restrictions,” he added with a dazzling smile that revealed straight white teeth and a dimple in his right cheek, “there’s nothing to prevent me from offering my services as a gesture of friendship. I’m not doing anything terribly intellectual at the moment, so if you’d like, I’d be happy to sit with you a few times a week, after you come back from school in the afternoon. I know how important it is to do well on the national matriculation exams, especially if you plan to attend university at some point.”

  Elena looked more closely now at Giulio’s friend and liked what she saw. Niccolò appeared to be about twenty or twenty-one years old, tall and well built, with curly black hair, an olive complexion, high cheekbones, and dark eyes that seemed to shine with enthusiasm and good humor. He was certainly good looking, and she found herself blushing under his gentle scrutiny.

  She smiled and answered somewhat shyly, “I’d love to have some help in physics and math. I’ve been thinking of studying medicine, and there’s quite a bit of competition for places at the university here in Rome, especially for women. Even in the hallowed halls of academia, women who want to be doctors are looked on with suspicion as being unfeminine,” she said wryly. “Maybe some day that will change, but for now it’s a nearly impossible dream.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “University of Rome has the best medical program in the country, and I really don’t want to be forced to study elsewhere—assuming that I can be accepted altogether because of my sex. I guess I’m kind of a homebody—my family is very important to me and I can’t imagine living far away from them,” she said, glancing fondly at her brother. “At least not at this point in my life.”

  “I understand what you mean,” Niccolò said, nodding in agreement. “In the final analysis, those whom we love are the only important things in life. The only things that last.”
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br />   A depressed, reflective look shadowed his handsome features momentarily, as he added almost hesitantly, “When you find that nothing else stays stable any more, that nothing you used to think of as being part of your life can be expected to last . . . well, it’s only your personal relationships that can be relied on. And family is a very big part of that.”

  Elena smiled sadly at him, for she knew exactly what he was referring to in this roundabout, almost indirect way. Though she was young, barely eighteen years old, she was well aware of the political situation in Italy and the ramifications of the German invasion. She knew all about the Leggi Razziali, the Racial Laws, partly from what she had read in the newspapers, partly from heated discussions at the family dinner table, and partly because she knew that her brother had many Jewish friends at the university and quite a few Jewish professors whose professional status and livelihoods had been severely affected by the Racial Laws and the anti-Semitic legislation that had preceded them.

  The first wave of laws had expelled Jews from the Fascist Party and all venues of public employment, and Jews could no longer marry non-Jews or own large businesses or land. The publication of a ten-point document, “La difesa della razza,” or “Defense of the Race,” had laid the groundwork for all of this by declaring that the biological concept of race meant that Italian Jews were not part of the so-called pure Italian race. That they were, in fact, of non-European origin.

  Many things had changed for Italian Jewry since then, Elena reflected. She knew, for example, that before 1938 one out of every ten professors at Italian universities was Jewish, a number highly disproportionate to the percentage of Jewish citizens of Italy. Most of these professors were on the faculties of sciences, medicine, and law. And all had been dismissed as a result of the new laws.