The Lost Catacomb

by Shifra Hochberg

  God’s providence and divine will working itself out in the context of a world red in tooth and claw, where might made things right, where freedom of will was obliterated by those who saw themselves most fit to dictate which species, which race, which ethnic groups would survive—all these were not abstractions, but part of the reality in which Elena lived.

  She thought of Tennyson’s God, Who had made both life and death, and Whose foot was placed implacably on the skull that He had wrought, grinding it into nothingness. And, tears streaming down her cheeks, she thought of her lover, beaten by Fascist thugs, his head crushed by their rifle butts. His beautiful face, his brilliant mind, the body she had so loved—destroyed, mutilated beyond recognition.

  She thought of the poet’s hand stretched out in vain, searching for the responding hand of his friend. And she thought of the warmth of Niccolò’s touch, which she would never feel again.

  She thought of Hallam’s body rotting, dissolving into the earth to become one with the gnarled and twisted roots of the graveyard’s yew trees, and of the poet, inconsolable, who ached to “grow incorporate” into his friend. And she thought of how Niccolò would never have a proper grave, a place that she or anyone else could visit and water with her tears. That they would never see each other again, never be joined again in love’s ultimate embrace, never have a future together. That bittersweet memories of the past were all that she would ever have.

  The sun would continue to shine in its mindless repetition of the natural cycle, searing the earth, scorching it pitilessly with its heat. Day would follow night and night the day. And rain, like harsh tears of universal grief, would beat down upon Niccolò’s shattered body, lying somewhere in its cold and lonely grave. And for all that remained of the time allotted to her on this dreary earth, Elena would be alone. She would have to learn to live without him.

  She had been too ill to leave the house, even to go to mass, but Father Donato had visited her on several occasions, offering her the comfort of the Church, the reassurance that her tutor, Giulio’s former classmate—for so he thought Niccolò had been, a gifted tutor, a family friend and nothing more—was now in the bosom of Abraham, at rest with the faithful Shepherd who tends His flock, no matter what their faith or religious affiliation had been. Jew or gentile, all would repose in the mercy of His embrace, to await the final Judgment Day, when the glory of God would manifest itself to all of mankind, and the dead would be resurrected, healed and made anew.

  Elena listened to the elderly priest listlessly, softly weeping. When he rose to leave she held out her hand, which he took and patted soothingly.

  “My dear,” he said, “if ever you feel the need—to talk, to cry, to confess—you know that I’m here for you. I’ve watched you grow from a small child into a young woman whose fine and upright character I've always admired. I can only hope that in the fullness of time you will be able to accept God’s will and divine plan.”

  He sighed and added gently, “May God grant you the strength to endure this, my child.”

  He nodded to Elena’s parents, who escorted him to the door.

  “A word of caution,” Father Donato whispered to them in low tones. “Try not to leave her alone. Despair is a terrible thing. Make sure that she eats and drinks. Try to plan a small outing. Something that will get her out of this apartment. Something that will distract her. And try to remind her that she is young. That there is still a future for her.” He paused and added sadly, “That there is still hope.

  “Someday this godless war will end. Someday the people who did this to her friend—her tutor,” he corrected himself, “will be brought to justice. As will all who have collaborated with the Fascists and Nazis,” he said with uncharacteristic passion and anger in his voice. “God will not let it be otherwise. God cannot allow it to be otherwise.”

  He turned the brass handle of the oak-grained door and went out into the gray and noisy street, walking slowly, his bent shoulders bearing the burden of Elena’s pain.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Elena was alone in the apartment, alone and terrified that they would come to take her away, too, at any moment. For the past two days she had hidden in the home of family friends who lived in a neighborhood far from Trastevere, but she could no longer risk their safety in order to secure her own. Reluctantly, they had allowed her to leave, giving her a small packet of food—what little they could spare—and a few coins to tide her over. She had told them that she would make contact with them and let them know where she was staying, if and when she could.

  Her father and Giulio had been arrested while she had stood in line at the local baker’s, and she had heard that they were now imprisoned in Regina Coeli, a former monastery at the foot of Janiculum hill that had been turned into a prison years earlier. It was reputed to be one of the harshest of jails, with hardened wardens who cared little for the miseries of its inmates, however guilty or innocent they might be. And nowadays, staffed as it was by Fascists and members of the Gestapo, there was little prospect of fair treatment or even an attempt at objective legal proceedings.

  Denuncia, Elena knew, provided no more hope of redress than a lettre de cachet had offered during the miserable years preceding the French Revolution. It brought immediate imprisonment. It was unquestioned. And it could be totally anonymous. There was no accountability whatsoever, no liability for those who used it as a tool to further their own interests. It was, Elena understood with sudden clarity of vision, final and almost always fatal.

  Her mother, one of the neighbors had informed her a few minutes earlier—opening the door only a crack and fearful of saying too much—had been taken away, bludgeoned into unconsciousness by the rifle butts of the three Blackshirt thugs who had come to arrest Elena’s father and brother, as she tried desperately to intercede with them. She too had been dragged into the ominous looking, black police van, along with her husband and son. There was no further information as to her whereabouts, or whether she was dead or alive.

  Elena tried to think clearly, but her head was spinning and she had difficulty calming herself down. She knew that she had very little time to take anything of value from the apartment, which had already been ransacked and ravaged by the Blackshirts two days earlier.

  Furniture had been turned over and upholstery slashed viciously. Fragments of antique china plates—precious family heirlooms that were irreplaceable and had adorned the mantelpiece of the fireplace in the salon—littered the floor in shards. And the Conti’s prized mahogany book cabinet, with its glass doors and intricate fretwork, had been smashed in, pages deliberately torn out of rare, first edition volumes, which now lay in scattered heaps, carelessly tossed around the room.

  She wept with frustration and anger, knowing that it was only a matter of time until the apartment would be revisited by the Fascist militia or looted by greedy or desperate scavengers for whatever usable portable property could be salvaged.

  She also realized, with a dull sensation of hopelessness, that any one of her neighbors could be an informant. Any one of the neighbors who had always greeted her with a polite “Buon giorno” and a cordial nod could betray her to the Blackshirts for an extra food coupon, some cigarettes or chocolate, or a small sum of money. She had no choice but to get herself under control.

  Quickly, she entered her parents’ bedroom and reached into the tall armoire that had once been the family linen closet. Its doors had been ripped off the hinges, and its contents were now lying haphazardly on the floor. She gagged as she smelled the stale odor of urine on the white cutwork duvet that had once covered her parents’ carved four-poster bed.

  Behind the false backing of the armoire, which had remained untouched, there was a small compartment, flush with the panels on the left side of the cupboard. It was here that Elena knew her parents had hidden important documents, money, and a cache of gold coins of various denominations and nationalities. A few pieces of antique jewelry, including her late grandmother’s diamond wedding band, were in a
small velvet bag next to the coins.

  Elena felt carefully for the flat hidden latch along the inside of the closet, and when the false backing sprung open, she removed the contents of the compartment, tying them securely inside an embroidered pillowcase that she found lying on the floor. Fortunately it was still intact and smelled fresh. She paused for a moment as she recalled that the pillowcase had been part of a hand-worked set of sheets and bed linens that had been intended for her trousseau one day. She tucked it and its precious contents into the netted shopping bag in which her small ration of food rested and hurriedly left the apartment.

  Where to go? How to hide? Her footsteps led her instinctively to the parish church. She remembered Father Donato’s offer of comfort and solace. Perhaps he could help her find sanctuary somewhere.

  It was a weekday, and the heavy front doors of the church were closed for afternoon siesta. She walked around to the side of the building, where she knew she would find a small wooden door that opened into Father Donato’s private office. She knocked and held her breath as the housekeeper, an aged nonna whom Elena had always considered to be somewhat dim-witted, slowly opened the door and looked at her quizzically.

  “Please,” Elena pleaded, “I must see Father Donato. This is an emergency. You must let me in. Please.”

  The old woman blinked mutely in the bright sunshine that streamed onto her face, and Elena brushed her aside, entering the small but comfortable room in which Father Donato sat, engrossed in a selection from the New Testament in preparation for his Sunday sermon.

  “Father,” Elena cried as she burst into tears, “please, I need your help. I have no one else to turn to.”

  Father Donato rose, gestured to the housekeeper to shut the door, and led Elena to a chair, where she sat for a few moments, sobbing bitterly.

  “What is it my child?” the priest asked. “How can I help?”

  Barely keeping her voice under control, Elena recounted the events of the past few days. She was surprised that Father Donato had not heard about the denuncia and its terrible outcome, and yet she knew that no neighbor would have risked the safety—and anonymity—of his own family by speaking to anyone about what had happened to the Contis. If anything, the war had taught many Italians simply to mind their own business, to avoid calling unnecessary attention to themselves for fear of unpleasant repercussions.

  As she begged him to help her find a place to stay, yet another thought nagged at her relentlessly, as she weighed the implications of finding refuge in the sort of place he might suggest—with an upright Catholic family outside the parish, or perhaps even in one of the many convents scattered throughout Rome.

  It had been only three weeks since she and Niccolò had lost all control, all thought of possible consequences. Three weeks since their separate selves had vanished in a whirlwind of unbridled passion. She had understood at the time, as she lay in bed later that night, marveling at what had happened, caught equally between guilt and rapture, that the war had changed things for her permanently.

  That even “good” girls, such as she had been until that fateful afternoon, could be changed by the force of events around them. That constant fear, the relentless stress of curfews, suspicions about neighbors and acquaintances, anxiety about the future—the uncertainty, if she were truly honest with herself, that there might ever be a future—that all this could make anyone grasp at a chance for happiness, however fleeting it might ultimately be.

  That all this could make anyone seize the opportunity to experience love, without a moment’s rational reflection on the ultimate cost to one’s self or family. That all this could make one long for the possibility to forget, even for a few precious, delusory moments, that the world had turned dark and comfortless. That, at best, it was a place of shadowed hopes, pitiless and bereft of light.

  Her period was now one week late, and while she hoped it was the result of the nearly unbearable stress of the past few days, she feared she might have become pregnant from that one sexual encounter with Niccolò.

  This, too, weighed heavily upon her heart—on the one hand, fear of bringing an illegitimate child into the world, and on the other, hope that maybe something of Niccolò had survived, that something of Niccolò would outlast the blighting of their love and the destruction of his family.

  Where she was to hide, at least until she could somehow get out of Rome, could be even more problematic than she had imagined. Who would hide a young, pregnant—and unmarried—girl? What would Father Donato think of her if he knew? Would he still help her? Should she confess and ask for absolution? And was she possibly endangering the kindhearted old priest with her very presence, here and now, in the church? No one was safe from the Fascists. No one was safe from denuncia.

  Her thoughts were now interrupted as she felt the pressure of a gentle hand upon her shoulder. “Elena, Elena, are you all right? You don’t seem to have heard a word I’ve said for the past few minutes.”

  She looked up at Father Donato, startled, and shook off her reverie. I must focus, she thought to herself. I must focus. I have no choice.

  “Si, Father,” she responded quickly. “I’m sorry. I don’t seem to be my usual self. Please forgive me. What were you saying?”

  “I was saying that I believe I have a solution,” he said thoughtfully. “I have friends at a convent near the Vatican. I’ll take you there. We’ll leave immediately. It’s far enough from Trastevere to be safe, for the moment. The Mother Superior there is an old friend of mine. I’ll explain your circumstances to her when we arrive.

  “She is known, in certain circles, for her sympathies to those pursued by the Fascists and Germans. I’m not at liberty to say more,” he added, glancing uneasily in the direction of the door.

  “You needn’t fear, Elena. She will take you in and protect you, for as long as necessary.”

  Elena looked up at him uncertainly, as the tears spilled, once more, from her eyes. “Grazie, Father. Grazie,” she said brokenly, rising from her chair. “I am ready.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Captain Tom Keating picked up and opened the first of two folders he’d been given by General Armstrong’s aide-de-camp, Lt. Gerald Montgomery. Inside were the usual photographs, surveillance information, and maps. This time the detailed street maps were of Berlin, with accompanying pictures of key locations, including the military airport, the Wehrmacht, the Abwehr, and SS headquarters, as well as apartments, villas, and private residences of the top German commanding officers, whose photos were also included.

  In a separate set of papers, there was similar information about Rome and the surrounding countryside, particularly the Castelli Romana, the rugged, heavily wooded hills that stretched out for miles around Italy’s capital, where the partisans and Resistenza members hid in small, but effective bands, aided by the local populace. Especially detailed were the maps of Frascati and the area surrounding Castel Gandolfo, the picturesque town housing the summer residence of the Pope. These were areas Tom would need to know intimately, in the event that his cover was exposed.

  With the fall of Marshal Pietro Badoglio’s regime, which had governed Italy for a mere forty-five days following the ouster of Mussolini in July of 1943, German forces had entered Rome. It was now mid-September, several days after the occupation had begun, and the Allied forces desperately needed concrete information about German plans, including the possible extent of Vatican involvement or cooperation with the enemy. The timing of this assignment was critical and had been scrupulously prepared for by London headquarters in the shadow of General Eisenhower’s anticipated announcement of an armistice, which had taken place only a few days before Badoglio had fled Rome.

  This was not going to be Tom’s easiest mission, and in fact would probably prove to be his most challenging assignment yet. It would demand several intense weeks of masquerading that would tax all of his acting and language skills, and draw upon every last reserve of courage and inner strength. Tom had been recruited to pose as Hauptstu
rmführer Jurgen Kessler, a young German officer who was being transferred from Berlin to Gestapo headquarters in Rome to assist in the implementation of its racial policies. Tom had been picked for the operation, in part, on the basis of his close physical resemblance to Kessler, as well as his exceptional facility in both German and Italian.

  Tom’s maternal grandparents had emigrated from Dresden as newlyweds, just before the turn of the century, like others who had reached America’s shores at that time, seeking a better life and fewer economic hardships. Because the Keatings had always felt it important to learn as many languages as possible, they had encouraged Tom to speak German with his grandparents, the Hopfstadters, who had taken special care to teach him how to read and write. In fact, until the outbreak of this new World War, the Hopfstadters had subscribed to German magazines that arrived on a monthly basis and had shared them with Tom. Thus, his vocabulary was not the schoolboy lexicon of those who studied German at the high school or college level, but was idiomatic and sophisticated.

  Despite his German descent, however, Tom was not considered to be tainted by dual loyalties. On his paternal side, he was fourth generation American, and his father, Henry Keating, was a Democratic congressional representative from Connecticut, active on several House committees and believed to be a likely candidate for the Senate in the next election.

  As for his skills in Italian, he had studied several Romance languages as an undergraduate at Yale, in addition to his major in European history, prior to starting law school. This had enhanced what he had picked up as a child from his mother’s Italian cleaning woman, from whom he had learned the fundaments simply by process of osmosis. Two summers as an exchange student living with a family in Rome and a recent tour of duty in southern Italy with the U.S. army, prior to his assignment to military intelligence, had added the desired polish.