The Lost Catacomb

by Shifra Hochberg

  He opened each file methodically, and using the miniature camera he had carried for the purpose, he began to photograph the documents inside. These would later be developed and enlarged, then sent for analysis to Military Intelligence in Washington and London. It was clear to him that some sort of arrangement had been made with representatives of the Holy See to ensure the continued protected status of Vatican City and, moreover, that it had been confirmed in writing, almost in the form of a legal understanding or binding contract. He would find out the precise details afterwards, when he was not pressed for time.

  The documents concerning the Jewish community in Rome were somewhat more surprising. Some had originated in Berlin and others, apparently, in the Vatican itself, though he could not immediately identify the source. But a quick glance was enough for him to understand that the Jews of Rome were in danger and that there would be no interference by the Church.

  He placed the dockets back in the filing cabinet, extinguished the flashlight, and removed the towel from the doorway. Out in the hallway he paused for a moment to relock the door, using the same picklocks that had opened it, and made his way towards a service stairwell at the back of the Villa.

  “Guten Abend, Hauptsturmführer,” a voice called out just as he reached the top stair. He turned around and saw that Fräulein Scheisster was standing in the corridor several feet away. She regarded him somewhat suspiciously, but then softened her look as he acknowledged her greeting.

  “Ah, Fräulein Helga, what a lovely surprise,” Tom said, clicking his heels together and nodding briskly at her. “What are you doing here so late, if I may ask? Surely your work hours allow you a bit of leisure time in the evenings. I cannot imagine that your life revolves solely around the workings of Gestapo headquarters here in Rome. Such devotion, even from one as efficient and clever as you, would be above and beyond the call of duty to the Reich.”

  “Perhaps I should say the same about you,” she replied in a clipped tone of voice, regarding him closely. “I thought you would have left the Villa more than an hour ago.”

  Tom smiled in as charming a manner as he could manage and confessed sheepishly, “Such a silly thing to do, Fräulein, but I took off my wristwatch while writing out some reports earlier today and discovered that I had left it behind in my office. Such a waste of time and effort to return and retrieve it, but I could not take the risk of anyone among the cleaning staff—how shall I put it?—deciding to remove it for personal use.

  “It was given to me by my dear departed grandfather when I enlisted in the military and has a great deal of sentimental value. I could never forgive myself if anything were to happen to it. Never,” he added emphatically, pulling back his sleeve to reveal the valued article.

  “I see,” she replied thoughtfully. “Well, perhaps as it’s quite late,” she said, now placing a broad hand suggestively on his arm, “you may wish to join me for a light supper. My apartment is not far from here. That is, unless you have other plans.”

  “Actually, my dear Fräulein, I am expected for dinner at a colleague’s home tonight, danke, but tomorrow evening looks promising, if that will do. Shall we say 8 o’clock? And I’ll see if I can obtain a bottle of reasonably good wine somewhere in this hopelessly uncivilized city. Nothing like it to soothe the nerves and relax one after a long day’s work, wouldn’t you say?” he added, as his gaze swept deliberately over her body.

  “Yes, that will do just fine,” she said, coloring faintly but maintaining her composure. “And don’t worry,” she added, her eyes meeting his somewhat hesitantly. “I wouldn’t think of mentioning to anyone that I found you here in the Villa after work hours. Not even to Herr Kappler. I’m glad that you found your watch. Auf wiedersehn.”

  He reached out and pressed his lips to the back of her hand, maintaining the contact for just a fraction of a second longer than standard courtesy required. “Until tomorrow, then, Fräulein Helga. Heil Hitler!” And he turned on his heel and walked down the staircase without looking back.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Several blocks from the Villa Wolkonsky, Tom knocked in a coded sequence of soft raps on the door of a small bookshop, which, like the other places of business up and down the street, had closed several hours ago. The heavy blackout curtain covering the glass window of the storefront was pulled aside slightly and the door was opened by a bespectacled man of about forty. Quickly glancing around him one more time at the empty street, Tom entered the shop.

  “How may I help you?” the shopkeeper offered. “It’s after hours, you realize.”

  “I’m looking for a first edition of War and Peace,” Tom replied. “It’s rather urgent.”

  “In which language?” asked the shopkeeper, glancing at the oak leaf insignia on Tom’s collar. “We have several available.”

  “English, preferably,” Tom replied. “And preferably something printed in the United States.”

  “I see,” the shopkeeper responded. “I think I may be able to assist you. Come inside.”

  “Grazie. I think we have a problem,” Tom explained in rapid Italian as he identified himself and described his encounter with Kappler’s secretary just a short while ago.

  “I need to make contact with the Resistenza immediately. My cover appears to have been compromised. I’m afraid I may need to leave Rome sooner than I thought. Tonight or early tomorrow morning at the very latest. And I’m afraid it will be too dangerous to return to my apartment at the moment. I’ll need a safe place to spend the night, if you can arrange it.”

  “Wait there,” the shopkeeper said, pointing to a small, dimly lit room to the left of the bookcases on the back wall. “There’s a mattress on the floor if you wish to rest, and a few biscotti in one of the cupboards, in case you’re hungry. I’ll need to speak to one of our contacts from the Frascati cell. In person. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Don’t turn on any lights or move around unnecessarily. You’ll be safe here, for the time being.”

  He picked up the telephone, waited a moment, and then said into the receiver, “Buena sera, signorina. I need to make an urgent delivery of books by no later than tomorrow morning. A special request from an important client. Si, I understand. I’ll be there shortly to discuss the packaging arrangements.”

  He put down the receiver, removed his spectacles, and reached for a dark workman’s cap, whose narrow brim obscured the upper part of his face. Glancing at Tom, he added almost as an afterthought, “By the way, there’s a spare key inside the biscotti tin, in case of an emergency. Just in case you need to leave unexpectedly before I return.”

  He left the bookstore silently, locking the door behind him with a barely audible click.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The tall Gestapo officer snapped his heels together stiffly and saluted, “Heil Hitler!” as Mother Teresa nodded slightly and crossed herself. “God go with you both,” she said quietly.

  He emerged from the shaded portico of the convent into the early morning sunlight, accompanied by a nun of indeterminate age, her face partially obscured by a wimple. She appeared to be occupied with the capacious folds of her habit, which she gathered absentmindedly about her. The small leather satchel that hung from a strap on her left shoulder was half hidden from view and seemed to be much heavier than its size warranted. Motioning in the direction of a waiting automobile, the German indicated to her to sit in the back seat, then opened the front door and joined the driver.

  The car pulled away from the curb and turned left onto a narrow tree-lined side street. Several blocks away from the convent the two passengers got out, walked around the corner, and entered a dark, battered looking vehicle whose dusty windows were partially rolled down.

  This second car wound its way through the streets of Rome in the direction of the autostrade, where it eventually exited several kilometers north of the village of Frascati. At the edge of the village, its driver turned off into a densely wooded area, where the nun and the officer continued on foot for the next half hou
r through the hilly terrain until they reached a small abandoned hut at the edge of a clearing.

  The German whistled softly and an answering cough let him know that the door was open. Inside, two partisans belonging to the local Resistance cell addressed him in subdued voices and handed him a change of clothing. Now turning their attention to the nun, who had remained silent throughout this whispered exchange, they gave her a sack containing a faded blue dress, shoes, stockings, a scarf, and other necessities.

  The two partisans left the cabin with the German, who quickly removed his uniform and jackboots in the shadows at the back of the cabin, donned a threadbare shirt, pants, and workman’s shoes, and placed a well worn cap on his head. A brown neckerchief was tucked into his pocket.

  He handed his gray uniform over to the partisans, who assured him that they would find good use for it in their next ambush of a Nazi patrol. Patiently, the three of them waited for the nun to signal that she had finished changing her clothing so they could add her discarded attire to their collection of disguises.

  Cautiously opening the door, the erstwhile Gestapo officer, still speaking to the others in rapid Italian, nearly gasped in amazement as his pale gray eyes caught the gaze of the beautiful young woman who had been dressed as a nun.

  The transformation was as complete as it was incredible. She appeared to be about eighteen years old, with thick, lustrous dark hair that curled in soft tendrils just above her shoulders. The shabby dress she now wore, instead of the flowing habit, stretched tightly over her swelling breasts and was loosely belted at the waist.

  She blushed, and her dark eyes flashed as she said softly, in lightly accented English, “I believe we haven’t been properly introduced. My name is Elena. Elena Conti.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Elena and the man she now knew as Tom Keating were driving along a winding, mountain road towards the south of France. The route they were taking would have been considered picturesque under any other circumstance, had they had time or the inclination to pay attention to the breathtaking scenery, with its tall conifers, steep inclines, and panoramic views.

  Tom hoped to make contact with one of the local Résistance groups operating near the French border, which would then conduct Elena to a safe house outside of Nice, where she would be able to remain for several days. She would then need to decide where to go next, for with the Germans now occupying the Vichy-governed territory of France, no shelter was secure for very long. As Tom explained to her, at least she had convincing false identity papers, provided by the Resistenza, as well as some money. Her small cache of various European currencies was as yet untouched, as was the jewelry she had brought with her. Both could easily be exchanged for food or safe conduct, as needed.

  But as she listened to Tom’s assessment of her situation, her eyes began to fill with tears, and she soon found herself sobbing uncontrollably.

  “What’s wrong, Elena?” he asked. “How can I help?”

  He pulled the old truck that they were driving in to the side of the road, and leaning over, handed her his brown neckerchief. She took it from him wordlessly, dropping it in her lap as she continued to cry.

  Finally she looked up at him, red-eyed, and began to speak, this time in brisk Italian, which she had realized, while they were still in Frascati, he readily understood. Her English, back at the secluded cabin, had been a show of sheer bravado, and it was too much of an effort to continue to pretend that she felt confident and fearless. She was just a frightened young girl with nowhere to go, no one who cared about her, no family that she knew of, and an uncertain future.

  “How much of my story do you know?” she asked him finally, wiping the corners of her eyes with the back of her hand.

  “Not much, to tell the truth,” he replied. “I know that you had to get out of Rome, that your life is in danger, and that some pretty powerful people are trying to find you. And yes, the Mother Superior did mention that you're an orphan—that your parents and brother were arrested and presumed dead after a Fascist reprisal.”

  She hesitated only for a moment and then decided to tell him the rest. She had nothing to lose, she realized. Things couldn't get any worse, and she felt sure that he wouldn't abandon her at the side of the road, in the middle of nowhere, just because of what she was about to reveal. She assumed that he was about ten years older than she was, mature, apparently intelligent, and more than capable of giving her advice. She had no one else to turn to. No one else to trust. And obviously Mother Teresa had felt confident enough to confide her to his care.

  “I don’t know how to say this,” she said falteringly, “but I have no choice. There’s no way you can help me decide—not that it’s your responsibility to help me decide—where I go from here or what would be best under the circumstances.”

  A tear rolled down her cheek, and she dabbed at it with the faded brown cloth that Tom had handed her. “My father and brother were arrested by the carabinieri several months ago, supposedly for violating the Racial Laws. My mother was beaten to the point of unconsciousness with their rifle butts when she tried to intervene, and she was taken away with them. I don’t know if she’s dead or alive, but probably she’s dead.”

  She began to cry softly, but checked herself with great effort and continued bravely. “I was told by some neighbors that my father and Giulio—my brother—were taken away to Regina Coeli prison. No one gets out of there alive. And anyway, no one's been able to find out if they're even still there.

  “The only reason I’m still alive is that I was away from home when it happened. I hid for several days with friends in a different part of Rome and returned to our apartment only to gather some documents and things. Our apartment had been vandalized, and it wasn’t safe for me to stay there.

  “But there’s more, much more.”

  He nodded to let her know that he was listening closely, and she continued, this time more reluctantly.

  “You see, the Racial Law that we had supposedly violated was that I had a Jewish tutor, someone who was helping me with math and physics over the summer. I want . . . I wanted,” she corrected herself, “to go to medical school, and you need very high grades on the matriculation exams for that. Especially if you’re female.

  “Niccolò was a friend of my brother, of Giulio. He’d been expelled from the university simply because he was Jewish. We knew we couldn’t employ him—it’s forbidden—though if he’d needed the money we would've done it anyway. But he didn’t need the money. He just needed to have something to do. Something that would keep him going. Something to make him feel that life was still normal. That his university education hadn’t been wasted.

  “And we fell in love.”

  Here Elena started crying again, but forced herself to continue brokenly, through her tears.

  “Someone with Fascist connections, someone from my parish, denounced us to the carabinieri. You said that you were told that powerful people were after me? Well, this someone was a priest, newly ordained and working in the Vatican. His brother and best friend are Blackshirts. He tried to blackmail me into . . .” She stopped, shuddering uncontrollably at the recollection. “He wanted me to exchange favors, sexual favors, for my family’s freedom from denuncia.”

  Tom looked at her in shock. “You say this guy was a priest? What kind of priest would do a thing like that?”

  “What kind of priest?” she replied bitterly. “Well, I’ve heard that he’s become an assistant to the Holy Father himself. That’s what kind of priest! Someone with a lot of power who’s used to getting his own way. Who would believe me?

  “But you see, there’s more. Niccolò and his parents had also been denounced. His mother and father were arrested and deported. But . . . ,” she said, taking a deep breath, “he was murdered, bludgeoned to death in front of his parents several weeks before my family was arrested.

  “We were so in love,” she cried, “and now he’s dead. I don’t even know where he’s buried. And—and I’m carrying his chi
ld. That’s why I had to leave the convent. Mother Teresa said I was in danger of discovery by that priest. And my baby will be part Jewish. It was no longer safe.”

  Tom looked at her in shock, but made no comment.

  “Please don’t judge me,” she said sadly. “Even Mother Teresa didn’t judge me when I told her. Niccolò and I were lovers only once. It was just after that priest threatened me, near a dark alleyway, on my way home from mass.

  “Things just got out of control somehow between me and Niccolò, just that one time. All that fear. All that desperation . . . . Things are different during a war. I don’t know if you can possibly understand what I mean.

  “But I’m not sorry. How can I be sorry, when this baby is all that’s left of him and his family? He was an only child. There are no others.

  “I’m not even sure if I believe in God anymore,” she rambled on hurriedly, “but what we did was sanctified, as surely as if we had exchanged vows in a church or synagogue. This baby was meant to be. I know it was meant to be.”

  He nodded sympathetically, still stunned by her confession, and let her finish speaking.

  “So now you can see just how terrible my situation is. I’m an orphan, and soon enough I’m going to be an unwed mother. I have no relatives I can turn to, and I don’t know where to go. I’m on my way to a safe house somewhere in France, and from that point on, my future is a blank.”