The Lost Catacomb

by Shifra Hochberg

  For he had told her that he knew everything about her. And in her naiveté and ignorance, she had believed he was as omniscient as the God he served.

  Each week he sat in a corner and watched her closely, without touching her. His hands would move rhythmically inside the folds of his cassock, back and forth, as his breath came in thick, uneven pants. And each week, as part of this degrading ritual, he would then cry out harshly, over and over again, “Puttana! Elena! You whore!”

  Chapter Five

  “Nicola? It’s Matt,” said a tired-sounding voice on the other end of the line.

  “Matt, what a wonderful surprise!” she cried excitedly. “Where are you? Are you in Rome?”

  “No, I’m calling from Athens,” he said tautly. “There've been some new developments in my investigation of the Greek artifacts I told you about, and Demetrios begged me to join him here.

  “Look, Nicola, we need to speak. And I don’t have much time.”

  Mystified by the note of urgency in his voice, she wondered uncomfortably if he was calling to ask if she’d given more thought to their relationship. It would be unpleasant to do this over the phone, but if he pressed her for an answer, she would have no choice but to tell him about Bruno—who had now become the center of her life.

  It was not merely a shared intellectual passion for art that sparked their relationship—as was the case, she now understood, with her years of friendship with Matt. With Bruno there was a shared personal context, a sense of rootedness shaped by a common heritage. A living history that she had just learned was hers as well, that she too was part of. Somehow with Bruno she no longer felt like an orphan, dispossessed of all close relatives but Elena and ignorant of her family’s past and the external forces that had shaped her. Bruno had become a part of her that she simply could not live without.

  But no, Nicola thought quickly, the purpose of Matt’s call was clearly professional, not personal. “Matt,” she hesitated, “I don’t mean to pry, but you don’t sound like your usual self. Why did you have to fly to Athens so soon? What kind of new developments are you talking about?”

  “Are you free to speak?” he asked in a hurried tone of voice.

  “Of course. I’m indoors, and I assume that my cell phone isn’t being tapped,” she quipped lightly.

  “All right, then, Nicola,” he said, sounding more strained than she’d ever known him to be. “I’m calling you from a public phone booth. Not from my hotel room or a cell phone. And I am worried about my line being tapped. Very worried, as a matter of fact.

  “I came out here because Demetrios has found troubling evidence that artifacts stolen from the Jewish communities in Greece were shipped out of the port of Piraeus, near Athens, on a regular basis, to Italy.”

  “What?! How did he find that out?” she exclaimed.

  “Never mind who tipped him off, Nicola. We can talk about that some other time. It’s just as well that you don’t know all of the details at this point.

  “Anyway, we’ve been tracing artwork stolen from the Jews of Athens, Thessaloniki, Crete, and Corfu in the early 1940s. And we’ve found corroborative evidence—copies of invoices and bills of lading, all of them with specific dates and detailed inventories—which clearly indicate which shipping companies the Germans used to transport these items.

  “This is a much bigger story than we thought it would be, Nicola. It’s not just that the Germans helped themselves to Jewish property in Greece, as they did in every country they invaded. The point is that we’ve uncovered a clear-cut connection to Italy.”

  “But why Italy?” she interrupted him. “Why would the stolen goods have been shipped there? I would have thought they’d be sent to Germany.”

  “Me, too,” he said, with an uncharacteristic note of worry in his voice. “But apparently some of the shipments we tracked down were slated for delivery to an organization headquartered in Rome that was called Catholic Charities International. The group was apparently operating, at the time, under the direct auspices of the Vatican.”

  “Are you sure?” she gasped in horror.

  “Absolutely. So I need you—that is, I’m asking you—to find any documentation of this that you possibly can in the Secret Archives. And you’ll have to do this quietly. I know you’ll be betraying the trust of your hosts at the Vatican, but this is too important a discovery to be overlooked. Even if I were to ask for permission to enter the Archives, it could take weeks, if not months, for my request to be processed. And we just don’t have time for that.”

  He caught his breath and then continued. “Look, I think you need to know that I’ve gotten myself into something far more complicated—and possibly more dangerous—than I bargained for.

  “Ever since we visited the shipyard and combed municipal files for records of shipping activity during the early 1940s, Demetrios and I have had the feeling that we’ve been followed. And this isn’t a case of paranoia, either. We keep seeing the same two or three cars, with the same license plates, wherever we go. Demetrios was mugged last night on his way out of a taverna and narrowly escaped losing his BlackBerry, where most of the information, including digital photos of the original documents, is stored. And just this morning I caught a maid going through my drawers at the hotel when I returned to the room unexpectedly after breakfast.

  “I don’t want to scare you unnecessarily, but I do need your help, Nicola. I’ve come this far, and I’m not about to give up now. I need to know who’s behind it all and where the missing art has been hidden all these years. I need to know in whose interest it is that all of this continues to remain covered up. And in this case, it looks as if all roads do lead to Rome. To the Vatican itself.”

  He waited as Nicola took down the information and then asked him pointedly, “What exactly do you want me to look for in the Archives, Matt?”

  “I’m not sure,” he replied. “Probably there are records of art acquisitions at the Vatican museums or correspondence between—I don’t know—maybe the papal nuncio in Greece and the Vatican Secretariat of State during the war. Maybe there’s some information on Catholic Charities International. Maybe who headed it back in the 1940s, for example. I’m sure you’ll think of something.

  “In the meantime, I’ll try to forward our files to you by e-mail, over an encrypted channel. I want someone, besides me and Demetrios, to have the documentation, just in case.”

  There was silence at the other end of the line. “Nicola,” Matt asked, “are you still there?”

  “Of course I am,” she answered. “I . . . I’m just . . . stunned. You will be careful, won’t you, Matt? Please? You’re scaring me. No story is worth risking your life.”

  “I’ve got to go, Nicola. I’m sorry. I’ll call you when I can,” he said. And the line went dead.

  Chapter Six

  Nicola stood near the front door of Bruno’s apartment, debating whether or not she should try to run out and find him. He had stepped out a short while ago to pick up some fruit and freshly baked panini for breakfast at a small vendor’s stall in the nearby piazza and would probably not return for another fifteen minutes.

  Poor Matt, she thought to herself anxiously. I hope he’s all right. While it wasn't unusual for him to be so focused on an investigation, he'd never sounded so tense or harried in all the years she’d known him—and, if she were honest with herself, he’d actually sounded afraid. It was so unlike him. And the fact that he hadn’t mentioned anything at all about their relationship convinced her that his situation was serious.

  When Bruno returned, she told him about the call and Matt’s request that they try to find corroborating evidence in the Secret Archives.

  “Look, cara,” Bruno said, “we need to go into the Archives anyway, to look at the files on other Jewish catacombs, besides those at the Vigna Randanini, in order to verify our theories about the crypt. I think we should consider confiding in Father Benedetto again and have him requisition the material relating to Greece during World War II, as well a
s any records connected to Catholic Charities International. I don’t see how we can ask for them on our own without arousing some suspicion, or at the very least, some unwanted attention and curiosity.”

  He rinsed out their mugs and put the remaining fruit into a brightly colored ceramic bowl on the kitchen counter. Turning to Nicola, he now said, “I can’t believe how complex all of this is becoming.

  “As I see it,” he continued thoughtfully, “we have several problems to deal with. First of all, we’re about to open a Pandora’s box with respect to the catacombs. There’s a Pope buried there, as well as a Jewish martyr. That means that ownership and legal control of the crypt is still unclear, which is not going to make either side to the dispute particularly happy.

  “Second, we seem to have discovered a rather unpleasant little secret, namely that artifacts from the ancient Temple in Jerusalem appear to have been appropriated by the Church centuries ago and that knowledge of their existence was obviously fatal, at least to our unnamed Pope and the woman he loved. That doesn’t mean that the Vatican still has these treasures in its possession, of course. But then again, maybe it does. And if it does, well, that will be an ownership dispute of even greater magnitude than what we thought we were involved in initially, as we’ve already discussed.

  “Third, just to complicate matters,” he said, as he sat down at the breakfast table across from Nicola, “we now have the additional problem of stolen Greek, and maybe Iberian, artwork making its way to Rome, and possibly to the Vatican, during World War II. And I can’t even imagine for what purpose.

  “I think we’ve been pretty circumspect, cautious even, about analyzing the data. And we’ve been discreet about our relationship, not that it should have any real bearing on our ability to do the job properly. I know you’ve said that you thought we were being followed—at that café on the Via Appia—and that the break-in at my office might have been related to our work for the Vatican. But I can’t imagine why anyone would want to keep tabs on us. I don’t think we’ve done anything, so far, that could be problematic for the legal position of the Church.”

  He paused and added, “Or its moral position, for that matter. And that’s without our even knowing for sure if Rostoni is actually the criminal we suspect he may be. Though if it turns out that he was a Fascist collaborator during the war, that might go a long way towards explaining the shipment of stolen artwork to Catholic Charities International, especially if he had some sort of connection to the Germans who expropriated the art. Frankly, I just don’t know what to think at this point.”

  His hand rested on the table, and Nicola covered it with her own, playing with his fingers and then kissing them one at a time while she considered the matter. Finally she said, “Neither do I, but I think you’re right about calling Father Benedetto. Let’s see when he can meet with us. And I think a restaurant might be a good idea. Somewhere far from the Apostolic Palace.”

  Chapter Seven

  Although, at first, Father Benedetto had been skeptical about the need for them to confer at an inconspicuous location, away from possibly prying eyes at the Vatican, he had sensed the urgency of their request and agreed to meet Nicola and Bruno for dinner that evening at a small trattoria off the Via Veneto.

  Though it was pleasantly cool for that time of year and sitting at a table outside the restaurant would have been a far more attractive option under any other circumstance, they requested a quiet corner table inside. They asked their waiter to bring them their antipasti, bruschetta, and wine together with their secondi piatti, and not to disturb them until they signaled that they were ready for espresso and dessert. The request seemed a little odd to the waiter, but he understood that the size of his tip would undoubtedly be directly proportional to the degree of his compliance.

  The food arrived, and they began to eat. Between sips of a mellow house wine tasting of young Trebbiano grapes, Bruno and Nicola told Father Benedetto of their concerns.

  “This puts me in a rather peculiar position, as I’m sure you both realize,” he said when they had finished, “but frankly, I find this new element, this piece of information regarding Greek artwork making its way to Rome during the war, rather disturbing myself. I can only assume that your friend’s information is accurate, Nicola.”

  “Matt’s the best there is,” she insisted. “If he says there’s evidence, then it does exist.”

  “In that case,” Benedetto replied slowly, thinking out loud, “I’ll get hold of the relevant files myself the next time you enter the Archives. I won’t need anyone to assist me in finding them, and I’ll make sure to tuck them inside some other dockets that relate to your catacomb inquiries. It would be best if no one knew that you’re looking into this.

  “With respect to Catholic Charities International, I have a cousin who works in the IOR, that is, the Vatican Bank, and I believe he can make some discreet inquiries on our behalf, since the organization is still connected to the Vatican. This way we’ll have yet another source of information, in addition to archival records. I prefer, by the way, that you say nothing about this to your friend in Greece, at least not yet, and that you let him follow his own leads for the time being.

  “As for my cousin, let’s just say that he owes me a favor or two—some things I’ve done for his family in the past—and he won’t question the need for complete confidentiality or even dream of asking for an explanation. He most definitely has access to the financial records of various charities whose monies are disbursed through the IOR, and he can provide me with transaction printouts, no questions asked.

  “But what I still don’t understand, Nicola, is why you want more information about Cardinal Rostoni’s background. I’ve already told you where he got his degrees and where he was ordained. I don’t quite see the connection to the rest of the things we’ve been discussing. Is there something else you need to tell me?”

  Nicola caught Bruno’s eye, unsure as to how she should respond, and seeing him nod in the affirmative, she began to speak, framing her words carefully. “This is very difficult for me, Father. But I’ll try to explain as clearly—and as dispassionately—as I can.” She took a deep breath and swallowed audibly.

  “As you know, I returned to New York recently because my grandmother had a stroke and was hospitalized. We’re very close, and in fact, as far as I know, I’m her only living relative. My . . . ”—and here she hesitated for a fraction of a second—“my grandfather died about a year ago. My mother was an only child, and she was killed in a car accident together with my father when I was very young. My grandparents were my legal guardians and brought me up.

  “While I was at my grandmother’s bedside she told me some things about my family that I didn’t know before. Things that I still need to assimilate and accept.” She paused and took a sip of water. “Things that I never imagined possible.”

  “Go on, Nicola, please,” Father Benedetto prompted. “Whatever it is, you can tell me about it.”

  “Okay,” she sighed. “What I haven’t told you yet is that my grandmother was born in Italy, here in Rome. During World War II, her family was denounced to the local Fascist squadisti because she had a Jewish boyfriend. Her parents and brother were arrested. They were never seen nor heard from again. Her boyfriend was murdered by Blackshirt thugs and his parents were arrested. Also presumed dead.”

  She turned to Bruno, with tears in her eyes. “This is so hard,” she said. “I don’t know how I can do it.”

  “Go on, Nicola, you can tell him,” Bruno said, patting her hand encouragingly. “He needs to know. That’s why we’re here. To tell him.”

  She took a deep breath. “My grandmother hid in a convent for a while, disguised as a novice. But when she discovered that she was pregnant, the Mother Superior arranged for her to be spirited out of Rome by the Resistenza. It turned out that an American spy whose cover was compromised accompanied her to France. And when he learned the details about her difficult situation—she was barely eighteen, pregnant, an
d an orphan with nowhere to go—he offered to marry her so that she could have automatic American citizenship and a safe haven. She accepted his proposal, they married, and eventually it turned into a true love match. I never knew until last week that he wasn’t my real grandfather.

  “What I haven’t told you yet is that her family had been denounced by a neighbor. Someone whose name will sound more than a little familiar to you, though I can’t be certain that it’s the same individual.” She looked in Bruno’s direction, as if to obtain his consent, and then said quickly, “His name was Mauro Rostoni.”

  “What?!” exclaimed Father Benedetto, nearly knocking over the carafe of wine in shock. “How can that be possible?”

  “That’s precisely what I want to know. My grandmother was quite specific about the name. If it’s the same Mauro Rostoni whom we all know—Cardinal Rostoni—that is, the person who invited me here to Rome to work on the catacombs—then he’s the one responsible for the deaths of my grandfather, both sets of my great grandparents, and my great uncle. I think that would make him a mass murderer in anyone’s book,” she added bitterly.

  “I can’t continue to work on this project, knowing that at some point I have to face him in person to report on our findings, without first determining if he’s the same Mauro Rostoni who destroyed my family.

  “And quite frankly, given all of our concerns about the possibility of a certain amount of scandal, if not downright danger, stemming from the implications of the manuscript we found, I think we also need to wonder about the extent to which His dubious—possibly murderous—Eminence would go in order to suppress our findings,” she said with undisguised hatred in her voice.