UMBERTO ECO : THE PRAGUE CEMETERY

by Umberto Eco

  I can still see my grandfather reading it, with dramatic pauses.

  "Please accept, sir, the most sincere congratulations of a soldier, ignorant though I am, on your book, which may rightly be described as the su- preme work of the last century. Ah! How well you have unmasked those abominable sects preparing the way for the Antichrist, and who are the implacable foes, not only of the Christian religion but of every faith, of every society, of every idea of order. One of them, however, you have mentioned only in passing. Perhaps you have done so intentionally, as it is the best known and consequently the least to be feared. But, in my view, it is the most formidable power today if we consider its great wealth and the protection it enjoys in almost every European state. You understand, sir, that I am referring to the Hebrew sect. It seems entirely separate from and hostile to the other sects, but in truth it is not. Any of these sects need only show themselves as enemies of the name of Christ and it will encourage them, finance them, protect them. And have we not seen it, and do we not see it, lavishing its gold and silver to support and guide the modern sophists, the Freemasons, the Jacobins, the Illuminati? The Jews, therefore, with all the other sectaries, are but a single faction seeking to destroy the name of Christ wherever possible. And do not think, sir, that all of this is exaggeration on my part. I do not relate anything other than what has been told me by the Jews themselves . . ."

  "And how did you learn these things from the Jews?"

  "I was just over twenty and a young officer in the Savoy army when Napoleon invaded the Kingdom of Piedmont. We were defeated at Millesimo, and Piedmont was annexed to France. It was a victory for the godless Bonapartists, who began hunting down us officers of the king to string us up by the neck. And word spread that it was better not to go around any longer in uniform, nor even to be seen. My father was in trade, and had had dealings with a Jewish moneylender who owed him a favor. So through his good offices I lodged for several weeks (at a high price, of course) in a small room in the ghetto, which at that time was right next to where we lived, between via San Filippo and via delle Rosine, until the dust had settled and I could leave the city and go to stay with relatives in Florence. I was hardly pleased to be mixed up with that kind of people, but it was the only place where no one dreamed of setting foot — the Jews could not leave there, and decent people kept well away."

  My grandfather then put his hands to his eyes, as if to blot out an unbearable image. "And so, waiting for the storm to pass, I lived in those filthy back streets, where sometimes as many as eight people lived in a single room, with cooking stove, bed and slop bucket, worn down with anemia, their skin waxy, imperceptibly blue like Sèvres china, always seeking out the darkest corners, illuminated only by the light of a candle. Not a drop of blood, yellowish hue, hair the color of gelatin, their beards of an indefinable redness and, when black, seeming the color of a faded frock coat . . . I could not bear the stink of my lodgings and wandered around the five courtyards. I remember them well— Cortile Grande, Cortile dei Preti, Cortile della Vite, Cortile della Taverna and Cortile della Terrazza, linked together by fearsome covered passageways, the Portici Oscuri. Now you find Jews even in piazza Carlina — in fact, you find them everywhere, because the Savoyards are getting soft — but at that time they were crammed one on top of the other in those sunless lanes, and had it not been for fear of the Bonapartists, I would never have stomached it amid that greasy, filthy crowd."

  My grandfather paused, moistening his lips with a handkerchief, as if to remove a nasty taste from his mouth. "And thanks to them I was saved. What humiliation. But if we Christians despised them, they certainly weren't kind to us — indeed they hated us, in the same way they hate us today. And so I started telling them I was born in Livorno of a Jewish family, that as a child I was brought up by relatives who unfortunately baptized me, but that I remained a Jew at heart. These confidences didn't seem to impress them very much, since, they explained, many of them were in the same situation as me and they no longer took much notice of such things. But my words had won me the trust of an old man who lived in Cortile della Terrazza next to an oven used for baking unleavened bread."

  Here my grandfather became more animated as he recounted that meeting and, with rolling eyes and hand gestures, imitated the Jew he was describing. It seems this Mordechai was from Syria, and had been involved in a sad episode in Damascus. An Arab boy disappeared in the city, and no one thought of the Jews at first because it was said that Jews killed only Christian children for their rituals. But then the remains of a youngster were found in a ditch — the body must have been cut into a thousand pieces and pounded in a mortar. The marks of the crime were so similar to those attributed to the Jews that the police began to think that, with Passover approaching, the Jews must have needed Christian blood to make their bread and, finding no Christian boy, had taken the Arab, baptized him and then slain him.

  "You know," my grandfather explained, "that a baptism is always valid, whoever performs it, provided that the person who baptizes means to do it according to the precepts of the Holy Roman Church. This is something the perfidious Jews know all too well, and they have no shame in saying, 'I baptize you as would a Christian, in whose idolatry I do not believe, but which he performs fully believing it.' So the poor little martyr had, at least, the good fortune to end up in heaven, though thanks only to the devil."

  Mordechai was immediately suspected. To make him talk, they tied his wrists behind his back, put weights on his feet, and a dozen times they lifted him up with a pulley and let him fall to the ground. They put sulfur under his nose and then dropped him into icy water, and when he lifted his head they pushed him under until he confessed. In short, to put an end to it, it was said the poor man gave the names of five of his brethren who had nothing to do with it. These five were sentenced to death and he was set free, with dislocated limbs. By now he had lost his wits, and some kind soul loaded him on a merchant ship departing for Genoa, otherwise the other Jews would have stoned him to death. Indeed, it was said that on the ship he had been lured by a Barnabite priest into being baptized and had accepted so he could find help when he landed in the Kingdom of Piedmont, though he remained faithful at heart to the religion of his fathers. He would therefore have been what the Christians call a Marrano, except that once he'd arrived at Turin he sought refuge in the ghetto and denied ever having been converted; many thought he was a false Jew who remained true to his new Christian faith — so, you might say, he was a Marrano twice over. But as no one could prove all the rumors that came from abroad, out of pity for the insane he was kept alive by the meager charity of all, and confined to a hole where not even an occupant of the ghetto would have dared to live.

  Whatever he might have done in Damascus, my grandfather claimed that the old man hadn't really gone mad. He was simply filled with an unquenchable hatred toward Christians, and in that windowless hovel, his trembling hand clenching my grandfather by the wrist, his glistening eyes staring at him in the darkness, he declared that from then on he had dedicated his life to revenge. He told him how their Talmud preached hatred of the Christian race, and how in order to corrupt the Christians, they, the Jews, had invented Freemasonry, of which he had become one of their nameless superiors, and that he commanded lodges from Naples to London, but he had to remain hidden, living in secret, segregated from the world, so as not to get knifed by the Jesuits, who were hunting for him everywhere.

  He looked around as he spoke, as if some Jesuit armed with a dagger might appear from a dark corner. Then he would blow his nose loudly, sometimes lamenting his sad condition, sometimes giving a sly, vengeful smile, enjoying the fact that the whole world was unaware of his terrible power. He unctuously fondled my grandfather's hand and continued to let his imagination wander. And he told him that, if Simonini so wished, their sect would welcome him with open arms, and he would have him admitted into the most secret of the Masonic lodges.

  And he revealed to my grandfather that both Mani, the prophet of the Ma
nichean sect, and the infamous Old Man of the Mountain, who drugged his Assassins before sending them offto murder Christian princes, were Jewish by race. He told him that the Freemasons and the Illuminati had been founded by two Jews, and that Jews had founded all the anti-Christian sects, which were now so numerous around the world as to include many millions of people, men and women of every position, class and status, including many men of the Church and even several cardinals, and before long they were not unhopeful of having a pope on their side (and, as my grandfather would later say, as soon as a dubious character like Pius IX had risen to the Throne of Saint Peter, the idea no longer seemed quite so improbable); and he told me that the Jews themselves often pretended to be Christians so as to deceive the Christians more effectively, traveling about from one country to another with false baptism certificates purchased from corrupt curates; and that with money and deception they hoped to gain civil recognition from every government, as they were already doing in many countries; and that once they had obtained rights of citizenship like everybody else they would buy up houses and land; and that through moneylending they would strip the Christians of their estates and their wealth; and that they had vowed to become rulers of the world in less than a century, to abolish all other sects so that theirs would reign supreme, to build as many synagogues as there were Christian churches and to reduce everyone else to slavery.

  "This," my grandfather concluded, "was what I told Barruel. Perhaps I exaggerated a little, saying that I had learned from all of them what, in fact, I had heard from one man alone, but I was and still am convinced the old man was telling the truth. And that is what I wrote, if you'll let me finish reading."

  And my grandfather resumed:

  "These, sir, are the perfidious plans of the Hebrew nation, which I heard with my own ears. It would therefore be most desirable that a persuasive and distinguished pen such as yours should open the eyes of the aforesaid governments, and direct them to return these people to the abjection that is properly theirs, and in which our more prudent and judicious forefathers had always endeavored to keep them. This, sir, I invite you to do on my behalf, asking you to forgive an Italian, a soldier, for any errors you may find in this letter. I wish you by God's hand the most bounteous reward for the illuminating writings you have bestowed on His Church, and that He may inspire, in those who read them, the highest and most profound esteem for you, to whom I am honored to be, sir, your most humble and obedient servant, Giovanni Battista Simonini."

  At this point, on each occasion, my grandfather returned the letter to the chest and I asked, "And what did Abbé Barruel say?"

  "He did not deign to reply. But I had some good friends in the Roman Curia, and so discovered that this coward was afraid that if such truths were to spread, it would trigger a massacre of the Jews, which he did not wish to provoke since he believed there were innocent people among them. What is more, when Napoleon decided to meet representatives of the Grand Sanhedrin to obtain their support for his ambitions, certain threats from the French Jews of the time must have had an effect — and someone must have informed the abbé that it was better not to stir up trouble. But at the same time Barruel felt unable to remain silent, and this is why he sent my original letter to the Supreme PontiffPius VII, and copies to a large number of bishops. Nor did the matter rest there, because he also conveyed the letter to Cardinal Fesch, then primate of the Gauls, so he could inform Napoleon. And he did the same with the chief of police in Paris. And the Paris police, I am told, carried out an investigation at the Roman Curia to find out whether I was a reliable witness. And, by the devil, I was — the cardinals could hardly deny it! In short, Barruel was attacking from undercover: he did not want to stir up any more trouble than his book had already caused, but while appearing silent he was sending my revelations halfway around the world. You should know that Barruel was educated by the Jesuits until Louis XV drove them out of France, and then took orders as a lay priest, except that he became a Jesuit once again when Pius VII restored full rights to the order. Now, as you know, I am a fervent Catholic and profess the highest respect for any man of the cloth, but a Jesuit is surely always a Jesuit — he says one thing and does another, does one thing and says another — and Barruel behaved no differently."

  My grandfather chuckled, spluttering spit through his few remaining teeth, amused by that sulfurous impertinence of his. "So there it is, my dear Simonino. I am old, it is not for me to be the lone voice in the wilderness. If they didn't want to listen to me, they will answer for it before God Almighty, but I pass the flame of witness on to you young people, now that those most damnable Jews are becoming increasingly powerful and our cowardly sovereign Carlo Alberto is proving ever more indulgent toward them. But he will be overthrown by their conspiracy."

  "Are they also plotting here in Turin?" I asked.

  My grandfather looked around him, as if someone were listening to his words, while the shadows of dusk darkened the room. "Here and everywhere else," he said. "They are an accursed race, and their Talmud says — as anyone who can read it will confirm — that the Jews must curse the Christians three times a day and ask God that they be exterminated and destroyed, and if one of them meets a Christian on a precipice he must push him over. You know why you are called Simonino? I wanted your parents to baptize you in memory of Saint Simonino, a child martyr who, back in the fifteenth century near Trent, was kidnapped by Jews, who killed him and chopped him up to use his blood in their rituals."

  "If you don't behave yourself and go straight to sleep, the horrible Mordechai will come visit you tonight." That is how my grandfather threatens me. And it's hard to get to sleep in my small attic room, straining my ear each time the old house creaks, almost hearing the terrible old man's footsteps on the wooden staircase, coming to get me, to drag me offto his infernal den, to feed me unleavened bread made with the blood of infant martyrs. Confusing this with other stories I hear from Mamma Teresa, the old servant who had been my father's wet nurse and still shuffles about the house, I imagine Mordechai dribbling lubriciously, muttering, "Fee-fi-fo-fum, I smell the blood of a Christian boy."

  I am almost fourteen, and several times I've been tempted to go into the ghetto, which now oozes out beyond its old confines, since many restrictions are to be removed in Piedmont. Perhaps I'll come across a few Jews while I wander almost to the frontier of that forbidden world, but I've heard it said that many have abandoned their centuries-old ways. "They disguise themselves," my grandfather says, "they disguise themselves, pass us in the street without us even realizing." While wandering its limits, I meet a girl with black hair who crosses piazza Carlina each morning carrying a basket covered with a cloth to a nearby shop. Fiery gaze, velvet eyes, dark complexion . . . Impossible that she's a Jewess, that those men my grandfather has described, with rapacious features and venomous eyes, could produce women like her. And yet she can only have come from the ghetto.

  This is the first time I have looked at a woman other than Mamma Teresa. I go back and forth each morning and my heart begins to pound as soon as I see her in the distance. On those mornings when I do not see her, I wander around the square as if I'm trying to find an escape route, and I reject each one of them, and I'm still there when my grandfather expects me back home, sitting furious at the table, nibbling crumbs of bread.

  One morning I dare to stop the girl and, eyes lowered, ask her if I can help carry her basket. She replies haughtily, in dialect, that she can manage perfectly well by herself. But she doesn't call me monssü, but gagnu, boy. I've stopped looking out for her. I haven't seen her since. I've been humiliated by a daughter of Zion. Is it perhaps because I'm fat? This, in fact, marks the beginning of my war against the daughters of Eve.

  Throughout my childhood, my grandfather refused to send me to the government school because he said the teachers were all Carbonari and republicans. I spent all those years alone at home, watching resentfully for hours as the other children played by the river, as if they were taking something
away from me that was mine. The rest of the time I spent shut up in a room studying with a Jesuit father whom my grandfather always chose, according to my age, from among the black crows who flocked about the area. I hated the teacher of the moment, not just because his way of teaching was by rapping my knuckles, but also because my father (the few times he spent distractedly with me) had instilled in me a hatred of priests.

  "But my teachers are not priests, they are Jesuit fathers," I used to say.

  "Even worse," retorted my father. "Never trust Jesuits. Do you know what one holy priest has written (a priest, I say, and not a Mason or a Carbonaro or one of Satan's Illuminati — as they think I am — but a priest of saintly kindness, Father Gioberti)? It is Jesuitism that undermines, torments, afflicts, vilifies, persecutes, destroys men of free spirit; it is Jesuitism that drives good and valiant men out of public positions and replaces them with others who are base and contemptible; it is Jesuitism that slackens, obstructs, torments, harasses, confuses, weakens, corrupts public and private education in a thousand ways, which sows bitterness, mistrust, animosity, hatred, unrest, open and covert discord among individuals, families, classes, states, governments and peoples; it is Jesuitism that weakens minds, tames hearts and desires, reducing them to a state of sloth, that debilitates young people through feeble discipline, that corrupts adults through acquiescent, hypocritical morality, that combats, weakens and stifles friendship, domestic relationships, filial piety and the sacred love most people feel for their country . . . No sect in the world is so gutless (he said), so hard and ruthless when its own interests are at stake, as the Company of Jesus. Behind that soothing and alluring face, those sweet and honeyed words, that kind and most affable manner, the Jesuit who responds worthily to the discipline of the order and the instructions of his superiors has a heart of iron, impenetrable to higher feelings and nobler sentiments. He firmly puts into practice Machiavelli's precept that where the well-being of the state is in question, no consideration should be given to right or wrong, to compassion or cruelty. And for this reason they are taught as young seminarians not to cultivate family affections, not to have friends, but to be ready to reveal to their superiors every slightest shortcoming in even their closest companion, to control every impulse of the heart and to offer absolute obedience, perinde ac cadaver. Gioberti said that whereas the Indian Phansigars, or stranglers, sacrifice the bodies of their enemies to their deity, killing them with a garrotte or a knife, the Jesuits of Italy kill the soul with their tongues, like reptiles, or with their pens.