The Lost Catacomb (19 page)
“
But
actually, no,
”
he
continued.
“
I
’
m
not worried about the two of you falling in love.
I think he
’
s too serious for that sort of thing at this point
in his life, and besides, I think you know better than to get involved with
someone who might need to leave the country at any moment.
Even if he is very handsome.
And charming.
And brilliant.
“
He
’
s not the only Jewish
friend that I have, by the way.
Many of them have already left for Switzerland or even for South
America,
”
he said
in more serious tones, noticing that Elena
’
s eyes now glistened with tears.
She couldn
’
t imagine how people could uproot themselves from a
familiar way of life and a familiar culture and context, leaving behind all
they had known, despite the fact that times were bad and might become even
worse.
And to move to another
country, where you didn
’
t
even know the language, let alone have relatives or friends
—
it was a terrible
thing to contemplate.
“
I
believe that Niccol
ò’
s
parents have some financial affairs that need to be tied up before they can
think of leaving Italy.
Some sort
of family business.
I didn
’
t want to press him for
details.
But until then, I think
this arrangement will be good for both of you.
You
’
ll get the help you need to improve your chances for
acceptance at the university, and he
’
ll
have
—
how
shall I put it?
—
an
intellectual and even social outlet.
“
I
really like him Elena.
And I trust
him.
Which is more than I can say
for most people nowadays.
Trust me.
This will be good for all of us.
”
Stella checked her appearance once more in the old cracked
Venetian mirror above her worn wooden dresser.
It was her one treasure, or at least the
one treasure she
’
d
received from her boyfriend that she didn
’
t have to hide from her parents
’
prying eyes, as she
needed to with the silk stockings, chocolates, and cigarettes that Giovanni
brought her whenever he could.
She had told her parents that she
’
d found it near a
garbage dump outside the ghetto, and, as usual, they hadn
’
t pressed her for
details.
She tossed her sleek hair back and pivoted from side to side
to assess the effect of
her faded pink-patterned dress.
At least it had been recently laundered.
She was a dark-eyed, black-haired 18-year-old beauty, and she
wished she could live somewhere else, anywhere but in the ghetto, in
surroundings more worthy of her looks and aspirations.
Her real name was Celeste, but she had
been nicknamed Stella, or
“
star,
”
by her family because
of her luminous, extraordinary beauty.
Though the other members of her family were all reasonably attractive in
their own way, somehow in Stella the gene pool had come together in perfect
aesthetic harmony to produce a young woman who turned heads wherever she went.
While Stella
’
s
family felt that her nickname suited her eminently, others, however, had a
different epithet for her, one that was far less complimentary.
They called her
“
the black panther,
”
la pantera
nera
—
and not because
of her sinuously graceful walk and her long black hair.
No, she had earned this comparison with one of the deadliest
of jungle beasts from her fellow Jews in the ghetto because she hunted her
hapless prey
—
neighbors,
acquaintances, and relatives alike
—
with
a sinister stealth that was nearly as invisible, and certainly as deadly, as
that of a panther prowling in the dark and hellish depths of the forest,
stalking its intended victims.
She was, in fact, the local Fascist brigade
’
s most important
informer, who helped them locate and arrest Jews who dared to leave the
precincts of the ghetto or who had not complied with the Racial Laws of
1938.
Occasionally she was assisted
by her cousin, Enrica, whose pale, bloodless complexion had earned her the
moniker of
“
Powder
Face.
”
Stella, at that moment, was not preparing to leave for
school, as her parents always assumed she did each morning.
Rather, she was on her way to meet her
boyfriend, Giovanni Torloni, a black-shirted member of Mussolini
’
s gang of Fascist
thugs, to make her latest report on the whereabouts of Jews wanted by them and
the Gestapo.
The two had first met
at a bar that Celeste had sneaked into one afternoon, and since then, Giovanni
had made it his business to see her every day, hoping that she would help him
fill his quota of Jews and that, in return for gifts and the lucrative, steady
cash flow he enabled her to enjoy, he would soon enjoy her sexual favors as
well.
It had already been two weeks since Stella had attended
school, not yet long enough for it to be reported to her parents.
Not that any of her teachers would dare
to do so, however.
For the one
central fact that her parents refused to acknowledge, saying it was a vicious
rumor based on envy of their daughter
’
s
good looks, was that even the teachers in the local Jewish school were
terrified of the
pantera nera
.
Her parents were likewise unaware of her involvement with a member of
the Fascist party.
As Stella prepared to leave her family
’
s apartment on the Via della Reginella in the
ghetto, she gazed into the mirror once again, pinched her cheeks to put a
little more color into them, and licked her lips several times to make them
glossy.
She brushed her shimmering
dark hair and turned from side to side to scrutinize herself a final time.
Poverty was a terrible thing, she reflected as she left the
apartment. Poverty had prevented her from having stylish dresses and expensive
bottles of perfume. She was glad that she now had a way to have these things
eventually, to put aside some money to help her truly enjoy the looks she was
blessed with and to make her life more comfortable with the little trifles that
only a beautiful and unfairly deprived young woman could appreciate.
Most of the time she dressed in secondhand clothes, like
other Jews in the ghetto.
Her
family, in fact, owned one such shop that sold used clothing.
Still, others were reduced to peddling
rags in the streets, as their ancestors had done for hundreds of years, before
a brief respite that had abolished the restrictions of the ghetto when the
Papal States were incorporated into a united Italy in 1870.
Now the Racial Laws had confined them again to the ghetto
walls. Giovanni had warned her just the other day that things were going to
change once more for the Jews of Rome, and not for the better.
There were rumors.
He would let her know if and when there
was anything definite.
In fact, he
had been the one to suggest to Stella a way to buy her freedom, and this was
what had made her so feared by all.
On a daily basis, Stella would leave the ghetto in Giovanni
’
s company, under his
personal protection, since as a Jew the law forbade her to leave its
precincts.
It became her job to
find fellow Jews who were working illegally outside the ghetto, or merely
loitering anywhere at all outside its boundaries.
Her reward:
a bounty of 5,000 lire per Jewish head,
payable at the end of each day.
With a nod of her head, an outward thrusting of her pretty
chin, or a passing gesture in their direction, she would indicate the
unfortunate victims of her greed and complicity with those who sought to rid
Rome once and for all of its Jewish population.
Patrolling Fascist policemen or the
German SS would then carry out the arrests.
As was common knowledge, the Blackshirt
militia was comprised of gangs of hooligans who were, in effect, army
rejects.
They vandalized the ghetto
at will, terrorizing the poor unfortunates who resided there.
Today, as on all other days for the past two weeks, Giovanni
was waiting for her near the corner.
In his black uniform, with his dark hair and sallow complexion, he
blended into the long shadows between the grimy, dilapidated buildings of the
crowded ghetto.
The young woman who was so determined to escape the fate of
her people, even if it meant betraying them to the enemy, now left her
apartment building and descended quietly to the street.
Carefully, she glanced around and
walked, not to the right, in the direction of her school, but towards the spot
where she and Giovanni had agreed to meet.
They embraced, exchanged some quick kisses, and then got down
to business.
“
We
’
re going into
Trastevere today,
”
Giovanni
told her.
“
We have information that at least ten Jewish
families from the ghetto have secretly relocated there in the past several
days.
A few are presumably in
hiding with Catholic families, but the rest have probably rented rooms under
false identities.
I
’
m sure you
’
ll recognize all of
them.
“
We
’
ll be spending most of
the day there, until we
’
ve
rounded up all of them.
A quick nod
or glance in their direction will do the trick.
As usual.
We have reinforcements stationed there
to arrest them on the spot.
Of
course, you
’
ll get
your regular payment per head.
”
Stella smiled slyly and tossed her mane of black hair
seductively over her shoulders.
“
You know,
”
she said,
“
I
’
ve been thinking of
raising my rates.
Without me, you
guys would be nowhere.
You
’
d never be able to
figure out who
’
s
Jewish.
Not based on
looks.
Not based on how they
’
re dressed.
You
’
d have absolutely no idea who would be carrying
false identity papers.
”
“
I
’
ll speak to Mauro,
cara
.
You know that his cousin is a captain in
the local
Fascio
brigade.
Maybe he can do something for you.
But meantime, we have a big day ahead of us.
At the current price.
Sorry.
”
“
You
’
ll be the one who
’
s sorry,
”
she muttered angrily
under her breath.
“
What
’
s that you said?
”
he asked.
“
I
didn
’
t catch that.
”
“
Never
mind.
Just make sure that you speak
to Mauro tonight.
”
Mauro Rostoni strode confidently into the Pope
’
s private apartments,
ignoring the ceremonial Swiss guards who were posted at the entrance.
He was well known to all of them
—
not particularly
liked, but most definitely feared because of the power he wielded and his
influence on the rather frail Pope.
It was said that even the redoubtable Mother Pasqualina, the Pope
’
s housekeeper, was wary
of him
—
a not
very small achievement.
In his youth he had read a great deal of Renaissance
literature and political tracts written in Italian, and he had never forgotten
the cynical and cryptic advice of Machiavelli to his prince:
“’
Tis
better to be feared than loved.
”
For Rostoni, who aspired to be a
prince of the Church, the slender volume was not merely an intellectual relic
of the past, but a handbook, a practical guide to successful behavior, a key to
his ecclesiastical future.
The Pope was sitting, slumped weakly to one side, his feet
shod in the traditional red slippers.
His ornately gilded armchair faced away from a tall mullioned window
overlooking the Vatican gardens.
On
a nearby chair was casually laid the pallium, a broad band of white wool
decorated with black crosses, symbolizing the Pope
’
s holy office.
Sunlight filtered into the room between the parted sections
of the heavily brocaded drapes, making a strangely elongated, checkered pattern
of light and shadow on the back of the Pope
’
s white robes and on the pale marble floor.
To his right stood two figures, the
Cardinal Secretary of State, anxiously bending over him, and the ubiquitous
figure of Dr. Paul Niehans, who had practically become part of the scenery in
the papal apartments in recent months.
Niehans had been engaged to administer some experimental
medical treatments to the Holy Father, whose health had been deteriorating
steadily and whose gastrointestinal difficulties, in particular, had become a
source of worry to those closest to him.
A Swiss physician of modest repute, Niehans advocated the use of
cellular therapy
and experimental drugs using
fetal cells from sheep and monkeys, injected transdermally.
Not only did he claim them to be a
cure-all for the usual garden variety of ailments plaguing the elderly, but,
more dramatically, he insisted that they were an antidote for the aging process
itself.
Rostoni approached the ailing Pope and solicitously inquired
about his health that morning.
“
I
’
m concerned, Holiness,
that perhaps these treatments are, how shall we say, not doing all that they
can.
”
Niehans shot him a look of surprise.
“
My
dear Father Rostoni,
”
he
replied smoothly,
“
surely
you are aware that even with the most advanced scientific technology, we must
be patient.
Only with miracles are
there immediate, spectacular results.
I
’
m a
physician, you will remember, not one of the holy apostles.
”
“
Touch
é
, my friend,
”
Rostoni replied dryly.
“
Mauro,
Mauro, it
’
s all
right.
I have great trust in Dr.
Niehans.
”
The Pope cleared his throat and
continued.
“
You know how highly recommended he came.
Dr. Niehans, perhaps you can clarify
some of the finer points of the treatment to Father Rostoni?
”
“
Certainly,
if you wish it, Holy Father.
”
Niehans bent over and kissed the
huge, glittering ring on the bony finger of the Pope
’
s extended hand, which then waved him away
impatiently.
Mother
Pasqualina, seeing him follow Rostoni in the direction of the door, scowled as
she reached for a bottle of rubbing alcohol.
At the Pope
’
s request, she made sure to disinfect his hands
after every papal audience or after anyone had even touched his fingers.
And though Niehans was the papal
physician, there was always a danger, she believed, that he too could infect
the Pope with some insidious bacterium or virus.
“
Come,
”
said Rostoni.
“
We
can speak more privately in my office.
”
He led Niehans down a wide corridor to the left of the papal
apartments and swept imperiously into a small, but well-appointed room.
Gesturing to a mousy-looking bespectacled young man, who was his personal
assistant, to leave, Rostoni sat down at a desk piled high with files and
documents and motioned to Niehans to sit in the chair opposite him.
Rostoni placed his perfectly groomed hands in front of him on
the desk, glanced at his nails for a moment, then propped himself on his elbows
and folded his hands together, almost in an attitude of prayer.
He looked expectantly at Niehans.
“
Well,
”
he intoned, glancing
at the physician with piercing eyes,
“
let
’
s hear more about these
treatments of yours.
I assure you, I am not deterred by
the intricacies of modern medicine.
”
Niehans cleared his throat nervously and began.
“
As
you undoubtedly know, since you are so close to the Pope,
”
he added with a touch
of obsequious deference,
“
I
have a clinic along Lake Geneva, where a staff of five physicians and three
biologists are running highly classified experiments in cell therapy in our
laboratories.
“
The
clinic, by the way, has a small, thirty-bed facility for those patients wishing
to receive more intensive, full-time treatment on site.
Obviously this is not an option for the
Pope.
”
He waited for Rostoni to respond.
Rostoni nodded.
“
Obviously, my dear
Niehans, obviously.
Do go on.
You are beginning to try my patience,
which, unlike God
’
s,
is not infinite.
”
Niehans squirmed uncomfortably in his chair.
“
Well,
we have some private funding from sources that, I
’
m sure you
’
ll
understand, wish to remain anonymous.
Some are Swiss; some are German.
No names, I
’
m
afraid.
But I
’
m sure that none of
them would mind your being privy to the fact of their nationalities.
Nothing confidential about that sort of
general information, eh?
”
he added somewhat apprehensively.
“
Interesting,
”
Rostoni rejoined.
“
Now
tell me, just how exclusive is your clinic?
Who are your competitors?
Or, to put this more precisely, do you
have any rivals, other clinics elsewhere in Switzerland, working on similar,
shall we say, scientific goals?
“
And
please, no evasions, my clever friend.
Don
’
t even
think of sweeping this question under the carpet for fear that we
’
ll turn to them for
more effective therapy.
The Pope
believes in you, even if I don
’
t.
You
were
aware of that small
fact, were you not?
I mean, my very
slight degree of skepticism, or, should I say, lack of
total
confidence
in your powers,
”
he
added sardonically, raising one eyebrow.
Niehans wavered for a moment, but knew he had no choice.
“
You
are sure this will not affect my professional relationship with the Pope?
”
he asked.
“
You
have my guarantee, as I
’
ve
already told you.
Purely a matter
of scientific curiosity on my part, nothing more.
”
“
Okay,
”
Niehans replied, beads
of perspiration now gathering on his forehead.
“
There
are actually several clinics working on similar therapies.
Some are mere fledgling
institutions.
Not much financial
support.
Not such well-trained
scientists.
“
But
there is one clinic that we, in Geneva, regard as a rather troublesome
competitor, especially since technologies of this sort have significant
financial potential, as you would expect.
”
“
And
what might be the name of this clinic?
”
Rostoni parried.
“
Details, details, if
you please.
”
He snapped his fingers suddenly,
startling Niehans.
“
It
’
s called the
‘
Maternal Fertility
Clinic,
’
located
near Lake Lugano.
In a small
village you
’
ve
probably never heard of, in the mountains.
”
“
Try
me,
”
Rostoni said
impatiently, pounding his fist on the desk.
“
Its
precise location, if you please. Really, I don
’
t know how His Holiness puts up with you!
”
Niehans blanched and shrank back into his chair.
“
It
’
s called
Engenweill.
It
’
s the one town with a
Swiss-German name in the entire area.
Its proprietor is Dr. Hans Gotthard.
He was trained in Zurich, at the
university.
The clinic opened approximately
five years ago and specializes in fertility treatments for women who cannot
otherwise conceive.
The fees are
astronomical, so only the wealthy can afford to avail themselves of its
services. They stay there for the duration of their treatment and give birth
under the closest supervision possible.
“
They
’
re not actually our
competitors, in the sense that they specialize in female fertility and
pregnancy, while we specialize in therapies that promote better health and
longevity.
But we
’
ve heard that they are
doing experimental work in the area of cell technology, and that that
’
s why they have such a
high success rate with their infertile and high-risk maternity patients.
”
Rostoni now cut him off abruptly.
“
My
dear Niehans, you have such a wealth of interesting information at your
fingertips, and I never even suspected it.
This has been a most edifying conversation.
Grazie.
“
My
assistant is waiting just outside the door,
”
he added coldly, as he rose from his seat.
“
I
’
m sure he
’
ll be glad to show you
out of the papal palace.
Te
benedictus
, my learned friend.
May you continue to enjoy the Pope
’
s unabated confidence.
”
Thus summarily dismissed, Niehans got up and made his way
hastily, if not gratefully, towards the door.
Rostoni now sat back pensively in his chair, tapping his
fingertips together for a few moments.
His eyes narrowed slightly as he pondered this new information.
Listening for sounds outside his office
door and hearing none, he picked up the receiver of his private desk phone and
dialed a number that was known only to a few select individuals in the Curia.