The Lost Catacomb (25 page)
Chapter Thirteen
It had been two weeks since Niccol
ò
had been murdered and his parents taken away by the
Blackshirts.
Two weeks since Elena
had learned of his brutal death at the hands of Mauro Rostoni
’
s cohorts.
A gentile neighbor of the Rossi
family, a childless old widow who lived in an adjacent building and had known
Niccol
ò
since he
was a baby, had made her way to the Conti home at some risk, in the early hours
of the morning after the Blackshirt raid, to bring them the tragic news.
Niccol
ò’
s
mother had always regarded her as a sort of surrogate relation and had recently
confided her suspicions that her son was in love with the young girl he was
tutoring and her hope that it would not compromise the safety of either
family.
Fortunately she had
provided enough detail for old Signora Carelli to locate the family in
question.
Weeping bitterly as she described what had happened, the old
woman had refrained from mentioning what she knew of Elena and Niccol
ò’
s relationship.
Why frighten the poor Conti family
more than necessary?
Why
embarrass the young girl, in the event that Signora Rossi had been mistaken?
Surely the matter was closed now, and
the Contis, at least, would be left alone.
She left the apartment, assuring
them that as soon as she could find out where Niccol
ò’
s parents had been taken, she would let them know.
Elena had collapsed upon hearing the news.
Her parents and Giulio, shocked and
brought to tears by what had happened, had attributed Elena
’
s reaction to her
extreme youth and sensitivity.
It
was only natural, they assumed, for a young girl, barely on the brink of
adulthood, to feel so passionately about the murder of a young man she had
spent so much time with, even if he was, more precisely, her older brother
’
s friend rather than
her own.
Elena had grieved for Niccol
ò
with a depth of desolation and despair that was
almost unendurable.
It was not
merely an emptiness, a feeling that her life was over, that the future held no
hope.
It was an ache that was
palpably physical, an unrelenting pain that throbbed in her chest, that was
with her day and night.
And just
when she thought she could weep no more, that there were no more tears left to
shed, the harsh, racking sobs would come yet again, unbidden and
uncontrollable.
She found herself thinking of lines from poetry long
forgotten, understanding them as she had never done before.
Once, they had merely been beautiful
words with lofty and touching sentiments behind them, elegantly crafted,
bringing with them an intellectual pleasure that moved her profoundly, though
never to the point of tears.
Formal elegies for the dead, with rhetorical flourishes culled from
long-gone traditions of shepherds and nymphs herding their flocks along green
pastures and fertile hillsides.
Poetic remembrances of loved ones who had died well before their
time.
The young, at the height of their
powers, their hopes, their loves.
The young, whose rosy lips and cheeks had come within the compass of
death
’
s bending
sickle, gathered up in the inexorable harvest of an inscrutable eternity.
For some strange reason, Elena found herself thinking, more
than once, not of Italian elegiac verse, but of Tennyson
’
s
“
In
Memoriam,
”
his
famous tribute to Arthur Henry Hallam, a friend who had drowned while on a
visit to the Continent.
She had
studied some of his poetry in her English classes and had enjoyed it so much
that she had purchased a volume of his complete works, a fine leather-bound copy
that she
’
d
discovered at a used book store and sometimes read at bedtime.
Tennyson had appealed to her aesthetic sense and love of
language not only because of the lilting flow of his verse, but because his
poetry reflected a keen interest in the science of his day, in the conflict
between belief in God and the doubts in His existence raised by Darwin and the
theory of evolution.
For a devout
Catholic such as she, who hoped to study medicine and the sciences at
university, these were issues of almost personal significance to her, issues
that she needed to engage and resolve for herself.
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 Niccol
ò’
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 Niccol
ò
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 Niccol
ò’
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
Niccol
ò
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.
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 Niccol
ò
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 Niccol
ò
.
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 Niccol
ò
had survived, that something of Niccol
ò
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.