The Lost Catacomb (36 page)

Chapter
Thirty-Two

Baby Julia was now almost two months old.
 
Elena had named her for her brother
Giulio, though at Tom
’
s
suggestion, when they had conferred by telephone, she had anglicized the
spelling of her little daughter
’
s
name
—
or
their
little daughter
’
s
name, for as far as the older Keatings knew, this was Tom
’
s baby.
 
Elena knew she would never return to
Italy, and the spelling of the name symbolized her realization that her life
and her future were here in America, with Tom and his family, at least for the
foreseeable future.

When tiny Julia was brought to her for the first time, after
the ether from the delivery wore off, Elena wasn
’
t sure whether to be pleased or disappointed that
the baby resembled her own side of the family.
 
No apparent similarity to Niccol
ò
could be discerned,
except perhaps for the softly curling dark hair, a feature that Elena had, in
any case, shared with her dead lover.
 
Her initial disappointment, however, was quickly replaced by relief, for
at least the baby
’
s
looks would not be an embarrassment to Tom or his parents, something for which
Elena realized she should be grateful.

Julia was beautiful, Elena thought, the most beautiful baby
in the world.
 
And as time passed
after the birth, she found herself looking forward to Tom
’
s return on army
furlough, wanting to share her joy and to see him hold her little daughter in
his arms.
 
She hoped he would accept
Julia fully, that he would love her as if she were his own, for if Elena were
to make a new life for herself here in America, this was one of the factors
critical to its success.

Tom
’
s
parents had been wonderful to her, lavishing every little luxury on her and the
baby.
 
A bedroom next to the one
occupied by Elena had been converted into a lovingly decorated nursery, with
white eyelet curtains at the windows, an antique cradle that Tom himself had
slept in as an infant now swathed in pink fabric, and a myriad of stuffed
animals arranged on top of a pine dresser that held the baby
’
s layette.

A comfortable rocking chair was perched near the window, and
Elena spent many hours of the day and night seated there, nursing the
baby.
 
Tom
’
s parents had been discreetly shocked at first when
they realized that Elena planned to breastfeed Julia.
 
It was not the fashionable thing to do
in the United States during the war years, and certainly not accepted practice
among people of their social background.
  
But they quietly returned the
glass bottles and sterilization kit they had purchased and sent the baby nurse
packing, along with a generous bonus.

They would respect their young daughter-in-law
’
s wishes, even if they
seemed unsophisticated and unworldly, and quickly learned not to disturb Elena
when she retreated behind closed doors to nurse their grandchild.
 
If Elena didn
’
t mind waking up in the middle of the night to
breastfeed the baby instead of handing little Julia over to a baby nurse, it
was really none of their business.
 
As long as she was happy and the baby was content and thriving, that was
all that mattered.

Late one summer night, about ten weeks after Julia
’
s birth, as a soft
breeze billowed gently through the window and pale moonlight gleamed on Elena
’
s bare shoulders as she
fed her child, there was a knock on the nursery door.
   
She had left the door only
partially closed to encourage some cross ventilation, since Tom
’
s parents had retired
for the night and were unlikely to disturb her.

Startled by the sound, she released the drowsing baby
’
s mouth from her breast
and tried to pull the straps of her thin nightgown back up over her shoulders
just as Tom walked into the room.
 
She hadn't known that he was coming home on a last minute leave and was
completely surprised.
  
He
stopped a few feet away from her, averting his gaze as best he could,
embarrassed to have intruded on this moment of intimacy between mother and
baby.

“
I
’
m sorry, Elena,
”
he said, finally looking
at her after she had adjusted her nightgown.
  
“
I . . . I was just so excited about seeing you and
the baby that I didn
’
t
stop to think.
 
I had no idea you
had decided to breastfeed her.
 
I
thought .
 
.
 
.
 
I thought she was being bottle-fed and that it was all right for me to
come in.
 
I was just so happy to be
here finally, to see you and Julia,
”
he stammered awkwardly.
 
“
I
’
m sorry if I
’
ve upset you.
”

But to his amazement Elena
’
s face lit up, and she smiled and rose from the
rocking chair to hand him the baby.
 
“
Here,
”
she said softly as she
placed Julia in Tom
’
s
arms.
 
“
This is little Julia.
 
You can hold her.
 
Don
’
t be afraid.
 
She won
’
t
break.
 
She
’
s been fed and will sleep quite peacefully for the
next few hours.
 
Isn
’
t she adorable?
”

He cradled the baby in his arms, brushing her forehead gently
with his lips.
 
Then moving towards
the crib, he laid her down carefully and covered her with a light blanket.
 
Elena was now standing close to him, so
close that he could smell the subtle but intoxicating perfume of her skin and
hair as they watched the sleeping baby stir, make soft cooing sounds, and close
her eyes once more.

Turning to look at Elena, he saw that she had moved closer to
him, perhaps unconsciously, her bare arm lightly grazing the sleeve of his
uniform.
   
He looked down
at her tranquil face, luminous in the soft glow of the moon.
  
His heart began to pound rapidly,
and it was all he could do to stop himself from taking her in his arms.
 
She stood there, still smiling at her
baby, and then turned to him, her hand reaching up to touch his cheek,
caressing it lightly.

He covered her small hand with his own and then brought it to
his lips, kissing it tenderly and enfolding it in both of his hands, which he
pressed close to his chest.
 
She
gazed steadily into his eyes and, coloring slightly, whispered the words he had
nearly despaired of ever hearing.

“
I
’
m ready, Tom,
”
she said.
 
“
I
’
m ready to be your
wife.
 
Your real wife.
 
I
’
ve been ready for a long time.
 
I just didn
’
t know it until now.
 
I love you,
”
she murmured softly as she leaned against him, her
arms now encircling his neck.
 
“
Ti amo
.
 
Now and forever, my most precious Tom.
”

And she raised her face to meet his lips in a lasting pledge
of love, a pledge so hard won by both of them.
  
He kissed her over and over again,
until, lifting her into his arms, he held her close and carried her down the
hall to the deep and long awaited comfort of his bed.

The Present

“
Time present and time
past

Are
both perhaps present in time future,

And
time future contained in time past.
”

~~
T. S. Eliot,
“
Burnt Norton
”

Chapter One

Tears filled her eyes as Elena ended her narrative.
 
“
I
’
m sorry that I
’
ve shocked you, Nicola,
”
she said weakly.
“
But I
wanted you to know.
  
Finally.
 
Before it
’
s too late.

“
I'd
considered confiding in you after Grandpa died,
”
she faltered brokenly,
“
but I just
couldn
’
t bring myself to do it.
 
Now I
’
m not so
sure how much time I have left.
 
Not
after what
’
s happened to me during the past twenty-four hours.

“
So many
secrets,
”
she
sighed.
 
“
So much
that I
’
ve kept to myself.
 
I
’
m sorry,
cara
, truly I am.
 
It just hurt too much to share.
”

“
I know,
”
Nicola
said as collectedly as she could, trying to soothe her grandmother, though in
fact she could barely keep her own feelings in check.

At the first mention of Rostoni
’
s name,
Nicola had turned white, and a whispered, nearly choked,
“
Merda!
”
had
escaped from her throat.
 
But Elena,
submerged in painful recollection of the past, had neither noticed nor heard
anything.

My God! Nicola had thought, her pulse racing as her
grandmother spoke.
 
Was it possible
that someone who had lusted after Elena
—
to the extent that he had engineered the murder of her
lover
—
was it possible that such a monster could have taken holy
orders?
 
After all, commitment to a
life of celibacy was a cornerstone of the priesthood.
  
Was it possible that the Mauro
Rostoni who had denounced her grandfather to the Fascists was the same Cardinal
Rostoni for whom she and Bruno were working?

The thought was both appalling and frightening, that
—
if
it were in fact the same Rostoni
—
that someone who had reached the highest echelons of power
in the Catholic Church might be responsible for so many deaths
—
Niccol
ò’
s,
his parents
’
, and those of Elena
’
s entire family.
 
And those were only the deaths she actually knew of.
 
Perhaps there were still others.
 
The circumference of Rostoni
’
s revenge
might have extended beyond her young grandfather
’
s
immediate family to include aunts, uncles, and cousins.

I must stay calm, she told herself.
 
I can
’
t let her
see how shocked I am.
 
Maybe the
name is just a horrible, horrible coincidence.

She took a deep breath and, stumbling over her words,
finally said,
“
I do understand,
Nonna
, I do.
 
But . . . I just
 
. . . I just can
’
t believe
that Grandpa Tom wasn
’
t my real grandfather.
  
My biological grandfather, I
mean.
  
It doesn
’
t seem
possible.
 
Did Mom know who her real
father was?
 
Or did you keep this
from her as well?
”

“
Si,
cara
,
”
Elena
admitted with a tired sigh.
 
“
Your
mother had no idea that Tom wasn
’
t her biological father.
 
None whatsoever.
 
He was a true father to her, though,
just as he was always your real, your only grandfather.
”

There was a pause, as Elena shifted against her pillow and
tried ineffectually to blot the tears that slid unchecked down her face with
the edge of her blanket.
 
Nicola
handed her a tissue and then asked gently,
“
What about
my name?
 
I must've been named for
poor Niccol
ò
.
 
It can
’
t just be
a coincidence, can it?
 
Please,
Nonna
,
please tell me,
”
she
begged.

“
When you
were born,
”
Elena
explained sadly,
“
I told your mother that I loved the name
‘
Nicola,
’
and I
begged her to call you that.
 
She
asked no questions and seemed happy to gratify this silly whim of mine.

“
Obviously,
when Julia herself had been born, I couldn
’
t name her for Niccol
ò
, out of deference to Tom.
 
But by the time you came along, Tom and
I were so happily married that he actually suggested it. That
’
s the kind
of person he was.
 
So loving, so
kind, so generous.
 
I miss him so
much.
”

“
I know,
Nonna
,
I know.
”
 
She
stroked her grandmother
’
s hand tenderly, and then said, hesitating slightly,
“
I hope you
don
’
t mind my asking
—
I know how difficult this is for you
—
but
did you ever make any effort after the war to find out what happened to your
parents and Giulio, or to Niccol
ò’
s family?

“
Maybe they
didn
’
t all die.
 
Maybe your father and brother were eventually released from prison after
the Allied victory,
”
she
offered.
 
“
And, who
knows, maybe Niccol
ò’
s parents somehow survived.
 
After all,
”
she added, thinking of Bruno
’
s family
history,
“
there have been documented cases of people who managed to
escape from the Fascists and Nazis under the most unlikely of circumstances.
”

Elena looked at Nicola, the tears still glistening in her
eyes.
 
“
I was
never able to find out where my family was taken or what happened to them.
 
Grandpa Tom tried to pull strings and
use every contact he had, but to no avail.
 
He searched the records at Fossoli di Carpi, the labor camp in Modena,
and at San Sabba, the extermination center on the grounds of the old rice
factory near Trieste.

“
He tried
everywhere.
 
Everywhere.
 
I assume that they died, either in
prison or on a train en route to a labor camp.
 
Or maybe they were shot in some dark
alley after they were taken away.
 
We never found any traces of them after the war.

“
As for
Niccol
ò’
s parents, it was the same thing.
 
Bureaucratic dead-ends wherever Tom
looked.
 
It
’
s not like
today, where lists of victims exist in the Holocaust Museum in Washington.
 
Or in Israel at their museum, Yad VaShem.
 
I never had the strength, the emotional
strength, to look into it again.
 
Not after all these years.

“
But maybe
some day you will.
 
You
’
re
stronger than I am, Nicola.
  
I
raised you that way.
 
Or at least I
tried to.
 
No one will ever rob you
of the ones you love.
 
Promise me
that,
”
she
pleaded.

Nicola pressed her grandmother
’
s hand
soothingly.
 
“
I promise,
Nonna
,
”
she
said, wiping away the tears on Elena
’
s cheek.

“
I
’
m tired
now,
”
Elena
said.
 
“
I need to
rest.
 
Some other time I
’
ll tell
you more.
 
This is enough for
now.
 
Ti amo
.
 
Don
’
t be angry at me for having kept this from you until
now.
 
It was just too hard.
  
Too hard to share.
”

Nicola brushed her grandmother
’
s forehead
gently with her lips.
 
“
Don
’
t worry,
Nonna
.
 
I understand.
 
I
’
m not angry.
 
Just a bit shaken.
 
But it
’
s all
right.
 
I
’
m glad you
told me.
 
Rest now.
 
We
’
ll talk in the morning.
”

She sat down and waited until she was sure that Elena had
dozed off.
 
She was tense with the
effort of restraining her emotions and found it difficult to sit still, not
when she
’
d just heard the most horrifying things about her family
—
things
that shattered the very foundations of her own identity.
 
And of course, she worried guiltily that
she might disturb her grandmother, who was finally resting peacefully.

Now leaving the room as quietly as she could, she walked in
the direction of a small lobby at the end of the hall, where she spotted a sofa
and sat down to think.
 
Think?!
 
She was reeling with shock, overwhelmed
by an entire spectrum of emotions.

Anger at Elena for never having told her any of this
before, especially when Elena had seen the letter of invitation from the
Vatican and had undoubtedly made some sort of connection between the surname of
its sender and the vicious neighbor who had orchestrated the death of her lover
so many years ago.

Anger at the historical forces
—
for
what else could she call them?
—
that had robbed her of her entire family back in
Italy.
 
Anger at those who had
killed her relatives.
 
Sorrow for
young love that had been blighted.
 
Loss and pain for the relatives she had never known.
 
And the sudden, terrifying realization
that had she grown up in Italy at the time of the war, she would probably have
been rounded up as a Jew and sent to Auschwitz to be gassed.

She didn
’
t know much about the Racial Laws or how the Nazis had
determined who was Jewish enough to be wiped off the face of the earth.
 
But she did know that her own mother
would have been considered
mischling
, or half-Jewish, even though,
technically speaking, her mother would not have been Jewish according to
orthodox Judaism.
 
Religious
affiliation, as far as she knew, was based on that of one
’
s birth
mother
—
the logic being that you could know, definitively, who
’
d given
birth to a specific child, but you had no way of really knowing who the father
was, at least not in pre-DNA-testing days.
  
This much she knew from her
college roommate, whose father was Protestant, but whose mother was Jewish.