Shout in the Dark (17 page)

HELMUT BAYER screwed the large flashgun to
the bracket on his Leica and accompanied the Sturmbannführer, along
with five men armed with MP38s, for a search of the cellars. There
were similarities between the soldiers
' machine pistols with their aluminum frames, and
his lightweight camera. It was a case of specialist work calling
for the latest specialist tools.

A burst of automatic fire through the wine
casks sent a shower of wood splinters and splashes of blood red
wine across the white walls and ceiling. The effect was immediate.
A trembling family stood upright behind the casks.

Kessel turned. "Quickly, Bayer, the
camera!" He spoke in Italian now. "If the garbage from the back
streets of Rome stay where they are for one moment, we will take a
family portrait."

Helmut pressed the shutter release, and a
brilliant flash of light froze the white faces behind the barrels.
Then he fired another flash bulb as the family was lined up in
height order in front.

"
Come, Bayer!" ordered Kessel, making his way quickly
towards the small patch of daylight at the top of the stone
staircase. "We will see how the inventory is going."

While the soldiers herded the family into
the courtyard, Helmut Bayer accompanied his superior to the somber
library. An excited soldier was pulling a large white bust and a
small leather box from behind the smashed paneling. The other
soldiers rushed forward, obviously hoping to find gold. On seeing
the camera the men paused to take up a proud stance. Bayer waited
until his leader nodded approval. Another flash bulb flared with a
sharp crackle.

The Sturmbannführer bent down to examine
the life-size head, expressing surprise at its light weight. "I
thought it was stone, but it's hollow metal. Tell me, Bayer, why
would the monks take so much trouble to hide this
object?"

Helmut neither knew nor cared. "Because
it's valuable?"

He watched Sturmbannführer Kessel take the
head carefully, almost reverently, in his hands. "Oh yes,
Untersturmführer Bayer, I believe it could be of considerable value
-- to the finder."

BROTHER ANTONI stood in the library with
his fellow monks,
terrified of two soldiers holding their guns at the ready.
He felt himself shaking. "Why is God allowing the Germans to touch
the holy object, Father? Do they not know it is our
Lord?"

"
Say nothing more, my son." Father Guido raised a finger in
caution. "The German officer speaks excellent Italian."

Outwardly Brother Antoni protected himself
with the sign of the cross. Inwardly he cursed himself. Perhaps he
could call up Divine intervention, some sign of disapproval from
heaven; but Divine intervention might be directed against him for
speaking too much. It could not be guaranteed to punish the
bullying Germans.

He watched the Nazi put the head down,
open the leather box, and remove a document to examine it. After
several minutes, the officer looked at him, brutal eyes making
contact with his own.

"
You there! The one they call Antoni. Can you read
Latin?"

He felt his head nod involuntarily.

"
Excellent. I wish to question you."

With his heart racing wildly, the young
brother became aware of urine running down his legs. The warm
liquid seemed to turn to ice as it reached his ankles.

IN THE HERB garden an old man was being
closely watched. The black monastery cat, well fed and normally
unstirred by the monastic life, had been thrown into a state of
torment. Obviously terrified by the arrival of the men, it now
stared angrily at the elderly intruder of its favorite garden, its
tail moving slowly from side to side.

Old Israel Levi found the cat's presence
equally disturbing. He tried to ignore it. The sudden ringing of
the monastery bell had surprised him. There was no need to look for
the reason. An explosion and raised German voices on the steep path
told him everything. He paused to consider his position. He was
old, and he was Jewish. There was no future for Jews in Europe. But
he had survived the Rome roundup in October, so why give himself up
to the Nazis after the ordeal of the past months?

He had chosen to take the part of Moses,
leading his family from Rome to the Promised Land -- the Promised
Land of Switzerland, whose borders were rumored to be open to
Jewish refugees. Someone in the village of Monte Sisto said the
Italian-Swiss border had been open since before the start of the
Christian New Year. If only they had known; if only they had made
this journey a few weeks earlier.

Israel's concern for his own safety turned
to horror as he watched the Nazis push his son and daughter-in-law,
his daughter and his cherished grandchildren -- and the Brothers
who had sheltered them -- into the monastery garden. The soldiers
were lining them up against the wall. Of the remaining family, only
his rebellious son Angelo was safe, because his desertion to the
Christian faith had kept him in Rome.

Two Germans carried the young monk Antoni
into the garden and flung him to the ground. His face was swollen,
his eyes lost in a mass of blood. The man, once a source of humor
at mealtimes, was surely already dead. Some oaf with a camera was
fixing up a tripod. Israel crouched motionless beneath the shrubs.
There was no mistaking the Nazis' intention.

The soldiers threw spades towards the monks
and ordered them to dig. Meekly they obeyed. It came as no surprise
to Israel. He had seen it many times. Faced with death, the people
would quietly comply and dig their own graves.

Were they insane?

The Germans continued to bring the
monastery's treasures into the open, but Israel had no doubts that
the pit was being made ready for his family, not for the spoils of
war. The camera on the tripod had been set to face the high stone
wall. The Nazis obviously planned to record their cruelty for
posterity.

His youngest grandchild looked round in
surprise. "Mamma, Mamma, where's Grandpapa?"

"
Oh, my child! Sssh."

Israel watched his daughter Nathania place
a hand gently but firmly over the offending lips. But she need not
have worried. The soldiers probably spoke no more Italian than
little Roberto spoke German.

Israel took it as a sign. His family
wanted to protect him, even in the face of execution. He could die
with them -- or he could stay in hiding. No longer able to lead his
family to the Promised Land, he had a duty to escape. One day he
would try to tell an unbelieving world.

The senior Nazi seemed especially
interested in the large bust that had been covered in a white
plaster before being hidden last night by the Brothers. The officer
motioned to the soldier with the camera, who shook his head. For a
moment there was an angry exchange of words. The camera must have
jammed or run out of film. The officer's voice conveyed trouble in
any language.

Israel stared across at the painted head.
It was unlike the busts in Rome's museums but it could be part of a
statue. The Brothers said it was the likeness of Jesus the Christ,
worshipped by Christians. The German officer was a thief, taking it
for his personal gain. Why else had he placed it on the ground with
a small leather box, away from the other treasures?

Israel could feel the onset of cramp, but if
he moved he knew the Germans would see him. Mercifully the cat had
wandered away. A mound of dusty red soil showed just how large a
grave was being prepared. The soldiers were ordered to assist the
exhausted monks in finishing the deep trench, while an
unhappy-looking photographer removed the small camera from the
tripod and placed it with the head.

MANFRED KESSEL decided it was
probably just as well Bayer's
film had run out -- before the executions. The Allies now working
their way up through Italy would doubtless be more than interested
to discover the death of civilians captured on film.

He looked again at the painted head and
felt excited. If that frightened monk Antoni was telling the truth
in his last moments, this was a vital yet unknown Christian relic.
And in the small leather box was a document that the young monk
said proved its authenticity. Excellent. His SS group could be
trusted to remain silent. After the war he would get it valued and
find a wealthy buyer.

The monks were obstinate, and the family
was worthless. Execution was not obligatory, and Kessel knew the
choice was his. He could take the Jews and monks back to Rome to
stand trial, or he could kill every one of them now. It made no
sense to fill military trucks with offensive sub-human
cargo.

He turned to his armed soldiers,
anticipation surging through his chest, and gave the order to
fire.

THE EXPLOSION of automatic gunshot. The
smell and smoke of cordite. Israel Levi put his hands to his ears
to block out the sounds of the dying: his son, daughters,
grandchildren
-- and the
monks. Little Roberto caught sight of his grandfather, his Nonno.
Before he could call out and run for the safety and comfort of the
loving arms he fell, his chest and stomach ripped open by the
deadly bullets.

Disfigured flesh and smashed bodies lay in
front of the high wall. The Nazis showed no mercy for Italians of
any faith caught disobeying orders of the Third Reich.

While the white doves flew anxiously
overhead, the soldiers put down their weapons of war and talked
while they smoked together as though nothing of importance had
happened.

A thirst for revenge filled Israel's
frantic mind. He was literally shaking with rage and remorse. That
relic had meant something to the Christian Brothers. Since his
arrival at the monastery, he had sensed the sacred value placed on
it. To the Brothers, the object had been literally an article of
their faith. If only to avenge little Roberto, he must make sure
the Nazis would never have it.

He had always thought of himself as
indestructible. Surviving had become the only way of life since
those terrifying weeks in Rome during the October roundup. He had
somehow learned to cope when his wife had been horrifyingly
mutilated, and left to die without pity in the Regina Coeli
prison.

Taking the Nazi property would be easy.
The men were facing away as they filled in the trench. Others
continued packing the sacks with their plunder. The officer and the
photographer had gone inside, perhaps to make certain they had
stripped every wall and cupboard of the Italians'
heritage.

Israel moved forward slowly. Dense cypress
trees separated the small herb patch from the monastery garden. One
more step would take him into the open. Then, without a care for
his own safety he walked forward and picked up the head, the
camera, and the leather box.

He hurried from the grounds and down the
steep track. When the hillside leveled off he turned onto a faint
path towards a small graveyard on a plateau above the olive trees.
He had to get back to Rome, to find the son he had not seen for
many years. Israel felt a sudden shame. Could he make peace with
Angelo at last?

He pulled off his jacket as he reached the
road some distance from the Germans' trucks, and wrapped it round
the bronze head. It would be a long and painful walk back to Rome;
a long, cold walk without a coat. But the relic must be kept out of
sight. This was a holy object, the image of their Christ, and he
had just watched men die for it.

Suddenly the flash of an explosion,
followed by flames, lit the darkening winter sky. The sound became
a roar as it echoed between the stone walls and the bare olive
trees. In terror, Israel fell face down onto the frozen soil. These
Nazis were evil. Nothing was sacred to them. First the innocent
people and now the monastery. This destruction was a senseless act
of anger.

Retribution was always without pity.

Chapter
15

Rome

ISRAEL MADE HIS exhausted way towards the
Ponte Mazzini in the center of Rome.
Of all the bridges over the swift-flowing Tiber in
the occupied city, this was probably the safest. Anyway, he felt
too cold to stand still and take note of his surroundings, and too
cold to worry. The January air of the early afternoon was well
below freezing, with the wind blowing strongly down the
river.

For much of the journey to Rome, soldiers
of the German occupying force had driven him in a closed truck. How
ironic that they, the supposed master race, had been able to tell
that he was Italian, and so offer him a lift as a refugee, yet had
not detected that he was also Jewish. His people had always been
ready to adapt. Brought to Rome two thousand years ago as slaves by
the Caesars -- one hundred thousand Jewish slaves had helped
construct buildings like the Colosseum -- his ancestors had quickly
learned to blend into the background. It was a trick that always
served them well through many periods of persecution. In other
parts of Europe the Jews dressed distinctively; but to a German, a
Jewish Italian with his trousers on looked just like any other
Italian.

The strange metal head lay in a torn khaki
bag, given by the soldiers who had joked with him in the truck
about the mysterious bundle. They had even shared some of their
rations. What had they called him? Israel shook his head. The
scarecrow,
die Vogelscheue
.