The Columbus Affair: A Novel

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

ZACHARIAH WANTED TO KNOW, “WHO IS RABBI BERLINGER?”

“The former head of this community. One of the last alive who lived through the Holocaust.”

“He survived the Nazis?”

The mayor nodded. “He was taken to Terezín, along with many others. He served on the governing council in the camp and tried to look after people.”

The fortified town of Terezín had been a holding point from where tens of thousands of Czech Jews were transported east to death camps. Many, though, died there from squalid conditions.

“The rabbi is highly regarded,” the mayor said. “No one questions him. If he asked to speak to these two intruders, then that’s what would happen.”

He also heard what was unspoken. This man’s election depended on the support of such people. Though this man might be king, Berlinger was the kingmaker. But still, “I have to know why he is interested.”

“Would you tell me your interest?”

“The man caught at the synagogue has something that belongs to me. I want it back.”

“This must be something of great importance.”

“It is to me.”

He was choosing his words carefully.

Say enough, but not too much.

“I have sent someone to find out what is going on. How about until he returns you and I pray. Look there, in the east window, the morning sun can now be seen.”

He glanced up the wall to the narrow slit that blazed with the day’s first light. He realized that Jews for 700 years had watched that sight. Everything he was about to do, everything he’d planned, he did for them. 100,000 of his brethren had been exterminated during the war, the Czech president simply handing the country over to Hitler as a German protectorate. Immediately laws were implemented that forbid non-Aryan doctors from caring for the sick. Jews were forbidden from public parks, theaters, cinemas, libraries, sporting events, public baths, and swimming pools. They could not serve in public office and were forced to use only certain compartments at the rear of trains and none of the public facilities at stations. Shopping was allowed only at designated times. Curfew was 8:00 P.M. No telephones were permitted and none could change their residence without approval. The list of restrictions had been endless, all eventually leading to arrest and extermination.

But the Nazis had not razed the Jewish quarter.

The synagogues went untouched, including the Old-New. Even the cemetery had not been overly violated. The idea had been to transform everything into an elaborate open-air exhibit.

The Exotic Museum for an Extinct Race.

But that never came to be.

Russia liberated the country in 1945.

Coming to Prague always seemed to strengthen his resolve. Throughout history Jews had respected strong leadership, clear motives, and unflinching action. They appreciated decisiveness. And that was what he would provide. But the mayor was right. Time to pray. So he clasped his hands behind his back, bowed his head, and asked for God’s help in all that he intended.

“There is one thing,” the mayor quietly said.

He opened his eyes and stared down at the man, who was a third of a meter shorter.

“You asked about documents that were once stored in the loft. We do, as required, bury them from time to time. But we have developed a different way of accomplishing that obligation.”

He waited for an explanation.

“Space in the old cemetery is gone, and no one really wants to dig there anyway. There are too many unmarked graves. So we have a crypt in which the writings are placed. They have been stored there since the war. It’s a system that works. Our problem has been the upkeep of that crypt. Most expensive. Labor-intensive.”

He caught the message.

“We fight every day,” the mayor said, “to reclaim our property and restore the cemetery and the synagogues. We try to manage our lives, recall our heritage, restore the legacy. To do that, we encourage outside investment.” He paused. “Whenever we can.”

“I believe one of my foundations could make a suitable donation to assist with those costs.”

The mayor nodded. “That is most generous of you.”

“Of course, it would help if I could see this crypt, so as to gauge the appropriate amount of the contribution.”

The head nodded again. “I think that would be entirely reasonable. We shall do that. Just after we pray.”

———

TOM WATCHED THE OLD RABBI, LEERY OF EVERYTHING THAT WAS happening. He had no idea if this man was who he claimed to be. What he did know was that the unedited message had been read, its contents now known to a third party.

The smug messenger from Barnes & Noble came to mind, along with his warning.

“You’ll never know if it’s the truth or us.”

Like right now.

“When did you hear about any of this the first time?” he asked Berlinger.

“Your grandfather came in the 1950s. His mother was Czech. He and I became friends. Eventually, he told me things. Not everything, but enough.”

He watched Alle as she listened. He would prefer to talk to this man in private but realized that was impossible.

“Marc was a fascinating person. He and I shared many times together. He spoke our language, knew our history, our problems. I never understood all that he knew, only that it was important. I came to trust him enough to do as he asked.”

“Which was?”

The old man studied him through tired, oily eyes.

“A short while ago I was awoken from my sleep and handed these things here on the table. The writing contained my name, so it was thought I should be advised. I read it, then asked where it and the rest came from. I was told that a man was caught trying to enter the synagogue loft. Immediately I thought of another time, and another man, who’d tried the same thing.

“Get away from there,” Berlinger yelled.

The man who supported himself on the iron rung ladder attached to the Old-New Synagogue simply stared down and shook his head. “I’ve come to see the golem, and that I will.”

Berlinger estimated the climber to be about his age, midfifties, but in better condition, the hair salt-and-pepper, the body lean, the face full of life. He spoke in Czech, but with the distinctive hint of an American, which he appeared to be.

“I mean it,” he called out. “There’s nothing up there. The story is foolishness. A tale. That’s all.”

“My, how you underestimate the power of Jehuda Leva ben Becalel.”

He was impressed with the stranger’s use of Rabbi Loew’s proper name. Not many people came to Prague any longer, and of those that did none knew the great man’s correct name. After the war the communists seized control and shut the borders. No one in or out. How this American had made it in he did not know. He watched as the intruder shoved open the iron door adorned with the Star of David. It had not been locked since long before the war. The man disappeared inside the loft, then his head popped from the open frame.

“Come on up. I need to speak with you.”

He’d not climbed to the loft in a long while. It was where the old papers were kept, stored away until buried, as the Torah commanded. Someone had left a ladder propped against the synagogue’s east wall, making it easy to reach the first iron rung. He decided to oblige the stranger and climbed to the door, entering the loft.

“Marc Cross,” the man said, extending his hand.

“I am—”

“Rabbi Berlinger. I know. I came to talk with you. I was told you are a man who can be trusted.”

“That’s how we met,” Berlinger said. “From there Marc and I became the closest of friends, and remained that until the day he died. Unfortunately, I saw little of him in the decades after, but we did correspond. I would have gone to his funeral, but the Soviets would not allow Jews to travel abroad.”

Tom reached over and lifted the key from the table. “This does not open the loft door.”

“Of course it doesn’t. The lock on that door is new, placed there when the loft was reengineered and repaired a few years ago. We kept to the old style simply for appearances. But there is nothing now up there of any importance.”

He caught what had gone unspoken.

“But there was at one time.”

Berlinger nodded. “We kept the old papers there. But those are now stored underground in the cemetery.” The rabbi stood. “I’ll show you.”

He wasn’t ready to leave just yet and pointed to the key. “There are markings on that. Do you know what they mean?”

The old man nodded.

“You didn’t even look at them.”

“I don’t have to, Mr. Sagan. I made the key and placed those markings there. I know precisely what they mean.” He was shocked.

“And the fact that you possess this precious key is the only reason why you are not now in the custody of the police.”