From Sand and Ash(78)

In ancient times, when a church or structure fell into disrepair, the Romans simply built over it, using the existing structure or what was left of it. As a result, Rome was a city of layered ruins, one era stacked on top of the other. Roughly fifty years ago, beneath the church of Santa Cecilia, the ruins of two ancient Roman houses—one of them believed to be the young noblewoman Cecilia’s—had been discovered, and excavations had been conducted. A crypt was built in 1899 at the west end of the excavation, but behind the new crypt, directly beneath the choir, was the original crypt. Angelo wondered suddenly if the refugees were hiding among the dead. It was the best place he could think of.

Von Essen must have thought the same thing. “Father Bianco, Mother, come with me,” he demanded, striding after the soldiers who had turned and were loping back toward the church. Sure enough, when they entered the church, the soldiers veered down the left aisle and stopped before the large locked door.

“What is behind the door?”

“It leads to an excavated area below the church. Ruins,” Angelo said. “A part of an old tannery, a small household shrine, or what remains of it. Some mosaics. A crypt.”

“After you,” Captain von Essen said to the abbess. She unlocked the door, and the group proceeded down the stairs that were little more than steps cut into rock. It was dank and smelled of age and earth. It smelled like Rome. Upon reaching the bottom, the soldiers immediately split off and headed in different directions down the crumbling tunnels, unearthed forty years before. With their flashlights out, they searched corners and poked their guns into dark places. There were lights, which Mother Francesca turned on, but they flickered testily, like the disturbance in the primordial space was unwelcome.

“What is back there?” Von Essen pointed with his pistol to a large iron grille that barred the way forward.

“That is the crypt. The tombs of the martyrs Cecilia, Valerian, Tibertius, and Maximus, and Popes Urban I and Lucius.” Mother Francesca answered this time, clearly not needing to understand the captain’s language to interpret what he was asking. Angelo repeated what she said in German.

The captain’s face twisted with distaste but he wasn’t to be deterred. “Open it.”

“I will not have your men desecrating the tombs.” Mother Francesca shook her head and crossed herself. The captain understood she was refusing, and he lost his temper. Clearly, the raid had not produced the desired results.

“Open it!” he roared and pointed his pistol at the defiant abbess. She dug the old key from the sleeve of her robe, and her voice rose in warning.

Von Essen looked at Angelo for translation.

“He who desecrates the tombs of the saints dies the death of the saints,” Angelo repeated, straight-faced. “Saint Cecilia died of ax wounds.”

The old nun was like a witch straight out of Macbeth, casting her spells and portending ominous events. The SS men shifted uncomfortably, but von Essen shook his head and commanded his men to search the space. Mother Francesca hissed and spat like an angry cat circling the tombs and keeping the soldiers on edge. Von Essen’s men were clearly ready to abandon their search, and it wasn’t long before they were all climbing the stone stairs back to the church above. Neither Angelo nor Mother Francesca mentioned that they had only searched the new crypt. Beyond it, accessible only through a hole tunneled in the wall behind Cecilia’s tomb, was the original crypt. It wasn’t large, but it was big enough to hide five adults and three children.

“Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it, Mother?” the captain asked, as if the whole thing had simply been an agreeable tour of the grounds. He walked to the line of terrified boarders and clapped his hands at their armed guard. “We’ve wasted enough time here. Let’s go.” His men immediately obeyed him and marched toward the entrance.

“Father? After you.” Von Essen opened his hand in front of him, indicating that Angelo should go first.

“I will walk home, thank you,” Angelo said without inflection. He was not going to get in the car with von Essen unless commanded to do so at gunpoint, and maybe not even then. But the captain had resumed his feigned benevolence, and he inclined his head agreeably, snapping his fingers and shooting instructions. The men ran to the truck, hopping up and disappearing behind the black flaps with their intimidation and their guns.

Von Essen followed them, but just before he reached his waiting car, he turned his head to the side and halted, throwing the words over his shoulder, and Angelo knew they were meant for him as much as for the abbess.

“If we discover there are Jews being hidden here, sheltered here, we will be back. We will be back, Mother.” Von Essen climbed into the back of his Mercedes, and the vehicles rumbled across the cobblestone piazza and disappeared around the corner as if they’d never been there at all.

The night wasn’t over, but Santa Cecilia had survived, and so had her hidden Jews. Now he could only warn others.

“Ring the bells, Mother Francesca,” he demanded. “Five times. Let the neighborhood know that the Germans are out.”

Before long, the bells of Santa Cecilia rang through the night, loud and insistent, a warning to all within earshot. Those who didn’t know about the coded message would simply shrug and hardly notice. Bells in Rome were a daily occurrence. Bells at midnight, not as likely, but not cause for alarm. An answering clanging—five chimes—came a minute later. Then more bells were ringing from farther away, and then more, all in sets of five, coming from different directions. The message was being heard and spread.