by Steve Berry
Establishing its own schools, forming a government, creating a culture. Forging an identity.
Which began to erode in 1848, when Jews were granted the same rights as all other Czech citizens, including the ability to live wherever they wanted.
The rich quickly vacated and the poor moved in, transforming the quarter into a ghetto. By the end of the 19th century a social, sanitary, and hygienic collapse led to a call for urban redevelopment. In the 1920s Art Nouveau façades and multistoried blocks of flats replaced the low-slung buildings—shops filling the ground floors, apartments the top. The low rampart wall with gates was razed, the streets now freely connecting with the rest of the city. Where the synagogues once towered over everything, now they were lost among high rooflines.
Tom recalled the story he’d written, how sad the place had been to walk through. Only the six synagogues and town hall remained, all now more tourist attractions than places of worship.
And the cemetery.
That’s what he remembered most.
Perhaps the saddest place he’d ever visited.
In Inna’s apartment Alle had talked of her new religion and a duty she felt toward it. He wondered if she had any idea how Jews had suffered. Here, in Prague, twice through history they were expelled. Pogroms—that word Saki had burned into his memory—came more frequently. In the story he’d written he’d included what happened during Easter 1389, when Jewish youths supposedly tossed rocks at a priest carrying the Eucharist to a dying man. Christians were incensed, their hatred fueled by zealous clerics. Three thousand Jewish men, women, and children were slaughtered. Others committed suicide simply to avoid the atrocities. The quarter was plundered and burned. Even the synagogue was not immune, as marauders invaded and butchered people hiding inside their holiest place. For centuries after, their blood was left on the walls as a reminder.
Inside the Old-New Synagogue.
Whose exterior he now stared at.
Its austerity seemed intentional, allowing worshipers to concentrate on God without distraction. Its western and eastern façades faced differing streets, the eastern backing to a newer, tree-lined boulevard filled with trendy shops. The synagogue rested six feet below the newer boulevard, where street level had existed 700 years ago. Lights illuminated its walls, casting the rough stone in an eerie gray hue. They’d approached from the east, away from its main doors, where access to the attic loft could be seen. He counted the eighteen iron rungs leading up to the arched door with the Star of David. His right hand felt the key in his pocket. He still hadn’t mentioned it to Alle.
“I have to climb up there,” he said.
“There’s no cover. If anyone drives by on this street, they’ll see you.”
He realized that. “I still have to do it.”
“Why? What’s up there?”
“You’re not so up-to-speed on your new religion, are you? This is hallowed ground. The oldest synagogue still standing in Europe. Jews have been praying here for centuries.”
“But what’s up in the attic?”
“I don’t know. I have to go see.”
They’d walked from old town square to here seeing no one. But at 4:00 in the morning that was no surprise. No cars had passed, either, the chilly air devoid of sound, strange for a city of over a million people. Like in the photograph he’d studied earlier online, the first iron rung projected from the wall fifteen feet off the ground. One of the buttresses that supported the exterior wall rose adjacent to the rungs. An addition to the synagogue’s lower level jutted out, topped with a tiled roof.
He walked down the sidewalk, six feet higher than the base of the synagogue, and used an iron railing that lined its edge to hoist himself onto the addition’s roof. The clay tiles were slippery with moisture and he was careful as he worked his way close to the buttress. He wrapped his right arm around one side of the projecting wall and swung his body out, his left arm reaching for an iron rung, which loomed about eight inches beyond his grasp.
He realized what had to be done.
He steeled himself, grabbed a breath, and hoped for the best. A fifteen-foot fall to cold stone would leave a mark. He swung back around and released his grip, pivoting with his legs and leaping toward the rung. One hand locked onto the damp iron, then the other, his body swinging toward the synagogue wall, his feet breaking the impact.
He held tight.
He reached for the next hold and pulled himself up. One more and his feet found the bottom rung.
He turned back.
Alle watched him from the sidewalk, having retreated into the shadows beyond the wash of the nearest streetlamp.
He climbed.
One rung at a time.
Each was narrow in width, about sixteen inches, so he had to press his feet together and be careful on the slick metal. He told himself to keep a death grip on the rung above him. He stared up as he negotiated the makeshift ladder, trying to imagine who might have been the last person to make the climb.
He glanced back and saw nothing. Good. He was totally exposed. Hopefully, the key in his pocket would open the door at the top and he’d be inside, out of sight, before anyone appeared.
“The golem helps protect our secret in a place long sacred to Jews.”
If that was true, then the creature was last seen in the loft above him. He realized it was all legend, but his grandfather had clearly used the story to conceal something important.
He found the top rung.
He was dangling forty feet in the air. A fall from here would kill him. He held on with his left hand, feet firmly planted, and found the key with his right. The lock definitely appeared to be the type that would accept a skeleton key.
He inserted the notched end.
But nothing turned.
He twisted harder. Left and right.
Still locked.
He readjusted the key inside the hole.
No success.
“You. Up there.”
A male voice from below.
He glanced down.
Two young men stood on the cobbles at the bottom of the ladder.
Both toted guns in shoulder holsters.
———
ALLE SAW TWO MEN APPROACHING ON A NARROW COBBLED PASSAGE that separated the freestanding synagogue from a block of buildings. The alley connected the commercial avenue she was standing on with another street that ran deeper into the Jewish quarter. She’d been watching her father climb the iron rungs, her gaze darting occasionally to the passageway, vigilant to any passersby. Movement had caught her attention as two shadows appeared at the far end and hustled her way.
She retreated into a dark doorway for a closed shop and watched as her father reached into his pocket and found what looked like a key. He inserted it into the lock of the door to the loft and tried in vain to open it. The two shadows transformed into young men who stood at the base of the ladder, staring up. They did not appear to be police, each dressed in jeans and a dark jacket. Both armed. One of them yelled, “You. Up there.”
Her father’s head turned.
“Get down,” the young man ordered. “Before you hurt yourself.”
Her father did not move. But there was nowhere for him to go. The synagogue’s roof was a steep gable impossible to negotiate and, apparently, the loft door was not to be opened.
The only thing to do was climb down.
Which her father did.
He made it to the bottom rung.
The two men stood below him.
“Stretch from the last one and drop. We’ll get you.”
He did as they instructed, falling to the pavement, their grasp breaking his fall. Then one of the men kicked her father’s feet out from under him. The other shoved him to the pavement, wrestling one arm behind his back, a knee pressed tight to his spine.
“Stay still” came the order.
She needed to leave. Their attention was not on her. She could slip away and use the storefronts and recessed doorways for cover. The car was parked on t
he far side of the square, and her father carried the keys. But anywhere was better than here.
She crept backward, keeping her gaze locked on the men thirty feet away and six feet below her. The angle of the buildings would soon block her from their view.
She bumped into something.
Startled, she jolted back and whirled.
Another young man stood three feet away.
He, too, with a gun in a holster.
CHAPTER FIFTY
ZACHARIAH STOOD THIRTY METERS AWAY FROM WHERE TOM Sagan and Alle Becket were being accosted by three men. He knew exactly who they were. Not the police, but a private patrol the local Jewish council employed to keep watch. And he knew why. Bigotry had not vanished.
Only about 1,500 Jews still practiced in Prague, sad for a place that had once been an epicenter for European Jewry. Kings and emperors had inflicted their damage, slowly and steadily, but the Nazis finished them off. Nearly 100,000 were exterminated. All that remained of a once thriving religious community was practically gone. He knew some of the local leaders and the challenges they faced. Almost weekly something was defaced. Though a stone wall enclosed the old cemetery, that had not prevented vandals from tossing dead animals over the top. Graffiti appeared regularly. The police did little to either stop or prosecute offenders. So the community had taken the task upon themselves. One of his foundations, geared to the preservation of Hebrew monuments worldwide, had contributed money to fund both cameras and people.
Rócha had tracked the phone he’d provided Alle to a Viennese residential neighborhood. He’d stationed a man there who reported that she and her father had abruptly left the residence and made their way to a car park not far from St. Stephen’s Cathedral. He’d stayed the night in town and was able to quickly find the same highway north that Sagan and his daughter had taken, their man following and telephoning in reports. Eventually, they were able to catch up and ended here, in Prague at the Old-New Synagogue. He knew that the building was under video surveillance, the cameras concealed, monitored twenty-four hours a day. So it had not taken long for the citizen patrol to appear.
He and Rócha stood concealed at the entrance to one of the upscale boutiques lining Parizska Street. This one sold expensive porcelain. The whole place was an insult to his heritage. Once this boulevard had lain inside the quarter, the buildings lining both sides homes to Jews for centuries, all demolished at the beginning of the 20th century. Now it was Prague’s most elegant way, home to Cartier, Prada, Louis Vuitton, and every other designer brand. More like Paris than Bohemia. Richly decorated shop windows lined the sidewalks on both sides of the boulevard. Balconies, gables, towers, and turrets rose overhead. The east façade of the Old-New Synagogue backed to Parizska, totally exposed. Tom Sagan had taken a foolish risk climbing to its loft.
But Alle had not escaped, either.
He watched as she was led down a short flight of stairs to where her father was being held.
Prague was informally divided into sections, formed directionally according to prominent monuments, the Vltava River bisecting the center. East was Zizkov, and an old quarter with little tourism and few attractions. West hosted Prague castle and suburbs where many locals lived. To the north sat more neighborhoods and the zoo. The south held its famous horse-racing course, which he’d visited several times. Old Town, at the center, was the showpiece, which included the once prominent Jewish quarter. New Town, nearby, with its bustling commercial center and department stores, was where students had demanded free elections in what came to be known as the Velvet Revolution.
A tiered government administered everything. The lord mayor and council were responsible for citywide public service, but ten administrative districts handled things locally. One of those ten oversaw the neighborhoods of the former Jewish quarter.
And he knew its mayor.
“You want me to follow them?” Rócha asked. “See where they go.”
“No. There are cameras everywhere beyond the synagogue. You’ll be spotted. I have a better idea.”
———
BÉNE WAS TIRED. IT HAD BEEN A LONG DAY. HE AND HALLIBURTON had landed in Montego Bay around 6:00 P.M., and the drive back southeast had taken two hours. Tre lived north of Kingston in Irish Town, named for coopers who came there in the 19th century and crafted wooden barrels for coffee transport. Béne’s estate was farther north into the mountains, far away from the sights and sounds of Kingston.
The grandfather clock in the house’s foyer banged out chimes for 10:30 P.M. He sat in his study, the veranda doors open to a brisk evening. Milder weather was one of the marvelous things about the mountains, as heat and humidity were generally confined to the lower elevations. He’d made it back in time to have dinner with his mother. The evening meal was something she always enjoyed, and he liked bringing her joy. He sat in the dark and munched on a bulla his chef had baked. He liked the flat, round cakes, sweetened with molasses and ginger. When he was little they were sold everywhere. Now, not so much.
During dinner his mind had stayed on Cuba and what they’d found.
So he’d asked his mother—
“Tell me about Martha Brae.”
“We haven’t discussed her since you were a boy.”
“I’d like to hear the story again.”
He’d listened as she told him about the Taino witch who once inhabited the banks of the Rio Matibereon. Spanish treasure hunters captured her, thinking she knew where the natives hid their gold.
“The island be so big, the dirty Spaniards could not imagine that gold was not somewhere here,” his mother said.
So they tortured the witch until she relented and led them to the secret location. A cave beside the river.
“Was there an iron gate at this place?” he asked, recalling what Frank Clarke told him.
His mother shook her head. “Never heard that mentioned before with Martha Brae. No need for such things with her. What she did was disappear once they were inside the cave and that scared those Spanish. They started to leave, to run away, but they were all drowned. Martha Brae changed the course of the river and flooded the cave, sealing it forever. That river still bears her name and still flows the way she changed it.”
But he knew the Martha Brae River was a long way from the valley Tre Halliburton had discovered, and was more associated with the Cockpit Maroons of western Jamaica than the Windwards here in the east.
Not that the easterns didn’t have legends.
“The golden table,” he said to his mother. “Where did it come from?”
“You in some mood tonight. Lots of talk of stories. Duppies got you?”
He smiled. “You could say that.”
She pointed her wrinkled finger at him. “They be real, Béne. Duppies are all over. They guard the golden table.”
Another story from his childhood. A table made of gold, spotted from time to time at the bottom of certain rivers and lakes, glistening in the light.
“That be a bad one, Béne. Everybody who went in search of that table came to an end.”
“Does the tale come from Maroon? Or Taino?”
“Not sure. Just a legend, Béne. Many people claim to see the golden table under the water. Too many, really.”
He finished the bulla and reached for another.
A stiff wind molested the trees beyond the veranda.
He’d learned more over the past two days about Columbus’ lost mine than he had the past two years.
And about Zachariah Simon.
He hoped his message had been delivered by the curator. He’d had enough of lies. He wondered what happened in Vienna. He’d heard nothing from Brian Jamison. But what did he care. The Americans were a pain in his ass. Maybe he was rid of them.
He ate his cake, listened to the darkness, and hoped duppies would come. He had questions for them, too.
A noise.
From the veranda.
A shadow appeared in the doorway, framed by the night.
He’d been w
aiting.
“About time you got here.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
TOM WAS LED THROUGH A DESERTED STREET BEYOND THE OLD-New Synagogue. The narrow way was bordered by closed vendor stalls on one side and darkened shop windows on the other. A ten-foot-high stone wall backed the stalls and trees loomed above. He recalled the local geography and realized the old cemetery had begun to his left and continued on straight ahead. For 350 years Jews had been buried there, the few acres filling. The solution that allowed more graves was to bring in more soil and raise the level, eventually creating twelve mounded layers of sacred earth.
Alle walked beside him. Their captors were young men, anxious, no humor anywhere on their hard faces. He’d seen the same look many times before in the defenders of Sarajevo or on the streets of Mogadishu or on the West Bank. That determined resolve, fortified by youth. They knew fear, like anyone else, but it was simply ignored. Which explained why so many of them ended up dead. Too inexperienced to think before they acted. Too eager to please others. Two such persons had supposedly been the sources for the story that caused his demise. Ben Segev. An angry young Israeli. Quite convincing. And Mahmoud Azam. An equally angry Palestinian.
Both actors, hired to play a part.
Not real.
Unlike here.
He’d been yanked from the pavement and searched, his pockets emptied, Abiram’s note, the map, the key, his passport, and his wallet taken. He wasn’t sure if they’d searched Alle, as she’d been away from him when seized, but her shoulder bag was gone.
They turned a corner onto another street and kept walking.
The third man who’d been at the synagogue, the one who’d left with everything found during the body search, now returned and whispered something to the others.
A nod confirmed they understood.
They stopped at a door to one of the houses. A key opened the lock and they were led inside. The rooms were dark, but he spotted few furnishings, the air musty. Another door was opened and a light revealed a stairway down. One of the men with a gun motioned for them to descend.
