by James Lyon
The old man stood hunched before Lynx, lifted his eyes and stared the commander in the eye. ‘I know what you are,’ he said knowingly, pulling a Hawthorne cross from his shirt. ‘And I know what you want.’
‘Don’t waste my time, old man,’ Lynx growled.
‘The Vlach…I know where he hides.’
Lynx jumped to his feet. ‘The Vlach?! Where?’ He shrieked, grabbed the old man and lifted him off his feet. ‘Tell me before I break all your bones and suck you dry.’
The old man stared at him impassively. ‘You can do nothing to me that time has not already done.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Freedom for my children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren and their safe passage to Hungary.’
‘You ask for much.’
‘I offer much.’
‘How do you know such information? How do I know you can be trusted?’
‘We are Saxons. My ancestors came as miners and constructed his lair.’
‘Tell me where he is,’ Lynx snarled furiously, shaking the old man again. But he said nothing.
The next day the Wolves turned over most of the surviving women and children to the Army for processing and transfer to refugee centers. The most attractive ones were taken away to be sold as sex slaves. The surviving male prisoners, their hands bound behind their backs, were loaded in trucks and driven away to a special detention camp, or as Lynx so artlessly put it: ‘food storage.’
Lynx left Vakufgrad with an elderly passenger beside him on the seat of his SUV, while two trucks full of men, women and children and their belongings headed for Hungary.
CHAPTER TEN
THE CHAMBER OF CROSSES
Petrovaradin, Belgrade: 16 May 1992
Steven sat in front of the old officers’ club on the Petrovaradin terrace and looked across the Danube, apprehension etched on his face as distant, towering banks of black thunderclouds drove a strong wind before them. From their base threads of lightning darted earthward, chasing the scent of rain and fresh ozone. Frantic waiters scurried across the wind-swept terrace, chasing runaway tablecloths and tumbling sun umbrellas. He felt the occasional large, isolated drop of rain fall from the light grey clouds overhead.
‘How was Budapest?’
Steven jumped at Stojadinovic’s voice and slammed his knee against the table. Only Stojadinovic’s quick reflexes kept Steven’s glass from falling to the ground, but the professor winced in pain as he caught the glass. ‘Damn it,’ Stojadinovic said. ‘My back.’ He sat down gingerly, across the table from Steven. ‘It’s an old injury.’
‘Sorry.’ Steven was jittery. ‘You scared me.’
‘No problem. Steven, I don’t wish to be rude,’ Stojadinovic said. ‘But you smell of garlic.’ He wrinkled his nose in disgust.
‘I ate dinner at a friend’s house. Her mom fixed meat with garlic, garlic mashed potatoes, baked peppers in oil with garlic, garlic soup and fresh salad with garlic. And for dessert there was an onion pie.’
‘Yes, I can tell from over here.’ Stojadinovic winced, pulling his scarf over his nose. ‘Waiter, double scotch,’ he called, then turned to Steven and grinned sheepishly: ‘Hair of the dog…so how is Professor Slatina? What’d he say about your research?’
‘Not much. He’s okay,’ Steven said.
‘What’s that?’ Stojadinovic inquired, pointing to the hand-drawn map on the table.
‘It’s the Petrovaradin underground. I traced it.’
‘Where’d you find it?’ Stojadinovic was suddenly quite curious. ‘In all my years of research I’ve never seen such a detailed map.’
Steven hesitated, not wishing to lie, yet remembering Mrs. Lazarevic’s advice: ‘Trust no one.’ He chose his words carefully. ‘It’s from a friend. She’s from an old family here in Petrovaradin. The daughter’s in the US, and they let me copy it.’
‘That’s the problem with Serbia: all our best families and people are moving abroad and taking priceless heirlooms with them,’ Stojadinovic muttered angrily. ‘A map that valuable should’ve remained in the country and been placed in a proper archive, but then the archives probably wouldn’t know how to take care of it. There are few reliable maps of the Petrovaradin underground remaining, and this one looks more accurate than any I’ve seen.’
Relieved, Steven didn’t correct Stojadinovic’s incorrect conclusion.
‘What’s this you have marked on the map?’
‘It’s a section I want to see. I heard there’s a Maltese cross on the wall.’
‘You’re in luck. That’s exactly where I’ll be taking you today, because that’s where I think the lock is and where I had that trouble in 1983. I even brought some rope, so if anyone’s interested they can climb through the hole and see what’s under the floor.’ He opened his backpack to show Steven, who shivered in anticipation of what they might find. ‘But I’m afraid I won’t be able to do much, not with my back acting up…it’s between the fourth and fifth vertebrae,’ he added.
A large drop of rain hit Steven on the forehead, and he quickly folded the map.
‘Haalloooooo....Steeefaaan.’
Steven turned to see Vesna run across the terrace, dressed in blue jeans, dark hair falling across her old flannel shirt and dark blue windbreaker. Her smile dispelled the darkness of the gathering clouds. She ran up and hugged him, kissing him on the cheeks.
‘Blyak!!! You smell like garlic!’ she exclaimed, smiling. ‘Your breath is awful!’ And then she moved in and hugged him again, this time a little longer. ‘This is horrible,’ she said. For a brief moment all thoughts of vampires and his commitment to his studies disappeared.
He didn’t notice Bear and Tamara as they walked towards them. ‘Hi Stefan,’ they said. ‘Hello Professor Stojadinovic.’
‘Stefan is Mr. Stinky.’ She hugged him tightly around his waist and laid her head against his chest, smiling at the others.
They walked the length of the fortress to the Hornwerk section, ignoring the sporadic, yet increasingly frequent drops of rain, Vesna holding Steven’s arm while Bear and Tamara listened to Stojadinovic explain the Fourth Imperial Grenadier Company. Finally they came to a high arching brick vault in the steep grassy hillside at the edge of the St. Elizabeth Bastion, barred by a massive wooden door. Steven noticed an orange and black butterfly perched above the arch on the stone tablet with the word MINEN carved on it. The butterfly opened and closed its wings several times as Steven regarded it warily, then decided it was not the one from the book store and relaxed, all the while asking himself if he was crazy for fearing a butterfly.
‘It’s the Vanessa cardui, what the French call “la belle dame”,’ Stojadinovic gestured at the butterfly, then removed his sunglasses, revealing bloodshot eyes and a puffy face. ‘I believe in English they call it the Painted Lady. We have them everywhere.’ He took a key from his pocket and pulled on the padlock that held the door shut. As he did so the entire door fell against his shoulder. Steven and Bear jumped to his aid and grabbed the heavy door, wrestling it away.
‘Damn! My back,’ Stojadinovic winced. ‘Someone’s been here and removed the hinges.’
Steven touched his backpack, reassured by the stake inside.
‘Pay attention now,’ Stojadinovic said. ‘This is the second largest fortress in Europe, after the fortress at Verdun in France. But Petrovaradin has more underground tunnels than Verdun, and it was not destroyed during the First World War.’
They turned on their flashlights and climbed down a narrow stairway to a vaulted tunnel of brick covered with flaking white plaster. A crunching noise echoed up as they trod on broken glass, plastic bags, condoms and animal bones that carpeted the dirt floor. Their flashlights revealed graffiti-covered walls: “Mirko was here,” “Nikola is a fag” and “Red Star #1”.
The yellowish flashlight beams played tricks with the darkness, as shadows appeared and disappeared suddenly in the most unexpected places, the light darting and flowing. Colors seemed less crisp to th
e eye, faded and bleached by the flashlights. They continued down a long, sloping passageway until Stojadinovic’s flashlight illuminated a three-way junction defended by a bunker with musket ports.
‘Everyone remain together,’ Stojadinovic called. ‘Make certain you know who’s in back of you, and if they’re not there, then yell loudly and we’ll go back for them. If you get separated, yell loudly and stay put. And Steven, because you stink of garlic you may bring up the rear.’ As the others laughed, Stojadinovic turned left, followed by Bear, Tamara, Vesna and Steven.
Suddenly they felt a faint rumbling shake the earth. ‘Thunder,’ Stojadinovic said as he looked at the floor.
‘Will the tunnels flood?’ Bear asked.
‘No. Ground water rises slowly: sometimes it takes a year for a one centimeter rise,’ the professor answered.
As they continued down more tunnels, ramps and steps, Steven traced their progress with difficulty on his map. Everywhere his light shone on graffiti, cigarette butts and beer bottles.
‘Is there a café in here?’ Bear joked, making them laugh.
When they reached the second level Stojadinovic turned off his flashlight and motioned for them to do the same. They stood in the dark for some time, until he mumbled something to himself and then turned on his flashlight. ‘Did you hear anything?’ he asked.
The four shook their heads.
‘Sometimes people come down here with a mind to do mischief. I’ve never had any problems, but its better we surprise them than they surprise us. You’ll notice there’s no light here whatsoever.’ He motioned for them to follow.
They now felt the temperature drop substantially and they could see the vapor from their breath waft across the beams of their flashlights. Then they descended another level, or so Steven assumed, because of the blue lettering on the tablets.
‘Ow, my ankle,’ Tamara cried, stopping to lean against the wall.
Steven shined his light at her feet to see that the floor was no longer smooth, but was now littered with wet, slimy bricks, strewn haphazardly. As they proceeded, cobwebs clung to their faces and hair, as the ceiling lowered, forcing them to stoop in places.
‘This is gross,’ Vesna said, wiping grey cobwebs from her mouth.
‘Anyone ever play Dungeons and Dragons?’ Steven asked.
‘Yeah.’ Bear’s voice came from the front. ‘I’ll buy a scroll of mapping.’
‘I’ll sell you mine.’ Steven answered with a chuckle.
‘You’re such geeks,’ said Tamara.
‘The bricks,’ Stojadinovic interrupted, ‘are here because of the French.’ He stopped to check that everyone was still there. ‘During the Napoleonic Wars the Austrian Emperor sent the Imperial Treasury here to prevent Napoleon from stealing it. To this day rumors persist that it’s still hidden under the fortress. People come seeking gold…they tap on the walls, and when they hear what sounds like a hollow spot they tear out the bricks in hopes of finding the Austrian Imperial Treasury. Of course it’s silly, but this leads to tunnel collapses and cave-ins and is slowly undermining this magnificent fortress.’
The journey seemed to lack direction, and lacking outside reference, time lost all meaning as they followed Stojadinovic down galleries and passageways, all intersected at angles by other tunnels that mimicked the star-shaped fortress’ geometry. At one point Stojadinovic stopped and again motioned for silence. He shined his powerful flashlight down the corridor to their rear, but there was nothing to be seen except the empty tunnel trailing off into darkness.
After resting, they continued past passageways leading off at regular intervals. In one gallery, miniature stalagmites rose from the floor: in another, a small stalactite drooped from the ceiling. A rustling from the inter-floor ventilation shaft drew their attention to a family of bats, hanging upside down.
‘Bats give me the creeps,’ Tamara moaned. ‘Let’s keep moving.’
‘Wouldn’t it be cool if there are vampires here?’ Bear asked. ‘Wouldn’t this be the perfect place for them?’
‘Bear, stop it right now or Vesna and I will leave!’ Tamara said her voice trembling.
‘Stefan stinks so badly of garlic that he’s scared off every vampire within a kilometer of us,’ Bear said. Vesna and Tamara laughed a little too heartily, trying to cheer themselves up.
If they only knew, Steven thought to himself as he felt the stake through his backpack, then pressed Katarina’s cross to his throat.
‘Shhhh.’ Stojadinovic motioned once again for silence and doused his light. The others did the same and they all heard a faint noise behind them, possibly emanating from one of the side tunnels. All held their breath and waited in a total absence of sound: but the noise was gone. Stojadinovic exhaled and whispered ‘I think we’re being followed. Let’s wait just a bit longer.’
They sat, and as they became accustomed to the stillness they heard water drip. Vesna cuddled closer to Steven and laid her head on his shoulder, while Bear and Tamara began kissing. After what seemed like hours, the professor switched on his light. ‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘We’re getting closer.’
They followed him down one more level where the lettering on the tablets changed to black. ‘Is this the fourth level?’ Steven asked.
‘Yes. Stay together,’ Stojadinovic answered brusquely, turning and looking back to make certain everyone was there.
Steven touched a wall, felt the damp and slime: dripping water and mold. His light revealed several flooded side-tunnels, some to a depth of only a few inches, while others sloped downwards until the ceiling descended below water-level. They then entered a part of the tunnel that had been widened into a tiny chamber with pointy Gothic arches. Stojadinovic examined a massive wooden door set on barrel-hinge posts that jutted from the stonework and tried it, but it was locked.
‘This is strange.’ Steven said, pointing to the arches. Their lights revealed a chamber that had once been blood-red, but was now faded orange, discolored by streaks of black mildew running down the walls. ‘Why the Gothic arch and red walls? So far everything’s been white plaster or red brick,’ he said.
Stojadinovic answered: ‘That’s a good question. Some think this section of the tunnels, which is the deepest, is also the oldest. Yet that would be unusual, when you think that they typically dug the tunnels from the top level down. Why would this have been built first? Steven, I think we may have found answers in the archives, and they lie with the Fourth Imperial Grenadier Company. This may be their handiwork.’ He withdrew a large iron skeleton key, slipped it into the lock and pulled the heavy gate open to reveal a tiny faded-red junction chamber with Gothic arches and iron hinges, passages branching off to the left and right. He shined his light on a marble plaque with black lettering: IV/500 Kom. Gall., Communication Gallery 500, level four. The marble plaque on the intersecting corridor read IV. H.G. 507., Listening Gallery 507, level four. But Stojadinovic continued forward.
‘Professor, isn’t this the tunnel with the cross?’ Steven asked.
Stojadinovic spun around and walked back to look. He shined his light on the hand-drawn diagram and the marble signs. ‘I haven’t been here in many years and all the tunnels start to look the same after a while. I do believe Steven is right. Is everyone here? Yes? I shall go first.’
Stooping, the others followed him down the low tunnel to the left, trying to avoid small piles of bricks and shallow puddles of water that dotted the muddy floor. As they climbed over several mudslides flowing from side alcoves where treasure-hunters had removed bricks, they became increasingly muddy.
After 25 meters, Stojadinovic illuminated a red stone Maltese cross embedded in the right hand wall between two small round stones. ‘I believe this is the famous lock we have heard so much about. The problem is to figure out how to open it. Of course, after all these years, and with all this water, it’s probably rusted or jammed. Or it may not be the lock we are looking for. Steven, would you care to try it?’
Steven squeezed around Vesna, T
amara and Bear and approached the cross. ‘Don’t break it,’ teased Vesna.
He pushed the upper tip, which gave way slightly, stiffly. ‘It moved!’ he cried excitedly. He began pressing each end of the cross, upper, left, right, lower, and each gave way slightly, only to pop back. Nothing else happened.
‘Use a hammer,’ Bear joked.
‘Be gentle,’ Vesna whispered playfully.
Steven pressed slowly at the very top of the cross, then the very bottom, then on the tip of the left arm, then the tip of the right arm. Then he pressed the middle. Then he pressed the round stones on either side, simultaneously. A loud pop from the passageway’s end caused everyone to jump. Vesna and Tamara both yelped and grabbed Bear’s arms, while Stojadinovic shone his light in the direction of the noise. ‘Be careful, we don’t wish to disturb anything or cause a cave-in. If this is the oldest section of the fortress, then it may be fragile. Everyone, please stay behind me.’
With the professor in the lead, they walked bent over until they met a solid wall.
‘Where’d the sound come from?’ Bear asked.
‘From here,’ Stojadinovic tapped the wall. It sounded solid, but as he pushed it, it gave way slightly. Everyone gasped. He pushed again, and this time it opened further. ‘We’ve found something,’ he said excitedly. We’ve really found something.’ His face glowed animatedly.
Steven’s heart raced. Would the seals be intact?
The professor pushed once again, and the wall swung completely open to reveal a stairwell, broader than the passageway, descending in a spiral to the right. They all crowded into the opening and Stojadinovic led them cautiously down the stairs, one hand on the faded blood-red wall.
‘This is a major discovery,’ Stojadinovic exulted. ‘I must return with a camera.’
Tamara gazed intently at the plaster. ‘Allegorically, the color red makes it seem as though we’re making a descent into Hell, sort of like Dante’s Inferno.’
