Free The Lost Catacomb by Shifra Hochberg Page B

hours of Sabato Nero ,
in October 1943, Nicola and Bruno walked over to the imposing synagogue along
Lungotevere Cenci and the Via Catalana.   A short distance away, the muddy waters of the Tiber coursed silently,
as they had for centuries, along a steep embankment bisected by gray stone
bridges.
    Though Bruno and his family were not particularly
traditional, there were certain religious holidays and customs that were part
of his identity as an Italian Jew.   He did not keep the Sabbath or the dietary laws of kashruth , but
he had attended a Jewish elementary school as a child and knew much more than
he professed to practice.   He always
fasted on Yom Kippur and attended services on the Jewish New Year, but that was
the extent of his religious observance.   In fact, it had been many years since he had been to a synagogue on the
Ninth of Av.
    Security was tight.   As Bruno had recommended, Nicola brought her passport to avoid
complications.
    Carabinieri were always posted around the synagogues
of Rome as a precaution against possible terrorist attacks, and on holidays and
the Sabbath they were joined by special security guards employed by the Jewish
community itself to question and check anyone who wished to enter the premises.
    The security guards knew precisely what to look for — the bulging
pockets, the capacious raincoat or jacket worn inappropriately in hot weather,
the thick waistline that might hide a belt of explosives, a wire protruding
from a sleeve, an uneasy manner or heavy breathing, or perhaps a nervous tic of
the eye.   Any or all of these,
coupled with a Middle Eastern, swarthy appearance could signal trouble. The
profiling here in the ghetto had paid off and had quietly quashed several
incidents whose details had never reached the newspapers in Rome, let alone the
ever-eager lenses of TV cameramen and reporters.
    Nicola placed her handbag in an outdoor locker, and Bruno
pocketed the key for safekeeping as they entered the building.   It was a large, impressive structure,
set back from the street in a paved courtyard surrounded by a tall wrought-iron
fence.   From afar, its pale concrete
fa ç ade looked
almost like marble, with tall stained glass windows interspersed with Doric and
Ionic pilasters.   The building
appeared to have some Iberian, or perhaps Moorish, architectural inspiration,
though all the tour books Nicola had read claimed an Assyrian-Babylonian
influence.    Groups of tall
palm trees waved their leafy fronds in the evening breeze, augmenting the
exotic effect.
    The high-ceilinged interior had a mosaic-tiled floor, whose
intricate black and white designs were inlaid here and there with pale red and
ocher.   Ornate brass chandeliers
hung everywhere, and the dark wooden benches that filled the sanctuary were
comfortably upholstered, with built-in shelves for prayer books.
    As in all traditional synagogues, the men sat separately from
the women.   On the Sabbath, the main
floor of the Tempio was reserved for the men, while the women occupied
the upper balcony. Tonight, however, the women sat downstairs on the polished
benches, while the men sat on the floor, in an age-old gesture of mourning,
along the edge of the elevated bima, the platform on which the Holy Ark
stood.
    The chandeliers had been dimmed as a sign of collective
grief, and now they were extinguished altogether, their faint illumination
replaced by candlelight.   Upon
entering the synagogue, each of the worshippers had been given a tall, lighted
taper, whose unlit end rested in a brown paper bag designed to catch the wax
drippings. The effect was eerie, as if a s é ance were about to take place.
    At last the service began.   Bruno led Nicola to an aisle seat,
making sure to provide her with a copy of the scroll of Lamentations, which
had been chanted to the same melancholy liturgical tune ever since the prophet
Jeremiah had composed it shortly after the destruction of the first
Temple.    Nicola ’ s copy of the