The Columbus Affair: A Novel

“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.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

ZACHARIAH FOLLOWED THE MAYOR FROM INSIDE THE OLD-NEW Synagogue out onto a street identified as U Stareho Hrbitova, a short incline that led to a building he knew as the ceremonial hall. The neo-Romanesque structure had served, in times past, as a mortuary, erected for use by the local burial society. Now it was a museum on funerary customs and traditions. He knew the long tradition of the Prague Burial Society, formed in the mid-16th century, its job to ensure that the dead received a proper farewell.

He and the mayor had prayed for fifteen minutes. In his previous dealings with the man he’d never thought him