all that devoted. More pragmatic and practical, as evidenced by the contribution he’d managed to extort simply for an opportunity to view where the old documents were now kept. Anything being there was a long shot, for sure, but he was genuinely curious. In Vienna there was no shortage of sacred earth, and books and papers were reverently buried in several Jewish cemeteries.
Here, things were vastly different.
An iron gate adjacent to the ceremonial house led to another walkway that entered the cemetery. A uniformed attendant manned the gate, which he was told was actually the exit for visitors, the cemetery entrance a block over. The mayor was not stopped as they passed through. Zachariah followed the man into one of the most sacred spots in the world. Across a mere 11,000 square meters, as many as 100,000 people were buried in the mounds of earth, beneath wild growths of thin grass, which explained the tombstones—12,000 of them, if he recalled correctly—pressed close together, set at odd angles as if from some earthquake.
Forbidden to bury their dead outside their district, for 350 years Jews had been laid to rest here. New land had been impossible to come by and the Torah forbid the moving of corpses, so the solution had been to bring in more soil and raise the level, one layer at a time, until the Talmudic injunction that graves be separated by at least six handbreadths of earth was satisfied. Eventually twelve layers, each nearly sixty centimeters deep, rose within the walls. Burials stopped in 1787, and he wondered how many
His gaze raked the surreal sight.
Ash trees cast everything in shadows. A simple look prevailed on the thick markers, the simplest straight or two-pitched, most with decorations and sculptures that referred to the deceased’s name, family, marital status, and profession. He noticed the art—a tree of life, a menorah, grape clusters, animals. Some of the writing could be read, most could not. Here and there were four-sided tombs with high-fronted sides, each topped with a gable and a saddle roof, similar to his own father’s grave in Austria. Cemeteries were holy, where the dead awaited resurrection. Which was why they could never be closed.
A graveled way lined with more thin grass wove a path through the headstones. No one else was inside the walls that encased the tight space. He noticed closed-circuit cameras at various points.
“Is there still vandalism?” he asked the mayor.
“Occasionally. The cameras have deterred intrusions. We appreciate your generosity in providing funds for them.”
He acknowledged the comment with a nod.
“We bury the animals that are thrown over the wall in the far corner over there,” the mayor said.
Once the dead touched sacred earth they could not leave it, no matter whether human or animal. He appreciated this community’s adherence to Talmudic tradition. His own congregation, in Vienna, were not as strict. Progressive ideas had diluted what had once been a staunch Orthodox community. That was why he offered most of his prayers in a small synagogue on his estate.
“I had the attendant at the gate brought on duty early,” the mayor said. “This site does not open for another two hours.”
No one else was around. He liked the treatment he was receiving and realized it was all designed to open his checkbook. The mayor of this district had no clue why he was there, just that he was, and an opportunity like this could not be squandered.
The mayor stopped and pointed at a double set of metal doors in the far wall. “Beyond those doors is a ladder that leads down to an underground room, which was once used for tool storage. It has proven ideal as a place where paper can return to dust.”
“You’re not coming?”
The mayor shook his head. “I’ll wait here. You have a look in private.”
He sensed something with this man. Something he did not particularly like. But he knew Rocha was not far away, as he’d spotted him following them to the iron gate. So he made clear, “You do understand that I am not someone to be taken lightly.”
“That is beyond question. You are an important man.”
Before he could inquire further, the mayor turned and left. He almost called out to stop him but decided against it. Instead, he left the graveled path and wove his way through the
He opened them.
Rakes, shovels, and brooms were propped against one wall to his right. A metal ladder led down into a dark square in the stone floor.
He gazed down the chute.
A light burned below.
Apparently, he was expected.
He stepped onto the rungs but, before descending he reclosed the double doors.
He climbed down, realizing that he was literally descending through time. Every sixty centimeters meant another layer of graves.
When he reached the bottom he would stand where the burials had begun 700 years ago.
He glanced down beyond his feet and saw the ground approaching.
A few more rungs and he found stone.
He was perhaps seven to eight meters belowground. The lit room that stretched before him was about ten meters square, the ceiling not much above his head, the black earthen floor damp. Books and papers were stacked against the walls in haphazard piles, most nearly rotted away. The stale air was scented with decay and he
