it in the loft. Your grandfather told me nothing else. He said it was better that way. The box stayed in the loft for thirty years, until finally removed during a renovation. Luckily, I was still here to ensure its safety.”
“You never looked inside?”
Berlinger shook his head. “Marc took the key with him.”
Tom rubbed his tired eyes and tried to make sense of what he was hearing.
“This was once a central point in the Jewish quarter,” Berlinger said, motioning to their surroundings. “Now it’s just another part of Prague. Everything we built is nearly gone. Only memories remain, and most of those are too painful for any of us to recall. Your grandfather was one of the finest men I ever knew. He trusted me with a duty. It was my task to pass that duty on to someone else, and I have made a choice for when that happens.”
“But now I’m here.”
The rabbi nodded. “So I will pass what I know to you. I want you to know that if there had been a way for me to find the treasure, I would have. We deserve to have it back. That was the one thing Marc and I disagreed on, but I was in no position to argue with him. He was the chosen one, not me. Now the choice
“I’ll find them.” He removed the key from his pocket. “Where’s the box this opens?”
Berlinger pointed right.
“Not far.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
TOM WALKED WITH BERLINGER AWAY FROM THE OLD-NEW SYNAGOGUE following a street labeled Malselova. Shops and cafes, busy with people, huddled close to the cobbled lane. He knew what building sat just around the bend. The Maisel Synagogue, built by Mordecai Maisel in 1591. He’d visited it several times while writing his article on Prague. Maisel had been a wealthy Jew who ingratiated himself with Emperor Rudolph II, becoming a trusted adviser and eventually securing a special permit that allowed the building’s construction. For over a century it was the largest and most lavish structure in the quarter. But it burned in the fires of 1689, rebuilt in the late 19th century then completely restored, he recalled, in 1995. Services were no longer conducted inside. Now it held a permanent exhibition dedicated to the history of Czech’s Jews.
They entered the vestibule and Tom admired the stylish vaulting and the stained-glass windows. The towering walls were a warm shade of yellow. People milled back and forth, admiring display cases filled with silver objects. Little sound could be heard, besides their footsteps. Berlinger nodded to a woman behind the ticket counter and they were waved through.
“This was where the Nazis brought the artifacts stolen from all the synagogues,” the rabbi whispered. “They were to be displayed as part of their museum to our extinct race. Those precious objects were piled into this building and several more. I saw them myself. A terrible sight.”
They wandered into the nave, beneath unusual chandeliers, their bright lights inverted, pointing downward. Above him, a second floor was visible past a balustrade that lined the nave on two sides, broken by archways that each displayed a shiny menorah.
“Those artifacts are now gone, returned from where they came. We could not find the home for some, so they stayed here. Eventually, we decided this would be the best place to exhibit our heritage. A museum not to an extinct race, but to one that is still quite alive.”
He caught the pride in the old warrior’s voice.
“You and your daughter,” Berlinger said. “Is there any way to salvage that relationship?”
“Probably not. I had a chance, long ago, and I let it go.”
“What she said about you, faking a news article. I looked into that. You were once a respected journalist.”
The word
“I know, and if you could prove that you were not a fraud?”
“Then things would change.”
“I don’t know any more than I told you. She was most mysterious, but also most persuasive.”
“What do you know?”
“Only that with most things in life, there is more to the story.”
His spine stiffened. “Why would you say that?”
“And I suspect there is but one person you care to be vindicated with.”
He noticed that his question had gone ignored, so he decided to return the favor.
“During the war,” Berlinger said. “I was forced to do things that no decent man should ever be forced to do. I headed the council at Terezin. We had to decide life and death every day. Thousands perished, many because of the decisions we made. Only time has brought what happened there into focus.”
Memories seemed to have captured the old man’s attention.
“My own son. May God rest his soul.”
He stood silent.
“I have to tell you something,” the rabbi said. “In the war, many were sent to camps. Before I was sent, something happened. Marc and I talked of it. May I share it with you?”
