the top. The low rampart wall with gates was razed, the streets now freely connecting with the rest of the city. Where the synagogues once towered over everything, now they were lost among high rooflines.
Tom recalled the story he’d written, how sad the place had been to walk through. Only the six synagogues and town hall remained, all now more tourist attractions than places of worship.
And the cemetery.
That’s what he remembered most.
Perhaps the saddest place he’d ever visited.
In Inna’s apartment Alle had talked of her new religion and a duty she felt toward it. He wondered if she had any idea how Jews had suffered. Here, in Prague, twice through history they were expelled. Pogroms—that word Saki had burned into his memory—came more frequently. In the story he’d written he’d included what happened during Easter 1389, when Jewish youths supposedly tossed rocks at a priest carrying the Eucharist to a dying man. Christians were incensed, their hatred fueled by zealous clerics. Three thousand Jewish men, women, and children were slaughtered. Others committed suicide simply to avoid the atrocities. The quarter was plundered and burned. Even the synagogue was not immune, as marauders invaded and butchered people hiding inside their holiest place. For centuries after, their blood was left on the walls as a reminder.
Inside the Old-New Synagogue.
Whose exterior he now stared at.
Its austerity seemed intentional, allowing worshipers to concentrate on God without distraction. Its western and eastern facades faced differing streets, the eastern backing to a newer, tree-lined boulevard filled with trendy shops. The synagogue rested six feet below the newer boulevard, where street level had existed 700 years ago. Lights illuminated its walls, casting the rough stone in an eerie gray hue. They’d approached from the east, away from its main doors, where access to the attic loft could be seen. He counted the eighteen iron rungs leading up to the arched door with the Star of David. His right hand felt the key in his pocket. He still hadn’t mentioned it to Alle.
“I have to climb up there,” he said.
“There’s no cover. If anyone drives by on this street, they’ll see you.”
He realized that. “I still have to do it.”
“Why? What’s up there?”
“You’re not so up-to-speed on your new religion, are you? This is hallowed ground. The oldest synagogue still standing in Europe. Jews have been praying here for centuries.”
“But what’s up in the attic?”
“I don’t know. I have to go see.”
They’d walked from old town square to here seeing no one. But at 4:00 in the morning that was no surprise. No cars had passed, either, the chilly air devoid of sound, strange for a city of over a million people. Like in the photograph he’d studied earlier online, the first iron rung projected from the wall fifteen feet off the ground. One of the buttresses that supported the exterior wall rose adjacent to the rungs. An addition to the synagogue’s lower level jutted out, topped with a tiled roof.
He walked down the sidewalk, six feet higher than the base of the synagogue, and used an iron railing that lined its edge to hoist himself onto the addition’s roof. The clay tiles were slippery with moisture and he was careful as he worked his way close to the buttress. He wrapped his right arm around one side of the projecting wall and swung his body out, his left arm reaching for an iron rung, which loomed about eight inches beyond his grasp.
He realized what had to be done.
He steeled himself, grabbed a breath, and hoped for the best. A fifteen-foot fall to cold stone would leave a mark. He swung back around and released his grip, pivoting with his legs and leaping toward the rung. One hand locked onto the damp iron, then the other, his body swinging toward the synagogue wall, his feet breaking the impact.
He held tight.
He reached for the next hold and pulled himself up. One more and his feet found the bottom rung.
He turned back.
Alle watched him from the sidewalk, having retreated into the shadows beyond the wash of the nearest streetlamp.
He climbed.
One rung at a time.
Each was narrow in width, about sixteen inches, so he had to press his feet together and be careful on the slick metal. He told himself to keep a death grip on the rung above him. He stared up as he negotiated the makeshift ladder, trying to imagine who might have been the last person to make the climb.
He glanced back and saw nothing. Good. He was totally exposed. Hopefully, the key in his pocket would open the door at the top and he’d be inside, out of sight, before anyone appeared.
If that was true, then the creature was last seen in the loft above him. He realized it was all legend, but his grandfather had clearly used the story to conceal something important.
He found the top rung.
He was dangling forty feet in the air. A fall from here would kill him. He held on with his left hand, feet firmly planted, and found the key with his right. The lock definitely appeared to be the type that would accept a skeleton key.
He inserted the notched end.
