Shrouded In Silence

20





The winding steps would have been steeped in darkness except for a few electric lights stationed along the way. Even though the descending stairway was stone, the steps had been used for centuries and portions had worn slick. Dov Sharon grasped the handrail as firmly as possible. A slip and fall on the cold granite would do him considerable harm. Since stumbling across the existence of this concealed staircase, he had been in the archaeological dig and archives beneath the Vatican Secret Library every day. His relationship with Father Donello had grown considerably, and the old man seemed to particularly enjoy his company. He was also starting to share personal accounts with him.

When Dov reached the bottom step, he made sure his feet were firmly planted on the rock floor before he took another step forward. Once certain that he could walk without tipping, he started toward the priest's office. He had barely gotten halfway across the floor when the office door flew open.

"Ah! Dov, my boy," the priest exclaimed. "Come in! Haven't talked to anyone all day."

"Good to see you, Father Donnello. You're looking well."

"You're kidding. I sit down here day after day in this dark hole while my skin turns whiter by the moment and my arms increasingly shrivel. I must look like a dried mushroom."

"Not at all," Dov said. "After all, don't you say Mass in some of the chapels upstairs?"

"Once a day, but that's inside stained-glass windows. No reprieve there."

Dov laughed. "You're trying to make yourself look bad."

"No, no, it's all the truth," the priest said. "Come in and have a cup of tea. I just heated the water a few moments ago."

"Good," Dov said. "I could warm myself with a nice brew."

The priest ushered him inside the small office and pointed to a small stool. Hustling around in his meager supplies, he pulled out a small bowl of sugar and a stained cup that probably didn't need to be washed but looked like it wouldn't hurt.

"As I remember, you always take a little sweetener?"

Dov smiled. "It softens my hard heart."

The priest laughed. "I know of no other way to crack the shell of a Jewish boy than with a little sugar or a big glass of whiskey." He shook his finger in the air like a teacher and laughed again. "Only kidding you my fine young man."

Dov took the cup and sniffed the fragrance. "Smells like herbal tea."

"Oh, it is. It is. I don't touch any of that caffeinated junk because it would keep me up at night."

"Can't have a priest wandering around in the dark, now can we?" Dov smiled. "You are one funny man, Father Donnello."

"Funny! Don't be absurd. I'm an old piece of toast left over from a stale breakfast. No humor there."

Dov set the cup on the table. "Tell me, Father. Why is it that you've been so kind to this little Jewish boy? You've treated me like a family member."

The priest shrugged. "I don't know," he mumbled and turned away. "It's my goodness bubbling over," he teased.

"Come now. I think there is more than you've told me."

The priest looked slowly over his shoulder. "I'm not down here in this dark cell because I enjoy a lonely life. Many, many years ago, I made my bishop angry when the Nazis swarmed across Italy. Mussolini was on his way out then, but they hadn't hung him upside down yet. I could see that the Germans were out to wipe out the Jews, so I had to help. It was the fact that I sheltered so many Jews from harm that angered the bishop. He thought I had endangered the church. The old crank was nothing but an anti-Semitic hate monger parading around as a clergyman."

"The bishop sent you down here?"

"Yes." The priest wrung his hands. "Even when it's unjust, we have a system of authority that operates with its own logic. I imagine someday they will find me down here deader than a worn out boot." He shook his head. "You see I do know a little something about the inequities that the Jewish people have faced." The priest chuckled. "So, Mr. Dov, I find your journey particularly interesting."

"I am honored you have invited me into your private lair. Talking with you is fascinating."

"Yes, and you don't think that I recognize when you are pumping me to find the location of that special little gem, the brown book, The Prologue of James. I know that's where your eyes are fastened."

"Come now," Dov said. "I think you're intriguing even if you never speak a word about the document. I enjoy our conversations."

The priest rubbed his chin for a moment and scrutinized the young man. "I've given a considerable amount of thought to your interests, young Dov. Why would a nice young scholar with unusual skills in the Hebrew language give any attention to this rather strange document?"

"Is it in Hebrew?" Dov asked casually.

"Ah! There you go again! You're trying to trap me into telling you insider's information about this work."

Dov smiled. "If it's in Hebrew, wouldn't that be of extraordinary interest to me?"

"Well, it's not!" the priest said dogmatically. "Like about everything else of value from this period, it's in Greek."

"Just as I suspected," Dov said casually.

The priest laughed. "You are a sly one, Dov. Now let's get serious. Why are you so interested in this hidden manuscript?"

"The Jewish people have been victims of misinterpretation and misunderstanding forever. Persecution has gone on through the length of our history. Not only the Romans but the Christians heaped coals of fire upon the heads of our people. We weren't out there wandering across every continent because we were trying to find a good motel for the night. History has made it clear that there was no room in the inn for us. The Nazis were only the latest and worst in a long story of persecution. Perhaps, there is something in this Prologue that might shed light on who we truly are and would result in increased understanding."

"Interesting." The priest rubbed his chin. "Hmm. But why do you think this document could help?"

"Jesus was a Jew," Dov said. "His first followers were Jews. If this document is authentic, it was written by the Jewish brother of Jesus who was the first leader of the Christians after Jesus was crucified. Surely, James would throw some light on the true history of how the first followers of Jesus became uniquely separated from the rest of the Jewish people."

"You want this ancient manuscript because you think it might bring reconciliation and understanding?" The priest crossed his arms over his chest and looked askance at Dov. "You really want me to believe such an idea?"

Dov looked down at the floor for a moment. "My closest relatives died at Auschwitz where they were consumed in the flames of a crematorium. Only by an unexpected stroke of Providence did my parents come to Israel, but it cost great pain. Yes, my interests arise from the ashes of enormous personal sacrifice."

The priest stared as if captured by what had just been said.

"You must remember that the Viennese Jew Theodor Herzl began writing about the creation of a new state of Israel because he watched the humiliation poured on Alfred Dreyfus by the French. The innocent man was hustled off to Devil's Island for no other reason than that he was a Jew." Dov's voice quivered slightly. "The word pogroms—a Russian idiom for violent mass attacks—came from their assaults on our people. Even the head of the Russian Orthodox Church in the late 1800s clarified the policy of the Russian state toward all Jews living in their country. He suggested that maybe one-third would convert, one-third would die, and one-third would flee the country. Don't you find it interesting that these worshipers of the Jewish Jesus hated Jews?"

The old priest shook his head. "Such treatment has certainly been a plague on the church. I can only say that no religion can be judged by the example of its worst practitioners. You must remember that one-third of all the priests in Poland died in the Nazi concentration camp at Dachau for opposing Hitler's murdering hordes. Even under Hitler, there were Christians who hid the Jews."

"Absolutely and we are grateful for the righteous gentiles as well as the sacrifices of Poland's priests. But we must remember that many Christians looked the other way. Isn't reversing this history of hate worth the cost?"

"Yes, it is." The priest set his coffee mug down. "And I find great pleasure in being able to do a deed that would have burned my old bishop's hide. I'm going to tell you the secret that only a handful of people know. I do so in the name of tolerance and magnanimity with a poke in the ribs for my long-dead old rotten bishop. Regardless of how leaders of the church have functioned in the past, we still exist and serve in the name of truth and goodness. Sitting down here in this forlorn dungeon has taught me how important it is to stay consistent with the highest and best."

Dov took a deep breath. "You are a good man, Father Donnello."

"No, I'm only an old sinner living out his final days in relative seclusion, but I choose to live them with honor. Come here, my son, for no one else must hear what I'm about to tell you."

Dov stood up and turned his head toward the priest. The old man cupped his hand over Dov's ear and whispered.

Dov stiffened and gasped. "The Prologue of James is hidden there!

"Yes. You would never have expected it."