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 façades 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.
“The golem helps protect our secret in a place long sacred to Jews.”
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.
But nothing turned.
He twisted harder. Left and right.
Still locked.
He readjusted the key inside the hole.
No success.
“You. Up there.”
A male voice from below.
He glanced down.
Two young men stood on the cobbles at the bottom of the ladder.
Both toted guns in shoulder holsters.
———
ALLE SAW TWO MEN APPROACHING ON A NARROW COBBLED PASSAGE that separated the freestanding synagogue from a block of buildings. The alley connected the commercial avenue she was standing on with another street that ran deeper into the Jewish quarter. She’d been watching her father climb the iron rungs, her gaze darting occasionally to the passageway, vigilant to any passersby. Movement had caught her attention as two shadows appeared at the far end and hustled her way.
She retreated into a dark doorway for a closed shop and watched as her father reached into his pocket and found what looked like a key. He inserted it into the lock of the door to the loft and tried in vain to open it. The two shadows transformed into young men who stood at the base of the ladder, staring up. They did not appear to be police, each dressed in jeans and a dark jacket. Both armed. One of them yelled, “You. Up there.”
Her father’s head turned.
“Get down,” the young man ordered. “Before you hurt yourself.”
Her father did not move. But there was nowhere for him to go. The synagogue’s roof was a steep gable impossible to negotiate and, apparently, the loft door was not to be opened.
The only thing to do was climb down.
Which her father did.
He made it to the bottom rung.
The two men stood below him.
“Stretch from the last one and drop. We’ll get you.”
He did as they instructed, falling to the pavement, their grasp breaking his fall. Then one of the men kicked her father’s feet out from under him. The other shoved him to the pavement, wrestling one arm behind his back, a knee pressed tight to his spine.
“Stay still” came the order.
She needed to leave. Their attention was not on her. She could slip away and use the storefronts and recessed doorways for cover. The car was parked on the far side of the square, and her father carried the keys. But anywhere was better than here.
She crept backward, keeping her gaze locked on the men thirty feet away and six feet below her. The angle of the buildings would soon block her from their view.
She bumped into something.
Startled, she jolted back and whirled.
Another young man stood three feet away.
He, too, with a gun in a holster.
CHAPTER FIFTY
ZACHARIAH STOOD THIRTY METERS AWAY FROM WHERE TOM Sagan and Alle Becket were being accosted by three men. He knew exactly who they were. Not the police, but a private patrol the local Jewish council employed to keep watch. And he knew why. Bigotry had not vanished.
Only about 1,500 Jews still practiced in Prague, sad for a place that had once been an epicenter for European Jewry. Kings and emperors had inflicted their damage, slowly and steadily, but the Nazis finished them off. Nearly 100,000 were exterminated. All that remained of a once thriving religious community was practically gone. He knew some of the local leaders and the challenges they faced. Almost weekly something was defaced. Though a stone wall enclosed the old cemetery, that had not prevented vandals from tossing dead animals over the top. Graffiti appeared regularly. The police did little to either stop or prosecute offenders. So the community had taken the task upon themselves. One of his foundations, geared to the preservation of Hebrew monuments worldwide, had contributed money to fund both cameras and people.
Rócha had tracked the phone he’d provided Alle to a Viennese residential neighborhood. He’d stationed a man there who reported that she and her father had abruptly left the residence and made their way to a car park not far from St. Stephen’s Cathedral. He’d stayed the night in town and was able to quickly find the same highway north that Sagan and his daughter had taken, their man following and telephoning in reports. Eventually, they were able to catch up and ended here, in Prague at the Old-New Synagogue. He knew that the building was under video surveillance, the cameras concealed, monitored twenty-four hours a day. So it had not taken long for the citizen patrol to appear.