Rick Jones
The Vatican Knights
PROLOGUE
When Shari Cohen’s grandmother was confined to Auschwitz, the sky always rained ashes.
At the peak of the camp’s existence, 20,000 Jews were summarily executed on a daily basis and burned in the ovens, a tragedy that was memorialized by the photos lining the walls, galleries and glass cases of the Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington, D.C.
People milled noiselessly about, zigzagging across the hall from one display case to another, regaled by Iron Crosses and German Lugers. Beneath recessed lighting hung German and Hebrew banners, as well as framed paintings that the Nazi regime had appropriated from Jewish owners.
At the end of a corridor, Shari walked along a memorial wall lined with numerous black-and-white photos, studying each one carefully.
And then she found it, a grainy black-and-white print of detainees standing together wearing garments draped over limbs no larger than broomsticks. The despair on their faces was obvious, the wallow-eyed sadness speaking volumes.
With the tips of her fingers Shari traced the image of a young woman who stood with her chin raised in defiance. The points of her shoulders, her cheeks, the paleness of her flesh and the death rings surrounding her eyes all bore testament to her will and courage in the face of adversity. It was the photo of Shari’s grandmother.
Immediately she felt the sting of tears, her grief and pity mixed with overwhelming pride.
She moved slowly along the cases, examining every photo and imagining the atrocities behind them. In one picture she noted lifeless bodies hanging from the gallows. Shari remembered her grandmother saying that the bodies would swing there for days, as a reminder to Jews within the camp of their impending fate.
To be a person of Jewish faith, her grandmother told her, was a fate that assured death and never a reprieve.
Even at this moment, within her mind, Shari could hear the slight accent of her grandmother’s voice, the sweet clip of her tone. The way she spoke, with the courage and pride of making it through one of the blackest moments of history, was in itself a demonstration of the old woman’s fortitude.
When Shari was too young to understand the palpability of her grandmother’s suffering, but on the cusp of learning, her grandmother showed her the stenciled numerals on her left forearm. Viewing the numbers from one side read 100681, but when the forearm was viewed from the opposite side, the numbers became inverted, reading 189001. Same tattoo but different numbers. Her grandmother always referred to these as the magic numbers.
Shari smiled. In her mind’s eye she could see her grandmother smiling back, amused at the astonishment on Shari’s young face as the numbers changed before her eyes.
And then Shari’s smile faded, the corners of her lips withering into a straight line. The woman who was so brave and cavalier about her struggles in Auschwitz died of heart failure a week ago in a D.C. hospital, at the age of seventy-nine. Shari missed her deeply.
Moving along the displays, Shari observed more photographs, including pictures of charred and broken bones from the ovens filling deep trenches between the residential quarters — another constant reminder to the Jews of their imminent fate.
How her grandmother was able to maintain her sanity was beyond Shari’s comprehension. How could anybody live under the mantle of an Auschwitz sky, wondering on a daily basis if her ashes would one day rain down and cover the landscape with a horrible grayness?
She could not even begin to fathom the terror of not knowing.
Through the museum’s photos, Shari witnessed a chronology of events that reminded her that even though she was a Jew in a land of tolerance, her country, too, was not entirely without its prejudices. She recalled her grandmother’s words from two years before, when Shari turned sweet sixteen.
“You’re a young woman now,” she told her. “Old enough to understand the things a young woman should know. So what I’m about to give you, my littlest one, is the most wonderful gift of all. The gift of insight and wisdom.” It was then that her grandmother leaned closer and beckoned her to join her in close counsel, as if what she was about to say could only be passed on in whispers. “I’m one of Jewish faith,” she added, “as you are. But I was proud and refused to give up. To be a Jew in Auschwitz was certain death. But if you fight from here,” she said, placing an open hand over her heart, “if you’re truly proud of who and what you are, then you will survive. But never forget this one thing: there are terrible people out there willing to destroy you simply because evil has its place. If you want evil to take hold, then stand back and do nothing. But if you want to make a difference, then fight, so that all can live in the light. Does this make any sense what I’m telling you?”
Shari could remember giving her a quizzical look. So her grandmother held her forearm out, the ink of the magic numbers having faded to an olive green color.
“Because I was a Jew, I was given this mark — even though I was a good girl who never hurt anybody. My parents, your great-grand parents, were good people who never received a mark, because they were told to go to “the left,” which, in Auschwitz, meant a quick death in the gas chambers. I never saw them again.” She smiled — the creases of her face many — but the lines so warm and beautiful, the lines of a person who truly loved life.
She then reached for Shari’s hand and embraced it with a maternal gentleness. “There is goodness in you,” she told her. “I can feel it. It’s people like you who can make a difference in the lives of all, whether they be that of Jewish faith or not. These marks on my arm are a constant reminder of good people who turned a blind eye and did nothing to help me or others when life was at its darkest. And because of it many people died unnecessarily, because evil was allowed to succeed. But in you, my littlest one, is a fire so bright I can see it in your eyes. You want to do good for those who can’t protect themselves, yes?”
At that moment Shari realized that she did, though her newfound zeal may have been motivated as much by a desire to please her grandmother as by a determination to protect the powerless. This was a new feeling for her, since she was, after all, only sixteen, and her greatest concerns hitherto had involved boys.
Her grandmother’s smile widened. “Not to worry,” she said. “Just remember that when the time comes there will be obstacles. But don’t give up. Determination and perseverance will get you there all the time. I was determined to survive Auschwitz. And I did. Now it’s your turn to make sure what happened to me never happens to anyone else ever again.”
Shari lifted her grandmother’s forearm and turned it over, then traced her fingers softly over the washed-out tattoo. “No one should have suffered like you, Grandmama. And I’ll make sure no one ever will.”
Her grandmother maintained an even smile.
Shari often wondered if her Grandmother believed her promises were merely the offhand remarks of a sixteen-year-old girl, telling an old woman what she wanted to hear, or if she believed Shari had true conviction. But Shari could not have been more sincere, since her love for her grandmother trumped everything at that moment, even if she was sixteen and preoccupied with boys. Good people like her grandmother deserved better.
“This is my gift to you, my dear. Sometimes the best presents don’t come in a box, but as a lesson. So take it and use it well.”
Shari had never forgotten the lesson taught to her by her grandmother on her sixteenth birthday.
Now, two years later, at eighteen years of age, Shari had been accepted into Georgetown University on a full scholarship. Less into boys and more career-minded, Shari was working toward her pledge to never let atrocities happen to “those who could not help themselves” by enrolling in Criminal Justice courses, with an eye on greater achievements.