The Kabbalist (21 page)

T
hey were sitting
inside the car in the parking lot near the Stella Maris monastery. After the
meeting with Eldad, Luria told Jeanne what had happened at the monastery four
years before, and she insisted on going there.

“So you believe that
the Stella Maris murderer was after Pascal de Charney’s documents.” She repeated
for the tenth time.

“Well,” said Luria, “nobody
ever admitted that
anything
had been stolen in the first place. The
monastery’s Abbot explicitly denied it.”

“But you believe that
this is what happened.”

“Yes. At the time, I
was sure
something
had been taken, and I knew the monks were covering up
for it. It fits in well with what we know today.”

“They must have had a
good reason for not talking then,” reasoned Jeanne. “They did not cooperate
with the police when Father Diaz was murdered. Why would they cooperate with me
now?”

“You are right. They probably
won’t.”

“So what are we doing
here?”

Luria suppressed a sigh;
women… “It was
you
who insisted on coming here,” he reminded her
patiently. “I said that the chances of obtaining meaningful information were
slim, but you wanted to do it, and this is fine with me. And who knows? You may
strike gold after all.”

“But you do not really
believe it.”

Luria started laughing.

“What’s so funny?”
snapped Jeanne.

“It is just that you
are so much like Ella… Our conversation reminded me of her.”

“Then you don’t believe
they will cooperate.”

“Not really, but it may
be a good idea to shake the tree a bit. A few apples may fall.”

Jeanne gave him a searching
look, and then smiled. “You must think I am behaving like a child, but I don’t
care.” She kissed him on the cheek, and Luria gloomily noted to himself that
this was a kiss of a cousin, not a lover.

As they had agreed, she
left the car alone and proceeded to the monastery. She walked into the external
yard just outside the church, and Luria saw her stop next to a monument
surrounded by four tall palm trees. It was a small pyramid with a metal cross on
top. Jeanne knelt down, removed her sunglasses and read the inscription on the
metal plaque. It was a commemoration for Napoleon’s soldiers and the monks who
died in and around the monastery in 1799. She then rose, walked through the
open church door and disappeared inside. Luria looked at his watch. There was
still time before the scheduled meeting, and she had told him in advance that
she planned to pray in the monastery’s church.

Fifteen minutes later,
he saw her coming out of the church. She glanced at his direction, making sure
he was still there, and made her way to the big iron gate at the entrance of
the monastery’s closed area. She rang the bell and said something into the
intercom. A few minutes later, a monk appeared on the other side of the gate.
He was clad in a brown habit and his head was covered by his cowl.

“Ms. de Charney?”

“Yes.”

The monk opened the
gate. “I am Brother Pedro,” he spoke English with a Portuguese accent. “Please
come in. Father Mazzini is expecting you.”

He closed the gate behind
her, and the two strode along the monastery wall. Next to the monastery
entrance stood a marble statue of the Madonna, and Jeanne made the sign of the
cross. Luria, observing from the other side of the road, saw them disappear
inside the monastery.

The two walked up the
stairs, entered a corridor and stopped next to one of the rooms. Brother Pedro
asked Jeanne to sit and wait on a wooden bench. He tapped gently on the door
and entered, returning after a short while.

“Father Mazzini will
see you now.”

Jeanne estimated the
age of the man behind the desk at sixty five. His pale green eyes were the most
striking feature of his face, and they were examining her carefully. At first,
she felt intimidated by those weird eyes, but then the man stood up and smiled
at her. “Ms. de Charney?” She bowed her head.

“I am Father Mazzini.
What can I do for you?” He spoke good English with an Italian accent and Jeanne
heard curiosity in his rich voice.

“I would like to thank
you for seeing me, Father. I greatly appreciate it.”

“It is my pleasure. I
figured that if you had come here all the way from France, you must have had a
good reason.”

“Yes. This is a long story,
and I will try to keep it brief. A few months ago, I found a 200-year-old
letter in our family’s estate in Normandy. The letter is from Pascal de
Charney, a young captain in the Egyptian expeditionary force of Napoleon, to
his father in Normandy. Pascal served in Napoleon’s army, which invaded the
Holy Land in 1799. In the letter, he tells about a certain item he collected in
Safed, which he was going to send to his father. Pascal had apparently deposited
this item in the hands of a friend, a fellow officer, who was to deliver the
package to Pascal‘s father if anything happened to Pascal. Pascal died during
the Acre campaign, and his friend suffered a severe head injury. This friend
returned to France empty-handed and in no position to explain what had
happened.” She paused to take a deep breath. The pale green eyes were fixed
upon her, as if trying to read her mind. “This item must have been very
important to my family, and I am trying to locate it.”

Father Mazzini and
Brother Pedro exchanged glances. “My young lady,” said the Abbot in his warm
baritone voice. “You took upon yourself an extraordinary task. It is
heartwarming to see that young people still value their family’s legacy, but
how can we help?”

“Pascal de Charney’s
friend, the officer in whose hands he had entrusted the package, was seriously
wounded during the same battle, on May 10
^th
, 1799, and was evacuated
from the battlefield.” Jeanne looked at Father Mazzini to find out whether he
made the connection.

“I understand, my girl.
You assume that the wounded friend was brought here…”

She nodded.

“Do you know the name of
this officer?”

“His name was Captain Bernard
Moreau. He served on the staff of General Napoleon Bonaparte.”

A shadow descended on
Father Mazzini’s face. He closed his eyes. Long seconds passed before he opened
them. “This is all very moving, my girl,” he said quietly, “but do you know
what the monastery and its inhabitants had to go through, during the period you
have mentioned?”

“I know that many of
the sick and wounded were cruelly massacred by the Turks.”

Father Mazzini sighed.
“This was the worst disaster this place ever witnessed. Let me give you some
background. The Carmelite Order was originally founded here, on Mount Carmel at
the time of the Crusades, by monks who lived in nearby caves and were inspired
by the prophet Elijah. With the fall of the crusaders’ Kingdom of Jerusalem in
1291, these monks were driven away. Only in 1631, an agreement was signed
between Father Prosper, who was sent from Rome, and Emir Turbai, ruler of the
Galilee, whereby we were given the Elijah cave down the mountain slope, and the
area on the top of the mountain.

“Father Prosper tried
to build a church and a monastery, but Muslim protests as well as a dispute
with the Greek-Orthodox Church, which claimed the rights to the mountain top,
forced him to carve his monastery into the mountainside in the slope between
the mountain top and the Elijah Cave below. He died in his humble monastery in 1653,
and the place was destroyed by Muslims in 1767. You can still see the ruins
down there. In 1769, we got the approval of the Ottoman Sultan for building the
monastery under French protection. This part of the Carmel Ridge is known as
‘French Carmel’ ever since. In 1799, the monastery was converted to a hospital
for the wounded and sick soldiers of Napoleon, and here we meet your story.” Father
Mazzini looked at Jeanne, who was sitting mesmerized, absorbed in his words,
and sighed wearily before resuming.

“When I came here, two
years ago, I read every document about this period I could lay my hands on, and
I can give you an accurate account of what happened. In the night between May
20
^th
and 21
^st
, Napoleon’s army retreated from Acre
towards Haifa, blowing behind it the bridges on the Naaman and Kishon Rivers,
to delay any pursuing forces. Evacuating the sick and wounded presented a major
problem for the General. At one time, he even considered ending those poor men’s
miseries by giving them opium, but his Chief Medical Officer refused to have
anything to do with such an unchristian act. Those who could ride were placed
on horses and camels, and others had to be carried on stretchers. The
conditions were horrible, with the wounded and sick sometimes having to pay the
stretcher bearers to carry them.”

Father Mazzini signaled
Brother Pedro to pour him a glass of water. He raised it slowly to his mouth
and drank before he went on. “When they reached Haifa, the situation became
even more desperate. Here, they were joined by the wounded and sick from the
monastery, who were evacuated overnight to the sea shore below. Some were in
such panic that they tried to find shortcuts on the steep path down and fell to
their deaths, their groans and cries for help haunting the men below. Those who
made it were concentrated on the shore and filled the air with their screams
and curses. The most miserable were those sick with the Plague, whom nobody
dared touch. Some of them even inflicted wounds upon themselves to convince
their comrades that they were injured and not sick, so that they could get some
help,” Father Mazzini took a deep breath. “And this was just the beginning of
the retreat of that wretched army to Egypt.”

“And what happened to
those who were left behind?” asked Jeanne, though she knew the answer.

Father Mazzini sighed.
“Alas, my child, they were all cruelly butchered by the Turkish soldiers.
Father Julius, who came to this site in 1804, found human bones scattered on
the mountainside and buried them in a common grave he dug in the court outside.
Out there you can see the small monument commemorating these poor souls.”

“I have seen the
monument. What a sad story.”

The abbot nodded glumly.

“Is there a way I can
find out whether Captain Bernard Moreau was treated here in the monastery? Are
there any surviving records?”

“Unfortunately not, my
child. The Turks burned and destroyed everything. The monastery was deserted,
and all in it was lost. In 1821, Abdullah Pasha, ruler of Acre, ordered the
building demolished and used its stones to erect a summer house for himself.
That house was later transformed into the lighthouse you can see across the
road. The monastery was rebuilt in 1827.”

“Then there are no
records?”

“Unfortunately none, my
child.”

Jeanne thought for a
while, before sending out the experimental balloon she had devised with Luria.
“Father Mazzini, I have a question which may prove irrelevant, but which I, nevertheless,
would like to ask you.”

Mazzini looked puzzled.
His eyebrows contracted, and he gave her a searching look. Eventually he
nodded, almost imperceptibly.

“Well…” Jeanne was
struggling for words. “About four years ago, a burglar broke into the monastery
area and this incident ended in tragedy.” She paused to watch the abbot’s face.
“There was a rumor that the burglar took some artifacts that belonged to the
monastery… could there be any connection…”

She stopped right
there. Father Mazzini was seized with coughing fit, and it took him some time
to calm down.

“Madam?” It was Brother
Pedro who spoke. His presence in the room was not felt until that moment. Jeanne
turned to look at him.

“This… incident you
have mentioned…” He had some difficulty speaking, and Jeanne felt the pain in
his voice. “It was a big shock, a trauma for all of us. I personally was a
close friend of the late Father Diaz, and I have not yet recovered from this heartbreak.
I do not know what your sources of information are, and what your reason for
bringing this up is. All I can tell you is that the police investigation concluded
it was a breaking and entering case, which escalated into murder. It was a
terrible crime, but nothing was stolen that night. I am sure you mean well, but
you are causing us much pain, unnecessarily.”

“I am sorry.” Jeanne’s
face reddened like a ripe tomato.

Father Mazzini, having
regained his composure, stood up and Jeanne understood that the interview was
over. “I am sorry we were not of much help to you, my child. Good luck with
your efforts and may the Lord bless you.”

Disappointment was written
all over Jeanne’s face when Brother Pedro escorted her out.

*    *    *

Jeanne opened the car door
and silently slid into the seat beside Luria.

“How did it go?” he
asked, realizing she needed some urging.

“Like you had
predicted, they claimed total ignorance.”

“So have you got any
wiser?”

“Yes,” she answered. “I
have, definitely.”

“How?”

“First, I received a
lesson in the history of this place.”

“And…”

“Second, it is evident
they are not telling everything they know.”

Luria stepped on the accelerator,
and they started rolling out of the parking lot.

*    *    *

Brother Pedro removed the
small field glass from his eyes and made a mental note of the license plate of
the car into which Jeanne had entered. He identified the driver. It was that
over-inquisitive cop from four years before.

He turned around, made
his way back to the main entrance of the building and went up to the abbot’s
office. The two had a short conversation, after which Father Mazzini dismissed
him.