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a small parking space, just
before the roughly cobble-stoned area of the Via Appia Antica began.   “ A friend of mine once tried to drive his car — one
of those jeeps actually, with four-wheel drive — along the
road and blew out all of his tires, ” Bruno
explained as they left the car.    “ So this is as close as we ’ re going. ”
    They entered the patio of the caf é , which
was surrounded by tall pine trees, and sat down at a small table shaded by a
striped umbrella and overarching pergola.   A few minutes later, a stocky silver-haired man in sunglasses,
apparently a tourist, sat down at a table to their left.   He gave the waitress his order and began
to peruse a copy of Der Spiegel before he was interrupted by the ringing
of his cell phone.   He took the
call, speaking briefly in barely audible Swiss-German.   Between sips of his espresso, he glanced
casually at Nicola and Bruno several times and then returned to the reading of
his newspaper.
    Sensing that someone had been watching her, Nicola put her
menu down.   She looked at the
stranger and frowned in puzzlement, wondering what he found so interesting
about her and Bruno.   But then she
decided that he was probably just enjoying a respite under the rustic pergola,
whose softly scented flowering vines filtered the strong sunlight.
    An hour later, refreshed by this respite — and
by several badly needed cups of espresso and ciabatta sandwiches — Bruno
suggested that they drive over to the nearby Ardeatine Caves.   Though Nicola had been to the Via Appia
on countless occasions, she had never actually visited the caves, though she
was aware of their history and significance for most Italians.   Her attention had always been drawn by
the ancient archaeological highlights of Rome — crypts and
basilicas, churches and museums — not by more recent historical monuments to the dead.   In fact, she had passed by the Fosse
Ardeatine many times, but had done nothing more than take a quick glance,
noting their location for future reference, when and if she could make time for
them.
    “ Yes,
Bruno, ” she
said.   “ I would
like to see them.   I ’ m kind of
embarrassed that I never really made the effort before.   Thanks for suggesting it. ”
    As they got up from the table, Nicola noticed that the
stranger was still seated at his table, now sipping a glass of wine absently,
his bowl of pasta largely untouched.   He signaled the waitress and asked for his bill.

 
    Chapter Eleven

 
    Nowadays, the Ardeatine Caves resemble a large, impressive
park on the grounds of a well-tended country estate.   Its grass is tidily groomed, its lush
shrubbery pruned with infinite care, and a wide, white-pebbled courtyard
stretches out to welcome visitors.
    A massive gate of black ironwork, like heavy lace — or perhaps a symbolic
crown of thorns — encloses
the property.   In the courtyard
itself a sculpture of heroic proportions, on a massive pedestal, dominates one
corner.   Three men, larger than
life, in pale concrete finish, are chained together — separate, yet forever linked.    In their unusual solidity,
reminiscent of the bulk of Botero sculptures, they are unlike the tortured,
starved figures in so many other Holocaust memorials.
    One represents an artisan, another an intellectual, and the
last, an adolescent — for
the youngest victim of Nazi brutality here had been only fifteen years
old.   The figures face outward, as
if they would somehow stride away from this scene, which they have been fated
to commemorate for all time, detained here against their will.
    To the left of the caves, an open air vault houses the
victims of the Fosse Ardeatine massacre, buried in orderly rows of flat
identical tombs, with bouquets of flowers in metal vases attached to the foot
of each grave.   Of the 335 bodies
that were found in the caves, 322 were ultimately identified by a forensic
specialist, Dr. Attilio Ascarelli.   Thirteen victims, however —