CROSS AND FRUSTRATED BECAUSE IT TOOK FIFTEEN MINUTES TO FIND a cab, I arrived at the prison at eight-thirty the next morning. Clutching my purse, which I had stuffed with persuasive hundred-thousand-lire notes, I approached the main entrance, then nearly shrieked in disappointment when the officer at the desk told me guests were not allowed to visit prisoners awaiting transport.
I told myself to calm down; I had prepared for this contingency. Giving the officer my most beguiling smile, I pulled one of the colorful currency notes from my purse and slid it over the desk. “Can’t we make one exception?” I asked, wishing I had looked up a few pertinent jailhouse expressions in my Italian phrase book. I could use all the sympathetic feelings I could arouse today.
I could tell from the guard’s posture, however, that he was in no mood to bargain. He gave the money a cold glance, then glared at me. “No exceptions,” he barked, rising from his chair like a jack-in-the-box. “Now, if you will excuse me, signorina, I must attend to other work.”
I picked up the money and crumpled it in my palm, struggling to hold back tears of frustration. I had planned to ask Asher to name Kurt Welton as his psychologist of record, so the court could at least call Kurt and get an appropriate referral. But unless I had a chance to speak to him—
A tall man with a mustache stepped out of a hall and stared straight at me, his eyes narrowing. “Signorina Fischer?”
A cry of relief broke from my lips. “Si! Have you news for me?”
He came toward me with long strides, glancing over his shoulder as he approached. His furtive attitude immediately put a damper on my rising spirits. “I am Ricardo’s brother.” He whispered out of one side of his mouth, like a gangster in an old-fashioned movie. “I have a letter for you.”
The hesitation in his hawk like eyes disturbed me. “A letter?”
“From Signor Genzano.”
I put out my hand in silent expectation, then realized the man was waiting for money. Silently grumbling against the greasy-palm system of government, I pressed the crumpled hundred-thousand-lire note into the man’s palm.
The money disappeared, then the tall officer reached into his coat and pulled out a long, white envelope. “I myself delivered the envelope, paper, and pen to Signor Genzano,” he said, as if I should reward him further for his generosity. “He was most anxious to write you.”
The noise level outside the prison suddenly increased, and Ricardo’s brother politely steered me toward the door. “They are bringing out the prisoners now,” he said, pushing the door open. “If you want to speak to your friend, you may be able to call to him.”
I found myself caught up in a crowd of relatives and reporters moving toward an eight-foot chain-link fence. Within the fenced perimeter, a pair of dark blue police vans waited beside one of the prison blocks. Scanning the doorway of the prison, I saw a row of handcuffed and shackled prisoners. After being counted off, the prisoners were led to the first blue van.
After all these prisoners—the petty criminals, I assumed—were secure, the guards closed the doors and the van sped through the gate. The crowd surged forward as mothers and fathers and wives shouted and waved to loved ones within the vehicle, then the cries faded. Many people drifted away, some sobbing in heartbreak. Those of us who remained turned our attention back to the prison, where another van was revving its engine.
That’s when I saw Asher. He came through a doorway and shuffled forward, a guard at each side. Though the restraints made his movements seem awkward and halting, he carried his head high. He turned as if to scan the crowd at the fence, but one of the guards shoved him toward the back of the open van. My heart pounded as I watched him sit on a bench, then a guard secured his manacles to an overhead bar that ran the length of the vehicle.
As the guards stepped away, I called out Asher’s name, but at that exact moment every reporter in the crowd yelled to him as well. “Signor Genzano! Avete provato ad uccidere Santos Justus? Why would you try to kill the world’s peacemaker?”
I stood on tiptoe, trying to see above a half-dozen other heads, then realized the task was impossible. Breaking free of the media mob, I followed the fence to the gate, then positioned myself next to the opening. Asher would see me when he passed by, and I would not let myself be pushed aside.
As I suspected, the mob of reporters moved as the van pulled out, and within a moment I was clinging to the fence, my eyes following the van. There were no windows in the side except for those of the driver and the guard, but two back windows allowed us to see inside as the van passed. Calling Asher’s name, I held up my arms against the chain link, then froze as Asher’s gaze met mine. I saw the flicker of a smile cross his face, then he swiveled slightly and opened his hands, showing me—what? That his hands were empty? That he would hold my hands if he could?
A sense of anticlimax visibly descended upon our group as the van turned onto the main road. The reporters lowered their microphones; the cameramen shut off their cameras. I lowered my arms and moved away from the fence, my misery so acute it felt like physical pain. I’d have to be more positive when I arrived at the courthouse. I couldn’t let Asher see me like this.
Beside me, an Italian journalist stood in front of her cameraman, recording a lead-in to her story. I walked directly behind her, too weary to care if I ruined her perfect shot. Below the curve of the hill I could see Asher’s blue van cruising the street, then slowing to turn onto the bridge. A group of tourists at the bridge railing were posing for a picture with the Tiber River as a backdrop. Some fool with a camera stood in the middle of the road, apparently oblivious to all traffic.
As the van driver honked his horn, the tourist snapped his picture, then saluted the guards with a jaunty wave. As the driver shook his head in exasperation, the tourist jogged across the street to join his friends at the railing.
I found myself muttering, “E un americanata!” So typically American, so arrogant and thoughtless.
At the sound of a shrill cry, I slowed my steps. The newswoman who had been recording her sound bite was pointing toward the bridge, her face contorted in horror. As my eyes followed her trembling fingers, I saw that a small child—a toddler, probably not more than two or three years old—had wandered away from the distracted tourists. The van driver saw the child at the last moment and abruptly jerked the wheel. The sickening sound of a metal-to-metal impact slammed against my ears, and in astounded horror I watched the van teeter on the bent railing, then fall, end over end, into the silver waters of the swollen river.
I lurched toward the bridge with the pack of reporters and photo- graphers. More screams chilled the air now, but I barely heard them, so loud was the roaring of blood in my ears.
I was one of the last to arrive at the wounded railing. The water beneath did not seem deep, for we could see the dark shadow of the overturned van in the waters below. The two guards had managed to release their seat belts by the time I arrived, and both bobbed in the water.
But I couldn’t see Asher.
A wave of grayness passed over me, sapping my strength. I sank to a stone curb and stared mindlessly at the water, counting the minutes it had taken for me to run from the road to the bridge. Had it been three minutes? Four? How long could a person hold his breath underwater?
Tension descended upon the area like toxic gas, driving the crowd to panicked action. The tourists huddled together, some snapping pictures while others pressed their hands to their chests and gaped in horror. A handful of policemen ran from the prison and dived into the water to rescue their comrades, while the news cameras captured every moment.
I sat without moving as the moments passed one after the other, knowing I would never see Asher again. He had been handcuffed to a stationary railing, so he had drowned . . . or had he? I found myself hoping they would bring his body to the surface and take him to the morgue. I would speak for him, argue against an embalming, and wait until his heart began to beat again. Then someone would call a psychologist for me.
Surrounded by an ever-increasing crowd of reporters and curious onlookers, I sat numbly on the curb until the police divers surfaced for the last time, nearly three hours after the accident. One of the divers, his wet suit shining in the bright sun, climbed into a boat and spoke to a police captain; a few moments later the captain gave the news to the reporters. I stood and wandered through the crowd until I found a newscaster who spoke English.
“The police chief reports that the single casualty in today’s accident was Asher Genzano, a lifetime resident of Rome,” the newscaster said, offering his best look of concern to the camera. “Due to the currents in the river, the body has not been recovered.”
Pressing my lips together, I backed away and left the reporters to their speculations. They might fool the public, but they couldn’t fool me. I knew Asher’s hands had been cuffed to the restraining pole; I saw that the van’s door remained closed even after the vehicle submerged. Furthermore, I knew the currents of the Tiber were about as swift as molasses in winter.
The truth was unspeakable and unexplainable. Asher Genzano had vanished.
I had walked nearly a mile before I even remembered the letter. A moment of panic seized me as I felt for it in my pockets, then I discovered that I had stashed it in my purse at some point during the excitement.
I pulled it out, weighed its heft in my palm, then decided that Asher’s letter would best be savored over a cup of espresso. I stepped into the nearest trattoria, ordered a sandwich and a cup of coffee, then took a quiet table in the corner of the building.
I broke the seal, unfolded the plain pages, and began to read:
My very dear friend Claudia:
I do not know what today will bring forth, but I know you are not meant to sorrow for me. I believe—indeed, I know—that God has restored me to my rightful place. Release will come for me in God’s time, and I have never been more ready to face it. I find myself agreeing with Paul—I want to really live and yet I long to be with Christ. For the godly who die will rest in peace.
Tonight I thought about what you said and realized you were right. Tonight I have surrendered my work, my striving, and my goals to the One who has sought me relentlessly for over two thousand years. I thought I was doing the world a service by pursuing the Antichrist, and now I see that Christ has done me a greater service by pursuing me. I know others will find my story unbelievable, but I believe it is a testimony to the unfathomable riches of Christ’s mercy. Tonight I saw the Savior even more clearly than I saw him in Pilate’s palace. Then I saw a prisoner on his way to death. Tonight I saw the Lord of Grace, extending his love and forgiveness to one who could never deserve it. I saw him, Claudia, and in that moment I was freed.
A thought occurred to me last night—it may or may not be relevant, I do not know. Do you recall that Scripture tells us of other men who lived dozens of average lifetimes? Adam lived nine hundred thirty years; Methuselah lived to be nine hundred sixty-nine. Enoch and Elijah never died but were taken bodily to heaven. God used each man for his purposes. Every one of their earthly days was counted and appropriated by the Almighty.
Which brings me, dear one, to the real purpose of this letter. I am thick and slow, but God is gracious, and I am convinced he will soon welcome me home. This letter is to validate your claim to my journals. I will die without a will (how could I write one?), and I do not care how my property is disbursed. But my journals— I leave them to you. Whether I spend a week or a lifetime in prison, I leave my precious books in your hands. Take them with you when you leave Rome. Use them as you will, dear friend.
Thank you, beloved sister, for having courage enough to speak truth to me. I leave you now with a quote from Job, who suffered many things, and yet did not turn his heart against God:
“If mortals die, can they live again? This thought would give me hope, and through my struggle I would eagerly wait for release.”
I await my release . . . and another encounter with my Savior. Even so, come, Lord Jesus!
Asher Genzano, signed this 23rd day of November, Regina Coeli Prison, Rome.
I stared at the signature, then ran my fingertip over the bold, sure strokes of the date. The fourth Thursday of November. Thanksgiving Day in America . . . and for at least one man in Rome.
So—Asher had found victory at last. What I had witnessed today was not an end, but a beginning.
The owner of the trattoria moved to a small black-and-white television above the counter and pressed the power button, providing the noon news for his patrons. The screen immediately filled with the face of an earnest reporter standing before the Tiber embankment. Behind her I could see the divers in their darkly gleaming wet suits and the somber-faced chief of police. A single phrase caught my ear: “Temiamo che il prigioniero sia morto.” We fear the prisoner is dead.
“No,” I whispered, folding Asher’s letter. “Sappiamo che il prigioniero è libero. We know the prisoner is free.”
I was honestly happy for Asher, but my lower lip wobbled and my eyes filled in spite of myself.
I would miss him.