The Catacombs
While in his junior year at the University of Pennsylvania, Braden Storm was presented with a unique opportunity. He was invited to take part in a student exchange program in which he would spend a year studying in Sicily. The twenty-year-old student, who grew up in Jim Thorpe, the town named after the Native American gold medalist, had seen little of the world and was anxious to visit Europe. However, Braden did not come from a wealthy family, and his education was being funded by student loans and grants coupled with a cooperative work program. How would he be able to afford the additional expense of a trip to Sicily?
"Don't worry about the money," his student advisor assured him. "There are plenty of part-time jobs you can get over there even though you don't speak Italian."
When Braden arrived in Sicily, he discovered that his advisor had been correct. Less than a week after arriving in Palermo, he got a job as a tour guide in the Capuchin Catacombs, affectionately known as the Museum of Death. Since Braden knew nothing about the ancient crypts or the mummified remains they housed, he had to go through a brief training period before he could lead a tour. When he reported for his first day of work, he was instructed to accompany Giorgio, an experienced guide who, although born in Italy, spoke fluent English.
"Do you speak any Italian at all?" Giorgio asked as the two men waited for the museum to open.
"Only a few dozen words," Braden admitted apologetically.
"And I'll bet those are ones you won't be using on the job," Giorgio joked. "Don't worry. Most of the people who come here are tourists from English-speaking countries."
Braden spent the next three hours accompanying his fellow guide as he led several groups of tourists—mostly Americans, Brits and Canadians—around the seven halls, or chambers, of the catacombs. Having grown up on horror movies and Stephen King novels, the exchange student was fascinated with seeing the approximately eight thousand corpses dating back to 1599, the year the first monk was mummified and placed in the subterranean chamber beneath the Capuchin Convent. Although he had read all the literature the museum had given him to study, the written descriptions and photographs had not prepared him for seeing the dead in the flesh—or lack of it, in this case.
As in life, the dead were separated by age, sex and, in some instances, their social station. Men were in one hall, women in another and children in a third. There were separate halls for virgins, priests and monks. There was even a chamber reserved for professionals such as doctors, lawyers, artists and military officers.
So much for the idea of Death being the great equalizer, Braden thought when he saw the preserved corpse of a French colonel decked out in his Bourbon uniform.
For Braden, as for nearly all the visitors to the catacombs, the most heart-rending sight was the body of two-year-old Francesca Provenza. It was not her young age that upset him, for there were skeletal remains of many small children and even infants in the catacombs, most of whom were posed in life-like positions. Rather, it was the extent of preservation of her body that set little Francesca apart from the others. The child, who had been buried in 1920 in a glass-top coffin, showed no sign of mummification or decomposition.
The sight of the dead child reminded Braden of the comments he'd heard at several of the funerals he'd attended. Often mourners, when paying their last respects, would comment that the deceased looked like he or she was only sleeping. Braden hadn't always agreed. Often the departed took on the waxy appearance of one of Madame Tussaud's famed figures. Little Francesca, on the other hand, did look like she was sleeping.
As Braden stared in awe at the beautiful little girl, he listened to Giorgio's presentation.
"Francesca Provenza's was the last body placed in the catacombs. The secret of her youthful appearance is a mystery. When she died, her parents asked their friend, Dr. Alphonse Moretti, a renowned Palermo physician, to embalm their child. Dr. Moretti, who had never served as an undertaker before, invented his own embalming fluid to preserve the body. As you can see, the doctor's formula was quite a success. Unfortunately, when the doctor died, he took the formula to the grave with him."
One of the tourists, a medical student from the University of Edinburgh, asked a question about the mummification process used on the other corpses.
"Sometimes the bodies were soaked in a solution containing arsenic," Giorgio explained. "But many times the bodies were simply left to dehydrate, and then they were washed in vinegar, dressed and placed in the halls. However, in 1881 a law was passed that made mummification illegal in Italy."
Braden tried to pay close attention to the rest of the questions that were asked and to Giorgio's responses, but he was distracted by an incredibly beautiful young woman who walked into the hall and knelt beside the coffin of Francesca Provenza. The beauty bowed her head in prayer, and several minutes later, after making the sign of the cross, she rose and left the hall. With the woman gone, Braden turned his eyes back to his fellow tour guide. Giorgio was looking directly at him, with an amused smile on his face.
Later that afternoon, the two men ate their lunch together.
"I noticed you watching that pretty girl praying beside Francesca Provenza's coffin," Giorgio said as he opened the thermos of minestrone soup his wife had packed for him.
"She was hard to miss. I don't suppose you know who she is," Braden said hopefully.
"Everyone in Palermo knows her. That's Simone Rossi."
The name meant nothing to the American college student.
"She is a famous actress here in Italy," Giorgio explained. "I don't suppose people in the United States have ever heard of her."
Braden shook his head.
"I'm not surprised. Simone Rossi is not like the movie stars in your country. She is no celebrity. She doesn't go to wild parties and get her picture in the newspapers and magazines."
"What's she doing in the catacombs?" the younger man asked.
"She comes here at least once a month."
"Why?"
Braden couldn't imagine any American movie star visiting mummified corpses.
"One can only guess. Maybe she just enjoys looking at dead people. We get our fair share of those types here."
* * *
By the end of the week, Braden knew enough of the history of the Capuchin Catacombs to lead his own tours. As Giorgio had assured him, many of the museum's patrons were from the United States, and even those who were not Americans spoke English.
The American student had been working at the catacombs for nearly four weeks when one day he was leading a group of senior citizens from Florida through the children's hall and spotted Simone Rossi entering the room. She was even more stunning than he'd remembered. Braden continued with his lecture, but his eyes frequently darted toward the attractive actress who again knelt in prayer beside Francesca Provenza's body.
Finally, Simone finished her prayer, crossed herself and rose to leave.
On impulse, Braden said, "You're welcome to join our group, young lady."
Startled, Simone turned toward him and nearly stumbled.
"No. No, thank you," the actress stammered as she made a hasty exit.
Braden was disappointed by her rejection but not surprised. Apparently even in Sicily actresses belonged to a cultural aristocracy whose members did not associate with lesser-born individuals.
* * *
The American college student was soon to learn that he had wrongly judged the Italian actress. One afternoon after leaving the catacombs, he stopped at a café for a quick bite to eat. Only moments after he gave his order to the waiter, he spotted Simone sitting at a nearby table. He couldn't help staring at her. Outside, in the bright daylight, she looked even younger than she had inside the catacombs—not much older than a teenager, in fact.
The actress suddenly raised her eyes from the menu and looked at Braden. The student, embarrassed at being caught staring, turned away. A moment later, Simone got up from her own table and took a seat beside him.
"I know you," she said with a distinctly Italian accent. "You work as a guide at the Capuchin Catacombs."
Braden was amazed that the actress had recognized him.
"You're American, no?"
He nodded, temporarily unable to speak. Then, after recovering from his surprise, he invited Simone to join him for a late lunch. To his astonishment, she accepted. The two young people enjoyed a long, leisurely lunch over which they discussed Braden's education and future goals as well as Simone's cinematic achievements.
The newfound camaraderie was abruptly shattered, however, when Braden asked, "What brings you back to the catacombs time and time again?"
"I don't know what you mean," she said nervously.
"One of the other guides told me you go there at least once a month. I admit to a certain morbid fascination for the place, but once you've seen the catacombs, why keep going back?"
Simone avoided his question by looking at her watch and dramatically declaring, "I had no idea it was so late. I'm sorry, but I must go. I have an important appointment."
Within seconds she was gone.
For a gifted actress, Braden thought, that was a pretty poor performance.
* * *
Simone did not return to the catacombs, but Braden—kept busy with both schoolwork and his part-time job—had little time to wonder what had become of her. Finally, with only one week left before his year in Sicily ended and he returned to America, the exchange student was unexpectedly reunited with the lovely actress.
It was a Friday night, his last day on the job, and his fellow guides took Braden to a popular nightspot for a farewell celebration. The American was walking back to his rented rooms in the early hours of the morning when he saw a car swerve to avoid hitting a dog and strike a telephone pole. He ran over to the wrecked vehicle to offer assistance to the driver and any passengers who might need first aid. Braden was astonished to see Simone Rossi behind the wheel of the car.
"Help me!" she cried.
Braden saw the blood on her forehead and knew she'd been injured in the accident.
"I'll go call an ambulance."
"No! Don't call anyone. Just open the door and get me out of here."
"I can't risk moving you. You might have injured your spine."
"I'm all right. I just want to get out, but the door appears to be jammed."
Braden was uncertain about what to do. All his instincts told him to notify the proper authorities, but the actress pleaded with him to get her out of the car. Against his better judgment, he tugged on the driver's door.
"It's not budging," he announced. "You may need the fire department—or whatever emergency service you use in Italy—to get you out."
"No! I have to get out of here before the police arrive."
A warning bell rang in Braden's brain. Had Simone been driving under the influence? Why else would she want to flee the scene of an accident before the police arrived?
"Hurry, please," the actress urged. "They might be here any minute."
Again, Braden tugged on the door. This time it opened with the screeching sound of metal on metal. Once the door was ajar, he reached inside the vehicle and helped the young woman out from behind the wheel.
Simone took one step and nearly fell when she put her weight on her left foot.
"Come on," Braden ordered gently, "I'm going to take you to the hospital."
"No! No hospital and no doctor."
"You're hurt," he persisted. "You've got a bruise on your head, an injured leg and ...."
"I'm fine. See?"
She wiped the blood from her forehead, and surprisingly there was no cut or abrasion beneath it, nor did she appear to have any further difficulty walking.
"But you might have internal injuries."
"I'm ...," she began, but the sudden blare of a police siren seemed to terrify Simone. "Quick! I've got to get out of here."
Braden, who lived only a few doors away, took the actress to his apartment.
"May I stay here for a while?" she asked as she watched the police through the curtain of the living room window.
"Okay," he agreed, "but I've got to tell you that my fingerprints are on that car door. If the police track me down and question me about the accident, I'm going to have to tell them the truth."
"I understand."
The idea of Braden giving her up to the authorities didn't seem to bother her much.
"By that time there will be no question of taking me to the hospital."
"And your blood alcohol level will have returned to normal, right?"
"I'm not drunk! I haven't had anything stronger than a Diet Coke all day."
"Then why run from the scene of an accident? I don't know about the laws in Sicily, but in America, it's a serious offense."
Simone clammed up immediately, just as she had done when Braden questioned her about her frequent visits to the catacombs. Only this time—with the police right outside his door—the actress could not run away.
"Fine!" Braden exclaimed, throwing his hands up in resignation. "Don't tell me. To quote Rhett Butler, 'Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn!' I'm going home in a few days, and I won't care what happens here in Sicily."
"My reasons are extremely personal."
"Maybe here in Italy the rich and famous need to run from the police. In Hollywood, though, celebrities often get a slap on the wrist for all sorts of things, from child molestation to murder. Why don't you give your lawyer a call?"
"I have done nothing illegal."
"Then go out and tell that to the police who at the moment are going over every inch of your car."
"It's too soon. If I go out there now, they might insist I go to the hospital."
"Don't worry," Braden said sarcastically. "I won't ask why you're so afraid to go to the hospital because I know you won't tell me if I do."
The two sat in uncomfortable silence for several minutes, and then Braden stood up and announced, "I'm going to bed. You can stay here until the coast is clear. Just turn off the light on your way out."
He headed toward the bedroom door but turned when Simone called to him.
"Wait. You took a chance helping me tonight, and I want to thank you."
"You're welcome," he said with a tired smile.
"I really haven't done anything wrong."
Braden looked her in the eyes and admitted, "I like you very much, and I have a feeling you like me. Why won't you trust me?"
Tears welled up in her eyes.
"I've never told anyone. Besides, you probably won't even believe me."
"Try me," he said, sitting back down on the couch.
"How much do you know about Francesca Provenza?"
"Only what I learned at the catacombs."
"Francesca was the youngest child in the Provenza family, and when she died her family was devastated. Her parents and siblings all hated to see their little angel placed in the ground. They wanted her buried in the catacombs where they could visit her. Unfortunately, mummification had already been outlawed, so the little girl's parents went to their old friend for help."
"Alphonse Moretti?"
"Yes, Dr. Moretti was not only the family's physician, but he was also a brilliant chemist. When the Provenzas asked him to embalm their daughter, he developed his own embalming fluid, and the results were far beyond what anyone had expected."
"I know that, but what has all this got to do with you?"
"The doctor had no idea his formula would work so well. Weeks passed, and there was no sign of decomposition. He soon began to wonder: if the serum could preserve dead flesh so well, what would it do for the living? So the doctor began experimenting on animals. The results were amazing. The test subjects developed an unusually high immunity toward cell damage and disease. Then Dr. Moretti's own daughter fell victim to the illness that had claimed the Provenzas' little girl. When he saw that his only child had become gravely ill, the desperate father gave her the serum."
"He gave embalming fluid to his own daughter while she was still alive?"
Simone, fighting back a renewed bout of tears, replied, "He gave it to her in small doses, one injection a day over a period of one month."
"What happened to the daughter?
"She recovered from her illness, but from 1920 on, she didn't age."
Simone raised her head and looked directly into Braden's eyes.
"That's why I didn't want to go to the hospital. I don't want the doctors to discover that my blood has been permanently altered by my father's serum."
Braden was flabbergasted.
"You can't mean that you're Alphonse Moretti's daughter!"
"I am. I was born Daniella Maria Moretti in Palermo in 1909. Simone Rossi is a name and identity I assumed just a few years ago when I returned to Sicily. You see, I can't stay in any one place too long or people might learn my secret. I must alter my appearance and change identities every so often to avoid suspicion."
"Even if what you say is true, why the frequent visits to the catacombs?"
"Over the years, I developed a deep affection for little Francesca. We were like sisters. For more than a century, I have watched people age and die. Only Francesca and I remain eternally young."
Despite the earnestness in Simone's voice, Braden simply could not believe her. Still, he didn't suspect her of outright lying or of trying to play a cruel joke on him. As preposterous as the story was, he felt that she honestly believed she was more than a century old.
* * *
The following week the young college student returned to Pennsylvania. He completed his education and shortly afterward married Raina Forey, an English teacher from Lehighton, and the two settled down in Jim Thorpe. Many years later Mr. and Mrs. Storm went to Rome on vacation.
While in Italy, Braden took the opportunity to return to Sicily, where Raina wanted to visit the Capuchin Catacombs that she had heard her husband speak of so many times. The skeletons and mummies she saw there—particularly in the chamber of virgins and chamber of children—horrified Raina.
"I told you they were grotesque," Braden reminded her. "These people have been dead for hundreds of years."
"I know, but I really wanted to see the little girl you told me about, the one who looks like she is sleeping."
Minutes later, as she stood in the children's chapel before the glass-top coffin where little Francesca Provenza remained unchanged since the day of her burial, Raina listened attentively to the guide's lecture. Braden, on the other hand, preferred to wander around the room, reliving the memories of his days in Palermo.
Suddenly, a group of teenagers entered the chamber. All but one behaved as though they were at an amusement park rather than a burial place. When the one quiet, respectful girl walked over to Francesca Provenza's coffin, knelt down and began to pray, the hairs on the back of Braden's neck rose. The young woman's bizarre hairstyle and outlandish clothing were similar to those found on teenagers one sees in most American high schools, yet the face seemed to belong to a bygone era. It was a face that was familiar to him.
"I'm sorry I didn't believe you," he said softly.
"Are you talking to me?" the girl said with a strong French accent. "Do I know you, monsieur?"
"I'm sorry," Braden stammered, his certainty fading. "I must be mistaken. I thought you were someone I'd met here in Palermo several years ago."
"No harm done, monsieur."
"Come on, Odette," one of the girl's friends called. "I want to see the virgins."
Braden stared down at little Francesca Provenza, realizing that long after he was dead she would still be sleeping peacefully in her glass-top coffin in the subterranean chamber beneath the Capuchin Convent. As he studied the small face, Braden felt someone come up behind him.
"If a man could work such a miracle on a dead child, imagine what he could do for a living one."
Braden turned and smiled at Odette.
"I would imagine he could create a woman of exceptional beauty and grace, a woman who will be eternally young and beautiful."
Odette's eyes misted with unshed tears.
"Goodbye, Braden," she said softly.
"Au revoir, mademoiselle."
Odette left to rejoin her young friends. She was no longer the beautiful Italian actress, but a free-spirited French teenager.
What will she be in another ten or twenty years? he wondered. Will she always be young and beautiful or will the serum eventually stop working its magic?
Braden turned to look at Raina. He loved her, and he hoped to spend the rest of his life with her, to grow old with her by his side. Would Daniella Moretti ever know such happiness, or would she keep coming back to the catacombs to pray by the side of a dead child with whom she shared a tragic bond?
As he took his wife's hand in his and exited the catacombs for the final time, Braden wondered if, before he died, Dr. Moretti had realized the mistake he'd made: that in preserving his daughter's life with his unique embalming fluid, he had bestowed upon her a curse rather than a blessing.
This story was inspired by the real-life story of Rosalia Lombardo, a two-year-old child whose preserved remains can be found in the Capuchin Catacombs in Palermo. Rosalia was embalmed and placed in a glass-top coffin in 1920. Her tiny corpse is in remarkably good condition after more than ninety years [see picture in upper left corner].
I once mummified Salem. Unfortunately (for him), he wasn't dead yet!
