The centers of four panels were dotted with exquisite Florentine mosaics fashioned from polished jasper and agate and framed in gilded bronze. A ceiling mural was added, along with an intricate parquet floor of inlaid oak, maple, sandalwood, rosewood, walnut, and mahogany, itself as magnificent as the surrounding walls.
Five Königsberg masters labored until 1770, when the room was declared finished. Empress Elizabeth was so delighted that she routinely used the space to impress foreign ambassadors. It also served as a kunstkammer, a cabinet of curiosities for her and later Tsars, the place where royal treasures could be displayed. By 1765, seventy amber objects—chests, candlesticks, snuffboxes, saucers, knives, forks, crucifixes, and tabernacles—graced the room. In 1780, a corner table of encrusted amber was added. The last decoration came in 1913, an amber crown on a pillow, the piece purchased by Tsar Nicholas II.
Incredibly, the panels survived 170 years and the Bolshevik Revolution intact. Restorations were done in 1760, 1810, 1830, 1870, 1918, 1935, and 1938. An extensive restoration was planned in the 1940s, but on June 22, 1941, German troops invaded the Soviet Union. By July 14, Hitler’s army had taken Belarus, most of Latvia, Lithuania, and the Ukraine, reaching the Liga River less than a hundred miles from Leningrad. On September 17, Nazi troops took Tsarskoe Selo and the palaces in and around it, including the Catherine Palace, which had become a state museum under the Communists.
In the days before its capture, museum officials hastily shipped all the small objects in the Amber Room to eastern Russia. But the panels themselves had proved impossible to remove. In an effort to conceal them, a layer of wallpaper was slapped over, but the disguise fooled no one. Hitler ordered Erich Koch, gauleiter of East Prussia, to return the Amber Room to Königsberg, which, in Hitler’s mind, was where it rightly belonged. Six men took thirty-six hours to dismantle the panels, and twenty tons of amber was meticulously packed in crates and shipped west by truck convoy and rail, eventually reinstalled in the Königsberg castle, along with a vast collection of Prussian art. A 1942 German news article proclaimed the event a “return to its true home, the real place of origination and sole place of origination of the amber.” Picture postcards were issued of the restored treasure. The exhibit became the most popular of all Nazi museum spectacles.
The first Allied bombardment of Königsberg occurred in August 1944. Some of the mirrored pilasters and a few of the smaller amber panels were damaged. What happened after that was unclear. Sometime between January and April 1945, as the Soviet Army approached Königsberg, Koch ordered the panels crated and hidden in the cellar of the Blutgericht restaurant. The last German document that mentioned the Amber Room was dated January 12, 1945, and noted that the panels were being packed for transport to Saxony. At some point Alfred Rohde, the Room’s custodian, supervised the loading of crates onto a truck convoy. Those crates were last seen on April 6, 1945, when trucks left Königsberg.
Borya set the article aside.
Each time he read the words his mind always returned to the opening line. Suddenly, as rare things will, it vanished.
How true.
He took a moment and thumbed through the file spread across his lap. It contained copies of other articles he’d collected through the years. He casually glanced over a few, his memory triggered by more details. It was good to remember.
To a point.
He rose from the chaise longue and stepped from the patio to twist off the faucet. His summer garden glistened from a good soaking. He’d waited all day to water, hoping it might rain, but the spring so far had been dry. Lucy watched from the patio, perched upright, her feline eyes studying his every move. He knew she didn’t like the grass, particularly wet grass, finicky about her fur ever since achieving indoor status.
He grabbed the file folder. “Come, little kitty, inside.”
The cat followed him through the back door and into the kitchen. He tossed the folder on the counter next to his dinner, a bacon-wrapped fillet marinating in teriyaki. He was about to start boiling some corn when the doorbell rang.
He shuffled out of the kitchen and headed toward the front of the house. Lucy followed. He peered through the peephole at a man dressed in a dark business suit, white shirt, and striped tie. Probably another Jehovah’s Witness or Mormon. They often came by about this time, and he liked talking to them.
He opened the door.
“Karl Bates? Once known as Karol Borya?”
The question caught him off guard, and his eyes betrayed him with an affirmative response.
“I’m Christian Knoll,” the man said.
A faint German accent, which he instantly disliked, laced the words. A business card reiterating the name in raised black letters along with the label PROCURER OF LOST ANTIQUITIES was thrust forward but not offered. The address and phone number was Munich, Germany. He studied his visitor. Mid-forties, broad shouldered, wavy blond hair, sun-leathered skin tanned the color of cinnamon, and gray eyes that dominated an icy face—one that demanded attention.
“Why you want me, Mr. Knoll?”
“May I?” His visitor indicated a desire to come in, as he repocketed the card.
“Depends.”
“I want to talk about the Amber Room.”
He considered a protest but decided against it. He’d actually been expecting a visit for years.
Knoll followed him into the den. They both sat. Lucy skirted in to investigate, then took up a perch in an adjacent chair.
“You work for Russians?” he asked.
Knoll shook his head. “I could lie and say yes, but no. I’m employed by a private collector searching for the Amber Room. I recently learned of your name and address from Soviet records. It seems you once were on a similar quest.”
He nodded. “Long time ago.”
Knoll slipped a hand into his jacket and extracted three folded sheets. “I found these references in the Soviet records. They refer to you as `Yxo.”
He scanned the papers. Decades had passed since he’d last read Cyrillic. “It was my name in Mauthausen.”
“You were a prisoner?”
“For many months.” He rolled over his right arm and pointed to the tattoo. “10901. I try to remove, but can’t. German craftsmanship.”
Knoll motioned to the sheets. “What do you know of Danya Chapaev?”
He noted with interest Knoll’s ignoring of the ethnic jab. “Danya was my partner. We teamed till I leave.”
“How did you come to work for the Commission?”
He eyed his visitor, debating whether to answer. He hadn’t talked about that time in decades. Only Maya knew it all, the information dying with her twenty-five years ago. Rachel knew enough to understand and never forget. Should he talk about it? Why not? He was an old man on borrowed time. What did it matter anymore?
“After death camp I return to Belarus, but my homeland was gone. Germans like locust. My family was dead. Commission seemed good place to help rebuild.”
“I’ve studied the Commission closely. An interesting organization. The Nazis did their share of looting, but the Soviets far outmatched them. Soldiers seemed satisfied with mundane luxuries like bicycles and watches. Officers, though, sent boxcars and planeloads of artwork, porcelain, and jewelry back home. The Commission apparently was the largest looter of all. Millions of items, I believe.”
He shook his head in defiance. “Not looting. Germans destroy land, homes, factories, cities. Kill millions. Back then, Soviets think reparation.”
“And now?” Knoll seemed to have sensed his hesitancy.
“I agree. Looting. Communists worse than Nazis. Amazing how time opens eyes.”
Knoll was apparently pleased with the concession. “The Commission turned into a travesty, wouldn’t you say? It eventually helped Stalin send millions to gulags.”
“Which is why I leave.”
“Is Chapaev still alive?”
The question came quick. Unexpected. Surely designed to elicit an equally quick response. He
almost smiled. Knoll was good. “Have no idea. Not seen Danya since I leave. KGB came years back. Big smelly Chechen. I tell him same thing.”
“That was very bold, Mr. Bates. The KGB should not be taken so lightly.”
“Many years make me bold. What was he to do? Kill an old man? Those days are gone, Herr Knoll.”
His shift from Mr. to Herr was intentional but, again, Knoll did not react. Instead, the German changed the subject.
“I’ve interviewed a lot of the former searchers. Telegin. Zernov. Voloshin. I never could find Chapaev. I didn’t even know about you until last Monday.”
“Others not mention me?”
“If they had, I would have come sooner.”
Which was not surprising. Like him, they’d all been taught the value of a tight lip.
“I know the Commission’s history,” Knoll said. “It hired searchers to scour Germany and eastern Europe for art. A race against the army for the right to pillage. But it was quite successful and managed to get the Trojan gold, the Pergamum Altar, Raphael’s Sistine Madonna, and the entire Dresden Museum collection, I believe.”
He nodded. “Many, many things.”
“As I understand, only now are some of those objects seeing the light of day. Most have been secreted away in castles or locked in rooms for decades.”
“I read stories. Glasnost.” He decided to get to the point. “You think I know where Amber Room is?”
“No. Otherwise you would have already found it.”
“Maybe better stay lost.”
Knoll shook his head. “Someone with your background, a lover of fine art, surely would not want such a masterpiece destroyed by time and elements.”
“Amber last forever.”
“But the form into which it is crafted does not. Eighteenth-century mastics could not be that effective.”
“You are right. Those panels found today would be like jigsaw puzzle from box.”
“My employer is willing to fund the reassembling of that puzzle.”
“Who is employer?”
His visitor grinned. “I cannot say. That person prefers anonymity. As you well know, the world of collecting can be a treacherous place for the known.”
“They seek a grand prize. Amber Room not seen in over fifty years.”
“But imagine, Herr Bates, excuse me, Mr. Bates—”
“It’s Borya.”
“Very well. Mr. Borya. Imagine the room restored to its former glory. What a sight that would be. As of now, only a few color photographs exist, along with some black and whites that certainly do no justice to its beauty.”
“I saw those pictures when searching. I also saw room before war. Truly magnificent. No photo could ever capture. Sad, but it seems lost forever.”
“My employer refuses to believe that.”
“Evidence good that panels were destroyed when Königsberg was carpet bombed in 1944. Some think they rest at bottom of Baltic. I investigate Wilhelm Gustloff myself. Ninety-five hundred dead when Soviets send ship to bottom. Some say Amber Room in cargo hold. Moved from Königsberg by truck to Danzig, then loaded for trip to Hamburg.”
Knoll shifted in the chair. “I, too, looked into the Gustloff. The evidence is contradictory, at best. Frankly, the most credible story I researched was that the panels were shipped out of Königsberg by the Nazis to a mine near Göttingen along with ammunition. When the British occupied the area in 1945, they exploded the mine. But, as with all other versions, ambiguities exist.”
“Some even swore Americans find and ship across Atlantic.”
“I heard that, too. Along with a version proposing the Soviets actually found and stored the panels somewhere unbeknownst to anyone now in power. Given the sheer volume of what was looted, that is entirely possible. But given the value and desire for the return of this treasure, not probable.”
His visitor seemed to know the subject well. He’d reread all those theories earlier. He stared hard at the granite face, but blank eyes betrayed nothing of what the German was thinking. He recalled the practice it took to so inconspicuously post such a barrier. “Have you no concern for the curse?”
Knoll grinned. “I’ve heard of it. But such things are for the uninformed or the sensationalist.”
“How rude I have been,” he suddenly said. “You want a drink?”
“That would be nice,” Knoll said.
“I be right back.” He motioned to the cat sacked out on the couch. “Lucy will keep you company.”
He stepped toward the kitchen and gave his visitor one last glance before pushing through the swinging door. He filled two glasses with ice and poured some tea. He also deposited the still marinating fillet in the refrigerator. He actually wasn’t hungry anymore, his mind racing, like in the old days. He glanced down at the file folder with articles still lying on the counter.
“Mr. Borya?” Knoll called out.
The voice was accompanied by footsteps. Perhaps it was better the articles not be seen. He quickly yanked open the freezer and slid the folder onto the top rack next to the ice maker. He slammed the door shut just as Knoll pushed through the swinging door and into the kitchen. “Yes, Herr Knoll?”
“Might I use your rest room?”
“Down hall. Off the den.”
“Thank you.”
He didn’t believe for a moment that Knoll needed to use the bathroom. More likely he needed to change a tape in a pocket recorder without the worry of interruption, or use the pretense as an opportunity to look around. It was a trick he’d utilized many times in the old days. The German was becoming annoying. He decided to have a little fun. From the cabinet beside the sink he retrieved the laxative his aging intestines forced him to take at least a couple of times a week. He trickled the tasteless granules into one of the tea glasses and stirred them in. Now the bastard really would need a bathroom.
He brought the chilled glasses into the den. Knoll returned and accepted the tea, downing several long swallows.
“Excellent,” Knoll said. “Truly an American beverage. Iced tea.”
“We proud of it.”
“We? You consider yourself American?”
“Here many years. My home now.”
“Is not Belarus independent again?”
“Leaders there no better than Soviets. Suspend constitution. Mere dictators.”
“Did not the people give the Belarussian president that latitude?”
“Belarus is more like province of Russia, not true independence. Slavery takes centuries to shed.”
“You do not seem to care for Germans or Communists.”
He was tiring of the conversation, remembering how much he hated Germans. “Sixteen months in death camp can change your heart.”
Knoll finished the tea. The ice cubes jangled as the glass banged the coffee table.
He went on, “The Germans and Communists rape Belarus and Russia. Nazis used Catherine Palace as barracks, then for target practice. I visit after war. Little left of regal beauty. Did not the Germans try and destroy Russian culture? Bombed palaces to rubble to teach us a lesson.”
“I am not a Nazi, Mr. Borya, so I cannot answer your question.”
A moment of strained silence passed. Then Knoll asked, “Why don’t we quit sparring. Did you find the Amber Room?”
“As I said, room lost forever.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
He shrugged. “I’m old man. Soon I die. No reason to lie.”
“Somehow I doubt that last observation, Mr. Borya.”
He grabbed Knoll’s gaze with his own. “I tell you story—maybe it help with your search. Months before Mauthausen fell, Göring came to camp. He forced me to help torture four Germans. Göring had them tied naked to stakes in freezing cold. We poured water over them till dead.”
“And the purpose?”
“Göring wanted das Bernstein-zimmer. The four men were some who evacuate amber panels from Königsberg before Russians invade. Göring wanted Amber Room, but Hitl
er got it first.”
“Any of the soldiers reveal information?”
“Nothing. Just yell ’Mein Führer’ until freeze to death. I still see their frozen faces in my dreams sometimes. Strange, Herr Knoll, in a sense I owe my life to a German.”
“How so?”
“If one of four talk, Göring would have tied me to stake and kill same way.” He was tired of remembering. He wanted the bastard out of his house before the laxative took effect. “I hate Germans, Herr Knoll. I hate Communists. I told KGB nothing. I tell you nothing. Now, go.”
Knoll seemed to sense that further inquiry would be fruitless, and he stood. “Very well, Mr. Borya. Let it not be said I pressed. I will bid you a good night.”
They walked to the foyer, and he opened the front door. Knoll stepped outside, turned, and extended his hand to shake. A casual gesture, seemingly more out of politeness than duty.
“A pleasure, Mr. Borya.”
He thought again about the German soldier, Mathias, as he’d stood naked in the freezing cold, and how he’d responded to Göring.
He spat on the outstretched palm.
Knoll said nothing, nor did he move for a few seconds. Then, calmly, the German slipped a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped the spittle away as the door slammed in his face.
FOURTEEN
9:35 p.m.