the Amber Room

He excused himself and disappeared among metal shelves brimming with rotting cardboard boxes, the stale air heavily scented with dust and mildew. He knew a variety of records surrounded him, many an overflow from the nearby Hermitage, most from a fire years ago in the local Academy of Sciences. He remembered the incident well. 'The Chernobyl of our culture,' the Soviet press labeled the event. But he'd wondered how unintentional the disaster may have been. Things always had a convenient tendency of disappearing at just the right moment in the USSR, and the reformed Russia was hardly any better.

He perused the shelves, trying to recall where he left off last time. It could take years to finish a thorough review of everything. But he remembered two boxes in particular. He'd run out of time on his last visit before getting to them, the depository having closed early for International Women's Day.

He found the boxes and slid both off the shelf, placing them on one of the bare wooden tables. About a meter square, each box was heavy, maybe twenty-five or thirty kilograms. The clerk still sat toward the front of the depository. He realized it wouldn't be long before the impertinent fool sauntered back and made a note of his latest interest.

The label on top of both boxes read in Cyrillic, EXTRAORDINARY STATE COMMISSION ON THE REGISTRATION AND INVESTIGATION OF THE CRIMES OF THE GERMAN-FASCIST OCCUPIERS AND THEIR ACCOMPLICES AND THE DAMAGE DONE BY THEM TO THE CITIZENS, COLLECTIVE FARMS, PUBLIC ORGANIZATIONS, STATE ENTERPRISES, AND INSTITUTIONS OF THE UNION OF SOVIET SOCIALIST REPUBLIC.

He knew the Commission well. Created in 1942 to resolve problems associated with the Nazi occupation, it eventually did everything from investigating concentration camps liberated by the Red Army to valuing art treasures looted from Soviet museums. By 1945 the commission evolved into the primary sender of thousands of prisoners and supposed traitors to the gulags. It was one of Stalin's concoctions, a way to maintain control, and eventually employed thousands, including field investigators who searched western Europe, northern Africa, and South America for art pillaged by the Germans.

He settled down into a metal chair and started sifting page by page through the first box. The going was slow, thanks to the volume and the heavy Russian and Cyrillic diatribes. Overall, the box was a disappointment, mostly summary reports of various Commission investigations. Two long hours passed and he found nothing of interest. He started on the second box, which contained more summary reports. Toward the middle, he came to a stack of field reports from investigators. Acquisitors, like himself. But paid by Stalin, working exclusively for the Soviet government.

He scanned the reports one by one.

Many were unimportant narratives of failed searches and disappointing trips. There were some successes, though, the recoveries noted in glowing language. Degas's Place de la Concorde. Gauguin's Two Sisters. Van Gogh's last painting, The White House at Night. He even recognized the investigators' names. Sergei Telegin. Boris Zernov. Pyotr Sabsal. Maxim Voloshin. He'd read other field reports filed by them in other depositories. The box contained a hundred or so reports, all surely forgotten, of little use today except to the few who still searched.

Another hour passed, during which the clerk wandered back three times on the pretense of helping. He'd declined each offer, anxious for the irritating little man to mind his own business. Near five o'clock he found a note to Nikolai Shvernik, the merciless Stalin loyalist who had headed the Extraordinary Commission. But this memo was unlike the others. It was not sealed on official Commission stationery. Instead, it was handwritten and personal, dated November 26, 1946, the black ink on onionskin nearly gone:

Comrade Shvernik,

I hope this message finds you in good health. I visited Donnersberg but could not locate any of the Goethe manuscripts thought there. Inquiries, discreet of course, revealed previous Soviet investigators may have removed the items in November 1945. Suggest a recheck of Zagorsk inventories. I met with `Yxo yesterday. He reports activity by Loring. Your suspicions seem correct. The Harz mines were visited repeatedly by various work crews, but no local workers were employed. All persons were transported in and out by Loring. Yantarnaya komnata may have been found and removed. It is impossible to say at this time. `Yxo is following additional leads in Bohemia and will report directly to you within the week.

Danya Chapaev

Clipped to the tissue sheet were two newer sheets of paper, both photocopies. They were KGB information memos dated March, seven years ago. Strange they were there, he thought, tucked indiscriminately among fifty- plus-year-old originals. He read the first note typed in Cyrillic:

`Yxo is confirmed to be Karol Borya, once employed by Commission, 1946-1958. Immigrated to United States, 1958, with permission of then-government. Named changed to Karl Bates. Current address: 959 Stokeswood Avenue. Atlanta, Georgia (Fulton County), USA. Contact made. Denies any information on yantarnaya komnata subsequent to 1958. Have been unable to locate Danya Chapaev. Borya claimed no knowledge of Chapaev's whereabouts. Request additional instructions on how to proceed.

Danya Chapaev was a name he recognized. He'd looked for the old Russian five years ago but had been unable to find him, the only one of the surviving searchers he hadn't interviewed. Now there may be another. Karol Borya, aka Karl Bates. Strange, the nickname. The Russians seemed to delight in code words. Was it affection or security? Hard to tell. References like Wolf, Black Bear, Eagle, and Sharp Eyes he'd seen. But `Yxo? 'Ears.' That was unique.

He flipped to the second sheet, another KGB memo typed in Cyrillic that contained more information on Karol Borya. The man would now be eighty-one years old. A jeweler by trade, retired. His wife died a quarter century back. He had a daughter, married, who lived in Atlanta, Georgia, and two grandchildren. Six-year-old information, granted. But still more than he possessed on Karol Borya.

He glanced again at the 1946 document. Particularly the reference to Loring. It was the second time he'd seen that name among reports. Couldn't be Ernst Loring. Too young. More likely the father, Josef. The conclusion was becoming more and more inescapable that the Loring family had long been on the trail, as well. Maybe the trip to St. Petersburg had been worth the trouble. Two direct references to yantarnaya komnata, rare for Soviet documents, and some new information.

A new lead.

Ears.

'Will you be through soon?'

He looked up. The clerk stared down at him. He wondered how long the bastard had been standing there.

'It's after five,' the man said.

'I didn't realize. I will be finished shortly.'

The clerk's gaze roamed across the page in his hand, trying to steal a look. He nonchalantly tabled the sheet. The man seemed to get the message and headed back to his desk.

He lifted the papers.

Interesting the KGB had been searching for two former-Extraordinary Commission members as late as a few years ago. He'd thought the search for yantarnaya komnata ended in the mid-1970s. That was the official account, anyway. He'd encountered only a few isolated references dated to the eighties. Nothing of recent vintage, until today. The Russians don't give up, he'd give them that. But considering the prize, he could understand. He didn't give up either. He'd tracked leads the past eight years. Interviewed old men with failing memories and tight tongues. Boris Zernov. Pyotr Sabsal. Maxim Voloshin. Searchers, like himself, all looking for the same thing. But none knew anything. Maybe Karol Borya would be different. Maybe he knew where Danya Chapaev was. He hoped both men were still alive. It was certainly worth a flight to the United States to find out. He'd been to Atlanta once. During the Olympics. Hot and humid, but impressive.

He glanced around for the clerk. The impish man stood on the other side of the cluttered shelves, busily replacing files. Quickly, he folded the three sheets and pocketed them. He had no intention of leaving anything for another inquisitive mind to find. He replaced the two boxes on the shelf and headed for the exit. The clerk was waiting with the door open.

'Dobriy den,' he told the clerk.

'Good day to you.'