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 Konigsberg, 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 Konigsberg 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 Konigsberg 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 Konigsberg, 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 Konigsberg.
Borya set the article aside.
Each time he read the words his mind always returned to the opening line.
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 `
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
'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
