Florian's Gate

by T. Davis Bunn

  “You’ve got to be joking.”

  “At least they have a bathroom for each family,” Katya said. “And indoor plumbing. And running water in the kitchens. Most of the time, anyway.”

  Farther along, the road leading to the city center was lined on one side by the Russian military compound and on the other with the dilapidated Russian officers’ apartments. Both were encased within concrete walls and razor-wire and metal gates topped with bright red stars. The stars were the only recently painted item along the entire mile-long stretch.

  They parked their car at the outskirts of the city’s old section and walked, soon coming upon a vast eight-story palace—the former residence, according to Katya, of the Dukes of Mecklenburg. The castle dominated an island situated in one of the city’s lakes. The island was connected to the city proper by a narrow bridge, its surface paved with cobblestones and its sides decorated with ancient sculptures and gas-lit lamps. Everything, from the street to the carvings to the palace itself, suffered from a severe case of neglect.

  The city was no different. All but the main streets were laid in uneven cobblestones. All but the tourist areas were lined with buildings buried under decades of soot. Ornate facades protruded at odd intervals from beneath layers of filth.

  The antique store stood on the central square. According to a small card taped to the door, it was owned by the central East German Ministry for Art, Subsection for Paintings and Antiques. A fly-blown sign tilted against the front window announced that it was closed, and from the looks of the dust blanketing every surface, Jeffrey could see through the window it had been for some time.

  He stepped back from the window and scanned the square and connecting streets. The shop was a couple of businesses removed from what appeared to be the newest and gaudiest store in town; flashing lights surrounded a sign announcing that it sold pornography. A line of customers waited patiently by the door, gawking at the relatively conservative display in the windows.

  Many of the stores were undergoing radical innovation, with bright new displays gracing the windows of tired gray buildings. Katya followed his eyes. “Under socialism,” she said, “ all the shops had names given to them by the department that ran their section. They were all generic names, like grocery, watch repair, and so on. These buildings you see around here, the old ones with the sort of shadow writing above the store, are all left over from before the war. They probably haven’t been painted in forty years, since they were all nationalized and placed under central control.”

  Jeffrey nodded distractedly, then pressed his face to the antique shop’s window and spent several minutes carefully scanning the room.

  Katya watched his expression, asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “Something doesn’t add up,” he said, using his hands to shade his eyes from the sun’s reflection. “I can see almost the whole shop.”

  “So?”

  “There’s nothing in there that I would even think of having in our shop. It’s all second-rate stuff. Worse. Some of it’s barely above junk. Not even antiques at all, just used furniture.”

  Katya moved up closer. “It stands to reason that a shop like this would hold its best pieces and send them out where they can get better prices. And Western currency.”

  But Jeffrey wasn’t satisfied. “This is a state-run store. The guy who spoke to Alexander had all sorts of documents saying it was official state business. Nowadays they could get Western currency selling goods directly from the store, couldn’t they? I mean, they’re using the German mark here now. So why isn’t there at least one piece like the stuff he sent us? It’s a completely different collection. Worlds away.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  He turned away. “I don’t know. It doesn’t add up, that’s all. Come on, let’s go meet the lawyer.”

  * * *

  The Café Prague was a recently remodeled little gem across the street from one of the central ministries. The ceilings were thirty-five feet high and supported by a series of pillars. The upper windows were arched and set with lead-lined stained glass; the lower windows were broad and high and cast a lovely light through the interior.

  They had been at their table only a few minutes when a bird-like woman came up, inspected them with sharp nervous eyes, then leaned over and said something in German.

  “She wants to know if we are the ones from London,” Katya said.

  “Yes,” Jeffrey replied, standing and extending his hand. “Nice to—”

  The woman seated herself and spoke again in the same abrupt manner.

  “She wants to know if she can trust us.”

  Jeffrey lowered his hand and sat down. “She should have already decided that before asking us to come all the way here.”

  “I can’t tell her that. And you behave.”

  “If she can be rude, why can’t I?” Jeffrey turned to the woman. “Yes.”

  “Good,” the woman replied in English. She extended her hand. “Frau Renate Reining. Excuse. Few words English only. Russian, yes. German, yes. Czech, some. You speak Russian?”

  “No.”

  “No. Nobody speak Russian. A new world. People speak Russian last year. This year, all forget. World change.”

  The lawyer was a tired dark-haired woman in her middle forties who clearly gave little concern to her appearance. Her fingernails were chewed to the quick, her gestures nervous and as abrupt as her words. She wore a pair of dusty double-knit pants, an unironed white shirt, and an open sweater with two of the buttons hanging by raveled threads.

  She stood and motioned for them to follow her. “You come.”

  She led them out of the cafe and around the corner to a door whose stone and mortar frame was decorated with half a dozen brass plaques announcing various professional offices. They climbed five flights of circular wooden stairs that bowed and creaked with their passage. The center of each step was worn to a cavity of bare splintered wood.

  On the fifth floor, they walked down a long dusty-smelling hall on a strip of moth-eaten carpet. Bare ceiling bulbs illuminated flaking paint and warped wood. Frau Reining produced a set of massive pre-war skeleton keys and opened a door with a cracked plastic sign announcing the law offices of three partners.

  The office was one room crowded to absurdity with three desks, a kitchen table for conferences, and floor-to-ceiling wall cabinets. She waved them toward the table, shrugged off her sweater, and spoke to Katya.

  “She says this costs nine hundred dollars a month now. Before the Wall came down it cost eighteen. It’s all they can afford.”

  “It’s, well, functional,” Jeffrey replied.

  “Sit, sit,” Frau Reining said. “Business.”

  “Business,” Jeffrey agreed, seating himself in an unyielding wood-and-metal chair.

  The lawyer lit an unfiltered cigarette, leaned back in her chair, and began speaking rapid-fire German in a low drone. She smoked as she talked, the words rolling out in a cloud of smoke. The longer she talked, the larger grew Katya’s eyes, the more pallid her complexion.

  “What’s she saying?” Jeffrey demanded, alarmed by her expression.

  Katya replied with a single upraised finger. Wait.

  “Minute,” the woman said. “One minute still.” She continued on in German, stopped, and gave Katya a hard-eyed inspection.

  “Well?”

  Slowly Katya turned his way. “Something’s gone horribly wrong.”

  “With the furniture?”

  “Not exactly.” Katya brushed distractedly at the hair on her forehead. Her hand trembled slightly. Jeffrey shot a glance at the lawyer. For some reason Katya’s reaction seemed to please her.

  He leaned forward. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “The antique store director has been arrested.”

  The discomfort he had felt on the street before the closed shop solidified, became reality. “Tell me,” he repeated.

  “They arrested his assistant too. She’s agreed to give evidence in return for
a lighter sentence—I forget what it’s called.”

  “Plea bargaining.”

  “Yes.” Katya’s eyes had a lost look. “According to the assistant, the dealer came to you—Alexander, I mean. They came to him because they heard he was honest. The dealer they used before knew what they were doing and started raising his commissions.”

  “What they were doing was illegal,” Jeffrey said. It was not a question.

  “Illegal,” the lawyer agreed, nodding her head vigorously. “Everything illegal. That man breathes, it is done illegal.”

  “Frau Reining represents some of the lawful owners of the furniture. About forty. In one . . . I can’t think of the word—”

  “Consolidated claims,” Jeffrey suggested.

  “Yes. Thank you.” Katya took a breath. “She says most of them are out of prison now.”

  “Prison,” Jeffrey repeated.

  Katya nodded. “Those they can find. Some have disappeared. She’s representing their families.”

  “Poof,” the lawyer said, blowing her fingertips open. “Dust in wind. Story of Communist life.”

  “Jeffrey, they were finding people with antiques and just putting the owners away.” Katya’s expression mirrored the pain in her voice. “Stealing all they had, forcing them to sign documents saying they were sold for money the people never received. If they complained they were just locked up. No trial, no rights, no word to their families. Nothing.”

  “I don’t understand,” Jeffrey said, struggling to hold on. “The antique dealer was doing this?”

  “Stasi,” the lawyer corrected. “Secret police.”

  “He was a front,” Katya said. “There were people involved right up through the Party hierarchy. They don’t even know how high it went.”

  “High,” Frau Reining confirmed. “This much money, maybe top.”

  “It was millions, Jeffrey. Millions. They still don’t know how much, or how many people were hurt. Frau Reining says all but two of her clients were imprisoned, some with their families, even little children. Some were tortured.” Katya pleaded with him. “Why did this happen? How could they do this to people just for pieces of furniture?”

  “Not furniture,” the lawyer interrupted. “Money. Much money. In East, before Wall, one dollar like one hundred dollars in West. People do much for millions here. Anything.”

  Alexander didn’t know anything about this, Jeffrey kept repeating to himself. For the old man to be caught up in something like this went against everything he stood for. Still, the niggling doubt remained; had he been sent over in Alexander’s place to sniff the wind? Had the story of his sister been a lie?

  “Jeffrey?” Katya asked softly.

  “I—” He felt the lawyer’s eyes on him. “Tell her I’m sorry. We didn’t know. Nothing.” His words sounded feeble in his ears. “All the documents, everything, it was all correct.”

  The lawyer searched his face, then nodded abruptly and reached forward to grind out her cigarette. “I believe.”

  “Alexander even called Berlin to verify.” The whispers of doubt laced painfully across his mind. It couldn’t be. Alexander wasn’t involved. Jeffrey shook his head to clear the fears away.

  The lawyer misunderstood his gesture. “No. Means nothing. Documents all correct, but all false. Correct for law, false for man. Old Communist story. Big lie.”

  She started rushing through another flood of German. Katya nodded in time to the words, then turned to Jeffrey and said, “Frau Reining says that she believes you knew nothing about all this. You and Alexander. The dealer’s assistant was very clear. She says you mustn’t blame yourself.

  “She has studied the law,” Katya went on. “There is no redress permitted them, since the export documents and the sales were all done legally, and were done in another country. She will give you a notarized letter to that effect. But she would like to know if you can give them an idea of how many pieces you handled.”

  “Alexander said something like thirty, I don’t know the exact number.”

  “She would like to know if you can give them either a picture or a description of the pieces you sold. It would help a lot in the court cases.”

  “We photograph every piece we sell,” Jeffrey replied. His voice sounded dead in his ears.

  The lawyer smiled for the first time, showing crooked and yellowed teeth. “She says that is excellent,” Katya translated. “Could they please have copies?”

  “I’ll ask. I think so.”

  “She wants to know if any are still unsold.”

  “A few. Not many.”

  “She doesn’t think the people will want them back.” Katya’s voice gave a slight tremble. She cleared it, went on. “She says they would probably be too much of a reminder of things they will want to forget. If Alexander could send pictures of them also, she will try to track down the owner and see what they say.”

  Katya surveyed him with wounded eyes. “This is horrible, Jeffrey.”

  “A nightmare.” He had difficulty bringing his thoughts together. “Tell her I’m not sure how long we can keep pieces that aren’t for sale. Our shop is really small. We can put them in storage, though.”

  “She understands. She’ll come back within the week with instructions. Is that okay?”

  He nodded. What would Alexander say? He pushed himself to his feet. “I have to call Alexander.” His body weighed a ton.

  “We meet tomorrow,” the lawyer said. “Have more talk.” She turned to Katya, fired off a rapid flow of words.

  Katya translated. “There are a couple of important things she wants to discuss with you. Alexander explained the time limitation to her in their conversation. But she really has to speak with you again tomorrow early.” Katya looked at him. “Are you all right?”

  “Not really.”

  The lawyer went to her desk and started rummaging in a drawer, talking all the while. Katya said, “She has something she wants to give us. She was invited to a piano concert at the castle tonight. She has to meet with a client and can’t go. She wants to know if we would like the tickets.”

  Jeffrey struggled to focus his thoughts. “I don’t know.”

  Katya’s expression held concern for him. “Maybe it would be a good idea, Jeffrey.”

  “Yes. All right.” To the lawyer he said, “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

  She nodded in her short, sharp way and handed over the tickets. “No blame,” she said.

  CHAPTER 9

  The telephone line hissed and popped as though Jeffrey were speaking with darkest Africa. “I have some bad news and some incredibly worse news. Which do you want first?”

  “A trip of extremes, I take it.” Alexander paused, asked, “Is the very bad truly so earth-shaking?”

  “Worse. What’s stronger than awful?” Jeffrey spoke from within the hotel manager’s office, where he had been permitted to pull their phone after Katya had pleaded with her for almost twenty minutes.

  “I’m sure I don’t know. Perhaps you’d best ease me into it before plummeting over the cliff.”

  “The dealer Götz has been arrested.” Jeffrey worked at keeping his voice level. “We are not implicated in any way, however. In fact, it appears from his assistant’s testimony that he came to you specifically because we have a name for honesty.”

  “So our integrity remains intact. Good. That is very good. I am sorry to hear about Götz, but I cannot say that I am all that surprised. Tell me the details.”

  “That’s part of the plummet.”

  “I see.” The voice turned brisk. “Very well, Jeffrey. You may now deliver the blow.”

  Jeffrey told him the story in its entirety, from finding the shop closed to what the lawyer said. When he finished he sat listening to the line hiss and sputter, his heart hammering a frantic beat.

  “Alexander?”

  The line emitted a hoarse groan. “Blood money.”

  “Alexander, are you all right?”

  “I’ve dealt in blood mone
y.” The man sounded totally spent, broken in body and spirit.

  Jeffrey felt a flood of relief sweep away every last vestige of doubt. “She knows we were not aware of what we dealt in,” he said, sinking into a nearby chair, his body trembling slightly. “She’s giving us a notarized letter tomorrow saying that her clients will not seek reparations. She asks if we would be willing to give her photographs of the pieces we handled from Götz, and store the unsold pieces until she identifies the rightful owners and learns what they want to have done with them.”

  Jeffrey waited, strained, heard what sounded like a series of low moans in the distant hissing background. “Alexander? Do you mind us giving her copies of our pictures?”

  “Do what you think best.” The voice was so feeble as to be almost inaudible over the constant crackling.

  “I’m sure she’ll wait until I’m back, then if you’ll tell me which ones, I’ll make the duplicates and mail—”

  “Give it back to her,” Alexander said, his voice low.

  “What? Give back the unsold antiques? She doesn’t want—”

  “The money. Give it back. All of it. Tell her she can have every cent.”

  “The eight hundred thousand pounds?”

  “More. She is to have all the interest and my commissions as well. I refuse to taint myself by living from blood money.”

  Jeffrey’s heart surged with pride and affection for the old gentleman. “What about setting up a fund to help all those who have suffered, maybe to help with legal costs or something?”

  “Do what you think best. I’m sorry. I . . . I must go. We will speak at the airport tomorrow. I . . . Do what you think—”

  The line went dead.

  * * *

  When he appeared on the veranda, he found Katya sitting in the far corner, reading intently from a small book in her lap. He walked forward and looked over her shoulder. It was a New Testament. She raised her head at the sight of his shadow, studied him intently.

  “You’re feeling better,” she decided.