I asked her what she meant.
‘It’s a popular saying in Königsberg.’ She laughed. ‘A man goes to Kneiphof to purchase a pledge for a person that he holds very dear. From the jewellery shops. Which signifies that he is about to be engaged. It means that he intends to marry, and eventually become a father.’
It is an old Prussian tradition. The matrimonial pledge is a setting of fine Baltic amber. My mother had an elaborate complet– necklace, pendant, earrings and bracelets–that my father gave her when he proposed. The amber gems were large, translucent, smooth, round. The gift was from a shop in Kneiphof. The tradesman’s name was impressed in the blue silk lining of the jewellery-case. But for the life of me, I could not remember it.
I had bought Helena a diamond ring when I proposed to her, instead. It came from the shop of a noted merchant in the city of Hamburg: three rose-cuts, one quite large, and two flanking smaller brilliants. Helena was overjoyed when I presented her with the box, though surprised when she opened it.
‘A clean break with outmoded tradition, Hanno,’ she said ironically, smiling as she slipped the ring onto the middle finger of her left hand.
We were married three months later.
I walked across the Kramerbrücke bridge to the leafy isle of Kniephof, which is the oldest part of Königsberg. The buildings there are made of crumbling wattle and timber for the most part. In that location, Leonard Euler posed his famous puzzle relating to the seven bridges which link the island to the city: could one cross them all in turn without crossing the same bridge twice?
I was thinking of a different problem as I stepped off the bridge.
The puzzle which tormented me was always the same: illegal amber, amber containing insects, the women who died transporting it, the person who had murdered them. Nordcopp, Nordbarn, Königsberg. How did all the pieces fit together?
I turned left on the cobbled quay, my mother’s amber treasure again in my thoughts.
What was the jeweller’s name?
The town across the water was a delightful vision, despite the damage to the castle caused the previous year by the French bombardment. And Kneiphof was a tranquil spot—few people about, though it was a warm, balmy evening. The sun was low and slanting, the river-bank was tree-lined, it was cool in the shade. The castle bells struck five, but I was reassured by that. Our shops rarely close before six or seven in the evening. Long shadows stretched out from the shops by the waterside.
They were jewellers’ shops. All of them.
I walked along the row, glancing in at the windows, looking up at the signs.
My thoughts returned to Nordcopp. Much of the amber in these shops had come from that shore. It was stained with the blood of Kati Rodendahl and Ilse Bruen. Tainted with the sights and the smells of the coast where they had worked. Behind each polished cabochon, I saw the mangled face of Hilde Bruckner, labouring over her grindstone. Each flash of light from those glistening amber jewels was like forked lightning striking the sea, reflecting the fear in the eyes of Edviga Lornerssen, who risked her life every time she prodded the pebbles with her stick, or reached too far with her heavy net. And deep inside those stones, at the very heart of them, lay the secret of the man who was butchering the women.
KLAUS FLUGGE & SON.
I halted.
That was the name inside my mother’s presentation case.
The shop was small, the window bowed, the mullions sagging out like tired knees. Honeycomb panes of glass, as round as wine-bottles, were grey with age. Two flickering candlesticks flanked a blue cloth. On this dark field, amber had been laid out on display. A double row of oval beads with a gold clasp, the centre piece carved as a cameo. Little wooden trees held earrings en girandole, dangling amber grapes. Before the war, the style was much in vogue. Helena possessed a beautiful pair made up of clustered amethysts and pearls. We had been obliged to trade them for a sack of flour and some pork chops not long after Jena.
No amethysts or pearls for Flugge & Son.
Every jewel in the window was amber, as if they cared for nothing else. The range of colours was vast: pale yellow, dark red, streaked orange, intense chocolate brown, and every shade in between. I peered more closely at the goods on display, looking for a fern, a leaf, some trace of animal or insect life. There was not one relic of the Garden of Eden in that window.
I pushed the narrow door, and a bell clinked.
Two ruffled heads bobbed behind the counter. One white, the other dark brown. Two men bent over a pewter tray containing beads of amber. They looked up as I closed the door. Left eyes pinched tight closed, their right eyes took stock of me by means of a metal tube like a miniature cannon. A tight metal band held these instruments of torture to their heads.
‘Am I disturbing you?’ I enquired.
Like a pair of showmen in the theatre, they simultaneously pushed these cannons onto their brows, and smiled in welcome. I might have been viewing two portraits of the same person made at a distance of a generation. Their faces were of a type, but vigour, colour and animation were absent from the face of the younger man. The old man’s hair was thick and wiry, dark as teak. Clear grey eyes peered keenly out of deep, dark sockets. Bushy eyebrows, a strong nose and large mouth denoted character, the ability to smile and encourage, or to issue a sharp rebuke. The son’s portrait was the pale ghost of his father’s, as if the artist had failed to assert what he intended to show.
‘Come in, sir. You are most welcome,’ the older man said.
They were dressed like matching funeral busts in a country chapel: a black blouse, a white collar that was stiff and high, white gloves on account of the precious material they were handling. And that strange optical headwear.
‘Herr Flugge?’ I asked. I smiled and added: ‘And son, of course.’
‘How may I help you, sir?’ the old man asked.
‘Amber, naturally,’ I said, pointing at the mound on the tray.
Those stones had been polished until they shone like rubies. I imagined them passing through the hands of Pastoris, being honed to a polish by his crippled girls. Now, they were about to be selected, modelled and set by the gloved hands of Herr Flugge and his son. Afterwards, they would go into the window, or be displayed on the shelves behind the counter, the value rarefied by the velvet pads and red morocco cases in which they would be sold. Then, a well-heeled man would come along, and the jewel would go to the lady who was waiting for it, the sweetheart to whom it had been promised, according to General Wagramberg’s wife.
Flugge Senior picked up the tray and rolled the amber beads around. ‘They were brought this morning,’ he said. ‘We’ve not seen such a crop in a long while. It has been an excellent season on the coast.’
‘Excellent,’ the son echoed, his glove moving in a slow sweep over the goods, an unhappy smile traced on his face.
‘Unforgettable,’ I added, thinking of the mutilated corpses that I had seen in Nordcopp, and the others I had read about in the reports which General Malaport had shown me.
‘My father came here many years ago,’ I said.
‘What is your father’s name, sir?’ the old man asked.
‘Stiffeniis,’ I replied. ‘Ignatius Stiffeniis . . .’
‘Of Ruisling,’ he said quickly. ‘I remember all my good customers. How is your good father, sir?’
‘Well enough,’ I lied, not mentioning that my father had died in 1804.
‘Father has an excellent memory,’ the young man said.
‘It must be almost forty years ago. I was working for my own father then,’ Herr Klaus continued. ‘Now, my son, Paulus, works for me. The wheel comes round for all of us, Herr Stiffeniis. Fathers and sons. Your father came here once. Now, you have come to Kneiphof looking for a pledge,’ the old jeweller said with a knowing smile.
‘Not exactly, sir,’ I said, thrusting my hand into my shoulder-bag.
I found the kerchief that I was looking for. With a flourish, I held up Kati Rodendahl’s amber in my thumb and f
orefinger, then set it down on the tray with the other beads, which seemed insignificant by comparison.
Klaus Flugge stretched out his hand, as if the creature imprisoned within the amber might still be able to sting him.
His son took a step back from the counter.
‘Have you seen anything like this before?’ I prompted, imitating the son’s sweeping gesture with my hand.
The elder Flugge’s stupor was evident. He flashed me a furious glance. His hand shot up and snapped his eye-piece into place. His head ducked down over the tray, where he froze for quite some time, peering deep into the heart of the transparent golden coffin in which that massive insect had been entombed for many centuries.
‘A splendid example,’ he murmured. ‘But what it is an example of?’
‘Who can say?’ I made a helpless shrug. ‘I know nothing of the genus, or the species. That is not what interests me. I . . .’
‘May I look?’ asked Paulus Flugge, who was a full-grown man, forty years old at the least. He bent and examined the creature through his eye-lens, shoulder to shoulder with his father, while I watched. I did not say a word. My questions could wait until they had made their examination.
Herr Flugge murmured something to his son, making a noise that might have been the buzzing of that wasp when it flew through the air an eternity ago. Paulus nodded, then whispered something back, something that I did not catch.
‘One question, sirs,’ I said, ‘then I’ll leave you to your work.’
Klaus Flugge raised his head, and fixed me with his viewing instrument.
‘A moment more, I pray you.’
Might their scrutiny bring forth some intelligence which would be of use to me?
I held my silence.
And yet, I thought, they ought to be bombarding me with questions. Had I found the amber on the coast? Purchased it? And if so, how much had it cost me? The law made plain that such a piece should be consigned to the State. That amber was contraband, and they certainly knew it. Unless I had inherited it, they could only assume that I had had it from a Frenchman, or from a Prussian smuggler.
Still, they made no objection.
They continued to exchange opinions in whispers. That is, the father talked, while the son nodded, reaching out for a stick of graphite, with which he began to make some marks on a sheet of paper. It seemed to me that the less the father spoke, the more furiously the son began to draw.
‘Gentlemen,’ I interrupted, attempting to explain my presence there.
Klaus Flugge held his finger up for silence, never shifting his eye from the paper on which his son was working. Some minutes passed, the graphite stopped moving. The two men looked at one another, then at the sketches, of which there were two. Then, they both stood up to face me.
The artist seemed drained by his efforts. The father’s eyes shone brighter than before. He lifted up the paper, and offered it for my inspection.
‘Here you are,’ he said with evident satisfaction. ‘This is the design that we propose, sir. You won’t find anyone along the row who’ll do it better. Such a startling creature requires a setting which is bold and daring. It has not survived the ravages of Time to be closed up in the dusty cabinet of some French museum. Or worse, to adorn the mantelpiece of some functionary in Paris.’ Klaus Flugge bridled, as if such a destiny were unthinkable. ‘You’d be shocked to know how many of our national treasures have been carried off.’ He let out a sigh, laid his gloved hand flat on his chest, and added: ‘Thank the Lord, this one is in good hands. I would not dare to ask you where you got it, sir. We consider it a privilege to behold such a marvellous piece of Baltic amber.’
If I showed surprise at the warmth of this reception, Herr Flugge betrayed no sign that he had noticed it.
‘These are traditional designs,’ he said, holding up the paper. ‘This one is very popular. We’ve done quite a few along these lines. Your specimen is larger, of course. But the other customers were highly satisfied. Paulus is a master of his trade. We call this model “The Prussian Eagle.” Set in gold, of course. Silver will not do. The reddish tint of the amber would overwhelm it. The nugget can be firmly fixed in place by the eagle’s breast feathers. And held—here and here–by the talons.’
He looked at me uncertainly.
‘You’d like to see the alternative? “The Hohenzollern Crown” is always dear to our hearts.’ His smile grew brighter as he described the effect. ‘Imagine the cushion–that’s the amber. Imagine the royal garland—purest gold—resting here upon the cushion. Oh, it will be stupendous. My son has really done it justice.’
Paulus Flugge glanced up, then modestly lowered his head.
‘Then again, sir,’ Klaus Flugge continued suavely, ‘we are here to serve you.’ He bowed, then added quickly: ‘Many gentlemen come with an idea already fully formed. We are happy to content them. We’ve seen some fine insertions recently, but this one is the finest of them all.’
Klaus Flugge seemed greatly pleased with himself and his son.
Most of all, he seemed bewitched by that polished carbuncle of amber.
‘This jewel will be a tangible symbol of our history,’ he went on lyrically. ‘Prussia, the Baltic Sea, the treasure which lies beneath it. Amber is the soul of Prussia. Nowadays, foreign hands have dared to desecrate this precious rarity.’
His Adam’s apple took a sudden dive inside his high, stiff collar.
‘If you desire it, sir,’ he rushed on, ‘a fraternal emblem might be implanted on the underside, two swivels—here and here—transforming it into a secret symbol of nationhood known only to the wearer. And to others of a like mind.’
A secret symbol known to others of the same persuasion . . .
Did rebels wear insertions to identify themselves? And did Herr Flugge serve such men? Had I discovered the secret path that smuggled amber took? Our own Prussian nationalists?
‘I am not here to commission a jewel,’ I admitted. ‘The woman who owned this amber was murdered. I am a magistrate, and I am investigating her death.’ I looked from the father to the son. Their eyes widened, their brows creased. Those shocked expressions made them seem more markedly alike than I had previously noticed. ‘I came to ask for information. That is all that interests me. I was wondering whether you had ever been employed to set such a jewel as this one. But you have answered me already.’
I picked up the amber nugget, and clasped it in my fist.
‘Do not be alarmed,’ I said. ‘I did not intend to trick you, sirs. Nor would I arrest two Prussian craftsmen for a misunderstanding. Yet, it is evident that you have had vast experience in handling amber containing creatures. This was found in Nordcopp . . .’
‘Nordcopp?’
Oddly, it was Paulus who spoke. If fright subdued his father, the same fear seemed to embolden him.
‘Two women have been murdered there,’ I explained.
‘Are you working for the Prussian authorities?’ he asked.
The incisiveness of his question surprised me.
‘They know that I am investigating the matter,’ I replied in the vaguest terms, afraid that greater honesty would inhibit them even more.
‘So, you are working for the French,’ the son concluded, as if he were a magistrate and had just read out a capital sentence. As he spoke, he gathered up the amber beads by the handful, carelessly dropping them into a glass jar like so many boiled sweets. Did he wish to save his precious stock from contamination with the piece that I had shown them?
‘Your father admitted that you have set a number of similar pieces,’ I pressed on. ‘Who brought them here? And where would someone obtain a piece like this one?’
Paulus Flugge turned aside.
‘That French officer, don’t you remember, father? That piece containing . . .’
‘An ant,’ the old man insisted. ‘A tiny, tiny ant. There wasn’t much to see, but he was delighted. Excentrique was the word he used.’ He tilted his head, and stared at me, frowning so hard that furrows
appeared on his brow.
‘We did the work,’ said Paulus, picking up the tale. ‘We knew that the decree had just been signed, of course. Even such a trifling piece should not have left the country, but what were we to do about it? Can a Prussian challenge a French officer’s right to do exactly as he pleases?’
‘Hardly,’ I agreed.
‘And now, here you are, Herr Magistrate, with your fine example. We will not be asked to break the law in this case. You want information. Information which we do not possess, unfortunately for you. What more have we to say to each other?’
He considered me to be a traitor, without a doubt. I could not change his opinion, but I would not let the opportunity slip.
‘But you said you have created other jewels of this type. Patriotic emblems, let us call them. How many have you made?’ I insisted. ‘Your father spoke of each piece being different . . .’
‘Setting amber is our trade,’ Klaus Flugge flared up in support of his son. ‘Every piece that we make is distinct and original. We pride ourselves on that fact. That is what I meant. Nothing more.’
‘You described amber as the “soul of Prussia,” and I quote you.’
‘All true Prussians think so,’ he replied disdainfully. ‘Unhappily, it is ours no more. You know that, sir, coming from Nordcopp. The French have made great changes, we have been told.’
I held up my hand to stop him.
‘Herr Flugge, I am interested only in the murdered girls. I don’t care what your business is. Amber of exceptional value is involved in the crimes. But look here,’ I pulled my album from my bag, and began to flick through the pages, searching for the rough sketch I had attempted to make of Kati Rodendahl without the mutilation. ‘Have you ever seen this face before?’ I asked, holding up the picture.
Her eyes were closed, her cheeks were hollow. I had not been able to disguise the fact that she was dead. And they knew it. They stared at the portrait, their magnifying lenses growing out of their brows like monstrous warts, but both men shook their heads when I insisted on an answer.
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