The Amber Room

by T. Davis Bunn

  “All very boring.”

  “Stimulation of individual tastes ranked low on the list of Communist priorities,” Gregor said, opening the restaurant door and ushering them inside.

  A swift glance assured him that Rokovski had not yet arrived. Jeffrey followed the others to a table by the window, inspected the plastic-bound menu, listened as Katya passed his order to an attentive waiter, then turned and gave in to the pleasure of people-watching.

  Food arrived at the next table over, and all conversation halted as if a switch had been thrown. The intensity with which the people ate was something he rarely observed in the West.

  Katya saw what had caught his attention. “You never see people picking politely at their food here,” she told him quietly. “If they do, they are foreigners. A Pole has been hungry too often to play at eating. If food is put in front of him, he eats.”

  A newcomer waddled in and took the table across from them. The man wore his triple chins with a nervous air. He was too small to be called fat, yet every inch of his little frame was padded to the point of absurdity. He was all bone, fat, and skin, from the looks of it, with no muscle at all. His flesh shivered with every step. Everything about the man was gray—gray suit, gray and white striped shirt buttoned to a neck that folded over and swallowed his collar, gray shoes, gray eyes, gray pallor to his skin. His lips were buried in a tight little grimace that brought his chin almost into contact with his pudgy little nose.

  Jeffrey leaned toward Katya, asked, “How do people allow themselves to get that way?”

  She responded like a mother teaching a child something that he could not have yet learned, but should know. “Maybe because he’s lazy. Maybe because he hasn’t had any choice. You don’t find many sports centers in Poland. These are not an exercising people. Either you are a professional athlete or you maybe play a little soccer on vacations, or you do nothing. Maybe it’s because life requires so much hard work of them. Maybe food was so hard to find when they were young that it would have been foolish to use up more calories than necessary. Or maybe they have never been taught to think that, after a certain stage in life, personal appearance is still important.”

  Jeffrey spotted Rokovski entering the restaurant and rose to greet him. The others stood with him.

  “My dear Jeffrey,” Rokovski walked over with hand outstretched. “How wonderful to see you. I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

  “Not at all. You remember my fiancée, Katya Nichols.”

  “But of course.” He bowed over her hand and continued. “Alexander informed me of your betrothal during his last trip. May I add my own congratulations and best wishes.”

  “Thank you. And this is Alexander’s cousin, Gregor Kantor. Dr. Pavel Rokovski.”

  “It is indeed an honor to meet Alexander’s illustrious cousin,” Rokovski said formally.

  Jeffrey showed surprise. “You know of him?”

  “There are not so many who have forsaken the chance for both wealth and position to aid the needy that they would go unnoticed,” Rokovski replied, holding fast to Gregor’s hand, “or their name remain unspoken in the highest of circles.”

  “You do me great honor,” Gregor murmured.

  “On the contrary,” Rokovski said, “it is you who do honor to both your name and our nation.”

  As they resumed their places the waiter appeared. Jeffrey asked, “Would you join us for lunch?”

  “Thank you, perhaps a bite of something.” He waved away the menu, spoke briefly, then turned back to the table. “You have heard from them?”

  “Nothing.”

  “So we are to wait, then.” He did not seem troubled. “A small price to pay for the return of such a treasure.”

  “We don’t know that for sure,” Jeffrey warned.

  “Our dear Alexander took the greatest of pains to explain the situation,” Rokovski assured him. “Several times now, in fact. I am well aware of the unknown factors, but I must say I agree with him that there is at least a shred of hope. To make such an offer of evidence without payment in return suggests that they are indeed serious.”

  “You haven’t met them,” Jeffrey muttered.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Jeffrey is not overly impressed with them,” Katya explained.

  “Ah, yes, Alexander mentioned that as well. I find it good to have reservations when entering into such affairs,” Rokovski replied easily. “Although my enthusiasm runs away with me from time to time, I must confess. So it is good to know that someone else will remain my anchor, should that be the case here.”

  Over lunch the dreaded subject arose. “I don’t suppose you have any word of the chalice?”

  Jeffrey shook his head miserably. “Nothing at all.”

  “That’s not true,” Katya protested.

  “Yes,” Rokovski agreed. “Alexander discussed with me your remarkable findings. I found them to be of the greatest interest, although I could not successfully fit the pieces together.”

  “We’re missing some crucial element,” Jeffrey said.

  “My sentiments exactly. For that reason, I have placed two of my best researchers on the matter. Already they have come up with what might be yet another fragment.”

  “Which was?”

  “As you may know,” Rokovski said, “there was a point in our history when Poland and her church stood calmly and watched as much of Europe went up in the flames of religious conflict.”

  “The Reformation Wars,” Jeffrey said. “We were just talking about that this morning.”

  “Indeed. Well, Poland’s church became very independent-minded during this period. Rome was unable to complain very loudly, for at least the wealth and power of Poland remained Catholic, even if they did refuse to join the battle against the Protestants.” Rokovski shook his head. “My country has committed a number of very foolish acts in her long past. Yet here stands one of the shrewdest moves in all European history, one country who retained its senses through two hundred years of religious insanity. I wish words could express how proud I am of the rulers who forged this dangerous path.

  “In any case, the Polish kings found it much wiser to appoint their own bishops than to risk having Rome bring in someone who would ignite the fires of battle. They sent messengers to Rome informing the Pope of their decisions. This policy was a matter of great distress to Rome.

  “In the midst of all this turmoil, with diplomatic missions and Papal letters going back and forth, an emissary arrived from Rome. He stated that the Pope wished to have a particular cardinal appointed, someone he could trust. A man who would be a voice for Rome in the midst of the Polish empire’s growing might. The emissary arrived bearing gifts, gestures of goodwill, and so forth. One of these gifts, or bribes if you like, was a golden chalice.”

  Jeffrey leaned forward. “The chalice?”

  Rokovski shrugged. “That we have yet to confirm. But the dates do correspond.”

  He pushed his plate aside and leaned both elbows upon the table. “I must tell you something else, something that should not go beyond this table. I do not trust Karlovich. I have been forced to spend quite a bit of time with him as this investigation has progressed, and I have grown more and more concerned over the man.”

  “In what way?”

  “Nothing specific. He simply gives me the sense of being overly enthusiastic. In a number of questionable directions, I might add. There is a very fine line between passion and fanaticism, and one great danger of fanatic belief is the feeling of infallible judgment.”

  Further conversation was halted when Katya stiffened and pointed. “They’re here.”

  All turned to see a large blond woman in a black leather trench coat enter the restaurant.

  “Perhaps I should wait outside,” Gregor said, not rising with the others.

  “Nonsense,” Rokovski replied, not taking his eyes from the woman approaching their table. “We shall simply consider you as Alexander’s honored emissary. Which you are.”
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  She stopped before them, gave each of them a blank stare. Her eyes met Rokovski’s, where they remained. She set a pair of battered plastic-leather suitcases down at her feet and said a few words in German that Katya translated as, “You have five days.”

  “That should be adequate,” Rokovski replied. “How—”

  She spoke again briefly, drew an envelope from her pocket, and placed it on the table. Katya translated, “Two million dollars are to be deposited in an account in Zurich, Switzerland. Details are listed here.”

  “We will need some form of guarantee,” Rokovski said. “Some promise that we will actually receive the remainder of the treasure after payment is made.”

  The woman had clearly been expecting the question. Immediately after Katya finished her translation, she responded with, “One of our number will check into this hotel in five days. He will deposit with you his passport. He will remain for twenty-four hours after you have received the location details. In return, you will deposit with him a guarantee of safe conduct to Switzerland on the evening of the sixth day.” Eyes turned hard as agate. “No tricks.”

  “No tricks,” Rokovski repeated. “It is agreed.”

  ****

  “Rokovski is over the moon,” Jeffrey reported to Alexander that evening by telephone.

  “He thinks it is genuine, then.”

  “He won’t say anything, but you should have seen his eyes when he opened the cases.”

  “What did they contain?”

  “Amber,” Jeffrey replied. “Pieces about the size of my fist, mostly.”

  “Splendid,” Alexander said, his enthusiasm growing.

  “All different shades. White as powder to golden to a dark tea shade. Carved with designs on one side and left flat on the other. They looked sort of like puzzle pieces.” Jeffrey paused. “I wish you could have been there.”

  “My dear boy, thank you for saying so. But I am quite content to live the experience through you.”

  “There were bits of yellowed paper stuck everywhere on the amber.”

  “The wrapping,” Alexander said definitely. “There were always rumors that the Nazis had placed the amber in tissue paper that contained markings for how the walls were to be fitted back together again.”

  “That’s what Rokovski thinks too. He’s having the paper tested now. He says that will be the clearest assurance that the pieces are genuinely from the Amber Room.”

  “Although he already believes it to be so,” Alexander finished for him. “As do I.”

  “He says some of the whitest amber isn’t even available anymore.”

  “Bone amber,” Alexander said. “Extremely rare.”

  “There are pieces six or seven inches wide of the stuff,” Jeffrey said, remembering the light in Rokovski’s eyes when he picked up the first piece, carved in the shape of a blooming rose.

  “The Amber Room. I can scarcely believe that it might indeed be within our very grasp.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up too soon.”

  “My dear Jeffrey,” Alexander replied, “I shall indulge myself as I please on this account. It makes up for the distress over this other matter. Almost.”

  CHAPTER 34

  “Tell me,” Gregor said the next morning, once Jeffrey had been settled in the apartment’s most comfortable chair, and tea had been served. “Have you spoken with others about how they came to know the presence of the Almighty?”

  “Some,” Jeffrey admitted. “I was just thinking about that this morning. I read that part in the Bible, you know, where Jesus says that you have to die and be born again. It seems as if they were all brought to a point that made them look to something more than their own human strength.”

  Gregor gifted him a look that illuminated the reaches of his heart. “My boy, I shall make a prediction. A time will come when you shall make a wonderful teacher for our Lord.”

  He had to laugh. “You’ve got the wrong man.”

  “If only you could hear the growing wisdom in your own voice or recognize the hunger in your breast for being the gift that it is.” Gregor smiled at Jeffrey’s discomfort. “Enough of that. Being broken, as this experience is also known, is another name for facing a need greater than yourself. I find it most wonderful that our Lord promised that we as believers would never, ever face such an overwhelming defeat again. The trials we encounter, once the turning has been made, shall never break us. I find that truly beautiful. Once the path has been found, we are given a shield for all our remaining days.”

  Jeffrey cast a glance at Gregor’s own twisted form, then looked guiltily away.

  “I did not say we would not face trials,” Gregor told him softly. “I said we would always be given the strength and the protection and the guidance to see us through.”

  “Sorry.”

  “My dear boy, why should you be? You didn’t cause this.” He sipped from his glass. “Now tell me. If these people with whom you spoke about the experience of faith did so in fullness, they shared another trait. An event equally as important as being broken. Can you see it?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Remember. It is there, I assure you. Can you see it?”

  Jeffrey felt as though he was being pointed directly toward something, but was unable to identify it. He shook his head.

  “Someone told them about faith. Ah, yes, now you see. Excellent. Yes, it is important for all believers to remember that faith is always teetering on the verge, always just one generation away from total extinction. There is only one way for faith to continue.”

  “It has to be passed on,” Jeffrey said.

  “Exactly. Someone has to plant the seed. The gift of witnessing has to be offered. A believer must stand and by his or her life show the power of the invisible at work.” Gregor offered a smile. “And this brings us to what I would suggest as your next little exercise, my young friend. I would ask you to go out and practice illogical witnessing.”

  “Do what?”

  “Choose the absolute least likely person you can find. Make sure it is someone who leaves you utterly unsettled. If possible, somebody whom you positively loathe.” He examined Jeffrey. “Am I getting through?”

  “How about another assignment?” Jeffrey asked.

  Gregor shook his head. “This one fits perfectly.”

  “No it doesn’t. I’m positive about that.”

  “I feel utter harmony with this notion.”

  “So you do it. Just the thought makes my skin crawl.”

  Gregor beamed. “Wonderful.”

  Jeffrey shook his head. “Anything but.”

  “Listen to me, my brother in Christ. Here is the key. There is positively no one on earth whom God does not love. You need to begin to see yourself as an instrument of this love, someone through whom Christ may live and love and save. You must accept this as a part of your daily life and stop trying to keep it at arm’s length.

  “You want something that makes sense. Something that you can analyze and fit into a comfortable little box. My friend, God’s salvation is intended to explode every box, to shatter every myth in your life. Including the one you continue to hold out in front of yourself as a shield. Do you know what that is?”

  Jeffrey motioned his denial. “I’m not sure I want to know.”

  “Of course you do. You’re upset because I speak of what you both want to hold on to and desperately seek to let go. It is the old and the new struggling for central place in your life. The myth you cling to is that you are unworthy, is it not? You fear that you are not good enough to receive God’s love, to be filled with His gift of the Spirit. The mirror of your newfound faith is confronting you with the multitude of your faults and your sins, and you are wondering at how an all-knowing, all-seeing, all-powerful God can truly love someone such as you. Is that not it, Jeffrey? Is this not the question you are afraid to bring out into the open and admit to yourself and to God?”

  Jeffrey remained silent.

  “Listen, my brother. Your
fear has power because it contains truth. It is both true and not true. True, because you are not worthy of God. But not true because He has sent His Son to cleanse you, to clothe you anew, to make you worthy. It is the greatest gift of all history, both what has been written and what is yet to come. So when you stand before this person you loathe and witness to him, I want you to remember this ultimate and undying truth. That not only is this other person eternally worthy, if only he or she will open their hearts to the truth, but so too are you.”

  ****

  Their first meeting that morning took place at the Forum Hotel, a vast structure of over four hundred rooms, situated across the Vistula River from Cracow’s old city. The seller was an eye doctor, in town for a symposium on new ophthalmological equipment. He was a tall, slender man going prematurely bald, his face was as bland as his voice, his hands the only expressive part about him.

  The doctor led Katya and Jeffrey through the foyer and down a hall transplanted from any big-city Hilton—marble floor, veneered walls, decorative modern art displayed for sale, flower shop, hair salon, travel agent, Hertz. The change from the world outside could not have been greater.

  The symposium took place in a hall that looked to seat five or six hundred and was filled to standing room only. Outside the hall were smaller rooms filled with displays of the latest Western equipment. The doctor led them toward a stand of microscopes mounted on what looked like a cross between a robot arm and a crane.

  Through Katya he said, “This is what I want. A surgical microscope. Fifty-four thousand dollars the cheapest one costs, when I add up the diagnostic equipment here and here. I want you to see this and understand that I am perfectly serious. I must have this much money. Otherwise I do not sell. Do you understand? I do not sell unless I can buy this for my practice.”

  With the same hurried calm that Jeffrey knew from Western doctors, he led them back down the hall, through the main foyer, and into a waiting elevator. He talked the entire way, Katya using his brief pauses to translate for Jeffrey.