The Woodcarver's Secret (Samantha Sweet Mysteries)

by Connie Shelton

  “A telegram came from Romania,” the priest said, watching as Luca read it to himself.

  “It’s a reported sighting of a box fitting this description,” Luca said, scanning the message once again.

  “Would it be the same box The Vongraf Foundation examined?” pondered the American industrialist.

  Luca shook his head. “I don’t know. The person who sent this did so anonymously. They’ve given the name of a city and of a woman purported to be a witch.”

  He looked around the table. Did they really want to bring back the days of the Inquisition? To track and prosecute what were probably silly acts of fortune telling? In these times of political unrest, with the Germans on the march into other sovereign nations, was it wise to travel outside their own little realm?

  The other men looked back at him with solemn faces. OSM’s mission was to gather artifacts, not to pass judgment on people. Luca felt his pulse quicken. He knew he would volunteer to find this other box.

  Chapter 11

  Treasures Are Hidden

  Helga Schantz turned down the bedcovers on one of the small beds then the other. “Boys, are you brushing your teeth?” she called out.

  Hans and Fritz, her two small dynamos, zoomed into the bedroom.

  “Geschichte, Mama, Über die verlorenen Kinder!”

  Helga smiled and shooed them toward the beds. “Yes, you shall have your story. Are you not tired of that one, though?”

  “Nein! Dass man!”

  She pulled the woolen blanket up to Hans’s chin, then did the same for Fritz. She sat at the foot of his bed.

  “Once upon a time,” she began. Two sets of blue eyes stared at her. “There was a poor young mother with two little boys.”

  She supposed if their next child was a girl she would alter the story so that the woman had three children. It was the way her own mother had told it.

  “They were so very hungry. They had to go out each day and look for food but there was none to be had because times were hard. The people of the town loved the woman and admired her for the way she cared for her children but most of them simply had nothing to give.”

  She stretched out this part of the story to emphasize how fortunate Germany was these days, coming through the Great Depression and now enjoying somewhat better times.

  “So, one day the woman and her two little boys ventured into the woods, searching for berries, but they found nothing and it began to grow dark. And then a cold fog came in.”

  The boys burrowed deeper into their covers. She remembered the time little Fritzie had asked what a fog was and his older brother explained, with the identical description Helga had used in telling him about it.

  “The fog rolled over them, they were freezing and they could see nothing, and they had no idea which way was home. They held hands tightly, afraid to move lest they go farther into the forest and become lost forever. They were staring in all directions, searching for something familiar, when they heard a roar—very close by.”

  The boys’ eyes grew even wider.

  “It was …”

  “A bear,” they both whispered.

  “And not just one bear,” Helga said. “Two bears came out of the woods, a mother and her cub. And as anyone knows, a mother bear is very protective of her cub and will attack any person who approaches the baby. So this poor woman and her little boys were very frightened. They shook in their boots.

  “And then what happened? The mother bear coaxed her baby to come near the children, to lie down at their feet. And the mother bear circled the little family, gathering them together. The woman and her children huddled together and soon the large bear lay down near them and the bear’s big body kept them warm all night long.

  “In the morning the townspeople began to be concerned, asking each other, have you seen that poor lady and her children?

  “Nein, no one had seen them. So the mayor was about to organize a search, when, out of the woods … out came the woman, the two boys and … two bears! The people were overjoyed to see everyone safe and the mayor declared, ‘We shall build a tribute to these heroic bears and we shall call the town’s name after them!’ And he immediately commissioned a fine artist to make the statue.”

  “The one near the Marktplatz!” Hans said, unable to contain himself.

  “Ja, the very one we see when we do our shopping.” She stood up, straightened their blankets and reached for the lamp. Who knew if the fairytale was true? It had pleased children for hundreds of years. “And on that note, it is time for sleep.”

  She pulled the bedroom door nearly closed and moved quietly to the parlor where she saw that Johann had added a log to the fire.

  “You’re home!” She rushed to his arms, taking in the scent from his wool uniform, the damp of the night and something unfamiliar—a combination of crowded railcar with woods-like undertones of a foreign land. “How was Romania?”

  “Helga, liebling, you know never to speak of what I do now. Things are changing and I should not have told you.”

  “Ja, ja. I have said nothing.” If only he knew the depth of the secrets she kept. “Are you hungry? I can warm the soup we had earlier.”

  He shook his head, removing his tunic and loosening the top button of the shirt beneath it.

  “What’s this?” She noticed a carved wooden box on the small table near the door.

  It was obviously quite old, with a plain quilted pattern carved into the top and sides. The wood had been stained a dark brown but there was something else, a powdery feel to it. She rubbed the surface and something black came off onto her fingers.

  “I pulled it from a fire,” he said, sinking into his favorite chair. “I will clean it before I present it.”

  “To whom?”

  “The Führer is to be in Nuremburg again tomorrow night for another rally at the parade ground. I’ve a private audience with Himmler shortly before and I want to present the box as a gift.”

  “This thing? It’s hardly worthy—”

  “It’s not of interest because it’s beautiful art, liebste. You know of the Führer’s interest in the occult—this belonged to a witch in Transylvania. I pulled it from the fire as they executed her.”

  “Johann! You watched a poor woman burn!” Helga felt her dinner rise.

  He had the good grace to look regretful. “No, liebste, I was not there for her sentencing, I merely walked onto that platz as the flames were dying down. It was over for her. The Polizei were tossing her possessions onto the embers. The box landed at the edge; I took it when no one was watching.”

  “But Johann, collecting souvenirs! It’s so—”

  “I’ll not have you questioning me,” he warned.

  A good German wife cooked and cleaned and raised beautiful children but she did not second-guess her husband, especially when he was a member of the regiment. She kept a neat home, trusted whatever he read in Mein Kampf to be accurate and ignored the trains filled with Jews that left for some unknown destination nearly every week. And she stayed utterly quiet about the houses where two Jewish families who had not managed to get out early enough were hiding. Helga had once been a friend to Ruth Goldstein and her husband who had operated a fine jewelry store until it was smashed to bits on Kristallnacht along with the destruction of the synagogue.

  “I’ll have some of that soup now.” He signaled for her to bring him the box. “And afterward …” He raised one eyebrow.

  Helga went into the kitchen and picked up her apron. She had been wanting a third child for some time now. She forced aside her opinion about the wooden box and put on a smile. He was gone so frequently these days. If she wanted a baby she must make use of any opportunity.

  Later, cuddling together under the warm quilts, Johann drew upon his cigarette, a rare indulgence. Good Aryans were not to defile their bodies; therefore, smoking rarely happened outside private moments.

  “I miss you when I am away,” he said.

  Helga ran her palm over his smooth chest. “And I m
iss you.”

  “But I long for the excitement of Berlin when I am here in Bernkastel too long. Great things are happening in our nation. Order is being restored.”

  “We are better off now that the Great Depression has ended.”

  “Outside Germany, there is no comparison. Our railroads and trains, our highways, our manufacturing facilities are far superior—der Führer’s plans for expansion and improvement will make the entire world a better place. Being around the men who plan these things—I find it exhilarating.”

  The world—unless you were Jewish or Polish, thought Helga. Well, what did she know? Perhaps those displaced people were actually, as the newspapers and film reels told it, going to even better places. The only thing she did know was that she was at the correct day in her cycle and very possibly the seed for a new baby was beginning to grow within her right now.

  * * *

  Johann Schantz stepped off the train at Nuremburg’s Hauptbahnhof, one of three officers being met by a Nazi Party car, a black Mercedes, rather than the standard open Army field vehicle. The man on his right slid his gaze toward Johann, barely suppressing his delight at the special treatment. Johann straightened his shoulders and acted as if he were always accorded such amenities. The big car whisked them directly to the Chancellery where Hitler’s personal standard flew—the black swastika surrounded by red and embellished with gold trim and golden eagles.

  A captain met them at the curb and escorted the visitors through a series of hallways to a large meeting room. Outside the closed door, a general from the inner circle stepped forward and they responded with sharp salutes.

  “What have you there?” the general asked of the package Johann carried.

  “A gift. For der Führer.”

  The man wiggled his fingers and Johann handed it over. Inside the cloth wrapping, the newly cleaned box presented itself as well as it could.

  The general’s forehead wrinkled. “What is this thing?”

  “If I may …?” Another man who had been standing by took one step forward. “I have seen a similar item. In Italy.” He murmured something quietly to the man in charge.

  “And this one?” The general gave Johann a hard look.

  “From Romania. It is rumored to have certain—powers. I know of der Führer’s interest in such matters, in things of the occult. I offer it as something of a curiosity, an item he might enjoy.”

  The general seemed skeptical but stuck the box back into its cloth wrapping and handed it back to Johann. “Go ahead.” It’s your neck, he seemed to imply.

  Inside the room, Hitler sat at a large, ornate desk. Around him, Johann recognized the faces of Goebbels and Himmler along with two Field Marshals. All eyes turned toward the newcomers. Heels clicked, arms shot out in salute.

  The national leader eyed each of them in turn, unsmiling.

  “The soldiers from the ranks,” one of the field marshals said. “You requested them, mein Führer, to stand at the podium behind. A show of solidarity for the infantry and for the people. I present Johann Schantz of the Operations Section, Wilmer Friedrich of Naval Command, and Joseph Milbach representing the Army.”

  Hitler nodded.

  Johann noted that none of the others were below the rank equivalent of Oberst, a colonel in other armies, hardly the average soldier being asked to trudge through the mud. Still, he was not there to point out discrepancies.

  “And what is that?” The Führer turned his direct attention on Johann for the first time, tilting his head toward the wrapped parcel.

  Johann set it gently on the desk and their leader reached for it. “A little something for your collection of occult memorabilia. If it pleases.”

  The hand trembled slightly as Hitler pulled the cloth wrapping aside. He lifted the box, turning it to view all sides. Setting it flat on the desk he lifted the lid then closed it. A small smile formed. His hands stayed on the box, although he turned his attention to someone else and asked a question of Herr Himmler. Johann held his breath.

  What does the Führer truly think of the gift? He seems pleased. Doesn’t the smile indicate approval?

  The stubby fingers tapped at the lid of the box all the while.

  He is still touching it. Surely he likes it.

  The finish on the box grew darker, richer in color. Johann’s heart raced. What was happening? Would anyone else notice the change?

  The other men were talking of the logistics for the evening’s speech, who would enter first and who would follow, at which precise minute the Führer would begin his speech. No one was looking toward the box, noticing its bizarre reaction to the leader’s touch.

  The box was now nearly black, gleaming like the glossy finish on a Mercedes. The raised portions of the carving had begun to glitter, like scheming eyes. Johann knew everyone in the room could surely hear his heart pounding in his chest. All eyes at the moment were on the Führer, however. He had to create a diversion.

  Each of the new men had removed his hat upon entering the room; Johann’s was tucked under his left arm. He lifted his elbow slightly, letting the hat fall to the marble floor. The stiff bill clattered and everyone in the room started.

  Johann gave a sharp intake of breath and took a step. “Sorry,” he said, bending to retrieve the cap.

  When he stood once more, he saw that his misdirection had worked. Hitler’s hand no longer had contact with the box and the color had already begun to normalize. Had he just made a fatal mistake, calling attention to himself? If, later in private, the box changed so dramatically again, the Führer would certainly notice. And he would remember the man who had brought it. A trickle of sweat ran down Johann’s spine.

  * * *

  The rally grounds of the Nazi party in Nuremberg stretched two-hundred-forty meters in front of the podium. Tall standards bearing red and black banners ringed the perimeter and lights glowed to show the way for the ranks of soldiers who marched in precision before their leaders, snapping crisp salutes before taking their places to stand below in strict, straight lines.

  Behind Johann and the rest of the entourage the high pillars of the Ehrenhalle rose, flying banners of the Party colors. Two rows of pedestals held fire bowls, flaming high now that the Führer was in attendance. The moment he took the podium, cheers and chants erupted.

  Johann and the others stood erect and unmoving while their leader began his speech, starting with reminders of the greatness of Germany and the important strides the country had made since the days of poverty following the last war. As he went on to pound home the new ideals for cleansing the population and building the nation into an empire unlike any the world had ever seen, Johann believed he had never heard such fervent words, such unabashed zeal. Even to followers and loyal Nazis tonight’s speech had to rank among the most emotional of all time. National pride swelled—he could see it on the face of every man in the crowd.

  He was a supreme orator, Johann thought, watching the way Hitler managed the crowd—shouting his words of patriotism, giving himself credit for everything good in the nation, saying all of it in such a way that no one questioned a word. Then the charismatic man left the podium at the moment when the maximum outpouring of love came from his listeners.

  As the final cheers died away, the officers at the front of the Ehrenhalle turned and made their way behind the impressive colonnade to their waiting cars. In his own vehicle, the Führer appeared drained of energy. He had given his all for the soldiers tonight. The black car pulled away and the others began taking places in the other vehicles. Johann, Friedrich and Milbach would ride together to the Hauptbahnhof to catch trains to their respective duty stations. In Johann’s case he would go to Frankfurt, but as he was not due to report for duty until Monday he could perhaps manage another quick visit home. He’d hardly spent any time with his sons on the last stop.

  The other two men had stepped into the car when Johann felt a tug at his sleeve.

  “Hauptmann Schantz?” said a voice. Generalmajor Kaster was standing
beside him, a packet in hand. Johann saw that it was the wrapped wooden box, the gift.

  “I am sorry … der Führer is interested only in collecting fine works of art, the work of the masters. You will understand.” He shoved the box into Johann’s hands and placed a hand on the car door, an unsubtle hint that the subject would bear no discussion and it was time to leave.

  Johann slid into the backseat beside Friedrich of the Navy. A furious blush came over his face and the other man had the good grace to look away. Neither the driver nor the Army man seemed to have noticed the exchange. Johann set the parcel on the seat beside him, draping his coat over it, keeping his eyes directly ahead. Was this decision truly that of the Führer or had the generals decided for him? At whatever level, someone of high rank had decided that his gift was not nice enough for the leader’s collection.

  At Frankfurt he debated staying the night. As a ranking Party official he could easily get a room even at this late hour, but his thoughts were churning like a rushing whitewater river and he could not imagine being able to settle down for a long while. The train to Bernkastel would be along in another hour. He went into the station and plopped on a wooden bench to wait, the parcel still tucked under his arm. Although important men within the Party did not appreciate the box, it would make a good story to say that it had been in the hands of the Führer himself on the night he spoke to the troops at the rally grounds.

  He continued to hold that thought until he actually arrived in his hometown. Then he recalled Helga’s revulsion when he admitted that the item had come from a witch who had been burned. There would be no chance of her allowing the children to own such a thing, even if it had passed through the hands of their famous leader. He stepped off the train in the cold gray of early dawn and looked around.

  A waste receptacle stood outside the bahnhof. He peered one last time inside the cloth. Perhaps Hitler was right—this piece was not beautiful enough to belong in a good collection. Not even good enough for his wife’s humble home. He held it over the trash basket and let it go.