The Woodcarver's Secret (Samantha Sweet Mysteries)

by Connie Shelton

  Striding away, thinking of a hearty breakfast, he didn’t look back.

  * * *

  Nikolaus Schenke watched the soldier walk away from the train station, paying no attention to the huge stone building with its high plaster and half-timbered walls, its sloping gabled slate roof. Two other passengers had already hurried down Friedrichstrasse, drawing their coats closely about them for warmth in the chilly morning air. His eyes darted to the parcel the man had dropped into the waste bin. The train chugged onward and a quick check told him no one was watching. Quick as a fox (which his mother often called him), Nik dashed to the bin and leaned in to pull out the object. It felt solid—something made of wood—wrapped in a covering of fine cloth.

  To examine it here was to invite trouble. Someone may have seen him take the item. He tucked it close to his body and ran up Bahnhofstrasse, staying to the right on the curve and bolting across the bridge. The Mosel flowed slowly and peacefully, a silver ribbon rounding a bend between hillsides of vineyards. Nik barely took it in as he paused at the stone gate beside the church. A glance over his shoulder told him that no one had followed.

  Ahead in the Market Square farmers were already setting up their tables, bringing out crates of vegetables and tall buckets of flowers. Nikolaus bypassed them, and the famed Doktor Fountain, tucking into the narrow street that flanked the right side of tiny “Pointed House,” all those sights which, in happier times, drew visitors to the village.

  Now, few people traveled and no one spent money unless absolutely necessary. Although the political speakers talked in glowing terms of the new prosperity brought by der Führer, Nik’s parents spoke in hushed voices about the rising cost of goods and lower wages. It seemed everyone had a job now but most of them did not pay a lot. His father and grandfather were bricklayers; aside from some government projects designed by the Chancellor, they had difficulty finding work and were more likely to be found helping with the grape harvest and then hanging about their favorite weinkeller for a glass or two.

  Nik ran through the streets, happy to be free for a little while. He would soon need to get ready for school. Beyond the Ratskeller he made a few more turns and came to a stop at the narrow stairs that led to his family’s apartment above the now-closed jewelry shop. The windows had all been broken out and the place looted a few years ago; now there were boards over them to keep mice out.

  “Where have you been, Nikolaus?” Mutter called out from the kitchen alcove. “Your breakfast is ready.”

  She stepped to the table and leaned outward to see into the hall.

  “What’s that you have in your hands?”

  He quickly shoved the packet behind his back. “It’s a surprise. For your birthday.”

  She gave a patient sigh and waved him on. “That isn’t for another week.” She knew very well that none of her boys would plan so far ahead. “Put it away and wash your hands. You’ll be late for school.”

  In their attic room on the third floor Nik could hear his two older brothers stomping about—a boot dropped, then a raucous laugh. He held back, tucking himself into the tiny space below the stairs until the others thundered down and into the kitchen. Behind him, he caught the sound of his father, clearing his throat noisily. A loud fart issued from the bedroom at the back of the apartment and Nik repressed a giggle. He slid around the corner and tried to be quiet as he climbed the stairs.

  He couldn’t resist taking a minute to examine his newfound prize. The cloth around the wooden box was of fine quality and it would actually make a nice gift for his mother. She could use it as a headscarf or place it on the table. He had no idea how women chose their adornments—she might do anything with it. It was the box that fascinated him.

  Dark-stained wood, carved in a crisscross pattern, a nice texture. He raised the lid and held the box toward the lamp. Letters carved into the lid spelled M-A-N-I-C-H-E-E. He had no idea what that meant. As he held the box it seemed to grow warmer, the wood becoming a lighter color and taking on a glow. His breath caught. What was happening?

  “Nikolaus! Breakfast—now!”

  Oh, if only he could catch a fever or something so he would have an excuse to stay home from school. He wanted to play with the box, to learn more about it. His gaze darted about the small room, searching out a hiding place. Under his small bed was the only somewhat private place for his things. He pulled out the trunk that held his winter clothing and shoved the box in behind it, against the wall, then slid the trunk back in place.

  “What are you doing up there?” his father shouted. “Get to the table—you will be late!”

  Nik brushed the dust off his hands and raced down the steps, remembering at the last moment that he’d been sent to comb his hair and wash his hands. He smoothed the persistent cowlick and swiped his hands twice against his pant legs.

  At the table, his father grumbled before turning his attention back to his cereal. Across from him, Grandfather toyed with a crusty roll and read the newspaper. His brothers had apparently already left.

  “Der Führer is building a collection of fine art, it says here in the news. ‘With the success of the Summer Olympics four years ago, Germany is rising to the forefront of European culture. Our beloved Chancellor wants to fill the museums in Berlin with the best examples of art so that the rest of the world will know how great a nation we are. Citizens are encouraged to donate or loan paintings and sculpture from their personal collections.’”

  Nikolaus caught the glances between the adults.

  “Puh! We are at war,” said his father. “Who will come from the rest of the world to visit our museums? That newspaper is a rag.”

  Mother hushed him.

  “What? There is no one around. Half the old shops are closed.”

  “There are other apartments …” she said through her teeth. “It is impossible to be too careful these days.”

  She gave a little tilt of the head toward Nik.

  “I can keep secrets, mutter,” he insisted.

  “Well, see that you do, boy,” his grandfather said. “She is right. These are uncertain times and everyone must be careful.”

  Nikolaus already knew this. In school his teachers now taught only from the state-issued books. No stories were told, no discussion other than the official curriculum. And in the market last week, his mother had asked after the health of one farmer’s wife and got only a small shake of the head. People were keeping all sorts of secrets.

  * * *

  Martin Helgberg turned off the wireless, astonishment reverberating through his body. It started with Hitler’s men making casual ‘visits’ to homes and public buildings in a search for artworks to enhance the displays in the national museums and galleries—all in the name of preserving national treasures. Now the latest news held that der Führer considered fine wines and good liqueurs to be among these treasures and a new law allowed the Nazis to commandeer almost anything they desired. Martin knew these items were going into the Führer’s personal collection or were being hidden away, perhaps to be sold off to pay for the war effort. He thought of his livelihood, the vineyards and wine cellar, particularly his prized 1921 vintage Bernkasteler Kabinett.

  Twenty years he had held that wine—a full case of it—knowing that its value increased each year. And that was but one of the expensive wines in his cellar. And in the aging room—forty casks of five hundred liters each, ten seasons of backbreaking work on precipitous slopes in the adjacent vineyard, ten years of nurturing and loving his grapes to make them the best in the region. And now the Mosel wine region had become a target.

  Helmut looked up as Martin rushed from the office. “What is it? What’s going on?”

  “Son, they have reached Cochem and Zell, on their way by river!”

  “They?”

  “Nazis! They’ll take whatever pleases them.”

  “The nineteen-twenty-one?”

  “And more! I have a plan. Hurry and get Herr Schenke. His father, his son … As large a crew as possible.” Ma
rtin was out the door, headed for their cellar on Grabenstrasse.

  He rushed inside, pulling the heavy, carved door closed behind him. In the dark he reached for the electric light switch, knowing from habit exactly where it was on the wall. A string of small lights showed the way down the tunnel and into the main room containing the huge casks. He stopped when he reached them, heartsick. There would be no way to hide them all.

  He sank to a wooden bench where he often sat while labeling bottles. What to do?

  “Do something!” His shout echoed back at him through the damp and chilly chamber ten feet below ground level.

  He got up and walked down the center aisle between the casks which, on their sides, stood nearly as tall as he did. The small room at the back—it was their only hope. He flipped another switch, illuminating the five- by five-meter space. It held rows of bottles, their older vintages, chosen bottles from the best years. If nothing else, he could save these. He heard voices and quickly shut off the light.

  “Vater, it’s me. I have our friends.” Helmut and the two bricklayers were coming down the long tunnel toward him.

  He showed them what he had in mind—bricking over the doorway into the special room. “We must use bricks that match.”

  “Ja, we can come close to a match,” said Herr Schenke.

  “And cover the light switch. We can leave no clue that this room exists. Once they are gone, once the war is over, then I will trust again and we can break it open.”

  Schenke was nodding, eyeing the job, taking some measurements.

  “Be sure we bring the bricks here late at night—quietly. If anyone sees, they will figure out what we are doing and the secret might get out.”

  The older bricklayer agreed. “People are being very careful these days. We are slowly learning our lesson about trusting the Party.”

  It was true. Having a normal conversation in these times was becoming more difficult. There was so little that could be said, what with Nazis everywhere.

  “You will be paid well,” Martin said, “and in return I require your absolute honor in this matter.”

  “How soon do we need to finish? Keeping in mind that the mortar will take some time to dry in this dampness.”

  It was true. The walls of the tunnel dripped with moisture, so much so that mineral deposits formed, and the floor was constantly wet.

  “According to the wireless, they have already raided Zell. They are coming by river so it will not be many more days.”

  Schenke spoke: “We will deliver the first load of bricks tonight and begin work in the morning. It will not be a problem to work down here in the daytime?”

  “It is best. Traffic and other sounds out on the street will cover any sound you make.”

  “I can use some help. My youngest son is good at mixing mortar and my wife’s brother is quick with a trowel. With them, I think we can finish this in two days. As long as no one pushes against the wall for a week, it should be all right.”

  Would they have a week before the troops began streaming through town? There was no way to know for sure. They could only make the attempt.

  Martin Helgberg agreed to the plan and sent the others on their way. Then he went to the bank to draw out some money.

  * * *

  Nikolaus thought his father was acting funny. Uncle Remy had come over and the three men sat in the parlor with coffee and drawing paper. When grownups talked plans it was a good time for him to get outdoors, knowing he could roam the village without much supervision. He wandered to the Marktplatz to look around. It was late in the day so a lot of the merchandise would be gone—the best pastries and breads especially—but sometimes a sympathetic seller would see a child alone and give away their last strudel or blachindla. He meandered between the tables, trailing his hand along the edges, hoping he looked as hungry as he felt.

  Ahead, a uniform caught his attention. It was usually best to duck into an alley if one could do so unseen. But this one appeared to be off duty, strolling along with an obviously pregnant woman and two young, blonde boys. Nik paused, his breath catching. It was the same soldier who had thrown away the wooden box last autumn, the one Nik now had hidden under the clothing in the trunk under his bed. He had given his mother the scarf, discovering that the fabric was nice quality but not unusual. But the box was. If this soldier happened to be one who searched houses, as he’d heard the adults saying, he would surely recognize the box immediately. Nik’s heart beat very fast.

  What would he do? Surely he would be accused as a thief and the penalty would be horrible. There were twelve-year-old children in prison, he felt sure of it. Soon, he would be one of them. Or he would be conscripted into the Army. The Hitler Youth were recruiting boys his age and soon it would become mandatory. His palms grew sweaty. The vendor selling wooden toys asked if he wanted to look at something.

  Nikolaus turned, without a word, and dashed down the nearest narrow street. He raced straight home, trying to think, but thinking and running were hard to do at once.

  “Nik! Did you not hear me?” His father’s voice came from the parlor.

  He slid to a stop in the hall and looked inside, straightening his shoulders and standing as still as possible.

  “Tomorrow we have a rush job and I will need your help to mix the mortar.”

  Nikolaus nodded.

  “Mutter will make you an early supper and then it’s bedtime. We will start before daybreak in the morning.”

  “Do I miss school then?”

  “Just for a couple of days. You are to tell your brothers you have a fever. Mutter can send a note to school.”

  A lie? A parent-sanctioned lie?

  “Nikolaus, stop smiling. This is quite serious and you are under an oath of secrecy to never mention it. Not to anyone.”

  He nodded again. The box upstairs under the bed was proof that he could keep a secret.

  In the kitchen, his mother had a bowl of soup ready for him. Although she said nothing he sensed that she already knew about whatever was happening.

  “I suppose that if you were to feel feverish during the night or early in the morning,” she said, “it would be allowed for you to come and get into bed with your parents.”

  He spooned up the soup, watching her face, not saying anything. When he finished he followed instructions, washing his face and hands, cleaning his teeth and putting on his nightshirt. His mother draped his clothes over the foot of his bed and showed him that she had put a sandwich into his rucksack. He crawled beneath the blankets and thought about how he could pretend to have a fever.

  The rucksack lay under the edge of his bed and it gave him an idea. He could remove the box from the house and find someplace to dispose of it, a place where the soldier, if he came upon it, could never connect it to Nik or his family. He crawled quietly from the bed as he heard the rest of the family gather downstairs for supper. The box went into his pack and he placed it gently back exactly as his mother had left it.

  As things turned out, neither of his brothers spoke to him when they came upstairs later. Apparently their mother had simply told them Nik was not feeling well and had gone to bed early. He fell asleep without any coaxing.

  The room lay in darkness when Nikolaus felt a hand on his shoulder. His father knelt at his bedside with a candle that cast a soft glow over the blankets.

  “Gather your things. We need to go to work.” He had already picked up Nik’s clothes and boots. “Quickly. You can dress in the kitchen.”

  The picture became clear. In order to fool the other boys into thinking he really was sick, his father would take him downstairs and his mother would pretend he had come into her bedroom. What an exciting way to skip school! He pulled the rucksack from under his bed and followed his father down the stairs.

  A cat ran down Grabenstrasse and jumped without effort to a window sill as they passed. Not a single person was out and only a few lights showed from windows. Nikolaus had no idea what time it was, only that he had never seen the streets
of Bernkastel empty like this.

  They came to an arched door set into the side of a wall, with a narrow lintel above and a carved sign advertising the name of a winery. Someone inside had heard their steps; the door swung open only a few inches and then enough to allow them inside.

  His grandfather was the man who had opened the door and Nik nearly cried out when recognition dawned. The gray-haired man placed a finger to his lips. Together, by lamplight, the three of them walked down a very long, very frightening tunnel with water oozing from the walls and green moss growing like the hair of some ancient troll. Nik reached for his father’s hand.

  They entered a large room filled with rows of huge wooden barrels. At the far end, a brighter light filled the area, showing a substantial stack of bricks.

  “We worked until midnight, bringing them here,” Grandfather said, “then we were afraid of making too much noise. “Four wheelbarrows so far. I think four more will do it. I can bring another now, before many villagers are out.”

  “Fine. But hurry. It will be daylight within the hour and we dare not risk any more visible activity. We can get the remainder tonight. For now, this will keep us busy. Remy, set up a stack for me. Quietly. Once there is activity on the street we can work at a faster pace. Nik, you will mix mortar. I shall show you the first batch so you remember how to measure the sand, the cement and the water.”

  Nikolaus nodded. He had done this before—it would come back quickly. He set his rucksack aside and rolled up his sleeves. As his father laid out the first row of bricks, Nik spotted the perfect place to hide the wooden box. When the other men turned to assist Grandfather with the new load, he drew the box out of his rucksack and set it at the base of a wine rack in the room that would soon cease to exist. Once the Nazi threat was gone he knew the winery owner would come for his prized wines and this wall would come down.

  That is when—Nik promised silently to the box—I will come and get you.