by Sam Eastland
‘And the rest of it?’
‘Ostubaf is the abbreviation for a rank in the German military, specifically the SS. It means Obersturmbannführer. Ostubaf.’
‘What rank is this man?’ asked Stalin.
‘The equivalent of a lieutenant colonel in our military,’ replied Churikova. ‘Since the war began, we’ve intercepted many such abbreviations, particularly from the SS, in which the system of ranking is not only different but abbreviated by the men who use it. For example, they use the word “Ustuf” for Untersturmführer, “Stubaf” for Sturmbannführer and so on. I had never come across Ostubaf before, but when the Inspector spoke the word aloud while we were driving here, I began to put the pieces together in my head. Forgive me for intruding, Comrade Stalin, but the meaning only just became clear to me, and I assumed you would want to know immediately.’
‘I don’t see how this helps,’ he told her bluntly. ‘Now we know there is some colonel in the SS who hasn’t got his painting. What good does that do us?’
‘It would do us no good at all, Comrade Stalin,’ said Churikova, ‘except I know this man.’
Stalin’s expression froze. ‘Go on,’ he said quietly.
‘Before I joined the army,’ she explained, ‘I was an art student at the Leningrad Institute. As part of my studies, I was sent to work with the authenticator, Valery Semykin, in order to learn about the detection of forgeries. He had many contacts in the art world, and was often brought in to appraise whole museum collections. One of these collections was the paintings of the Romanov family, located at the Catherine Palace.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Stalin nodded. ‘I remember. That was in July of 1939, not long before we signed the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact with Germany. As a gesture of good will, the Germans had offered to return several paintings which had been stolen from us in the last war. In return, their Ministry of Culture requested the opportunity to view the art collections of the Catherine and Alexander Palaces. We granted the request, as a way of greasing the wheels of the upcoming diplomatic talks.’
Churikova told the rest. ‘The director of antiquities at Pushkin, Professor Urbaniak, was assigned the task of formally accepting those paintings from the Germans, which were to be presented at the time of their visit to the palaces. Semykin and I were brought in to examine the paintings as soon as they’d been handed over.’
‘You mean in case they tried to pass off forgeries to you?’ asked Pekkala.
‘Yes, but, as it turned out, the paintings were genuine. All of them.’
‘Only the treaty was fake,’ grumbled Stalin. ‘As we have now learned, the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact, which was supposed to have guaranteed peace between our countries for the next ten years, wasn’t worth the paper on which it was written.’
‘Go on,’ Pekkala urged the lieutenant. ‘What happened when you arrived at the palace?’
‘We got there before the presentation of the paintings had taken place. While we waited, Semykin asked Professor Urbaniak for permission to inspect the art works which were already part of the Catherine Palace collection. He gave us the go-ahead and it so happened that we were viewing the art works at the same time as the delegation from the German Ministry of Culture. Most of them just looked like graduate students to me, but one man was clearly in charge. He was older than the rest, and wore a heavy three-piece suit. Semykin and I had taken the opportunity to view the palace collections for ourselves. That was when we ran into the man in charge of the German delegation. He introduced himself to us as Professor Gustav Engel, head curator of the Königsberg Castle Museum. He already seemed to know a great deal about the paintings in the Catherine Palace and he seemed particularly fascinated by the Amber Room.’
Stalin turned his head towards the door. ‘Poskrebychev!’ he boomed.
In the outer office, there was the sound of a chair scudding back across the floor. A moment later, the door opened and Poskrebychev stepped into the room. ‘Comrade Stalin!’ he shouted as he crashed his heels together in salute.
‘See if we have a file on Gustav Engel, Head Curator of the museum at Königsberg Castle. If we have one, bring it to me now.’
‘Yes, Comrade Stalin.’ Moving with the confidence and gracefulness he had perfected during his many years as Stalin’s secretary, Poskrebychev exited the room. But the second the door closed behind him, the secretary hurled himself into motion. He pushed past Kirov, who had wisely remained in the outer room when Churikova paid her unannounced visit to Stalin, and set off at a sprint towards the department of records. With his arms flailing and head thrown back, he propelled himself down the long hallway like a man pursued by wolves.
Behind the doors of Stalin’s office, Churikova was still answering questions.
‘When you ran into this man Engel,’ continued Stalin, ‘did Semykin already know him?’
‘By reputation, I believe, although I don’t think they had ever met.’
Stalin turned to Pekkala. ‘Go to Semykin. See if he can tell you what a museum curator is doing in the SS.’
The thought of another visit to Lubyanka sent a jolt of dread crackling like static electricity across Pekkala’s mind.
Moments later, Poskrebychev returned, red-faced and panting, a dull grey file clutched in his hand. The folder had a green stripe running vertically down the centre, indicating that it contained documents relating to a foreign national who was of interest to Internal State Security. He lifted his chin, breathed deeply, then opened the door and walked in. Advancing stiffly towards Stalin’s desk, Poskrebychev placed the file before his master.
Without even a glance at Poskrebychev, Stalin opened the file. Hunched over his desk, his face only a hand’s length from the print, he squinted at the documents. ‘Where is the man’s picture?’ he asked.
‘No picture was obtained,’ replied Poskrebychev.
‘Everyone who has a file must have a picture,’ Stalin told him in a low voice. ‘How are we supposed to find the man if we don’t even know what he looks like?’
Nervously, Poskrebychev cleared his throat. ‘No picture was—’
‘It must have fallen out.’
‘No, Comrade Stalin. It says quite clearly in the file that no picture—’
‘I don’t care what it says!’ roared Stalin‚ bringing his fist down with a crash onto the desk. ‘All files are to contain a photograph of the subject. Go and find it. Now, you fool!’
On the other side of the room, Churikova shuddered, as if the rage in Stalin’s voice had struck her physically.
But Pekkala had been present at many such exchanges between Stalin and Poskrebychev. Now he stood by, his jaw clenched, silently waiting for Poskrebychev’s customary subservient bow, followed by the man’s swift return to the labyrinth of the Kremlin records office. But something was different this time. Poskrebychev remained frozen to the spot, his eyes fixed upon the Boss. An expression of disbelief spread across the face of Stalin’s secretary, but for once the source of Poskrebychev’s perpetual anxiety did not seem to be Stalin. Instead, it appeared to be coming from Poskrebychev himself, as if he were suddenly unsure whether he could control the secret thoughts which were parading through his skull.
‘What is the matter with you?’ demanded Stalin. ‘Did you not hear what I said?’
Without a word Poskrebychev spun on his heel and left the room.
As Pekkala watched him go, he wondered how much of Stalin’s bullying Poskrebychev could stand before he cracked. A man like that, moving almost unnoticed through the halls of power, could change in an instant from a harmless, grovelling servant into someone who could bring down an Empire.
‘What is wrong with that man?’ Stalin muttered to himself.
Pekkala felt a drop of sweat run down his cheek, wondering how close Stalin had just come to being murdered by a man whose blind loyalty he took for granted with a blindness even greater than his servant’s.
Stalin returned to his inspection of the file. ‘Medium height, regular features, dark ha
ir. Approximately fifty-five years old. Known to be employed at Königsberg Castle, where he has been curator of antiquities since 1937. Member of National Socialist Party since 1936. Applied for permission to visit Catherine and Alexander Palaces. Permission granted by Minister of Cultural Affairs. Arrived August 1939. Departed August 1939. Appeared to be fluent in Russian.’ He stopped abruptly.
‘What else does it say?’ asked Pekkala.
‘Nothing,’ replied Stalin. ‘The file was only opened on him when he came to visit the Catherine Palace. Before that, it’s as if he didn’t exist.’
‘And after his visit?’
‘He vanished back to Germany and that’s the last we heard from him.’
‘Until now.’
Stalin closed the file, pushed it away to the corner of his desk and turned his attention to Polina Churikova. ‘That is if these two men are the same person, and I am beginning to think they are not. The man in this file is fifty-five years old, which makes him a little too old for someone with the rank of lieutenant colonel. Someone of this age would either have been promoted or would have retired by now. So you see‚ Comrade Churikova‚ it is clear you are mistaken.’
‘But, Comrade Stalin . . .’ she began, but then words seemed to fail her.
Stalin had made up his mind. Now he behaved as if Churikova was no longer in the room. He reached for his box of cigarettes and then began patting his pockets as he searched for his lighter.
Pekkala touched Churikova on the arm. ‘It’s time for us to go,’ he said quietly.
‘It is him,’ Churikova insisted to Pekkala as they stepped into the narrow side street where Kirov had left his car waiting. ‘It’s Gustav Engel. That Gustav Engel‚ I’m telling you.’
‘Even if it was,’ said Kirov, ‘what good would the knowledge do us now?’ He opened the rear door of the Emka for Churikova, who climbed into the back seat. Then he opened the passenger side door for Pekkala.
‘I must return to Lubyanka,’ said Pekkala, ‘for another conversation with Semykin.’
‘That may prove difficult,’ replied Kirov. ‘It was hard enough getting him to talk on our first visit. You’ll be lucky to get anything out of him at all this time.’
Pekkala nodded. ‘It will be an uphill climb, for certain, but I think I might be able to persuade him. There’s no need to drive me. I’ll walk.’
‘All the way to Lubyanka?’
‘There is some business I must attend to first.’
Kirov realised from the tone of Pekkala’s voice that it would be no use trying to persuade him otherwise. ‘Very well, Inspector.’
Pekkala nodded towards Churikova. ‘Where will you take her?’
‘Back to the barracks, I expect,’ replied Kirov. ‘There must be someone who can reassign her to another cryptographic unit.’
Pekkala cast a glance at Churikova, his mind a confusion of pity and regret, then turned and walked away across Red Square.
‘Oh, it’s you again,’
‘Oh, it’s you again,’ said Fabian Golyakovsky, curator of the Kremlin Museum, as he caught sight of Pekkala wandering amongst the icons.
Pekkala had stopped before The Saviour of the Fiery Eye, now safely re-hung upon the wall. ‘I see that he found his way home.’
‘Yes.’ The curator laughed nervously and reached his hand out towards the icon, as if to trace his fingers down the long dark hair of the prophet. But just before he touched the work of art, his fingers curled in upon themselves. ‘I must admit you had me worried, Inspector.’
‘And I regret I am about to worry you again.’
‘Oh‚’ he replied faintly.
‘Do you know a man named Valery Semykin?’
‘Of course! Everybody in the art world knows Semykin, and I can tell you with equal certainty that everybody hates him, too. He is the most pompous, arrogant, self-satisfied . . .’ the curator gasped for breath, and would have continued with his tirade if Pekkala had not leaned towards the twitching Golyakovsky and, in a lowered voice, explained the reason for his visit.
The colour drained from Golyakovsky’s face, as if someone had pulled the plug on his heart. ‘Oh, no, Inspector,’ he gasped. ‘Oh, please. I beg of you . . .’
‘You will see to it then?’
For a moment, Golyakovsky looked as if he might refuse. His eyes began to bulge. His fists clenched at his sides. Then the futility of all resistance seemed to dawn on him. Golyakovsky’s shoulders slumped and he sighed like a leaking balloon. ‘I will see to it.’ Then, with a final burst of indignation, he called out, ‘But under protest!’
One hour later‚ the door to Semykin’s Lubyanka cell slammed shut, leaving Pekkala locked in with the prisoner.
Semykin had been facing the wall, in keeping with prison regulations. Now, as he slowly turned around, his eyebrows arched with surprise when he saw who’d come to visit. ‘Inspector! Back for another consultation?’
Pekkala noticed a fresh coating of blood daubed on the wall, which seemed to show two women, each accompanied by a child, standing in a sloping field of tall grass with a house among trees in the distance.
‘It is Monet’s Les Coquelicots,’ explained Semykin. ‘I have branched out into Impressionism. I don’t have enough blood left in me to be a pointillist. So!’ he clapped his butchered hands together. ‘What brings you here this time, Pekkala?’
‘Does the name Gustav Engel mean anything to you?’
‘It might.’
Pekkala nodded slowly. ‘Your sense of civic duty is unchanged.’
‘Civic duty?’ Semykin laughed angrily. ‘My sense of duty is neither more nor less than it should be.’
‘Have you considered what might happen to you if the Germans reach Moscow?’
‘I have,’ replied Semykin, ‘and I suspect that anyone who was considered an enemy of the Soviet State is likely to be welcomed with open arms by the people who smashed it to bits. And the men who run this jail might find out for themselves what it feels like to be inmates. It has happened before, Pekkala, as you have witnessed for yourself. And if things are as bad as I think they are out there, there’s little to stop it happening again.’
‘That may be true, Valery, but you wouldn’t live long enough to see it.’
Semykin frowned. ‘What do you mean, Pekkala?’
‘Before your jailers take to their heels, they’ll kill every convict in this prison.’ Seeing the look on Semykin’s face, Pekkala knew he’d struck a nerve. ‘You hadn’t thought about that, had you?’
Semykin did not reply at first. He stared at his most recent work of art, as if, for a moment, he believed that he might walk through the wall and vanish into the crimson universe beyond. ‘Gustav Engel,’ he said, ‘is the curator of the Königsberg Museum‚ and a world expert on amber.’
‘Why would such an expert find himself in Königsberg?’
‘That city is the ancient capital of the amber trade. For centuries, the Baltic coast has been one of the most reliable sources of amber, but the truth is it is difficult to find no matter where you are.’
‘And why is that?’
‘Because, unlike gold or silver, it does not tend to exist in large deposits. It is fossilised sap, after all, and because a good portion of it washes up on those windswept beaches, the location is determined by the motion of the waves, not where it originally formed into the amber. A mineralogist can look at a soil sample and calculate whether gold might be found in that place, but you cannot look out over the waves and know where the amber is lying beneath them.’
Pekkala thought of the long, windswept beaches of the Baltic coast, the scudding foam and greybeard rollers coughing up their treasure piece by piece.
‘So!’ exclaimed Semykin. ‘Has the red moth yielded up its secrets?’
‘Some‚’ he replied‚ ‘but not all.’ Pekkala went on to explain about the map they’d found embedded in its wings.
‘Have you been to Spain?’ Semykin asked suddenly.
‘What?’<
br />
‘Spain,’ he repeated. ‘Have you ever been there?’
‘No. One day, perhaps, but . . .’ Pekkala replied‚ confused at the abrupt change of topic.
‘When you do go,’ Semykin told him, ‘you must visit the city of Granada.’
‘What does this have to do with Gustav Engel, or the Amber Room?’
‘Everything,’ Semykin assured him. ‘In the city of Granada, there is a palace called the Alhambra. It dates back to a time when the Moors controlled Spain and inside this palace is a mosque whose walls are so ornately carved that if you try to absorb them in a single glance, you will inevitably fail. You have no choice but to study the details instead. And so it is, the Moors believed, with the idea of God. You try to see him all at once, and you will not succeed. So you focus on the details, knowing that you cannot fathom the picture as a whole. It is the same with the Amber Room. You have seen it for yourself, have you not?’
‘Of course,’ replied Pekkala.
‘Then you know that it is not possible to grasp the vast complexity of those thousands of fragments of amber. You might as well try to comprehend the very fabric of the universe. Once in a thousand years, we forget about butchering each other just long enough to create a work of art so much greater than ourselves that it becomes a symbol of achievement for the entire human race. The Amber Room is such a thing.’
Although Pekkala had visited it on many occasions during his time of service to the Tsar, and had seen the amber-laden panels for himself, he had never learned the history of the room. The Tsar had thousands of possessions, most of them priceless and all of them with elaborate tales of provenance. It had always frustrated the Tsar that Pekkala placed so little importance on these works of art, or even on the thousands of bars of gold he had kept hidden in a cell dug deep into the ground beneath the Alexander Palace.
The Tsar had alternately ridiculed and admired the simplicity of Pekkala’s existence and had made a virtual hobby of trying to tempt Pekkala with ornate and expensive gifts as a way of luring him into the fascination held by so many for the lifestyle of the Romanovs.
