by Sam Eastland
The Tsar had always failed in this endeavour. In failing, however, he had come to realise that Pekkala was one of the only people on this earth whom he could really trust since those who were beguiled by wealth and exclusivity could never be counted upon when the time came to choose between what was right and what nourished the beast of their obsession.
‘Where did the Amber Room come from?’ asked Pekkala.
‘It was commissioned by King Frederick of Prussia, back in 1701. The work was completed by artisans trained in the art of carving ivory, since there had never been a project like this one undertaken before using amber. Unfortunately, the king’s son, Wilhelm, did not share his father’s tastes and gave the room away to Tsar Peter I as a gift. According to legend, it was in exchange for a bodyguard of Russian giants. Not only did Peter have no particular fascination for amber, he had no idea how to assemble the room and quickly gave up trying. As a result, it wasn’t until half a century later that the panels were installed in the Catherine Palace on the orders of Catherine the Great. It was her son, Peter the Great, who became obsessed with the room and its contents. In 1715, he toured the Baltic coast disguised as a regular army officer, buying up amber wherever he could find it. He later incorporated pieces from his own amber collection into the panels, including one containing the perfectly preserved body of a large moth‚ I suspect the same kind depicted in the painting.’
‘How did it end up embedded in the amber?’
‘In prehistoric times, the moth became trapped in the sap oozing out of a tree. The more it struggled, the more enveloped it became, until it was literally embalmed in sap. Over thousands of years, the sap was fossilised into amber, and the insect was preserved inside. Many such things have been discovered in pieces of amber – stones, pine needles, even fish scales.’
‘Where did this piece of amber come from?’
‘According to legend,’ replied Semykin, ‘it had been sold to a Viking by an American Indian on the island of Newfoundland some seven hundred years before. The piece had found its way back to Norway and, in the year 1700, was sold to a merchant in Königsberg by a Norwegian sailor who needed the money to repair his ship, which had been damaged in a storm. And Königsberg is where Peter the Great tracked it down. He paid his weight in gold for that one fragment and had it installed in one of the panels, high up near the ceiling. You can’t actually see the insect unless you get up on a ladder. Peter the Great considered it too precious to be viewed by those who did not value it as he did. Even among those who spent their whole lives working at the palace, most people didn’t know the insect was there.’
‘His weight in gold?’ gasped Pekkala.
‘He would have paid ten times his weight‚’ explained Semykin. ‘That is the nature of the collector. He must possess what he covets, no matter what the cost. It is one of the great failures of our species. Like war. Like the cooking in this prison.’
‘How large a piece of amber was it?’ Pekkala imagined a vast yellow slab, the size of a motor car.
Semykin held up his mangled hand, as if to show the insect embedded in his flesh. ‘No larger than this.’ Until now, he had been smiling, amused at Pekkala’s amazement. But suddenly his face grew serious.
‘How is Engel involved in this?’ asked Semykin.
‘Apparently, the painting was on its way to him when the plane that was carrying it ran out of fuel over our lines. You were there at the Catherine Palace, weren’t you,’ asked Pekkala, ‘when the curators were packing up the art work?’
‘Yes. As I told you before, I helped to prioritise which works of art should be removed first, in case we didn’t have time to transport them all to safety.’
‘Then you know they had to leave the amber behind.’
Semykin nodded grimly. ‘We were sworn to secrecy‚ but I guess none of that matters now. The panels were too fragile. We tried moving one of them, but the amber started coming loose from the panel. It was clattering down around us like hail. Sealing it beneath the wallpaper became our only option. That, and broadcasting on the radio that it had all been moved to safety.’
‘So whoever sent this painting to Engel was trying to let him know the amber’s real location.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Semykin. ‘Only someone very familiar with the history of the Amber Room would know the significance of that moth. And believe me, Engel would know. But this doesn’t change the fact that the panels still can’t be moved without destroying them and even if Engel would love nothing more than to get his hands upon the amber, he can’t just walk in under the noses of the German army and pilfer it like a boy robbing candy from a shop. He is a provincial museum director‚ not Herman Göring. Engel simply doesn’t have the credentials to pull off that kind of stunt.’
‘We believe he may have joined the military.’
‘What? No, you must be mistaken, Pekkala. Engel is not young and he is certainly no soldier! The day may come when the Fascists are desperate enough to enlist men of that age into their army, but as far as I know, it hasn’t happened yet.’
‘We have reason to believe he has joined the SS,’ said Pekkala, ‘although we can’t understand why he might have done so. Comrade Stalin is convinced that the man to whom the painting should have been delivered is not the same Gustav Engel at all, but a completely different man who just happens to have the same last name.’
A shadow seemed to pass behind Semykin’s eyes. ‘The SS, you say?’
‘What is it, Semykin? What’s troubling you?’
‘It may be nothing.’
‘Well, whatever it is, tell me now, before it’s too late.’
‘Long before the war,’ began Semykin, ‘Hitler spoke of his dream to build an art museum in the city of Linz. It was to be the largest of its kind in Europe, perhaps in the whole world. When I first heard about the project, which the Germans called Sonderauftrag Linz, I was glad. Many collections would be changing hands and there would be a need for authenticators like me. But then I heard a rumour that the Nazis had begun sending people all across Europe, posing as art students, but who were, in fact, members of a secret organisation whose mission was to catalogue the names and locations of artworks in every country which the Germans planned to occupy. Then I realised that, if that rumour was true, the Nazis would not be buying art. They would be stealing it. The task of this secret organisation would be to follow behind the German Army, seizing entire collections from private homes, galleries and . . .’
‘. . . and palaces. This organisation. Do you know what it was called?’
‘It is known by the initials ERR, which stands for the Einsatzstab Reichsleiter Rosenberg. But its existence was only a rumour, and there were so many rumours going around, nobody knew what to believe. The whole thing seemed too diabolical to be real, but if you are telling me that Gustav Engel is working for the SS, I think it must be true. That new museum in Linz will soon require a curator. What better credential than delivering the Amber Room to Adolph Hitler could a man like Gustav Engel ever need?’
‘You are forgetting that we intercepted the painting before he could see it for himself. There is still a chance that he will be fooled by the wallpaper and the radio announcement.’
‘If there is anyone on earth who can see through that charade, it’s Gustav Engel. He covets that amber, just as Peter the Great did before him, for the simple reason that amber exists in defiance of time, holding its beauty even as its owners crumble into dust. Each piece is unique and perpetual, qualities all men long to possess. That’s why a Tsar will pay his weight in gold for a slab no larger than my hand. And that’s why a man like Gustav Engel will not stop searching for that amber, until he has bound his name forever to the greatest treasure in the world.’
‘Thank you‚ Semykin‚’ said Pekkala as he turned to leave. ‘You have been most helpful.’
‘Where shall I send the bill?’ he asked sarcastically.
‘The bill has already been paid‚’ replied Pekkala. ‘Be patient Semykin.
Your reward is on its way.’
Late that August afternoon
Late that August afternoon, the members of the 5th Anti-Aircraft Section were sitting in their underwear beside their foxholes, running candle flames up and down the seams of their shirts and trousers to get rid of the lice with which they had become infested. The candle flames sputtered as lice eggs exploded in the heat, filling the air with a smell like burned hair.
The noise of tanks, which they had heard the night before, had ceased. Since no alerts had been sounded, the men assumed it must have been the sound of Russian vehicles.
Only Stefanov remained unconvinced. With gritted teeth, he scanned the trees which saw-toothed the horizon.
A fine rain had begun to fall. Fog drifted across the Alexander Park, gathering in the trees north of the Lamskoy Pavilion.
Commissar Sirko lay in the back of their truck, puffing on one cigarette after another. Smoke slithered from holes in the canvas roof. Now and then, he swatted at mosquitoes with a rolled-up newspaper from his home town of Pskov, which he had been carrying with him, reading and re-reading, since the invasion of Poland almost two years before. The paper was so frail by now that every time he struck an insect, fragments scattered into the air like seeds blown from a dandelion.
This moment of relative peace was interrupted by the rumble of trucks heading east along the Parkovaya road, which ran along the southern edge of Tsarskoye Selo.
‘What’s happening?’ asked Ragozin.
‘Go and find out, Sergeant,’ ordered Commissar Sirko.
Ragozin turned to Barkat. ‘Go and find out,’ he said.
‘Yes, Comrade Sergeant.’ Still in his underclothes, Barkat ran through the woods until he could see passing trucks. For a while he stood there, with his hands gripping the metal railings, watching the vehicles go by and breathing the exhaust-filled air.
Then he spun around and sprinted back to the cabin.
‘All those vehicles are ours,’ said Barkat. ‘It looks as if the whole Division is retreating.’
‘We should get going, too,’ Stefanov told the group.
‘Not so fast,’ growled Sirko. ‘No one has given us permission.’
‘But who do you think they’ll blame,’ demanded Stefanov, ‘if someone else forgot to give the order, and you have done nothing but lie there on your fat arse, without even calling to confirm?’
Barkat and Ragozin stared at Stefanov, slack-jawed with astonishment at the way he had just spoken to a commissar.
Sirko hesitated. ‘Make the call,’ he ordered.
Stefanov was already in motion. Climbing into the back of the truck, he switched on their Golub field radio, a heavy, clumsy thing whose black dials resembled the expressionless eyes of a fish. Stefanov kept one piece of the headphone set pressed against his ear as he tried to get in touch with headquarters. After several minutes of calling into the static, he put the headphones down and reported to Commissar Sirko. ‘No one’s there.’
‘No answer at all?’
‘None, Comrade Commissar.’
Ragozin began putting on his clothes, wincing as the candle-singed cloth burned his skin. ‘That’s it. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I agree with Stefanov. We should leave while we still can.’
‘Do you have any idea what they will do to me if I let us roll out of here without permission?’ asked Sirko.
‘Look!’ shouted Barkat. ‘The others are going, as well.’
It was true. All across the park, gun crews were packing up their weapons. Truck engines roared to life.
‘Perhaps you’d rather take your chances with the Germans,’ Ragozin told Sirko.
The commissar required no further convincing. ‘Load up!’ he bellowed uselessly, since that was what the men were already doing.
Gunfire sounded from the woods north of the Alexander Park. A minute later‚ Russian soldiers appeared, having thrown away their weapons as they retreated. ‘The Germans are right behind us!’ shouted the men as they bolted past. ‘They’re killing everything that moves!’
Stefanov dragged the Maxim machine gun over to the tailgate of the truck. ‘Can somebody help me?’ he asked.
The Maxim, its stocky barrel slathered with layers of bamboo-green paint, was too heavy for one man to lift on his own due to its iron blast shield, designed to protect the person firing the weapon, and the three-wheeled carriage mounting, which allowed it to be towed across the battlefield.
‘Just remove the recoil spring and leave the rest for the Germans!’ ordered Ragozin, as he climbed into the back of the ZiS-5. ‘Let them break their backs trying to carry that thing around!’
Meanwhile, Barkat got behind the wheel. He pressed the ignition switch, but the engine would not start.
The sound of gunfire was growing louder.
The truck engine coughed.
‘Oh, please!’ Ragozin clasped his head in his hands.
Stefanov grabbed hold of the Maxim’s towing bar and began dragging it back towards the foxhole.
‘What are you doing?’ barked Sirko. ‘I told you to abandon it!’
‘I know,’ said Stefanov. He pulled the Maxim gun into the foxhole and aimed it in the direction of the German advance.
Ragozin gaped at him, struggling to comprehend. ‘Stefanov, have you gone mad?’
‘They’re coming in too quickly,’ he replied, nervously etching his thumb along the Maxim’s barrel, where a line of bubbles, like varicose veins, had formed beneath the paint. ‘Somebody’s got to slow them down or you’ll never get out of the park.’
A stray bullet struck the cowling of the ZiS-5, tearing a pale stripe into the metal.
The truck’s engine coughed again. This time it started.
Barkat revved the motor. Thick black smoke poured out of the tail pipe.
They heard voices shouting in German, somewhere out among the dense thickets of trees.
‘Stefanov!’ In frustration, Barkat slammed the flat of his hand against the door, making a hollow boom which echoed among the trees. ‘Let someone else slow them down.’
‘There is no one else,’ Stefanov said as he opened an ammunition box and fitted a belt of bullets into the Maxim. ‘Go. I’ll find you.’
Commissar Sirko leaned out of the passenger side, glanced at Stefanov, then sat back inside the truck and shouted, ‘Drive!’
For one more second Barkat hesitated. Then he floored the accelerator and the vehicle began to move, slewing around in the wet grass. In a few seconds, it had disappeared down a weed-choked trail that led to the southern entrance of the estate.
Ahead of Stefanov, among the trees, boots crackled on fallen twigs. He heard whispering and hunched down behind the gun. Stefanov was surprised to find that he was not afraid. Later, if there was a later, he knew the fear would come and, once it had, it might never leave, but for now he felt only a shuddering energy coursing through his body and his thoughts raced back and forth inside his skull, like a school of fish trapped in a net.
A few seconds later, he saw movement in the mist. There was no mistaking them – the grey-green uniforms, the sharply angled helmets. The German soldiers were bunched together in a line. They advanced at a walking pace, rifles held out in front of them as if they meant to sweep aside the mist using only the barrels of their guns.
Next to his boot, a garter snake slipped dryly through the leaves.
Stefanov’s eyes filled with sweat. He tried to swallow but couldn’t. One soldier was walking straight towards him. He seemed to materialise out of the fog.
Clearly now, Stefanov could see the man’s unshaven face, the grey pebbled tunic buttons, the thick, greased leather belt, the creases in the leather around the ankles of the man’s jackboots, the blood-drained flesh beneath his dirty hands as they clenched a Mauser rifle.
The man kept walking.
A few more paces and he would have tumbled into Stefanov’s foxhole.
Stefanov himself felt frozen, unable to comprehend why he hadn’t yet bee
n spotted.
Suddenly the soldier stumbled to a halt. For a moment, he just blinked at the figure hidden in the undergrowth. Then he opened his mouth to cry out.
The Maxim seemed to go off by itself. Everything ahead of Stefanov became a blur of smoke and flickering brass from the empty cartridges which spun into the air and rained back upon him, pinging off the barrel of the gun. Birch and pine branches cascaded down. All the while the cloth belt which had held the bullets spewed from the side of the gun like the shed skin of a snake. Stefanov’s hands ached from the vibration of the gun. His lungs filled with cordite smoke. He had no idea if he was hitting anything.
Then the clanking bang of the Maxim suddenly quit. All Stefanov could hear were the last few empty cartridges ringing as they clattered to the ground.
Stefanov looked down at the ammunition crate. It was empty. The ground on which he knelt was a carpet of spent cartridges, tiny feathers of smoke still drifting from their opened mouths. The Maxim’s barrel clicked and sighed as it began to cool.
In a daze, Stefanov stood up from behind the gun and stumbled out among the twisted dead. He counted twelve of them. Their bodies were horribly torn. More lay back among the bullet-gashed trees. He saw the shiny hobnails on their boots.
Then he saw that one of the soldiers had remained on his feet. The man’s tunic was torn open. Beneath that, from a large wound ripped into his stomach, the soldier’s entrails had unravelled to the ground. Slowly, he took off his helmet, its green paint smeared with a camouflage of mud. He got down on his knees, as if he meant to pray, then carefully gathered up his guts into the shell of the helmet. His lips moved but he made no sound. The man climbed to his feet and started walking back towards the German lines. He had only gone a few paces before he fell face-down on the pine needles.
Shouting echoed through the pines. More soldiers were advancing through the woods.
Stefanov turned and ran, dodging like a rabbit through the trees, and caught up with the truck at the southern end of the park, just as it was passing the Crimean War memorial. He tumbled into the back among the Golub radio, ammunition for the 25-mm and a terrified Sergeant Ragozin.
