The Amber Room (10 page)

The entire spy apparatus, listening stations and all, was being torn down and packed up and shipped a thousand miles to the east, sometimes much farther. Stations were being planned for formerly unheard-of places, borderlands in Poland and Czechoslovakia, even inside Russia, and pointed toward China. Old hands read orders containing their new postings and shook their heads in amazement as their universe was redefined—then got busy with their packing.

Some items, however, were not to be removed in the mass exodus. It was decided, for instance, that it would be easier to restock a minor item like cigarettes at the new locations than to move the supplies already in Berlin. But this relatively minor decision was more complex than it seemed. American soldiers were per capita the largest group of smokers in the United States. Added to that was the fact that there were somewhere around half a million American soldiers, diplomats, agents, and dependants in and around Berlin, and
all
of them bought their butts at the PX's vastly reduced prices.

Given these facts, a minor logistics decision took on somewhat larger implications.

Like how to liquidate two
warehouses
full of cigarettes. Just in Berlin.

Suddenly the official German channels became swamped with offers of cheap smokes. Supermarket chains found faxes waiting for them each morning, the quoted prices dropping at a panic rate the closer it came to pulling-out day. Yet no matter how low the offers dropped, these legal channels could absorb only so many cigarettes.

So when supply officers arrived in the mornings to learn that a hundred thousand packs or so had disappeared into the frozen night, the hunt for thieves was perfunctory. After all, the whole shebang was due for closure in less than three months.

Overnight, therefore, a new product began appearing on the black markets of Poland and the Ukraine—even as far away as Moscow, Budapest, and, if rumor was to be believed, Istanbul. Enterprising traders offered cigarettes that had actually been made in the United States with top-quality American tobacco—and at prices which were equal to or slightly less than the local imitation.

For it wasn't just the Berlin-based warriors who were being shipped Stateside; the same post-Cold War demilitarization was taking place all over Europe, with the same loose trail of cheap tobacco flooding the markets. Polish border guards were eating well these days, their meager income supplemented with bribes from dealers like Kurt.

But that wasn't why the quartermaster continued his foot-stomping inspection of the frozen ground at his feet.

“I read the file three times,” he grumbled. “Can't figure out what you guys want this junk for. I mean, the guy's been dead for forty-seven years! He some friend of yours?”

Kurt made do with a nod, knowing a question had been asked but not at all sure what the man had said. Kurt had decided the quartermaster's blustering was all show. He was going to hand over the documents; he was just easing his conscience. So Kurt waited, stifling his need to shiver. He
could feel the freezing air grab hold of his face and pull the skin taut.

He himself did not know what was so important about these records of an interrogation in a World War II American prisoner-of-war camp of a German soldier who had died of dysentery four months later. All Kurt knew, in fact, was what Ferret had told him—the man's name, his date of birth, date of capture, and date of eternal release. That much was included in the official record Ferret had plucked from his ever-present pile of yellowed documents. It was a copy of the death certificate that should be on top of the file Kurt was bargaining for. It was Kurt's only way of authenticating what was to be passed over.

A shout rose from the darkness behind the trucks. The quartermaster signaled to his men. He stomped across the frozen earth, reached into his inside pocket, and drew out a thin manila envelope. “Let's see the money.”

Kurt pulled out two envelopes and hefted one in each hand. “Cigarettes,” he said, raising the right. Then, raising the left, he specified, “File.”

Erika emerged from the shadows long enough to wave one impatient hand. Kurt handed over the right-hand packet.

With a final oath, the quartermaster gave in to greed and passed over the envelope. Kurt backed off before the money could be grabbed, opened the envelope, drew out the slip of paper from his pocket, and compared it to the top paper in the file. They were the same. He flipped through the aged papers. Three additional pages. Not much for almost the entire profit they would gain from this shipment.

“Read it on your own time, buddy,” the quartermaster said and gestured impatiently for the money.

Reluctantly Kurt handed it over, and wondered at the waste. The man slit the packet with a practiced motion, counted swiftly. Another shout came from the trucks. “Inna minute,” the quartermaster called back. He finished counting and
stuffed the packet in his coat. “Don't ever ask me for stuff like that again.”

Kurt nodded. “Next week, more cigarettes?”

“Maybe,” the quartermaster growled. “I'll be in touch.” He turned and stomped away.

CHAPTER 9

Jeffrey and Katya celebrated the end of her exams by traveling to her mother's home in Coventry. It was a strangely silent trip. Jeffrey found it impossible to do as he wished—to caress the dark, wayward hairs spilling across her forehead, or kiss the line of her neck, or confess that her weeks of absence had positively wounded him. Too much was trapped inside him to come out just then. Even to say he had missed her remained an elusive goal. He made do with brief glimpses into those violet-gray depths, an occasional squeeze of her hand, and fleeting conversation about anything but that which filled his heart to bursting.

“I received a letter from my brother yesterday,” he told her. “The first ever.”

“I'm glad,” she answered, her voice little more than a sigh, a velvet breeze that wafted gently by him. “It's time you two made peace.”

He nodded agreement. “He wrote like there hasn't been any break at all, like it was yesterday the last time we were together. He's going to AA every night, and he's been sober for two hundred days. That's the way he said it, counting it one day at a time. He says he rewarded himself with three chocolate sodas and this letter. And he's started writing poetry.”

“Your grandmother must be very happy,” Katya said.

With that expression of quiet understanding, the dam controlling his emotions and his thoughts threatened to yield. But he could not do it, not then, not without saying it all. And he was determined not to rush, not to push himself upon her when she was still so tired from her studies. So he settled back and said nothing more the rest of the trip.

Once inside the Coventry train station, he gave Katya's gloved fingers a quick squeeze. “I'll be right back.”

When he came running back a few minutes later she asked impatiently, “Where did you go?”

“I remembered something important.”

“What are you trying to hide behind your back?”

“A bag of switches.”

“No, they're not. They're flowers. Did you get those for Mama?”

“Don't tell me she's allergic or something. Breaks out in hives at the sight of a bloom.”

A look from the heart and to the heart passed for a fleeting instant across her features, the first since her return. She raised up on tiptoe and kissed him soundly. Dropping down, she grabbed his hand, swung him around, and said, “Time to go.”

“You're blushing.”

“I said it was time to go, Jeffrey. Mama's waiting. Look, there's a taxi.”

Magda's place was just as he had last seen it—cluttered and hot and overly close. The old woman opened the door, grimaced her greeting, accepted Katya's kiss. Then she hobbled back to her seat on feet swathed in stretch bandages and covered by lumpy support hose. Her dress skewed to starboard, her head was a mop of disorderly gray. Once seated, she said, “Good evening, Jeffrey.”

He was suddenly very shy. “I wanted you to have these.”

She showed genuine surprise. “You brought flowers? For me?”

He made do with a nod.

She accepted the bundle, peeled back the paper, looked a long moment. “Orchids in the middle of winter. And carnations. Did Katya tell you they were my favorites?”

“No, I didn't,” Katya replied, her eyes resting on Jeffrey. “They're beautiful.”

“Yes, aren't they?” She lifted them up to her daughter. “Be a dear and put these in water, won't you?”

When Katya had disappeared into the kitchen, Jeffrey eased
himself into the chair nearest Magda and ventured, “I owe you an apology.”

“I don't recall being offended, young man.”

“It wasn't for anything I said.”

She inspected his face. “My daughter was correct. You are indeed an honest man.” A bony hand covered with age spots reached across and patted his arm. “The flowers are a splendid peace offering. Thank you.”

His heart hammering in his throat, Jeffrey forced himself to say, “I need to ask you something, Mrs. Nichols. Well, two things, if I may.”

“Mrs. Nichols, is it?” She raised her gaze as Katya entered the doorway. “Please leave us alone for a moment longer, daughter.”

“What's the matter?”

“Go see to Ling. He's probably getting lonely out in the back room. The poor thing sings all the time nowadays, and there is no one to listen except me.” Since being deposited in Mrs. Nichols' care last summer, the little bird had become a permanent member of the household. “We won't be long, will we, Jeffrey?”

He shook his head, not willing to look in Katya's direction, and waited for Magda to say, “Very well, young man. I am listening.”

He swallowed. “I love your daughter very much, Mrs. Nichols. I want to ask your permission to marry her.”

“I see.” The piercing gaze did not waver. “And how does my daughter feel about this?”

“I think she agrees. I hope she does.”

“You're not sure?”

“I've learned to take nothing for granted with your daughter, Mrs. Nichols.” He swallowed again. “And I decided that I wanted to ask for your permission first.”

“So. You do me much honor.” The sharp gray eyes crinkled slightly. “Wise and honest and honorable besides. Very well,
young man. You have my blessing. You may return to calling me Magda now.”

He permitted himself a shaky breath. “Thank you.” The words seemed totally inadequate. “I'll try—”

“Yes, yes.” She silenced him impatiently. “I know you will, Jeffrey. Do not embarrass yourself. It is not necessary. Polish women are good nurturers, and my daughter has enough Polish blood in her to make a good wife.” She looked at him a moment. “Katya is most fortunate to have found a man such as you. I hope she realizes it.”

“You're very kind.”

“Not at all, young man. I simply seek to answer honesty with honesty,” she replied. “Now what was the other thing you wished to speak about?”

“May I ask you how you came to faith?”

“What a remarkable question.” The piercing gaze returned. “What an exceptional husband you shall make. Young man, I would have to go back many years and many miles to answer that question.”

“I'd really like to know.”

“Yes, I see that is true. Very well, I shall tell you.” Magda grimaced and shifted one leg. “Would you please be so kind as to place another cushion under my feet?”

“Sure.” He selected a pillow from the pile by the settee, then helped her raise her feet and set the pad in place.

“Thank you so much. Do you know, my very first memory is of pain in those feet.” She stared down at them. “I have not thought of that in years.”

Jeffrey settled back in his chair, immensely glad to have his first question behind him, but too full of the strain to feel any elation—yet. He inspected the sagging, wrinkled features and decided he had seldom seen a more unattractive face, nor one with more determined strength.

“It was around the time of my third birthday. I know because of what my mother told me years later. It is the only memory I retain of my earliest years. Yet it is so clear that
all I have to do is close my eyes and I can still see it, hear it, and feel the cold. We were walking, you see. Or rather, my father was walking. He carried me on his back. He and my mother had lined his knapsack with blankets and placed me inside it. Once I was strapped into place, they began their trek.

“There were seven families on this journey, mostly German Volk who had been hired by distant landowners to come and work on their vast estates. My mother was Polish, from a small village near what then was the German border. I remember that she made the most beautiful lace I have ever seen. My father was a skilled tanner and leather worker. They had worked for a landowner in what today is Hungary, on an estate so big it contained eleven whole villages. But the First World War wiped out much of landowning families' wealth, and the Depression finished them off entirely. Whole regions were starving, cities throughout Europe were filled with bread riots, Communists battled Fascists for power, and peace was nothing but an empty word.

“In 1935 my father and mother, along with six other families related by blood or marriage, decided that if they stayed where they were, they would perish. My mother had a sister who was married to a Polish farmer, a landowner with many serfs, who said in a letter that he would offer us roof and bread and a warm hearth. My father was not pleased with leaving behind a home he had built with his own hands, but a starving man cannot afford the luxury of argument.

“They set off in late October, a week after the letter from Poland arrived. If you have never tried to gather seven men and seven women, along with their children and their grandparents and even a cousin and great-uncle or two, and point them toward an unknown destination, with no money and very little food, you will not understand the arguments and indecisions and hesitations that filled their lives. They were leaving behind the only life they knew, risking everything for a future that was utterly unknown. Still they went, because
as they looked around them they were impressed with the fact that to stay meant to die.