The Amber Room (17 page)

The
Haus der Glocke
, or Bell House, was a closet-sized shop halfway along the bridge. A cheerful little bell above the door announced their entry. They stood in the minuscule patch of free floor space and looked around. Gradually the shop's clutter took on a certain cramped order. Along the walls stood a glass-fronted display case for pocket watches, a glass-topped table for old ivory and meerschaum pipes, and another for rolling pins etched with household scenes from the last century. One corner cupboard held pewter, another antique jewelry. Higher up, decorative household items battled for shelf space with old silver serving pieces. Two wall cabinets displayed clocks, and a third showed off miniature oils in ornate cases. Hand-wound gramophones on ornately carved legs elbowed against antique dolls and horsehair footstools.

Katya looked around and declared, “This is a happy shop.”

“Full of memories of better times,” Jeffrey agreed. “Two of the clocks in that cabinet are museum-quality pieces, as well.”

A slender man with thin strands of snow-white hair appeared from what Jeffrey had dismissed as a broom closet and now realized was the shop's office. “Herr Sinclair?”

“That's me. Herr Diehl?” Jeffrey shook hands. The slender fingers held a surprising strength. Katya exchanged a handshake and introductions with their host and translated for Jeffrey. “He is delighted that we have found our way to his little shop.”

“Ask him if we are allowed to carry off those two clocks on the top shelf over there.”

The spark of a dealer's heart showed in Herr Diehl's eyes as Katya translated. She told Jeffrey, “He is very glad to hear that Frau Reining was correct as to your eye for quality as well.”

“As well as what?”

“Honesty is a most valuable commodity in such uncertain times,” Herr Diehl replied through Katya.

“It's a good way to begin business,” Jeffrey agreed. “On both sides.”

Herr Diehl motioned for them to follow him. They skirted a narrow mirror-backed cabinet crowded with porcelain figurines and discovered a claustrophobic stairway that etched a passage along the house's back wall.

The stairs creaked and groaned under the dealer's weight. They were so narrow that Jeffrey found it necessary to turn sideways. The stairs emptied into a single cramped chamber floored with bare, ancient planking and a thick coat of dust. Lighting came from one bare bulb and a single tiny window. Yet the poor surroundings could not detract from the glory of the pieces awaiting inspection.

“I judged these to be of collector's quality,” Herr Diehl said through Katya. “Articles that would require a larger showcase than what I could manage here in Erfurt.”

“You judged correctly,” Jeffrey agreed solemnly and approached the first piece, a secretary-cabinet constructed of solid walnut, with other light woods inlaid in a series of delicate floral patterns framed by mosaic swirls.

Lines tended to blur between lands and eras in Central European antiques. Wars and revolutions had redrawn national boundaries and allegiances, often with dizzying speed. With each change, woodworkers and silversmiths and ironmongers and jewelers had adapted anew to the tastes of those who could afford to buy. In the space of a century, therefore, the style of locally produced pieces had changed from Florentine to Russian, from Austro-Hungarian to Prussian, from French to Persian. This particular piece was German, probably from the eighteenth century, but executed in Italian Rococo style.

The second article was most likely eighteenth-century Austrian in design, as the Austro-Hungarian empire dominated much of central Europe at that time. The inlay was subtly crafted to suggest a patriotic figure within swirls of clouds. Done during an era of occupation, when overt patriotism to anything but the empire was punishable by death, it was a most ingenious piece.

There were three pieces from the Baroque period, the name given to the Renaissance in countries north of the Alps. One was a remarkable chest hand carved in the shape of a vase, narrow legs rising and expanding to a pair of drawers that both broadened and curved outward in gentle waves. The piece was made from wild cherry wood, the original fittings of dark bronze fashioned like draping sprigs of ivy. Another chest of drawers, also constructed of cherry, displayed the traditional Baroque curved front. Beside it was a late-Baroque commode with typically extravagant Rococo inlay in the form of Grecian urns. This piece, too, was solid cherry.

A great deal of cherry had been used in central European furniture around that time. Four hundred years ago, several royal decrees had ordered all roads to be lined with cherry trees. As the neighboring cities expanded and required larger roads, however, these trees had gradually been chopped down and fashioned into furniture. Cultivated trees like these were known for their smooth, long grain, as contrasted with the cramped, gnarled grain for wild cherry.

The final item was a woman's bureau, signed and dated 1809, and again carved from solid cherry. It was a piece made to stand alone, to draw the eye of everyone who entered the chamber. The finish was Empire at its best, simple and silken, accenting a wood so fine as to hold a jewel-like shimmer.

Jeffrey straightened from his perusal, released a breath he felt he had been holding on to for hours. “Magnificent,” he declared.

The dealer showed a trace of anxiety and asked through Katya, “You would like to take them?”

“Every article you have here will be a valuable addition to our shop,” Jeffrey replied flatly.

The man released a sigh of his own. “Then my own assessment was correct.”

“I will need a second opinion on a couple of the more valuable items, and all of them will require a closer inspection before appraising,” Jeffrey said. “But my first assessment is that you have brought together an excellent group.”

“That is good news. Excellent news. You will make many people very happy.” Herr Diehl appeared at a momentary loss. “You can perhaps accept more furniture?”

“Of this quality?” Jeffrey permitted himself a smile. “As much as you can deliver. No problem.”

The dealer puffed out age-dappled cheeks, said, “You cannot imagine the difference between this discussion and those I have had with other Western dealers.”

“Maybe I can.”

“Yes, perhaps so.” Through Katya he went on, “I have spent hours trying to fathom what on earth they were talking about as they inspected the undersides of drawers and ran their hands over nailheads and questioned provenance. Is that what you call it, provenance? The history of the owners.”

“Provenance, yes,” Jeffrey replied, and added, “All of that we will need to do as well, but not now. Yet even if the provenance proves questionable and it turns out we are looking
at articles pieced together over several different eras, which I doubt, their quality is still enough to warrant a high price.”

“Not according to your competitors.”

“They were offering you a flat sum?”

Herr Diehl nodded. “And making it sound as if they were doing me an enormous favor.”

Jeffrey gave silent thanks for his competitors' greed. “I'll have to get down on my knees before I can say anything for sure, Herr Diehl. But my first guess is that you've got well over two hundred thousand dollars in furniture up here. After commissions.”

“So much,” he murmured.

“I try to keep my first estimates conservative.” Jeffrey weighed his alternatives, decided now was not the time to hold back. He pointed toward the Empire secretary and the cabinet with the dreamlike patriotic inlay. “There is a good chance those two pieces alone will fetch over that figure.”

“If you can speak with such decisive authority, Herr Sinclair,” the dealer replied, “then so can I.” He extended his hand once more. “I shall look forward to doing business with you for years to come.”

“Likewise,” Jeffrey replied.

Herr Diehl then became the formal host. “My shop is unfortunately too cramped for us all to sit and talk comfortably. May I invite you to a nearby cafe?”

Jeffrey and Katya allowed themselves to be led back down the narrow stairs. Herr Diehl ushered them outside, locked up his shop, and started toward the bridge's far end. As they walked Katya said to Jeffrey, “He speaks a beautiful German. I wish you could understand it.”

“Your translation sounds almost courtly.” He motioned toward the ancient structures lining the bridge. “It fits the surroundings.”

Herr Diehl beamed as Katya translated. “For a number of years, there was little with which I could occupy my mind, as the only work permitted me was hand labor. So I read. I
read the Bible. I read everything I could find about antiques. It was an excellent way of immersing myself in times where troubles such as mine did not exist. I also read classical German literature, Goethe especially. There was a man who made heavy Germanic tones sound light and graceful as an aria.”

“Frau Reining mentioned that it had been hard for you as a believer under the Communists,” Jeffrey said.

“All Christians in this country had their own experience,” Herr Diehl replied. “There were some imprisonments, yes, but in truth they were a minority. On the other hand, if you accepted Christ into your life, you
knew
what your lot would be. There was no question. You would lose your public name. You would never be granted a position that held any power of decision or authority over others. Promotions would be permanently blocked. You would wait weeks, months, years, for the simplest of government documents, even a driver's license. You would never be considered for new housing, no matter how many children you might have or how great was your need. Your family would suffer as a result of your action, from the eldest to the youngest, without exception. Your children would never be permitted to receive a higher education. Yet all this became, in a sense, normal for us. There was no question but that this would happen, you see. It came as no surprise. This was the way of life in our country for so long. You entered into such a decision with your eyes open.

“Under the Communists,” Herr Diehl went on, “there were enough Christians in the cities for us to find comfort. The situation in the villages was far worse. A few women attended services, those who were too old or too insignificant for the Stasi to trouble over. Priests and ministers were barely tolerated by the local citizens, and they often went weeks without a friendly word from anyone outside the handful of believers. If asked, I suppose most villagers would have said that, yes, it was probably good to have a pastor around, for funerals and such. But not for them and not for now; they had to worry too much and work too hard just to survive
in this life. There were frequent suicides among ministers, which the state made sure received nationwide publicity as a way to declare all who believed in God, even the preachers, to be mentally unstable.

“In the cities, with their larger populations of believers, the situation was different. The state gave us no choice but to get along, to form ourselves into a unified body. Minor disagreements over personality or style of worship fell into insignificance when faced with the issue of our very survival.”

They arrived at the bridge's far end, which was anchored by a miniature church of ancient brick, so small as to appear a replica made for little children. “This is the Aegidien Church, erected in 1125 as a sanctuary for travelers and resident merchants alike.” Herr Diehl led them to a cafe set slightly below the level of the bridge proper. “This was originally a small monastery, a standing invitation to the weary and the hungry and the fearful to turn from the world of money and peril and woes.”

The door was narrow and little over four feet high, the stone walls almost three feet thick. Inside, the ceilings were arched and colonnaded, the floor stones sanded down by eight hundred years of use. Lighting came from ancient bronze torch holders adapted to electricity.

They selected a tiny alcove whose picture window overlooked the pedestrians. Herr Diehl ordered sandwiches and tea for them all. The waiter returned swiftly with a tiny saucer piled with a reddish dust. Katya and Herr Diehl shared a smile at the sight.

“What is it?” Jeffrey asked.

“Paprika and salt,” Katya replied. “It's for our sandwiches.”

“Why is that funny?”

“It's something from the old regime. Pepper was rare, especially in government-controlled restaurants where they couldn't charge for it. Pepper had to be imported. Paprika could be grown here, so it was often served as a substitute. I think it tastes horrible.”

Herr Diehl spoke, and Katya translated it as, “These are lingering signs of what once was everywhere. We are able to smile at them now because the shadow is gradually drawing away.”

Jeffrey asked Katya, “Do you think it would be all right to ask how he became a Christian? I don't want to offend him or anything, so please don't—”

In reply, Katya turned and spoke in a language made graceful by her lilting voice. Herr Diehl seemed genuinely pleased by the question and replied at length.

“Some stories are easier to end than to begin,” he said. “I know that the ending arrives when I have opened the eyes of my heart and known the presence of the Lord. The beginning is somewhat more difficult, as it resides in the confusion that was everyone's life at the end of the war.”

Jeffrey shook his head. “I love the way he talks.”

“You should hear it in the original,” Katya said.

“The crippling of my beloved Berlin began about two years before the Russians arrived,” Herr Diehl told them. “I was two years old, and the year was 1943. Our home at that time was a large apartment building with an inner courtyard in the city center. Still today I remember the British and American bombing raids so well, so vividly. Still I can see the planes overhead, great, booming sheets of hundreds and hundreds of metal birds.

“Every night they came. It was all automatic after a few months of the bombing, our reactions. The sirens would start. I would rub the sleep from my eyes, and wait for my mother to come and take me from my crib. I had a little wooden toy car, green and gold, and I made it my responsibility to carry the car downstairs. My mother and my father had their packed suitcases and their little carry-sack of provisions. I had my little toy car.