“Fifteen years later, when Poland and Russia signed one of their Friendship Treaties, Poland asked them to re-instate the transportees, or at least those who had survived. My mother came home first. My stepfather had been sent to work in some other place and she had not seen him for seven years. He came home a month later and died three days after his arrival.”
She returned and served them steaming glasses from a cheap tin serving tray. Through Katya she continued. “My grandmother had become sick on the trip to Siberia. They were traveling in cattle cars with no heat and little food. At one point the guards grew tired of her moans, opened the doors, and threw her from the train.”
The woman went back to the kitchen. As she rummaged away from view she said, “Before she left for Siberia, my grandmother gave me her valuables. I was the only grandchild. Although I was quite young I knew that she was going and would never come back, so I didn’t want to take them. I was hoping that if I refused she would have to either stay or return and give them to me later. But she insisted, and because I loved her I finally agreed. The jewelry I sell bit by bit, all except her wedding ring, which I wear as my own. That I will wear to my grave in memory of her and of my husband.”
She returned with a crumpled plastic ice cream carton that she handed to Jeffrey. It still held the cold of the freezer. He hefted it, and felt the solid weight shift around.
The woman peered at him through thick lenses. “My son-in-law lost his job when his factory closed down, and my daughter is pregnant again.” The edges of her mouth pulled up in a vague smile. “I am soon to take a trip to a place much farther away than Siberia. It would have been nice to leave these remaining pieces to my own granddaughter, but the money is needed. Perhaps she will remember me some other way.”
* * *
“I am so glad you could join me,” Dr. Rokovski gushed as Katya and Jeffrey entered the restaurant.
“What a charming place,” Katya said, admiring the beamed ceiling. “Isn’t it, Jeffrey?”
“Mmmm.” He shook Rokovski’s hand and allowed himself to be ushered to a small quiet table upstairs in the Restaurant Wierzynek, one of Cracow’s finest, located in a corner of the main market square. Jeffrey sat down, barely holding on to his impatience. It was not a good day for a three-hour dinner. Alexander had not appeared all day. When Jeffrey rang his room that afternoon he had received no reply. In a panic he had rushed over to Gregor’s, fearing the worst, to find his friend limping about the tiny apartment, absolutely certain in his faith that Alexander was both all right and exactly where he should be—alone.
To top it off, the export documents had not been approved. Only Katya’s insistence kept him from simply asking Rokovski for the crucial papers. He had held to his side of the bargain. There was work to be done. Too much for the time available. And now this.
“It is one of my favorites,” Rokovski said. “I’m enough of a patriot to believe that history can add a special aroma to the best of food, and believe me, this restaurant holds claim to both.”
“I love it,” Katya said, clearly determined to retain her buoyant mood.
“I’m sure this has been quite a day for all of us,” Rokovski said.
“And busy,” Jeffrey added, jerking back when Katya kicked him under the table.
“No doubt. And I am indeed grateful that you would take the time to join me here. Some things, I am sure you will understand, are better discussed in the privacy of a public place.” Rokovski showed pleasure at his own remark. “I am happy to report that the painting is now safely locked away in my own office cabinets.”
“We are certainly glad to have been of some small assistance, aren’t we, Jeffrey,” Katya said.
After recrating the Rubens with the students’ paintings, Rokovski scrawled a note on the archive card stating that the referenced paintings were being assigned to the ministry. Once they were back upstairs, he instructed the curator to have the crate delivered to his office. He wanted to use these relatively unimportant paintings, he explained, to test a new chemical conservation process proposed by the American group.
“Now then,” Rokovski said. “If you would allow me to order for you.”
Jeffrey waited through an endless discussion between Rokovski, a smiling Katya, and a theatrical waiter. Rokovski eventually turned back to him and said, “This restaurant used to be the private residence of Nicolaus Wierzynek, a very powerful member of the regional government. In 1364 Cracow was the site of the Great Conference of Monarchs, and Nicolaus was allowed to host the senior visitors for several dinners. Just think, my young friend, here in this very room sat the King of Denmark, the Holy Roman Emperor, the Prince of Austria, and the Polish King Casimir the Great. The food was so lavish and the service so faultless that it was decided then and there to make the place an eating establishment upon his death. And so it has been for over six hundred years, making it one of the oldest restaurants in all the world.”
“How fascinating,” Katya replied. “A bit of living history.”
Jeffrey tucked his legs far under his seat and said, “Dr. Rokovski, we are now booked to leave Cracow for London the day after tomorrow.”
“We will certainly be sorry to see you depart,” Rokovski said.
“Yes. Thank you. The thing is, when I went by the ministry this afternoon, they said that my export license was still being held by your office.”
“Ah,” Rokovski smiled. “The license.”
“Yes, sir. I was wondering if maybe I could come by and pick it up first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, of course. But I was wondering if I might impose upon you one further time.”
Jeffrey felt his stomach sink a notch. “Impose?”
“Yes. Could you perhaps take along a little excess baggage?”
“How much is a little?”
“It would be quite a small parcel, actually. Perhaps the size of this table?” His eyes retained their smile. “Quite flat. Not heavy.”
Jeffrey cast a glance at Katya, astonished to see that she was watching Rokovski with round eyes. “You mean the size of a painting?”
“Precisely.” Rokovski leaned across the table. “Not officially, you understand. I want you to smuggle it.”
“You want—”
“For the ministry,” Rokovski went on, his voice pitched low. “We cannot possibly be seen selling a Rubens masterpiece. We would be announcing to the world that we are paupers. It would be taken as a willingness to exchange the priceless for mere money. But we are, you see, truly bankrupt. Our coffers at the ministry are empty. Our roofs leak. Our finest works are deteriorating so badly that some I fear can never be restored. And so much more needs to be done. You saw the condition of the museum vaults, our inventory, our security, the primitive level of our efforts.”
His voice was quietly intense. “And then there is my big dream. No art in Poland has suffered so much in the past fifty years as that of our churches. I have blueprints for the renovation of an unused portion of Vavel Castle, which would house some of the finest religious paintings and statuaries in all of Europe. Of course, we could barely afford even the blueprints, to say nothing of the enormous restoration required by some of these pieces. I will not horrify you with stories of how they have been abused these past five decades.”
They waited while the waiter arranged their plates; then Jeffrey asked, “So how am I supposed to smuggle this out?”
“Your export documents will include a letter from my office thanking you for the most kind offer to display some of our students’ artwork in your fine establishment.” Rokovski positively beamed. “The painting in question has already been placed back inside its home of the past forty years.”
Jeffrey thought it over, decided it was workable. “How would you like us to send you the money after selling the painting?”
“You will not send it to me at all. A foundation has already been established for donations to the new museum wing for religious art. I would simply expect to find one m
orning that a large anonymous donation has been made to our foundation.”
Jeffrey looked around the restaurant as he ran the idea through his mind. “I don’t see any problem with that.”
Rokovski visibly relaxed. “I must tell you, Mr. Sinclair, I was most worried about taking up such a crucial and sensitive matter with someone I had only just met. But Mr. Kantor spoke very highly of you, and I am beginning to see why.”
“I think this is something that Mr. Kantor would agree with fully,” Jeffrey replied. “It’s a pleasure to act on his behalf.”
“As it is for us to work with you. I need not tell you that a successful resolution of this matter will pave the way for our future assistance wherever and whenever you might require it. I think you will find us to be very good friends, Mr. Sinclair. Very good friends indeed.”
CHAPTER 26
Jeffrey and Katya entered the hotel lobby on their final morning in Cracow to find Alexander seated near the front entrance, puffing contentedly on a cigar, looking positively peaceful. He rose to his feet, gave Katya a small bow. “Good morning, my dear. Jeffrey.”
“Good morning, Mr. Kantor,” Katya replied. “How are you feeling?”
“Better. I must say that I do indeed feel better.”
“You look it,” Jeffrey declared.
“Yes, I am happy to say that I rose with the dawn, ate a breakfast fit for a king, and have since been seated here thoroughly enjoying both the morning and this fine cigar.”
“We have been praying for you,” Katya said quietly.
Alexander looked at her for a long moment. “I cannot tell you how happy I am that my young friend and assistant has found you, my dear.”
Katya slipped a soft hand into Jeffrey’s. “Thank you.”
“It is I who am grateful. To both of you.” He looked at Jeffrey. “I understand from Gregor that you are due for a final meeting with Rokovski.”
“In twenty minutes.”
“Might I come along?”
“Of course.”
“Excellent.” He turned to Katya. “Gregor asked me to convey an invitation to accompany him to one of his orphanages. He thought you might like to have a chance to see his little charges.”
“That would be wonderful. I imagine you two could use some time alone as well.” She raised herself up on tiptoes and kissed Jeffrey. “Until later, then.”
“Have an excellent morning, my dear,” Alexander replied, bowing at her departure. He watched her leave through the front doors. “A most remarkable woman. Am I correct in detecting a change in the atmosphere between you?”
“This trip has been important in a lot of ways,” Jeffrey replied.
“Indeed it has.” Alexander gazed at him fondly. “I am very proud of you, Jeffrey. You have handled yourself tremendously well.”
“Thanks. I’ve really enjoyed myself.”
“One often overlooked element of success is the ability to enjoy your work.”
Jeffrey shook his head. “I can’t get over how much better you look.”
“Thank you. Yes, I have indeed suffered through a very dark night. But I am allowing myself to hope that dawn has finally arrived.” He leaned over, put out his cigar, said, “Perhaps we should be going, and you can fill me in along the way.”
* * *
Rokovski was absolutely delighted to see Alexander enter his office with Jeffrey. “Mr. Kantor! How excellent to see you. I do hope that your health is better.”
Alexander accepted the proffered hand, replied, “Nie mozna narzekac. I cannot complain. Thank you for asking.”
“And Mr. Sinclair.” Rokovski rewarded him with a genuine smile. “Would you gentlemen care for tea?
“Well,” Rokovski said once they were seated and served, “as they say in the spy novels, my friend, mission accomplished.”
“Indeed,” Kantor replied. “I have been most pleasantly surprised by the way events have unfolded.”
“You have received copies of all the necessary export documents, Mr. Sinclair?”
“Everything is perfect,” Jeffrey effused. “They were waiting for me at the ministry yesterday morning. Thank you again for your help.”
“On the contrary, I am immensely grateful to know that we have begun what shall no doubt be a long and mutually beneficial relationship.” Rokovski glanced at his watch. “I was informed that your shipment left on time yesterday, once the export documents were processed. It should be crossing the border at Frankfurt an der Oder just about now. No news is good news, so I’m sure all is well.”
“Thanks to you,” Alexander said. “We are very pleased to know that we have friends such as yourself upon whom we can rely.”
“It is I who am pleased, Mr. Kantor. I cannot tell you how much this means, not only to me and to Cracow, but to all of Poland.”
“It is always an honor to do something for Poland,” Alexander replied. “There is one further point that my young associate thinks should be mentioned before we conclude our business.”
“Of course,” Rokovski replied, giving Jeffrey a sincere smile.
“We will naturally handle this sale of the painting in the most confidential of manners. My associate has an excellent working relationship with a major dealer. She has expressed a keen interest in acquiring items which are not intended for either public auction or display.”
“An American,” Jeffrey added. “Very professional, and very discreet.”
Rokovski nodded approval. “Exactly what we require.”
“But it is necessary to warn you,” Alexander continued, “that with the same Rubens allegedly hanging in the museum of Vavel Castle, there is always the risk that at some time in the future an expert might be sent to inspect your painting. If he or she concludes that yours is indeed a forgery, it would be impossible to insure that the news will not leak out.”
“Well, my friend,” Rokovski replied, turning expansive, “I’m afraid it won’t be me the expert will be visiting.”
“I don’t believe I understand,” Alexander said.
“I told your young colleague about my big dream. I had a second big dream, which will come as no surprise to you. And that is the accumulation of as many Polish works of art and antiques as possible to restore our heritage. I’m sure you are familiar that museums regularly exchange paintings to complete one special collection or another. For many months I have been negotiating with the state museum of Moscow for the return of a series of paintings by Matejko. These paintings, I might add, each occupy one entire wall of the exhibition rooms.”
“Brilliant,” Kantor murmured. “Absolutely brilliant.”
“They disappeared from Poland just after the Red Army arrived in 1945. The Cracow museum authorities were given some lame excuse about their being transported to Moscow for safekeeping. I have been struggling to find something from our collection that they might be willing to take in trade, but was getting nowhere. Shortly after Mr. Sinclair met with me, it occurred that a Rubens might pique their curiosity.”
“My friend,” Kantor said, “you have made your country proud.”
“Needless to say,” Rokovski went on, smiling broadly, “they were absolutely delighted. Being the gentleman that I am, I insisted that they send their top Old Master expert to authenticate it. I mentioned to them on the phone that over the years there had been some rumblings about the painting’s authenticity, and I would not want them to be disappointed.”
“Of course not.”
“The expert arrived here yesterday, and his initial report is most positive. It appears that Moscow is anxious to take advantage of our offer before we wake up and realize how one-sided it is. We have just this morning heard that the six Matejkos are already being crated for shipment. They will be unveiled at a special exhibition commemorating the Vavel Castle’s thousandth anniversary.”
Alexander returned his smile. “It is a pity that your coup will have to remain in secret. You deserve a hero’s reward.”
“I shall receive my rewa
rd every time I stand before the Matejkos, and as I watch my new museum wing for religious art take shape.” Rokovski stood with his guests, walked around his desk, took Alexander’s hand in both of his. “My friend, Poland shall never perish.”
“As long as we are alive,” Alexander replied solemnly.
They stood together for a moment before the director released Alexander’s hand and reached for Jeffrey’s. “Mr. Sinclair, I shall look forward to many further opportunities to work with you.”
“Nothing could give me more pleasure,” Jeffrey replied.
Rokovski ushered them downstairs, bowed them through the main portals, shut the door behind them. Once they were back on the street, Jeffrey stood and blinked in the sunlight, said, “I can’t believe it’s over.”
“A job well done.” Alexander’s eyes were moist. He looked straight across the market square, a slight smile on his features.
“What’s next?”
“There is a small church not far from here,” Alexander replied. “My mother used to go there when I was young. I believe I might like to stop by for a moment.”
“Sure. I love these old churches. Which one is it?”
Alexander motioned out over the square, out beyond the colorful market stalls and the throngs of people and the flower sellers, out across the expanse of history. “Just on the other side of Florian’s Gate,” he said.
Acknowledgments
While Florian’s Gate is indeed a work of fiction, I have tried very hard to remain true to the actual situation I found in the newly liberated lands of Eastern Europe. The learning process that unfolded during my trips, as well as during the preparatory work done before traveling, was both challenging and rewarding. I found myself being forced to rethink much of the perspective I have inherited from my Western culture, and as a result I feel that I have been granted a unique opportunity to grow and develop both as an individual and as a Christian.
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