by Neil Maresca
A little bell rang as he entered the shop, and almost immediately a small man with half-spectacles balanced on the tip of his nose and a few sparse black hairs combed straight back on an otherwise bald head appeared from behind a curtain and greeted him courteously while trying to avoid staring at his shoes. With his sharp nose, hint of a moustache, and tiny, red-rimmed eyes, he reminded Márton of a rat.
“Good Evening, Father. Can I help you?” the little man asked as he moved from the curtained room to the counter.
The shop was small, like the man; and old, like the man; and empty and forlorn, like the man. Father Márton studied the shop. It had been here a long time, but time had not been kind to it, nor to the man who ran it. Both were threadbare.
“I hope you can,” Márton answered. Your cousin Hugo in Budapest assured me that you were the man for the job.”
“What job is that, sir?” the little man responded, leaning forward. “It has been many years since I heard from my cousin Hugo. I hope he is well.”
“Very well. He sends his regards.”
“He still lives in Ragozy Square?”
“No, he has moved to the Gorovski quarter.”
“Ah yes, I recall now—but you spoke of a job?”
“Yes, I have many miles to travel, and I need sturdy shoes for the journey.”
“I see, of course. You have come to the right place. May I ask where you will be traveling?”
“To Italy and beyond, but your shoes only have to take me as far as Italy.”
“You will pardon me for saying it Father, but your shoes look very sturdy, and a priest should have no difficulty traveling from Croatia to Italy. Is it for some other person that you need the shoes?”
“Yes, the shoes are for a young woman and her son.”
“It will be difficult to make shoes for them without fitting them. Will they be coming to the shop?”
“No, that will be impossible. Will photographs suffice?”
The small man laughed. He laughed and he laughed until tears came to his eyes. “This is a ridiculous game we are playing Father. Let us be honest with each other. You wish to take your Hungarian whore and bastard child to Italy with you to live in the Vatican with all the other…,”
Before he could finish his sentence, Márton reached across the counter and wrapped one strong hand around the small man’s throat, lifted him off the ground and held him, wriggling in the air like a fish on the end of a hook, while he glared at him, and whispered through clenched teeth, “One more word out of your blasphemous mouth and I will send you to Hell with all your sins on your black soul.”
The small man couldn’t have said another word even if he wanted to. Márton held him so tightly that his eyes bulged, his face reddened and his tongue stuck out of his mouth. Despite this, Márton did not loosen his grip until the man’s eyes rolled back in his head. When he saw that the man was close to losing consciousness, Márton released him, letting him fall to the floor in a heap where he lay, gasping for air.
“Perhaps it would be better,” Márton said, “if you limited your comments to the business at hand.”
The small man pulled himself up off the floor, massaged his throat, and in a hoarse whisper said, “Hugo must have told you that I am a shoemaker. I do not make the kinds of shoes that you need. You need a master craftsman, a Maestro, to make the kind of shoes you need.”
“But you know a master craftsman, and you can take me to him.”
“I know one, yes, but I cannot take you to him. I will bring your pictures to him, and I will bring your shoes to you when he has finished with them—but,” he said as he rubbed his thumb and middle fingers together, “you will need to pay.”
Márton took a small diamond out of his pocket and showed it to the shoemaker. “This is for your services. Take it to your Maestro, and tell him there are two more waiting for him upon delivery of the shoes.”
“This is a very small diamond,” the shoemaker observed as he took the stone from Márton’s hand and examined it.
“These are larger,” Márton said as he extracted two sparkling diamonds from the folds of his cassock and held them up to the light so the small man could admire them.
The shoemaker reached for the diamonds, but Márton retracted his hands. “I have shown you these so you can relate their size to your Maestro. They are of the same quality as the small diamond, so he will be able to ascertain their worth.”
“I doubt he will work without payment in advance, no matter what I describe to him.”
“Nevertheless, go to him, show him the diamond I gave you. If he knows gems, he will recognize their value. The diamond is yours to keep, no matter the outcome—but you must go tonight and return with an answer. There is some urgency in this matter.”
“There is always urgency in matters such as this.”
Chapter 17
May, 1944
Town and Country I
Zagreb, Croatia
Ambrose woke Lukas at dawn and sleep-walked him down the hall to a bathroom where he washed himself in ice cold water that shocked him awake. When he returned to his room, he found Ambrose waiting with a clean set of rustic clothing spread out on the bed.
“More suitable for country living,” Ambrose said. “Those city clothes of yours will give you away immediately—besides, Father Márton said you need fresh air and exercise, and you will find these clothes much more comfortable and durable than those fine garments of yours.”
Lukas was used to following directions given to him by adults, even young ones like Ambrose, so he donned his new clothes without comment or dissent, and followed the seminarian through several corridors and down a flight of stairs into a great hall filled with rows of empty tables.
“This is where the monks eat,” Ambrose explained. “At one time there were more than 80 monks in residence here. Now there is only a handful.”
“Where are they,” Lukas asked, looking around at the empty hall.
Ambrose laughed. “Working in the fields, I expect. They rise much earlier than sleepy heads like you.”
Lukas felt his stomach rumbling, and he realized that he was very hungry. “Is there any food left?” he asked.
“This is a monastery,” Ambrose replied. “There’s always plenty of food!”
“Will that be all, Madam?” Petra asked.
Sasha looked over the platter of delicacies that had been placed on the table before her, and said simply, “Yes, that will be all.”
“Will you join me?” she said to Father Márton, who had just taken the seat opposite hers.
“Just coffee, please.” He looked stern, but then, Sasha thought, Father Márton always looked stern.
“How was your evening with the General?” he asked.
“You needn’t worry. My virtue is intact.”
“That is a great relief.”
“Not so great for you as for me, Father. But surely, you did not think that I would succumb to that man’s overtures?”
“Succumb? No. not at all, but subdued—forced, that is what I feared.”
“You had no need to fear that Father,” Sasha said, raising her voice so that Petra, who was listening outside the door, was sure to hear, “The General is too much of a gentleman to force his will upon me.”
Father Márton was quick to understand, and replied in an equally loud voice, “I am pleased to hear it, Countess. I shall rest easier, knowing that you are in the company of a gentleman.”
Sasha picked up a small bell that sat on the corner of the table and gave it a gentle shake. Petra appeared almost immediately.
“Madam?”
“Father Márton finds this food too dainty. Go to the kitchen and see if you can find something more suited to his tastes.”
As soon as Sasha was satisfied that Petra was out of earshot, she told Márton what he came to hear.
“Petra has proven to be quite helpful,” she began. “She told me that the Von Piehls are impoverished and not highly regarded among
the German nobility. Of course, I guessed as much from the letters the General’s uncle sent to Milán. They always contained a plea for assistance of some kind. But, she also told me that the General has prospered since he joined the Nazi party. He is now wealthy and powerful. But, she said, the one thing he craves more than wealth and power—even more than my body—is respectability. And that has eluded him. The German nobility considers Hitler a demented house painter, and most of them have shunned him, despite his popularity with the masses. They tolerate him only because they fear the communists so much. Von Piehl’s embrace of the Nazi party did nothing to improve his standing within his social class; in fact, it may have diminished it.”
“And he sees you as his means to respectability?”
“Apparently so.”
“What do you intend to do?”
“Go shopping. The General informed me last evening that he desired to see me in something other than a black mourning dress. Of course I reminded him that I buried my husband only two days ago, and it would be scandalous of me to be seen in anything other than black. However, there are black dresses, and there are black dresses. So, today, Petra and I are going shopping for a special black dress—one that will impress the General.”
“Inflame him, more likely. Be careful Countess. He didn’t become an SS General by being noble and kind.”
“I am well aware of that Father, but now, you must tell me about my son, and how our plans progress.”
“Lukas is safe and well. He is tucked up in a monastery as we planned. Your new documents are being prepared. I go this afternoon to check on their progress. Do I still have until tomorrow night to get everything arranged? Can you hold off the General until then?”
“Until then, yes, but not much longer.”
Lukas’ belly hurt. He had never seen so much food in one place at one time, and without his mother or Father Márton to stop him, he ate as much as he wanted—which was much more than he should have. And now, to make matters worse, Ambrose was leaping downhill like a mountain goat from precipice to precipice with barely any concern for the trail, which, being narrow and steep, afforded only a small degree of safety. For a boy like Lukas, who was raised on the broad, flat plains of Hungary, and had never seen anything steeper or wilder than the King’s Road which led up from Pest to the castle on Buda, the path that Ambrose had chosen from the monastery to the river below was terrifying.
Lukas stumbled, tripped, slipped, and occasionally fell, but Ambrose who was raised in the mountains, never thought to look back as he leapt joyfully down the slope. It wasn’t until he had reached the river that he noticed that Lukas wasn’t right behind him. He looked up in fear that something had happened to Lukas, but he laughed when he saw how gingerly Lukas was making his way along the trail.
Eventually Lukas arrived at the river, covered with brambles, scratches and dirt, but otherwise unharmed. “I’m sorry Lukas,” Ambrose said. “I had forgotten that you are not familiar with our Croatian hills. But you did well!”
Lukas beamed at the compliment. He looked back up the hill he had just come down. The monastery was barely visible through the trees, and he could hardly make out the path that he had taken. He had done well! For the first time in several days, Lukas allowed himself a smile.
“Look Lukas,” Ambrose said, spreading his arms and slowly turning around to embrace the scenery. “Isn’t it miraculous? When you see this beauty, how can you doubt?”
Lukas looked around. He was standing on the edge of a large, placid, crystal-clear blue lake, surrounded by high, tree-filled hills. To his left, at the far end of the lake, he could see a waterfall framed in a glistening mist. To his right, closed in by steep, tree-laden hills, the lake narrowed to a pencil point until it dissolved into the horizon. The sun lit the lake like a blue fire; birds sang as they soared through the air, and a fish splashed off in the distance. Lukas had to admit, it was beautiful.
“I think Eden must have been like this,” Ambrose said, interrupting Lukas’ thoughts. “Maybe even here. When I walk here, I think I walk with God, like Adam. I think God lives here.”
“Then why do you doubt?”
Ambrose sighed deeply. “Because on the other side of these beautiful hills, in other valleys not much different than this, men are killing each other, and the communists, who deny God’s existence, are gaining ground every day. Soon this beautiful valley will be theirs, and there will be no place for God and me.”
Lukas was 10 years younger than Ambrose, but he felt older, and he felt sorry for him, which was strange, since it was Lukas who had suffered, who had lost so much. Lukas liked Ambrose, envied his innocence, his joy—and although he was too young to completely understand it or express it in words, he knew what Ambrose only suspected, what he feared in those moments of doubt. Lukas knew what was coming.
However, the threat of storm clouds could never keep Ambrose from enjoying a sunny day, and this day was bathed in bright sunshine. Whatever cloud of doubt had passed momentarily over Ambrose’s mind, he quickly disposed of it and, regaining his joyful spirit, stripped and challenged Lukas to follow as he dove naked into the lake.
Lukas stared in amazement as Ambrose alternately swam, flopped, and splashed, all the while laughing hysterically and gesturing for Lukas to join him. Lukas had seen people swimming naked before. The peasants on the estate often did so, but he had never done it. The idea would have been preposterous for a member of his class. His trips to the lake had always been semi-formal affairs, with servants, baskets of food, and, of course, discreet swimming costumes that were almost as cumbersome as their street clothes.
Lukas hesitated, but the day was so beautiful, the water so inviting, and Ambrose so ridiculous, that he put aside his inhibitions, his class-consciousness, stripped his clothes off, and dove headlong into the lake as he had seen the Ambrose do.
Cold didn’t describe it. “It’s freezing!” Lukas shouted as soon as his head popped above water, prompting raucous laughter from the giddy Ambrose.
“In Croatia, we consider this a spa,” he teased. “You Hungarians are soft!”
“I’m not soft,” Lukas retorted, “I’m frozen solid!”
“Move! You’ll warm up!”
Lukas did as Ambrose directed, and soon he was swimming and relaxing, if not comfortably, as least tolerably.
When Lukas had enough, he climbed out of the water followed close behind by Ambrose who pulled two towels out of his rucksack, one of which he handed to a shivering Lukas.
“I hope you have food in that pack,” Lukas said. “I’m starving.”
“No, no food. I have some water, if you’re thirsty.”
“No food! What are we going to eat?”
“Patience Lukas, I have another Croatian treat in store for you.”
“I hope it’s warmer than your Croatian spa.”
“It will be warm. I guarantee it.”
“Where is it?”
Ambrose answered by pointing to a small stream of smoke emanating from a cottage barely visible high in the tree line.
Lukas was dismayed. It looked like a long, hard climb—not at all what he was looking forward to after a strenuous swim. Maybe Ambrose was right. Maybe he was soft. He thought that Father Márton had driven him hard, and that he was in relatively good physical condition, but he was exhausted and Ambrose was hardly even winded.
“Is there food there?” he asked.
“Yes. Delicious, home-cooked Croatian food, and plenty of it.”
Lukas looked up the hill again. He couldn’t even see a path, but he was too proud to say what was on his mind. Instead, he shrugged as if he were unimpressed, and said, “Then we had better get started.”
Father Márton left Sasha’s apartment and headed directly to the shoemaker’s shop. He found it as he had left it the evening before—empty, except for the little rat-faced man standing behind the counter, who, although he had nothing to do, and nothing to hide, managed to look guilty.
Father M�
�rton wasted no time. “When will my shoes be ready?” he asked.
“I’m afraid there’s been a delay,” the man replied.
“What kind of delay?”
“The money kind.”
Márton had no patience for thieves. “You agreed upon a price,” he said in an even tone, without rancor, but it still chilled the little man to the bone, and he shrank back from the counter.
“Yes, Father, but there are complications. The pictures you provided—they are—unusual.”
“They are pictures of a mother and child.”
‘Ah, yes, but not just any mother and child. The Maestro says he will need payment in advance.”
“Perhaps it is time I met this Maestro of yours.”
“That would be difficult. As you can imagine, he is very careful to avoid detection.”
“Nevertheless. I have diamonds, and if he wants them, he will see me.”
“I will do my best.”
“Do it quickly.”
“Come back this afternoon. I will have your answer then.”
If Lukas had been tired after his swim, he was thoroughly exhausted after the climb to the cottage. He could run on the football field all day, and ride a horse on the broad Hungarian plains, but he had never endured such agony as climbing up what Ambrose called a ‘path,’ most of which required a mountain climber’s skill and conditioning. Lukas’ bravado failed him less than half-way up the tortuous slope, and he had to ask for help, which Ambrose, who moved effortlessly from rock hand-hold to ledge to rock, eagerly gave, alternately pulling, pushing, lifting, and finally carrying Lukas to the top, where he now sat, sweating and insect bitten, with his hands and knees bloodied, and his leg muscles burning.
At this moment he hated Ambrose with a child’s hatred for adults who make them do unpleasant things, but as he sat there, recuperating, his anger melted as he realized that for the past hour, he had not thought about his father, or Fargas, or the danger he was in, but had instead concentrated solely on the climb.