But the Ossies themselves felt they were seeing only the tiniest trickle of all this wealth. Their wage levels, when they could find jobs, remained frozen at forty percent of that of Wessie workers on the same jobs—and Ossie prices were now at Wessie levels. The Porsche 928s and Mercedes 600s they were seeing with increasing frequency on their newly repaired roads bore Wessie license plates and were driven by their new Wessie bosses.
The Ossie tabloid press took great glee in throwing out infuriating little snippets about who was really growing rich on all this supposed rebuilding. They greeted the Ossies each morning with the news that there was now a five-year waiting list for the hundred thousand dollar BMW 850i. That the West was seeing a boom for new luxury housing like nothing in the country’s history. That Cartier jewelers sold more gold and diamonds and emeralds in the former West Germany than in the rest of the world combined.
While this went on, they stood helpless in the face of public shame. Every day, another lake in former East Germany was declared dead from overpollution. Each night, commentators monitored reports on another twenty thousand, thirty thousand, two hundred thousand Ossie employees who had been fired from jobs found to be totally profitless, totally without value to the new German federation. The Ossies sat in their little rooms and felt themselves growing smaller, their lives ever more meaningless. They watched, helpless and failing, as their entire way of life was slowly strangled away.
The Ossies knew what was happening. Years of Communism did not make them dumb, only bitterly suspicious. To their eyes, everything pointed toward the fact that the Ossies were being doled out crumbs, like beggars at a rich man’s table.
And daily their resentment grew.
“It was one of the things we learned best, wasn’t it,” Erika replied. “How to endure.”
Birgit did not deny it. “They arrested everyone who worked at the Berlin prison. Everyone. Right down to the,” she hesitated, then settled on “guards.”
“I heard,” Erika said, probing softly. “It worries you, does it?”
Birgit shrugged. “So what is this new profession of yours?”
“Driving a taxi.”
“Where?”
“Best not to say,” Erika replied.
“A different name, I suppose.”
Erika nodded. “And here you are,” she said, “down in a hole.”
The Dresden archives used to be kept partly in the Stasi’s city headquarters, partly in the Communist Party building, and partly at City Hall. Nowadays, however, the Stasi building was a cultural center, the Communist Party building housed the new regional Ministry of Economics; and the City Hall’s archives were being scrutinized by imported Wessie investigators.
This investigation was no easy task. The one product the Communist regime had produced in greatest amounts was paper, and nothing had ever been thrown away. Wessie investigators for one region, when asked to give an approximate date for completing their inquest, laughed and took the reporters on a tour of the two hundred rooms filled with uninspected files. They then told the reporters that more than half the people who should be charged with criminal offenses would escape trial by dying of old age.
There was also a rising tide of Ossie resentment over how many were being hurt, and how badly. The public was now permitted to inspect their own Stasi files, and surprises were frequent and harsh. One woman discovered that her husband of twenty-six years had been a Stasi informer since their engagement. The governor of the state of Thuringen was deposed on accusations of having informed for Stasi, although more than two-thirds of the populace thought he had done an excellent job. A new Ossie member of the German parliament was found to have informed for the Stasi after graduating from college over twenty years ago; the shame of this discovery caused him to commit suicide.
Initial studies suggested that over a third of the Ossie population had informed for Stasi at one time or another. Out of a population of eighteen million, almost six million had at one time or another fed the Stasi’s endless appetite for information. Did this mean they all would be threatened with exposure and punishment? Would all families and friendships and working relationships be seared by the light of this new day?
“How can we be treated like criminals?” Birgit was not a large woman, but her wiry form crackled with an energy that made the room seem too small to contain her. “I did what I was told. I followed orders. I pledged my life to the Party. Is this what I deserve?”
“Let us hope you never have to ask those questions of a Wessie judge,” Erika said.
Birgit deflated. “I have nightmares.”
“Don’t we all.”
“Not of the past. Of the future.”
“What is there for us to fear of the past?” Erika leaned across the desk. “I am working on a way out.”
Birgit inspected her former colleague. “You mean money.”
Erika nodded. “A lot of it.”
“Enough for me?”
“Perhaps.”
Birgit inspected the paper-clouded desk, the rough walls with their plastering of clammy concrete, and asked quietly, “What must I do?”
“Are we safe here?”
Birgit gave a humorless laugh. “These walls are half a meter thick. There are seven meters of earth between us and the road overhead. Why would the Wessies bore holes just to bug the archives? They haven’t even bothered to give me new ventilation.”
Erika said, “I need help locating a certain man. He changed his name after the war, of that we are fairly sure. He was born and raised here in Dresden. Where he moved afterward, I don’t know.”
“That’s all?”
“I have his name. An old picture. His rank in the army during the war.”
Birgit grimaced. “Gestapo?”
“No. Transport corps.”
“Ah, of course. For movement of treasure. That’s it, isn’t it?”
Erika remained silent.
“Of course,” Birgit repeated. She raised her eyes to the bare bulb overhead. “I could try and find fingerprints, match old records. Everyone had to have prints taken for the new identity cards issued back in the late forties. He was born here?”
“Yes. And lived here until enlisting. The records would still be here?”
“Here or Berlin. You’d be surprised how many survived the bombings. Leave that with me. I still have a few friends.”
“How long will it take?”
“As long as I need,” Birgit replied. “How much do you pay?”
“Four thousand marks now, more later.”
“How much more, how much later?”
“A lot more, hopefully not long from now. We are all feeling the pressure these days.”
“It would be nice to receive more now.”
“It would be nicer still if we had it.”
Birgit examined her. “Can I trust you?”
“You know who I am, you know,” Erika hesitated, then finished with, “you know.”
“Let me see your new identification,” Birgit demanded.
Erika thought about it, then reached into her shoulder bag and handed over the green Wessie identity card. Birgit examined it carefully, compared it with the professional taxi license Erika also supplied, and made note of Erika’s new name and address. “First-class product.”
“It ought to be. It cost enough.”
“But it will work only so long as you don’t try to leave the country.”
Erika nodded. This was well known. Stasi had issued over thirty thousand false West German passports during the last year before the Wall fell, as well as about the same number of American passports, and it had proven immensely difficult to determine who owned them. In the early weeks of transition, many files had been lost to a sudden spate of fires. Other paper piles had been fed to the compost heaps of newly avid gardeners, and honey had been discovered coating hard disks in several central computers.
The Wessies were aware of the traffic in false papers, as many Ossies sought to grow new
faces and leave behind old lives. The Wessies instituted a policy of checking ID papers at all border crossings. Before, this had been done on a random basis only. Nowadays, even the border guards on trains were equipped with hand-held computer links into which every name and ID number was punched.
“We will need to cross only one time,” Erika replied. “I hear the Dutch border is full of holes.”
“You think you will make enough from this to disappear forever?”
“Forever is not my concern,” Erika said. “A year or two of comfort is as far as I care to look just now.”
“Four thousand marks,” Birgit said thoughtfully. “Think of what comfort four thousand Wessie marks would have brought under the old regime.”
“Under the old regime,” Erika replied, “I would not have been asking.”
“No, I suppose not.” Birgit toyed with her pen. “What if he’s dead?”
“Then,” Erika replied, “we spend our remaining days dreading every knock at the door, every ring of the phone, every unmarked letter in the post.”
Birgit nodded, expecting nothing else. “I will see what I can do.”
CHAPTER 6
The day of Alexander’s return from Cracow, Jeffrey received a call from Frau Reining, an East German attorney based in Schwerin. She had first contacted them the previous summer, while defending families who had been victimized by the former Communist regime. Since then, she had become a valuable ally in their hunt for rare antiques. The line rained a constant barrage of static as Jeffrey yelled a hello.
“Fräulein Nichols, she is there?”
“In fifteen days,” he shouted. Frau Reining spoke a truly awful English. They normally relied on Katya and her fluent German for translation. “She prepares for her exams. You call her apartment?”
“Ach, nein, I wait four, five hours for this line. We try, yes?”
“We try,” Jeffrey agreed.
“Have three Stück for you. You understand Stück?”
“I think so. Big schtukes or little?”
“Big. Wood. Old.”
“Right. Antique furniture.”
“Very beautiful. You buy, yes?”
“I’ll have to check them out first.”
“What?”
“Yes,” Jeffrey surrendered loudly. “I buy.”
“Good. Also have other seller. In Erfurt. South. He needs honest man.”
“Thank you,” he yelled.
“Find one honest man, no need to look for other. You understand? This man, he too is honest. I know.”
“I believe you.” He cleared his throat, shouted, “You want me to come to Schwerin?”
“Not here. Erfurt. You know?”
“No, but I’m sure I can find it on a map.”
“What?”
“I find.”
“Fräulein Nichols, she know it. Capital of Thuringen.” Through the static he heard the sound of a match being lit, of smoke being drawn. “Man is Herr Diehl. Spell Dieter-Igloo-Europa-Heinrich-Ludwig. Siegfried Diehl. Godly man. You understand?”
“I think so,” he replied.
“He suffered much. The Communists made him pay much. Too much. More than, how do you say tenth for church?”
“Tithe.”
“Yes. Communists no stop at tenth. Or half. They take all. Job. Pension. School for children. Home. He pay much for religion. Good man. You see.”
Jeffrey scribbled, hoped the spelling was close enough for Katya to figure out. “All is ready for me now?”
“Yes. You go with Fräulein Nichols. Siegfried, he has no English.” She coughed, shouted over the static, “When you go?”
“We have a lot going on right now. I’ll have to speak with Mr. Kantor, but I—”
“What?”
“Four or five weeks, maybe.”
“Not sooner?”
“I don’t think so.”
“So. I tell Siegfried.”
“You’re sending your antiques to,” he hesitated, not wanting to name the town, “Siegfried’s shop?”
“Pliss?”
“Your schtukes.” Jeffrey was growing hoarse.
“Ah. Yes. With Siegfried. You go, look for shop on bridge.”
His hand hovered over the page. “He works near a bridge?”
“Not near. On. On bridge. Shop on bridge. Called Glock, means bell in German. Look for Bell Shop on bridge.”
* * *
That evening Jeffrey made his way on foot to the Grosvenor Apartments, a red-brick Victorian structure overlooking Hyde Park. The floors had been converted into luxury apartments that rented by the week or month. Three weeks before departing for Poland, Alexander had let out his Geneva apartment and made this building his permanent residence. It was Jeffrey’s first visit to Alexander’s new home. The old man had insisted on being allowed to, as he put it, let the dust settle before inviting in guests.
Alexander answered the door with, “My dear young friend, come in. Come in.”
“Thanks. Welcome back.” Jeffrey took a step and pointed to the delicate French commode decorating the entrance hall. “I know that piece.”
“Don’t go around pricing the furniture, that’s a good boy.”
“I was wondering what happened to it. I thought I had a buyer lined up, then I come in one morning and, poof, it’s gone. You took it to Switzerland, didn’t you? And now it’s back here.”
“Yes, well, that’s one of the benefits of ownership, isn’t it.”
“And the sofa there. Isn’t that part of our Biedermeier set? Yes. I see the secretary in your living room.”
“My dear young man, I’ll thank you to turn off the calculator in your eyes and drop the urge to call a moving van. Now come in.”
Jeffrey silently took note of the two late medieval tapestries adorning the walls where the foyer opened into the living area. He had a client who was still asking about those.
Two long steps separated the white marble foyer from the living area’s split-beam floor. The furniture was sparse, each piece set on silk Persian carpets and spaced to be viewed individually, like fine jewelry displayed on beds of multicolored velvet. Tall windows at the room’s far end overlooked Park Lane and the park beyond. Noise from the constant traffic speeding by seven floors below was reduced to a steady hum.
“This is beautiful,” Jeffrey declared.
“I’m so glad you like it. Sit down. Can I offer you anything? A coffee, perhaps?”
“Coffee’s fine, thanks.” Jeffrey selected an eighteenth-century Dutch high-backed chair upholstered in white silk. “I’m sorry you wouldn’t let me meet you at the airport.”
“The older I become, the more I am inclined to suffer through my little foibles in private,” Alexander replied. “And how is your dear lady?”
“All right, as far as I know. I talk to her every evening, but we won’t be seeing each other for another two weeks.”
“Yes, she has exams, doesn’t she? How are they progressing?”
“All right, she thinks. She sounds very tired, though.”
“I’m sure she must be.”
Jeffrey cleared his throat, decided to have it out while his nerves were still intact. “I’m thinking about asking her to marry me.”
“My dear boy!” Alexander’s face lit up with genuine pleasure. “What absolutely splendid news.”
“If she’ll have me.”
“Of that I have no doubt. I am most pleased with this excellent decision on your part, as well as with all that lies behind it.”
“A queasy stomach,” Jeffrey offered. “Clammy hands. Unsteady legs.”
“Divine inspiration, true love,” Alexander countered. “A joining for life. I wish you every success.”
“Thanks, Alexander.”
“Now then.” Alexander lowered himself into a chair. “As a pre-wedding gift, you must allow me to bestow upon you an engagement ring.”
“It’s too much,” Jeffrey objected.
“Nonsense. I have the perfect item in m
ind. It was one of my very first purchases after the war, and I have held on to it for sentimental reasons.”
Faced with the old gentleman’s positive delight, Jeffrey swallowed his protests. “You did the same thing when my grandparents became engaged.”
Alexander’s strong eyes glimmered. “How very kind of you to remember.”
“My grandmother told me about it when she heard I was coming to work for you.” Jeffrey faced the old man squarely. “That was one of the best things that’s ever happened to me, Alexander.”
“You do me much kindness.” It was the old gentleman’s turn to pause and taste from his cup. “Such a mood should not be dampened by the mundane. I propose we leave our business affairs until later.”
“Fine with me.”
“Excellent. I do have something rather fascinating that you might care to hear about this evening.”
“The pieces for the gala,” Jeffrey guessed.
“Exactly. The altar and painting from Rokovski are indeed splendid. The chalice from the Marian Church, however, is something truly unique.”
“Chalice is another word for the cup used in the Communion, isn’t that right?”
“Ah, that is your Protestant upbringing.” Alexander topped up his and Jeffrey’s cups from a sterling silver coffeepot. “The development of the chalice is a story steeped in two thousand years of mystery and intrigue.”
“Great,” Jeffrey said, his enthusiasm undisguised. “I love the stories in this business almost as much as I do the pieces themselves.”
“Do you indeed?” Alexander nodded approval. “I am indeed happy to know that you share my love of mystery.”
“Sometimes it wakes me up at night,” Jeffrey confessed. “I’ll lie there and see pages of the books go through my head. I think of these incredibly beautiful pieces, and feel as if I’m reaching across the centuries to talk with the makers, learn their secrets, share with them the pleasures of creation.”
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