The Amber Room

by T. Davis Bunn

  And yet all he could think of was that strange American and the insanity of his final words. It consumed him.

  He felt like pounding his fists against the gleaming white walls.

  Just when he should have been readying himself for the good life, a barb had been wedged in his flesh at heart level. With every step he came closer to losing control, to shouting his unexplained rage to the unseen heavens. Try as he might, he could not shake off the words. They rang in his head over and over and over, lancing at his reason in ways he could neither understand nor stop. He felt helpless, caught up in something that made no sense to him at all.

  The tunnel’s end appeared in the distance. Kurt picked up his single valise and marched forward, shrugging hard at the resounding pressure in his mind and heart. He would leave this barbed message behind, it and the messenger both, and enter the new life that awaited him. The life he had always dreamed of. The life he deserved.

  Wait until he told the others about the crazy American.

  CHAPTER 42

  When Jeffrey arrived downstairs the next morning on his way to Gregor’s, he was surprised to find Alexander up and waiting for him. “I was wondering if you might permit me to accompany you this morning.”

  “It would be an honor,” he replied.

  Together they exchanged the hotel’s stuffy warmth for a bracing dawn breeze. Clouds scuttled overhead through a sky touched with the first faintest hues of the coming sun. A silver moon hung calm and peaceful upon the horizon, touching all the world with silver mystery. “Katya does not mind your traipsing off each morning on your own?”

  “A little,” Jeffrey admitted. “But she knows how much it means to me, and she doesn’t complain.”

  “An act of wisdom far beyond her years,” Alexander replied. “You are most fortunate in your choice of mates, my friend.”

  “I’m not sure how much I had to do with it,” Jeffrey said. “It’s always felt like a gift from above.”

  “Yet who was it who endured the difficult beginning, who sought answers beyond what was evident?” Alexander strode forward with a light heart. “Who made the choice to abide despite pain and emotional hardship? Who loved in defiance of logic? Who sought answers beyond the known and the comfortable?”

  “You do me great honor,” Jeffrey said quietly.

  “None that is not deserved. I am most proud of your endeavors, both with the young lady and with your work.” He pulled his scarf up around his neck. “As for myself, I seem to learn my greatest lessons in the loneliest of hours.”

  “Me too,” Jeffrey conceded. “Some of them, anyway. I hope it’s not some unwritten requirement for being a Christian.”

  “Oh, I think not. In my case, it is a need that I force upon myself. So long as all is well in my world, I feel little urge to struggle with uncomfortable questions.” He glanced Jeffrey’s way. “I have found myself comparing my own searchings with yours. I wish I had your strength of purpose.”

  Alexander stopped further conversation by taking a sprightly step up Gregor’s front stairs and pressing the buzzer. The latch released; he pushed through, held the door for Jeffrey, then proceeded up the stairs.

  Once tea had been served and Gregor was settled back in his bed, Alexander confessed cheerfully, “Your unspoken lesson has come through loud and clear, Cousin.”

  “It was neither my lesson nor my voice,” Gregor replied mildly. “And you should not belittle the gift by failing to recognize the Giver.”

  Alexander remained silent for a time, sipping at his tea. Then, “Why do I have such difficulty in accepting that I have heard God’s silent voice?”

  “Because you are human.” Gregor smiled with genuine warmth. “You continue to surprise me, my dear Cousin.”

  “Not nearly so much as I surprise myself.”

  “No doubt.” He reached over to pat Alexander’s shoulder. “Nothing you might say could please me more, nor make me more proud of you.”

  “A compliment.” Alexander showed mock surprise. “I do hope you are not suffering from a fever, Cousin.”

  “You go against all of your worldly heritage to ask such a question,” Gregor replied. “Now tell me what lesson you have learned.”

  “My lesson. Yes, well.” Alexander sipped from his glass. “I have spent numerous sleepless hours watching helplessly as my reputation was threatened, my life’s work torn asunder. And all because of a chalice that was not mine, for a gala I took on for others. Or at least, so I thought.”

  “Such honesty.” Gregor smiled. “Go on, dear Cousin.”

  “I have found the hours before dawn to be a powerful mirror,” Alexander said. “Most powerful. I have seen how much of what I did was for selfish pride, and pride alone.”

  “You cannot imagine how your words stir the soul,” Gregor told him.

  Alexander turned sharp gray eyes Jeffrey’s way. “And then a certain young friend tells me of a project he and his fiancée have begun in a nameless children’s hospital, out of sight of all publicity, in a crumbling corner of a region so polluted it is known as the Triangle of Death. He does not tell me with pride. No. He is embarrassed. Moved so deeply by the need he has discovered in an alien land that he is ashamed of his feelings. He tells me because he wishes to share his discovery with a friend. Yet he does so with shame for his own emotions, and with fear that I may scoff. He does not say so, but I hear it in his voice. And what he does not know, what he cannot imagine, is that he shames me. He humbles me. He teaches me. Not with words. No. Such a lesson cannot be taught by any means save example. He stands before the altar and honors the Father with a gift made with no expectation of receiving anything in return.”

  Alexander nodded solemnly. “I listened to my young friend heed the call of his Lord, and I learned. I realized that the missing chalice was part of a lesson. I understood that I might also grow through the gift of humble, nameless service. Out of the light of publicity. Away from the adulating crowds. In the lonely reaches of others’ needs. Where the Father’s voice might be more clearly heard.”

  CHAPTER 43

  “My friends! Come in, come in!” A jubilant Pavel Rokovski ushered Alexander, Jeffrey, and Katya into his office. “Champagne is called for, but perhaps at this hour you would prefer tea.”

  “Tea would be splendid,” Alexander replied for them all.

  “One moment, then.” He soon returned and served them. “So much to tell, so very much. Where on earth to begin?”

  “With the chalice,” Alexander replied. “Please tell me that the mystery is solved.”

  “More than solved! Providence has been at work here, my friends.” Rokovski pulled up a chair, asked, “You heard of my discoveries?”

  “About Karlovich, yes. But only that you discovered you were right to distrust him.”

  “That man.” Rokovski shook his head. “He deserves to enjoy his retirement within a prison cell. He was in contact with a Vatican emissary—not a priest, however. What is the English word for niebieski ptaszek?”

  “Literally it translates as a little bird,” Katya replied, and exchanged glances with Jeffrey. “But it really means a peon, a scoundrel. Someone who lives off the importance of others.”

  “Thank you. Yes, we made several fascinating discoveries about this mysterious Vatican aparatchik, and these were what prompted me to travel to Rome. There, I had a most interesting visit with a certain Signor Buracci, the highest official within the Vatican museum system who is not a cleric. He answers directly to the cardinal. I asked him if he might shed light on a most curious set of circumstances.”

  “I do wish I could have been a fly on the wall for that discussion,” Alexander murmured.

  “I explained to him of our careful records,” Rokovski went on. “And I asked about certain things that surprised me no end. My attitude was one of requesting information, asking questions, seeking guidance.”

  “Most politely.”

  “And humbly,” Rokovski agreed. “These discoveries we ha
ve made were most confusing to a simple mind such as my own, and I simply sought his lofty guidance.”

  “Including the confusing matters surrounding a certain curate.”

  “Well, yes. That was one of my questions. Why was it, I asked, that our Mr. Karlovich traveled twice to Rome in the past year, and that a certain emissary, one Signor Danilo Disertori, visited Cracow three times? The first was two months before Karlovich loaned you the chalice, the second three days after it left for display in England, and the third the day after it was returned.”

  “And discovered to be a fake.”

  “I had a further question,” Rokovski continued, “about the transfer of funds from the Banco Sao Paolo to Karlovich’s account here in Cracow of fifty thousand dollars. The Banco Sao Paolo, as you may know, handles the Vatican’s commercial transactions.”

  “About this time,” Alexander said, “I would imagine the good gentleman is finding his collar most constricting.”

  “He did appear to have great difficulty in speaking,” Rokovski agreed.

  “You didn’t involve the Pope.”

  “Of course not,” Rokovski answered, hugely satisfied. “It was not even necessary to suggest that I would do so.”

  “Everyone knew,” Katya offered.

  Rokovski smiled her way. “And positively trembled at the thought.”

  “So,” Alexander nodded, the sparkle back in his eyes. “What happens now?”

  “Now there will be a vast public announcement of Poland’s magnificent gift, which will be displayed at the millennium celebration in Rome. It will then be returned with great fanfare to become the centerpiece of our new Museum for Religious Artifacts in Cracow, which will be officially opened in time for its arrival.” Rokovski’s gleam turned hard. “While all these mysterious documents will remain locked in a very safe place, and certain individuals in Rome and Cracow will be urged to consider an early retirement.”

  “I shall not miss them,” Alexander declared.

  “No, nor I,” Rokovski agreed, and his vast good humor returned. “There is more. In this great central hall will be displayed three outstanding paintings, loaned by the Vatican for an indefinite time, to commemorate this wonderful new museum. A Raphael, a Da Vinci, and a Michelangelo.”

  “Magnificent,” Alexander proclaimed. “A worthy recognition of our nation’s new renaissance.”

  “You know, of course, what will adorn the galley leading to this chamber.”

  “Panels from the Amber Room,” Jeffrey breathed. “What an awesome place this is going to be.”

  Rokovski nodded his agreement. “There is still more.”

  “How so?”

  “It appears that in their haste,” Rokovski explained, “our mysterious treasure hunters miscounted the number of chests.”

  “Miscounted?”

  “There happened to be seventy-three.” Rokovski watched their reaction with immense satisfaction. “Yes. And since no one outside my office knew exactly how many the Amber Room required, this last chest remains a secret known only to me and my most trusted allies.” The gleam in Rokovski’s dark eyes was blinding. “This extra chest, my friends, was filled with gold and jewelry and ornaments.”

  “A treasure chest?” Alexander was at full alert.

  “Much of secondary quality,” Rokovski replied, “at least from an art collector’s standpoint. Chosen in haste, no doubt, by one with an untrained eye who selected on the basis of their weight in gold and the size of the stones. There is very little that we shall want to display, but the remaining items would fetch a handsome sum on the open market. If only we might find a dealer in the West willing to represent us in the utmost confidentiality.”

  “We accept,” Alexander replied with alacrity. “It will be an honor.”

  “Splendid. The proceeds shall first go to repaying your most generous loan.” Rokovski stood. “Of course the personal debt shall remain with us always.”

  “There is no debt,” Alexander replied. “Not between friends.”

  Rokovski nodded his understanding and extended his hand. “Or patriots.”

  Acknowledgements

  My habit of writing rather lengthy acknowledgments has grown from my desire to recognize the many people who have given generously of their time and of themselves in the development of my books. From the idea stage through research, writing, editing, and promotion, the most valuable aspect of my work is the personal contact with people willing to share, and teach, from the heart. I would like to express my sincere thanks to all those who have contributed to my books in so many ways.

  In this regard, I must extend a special thanks to the readers of my books. Writing can be a rather solitary pursuit, especially in a foreign country. Your cards and letters, as well as our brief meetings at promotional events, brighten my days and encourage me more than you may know. I am absolutely thrilled to learn a particular passage has touched you deeply, or that you learned a valuable lesson, or even that you lack sleep because you proverbially “couldn’t put it down.” I know from you that you even read the fine print in the back of the book, the acknowledgments section, to learn how the book was developed, to seek advice from the suggested counselor, or to contribute to a named cause from helping the homeless to combatting pornography.

  If you would like to write to me, please do so care of Bethany House Publishers. I do try hard to answer all my letters, but being a professional writer is much like running a small business; I always have more to do than I have hours in the day. It takes about two weeks for a letter to be forwarded to England, so please be patient. I will try to respond as best I can.

  * * *

  As with Florian’s Gate, this book has been enriched by the open-hearted support of my wife’s family in Cracow and Warsaw. I will refrain from mentioning all of them a second time, yet a few must be remembered for a special reason. Marian and Dusia Tarka, together with Olek and Halinka Tarka, went out of their way to help me at every turn. They offered their usual hospitality and made me feel part of their extended family. Regrettably, I arrived in Cracow to do research on this book having been struck by food poisoning in Dresden earlier that week. My suffering later proved to be a liver disorder. Not only did they do their utmost to nurse me back to health, but they also took it upon themselves to become additional eyes and ears and arms and legs, helping me with much work that I was too weak to do myself. I am deeply indebted to them for this invaluable support.

  Thanks must also go to Isabella’s aunt in Warsaw, Dr. Teresa Aleksandrowicz, chief surgeon at one of the city’s hospitals, who saw me back to a level of fitness that made traveling back to London possible. Jan and Haluta Zorawski opened their home to us during this difficult period, and laced their concern with a splendid sense of humor. Laughter truly is the best medicine.

  As for all my books based within Eastern Europe, my wife’s assistance has been absolutely indispensable. I remain humbled by her ability to give with such loving patience, by her wisdom, and by her love. Thank you, Izia, for enriching both my life and my work.

  Much of the information that went into developing the Solidarity photographer came from my wife and her family. Isabella was traveling from Warsaw to Cracow the morning that Martial Law was declared in December of 1981, and became caught up in the heart of the army-imposed darkness. Members of her family, as all Poles, each had his own story to tell. For their patient sharing I am truly grateful.

  The story of the vision within a prison cell, however, came from a businessman with whom I worked several years ago. As managing director of a major Italian confectionery company, he was kidnapped by Red Brigade terrorists eighteen years ago and held for ransom. His prison was an extremely cramped tent, erected in a dark closet, from which he was not permitted to move for almost three weeks. Three days before his release, as he was battling a despair similar to the photographer’s, he had a vision of a place he had never seen before, and a gift of God’s peace. The remainder of his story mirrors that of the photographer,
except the vision he had was of the Island of Capri seen from the window of a friend’s house on the Bay of Naples—a place he had never before visited.

  Dr. Wlodzimierz M. Borkowski is the Director of the Pediatric Division of the Narutowicza Hospital in Cracow. Dr. Grazyna Gabor is a pediatrician in this department. They provided a detailed overview of both their own hospital and the general state of children’s care in Poland. The conversation held during Jeffrey and Katya’s visit to the children’s hospital was the same one I had with the doctors during my own visit. I was most impressed with their kindness and their dedication.

  Dr. Borkowski was also one of the leading authorities filmed in the BBC’s “State of Europe” program on the dangers of pollution in Eastern Europe. He shared with me a copy of this program; it provided a wealth of background information that went into forming this story.

  The situation within the children’s hospitals in the region of Poland known as the Triangle of Death is just as it is described in this book. Premature births and pollution-related illnesses place severe pressures on their already limited financial resources. The equipment described in this book is urgently required. If any reader knows of a hospital that is upgrading their children’s ward and has surplus used equipment available, please be so kind as to let us know. Assistance with the cost of air freight would also be greatly appreciated, but we can help arrange the required transport documentation. Anyone who feels a call to assist financially with these desperate needs is welcome to send any size donation. Every cent will go to the purchase and shipment of medical equipment, supplies and medicines—nothing will be used for hospital salaries or administrative costs. Tax deductible donations may be sent to:

  * * *