Fabergé Train Egg, 1900, Photo taken at Kremlin by User:greenacre8
Ekaterinburg, Ural Mountains of Russia, 1918
The young woman could barely breathe, buried under bundles of old clothes. Water dripped on her face. As she wiped it away, the truck passed under a dim street lamp, and she saw that it was blood on her hand. These were not old clothes, but a pile of bodies--she too was meant to be dead, carted off like refuse. She escaped that fate, but never the memories, and it's not until years later that her daughter, Lena, can put their family ghosts to rest.
As Lena relives her mother's strange escape from revolutionary Russia through the now-missing woman's journal, incredible Imperial treasures are seeping into the global black market. This evidence of greed, corruption, even treason is poison to anyone who gets too near. Can Lena use knowledge of her mother's tragic ordeals then to help escape that same kind of fate now?
Rostock, Germany, 1943
Looted treasures from all over conquered Europe pass through the port of Rostock to secret auctions outside Nazi Germany, but lately some shipments have gone missing. The suspects are the usual: resistance operatives, Allied spies, corrupt officials. Berlin isn't concerned with accuracy, close enough will do for setting a brutal example. Enforcers are dispatched to Rostock, and as usual in the Hitler hierarchy, several factions are set upon one another in a sort of dog-fight to gain favor in Berlin. The Leader figures if they are fighting amongst themselves, they are not plotting against him.
Kurt Lucas is a rising star in the Abwehr, the military intelligence service, but he meant to fight for his country, not for the Hitler regime. He knows the camps exist: As an engineer, he helped to build them. But he's also heard the rumors of what goes on there now, and since his sister disappeared in Berlin, he's learned to question everything--not a bad habit in his line of work, especially for a man with so many secrets himself.
SS Major Heldenhaft collects secrets too. But he's not interested in climbing higher in the Reich, he only wants to survive the war and what comes after. He's come to Rostock to find a scapegoat, as he already knows who's been stealing from his masters in the hierarchy.
Zenya von Batten, glamorous star of the stage in Berlin, made her entrance with a Gestapo enforcer named Wolff. She's caught spying in the manor by Lena, but when confronted, seems to know more about Lena's mother than Lena does herself. Given that her mother hasn't been seen or heard in fifteen years, supposedly, how did Zenya know any of those things? And by the way, where did the woman get all those wonderful jewels?
Ignored by her stepfather and raised by the housekeeper,Lena Schiller grew up in the ancient Schiller manor with its secret passages and hidden rooms. The estate lies on the Warnow River, near the seaport of Rostock. Hidden rock crevices on the shore there have been used for smuggling for centuries, especially in times of war.
Lena knows her friends are in danger, and she tries to solve the mystery of the missing shipments without implicating herself or falling prey to her stepfather, who certainly has noticed her now. She has the perfect bait, treasures she's kept hidden since that night her mother disappeared: Fabergé, French by name, Russian for priceless Imperial splendor. And while Lena knows the perils of this game, she has no idea that manipulating the Gestapo will send her on a collision course with her mother's Russian Imperial past.
Was the entire Imperial Romanov family executed in Ekaterinburg in 1918? Rumor and wishful thinking always held that at least one of the daughters survived and perhaps the son and heir to the Romanov dynasty as well. But how? What happened? Where did they go? And how, years later, did Nazi invaders find and easily open a hidden safe at the Romanov Palace at Livadia on the Black Sea--a safe that had survived Bolsheviks looters for decades?
"Remember my name, my daughter, my dear one, but speak of me only in whispers...."
CHAPTER 01 - The Fisherman
One autumn night in 1943, near Rostock, a German port on the Baltic Sea
As the men struggled by with the body, Lena reached over to pull out the knife. Even in the dark, she could tell they were staring. She mumbled, "It was a gift, it should be returned."
The Fisherman couldn't blame her, he'd seen the blade before. Not really a knife, it had once been a letter opener of exquisite design. But there was a war on now, and by necessity such simple things often turned sinister. He said, "You have something for me."
She wiped off the blade on the not-so-dearly departed, then pulled out a bundle from under her coat.
"It's not so big this time," the Fisherman said, hoisting the package up and down.
When she didn't reply, he rubbed his nose, peering at her form in the fog. He still wasn't sure the muffled figure standing before him now was real, but the package seemed solid enough. He fought back the urge to reach out and touch her even as he wondered what it was worth this time.
"It's worth enough," she said, "if you don't eat up all your profits."
The Fisherman pulled at his tight shirt collar. She did that sometimes, knew what he was thinking. It made him feel naked and mean, worse than the damp, cold weather these days.
"How did you know about that?" he said, trying to pull his overcoat closed, which seemed harder to do these days.
"You have the stain of strawberry jam on your shirt."
"It could be blood," he shot back, but they both snickered.
Trouble was something he avoided better than most, he'd always been lucky that way. The Fisherman turned and held out the package. Someone from his crew appeared from the fog to grab it. When she spoke again, it was in Russian from the homeland that neither of them had seen in years. In another life and time, they might have been lady and servant, even pupil and teacher. It was not the same for anyone now, so they did these things as partners.
Something splashed and someone swore in the distance—they had dropped the body, it seems. The Fisherman scowled at the noise. It's not that he minded another dead Gestapo agent, but this one was starting to stink. Sometimes the weather kept them in. Other times it was the authorities, pretending to have a routine. It was really nobody's fault. But lately he was always cleaning up for somebody else, and it was hard to hide such a smell. If he got caught with this kind of contraband, his boat would be confiscated. He wouldn't care, he'd be drifting face-down alongside.
She had no sympathy for his problems, he knew. She took too many chances for the Old Man. The Fisherman did these things for money or goods. Why did she? He said, "I'm not sure what you're up to, Mermaid. The locals don't concern me, given your stepfather's position. But how much longer before Berlin takes notice? We could all get shot or worse, hanged. I heard they do it with piano wire."
"Berlin is full of fools," she said. "We've always been the lesser problem. No one ever looks at the executioner's shoes, they're too busy watching his hands."
This was true. Hitler had poked hard at the stomach of the great sleeping bear, and now the Russian Red Army had risen up with great force. There were more serious problems in Berlin than a few black marketeers in Rostock. Still, it made him nervous. "I know the way your mind works," he said. "I hope you haven't doomed us all with your scheming."
He pulled out his pipe and struck a match, watching her face in the dull halo of light it created in the mist. Her little white teeth seemed to gleam as she smiled at him crookedly. He almost smiled back, but the match burned his fingers, and he swore as he shook it free. Serves me right for using the flame, he thought, and maybe giving away our position.
She said lowly, "The biggest gain comes at the highest cost. If you're getting weak of heart, maybe you should go back to fishing again."
Her tone wasn't as good-natured as he could have hoped. He wanted to shock her. "What will they say over your grave, I wonder?"
"Don't weep for me, Fährmann. I'm not dead yet, and I don't plan on dying over jam preserves and careless Gestapo agents."
Der Fährmann was German for ferryman. He didn't like the reference, he was no errand boy. But she was only trying to distract him. He said, "What would your mother say if she could see you now? Or your grandfather, God rest his soul. If he'd been a more ruthless man, maybe none of this would have happened. Too bad he couldn't have taken a lesson from you."
She didn't reply, just turned to go. He watched her fade into the fog bank. Even all bundled up, she moved with the grace of a sea sprite, but she was human enough, he knew. And she was dangerous in her own way. You would not see death coming from her hand, yet you would be dead all the same.
His own hand clamped down tightly around the stem of his meerschaum pipe, but his fingers were cold, and the pipe slipped free and fell away. It didn't break, to his relief. With the war, no way he could replace something like this. Besides, the pipe had been a gift from his father.
Meerschaum, from German words roughly meaning sea-foam, was once believed to be the whitecaps of sea waves ridden by Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of beauty. A mineral-clay of magnesium silicate, it's found only in central Turkey, an ally of Germany during the First World War, but not in World War II. The crystalline structure of meerschaum makes it a natural smoking filter, and it changes color— tones of gold to dark brown as it soaks up tobacco-based nicotine and tar. The darker the color, the better the smoke, and this one was getting just right.
"I should have settled down in the mountains to raise stunted corn and strapping boys."
The Fisherman snickered again as he knelt to pick up the pipe. He tapped out the ashes against his boot, watching the embers slowly die on the sand. If questioned, she would say nothing of him, about that he had no worries. It was the aloofness that he minded, like she didn't care who lived or died, and that included herself. Was it desperation that made her that way? Was it her stepfather's unwanted attentions? Was she becoming just like her mother?
He heard splashes as his crew boarded the row boat. They had been here too long already, but it wasn't the cold making him shiver now. When was the last time he'd seen the cameo locket that Lena wore? It made him cross himself like a worshiper of the Old Faith: first brow to chest, then shoulder to shoulder. It meant mind and heart, soul and strength, all dedicated to the service of God. He did it now for what was inside the locket—portraits of people long dead. There were three other cameos like it, he knew, and one watch-bob made for a boy.
The Fisherman closed his eyes and remembered when he'd first reached the Crimea in 1909 or was it the year before. He was little more than a boy then, yet still remembered the sun on his face there, and how his bones never ached. In that place and time, you did as you were told. If you didn't do right, you were beaten or turned away. Sometimes people were shot, but that wasn't often.
Though he had second thoughts, now the Fisherman was glad he'd sent the note. That was days ago, but he owed that much to her mother, and it put his own mind to rest. "Then I am out of it with a clear conscience. I'll have done all that I can."
Lena was right about one thing though—he'd be glad to one day get back to just fishing again.
CHAPTER 02 - The Doll
A few days later in Berlin, Germany, 1943
Zenya von Batten tossed out the last crumbs of stale sugar biscuits, watching the greedy birds fight for what little was left. There were only a few people in the park, it was close to evening, cold and gray. She was startled at the bright red ball that bounced her way, then rolled under her bench. A little boy with a snotty nose ran up, but stopped short and just stared.
When she handed him the ball, he clicked his heels and announced boldly, "Thank you, Fraulein." Then he leaned in closer to whisper, "You're to give me a pfennig."
"A penny?" she said, digging in her purse for a coin.
When he took it, her eyebrow went up at the note that he left in her hand. She knew enough not to react anymore, she really was quite a good actress. One never knew when someone was watching. She fought the urge to look all around as the boy ran away with the penny, along with his ball, but no look back.
Zenya put the note in her pocket and tried not to rush as she walked home. Inside, she read the words in what little was left of the daylight. Heat rushed across her face like tiny needles. The shock made her nauseous, then faint. When she awoke, it was dark everywhere. Zenya remembered not to put on the lights, she had to draw the heavy curtains first. She still clutched the note as she did so, but didn't need to read it again.
As she moved around the room, Zenya wept quietly. It was not for memories or regrets of her own, but for the expectations of others that had crowded out her own hopes and dreams for so long. The words had been written in her memory since she was just a little girl. She did not have to imagine the faces of the Russian homeland where she'd been only once. Photographs had surrounded her all of her life: set in rows of elaborate frames on every level surface, not even leaving room for the dust or hanging over beds, looming like religious ikons of the Old Faith.
She took several deep breathes, then whispered, "I must not let them down."
In a moment, she began to laugh, at first softly, but it soon turned bitter and loud. The strangeness of her voice frightened her so much that she held her breath. In a moment, she let it out with vigor as she turned around to face the room. The little figure in the corner dressed all in white, stood out as if calling her out to play. Zenya took it from the box-stand and gently set the antique doll on the bed, its painted porcelain face looking down. Then she lit a candle nearby before lifting up the back of the doll's lacy christening gown. There was a discrete panel there, she pressed until the catch released.
The doll was the size of a real baby. A girl would have kept frivolous things inside: a lace hankie wrapped around clusters of perfect cedar cones, bunches of dried lavender tied up with black velvet bows, a birthday pendant made of garnets and gold, and once, even a beautiful dead butterfly.
She reached inside—without protest the doll relinquished its burden. Zenya unrolled the two cotton-wool bundles slowly, so the candle flame wouldn't flicker too much. This was a mission best done in dimness. She wasn't sure why, but it felt very right. More light would make it too real, and that wouldn't do.
"This is a fairy tale," she whispered.
Suddenly something creaked nearby. She listened for a moment, but there were no other sounds from the hallway. She removed each object from its black velvet bag, afraid they might crumble like those delicate dead butterfly wings. But they were solid and warm, as if they had a life's blood of their own. Her mother had called them the Cherished, as Zenya had called her doll.
The candle flame barely wavered with her breathing, making the treasures seem to glow from within. Her hand was drawn to them, but she hesitated before touching each gently with the tip of her fingernail. She remembered clearly all that her mother had so often said . . .
In the mid-1880s, on Easter morning of the old calendar, the jeweler Karl Fabergé presented the Tsaritsa Maria Feodorovna, wife of Tsar Alexander III of Russia, with what appeared to be a simple matt-white enameled egg. It was less than three inches tall, and its shell opened to reveal a yolk of yellow matt gold.
The yolk was removable and hollow, but inside on a bed of chased-gold straw sat a fat little hen made of multi-colored gold and set with ruby eyes. The hen had a charm of its own, a replica of the Imperial Romanov crown with a tiny ruby pendant. The crown and its ruby pendant "egg" have since been lost, but Tsaritsa Maria was so pleased with this gift that Fabergé agreed to present her with something just as special each year. Each gift had to be egg-shaped to celebrate Easter, each must be unique, and contain a surprise.
The tradition continued until 1894, when Tsar Alexander unexpectedly died at the age
of 49, and his son, Nicholas II, assumed the Russian throne. At that time in Russia, a Tsar's mother took precedence over his wife, so Nicholas commissioned two Easter Eggs each year: one for his dear mother and one for his beloved wife, Tsaritsa Alexandra Feodorovna, the former Princess Alix of Hesse-Darmstadt in the German Rhineland.
These Imperial Easter Eggs took top priority in the House of Fabergé workshops in Russia. Many were so detailed that they took the team of artisans a year or more to design and create. The surprise was always kept secret, even from curious Tsars. While Fabergé produced Easter Eggs for other wealthy patrons, such as the mining Kelch family of Russia and the Swedish family of Nobel, the Imperial Easter Eggs were a standing commission for over thirty years.
Since then, some of these works have been reported as lost, while others have lost their surprise from inside. But what happened to the Imperial Easter Eggs meant for Easter of 1917, when the Imperial family was under house arrest in Tsarskoe Selo? Some believed they were delivered as planned, while others assumed they were never completed. If they existed, they may have been lost to the revolution that ended the Romanov reign. All Russia changed then, and the production of the Imperial Easter Eggs came to an end.
Zenya heard footsteps, muffled by the carpet, but definitely coming her way. Her fingers moved quickly. Around the doll's neck, the chain of a cameo locket was wrapped around twice. She slipped it free, but stared, captivated by the profile of a woman carved in ivory and set on a background made of pink-orange coral. She said to the face on the locket, "You're stronger now, you will survive this time."
Then she wrapped her mother's Cherished again, replacing them inside the doll, her own. As she put the locket around her neck, Zenya felt the urge to look inside, but knew she didn't have the time. With the candle, she set the note alight in an ashtray. She poked at the ash until it was powder, then tossed it all into the fireplace. The crash of the crystal against old stone brought her out of the candle-lit spell.
She wiped sweat from her upper lip, but still she shivered. As she wrapped her arms around herself, Zenya said, "I have been waiting for this for so many years." Yet now that the time has come . . .
She took a deep breath, then another. This time, it didn't help. Zenya tore the locket away from her skin and fumbled to get it open. She held it away from herself with shaking hands. The face looking back from inside was placid and pale. There were no tears now —no retribution, anger, or fear anymore. Zenya had only been eleven or twelve the last time she'd seen this woman in person. The first rumor she heard after was murder, then suicide. She didn't even know if the woman was still alive. It could have all been a dream, or even a script from a bad play—but then she got the note in the park.
"Don't forget me," was all that it said.
That was enough, Zenya knew what to do. Her mother made a promise to the lady inside the locket. It was a blood oath between distant cousins from an ancient line, but with her mother now dead, the obligation had now passed to Zenya.
When someone knocked at the door, she jumped, then quickly tucked the locket away. She brushed her hair, then smeared on a thick line of bright red lipstick. Her face in the mirror smiled, but inside she felt no joy at all. Her eyes sparkled like those of a bird of prey that just sighted a kill. Could she go through with it? Did she have the nerve?
She was bone-tired of playing this role. Soon it would be over. With an imperious tone, she said, "After all, one can get used to almost anything."
Yes, she really was quite a good actress.
CHAPTER 03 - The Child
The next day on the Schiller estate, near Rostock
The view had been pretty here once, and familiar. Now the panorama was filled with blast holes and burnt timbers. Severed wires stuck out everywhere, and the twisted, exposed pipes dripped with water or sewage.
The trading port of Rostock, the city where the first university in northern Europe was established in1419, had been a center for German military aircraft production since 1933. But what had taken the Prussian Empire centuries to build took Allied bombers only days to destroy. Twelve buildings were left standing in the main trading axis, and the harbor that had once thrived with shipping and fishing had been reduced to ruins.
Lena Schiller strained high in the saddle looking past the remnants of their lives to the only constant they knew: She was looking towards the sea. In the distance, she could make out the imposing form of the Warnemünde Lighthouse. The Old Man from the dockside said that from the top, you could see for miles in any direction. But she knew it wasn't far enough to see past the shadow that had engulfed this part of the world.
War news within Germany was more rumor than fact these days. The early overwhelming victories were over, you couldn't find heroes anymore. German cities had been systematically bombed since February of 1942, and by April, the bombs had reached Rostock. Homes and businesses were now only piles of rubble, many with wooden crosses set crookedly on top to mark where bodies were still buried within.
But no matter the outcome, when the war was over, the Schiller Shipping Lines would survive as they had for centuries. Lena knew that her stepfather didn't have the burden of loyalty. He would offer service to whatever force controlled the harbor. Right now, that power was the Third Reich. The ships were no longer in the family's personal service. Most had been deployed for military purpose early in the war. The facilities were the first to be rebuilt here, at least partially, some said by direct order of the Leader, Der Führer, Adolf Hitler.
Lena shivered as the wind cut through the knit of her heavy fisherman's sweater. It was October, the days were shorter now, and the foliage was dying. It made everything else look like the city ruins. She called out in a lyrical pitch that was nearly a song: "Where are the dogs?"
She learned it from Mama, this tone of the idle rich. But now there was only one dog, his name was Jemmy, and he was bounding towards her with his tongue hanging out. The gigantic Russian wolfhound was her very best friend in this world.
The mare was munching at mounds of silver-gray grass, so Lena slipped from the saddle and scratched at Jemmy's ears as she continued to look toward the bay. She could barely make out a tugboat. Or was that another harbor patrol?
Suddenly, the wolfhound bolted. Lena lost sight of him over the rise, but from the sounds of the barking, he must have cut down to the beach. She mounted, but decided not to disturb the mare's feeding just yet. Instead, she sat in the Cossack saddle like Mama had taught her: knees tight to the boards, back straight, chin high, watchful to all things around her.
They had escaped Russia when Lena was very young, sometimes riding like this. After taking refuge in Germany, Mama married Gerhard Schiller when Lena was ten. They had moved into the Schiller manor then, but the marriage was not a success. Gerhard Schiller had married for money, Mama had done the same thing. Both had lied, neither was rich, and now Mama was gone.
All Lena had left were the memories of kisses goodbye, three times in the Russian way, and the package left under the bedclothes. She wore the locket, but the rest was kept well hidden. Lena knew there were rumors about what really happened the night her mother disappeared, but she would never speak of it, she kept that secret very well. But suspicion made many people from Rostock avoid her stepfather socially, and that was her preference anyway
A gull screamed nearby, diving so low that Lena had to duck and nearly fell from the saddle. Was that Mama laughing? Perhaps it was only the birds. She swore in Russian, then righted herself, again calling out, "Where are the dogs?"
But Jemmy was neither seen nor heard. Lena went on without him, taking deep breaths of the breeze that was now coming off the sea. She scratched at her knit cap, then pulled it free, running her fingers through her shoulder-length hair. She loved it here, but she hated it too. Sometimes she felt so lonely, she'd do anything to be a little girl again. Life was simple then, and no one was too demanding. She closed her eyes, reciting over and over again: "That is past, that is over . . ."
The words were Mama's, and Lena fought back tears. "Some day I will leave this place too." Then she wouldn't need anyone. Not anymore. She would be just like Mama.
Suddenly, the sun burned through the fog, and Lena reveled in the warmth on her face. Frau Linz would scold her for any new freckles, but she didn't care. Her chestnut hair and cinnamon-colored eyes didn't come close to the Leader's idea of perfection, and what did that matter?
"But I'm not from around here," she said stubbornly, then dug in her heels.
Startled, the mare jumped into motion. Along the shoreline here on the Schiller estate, there seemed to be only gentle hills, so the brink came unexpected. The mare halted at the edge of a rocky precipice and paced nervously. Lena looked down to a drop of a hundred feet. The cliff stretched almost half a mile up and down the coast, falling to big rocks and patches of sand below. This craggy face separated hills from beach and hid a few small caves that Lena had first found when she explored this place as a child. She tied off the mare to a windblown shrub, then made her way down the rocky cliff side.
Mecklenburg is a farming province, but also had a long history of trade with Russia, Scandinavia, and the Baltic States. Rostock had been one of the leading members of the medieval Hanseatic League. With increased commerce and wealth came increased piracy. Through the centuries, Lena was sure that smugglers and raiders must have used the caves along here for storage. There was a certain code for these types of thieves: "Find it in water, it belongs to the sea. Find it on land, you best leave it be."
So said the old men on the dockside. They had been sailors, and Lena took this rule as gospel. She walked toward the waves. There were paw prints, but no dog. She turned to go back, but froze at the sounds nearby.
Gulls? The wind? It was a voice.
She crouched lower and rushed to the big rocks for cover, then crept forward on hands and knees. The fissure was hidden by an optical illusion, and the mouth of the cave appeared as if by magic. Then she heard it again and relaxed. The echo made the sounds seem like more than they were. It was neither sea monster nor intruder, it was only the child. And a growl. It seemed that Jemmy had found his prey.
"Come out," she called.
The sounds stopped. Lena added, "Don't cower, I know it's you."
The dog came out first, still sniffing with sand on his snout. He was drooling disgracefully. Lena tried not to laugh, but the wolfhound was such a terrible spy. The golden head of the boy appeared next, like a shining cap of sunlight. He was wearing one of her old coats, and it only exaggerated his slightness.
With hands on her hips, she said, "Your mama will have my backside, Erich Linz. You know what goes on here. Go home, go back to your lessons and chores."
His mouth tightened, and he shook his head roughly. Then he slipped back into the cave. Jemmy followed the boy, and one of them called out, "I want to hear it again."
"Hear what?" she said, knowing this would only taunt him.
"Not so much about the girlies this time, just about the boy."
"They were not girlies, but each was a Grand Duchess in her own right, a Tsarevna, Daughter of the Tsar. A tsar is like a king or a kaiser, or more like an emperor, I suppose."
"I remember," he said, "but they're still just girlies and of no interest to me. Tell me about the boy."
She stepped inside the cave where her voice sounded large and unreal. "There was a dynasty once who ruled through the ages with clever princes and terrible tyrants, with great ladies and scheming shrews. For hundreds of years, they held their empire with an absolute hand, filling museums with history and art and crown jewels. They ran railroads and factories in their vast country, and their ships circled the world, I'll bet. There was a grand winter palace in St. Petersburg that was built on the snow, and the Catharine Palace in Tsarskoe Selo has one thousand rooms. There was a zoo and gardens with fountains too, and even a canal, a sort of river of their own. The family had everything you could imagine."
The little boy rubbed his chin as he thought, then he said rather shrewdly, "I could imagine quite a few things. Besides ships and houses, I mean. Like a chemical set and a new fishing pole, one with a reel like Papa's. A train would be nice and a zoo with a pony. I would like a pig and an elephant too. But I'd hide them in those one thousand rooms, not the zoo, because someone might want to eat my pig. Roast him up with an apple in his mouth and prunes with almonds to stuff in his eyes."
It was obvious he was already thinking of Christmas, Lena thought. Or maybe just Christmas dinner. But of course, there was no longer Christmas in Germany, only Yuletide, by Hitler's decree.
She said, "They had an elephant in the zoo, a gift from the king of Siam, so I suppose you could have a pony, though I'm not so sure about the pig. Now don't interrupt, or you can tell the tale. Their lands spread out so far east and west that it would take weeks to ride to the end either way. You could ride north and south for another week or two and—"
"Weeks?" he said, clearly disgusted. "They must have had plodding old nags like Mama would ride. And why didn't they just drive a car? I would. Or even fly. Secret agents must move very fast."
"I suppose you would need roads to get anywhere, more roads than you can possibly imagine and also landing strips," she said. "But their horses were very swift, Erich Linz. The Mongol hordes of Genghis Khan swept down to conquer the world on such beasts. The ponies came from the Great Steppe, it is told. I wonder if that's where the Cossacks got their horses."
But he was impatient and finished the story for her: "They had four lovely girlies who often wore white and one small boy, like me. He was sickly though, not like me at all. I carried an armload of firewood all the way to the house this morning. Papa said I must do it each day, that's how I will grow stronger. Then an evil magician came, and since he could make the sickly boy feel better, they gave him a very nice house and new boots and warm clothes with embroidery, but he broke his holy vows with vodka and disagreeable women. The magician, I mean, not the boy. I would like to meet a magician. I would be one if I weren't already a spy."
Lena fought back a laugh. "Where did you hear all of that? Never mind, probably from your mama. He was not a magician, but a starets, a wandering holy man not ordained to any particular religion. And I don't know that he was evil. Some said that he was. Some said that he really could help the little boy with his prayers and soothing chants and poultices filled with smelly herbs, though they often thought that the boy might die. Most of the family loved the starets, at least at first."
They sat in silence for a moment, then Erich said, "Lena, what happened to them? You never say."
Lena studied his eager face. His life should be filled with play and school lessons, but already he knew too much of this world. "Perhaps I'll tell you another time," she said. Then she held out both hands, in fists, fingers down. He knew the game and studied them for a moment before he picked. She opened a hand to a small bit of chocolate. It was American, old, but still good enough. He pounced.
She said, "Go home."
He didn't argue, only saluted before he turned to go. Lena returned his salute, made in the Russian way. As she put the chocolate from her other hand into her mouth, she thought: It was only here and now in this cursed war and this crazy place that a boy could be seen as a danger. But such things had happened before, she knew. Maybe they were true, the tales, but Lena thought of them now only as bylinas, Russian epic stories. There were entries in Mama's journal, first written down as thoughts of a young lady's days, then later as memories of a woman with a heavy conscience and the guilt of survival.
CHAPTER 04 - Mama's Journal
Near Petrograd, Russia, 1916
December 28, 1916
I received this diary as a Christmas gift but I have never been so disciplined in writing as Mama, who writes in her book everyday. I now make a pact to write more often as the French master tells us this is what civilized people do. My sisters tell him that civilized is not a word that applies to me but why should I care what my sisters say? I have seen them all pick their noses.
Still I have promised Mama I would not read their journals if they do not read mine. I write here in English because I know maids can be as nosy as sisters. I do not have the gift for cryptic notation nor the patience for translation like Mama, who has kindly drawn out a chart of numbers and Greek symbols for me. I could hide this book but my brother will see that as challenge. When it comes to snooping he is worse than the rest. I will pretend I don't care because one can get used to almost anything, especially if it's just pretending.
December 31, 1916
They speak in whispers of how the starets was killed. We are not to know how it was done. Mama gets letters from strangers now. She reads them quickly then burns them at once. I can tell they upset her and I wish she would not read them at all. With the holy man so foully gone, Mama worries about her friends. She travels without their company now and without the aid of her ladies. Papa was called back from the Stavka and I have never seen him so angry. Still he will stop the investigation of the monk's death, so perhaps the rumors are true that princes did the foul deed. One does not shoot or hang princes, (they are family, after all), so they will be exiled out of his sight.
Then Papa returned to military headquarters before church services tonight. Mama was so upset that she did not sing in the chapel nor wish us a joyous new year. But something else is terribly wrong here. The servants have an uneasy feeling of late. It's everywhere like the noxious gas I have read about being used on the front lines in France. Though I cannot see it or smell it, I feel it surrounding us all. I feel it making me weak. Papa left so quickly, I wonder, does he remember the starets' prophecy too?
January 18, 1917
The servants say there is little food or fuel to be had in the capital now and there are long lines at the bakery shops. Mama told her ladies that when the food transports come, all will be the same as before. Papa has returned from the Stavka again. His ministers now come and go with sour expressions and no friendly words for the rest of us. I hear that people are being arrested in their homes or wherever they go about their business. I have not heard why or what becomes of them, so I wonder if it's true.
Both Mama and Papa look very tired. This war has kept them too much apart. As for my own comfort, my sister's new dog has become my own. The pup is wiggly and his nose is quite cold. He digs into the pillows like a rodent until all you can see is his tail. I think I shall call him Little Jim or Joe, though my brother calls him Jemmy. For now the pup answers to nothing but food.
February 15, 1917
I admit that I am lazy and do not write often as I promised. I have been reading to the wounded soldiers who say they enjoy it very much. I play the parts in the stories with different voices and they agree that I could be quite a good actress. The war is making too many casualties but Papa has decided to stay home as there is continued trouble in the capitol. The maid said this is all very well because generals can get soldiers killed on their own. I am happy that Papa is here but what can he do? Bake more bread for the masses himself?
I am not supposed to think of such things and certainly not speak of them aloud. I am only to learn my numbers and French. But numbers, as always, make my head hurt and French reminds me of Marie Antoinette. Sometimes I look at her portrait in Mama's rooms and wonder how it felt waiting for them to lop off her head. I shall play that part for my soldiers though my sisters tell me I am morbid. My brother likes the idea very much but he prefers anything over lessons.
Where are the dogs? I must take Jemmy to Papa now. The pup sits so well on his lap and they doze together in Papa's favorite chair though sometimes the pup chews on his buttons.
March 8, 1917
Papa got a telegram today. He is needed again at the Stavka. I could see in his eyes that he did not want to leave us and he held onto Jemmy for such a long while. Papa said that he would be gone for only a week or a few days more as there are many things to attend here at home. He has given us permission to use his toilet and bath. What bliss!
My older sisters are now ill with the measles. They look very ugly but I shall stay away as Mama said that I must though I think I might like to tell them. My brother is ill as well. Is this the start of both famine and sores? Will all the plagues of Egypt now visit us here? Of course I am reading about Moses and Israelite slaves. I would like to float down the Nile in the warm Egyptian air with gilded breasts and eyes painted with kohl. (Is that wicked and must I confess?)
I long for Easter and spring and flowers. Oh, to be fed sweet sesame cakes while being fanned and floated down the Nile like Cleopatra. She died with an asp to her breast, but at least she chose her own course. Not like Marie Antoinette who waited for them to chop off her head. Which would I prefer, I wonder? I do not like snakes.
March 10, 1917
Food supplies for the city still have not come. No regular trains have come through at all. They say that in the capital ordinary workers were incited to riots by a few seditious ruffians who had been organized to do such things and this is why the labor strikes spread so easily from one factory to another. All that is scarcely felt here. I only know the tales from the servants who have family and houses there.
My other sister is now ill and Mama is frantic for she insists on nursing them all herself. The sickrooms are far from her own and she is constantly moving between them. I worry that Mama will soon need nursing herself. I shall offer to carry her notes to her ladies and the servants.
March 11, 1917
There is fighting in the streets of Petrograd and one of the regiments has mutinied! The soldiers fired machine-guns into the streets. I would have liked to hear it. I must write a note to my brother.
Mama was supposed to meet with the professor in the city to discuss production of more anti-tetanus serum for the hospitals but travel is now impossible. Mama told her ladies that our own guards are still loyal and would soon put down the trouble-makers. (Was this true?) The servants say the riots are getting worse. They are afraid to go home and I am sure Mama will let them stay here.
We had news this evening that the George Battalion has been sent to quell the rebellion and that Papa will be home in two days. He does not believe the stories of conspiracies as so often these reports are exaggerated. But the Commander of the Svodnyi, the composite regiment, is worried about the morale of the Palace Guard. It seems that revolutionary propaganda has been circulating among them. As to danger, neither the guards nor the police take it seriously. Still I would like to read one of the pamphlets.
March 12, 1917
Mama sent a telegraph to Papa but received no reply. This has her more worried than the riots though it's been quiet tonight. Mama told her ladies to go back to their hospital work. My brother and sisters now have high fevers along with their spots. My sisters too have abscessed ears and they shout to be heard for they cannot hear themselves so they think that it's true of the rest of us too. I speak without sound, only moving my lips and this upsets them very much, though my brother finds it amusing. This moment I feel quite faint, but hot tea with plenty of sugar is all that I need and maybe some sweet oatmeal cake. I will rest with Jemmy and read of the Nile and pray that it's not measles for me.
March 13, 1917
Still no word from Papa and the maid tells me that there is a rumor that my brother is dead. He was still breathing the last time I looked just a moment ago. I told her to go look for herself but not to get close or to wake him. Mama now has help from one of her ladies and the support in tending ill sisters has been a great comfort to her. I must again deliver Mama's notes to the servants. She now writes notes to my sisters as well for they can no longer hear at all. At least they are no longer shouting.
There is word that nearly all the regiments in the capital have joined in the rebellion. Mama keeps this from us and I wish now that I was not such a spy. There are only a few troops who remain loyal but luckily our own garrison is among them. Some of Papa's gentlemen are staying here with us now. Mama also writes notes to them for she worries that they will also catch the measles. This is especially bad for men according to Mama's medical books. Some of the pictures are quite as interesting as watching our cousins swimming naked at Livadia. I wonder when will I have my own nurse's training.
Evening, March 13, 1917
The garrison has mutinied!
They left the barracks without command, marching out as they pleased and firing their rifles in the air as they passed by any houses. They went to the prison and opened the doors and all the criminals escaped. It seems that the prisoners must have all been thieves for that is when the looting began. It started at wine-shops and the rebels quickly became drunk. They were heading our way but their constant firing and singing gave alarm to the Palace Guard which are two battalions of the Combined Regiment, one battalion of the Naval Guards, (1200 strong), two squadrons of Cossacks of the Escort, one company of the 1st Railway Regiment, and one Heavy Field Battery. Mama so loves the navy but like Papa and my brother, I love the Cossack guards.
Mama told us that these were only harmless maneuvers. When she threw a black fur cloak over her white nurses' dress, I insisted that I must go along. We went outside with one of Papa's gentlemen to speak to the soldiers of the Guard. It was dark with only a faint light thrown up from the snow. From this I could see patches of Mama's light dress as she walked. This made her look mysterious, like a spirit or a ghost, and I wondered if I looked the same way.
In the courtyard the troops were lined up in battle order. The first line was kneeling in the snow. Another row stood behind them with their rifles in readiness against a sudden attack. Light reflected off the snow onto the polished steel barrels of their rifles. I could see their breath puffing out in the dim light and Mama's too as she told the soldiers how much we trusted them and how she knew they would defend our family and home.
We went next to the basement where the soldiers came in turns to warm themselves. They seemed very pleased to see us and were very polite. The gunshots of the rioters were much nearer by then. The sound came toward us in waves as if carried by gusts of wind. But the Cossacks who had been patrolling out there said they had spread the rumor of massive troops stationed here with machine-guns posted on every roof. They thought that the rioters would come no further tonight. Bless our Cossack guards, even if they are wonderful liars!
When we came back in the house we found that the halls were all dark. (I write this now in candle light which somehow seems fitting.) Papa's gentlemen said that this was the work of ruffians who cut off the electric lights and the water supply. The whole place now echoes with emptiness as most of the servants fled while we were out. Only Mama's personal staff remains and Papa's gentlemen who think tomorrow things might be worse but Mama refuses to flee. Besides, my brother and sisters are still quite ill. We cannot go and where would we go without Papa?
Where are the dogs? Where is my Jemmy? I am cold and need something warm to hold.
March 14, 1917
Papa's gentlemen patrolled the corridors the rest of the night. They also went out to the guardroom to keep abreast of all news. By morning the firing had ceased but the rebels had mounted two siege guns on a roof nearby and easily could have shot at us during the night. I wrote a note telling my brother of this but Mama tore it up and forbade me to say anything more or even write of this.
We still have no word from Papa. Today some men came to speak with Mama in our school room. After they left, Mama sat there alone and then began to sob with her hands to her face and her head to the table. I have never seen her in such a state, not when Papa went away, not even when the starets was murdered. It broke my heart to hear her this way but I could not offer any comfort. If Mama knew I was there it would have only made matters worse. She has always tried to protect us from such things. That is why they so often speak in whispers but always someone seems to hear.
I knew in my heart that it was something about Papa. Was he hurt or worse? Had we seen the last of dear Papa?
The truth came with the shouts and the gunshots. How could I have known how much worse it could be? When Mama staggered down the hallway and called out in French, I knew why I had been thinking of Marie Antoinette once again.
"Abdiqué!" Abdication. Where is Papa and how could this be?
Spring, 1917
I don't remember the date anymore. The rebels changed our calendar by several days and there's one hour's difference as well, which seems the strangest of all. They tell us that Russia isn't Russia anymore but a Soviet state and there is no need for a Tsar. We have no privacy. The guards have taken most doors off the hinges, even those to the lavatories. They roam the grounds and shoot where they will and laugh at how they toppled Papa off his bicycle. Some play cards and a few also drink. Others stare strangely at my sisters and me. I admit that I am afraid of these men.
Mama is writing her letters by the window and Papa is out chopping wood with the French master. They do this for exercise and sometimes I carry the wood for my own. I am really becoming quite strong. Some of the guards said that we might have a garden and they will help us with the planting as we have never done this before ourselves.
I have holes in my linens but say nothing of this. Mama thinks we should all be useful but I am not so handy with the needle. My sisters are much better at this. I prefer to carry the wood. My brother is knitting and my sister is reading aloud as the others roll bandages. Could I switch linens with them while they are so busy? What if their linens are in a worse state than my own? I wonder, could I use my brother's?
I wish we could go to Livadia. I miss the sunshine and flowers. I miss pretty sweet cakes and a pot of strong tea. Some guards help themselves to our food and go where they will, whenever they want, often taking our things into their pockets along the way.
These have been horrible days.
There are more gunshots. I hope the guards are not in the zoo again. With so many people about, why do I feel so alone? Where are the dogs? Where is my Jemmy? I have not read a newspaper in days. Does anyone know what is happening here?
CHAPTER 05 - The Secret Passage
The Schiller estate, near Rostock, Germany
Lena led the mare up the winding cobbled driveway to the huge old Schiller manor. The first structure had been built to last through a siege and didn't deny its age. Over the centuries, the manor had been renovated into a large L-shaped house anchored by the square medieval square keep. But the original granite steps leading to huge rough-hewn double doors had always remained the same.
A staff car was parked in front of the steps now, but its military flags of the Reich were drooping and not nearly so dignified as when the staff car was in motion. This was the transport of a security officer from Rostock, Naval Commander Guderian, who served as liaison between the Kriegsmarine and the Schiller Shipping Lines..
The Kriegsmarine, the German war navy, had three major divisions: one comprised of battle ships, a section that included submarines (the infamous U-boats), and the naval security section, responsible for patrol boats, minesweepers, coastal defenses, and auxiliary vessels, like those commandeered from the Schiller lines.
Lena nodded to the driver leaning against Guderian's staff car. He was sucking on the half-spent butt of a cigar that wasn't lit. After tending the horse in the stables, she walked to the back of the house. Baskets full of harvest were stacked around the back steps: turnips and carrots, cabbages and winter squash, and bruised apples, pears and plums that were too far gone for eating, but would be used to make cider or given to the horses. Lena was proud of her kitchen garden and the orchard she'd coaxed back to life. Mama had taught her the art of growing things, and it had come in quite handy with the war.
She opened the backdoor to the smell of cooking apples. Frau Linz, the housekeeper, was not around, but Herr Linz, her husband, was working at some piece of old leather. Frau Linz's family had been with the Schillers for generations. Herr Linz was her second husband, and they had one son, ten-year-old Erich, who was Lena's second best friend in this world. But Erich made himself scarce when visitors came, particularly those in uniform. It was a survival tactic Lena knew well enough, though the boy's skill surpassed even her own.
Her stepfather was harsh on servants, but they had reached a nervous impasse. The only other option was to employ strangers, perhaps criminals or foreigners, and her stepfather would never agree to that. Unlike the Allies, Germany didn't widely use women as a production force until late in the war. Instead, Hitler youth groups worked in the fields during the summer. Prisoners of war, captured Resistance fighters, and political prisoners were brought from the camps to work in factories. Later, slave labor was imported from all over occupied-Europe, except from Russia. Hitler was afraid Russians would "infect" his people with communism.
The kitchen was overly warm, and Lena was yawning when Frau Linz burst through the door with a serving tray. Strands had escaped from the woman's normally-tight knot of gold and silver-gray hair. Her mouth was shut tight as a trap as she set the tray down with a rattling bang.
"What's the matter?" Lena said. "Did they run out of jam in Berlin?"
The housekeeper wiped at her brow and grabbed a mug of cider from the table. She took a long sip, only sighing in reply. Lena looked to Herr Linz for the answer.
He said. "The man with Guderian, he has no baggage."
Which meant the visit was for a specific purpose, not just for her stepfather's hospitality which was well-known, even infamous, in Berlin. Lena took the dirty luncheon plates from the tray and replaced them with dessert. Frau Linz had a way with strudel, and the woman slapped at Lena's fingers as she picked at the pastry. The housekeeper then picked up the tray and, backside first, pushed her way through the kitchen door.
As Herr Linz stirred the apples on the cook stove, Lena reached around the side of the huge stone fireplace, pressing a small, blue-colored stone. An adjacent wood panel popped open. Her nose wrinkled at the musty air from the chasm. She stepped inside and reached for a candle and match kept within. When she pulled the panel closed behind her, Herr Linz headed for the backdoor.
Lena slipped along the passage until she heard arguing voices. The men were in the library. She slid to the floor with her back to the wall and closed her eyes to listen. Her hand felt for the locket out of habit. She whispered, "It's been such a long time, Mama. I wish I could see you again."
Outside, Herr Linz ambled toward the staff car like he had nothing better to do. He smiled and admired the automobile.
The driver was not a local man, though had been to the manor before. He stood up straight as he said, "I am not just a driver, I see to everything myself." He rubbed at the chrome with his white gloves, adding, "There is none so fine, even in Berlin."
Herr Linz offered him a cigarette, foreign, obviously black market. That wasn't unusual around here. The driver put his soggy cigar in his pocket, then took two of the cigarettes offered. He leaned in closer as Linz lit a match. For a moment, they both smoked in silence, then spoke of things they missed most because of the war, as old friends sometimes do.
In the library, Gerhard Schiller slouched in his favorite chair. Waiting was annoying, still he was pleased when they came to him like this. This was not the natural order of things, he was not born to the manor. His father had been a younger son who had squandered any money of his own. But his parents had the good grace to die when Gerhard was young enough to be taken into his uncle's household.
His cousin August had inherited the shipping lines, a vast wealth. As boys, they got on well enough, but they had never been close. Everything was meant to go next to the brat, Ernst, August's only child. But Ernst died unexpectedly, another son lost to the war. August killed himself in his grief, hung himself from the rafters of his shipping office down on the dockside. It didn't take long for August's wife to go next. Grief could kill you just as surely as a bullet. That's what everybody said. Gerhard Schiller had never laughed so hard in all of his life.
He rubbed at his face to hide his smile, but when the door burst open, it startled him. Frau Linz set the tray down and began to serve without even a look his way for permission. "Leave it," he snapped. "Get out."
She nodded once, but left with her calm expression intact. He knew she wasn't afraid of him. He glanced at the others to see if they had noticed it too. As the officials helped themselves to the pastries, Schiller poured himself another brandy. Every time he looked at the woman, he knew the truth. Frau Linz protected Lena like a wolf-bitch protected her pup. But there was always Lena: in his manor, at his table, in his mind. Soon, she would be in his bed.
Voices rose in disagreement. He hadn't been listening, but he was used to such things. He said, "Gentleman, surely we have no quarrels here?"
Abruptly, they both stopped talking, only stared into their pastries instead. He was also used to the role of peacemaker, and Schiller added, "More brandy, Herr Zweig?"
The man offered up his glass.
Peacemaker. Damn peace, Schiller thought as he poured. War was his true friend. Another death in time of war, it was nothing. Accidents, suicide, grief, slow poison, it all ended the same. It was all going according to plan, and since then, he'd spent months building contacts within the black market, both inside Germany and out.
Meanwhile, through Gerhard Schiller, the Reich sold works of art stolen from the fallen cities of Europe to private collectors all over the world. After all, he was only a businessman, not a soldier or a politician. It was the same for those who would frown on a direct connection between art collecting and funding the German war machine. If criminal elements flourished under so much surveillance, Schiller figured, he wasn't about to interfere with such clever, powerful men.
Of course, the Allies didn't allowed the objects to be moved openly, but rich patrons flocked to the private auctions: Swedish, South American, even the self-exiled French. Schiller got prestige for aiding the Reich, and so what if he skimmed off a more-fair share? No one had complained, or even noticed. That too had worked perfectly until some of the shipments had gone missing. That's why these officials were here now, and it made him uneasy.
"More strudel, Herr Zweig?" Schiller offered.
The fat man answered first with a belch, then, "No. It's time for business, I think."
At last, Schiller thought, but his smile soon faded.
"The missing shipments, Herr Schiller," Guderian said. "There have been how many now? Five, six, maybe more."
Schiller said, "Surely you don't include those lost at sea, Herr Commander? A mine, a torpedo, even a storm could—"
"Berlin counts them, whether acts of God or war," Guderian said. "There's a problem inside your organization."
Schiller twisted in his chair. "You don't know that it's here. Not for certain." But he knew before he finished that none of that mattered.
Up to now, Schiller had been relying on the constant in-fighting over the monies to keep him from scrutiny. SS, Gestapo, local authorities, they were all a concern. He'd paid off the locals easily enough. And he understood the Gestapo, knew their passions very well, because they so matched his own. But what drove the SS? He'd always lacked the courage to know.
Under Heinrich Himmler, the SS, the Schutzstaffel, gradually took control of Germany's police forces. During the same period, special SS military units were being trained. By 1939, the SS numbered over a quarter of a million men and was divided into two main sections: the Allgemeine-SS, or General SS, and the Waffen-SS, or Armed Secret (or Special) Services.
The Allgemeine-SS departments included the dreaded Gestapo and dealt with police and racial matters as well as both foreign and domestic intelligence. This unit was not made of fighting soldiers, but was a secretive protection force that also managed domestic production of food, drink, general industry, and publishing.
The Waffen-SS was comprised of Hitler's personal bodyguard, the Death's-Head Battalions which directly administered the concentration camps, and the Disposition Troops which served as elite combat troops who considered themselves superior to the regular German forces, the Wehrmacht. The Waffen-SS were fanatical fighters, and when ordered to attack retreating Wehrmacht troops, they complied.
Thinking about them now made Schiller nervous, but why would the Waffen-SS come here? It wasn't a military matter. The answer was obvious: An officer was looking to gain favor in Berlin or the SS thought it was one of their own. Either way, if the SS got involved, they would also be fanatical in finding an answer that was advantageous to their own. And that didn't even account for factors unknown.
Who knows what other factions would come hunting, Schiller thought. He gulped at his brandy.
Zweig was Gestapo, he understood these things too. The man was here to protect his own position or that of his benefactors. But he was only a messenger, and perhaps someone in Berlin was testing him too.
Schiller had to find out more. "Would you care for a cigar, gentlemen?"
Zweig did, but Guderian shook his head and started pacing. He removed a cigarette case from his jacket, but only stared at it a moment. He put the case away, but he was nervous, and began to examine items on the mantle.
Guderian was from a good family and had respect for property and position, Schiller knew. Normally, the naval commander wouldn't get involved. The only reason he was here now was because he didn't like interference from Berlin.
Schiller prepared the cigars like his father had first taught him when he was eight years old. His father had taught him about all the finer things in life, just not how to get or keep them. He learned that on his own. He held the gold and crystal lighter while the Gestapo man leaned over his cigar. Zweig puffed and seemed pleased to say nothing more.
Schiller leaned back in his chair, watching the tip glow on his cigar. From Rostock, it was hard to tell who was in favor. Or who was at risk. But he liked Berlin even less, here he could still be a big fish.
Guderian was staring into the low burning fire when he said, "We must coordinate our efforts. How much time do we have?"
"The files on the thefts have been purged," Zweig said. "It will be seen as an incompetent clerical error. Those responsible have already been sent away."
Schiller knew that meant shipped out to the front lines somewhere. It also meant probable death for them. And for us here, he thought, it meant only a delay of a week, maybe two. Why was it his problem anyway? There was something here he was missing, but he was afraid to ask. He said, "What is your plan?"
Zweig shrugged. "If we can't find the culprits, camouflage will do."
"What good are scapegoats if more shipments still go missing?" Guderian said.
"It's just another way of buying more time," said Zweig. "Once we have a bird in hand, the matter won't come up again."
Zweig wouldn't look at him now. Schiller knew then that the rumors were true, the Russians would make their way into Germany, it was just a matter of time. Then it would be every man for himself. Schiller said, "You know I will assist in any possible way." The words came out with a slight slur. Nerves or brandy? Something worse, he was scared.
"I need not explain the consequences to those implicated," Zweig said.
Schiller opened his mouth, but stopped. Something felt wrong here. Guderian was not a schemer, why was he here? Was he looking to protect his own? Maybe Zweig was not here for his masters at all, but was looking to move up the ladder.
Or maybe they meant the trap for him.
I won't be duped, Schiller thought, and his eyes narrowed as he calculated. Moving too fast was not the answer. Berlin would be watching for reckless stirring. He'd covered his tracks, and as far as the thefts, he was an innocent man. But only because he hadn't thought of it. His greed overcame his fear. "What are you bringing this time?" Schiller said. "The shipment, what is it?"
Zweig said, "Imperial family possessions, retrieved from the Crimea with a great deal of care by one held in high regard in Berlin." He snickered, adding, "I've never been to Livadia. I hear it is lovely there, but I've always been a romantic."
The Livadia Palace was a personal possession of the Romanov family, not of the Russian state like the Winter Palace or Tsarskoe Selo. Situated on the Crimean Peninsula in the southern part of Ukraine, waves from the Black Sea constantly brush against the mountain of rock that supports the elegant Livadia compound. Rugged cliffs protect it from cold northern winds. With such peaceful isolation and panoramic views, Tsar Nicholas II described this place as his sanctuary. The Russian Imperial family preferred to live with little formality here: riding, swimming, taking photographs, having picnics and English teas. The Tsar and one of his daughters even collected butterflies here, running around together on the grounds with their butterfly nets.
Guderian said, "Russia—" But he didn't finish, only cleared his throat to cover his uneasiness. Earlier this year, the powerful German Sixth Army, victors over Paris and much of France, had fallen in Russia with terrible losses. No one spoke of it much. Guderian said instead, "The inventory?"
"Religious items, and paintings," Zweig said. "Several small sculptures in metal and stone, and Imperial baubles for everyday use. All those done by some Frenchman. The items have historical interest, which increases their market value to collectors, I'm told, but I am neither jeweler nor accountant."
"Some Frenchman? You mean Karl Fabergé. Are there Imperial Easter Eggs then?" Guderian said with excitement. "Fabergé wasn't really French anymore, his Huguenot family fled from France to Russia before . . ." His voice faded for a moment as he looked far away. Then he cleared his throat and continued, "The Romanov family often spent Easter at Livadia, but they were put under house arrest at Tsarskoe Selo before Easter of 1917, and I have always wondered where the last—"
"I've never been interested in the Romanovs or the Resurrection," Zweig said.
Schiller laughed, then said to Guderian, "What's your interest? I thought you enjoyed paintings."
"I enjoy art in general and history in particular, Herr Schiller," Guderian said. "Easter is the most important festival in the Russian Orthodox Church. Their Easter customs of exchanging a three-fold kiss and painted eggs were brought from Byzantium with Christianity. Eggs are widely used as a representation of new life and have always been a symbol of Christian Easter, the Resurrection of Jesus Christ."
Russians exchanged colored Easter eggs among family, friends, co-workers, and neighbors. The eggs could be natural or made of wood, bone, semi-precious stone, glass, even silver or gold. They could be simple colors or intricate designs. Some were covered with velvet or silk and embroidered with glass beads or silk yarn. By the 20th century, making Easter eggs was considered a discipline of Russian decorative arts.
The Imperial Porcelain Manufactory was founded in St. Petersburg in 1744, after Europeans finally mastered the techniques of the Chinese porcelain makers. Porcelain Easter eggs were then introduced at the Imperial court, and in 1793, Russian Empress Catherine the Great was supplied with six baskets and six vases filled with porcelain Easter eggs of varying sizes and painted with "landscapes, figures, and arabesques and covered with colors."
During World War I, mass-production was used to produce commemorative eggs for Russian soldiers. Over a thousand wounded soldiers received special Easter eggs from the Tsar: plain white eggs with a red cross and the date. Soldiers at the front received red eggs embellished with the Cross of St. George, the "soldiers' George."
When the Imperial Romanov family decided to give Easter Eggs made by Karl Fabergé, it was just an extension of existing Russian tradition done on a grander scale. In 1917, at the Alexander Palace at Tsarskoe Selo, Easter Sunday was celebrated quietly by the Imperial family while under house arrest. They gave out 135 porcelain eggs to servants and friends from reserve stocks kept at the palace.
But the Tsar's mother had escaped revolutionary hands with the help of the British, taking with her the last Imperial Egg she'd received from her son in 1916, the Cross of St. George Egg. What happened then to the Easter Eggs that were supposed to be given to the Tsaritsa and the Tsar's mother in 1917?
"And so we have a lesson in both art and religion." Zweig said.
Guderian cleared his throat. He thought for a moment, then took another sip of liquor before he said, "Forgive me for being inquisitive, Herr Zweig, but the history of these pieces is a hobby with me." He put a hand to his pocket, to his cigarette case. It too was Fabergé, a gift from his last class of college students. Many of them were dead now, he knew.
Schiller sat up straight in his chair. "Fabergé. I remember. Some American millionaire was involved, but that was years ago, after the Great War. A millionaire collecting art, that means these works are worth—"
Zweig laughed and held up his glass in toast. "Money, now we have a point of interest. Let's hope it becomes a point in common."
"Lenin ordered protection for those artworks and treasures confiscated from the aristocracy and the churches during the revolution," Guderian said. "But times were hard, and in Russia they had no need for Easter anymore. The Bolsheviks probably never understood the true worth of those works. They told the peasants there was no God. But lost Imperial Easter Eggs, possibly never finished, the Red Revolution interrupting . . ."
He didn't have to finish. It was part of German history too.
In the Great War, Russia was still fighting Germany when the communist revolution began. The Tsar was forced to abdicate in March, 1917, but in-fighting continued between both Soviet factions and counter-revolutionary forces, the White Army. The Bolsheviks used the German-born Alexandra and her children as pawns in peace negotiations with Germany. They had not bargained in good faith, but it took the world months to discover what happened to the Imperial family.
Zweig said, "You tell an interesting story, Herr Commander, but it could all be a fabrication. You know how some people lie." He slapped his leg as he laughed.
Guderian replied, "People love a tragedy. Rich people love it all the more for it seldom touches them personally."
"The shipment will go out as usual," Zweig said. "No precautions will be taken to protect it. The only difference is that this time, predators' eyes will be watching, and we know it."
"What of the local authorities?" Schiller said.
"The locals are suspect," Guderian said, "but then so are we."
Zweig shrugged. "You seem safe enough and quite comfortable too, Herr Schiller. Just sit tight, the world will turn around you. I doubt you will feel any thing at all." Then he snickered, but he was the only one laughing.