Florian's Gate (36 page)

He stopped before a door recessed in the side wall, like hundreds of others they had passed, marked in no way at all.

The overhead bulb came on to display a chamber stuffed with antiques. Jeffrey fumbled for Gregor's list, began checking off items, resisted the urge to hunker and gawk. A set of Louis Phillippe furniture. An early German secretary so inlaid with burl veneer it was hard to tell the original wood. An English commode of mahogany in impeccable condition. A bureau cabinet, possibly of fruitwood, definitely central European, the ornate carving around its edges creating a frame for the grain's natural artistry. A
fin de siècle
glass-fronted cabinet, its sides carved into a bouquet of blooming lilies.

Jeffrey maneuvered his way among the room's treasures through the narrow U-shaped passage. When he returned to the entrance he was sweating. “All there,” he reported.

“Of course it is,” the man replied through Katya, his eyes turning hard. “For now.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Prices of everything are going up faster than anyone can believe,” Katya translated. “Storage space especially.”

“We were told that you wanted another payment,” Jeffrey replied, forcing his voice to remain steady. “I've been authorized to pay you.”

The miner's eyes held a greedy light. He spoke again, and Katya said, “There's a lot of wealth here. Somebody is getting very rich from all this.”

“You're getting your share.”

“That's good to hear.” Casimir nodded in the direction of the room. “We have to work day and night to make sure nobody gets in and steals away these riches.”

“The furniture has to be moved soon,” Alexander told him by phone that evening.

“Gregor agrees with you. He said that if we can't get the export documents and move it out of Poland, he has another place where we can take the items. It's an old folks' home he works with who'll give us part of their cellar.”

“Such a move would be expensive,” Alexander said. “And risky.”

“Gregor wants to know how long you think it will be before the furniture leaves Poland.”

“That is hard to say,” Alexander replied. “I needed to make new contacts this trip.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“It would be far better to obtain the proper export documents and ship the furniture immediately.” Alexander paused. “I am indeed sorry to burden you with all this your first trip, Jeffrey.”

“It happens. To tell the truth, I'm really enjoying myself.”

“Indeed. Experience is most certainly the best teacher.”

“What exactly would you want me to do?”

“There is an expression in Polish that says, ‘He walks after things.' It refers to a man who can get things done, especially when dealing with the government. That is what you require. Someone who will walk your export documents through a different labyrinth, this one inside a government ministry.”

“So how do I go about finding someone like that?”

Alexander paused, said finally, “Perhaps this should wait until I am feeling better and can come down to help you, Jeffrey.”

“Maybe so, but at least let me try.”

“Very well. You are looking for someone whose interests coincide with yours. Perhaps it will be someone with whom I dealt in the old government—Gregor knows most of them. This is doubtful, as past services rendered to a disgraced regime will not carry much weight now. No, it will most likely be someone from within the art world who knew of my earlier efforts, who now has a position in the government.”

“Any ideas who that might be?”

“Again, Gregor may be able to tell you. It is part of his responsibility to keep track of such things while I am not around. But because you will be working with someone new to our operation, you are going to need some gift, some important favor or service to offer them. He or she will want to make sure that we still have either assistance or articles of value to bring to the table.”

“That's not a lot to go on.”

“No, but keep your eyes and ears open. Something may turn up. If you can find that hook, obtaining the export documents should not be too difficult. Many of the new administrators have a very real contempt for the laws instituted by the Communists, and rumor has it that regulations governing the export of antiques are soon to be changed in any case.”

“So I'm to find both a person who can actually write the documents, and find something that I can offer them, like maybe an antique of Polish importance.”

“That would be the best, of course. But such items do not
grow on trees. Have you come across anything you might use?”

“A Polish Biedermeier chest of drawers. Not enough on its own to warrant this kind of special treatment.”

“No. Well, a service of some kind, something you can offer that no one else can do, this too would be an excellent gift.”

“Sounds impossible.”

“Yes, it may well be. In that case, we shall simply have to hope that our friends in the salt mine do not decide to sell the merchandise twice.”

“And that you get well soon,” Jeffrey added.

“Thank you, yes, it would be very nice if we were to be able to seek this new door together. I have often thought in the past that it would be so much nicer to work with another.”

“You have Gregor.”

“Ah, but Gregor is often ill, as you can see for yourself. Not to mention the fact that his somewhat peculiar attitudes make him unsuitable for the rough and tumble of business.”

“What would you use as leverage if you were here?”

“That, my friend, is what we must apply ourselves to identifying,” Alexander replied. “And with great diligence.”

Friend, Alexander had said. “Gregor has somebody he wants me to go see tomorrow. It's a long shot, something he hasn't felt was all that important until this came up.”

“He gave you no details?”

“He said he didn't have any to give me, except that the man spoke English, and that I needed to go alone.”

“Strange that he would not have mentioned it before.”

“It's a long shot at best, like I said.” Jeffrey took a breath. “And the meeting has to take place at Florian's Gate.”

“Ah. Well.” The life drained from Alexander's voice. “It is certainly one that you must handle yourself, then. Call me when you return. And watch your back.”

CHAPTER 19

Dawn painted the promise of a beautiful day in heaven-wide hues of gold and blue when Jeffrey left the hotel the next morning. He walked the brief distance to Gregor's apartment and found him moving painfully about his little alcove fixing tea.

Jeffrey took him by the elbow and guided him back to bed. “Let me do that for you.”

Gregor did not complain. “I am most grateful, my dear boy. Just be careful that the stove does not singe your fingers as it has mine.”

The kitchen was nothing more than a walk-through closet with a cramped little bathroom at the back. On one side wall, a tiny refrigerator clanked and shivered beneath a dripping faucet and battered sink. Set into the wall overhead was a draining rack for all the utensils and plates Gregor owned—none of which matched. On the opposite wall, twin gas pressure tanks supported a plywood board, upon which rested a portable cooker. A safe distance above this were more shelves, containing a bare minimum of canned and boxed food.

Jeffrey filled a pot with water, lit the stove with a kitchen match, set the pot in place, and went back to the main room. “Do you mind if I ask why you returned to Poland after having escaped?”

“Because I was called,” Gregor replied simply.

“That's it?”

“That is more than enough, and all I can offer to someone who has never known the experience. But the
how
of my return is perhaps more interesting. Would you like to hear of it?”

“Sure.”

“Very well. On March 5, 1946, Sir Winston Churchill gave an address in America, and we heard it on the air the next day. You are too young to remember, but in these times the
radio was our lifeline, our source of joy and entertainment and news. That particular talk became famous later, but it was new then. I still recall the words. He said, ‘From Stettin in the Baltic to Trieste in the Adriatic, an Iron Curtain has descended across the Continent.”

“I know the expression,” Jeffrey said. “I suppose everybody does these days.”

“An iron curtain. I can't tell you what an impact those words had on me. I felt the iron curtain had come down inside me, and my life's work was waiting on the other side. It was a very wounded time for me. Zosha, my wife, had died—just before Christmas of that first year in London. Her health had never been good, and she had not really recovered from the strain of our escape from Poland. On rare occasions when my anguish would subside, I would catch hold of this feeling, a very clear sensation that I was being called back home.

“By that time, there was a tremendous amount of suspicion and numerous rumors—and a growing body of hard factual evidence as well—about Stalin's death grip upon Poland. We heard ever more horrific stories of mass arrests and executions. Polish patriots, officers, and intellectuals were being denounced as fascists and shot. Stalin's true nature was being shown by wave after wave of oppression and terror. I knew exactly what I was going to find upon my return. It was impossible for a Pole to meet a Pole anywhere—on the street, in a shop, at the club—without hearing of another atrocity. Street-sweeps were being instituted again, just as in the time of the Nazi occupation. The secret police were again arriving in the middle of the night to steal away whole families and relocate them to Siberia. Yes. I knew what awaited me. But I also knew I was called, and that I was going to go.

“There was one main problem, however. No, that is incorrect. There were two. The first was, how on earth was I going to escape back into Poland. The Polish border police mirrored Stalin's growing paranoia and hatred of everything tainted by the West. All arriving Poles were viewed as spies. After
all, why would anyone who had managed to escape wish to return, unless it was to overthrow Stalin's puppet government?

“My second problem, and my greatest worry, was Alexander. I realize that in this day and age you will find this difficult to understand, but I did not want to go against his wishes. I loved and admired him very much. I wanted to go back, yes. I
knew
I was going to return. But I also wanted to do so with Alexander's blessings.

“I began by dropping hints, making it as clear as possible to a man who had no faith in God that I felt this same God was calling me back. But I did not tell him directly that I was going, so he did not have a reason to ask me to stay, do you see? I simply let him know of my desire, and I waited. And I prayed.”

Jeffrey caught a whiff of steam from the boiling pot. He moved into the alcove, dropped a pinch of tea leaves into two glasses, filled them with water, picked them up gingerly around the rims, and returned.

“Ah, excellent. Thank you so much, my dear boy. This first cup of tea has become a ritual that holds my mornings together.” Gregor blew on the tea and sipped it.

“I don't see how you can drink it like that. The water's still almost boiling.”

“Practice, my boy. A practice best done on winter mornings when you have passed a night without heat, and when you awaken to an apartment so cold you are not sure that your pipes are still running.” He sipped again. “That night in London, I switched off the radio and went down to the
Ognisko
. Do you know it?”

“Sure. The Polish Club in South Kensington. Alexander takes me there whenever he's in town.”

“It was quite a place back then, not a club in the sense of being exclusive. Anyone could enter. It was a place where the Poles of London would gather and feel that they
belonged
. It always made me feel better just to go in there, to hear the Polish voices, smell the stuffed cabbage cooking. I am sure
many others felt the same. The atmosphere was always lively in the evenings, filled with serious flirtations and mock conspiracies—and laced with good vodka and cheap cigarettes.

“I went upstairs to a room devoted to the most serious of pursuits—bridge. The stakes were by our standards very high. A game had just broken up, and in the corner of the room I saw Alexander talking with Piotr.”

Jeffrey straightened up with a jolt. “Piotr my grandfather?”

“Indeed. I don't know how much you know about what your grandfather did during the war—”

“Nothing at all,” Jeffrey replied. “I've never even heard anybody mention it before.”

“I thought not.” There was a mischievous twinkle to Gregor's eyes. “You didn't think he had been a jeweler all his life, did you?”

“I guess I never thought of it.”

“The steady hands and the trained eye that made him a good jeweler in America made him a master at the forgery of documents.”

“My grandfather?”

“I assure you, my dear boy, I am not exaggerating. A true master forgerer. He had been very active in the Polish Underground Army. He was an artist of sorts. He had a name for creating the best false documents anyone had ever seen.”

Jeffrey leaned back. “Incredible.”

“Indeed. War has a tendency to bring out the strangest traits in men, the best and the worst. In your grandfather's case, I am happy to say, it was the best. In any case, he and Alexander were talking to a man in uniform that everyone addressed as
Prosze Pana Kapitana
, or Mister Captain Sir. I suppose he had a name, but to me and the others he was an aristocrat and a war hero, someone who bolstered our own feelings of patriotism by simply allowing us to recognize him in this honorable way.

“London was really the center for maintaining the struggle for Poland during and after the war. The Polish
government-in-exile was headquartered there. Almost everywhere you went in Polish circles, there was some bit of intrigue, some preparation for rescue or revolution. The Captain-Sir was talking to Alexander and Piotr about a man who had worked undercover for them just outside of Warsaw. The man knew a tremendous amount about Red Army activities and intentions. The Soviets had almost consolidated both their position and their new political power. To be sure, they often made promises to hold elections, but by the end of 1945, it was clear to almost everyone that any elections which were held would be rigged. Moscow-trained Communists held key posts in the ministries of Justice and the Interior. They completely controlled the police, the courts, the press, and the new government propaganda machine. It was simply a matter of time before they would eliminate the remaining nationalists in the government structure, and consolidate their power.