Florian's Gate (47 page)

They waited while the waiter arranged their plates; then Jeffrey asked, “So how am I supposed to smuggle this out?”

“Your export documents will include a letter from my office thanking you for the most kind offer to display some of our students' artwork in your fine establishment.” Rokovski positively beamed. “The painting in question has already been placed back inside its home of the past forty years.”

Jeffrey thought it over, decided it was workable. “How would you like us to send you the money after selling the painting?”

“You will not send it to me at all. A foundation has already been established for donations to the new museum wing for religious art. I would simply expect to find one morning that a large anonymous donation has been made to our foundation.”

Jeffrey looked around the restaurant as he ran the idea through his mind. “I don't see any problem with that.”

Rokovski visibly relaxed. “I must tell you, Mr. Sinclair, I was most worried about taking up such a crucial and sensitive matter with someone I had only just met. But Mr. Kantor spoke very highly of you, and I am beginning to see why.”

“I think this is something that Mr. Kantor would agree with fully,” Jeffrey replied. “It's a pleasure to act on his behalf.”

“As it is for us to work with you. I need not tell you that a successful resolution of this matter will pave the way for our future assistance wherever and whenever you might require it. I think you will find us to be very good friends, Mr. Sinclair. Very good friends indeed.”

CHAPTER 26

Jeffrey and Katya entered the hotel lobby on their final morning in Cracow to find Alexander seated near the front entrance, puffing contentedly on a cigar, looking positively peaceful. He rose to his feet, gave Katya a small bow. “Good morning, my dear. Jeffrey.”

“Good morning, Mr. Kantor,” Katya replied. “How are you feeling?”

“Better. I must say that I do indeed feel better.”

“You look it,” Jeffrey declared.

“Yes, I am happy to say that I rose with the dawn, ate a breakfast fit for a king, and have since been seated here thoroughly enjoying both the morning and this fine cigar.”

“We have been praying for you,” Katya said quietly.

Alexander looked at her for a long moment. “I cannot tell you how happy I am that my young friend and assistant has found you, my dear.”

Katya slipped a soft hand into Jeffrey's. “Thank you.”

“It is I who am grateful. To both of you.” He looked at Jeffrey. “I understand from Gregor that you are due for a final meeting with Rokovski.”

“In twenty minutes.”

“Might I come along?”

“Of course.”

“Excellent.” He turned to Katya. “Gregor asked me to convey an invitation to accompany him to one of his orphanages. He thought you might like to have a chance to see his little charges.”

“That would be wonderful. I imagine you two could use some time alone as well.” She raised herself up on tiptoes and kissed Jeffrey. “Until later, then.”

“Have an excellent morning, my dear,” Alexander replied, bowing at her departure. He watched her leave through the
front doors. “A most remarkable woman. Am I correct in detecting a change in the atmosphere between you?”

“This trip has been important in a lot of ways,” Jeffrey replied.

“Indeed it has.” Alexander gazed at him fondly. “I am very proud of you, Jeffrey. You have handled yourself tremendously well.”

“Thanks. I've really enjoyed myself.”

“One often overlooked element of success is the ability to enjoy your work.”

Jeffrey shook his head. “I can't get over how much better you look.”

“Thank you. Yes, I have indeed suffered through a very dark night. But I am allowing myself to hope that dawn has finally arrived.” He leaned over, put out his cigar, said, “Perhaps we should be going, and you can fill me in along the way.”

Rokovski was absolutely delighted to see Alexander enter his office with Jeffrey. “Mr. Kantor! How excellent to see you. I do hope that your health is better.”

Alexander accepted the proffered hand, replied, “
Nie mozna narzekac
. I cannot complain. Thank you for asking.”

“And Mr. Sinclair.” Rokovski rewarded him with a genuine smile. “Would you gentlemen care for tea?

“Well,” Rokovski said once they were seated and served, “as they say in the spy novels, my friend, mission accomplished.”

“Indeed,” Kantor replied. “I have been most pleasantly surprised by the way events have unfolded.”

“You have received copies of all the necessary export documents, Mr. Sinclair?”

“Everything is perfect,” Jeffrey effused. “They were waiting for me at the ministry yesterday morning. Thank you again for your help.”

“On the contrary, I am immensely grateful to know that we have begun what shall no doubt be a long and mutually beneficial relationship.” Rokovski glanced at his watch. “I was
informed that your shipment left on time yesterday, once the export documents were processed. It should be crossing the border at Frankfurt an der Oder just about now. No news is good news, so I'm sure all is well.”

“Thanks to you,” Alexander said. “We are very pleased to know that we have friends such as yourself upon whom we can rely.”

“It is I who am pleased, Mr. Kantor. I cannot tell you how much this means, not only to me and to Cracow, but to all of Poland.”

“It is always an honor to do something for Poland,” Alexander replied. “There is one further point that my young associate thinks should be mentioned before we conclude our business.”

“Of course,” Rokovski replied, giving Jeffrey a sincere smile.

“We will naturally handle this sale of the painting in the most confidential of manners. My associate has an excellent working relationship with a major dealer. She has expressed a keen interest in acquiring items which are not intended for either public auction or display.”

“An American,” Jeffrey added. “Very professional, and very discreet.”

Rokovski nodded approval. “Exactly what we require.”

“But it is necessary to warn you,” Alexander continued, “that with the same Rubens allegedly hanging in the museum of Vavel Castle, there is always the risk that at some time in the future an expert might be sent to inspect your painting. If he or she concludes that yours is indeed a forgery, it would be impossible to insure that the news will not leak out.”

“Well, my friend,” Rokovski replied, turning expansive, “I'm afraid it won't be me the expert will be visiting.”

“I don't believe I understand,” Alexander said.

“I told your young colleague about my big dream. I had a second big dream, which will come as no surprise to you. And that is the accumulation of as many Polish works of art
and antiques as possible to restore our heritage. I'm sure you are familiar that museums regularly exchange paintings to complete one special collection or another. For many months I have been negotiating with the state museum of Moscow for the return of a series of paintings by Matejko. These paintings, I might add, each occupy one entire wall of the exhibition rooms.”

“Brilliant,” Kantor murmured. “Absolutely brilliant.”

“They disappeared from Poland just after the Red Army arrived in 1945. The Cracow museum authorities were given some lame excuse about their being transported to Moscow for safekeeping. I have been struggling to find something from our collection that they might be willing to take in trade, but was getting nowhere. Shortly after Mr. Sinclair met with me, it occurred that a Rubens might pique their curiosity.”

“My friend,” Kantor said, “you have made your country proud.”

“Needless to say,” Rokovski went on, smiling broadly, “they were absolutely delighted. Being the gentleman that I am, I insisted that they send their top Old Master expert to authenticate it. I mentioned to them on the phone that over the years there had been some rumblings about the painting's authenticity, and I would not want them to be disappointed.”

“Of course not.”

“The expert arrived here yesterday, and his initial report is most positive. It appears that Moscow is anxious to take advantage of our offer before we wake up and realize how one-sided it is. We have just this morning heard that the six Matejkos are already being crated for shipment. They will be unveiled at a special exhibition commemorating the Vavel Castle's thousandth anniversary.”

Alexander returned his smile. “It is a pity that your coup will have to remain in secret. You deserve a hero's reward.”

“I shall receive my reward every time I stand before the Matejkos, and as I watch my new museum wing for religious art take shape.” Rokovski stood with his guests, walked
around his desk, took Alexander's hand in both of his. “My friend, Poland shall never perish.”

“As long as we are alive,” Alexander replied solemnly.

They stood together for a moment before the director released Alexander's hand and reached for Jeffrey's. “Mr. Sinclair, I shall look forward to many further opportunities to work with you.”

“Nothing could give me more pleasure,” Jeffrey replied.

Rokovski ushered them downstairs, bowed them through the main portals, shut the door behind them. Once they were back on the street, Jeffrey stood and blinked in the sunlight, said, “I can't believe it's over.”

“A job well done.” Alexander's eyes were moist. He looked straight across the market square, a slight smile on his features.

“What's next?”

“There is a small church not far from here,” Alexander replied. “My mother used to go there when I was young. I believe I might like to stop by for a moment.”

“Sure. I love these old churches. Which one is it?”

Alexander motioned out over the square, out beyond the colorful market stalls and the throngs of people and the flower sellers, out across the expanse of history. “Just on the other side of Florian's Gate,” he said.

Acknowledgments

While
Florian's Gate
is indeed a work of fiction, I have tried very hard to remain true to the actual situation I found in the newly liberated lands of Eastern Europe. The learning process that unfolded during my trips, as well as during the preparatory work done before traveling, was both challenging and rewarding. I found myself being forced to rethink much of the perspective I have inherited from my Western culture, and as a result I feel that I have been granted a unique opportunity to grow and develop both as an individual and as a Christian.

My research trips to Poland were made infinitely richer through the kind hospitality of Isabella's family. Their warm and giving nature come truly from the heart, and they shared with us the very best of both what they had and who they were. I am truly thankful to be a part of such a wonderful family.

Many powerful lessons came to me through these visits with my wife's family. Despite the pain that was recalled along with the memories, they shared a number of the events which they either witnessed or experienced themselves during the past five decades. What touched me most deeply, however, was not the experiences themselves, but rather the way in which they were described.

Virtually all the events woven into the Polish section of this book come from their experiences, and where possible are kept exactly as they were related to me. I say this so that there can be no question as to the reality of their suffering. And yet, throughout my visits with them, they never overcame their natural humility to the point of really believing
that what they had to say was of any special significance, or could be of interest to others.

Isabella believes that there are two major reasons for this: First,
everyone
in Poland suffered horribly as a result of both the war and Stalin's subsequent domination of Eastern Europe. Because they have spent their lives surrounded by other families who experienced the same or even worse traumas, they cannot understand how great an impact their stories might have on someone from the West.

The second reason is that they see themselves as simple people—they are not famous, they have not conquered their difficulties, they have not made a great name for themselves. They have simply endured, and their life stories are nothing more in their eyes than struggling to live and to survive despite all that is placed upon their minds and hearts and shoulders. They shared their experiences with me in acknowledgement of my becoming part of the family. But they never could understand why I insisted on taking notes. They never could see why their stories moved me as they did.

My wife's assistance is found on every page of this book. None of her family in Poland speaks English, so all of their stories and observations were painstakingly translated by her. She taught me constantly from the wealth of knowledge which she has gained through her travels and studies; Isabella attended the University of Cracow for a year, and has returned numerous times since then, including one visit just as martial law was imposed. It has been a very rewarding experience to work with her on this book. I feel that I have begun to understand a fragment of the beauty and the strength which is contained within the Polish spirit.

My wife's father, Olgierd Kaliszczak, was prisoner number 1914 in the Auschwitz concentration camp. All that is described here in this book—from being picked up during a random street search to being released because of his mother's untiring efforts—comes from his memories, and is written using his words. The only change I made was that Olgierd
was actually arrested at a market square in Warsaw instead of Cracow. It was the first time that he had ever spoken of his experiences in such detail, and it was a tremendously difficult endeavor. I am extremely grateful to him, both for the painful act of remembering, and for granting me the gift of this sharing. I would also like to offer my heartfelt thanks to his wife, Danka, who gave me my first lessons in Polish hospitality at their home in Virginia. The key, I have learned from her and others, is to give the very best of what one has, and to give from the heart.