Immaculate Reception (15 page)

“Ah, the Amber Room is magnificent, Miss Bean. At least it was. It once graced the palace of Catherine the Great. Now, it is one of the biggest mysteries of World War Two.”

I smiled in what I hoped seemed an encouraging manner and stole a peek at my watch. It was 10:30 p.m. Ah, well.

“Imagine an enormous ballroom where every square inch is covered in dazzling precious stones. One hundred and twenty-nine mosaic panels made up the jeweled chamber. In all, it took six tons of amber to create these panels. The room was priceless. It was a gift to Tsar Peter the Great in seventeen sixteen from the King of Prussia. The amber panels were installed at the tsar's summer palace in the
town of Tsarskoe Selo, which is now the town of Pushkin.”

“Pushkin,” I said. “The Soviets had a way with names. It certainly loses some of its oomph.”

“To be sure,” Victor said, chuckling. “But this is a small town approximately fifteen miles south of St. Petersburg. Anyway, the Amber Room held treasures so magnificent it was considered by the Russians to be the eighth wonder of the world. Incorporated into the room were four prized eighteenth-century Florentine mosaics made of marble and onyx. And there were mirrors and gilded carved wood to enhance the amber's effect.”

“Beautiful,” I mumbled.

“My dear, the room was brilliant. The entire room was a gigantic piece of jewelry. It was said to have a very high ceiling and measure one thousand square feet. Imagine when the western beams of sunlight entered the room and lit up the panels. It was like the room was shining from the inside!”

“You must have traveled to Russia to see it,” I said, politely.

“But of course not,” Victor said, shocked. “The entire room was stolen by the Nazis. At the start of World War Two, Hitler ordered his troops to capture the Amber Room and ‘return' it to Prussia, which was then part of Germany. As the Nazis advanced, the Soviets were desperate. In an attempt to save their treasure, they disassembled the room and packed the one hundred and twenty-nine large amber panels to ship them to safety. But the Nazis captured the amber.”

“Oh!” I enjoy an adventure story.

“But of course they never took it to Prussia. They sent the jewels to the German village of Koenigsberg, where in nineteen forty-two, it was installed in an old castle.”

“Wait a minute, you say the Nazis stole the amber panels and set the entire room up in their own castle?”

“Yes. Back in Germany.”

“What happened in nineteen forty-five? Did the Russians get their Amber Room back after the Allies won the war?”
I was now pretty hooked on this treasure story. I saw it as a Disney movie, with perhaps a heroic Russian soldier searching for the stolen room and meeting a beautiful German girl, who'd been kept prisoner in the castle. Disney had not had an animated blonde in a while…

“This is a good question, young lady. Of course, at war's end, the Soviets went after their prize. Troops advanced on Koenigsberg and the only escape route for the Germans was by sea. The panels were taken to the basement of the castle and again packed for shipment. And that, my dear, was the last reported sighting of the Amber Room.”

“How could six tons of carved amber panels disappear?” I asked, wondering if my Disney film treatment was doomed. The mice in Burbank require happy endings.

“Who knows? Over the years, countless treasure seekers have searched for the amber. They've torn up caves and mines, dived in lakes, and ripped apart wartime ruins and Nazi strongholds, but never found a clue to the disappearance of the amber panels. Some suspect that just before the fall of Koenigsberg, the treasure was put aboard a German submarine or ship that was torpedoed as it tried to escape. Others speculate that the amber was hidden beneath Koenigsberg or in one of many secret bunkers and subterranean towns built by the Nazis.”

“I'm surprised that half of East Germany has not been dug up by now,” I said.

“A good joke,” Victor said, smiling broadly. “It is not such a farfetched idea, that. But still no one can find any trace.”

“What do you think happened to it?” I asked.

“Me? I think the world will never know,” and the old codger winked at me. “But it has been my little hobby to study this room. My granddaughter and now my great-granddaughter have helped me to make a miniature replica of the room, a model, you understand? Would you care to see it?”

“Not right now, sir,” I said, standing. My condolence call was ending.

“Another time, perhaps,” said Victor, getting to his feet. The old boy had more pep than one would suspect. It's the wiry ones who maintain their strength.

“Oh, by the way,” I said as he showed me to the door amid a scatter of cookie crumbs, “when exactly did Pope Pius XI die?”

I believe the pale old man may have bleached a half shade. “You are not Catholic, are you my dear?” he asked, his voice stiff.

Now what had I done? Stupid me, poking and prying, right after the pain of hearing about his dear old friend's death. What I was saying was probably sacrilege to this man. “I'm sorry. Just forget about it,” I said, stammering, and left the house fast.

I got to the Wagoneer, where Holly was sitting with the windows rolled up, chewing gum and bopping her head. As I opened the driver side door, the jumping rock of R.E.M. burst from the enclosed space. Holly could entertain herself on a deserted island, as long as it had electricity.

“What's the haps?” she asked, turning the volume to a more or less reasonable level.

“Nothing. Dead-end. Nada,” I said, turning the ignition.

“Too bad,” said Holly. “Hey, remember you told me you were doing all this research-type stuff on the Nazis and Rome?”

“Yeah?”

“I just got off the cell with Donald and he's got a friend you should meet over at Spaceland.”

Right. Just what I wanted to do. Hit a hot club in Silverlake and take in a few bands.

“Thanks, Hol. But maybe we should just go home. It's been a long day and tomorrow morning is the…”

“I know, I know,” she said. “The Popemeister. But I told Donald we'd pick him up at Spaceland,” she said, in what was approaching a wheedle. “And that's where he's seeing his friend, you know, the girl who gave him those stories for his movie. The one about the people who es
caped from the Nazis with fake papers. Come on. It'll be fun.”

“Okay, Hol,” I said, “but we're not drinking and we're definitely not staying, got it?” I suddenly heard myself sounding exactly like somebody's mother.

“I know. I know. It's a school night.” Obviously, Holly heard it, too. It made me shiver.

If I had enough energy to sit through a sad old man's fairy story I was damned if I couldn't rock with my friends. I pulled the clip that was holding my hair up and shook my head. I could take off the denim shirt and just wear the camisole under my leather jacket. I punched up the volume on the R.E.M. CD just as lead singer Michael Stipe began to wail the last plaintive verse of “Losing My Religion.”

“Hey!” Holly said, checking me out with a grin. “I do believe we've been visited by Mad-woman Bean, the wild party animal who just astral-projected herself into the body of my very responsible friend.”

“So who are we going to hear?” I asked, as I squirmed out of my shirt at the red light before we merged onto the Ventura Freeway.

“It's this amazing lesbian punk group. Wicked B and the Dairy Foundation. You're gonna dig them. Their lead singer, B Zoda, rocks.”

Who, after all, needs sleep when you have a chance to hear the punk-rock stylings of a great lesbian like Wicked B?

S
paceland was the largest and most established of the hot music clubs in Silverlake. Some of its earliest stars, like Beck and the Dust Brothers, had become huge in the music business, and Spaceland had become even hotter. There were some who raved that Silverlake was becoming the next Seattle, with this crop of L.A. power pop musicians ready to replace the aging grunge scene. But, naturally, such out-and-out hype made the cool-cat Silverlake musicians go ballistic.

Groups with names like The Neptunas, and Hello, I'm a Truck, and Expectorant were the newest draw. The club scene was hopping seven nights a week and wherever late-night L.A. went, Holly had already been there and scoped out the best table.

At the door, there was the usual business of showing I.D. and getting hand stamped, and then we were inside, feeling the pump of adrenaline from the noise and the bodies and the gleams flashing off the mirror disco ball. The dark lively space was filled with small tables and crowded with scenesters. There was a retro sixties flavor to the attire, with flower power a recurrent theme.

Donald Lake was already there, sitting at a good table, surrounded by four women. Holly spotted him and, grabbing me by my shoulder bag, wove her way through the tightly spaced tables until we were near the front of the house. On stage, a roadie was setting up a guitar stand with
a white Fender Stratocaster, completely covered in tiny iridescent stickers. There was a miniature Barbie doll hanging from its tuning pegs.

“This is too cool,” Holly said. “Remember I saw The Julies at Poptopia and told you about them?” I nodded, and unbuttoned my leather jacket. I figured we could at least stay until I'd gotten to hear this group. I ordered a Diet Coke and found a chair.

Donald was happy to see Holly. She scooted him over so she could share his chair as Donald introduced me to the group of women at the table. It was Wicked B and her crew.

I just stared. Amazing! For the second time in one evening I was shocked to find myself looking at a face I'd seen before. What's more, I'd seen this face in the same waiting room outside the mayor's office where I'd first set eyes on old Victor.

“Hi,” I said to B, cupping my hand to be heard over the piped-in music while The Julies were setting up. “I just came from talking to your great-grandfather.”

“No shit!” said B, happily. This was the Beatrice of the old-fashioned name and artistic temperament that Victor had been talking about earlier this evening. How small a world can one city with ten million inhabitants be?

“You saw Grandpa Vic?” she asked. Now if B was a lesbian, as Holly had stated, she was definitely of the “lipstick” persuasion. She wore a tight silver mini-skirt and shiny Lurex tights. Her halter top revealed a stunning chest behind all the sequins. The rest of the Dairy Foundation, as her group was named, had the more utilitarian look of jeans and white button-down collar shirts. What contrast. B was still wearing her hair in a multihued buzzcut and the nose ring was in place, but looking at her up close, she seemed softer. Maybe it was the tattoo that said “mommy” on her bicep.

“How do you know B's family?” Donald asked, smiling in amazement.

“Long story,” I said. My Diet Coke was delivered and
The Julies lead singer, Julie, came on stage ready to rock the house.

Donald put a hand up to the side of his mouth. “B's great-grandfather is the guy I was telling you about, the guy who worked with the rescue group called
Stille Hilfe
during World War Two,” Donald continued, over the opening to “Surfer Duane,” a song that got the crowd in the club shouting and applauding.

“What guy?” I asked Donald.

“You know. When I was doing research for my masters, B told me about her great-grandfather and his experiences in Europe during World War Two. He was the guy who smuggled Jews out through Rome. He managed to get them travel documents through the Vatican, somehow.”

“Because the Vatican is an independent country?” asked one of the serious-looking Dairy Foundation, a young woman with glasses and a pretty smile.

“Right,” Donald answered.

“Of course,” I said, turning over these new facts in my mind. Old Victor had contacts in high places within the Vatican. Maybe that's why he thought Pius Xl's encyclical would make too many waves. It might have jeopardized the work Victor was doing behind the scenes to secure escape for some fortunate Jews. He didn't see the big picture. If the church had come out against the anti-Semitic policies of Hitler, they may have saved a few million lives. Still, Victor had clearly been a hero.

“Why haven't we heard about this?” I asked B. “Look at
Schindler's List
. Everyone knows about Schindler. Someone should write about Victor Zoda.”

“That's what I thought,” yelled Donald over the music. “The man probably saved a hundred lives. You know, originally,
Gasp!
was about Victor. But then the studio changed the concept and we found ourselves in outer space.”

The Julies were finishing up a tune with wry humor, sung loud. The audience was into it.

I began to see how all this added up. Victor liked to keep his philanthropy work very quiet. He didn't want public
acknowledgement for the money he donated to the church. He might not have enjoyed the limelight from a movie about his work during the war.

B pulled her chair closer to mine. “So why did you see my great gramps?”

“A whole different thing,” I said.

“Yeah,” Holly piped in, “Madeline and I are working on the big breakfast party for the pope tomorrow morning.”

“Really?” B asked, as Julie started singing “Road Kill.”

“Oooh!” Holly interrupted, “You've gotta listen to this song. It's way dark.”

We all listened. I must say, without trying hard I was starting to relax and have fun.

“You know that big party you guys are doing?” B said after a while. “The pope's party? I'm going to be there. Grandpa Vic invited me. I drive him around a lot.”

“That's nice of you,” Donald said.

“Well. He bought me the Miata, so…” Wicked B was making fun of her wicked self, which I like.

The Julies were on a roll and they swung into another tune. Julie, herself, has a great voice and a wild art-rock way with lyrics. Her look is pure sex kitten fun. She was wearing baby doll pajamas in shocking pink with red fuzzy slippers, her thick hair pulled up in an “I Dream of Jeannie” ponytail.

I turned back to B. “I was looking into research that Monsignor Picca was doing,” I said, leaning over so she could hear me.

“Hey, I know him,” B shouted over the applause. We all clapped and smiled as Julie looked at our table. B stood up and whistled, like a truck driver. When she dropped back into her seat she explained, “Julie's so fine. Her new CD is coming out soon.”

“You knew Monsignor Picca?” I asked, curious.

“Sure, I drove Grandpa Vic out to see him in La Canada all the time. We went there yesterday, matter of fact.”

The band on stage was getting frantic and the crowd was
with them all the way. Julie was belting out “Are We Even Here?” and Wicked B and her entire Dairy Foundation were bopping their heads to the beat.

Holly said to Donald, “This psychedelic metal insanity just creeps into your brain!”

They were having an intellectual discussion, so I reached out and touched B's arm to get her attention.

“Did you say you saw the Monsignor
yesterday
?” I shouted over the music, alarmed.

“Uh huh,” she mouthed, giving me half her attention, but quickly turning back to the musicians on stage.

“B!” I yelled. “What time were you and Victor Zoda there?”

She turned back to me and thought. “Afternoon. Maybe three. I don't go out early.” She shrugged her delicate shoulders, which made the sequins on her halter glitter. “That's why this pope thing tomorrow is such a bitch. Waking up tomorrow morning is gonna kill me. I think the women and I may just stay up all night. Right Sheryl?” she asked the one nearest her.

“That's what Julie does,” Holly informed us. “She stays up all night.”

As B and Holly got into a discussion on how to deal with the schedule of the real world when you really want to rock all night long, I considered what I'd just found out. If B had taken Victor to St. Bede's yesterday afternoon, they may have been the last people to see the old priest before he died.

Now, in all the time I'd just spent out in Encino, listening to ancient history, why had Victor said nothing about the last time he saw his old pal Monsignor Benny?