The Amber Room (34 page)

“All of this is carefully documented, I assure you,” Gregor added. “From the gift of the painting to Prince Lev in the year 900 to today, the deeds of authentication still exist. The only question is whether it was truly painted by Saint Luke.”

“In 1430 the monastery was attacked by bandits,” Katya went on. “The painting was shattered by sword blows. The king ordered it restored no matter what the cost, but painters were unable to make their colors hold fast to the old picture.”

“We know now that the reason was that very early painters made their primitive colors hold true by fusing them onto the wood with a wax coating,” Gregor explained. “But at the time it was an international calamity. There are records within the monastery of letters from all over the civilized world, asking for reports on the progress of repairs.”

“So the painters put a new coating on the repaired tabletop,” Katya said, “and then painted the picture again. They kept to the original as exactly as possible, except for one thing. On Mary's face they painted in a long jagged scar, to show for as long as the painting existed that it once had been desecrated.”

Czestochowa proved to be, in effect, two cities in one. The outlying town was the same collection of dreary buildings flanking pitted and crumbling streets they had seen everywhere in Eastern Europe. The inner city, however, the hill of Jasna Gora, was something else entirely.

The hill was separated from the rest of the city by a broad expanse of gradually rising green, bordered by a series of glass-fronted restaurants and gift shops. Beyond their covered ways, a number of enterprising capitalists had set up suitcase-stands; several dozen competing boom-boxes blared
out a cacophony of religious music, while other sellers let postcards and picture books flutter in the breeze.

The hilltop was buttressed with red-brick fortress walls; these descended far below the footbridge that crossed from the paved walkway to the first of three vast ornamental gates. The hill took a swooping dip down into a grass-covered canal before joining the fortress at the base of what once had been a very deep moat. Small, barred windows rimmed the brick facade above the ancient, mossy waterline.

Beyond the first wall came a second and beyond that a third, each marked by guard towers and high stone gates crowned with royal seals. And past the third gate rose a village from another era, lined with narrow cobblestone streets which wound amidst ancient buildings and stone fountains with time-sanded facades. Windows wore hand-drawn panes that flowed downward with the patience of centuries.

At one end of a cobblestone plaza rose the church, where a steady stream of people made their way through high arched portals. Jeffrey stood far enough inside to be protected from the wind while Katya and Gregor bought books from nuns at a glass-fronted stall. He watched the faces that passed. Over and over he found himself inspecting hardened features with eyes that showed a surprisingly gentle light.

The painting was not in the main church at all, but in a side chapel that could be called small only when compared to the central hall. It was reached through a series of three other chapels, each of which could easily have held a thousand people. Each had a multitude of naves and alcoves and doors leading to still more chapels and prayer rooms. All these ancient halls had been renovated several centuries ago in lavish Baroque style. Distant ceilings bore ornate and gilded frescoes surrounding religious paintings, with these in turn encircled by cherubim heralding the King's return on long, silvered trumpets.

After this parade of wealth and glitter, the painting's chapel was positively plain. There were no marble-pillared side
chapels bearing massive paintings, nor giant gilded angels, nor rising ranks of candles, nor elaborate chandeliers. Mosaic floorings, tapestries, and ceiling pictures had no place here. The floor was hard granite worn smooth and grooved by six centuries of pilgrims' feet. Jeffrey passed through the ancient oak door, looked around the small entrance portico, and wondered what all the fuss was about. Then he turned the corner, entered the chapel proper, and saw the nave.

The church's front section was protected by floor-to-ceiling iron bars, connected by a gilded, hand-wrought pattern of leaves and vines. Great double doors were swung open, and chairs were set in cramped rows up to the banister and communion table.

The altar reached up almost to the distant ceiling, a massive structure covered with intricately detailed scenes. The apostles gathered to either side, life-sized bas-reliefs whose hands held scrolls and books and lifted them up to the angels on high. And in the center was the painting of the Black Madonna.

She was not black at all, but rather had an olive-skinned complexion that could have been called dark only by light-skinned medieval folk who never in their lives had seen a southerner. Her face had the stiffness and lack of expression Jeffrey had seen in very early religious mosaics. Her eyes were slender as tears and slanted upward. The Christ-child in her arms was a miniature rendition of his mother. Whatever the actual date of the painting, one thing was utterly clear in that first glimpse; it was very, very old.

The painting was gilded like an icon and hung above the chapel's central cross and altar. Penitents made circles around the front chamber on their knees, murmuring prayers in time to those who sat in the front rows. Jeffrey followed Katya to the last row of seats and sat down beside her. An older woman moved forward; he stood and offered his seat. He then backed up against one of the central pillars, not at all sorry for the chance to look around.

Perhaps six hundred people were standing and kneeling
and sitting in the chapel, and this was a midweek morning of no special importance. Jeffrey bowed his head and said the Lord's Prayer. As he spoke, he had the fleeting impression of all their softly murmured voices melting together to form one great prayer sent lofting upward, all joined as though spoken from one great heart.

Hearts. He opened his eyes, looked around the chamber, and saw that the old stone walls were not quite so plain as he had first thought.

Tiny silver hearts were hammered into the walls, hundreds of thousands of silent witnesses presented by believers who wished to testify that prayers had been answered. Jeffrey looked out across the chamber and found himself bound to the six hundred years of believers who had come and worshiped within these same walls. How many had known the questions he faced? How many had yearned for more understanding, more wisdom, more knowledge of the Lord? How many had come and stood and thirsted?

Mass began. Katya was too caught up in her own prayers and the priest's message to come back to him and translate. Jeffrey did not mind. It was enough to stand and listen to words he did not understand, surrounded by people he did not know, and yet somehow be filled with the feeling, the
knowledge
, that he was not alone.

Here in these foreign surroundings was a flavor of something he could not explain. Jeffrey stood by the ancient pillar in an alien church in an alien nation and was filled with an absolute certainty that he was in the presence of something greater than himself. He stood and inspected his heart and yearned for a greater knowledge of his Savior.

His mind touched on concepts that he only half understood. His heart knew the longings of one not yet fulfilled, yet in some strange way the act of honest searching brought him joy. He was aware of a contentment that came not
despite
his lack of wisdom but rather
because
he hungered for more. He watched the others with eyes that searched inward, and
he realized that always before he had seen his hunger as a fault, a failing, when in truth it was a gift. It forced him to continue walking, keep searching, keep struggling to throw off his burden of isolation from his Lord.

His eyes were drawn back to the walls and their silent, shining testimonies, and he somehow felt a kinship with the centuries of thankful messages. One alcove was given over to crutches—tiny ones for children, ivory-tipped canes for the elderly, crutches of every size and make and description—rising up the trio of high walls and covering every inch of space. Two other alcoves were full of crosses and rosaries and medallions bearing prayers of thanks in a multitude of languages.

But the majority of space was for the hearts. None larger than his hand, some as small as a fingernail, they covered half a dozen alcoves, each with three walls ninety feet wide. A silver sea of thankful hearts.

CHAPTER 33

As they emerged from the church into the damp chill, Gregor patted Jeffrey's arm. “Thank you for allowing me to be a part of this. And thank you both for the Mass.”

“I hope it wasn't too boring for you,” Katya said, taking hold of Jeffrey's other hand.

“I enjoyed it,” Jeffrey replied. “I learned a lot.”

Katya smiled up at him. “And what did you learn from a sermon given in Polish?”

“I don't know if I can put it into words.”

Gregor nodded his understanding. “The most valuable of lessons are seldom those that can be restricted by man's puny tongue. Especially at first.”

They descended the hill and walked to the city's one large hotel, a glass and steel structure designed in the best of Communist sixties style. While they shed their coats and scarfs and gloves at the cloakroom, Jeffrey glanced into the restaurant. “These places all look the same, don't they.”

Katya did not need to turn around to understand. “All such hotels were built around the same time. All the menus were printed by the central supply office for all restaurants. All the chairs and tables and plates and glasses for all Polish restaurants were manufactured by the same factories.”

“All very boring.”

“Stimulation of individual tastes ranked low on the list of Communist priorities,” Gregor said, opening the restaurant door and ushering them inside.

A swift glance assured him that Rokovski had not yet arrived. Jeffrey followed the others to a table by the window, inspected the plastic-bound menu, listened as Katya passed his order to an attentive waiter, then turned and gave in to the pleasure of people-watching.

Food arrived at the next table over, and all conversation
halted as if a switch had been thrown. The intensity with which the people ate was something he rarely observed in the West.

Katya saw what had caught his attention. “You never see people picking politely at their food here,” she told him quietly. “If they do, they are foreigners. A Pole has been hungry too often to play at eating. If food is put in front of him, he
eats
.”

A newcomer waddled in and took the table across from them. The man wore his triple chins with a nervous air. He was too small to be called fat, yet every inch of his little frame was padded to the point of absurdity. He was all bone, fat, and skin, from the looks of it, with no muscle at all. His flesh shivered with every step. Everything about the man was gray—gray suit, gray and white striped shirt buttoned to a neck that folded over and swallowed his collar, gray shoes, gray eyes, gray pallor to his skin. His lips were buried in a tight little grimace that brought his chin almost into contact with his pudgy little nose.

Jeffrey leaned toward Katya, asked, “How do people allow themselves to get that way?”

She responded like a mother teaching a child something that he could not have yet learned, but should know. “Maybe because he's lazy. Maybe because he hasn't had any choice. You don't find many sports centers in Poland. These are not an exercising people. Either you are a professional athlete or you maybe play a little soccer on vacations, or you do nothing. Maybe it's because life requires so much hard work of them. Maybe food was so hard to find when they were young that it would have been foolish to use up more calories than necessary. Or maybe they have never been taught to think that, after a certain stage in life, personal appearance is still important.”

Jeffrey spotted Rokovski entering the restaurant and rose to greet him. The others stood with him.

“My dear Jeffrey,” Rokovski walked over with hand
outstretched. “How wonderful to see you. I hope you haven't been waiting long.”

“Not at all. You remember my fiancée, Katya Nichols.”

“But of course.” He bowed over her hand and continued. “Alexander informed me of your betrothal during his last trip. May I add my own congratulations and best wishes.”

“Thank you. And this is Alexander's cousin, Gregor Kantor. Dr. Pavel Rokovski.”

“It is indeed an honor to meet Alexander's illustrious cousin,” Rokovski said formally.

Jeffrey showed surprise. “You know of him?”

“There are not so many who have forsaken the chance for both wealth and position to aid the needy that they would go unnoticed,” Rokovski replied, holding fast to Gregor's hand, “or their name remain unspoken in the highest of circles.”

“You do me great honor,” Gregor murmured.

“On the contrary,” Rokovski said, “it is you who do honor to both your name and our nation.”

As they resumed their places the waiter appeared. Jeffrey asked, “Would you join us for lunch?”

“Thank you, perhaps a bite of something.” He waved away the menu, spoke briefly, then turned back to the table. “You have heard from them?”

“Nothing.”

“So we are to wait, then.” He did not seem troubled. “A small price to pay for the return of such a treasure.”

“We don't know that for sure,” Jeffrey warned.

“Our dear Alexander took the greatest of pains to explain the situation,” Rokovski assured him. “Several times now, in fact. I am well aware of the unknown factors, but I must say I agree with him that there is at least a shred of hope. To make such an offer of evidence without payment in return suggests that they are indeed serious.”

“You haven't met them,” Jeffrey muttered.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Jeffrey is not overly impressed with them,” Katya explained.