The Woodcarver's Secret (Samantha Sweet Mysteries) (31 page)

He folded the list and tucked it
into the concealed pocket within the folds of his red robe as he walked toward
the Basilica. Once midday mass was over he would pursue his leads.

Before nightfall, Luca should
have an answer from his source who could testify as to the actions of the
youngest of these, the novitiate. He could either report the now-middle-aged
man to the directors or cross him off the suspect list. The uncle who had been
keymaster
, unfortunately, had become rather demented in his
old age and currently resided in the Vatican’s rest home, unable on many days
to remember his own name. He would be of no help in matters that took place
decades ago. Giuseppe Santini, alas, had died nearly ten years ago but Luca had
feelers out in the man’s home village to see what his family members might
know.

The Latin words of the service
came out by rote, and soon enough Luca joined the procession of clergy as they
walked the long center aisle when it was done. He had just crossed the nave
when he felt a tap on his arm. Expecting to see a parishioner, he was startled
that a black-clad young priest simply placed a folded piece of paper in his
hand and walked away. Pancetti switched course and found his way to a quiet
garden of roses before he opened it. Written on the small sheet was a name,
Marco Santini, and an address in Torino. Luca’s interest quickened. A visit to
a relative of the deceased Giuseppe Santini, plus a chance to visit the site
where the famed shroud of Turin had been discovered—the week might be both
productive and interesting, after all. He stopped at the office of the priest
who was an OSM member and said he would not be attending tonight’s meeting. He would
be on a train to Torino.

His mission was accomplished far more easily than he could have
imagined. Marco Santini turned out to be a busy man, supervisor of an
automotive plant subsidized by Mussolini and one of the few businesses in the
city to offer employment in these troubled economic times. Santini met the
cardinal in the vestibule of his office building and suggested that they walk
together toward the huge manufacturing facility. Luca pulled his traveling
cloak tighter around himself as a frigid wind off the Alps whipped past the
buildings.

“It’s a carved box, you say?” Santini asked as they hurried along a
sidewalk with missing chunks of concrete. “I remember it, something my brother
brought home once.”

“Do you know where it is now?”

Santini’s eyes rolled skyward for a moment. “If it isn’t on the shelf
in my closet, my wife has probably put it to some use in her sewing room or
somewhere. How would I know what the woman does with things?”

Luca went into his explanation that the box was Church property and
must be returned.

“Take it,” Santini said. “It’s not exactly a beautiful item.”

They reached the floor of the assembly line and Marco guided the
cardinal to a small, windowed foreman’s office. He jotted a note, folded it and
wrote an address on the outside. “Go here. If my wife gives you any argument,
show her the note. I doubt she will. She’s religious. She won’t want to
antagonize the Church.”

And, just like that, within the hour Luca Pancetti held the carved box
in his hands. Where the original woodcarver had lightly chiseled a name onto
the rim of the box’s lid, the letters had been worn nearly smooth. Not much of
the name remained, but the first and last letters were clear enough that he
knew he had the box called Facinor.

From the train station he telephoned his office in the Vatican and
directed his secretary to phone the men he wished to attend a special meeting
the following night.

* * *

Cardinal Pancetti walked into the meeting, his cloth-wrapped bundle
held close to his chest, expecting a hero’s welcome. After all, the box had
disappeared prior to his taking over the job and he alone had retrieved it. He
set the parcel on the table that was surrounded by these dozen important men
and gently peeled back the square of black velvet.

“That’s it?” said the American politician with a sneer. He started to
pick it up but Pancetti stopped him.

“It may seem harmless but there is more to this item than would
appear.”

Humboldt, the leader, openly let out a derisive ‘
pah
’
and picked up the box. Almost immediately, the wood began to grow ominously
dark. He quickly set it back on the cloth, brushing his hands together as if to
rid them of dust.

“Wrap it up, get it back into safe storage immediately,” he ordered.

Humboldt pushed his chair back, ready to end the meeting and go back to
Zurich, but one of the quieter men spoke up.

“While you were away, Cardinal, there came another lead. I thought it
might be of value … in case the trip to Torino proved unfruitful …”

“Yes, what is it?” Luca worked to keep the impatience out of his voice.
Tensions were already running high in the room.

The priest handed him a piece of paper.

“Tell all of us,” said Humboldt with more than a trace of impatience.

“A telegram came from Romania,” the priest said, watching as Luca read
it to himself.

“It’s a reported sighting of a box fitting this description,” Luca
said, scanning the message once again.

“Would it be the same box The Vongraf Foundation examined?” pondered
the American industrialist.

Luca shook his head. “I don’t know. The person who sent this did so
anonymously. They’ve given the name of a city and of a woman purported to be a
witch.”

He looked around the table. Did they really want to bring back the days
of the Inquisition? To track and prosecute what were probably silly acts of
fortune telling? In these times of political unrest, with the Germans on the
march into other sovereign nations, was it wise to travel outside their own
little realm?

The other men looked back at him with solemn faces. OSM’s mission was to
gather artifacts, not to pass judgment on people. Luca felt his pulse quicken.
He knew he would volunteer to find this other box.

Chapter 11

Treasures Are Hidden

Helga Schantz turned down the bedcovers on one of the small beds then
the other. “Boys, are you brushing your teeth?” she called out.

Hans and Fritz, her two small dynamos, zoomed into the bedroom.

“
Geschichte, Mama,
Über
die
verlorenen
Kinder!
”

Helga smiled and shooed them
toward the beds. “Yes, you shall have your story. Are you not tired of that
one, though?”

“
Nein!
Dass
man!
”

She pulled the woolen blanket up
to Hans’s chin, then did the same for Fritz. She sat at the foot of his bed.

“Once upon a time,” she began.
Two sets of blue eyes stared at her. “There was a poor young mother with two
little boys.”

She supposed if their next child
was a girl she would alter the story so that the woman had three children. It
was the way her own mother had told it.

“They were
so
very hungry. They had to go out each day and look for food but there
was none to be had because times were hard. The people of the town loved the
woman and admired her for the way she cared for her children but most of them
simply had nothing to give.”

She stretched out this part of
the story to emphasize how fortunate Germany was these days, coming through the
Great Depression and now enjoying somewhat better times.

“So, one day the woman and her
two little boys ventured into the woods, searching for berries, but they found
nothing and it began to grow dark. And then a cold fog came in.”

The boys burrowed deeper into
their covers. She remembered the time little
Fritzie
had asked what a fog was and his older brother explained, with the identical
description Helga had used in telling him about it.

“The fog rolled over them, they
were freezing and they could see nothing, and they had no idea which way was
home. They held hands tightly, afraid to move lest they go farther into the
forest and become lost forever. They were staring in all directions, searching
for something familiar, when they heard a roar—very close by.”

The boys’ eyes grew even wider.

“It was …”

“A bear,” they both whispered.

“And not just one bear,” Helga
said. “Two bears came out of the woods, a mother and her cub. And as anyone
knows, a mother bear is very protective of her cub and will attack any person
who approaches the baby. So this poor woman and her little boys were very
frightened. They shook in their boots.

“And then what happened? The
mother bear coaxed her baby to come near the children, to lie down at their
feet. And the mother bear circled the little family, gathering them together.
The woman and her children huddled together and soon the large bear lay down
near them and the bear’s big body kept them warm all night long.

“In the morning the townspeople
began to be concerned, asking each other, have you seen that poor lady and her
children?

“
Nein
, no one had seen them. So the mayor was about to organize a
search, when, out of the woods … out came the woman, the two boys and … two
bears! The people were overjoyed to see everyone safe and the mayor declared,
‘We shall build a tribute to these heroic bears and we shall call the town’s
name after them!’ And he immediately commissioned a fine artist to make the
statue.”

“The one near the Marktplatz!” Hans
said, unable to contain himself.

“
Ja
, the very one we see when we do our shopping.” She stood up,
straightened their blankets and reached for the lamp. Who knew if the fairytale
was true? It had pleased children for hundreds of years. “And on that note, it
is time for sleep.”

She pulled the bedroom door
nearly closed and moved quietly to the parlor where she saw that Johann had
added a log to the fire.

“You’re home!” She rushed to his
arms, taking in the scent from his wool uniform, the damp of the night and
something unfamiliar—a combination of crowded railcar with woods-like
undertones of a foreign land. “How was Romania?”

“Helga,
liebling
, you know never to speak
of what I do now. Things are changing and I should not have told you.”

“
Ja, ja
. I have said nothing.” If only he knew the depth of the
secrets she kept. “Are you hungry? I can warm the soup we had earlier.”

He shook his head, removing his
tunic and loosening the top button of the shirt beneath it.

“What’s this?” She noticed a
carved wooden box on the small table near the door.

It was obviously quite old, with
a plain quilted pattern carved into the top and sides. The wood had been
stained a dark brown but there was something else, a powdery feel to it. She
rubbed the surface and something black came off onto her fingers.

“I pulled it from a fire,” he
said, sinking into his favorite chair. “I will clean it before I present it.”

“To whom?”

“The Führer is to be in Nuremburg
again tomorrow night for another rally at the parade ground. I’ve a private
audience with Himmler shortly before and I want to present the box as a gift.”

“This thing? It’s hardly worthy—”

“It’s not of interest because
it’s beautiful art,
liebste
.
You know of the Führer’s interest in
the occult—this belonged to a witch in Transylvania. I pulled it from the fire
as they executed her.”

“
Johann!
You watched a poor woman burn!” Helga felt her dinner rise.

He had the good grace to look
regretful. “No,
liebste
,
I was not there for her sentencing, I merely walked onto that
platz
as the flames
were dying down. It was over for her. The
Polizei
were tossing her
possessions onto the embers. The box landed at the edge; I took it when no one
was watching.”

“But Johann, collecting
souvenirs! It’s so—”

“I’ll not have you questioning me,”
he warned.

A good German wife cooked and
cleaned and raised beautiful children but she did not second-guess her husband,
especially when he was a member of the regiment. She kept a neat home, trusted
whatever he read in
Mein
Kampf
to be accurate and ignored the trains filled with
Jews that left for some unknown destination nearly every week. And she stayed
utterly quiet about the houses where two Jewish families who had not managed to
get out early enough were hiding. Helga had once been a friend to Ruth
Goldstein and her husband who had operated a fine jewelry store until it was
smashed to bits on
Kristallnacht
along with the destruction of the synagogue.

“I’ll have some of that soup
now.” He signaled for her to bring him the box. “And afterward …” He raised one
eyebrow.

Helga went into the kitchen and
picked up her apron. She had been wanting a third child for some time now. She
forced aside her opinion about the wooden box and put on a smile. He was gone
so frequently these days. If she wanted a baby she must make use of any
opportunity.

Later, cuddling together under the warm quilts, Johann drew upon his
cigarette, a rare indulgence. Good Aryans were not to defile their bodies;
therefore, smoking rarely happened outside private moments.

“I miss you when I am away,” he said.

Helga ran her palm over his smooth chest. “And I miss you.”

“But I long for the excitement of Berlin when I am here in Bernkastel
too long. Great things are happening in our nation. Order is being restored.”

“We are better off now that the Great Depression has ended.”

“Outside Germany, there is no comparison. Our railroads and trains, our
highways, our manufacturing facilities are far superior—der
Führer’s
plans for expansion and improvement will make the entire world a better place.
Being around the men who plan these things—I find it exhilarating.”

The world—unless you were Jewish
or Polish, thought Helga. Well, what did she know? Perhaps those displaced
people were actually, as the newspapers and film reels told it, going to even
better places. The only thing she did know was that she was at the correct day
in her cycle and very possibly the seed for a new baby was beginning to grow
within her right now.

*
* *

Johann Schantz stepped off the
train at Nuremburg’s
Hauptbahnhof,
one
of three officers being met by a Nazi Party car, a black Mercedes, rather than
the standard open Army field vehicle. The man on his right slid his gaze toward
Johann, barely suppressing his delight at the special treatment. Johann
straightened his shoulders and acted as if he were always accorded such
amenities. The big car whisked them directly to the Chancellery where Hitler’s
personal standard flew—the black swastika surrounded by red and embellished
with gold trim and golden eagles.

A captain met them at the curb
and escorted the visitors through a series of hallways to a large meeting room.
Outside the closed door, a general from the inner circle stepped forward and
they responded with sharp salutes.

“What have you there?” the
general asked of the package Johann carried.

“A gift. For
der Führer
.”

The man wiggled his fingers and
Johann handed it over. Inside the cloth wrapping, the newly cleaned box
presented itself as well as it could.

The general’s forehead wrinkled.
“What is this thing?”

“If I may …?” Another man who had
been standing by took one step forward. “I have seen a similar item. In Italy.”
He murmured something quietly to the man in charge.

“And this one?” The general gave
Johann a hard look.

“From Romania. It is rumored to
have certain—powers. I know of
der
Führer’s
interest in such matters, in things of the occult. I offer it as
something of a curiosity, an item he might enjoy.”

The general seemed skeptical but
stuck the box back into its cloth wrapping and handed it back to Johann. “Go
ahead.” It’s your neck, he seemed to imply.

Inside the room, Hitler sat at a
large, ornate desk. Around him, Johann recognized the faces of Goebbels and
Himmler along with two Field Marshals. All eyes turned toward the newcomers.
Heels clicked, arms shot out in salute.

The national leader eyed each of
them in turn, unsmiling.

“The soldiers from the ranks,”
one of the field marshals said. “You requested them,
mein
Führer
, to stand at the podium behind. A show of solidarity for
the infantry and for the people. I present Johann Schantz of the Operations
Section, Wilmer Friedrich of Naval Command, and Joseph Milbach representing the
Army.”

Hitler nodded.

Johann noted that none of the
others were below the rank equivalent of Oberst, a colonel in other armies,
hardly the average soldier being asked to trudge through the mud. Still, he was
not there to point out discrepancies.

“And what is that?” The Führer
turned his direct attention on Johann for the first time, tilting his head
toward the wrapped parcel.

Johann set it gently on the desk
and their leader reached for it. “A little something for your collection of
occult memorabilia. If it pleases.”

The hand trembled slightly as
Hitler pulled the cloth wrapping aside. He lifted the box, turning it to view
all sides. Setting it flat on the desk he lifted the lid then closed it. A
small smile formed. His hands stayed on the box, although he turned his
attention to someone else and asked a question of Herr Himmler. Johann held his
breath.

What does the Führer truly think of the gift? He seems pleased. Doesn’t
the smile indicate approval?

The stubby fingers tapped at the
lid of the box all the while.

He is still touching it. Surely he likes it.

The finish on the box grew
darker, richer in color. Johann’s heart raced. What was happening? Would anyone
else notice the change?

The other men were talking of the
logistics for the evening’s speech, who would enter first and who would follow,
at which precise minute the Führer would begin his speech. No one was looking
toward the box, noticing its bizarre reaction to the leader’s touch.

The box was now nearly black,
gleaming like the glossy finish on a Mercedes. The raised portions of the
carving had begun to glitter, like scheming eyes. Johann knew everyone in the
room could surely hear his heart pounding in his chest. All eyes at the moment
were on the Führer, however. He had to create a diversion.

Each of the new men had removed
his hat upon entering the room; Johann’s was tucked under his left arm. He
lifted his elbow slightly, letting the hat fall to the marble floor. The stiff
bill clattered and everyone in the room started.

Johann gave a sharp intake of
breath and took a step. “Sorry,” he said, bending to retrieve the cap.

When he stood once more, he saw
that his misdirection had worked. Hitler’s hand no longer had contact with the
box and the color had already begun to normalize. Had he just made a fatal
mistake, calling attention to himself? If, later in private, the box changed so
dramatically again, the Führer would certainly notice. And he would remember
the man who had brought it. A trickle of sweat ran down Johann’s spine.

*
* *

The rally grounds of the Nazi
party in Nuremberg stretched two-hundred-forty meters in front of the podium.
Tall standards bearing red and black banners ringed the perimeter and lights
glowed to show the way for the ranks of soldiers who marched in precision
before their leaders, snapping crisp salutes before taking their places to
stand below in strict, straight lines.