The Woodcarver's Secret (Samantha Sweet Mysteries) (32 page)

Behind Johann and the rest of the
entourage the high pillars of the Ehrenhalle rose, flying banners of the Party
colors. Two rows of pedestals held fire bowls, flaming high now that the Führer
was in attendance. The moment he took the podium, cheers and chants erupted.

Johann and the others stood erect
and unmoving while their leader began his speech, starting with reminders of
the greatness of Germany and the important strides the country had made since
the days of poverty following the last war. As he went on to pound home the new
ideals for cleansing the population and building the nation into an empire
unlike any the world had ever seen, Johann believed he had never heard such
fervent words, such unabashed zeal. Even to followers and loyal Nazis tonight’s
speech had to rank among the most emotional of all time. National pride
swelled—he could see it on the face of every man in the crowd.

He was a supreme orator, Johann
thought, watching the way Hitler managed the crowd—shouting his words of
patriotism, giving himself credit for everything good in the nation, saying all
of it in such a way that no one questioned a word. Then the charismatic man
left the podium at the moment when the maximum outpouring of love came from his
listeners.

As the final cheers died away,
the officers at the front of the Ehrenhalle turned and made their way behind
the impressive colonnade to their waiting cars. In his own vehicle, the Führer
appeared drained of energy. He had given his all for the soldiers tonight. The
black car pulled away and the others began taking places in the other vehicles.
Johann, Friedrich and Milbach would ride together to the
Hauptbahnhof
to catch trains to their respective duty stations. In
Johann’s case he would go to Frankfurt, but as he was not due to report for
duty until Monday he could perhaps manage another quick visit home. He’d hardly
spent any time with his sons on the last stop.

The other two men had stepped
into the car when Johann felt a tug at his sleeve.

“Hauptmann Schantz?” said a
voice.
Generalmajor
Kaster
was standing beside him, a packet in hand. Johann saw that it was the wrapped
wooden box, the gift.

“I am sorry … der Führer is
interested only in collecting fine works of art, the work of the masters. You
will understand.” He shoved the box into Johann’s hands and placed a hand on
the car door, an unsubtle hint that the subject would bear no discussion and it
was time to leave.

Johann slid into the backseat
beside Friedrich of the Navy. A furious blush came over his face and the other
man had the good grace to look away. Neither the driver nor the Army man seemed
to have noticed the exchange. Johann set the parcel on the seat beside him,
draping his coat over it, keeping his eyes directly ahead. Was this decision
truly that of the Führer or had the generals decided for him? At whatever
level, someone of high rank had decided that his gift was not nice enough for
the leader’s collection.

At Frankfurt he debated staying
the night. As a ranking Party official he could easily get a room even at this
late hour, but his thoughts were churning like a rushing whitewater river and
he could not imagine being able to settle down for a long while. The train to
Bernkastel would be along in another hour. He went into the station and plopped
on a wooden bench to wait, the parcel still tucked under his arm. Although
important men within the Party did not appreciate the box, it would make a good
story to say that it had been in the hands of the Führer himself on the night
he spoke to the troops at the rally grounds.

He continued to hold that thought
until he actually arrived in his hometown. Then he recalled Helga’s revulsion
when he admitted that the item had come from a witch who had been burned. There
would be no chance of her allowing the children to own such a thing, even if it
had passed through the hands of their famous leader. He stepped off the train
in the cold gray of early dawn and looked around.

A waste receptacle stood outside
the
bahnhof
. He peered one last time
inside the cloth. Perhaps Hitler was right—this piece was not beautiful enough
to belong in a good collection. Not even good enough for his wife’s humble
home. He held it over the trash basket and let it go.

Striding away, thinking of a
hearty breakfast, he didn’t look back.

*
* *

Nikolaus Schenke watched the soldier
walk away from the train station, paying no attention to the huge stone
building with its high plaster and half-timbered walls, its sloping gabled
slate roof. Two other passengers had already hurried down Friedrichstrasse,
drawing their coats closely about them for warmth in the chilly morning air.
His eyes darted to the parcel the man had dropped into the waste bin. The train
chugged onward and a quick check told him no one was watching. Quick as a fox
(which his mother often called him), Nik dashed to the bin and leaned in to
pull out the object. It felt solid—something made of wood—wrapped in a covering
of fine cloth.

To examine it here was to invite
trouble. Someone may have seen him take the item. He tucked it close to his
body and ran up Bahnhofstrasse, staying to the right on the curve and bolting
across the bridge. The Mosel flowed slowly and peacefully, a silver ribbon
rounding a bend between hillsides of vineyards. Nik barely took it in as he
paused at the stone gate beside the church. A glance over his shoulder told him
that no one had followed.

Ahead in the Market Square
farmers were already setting up their tables, bringing out crates of vegetables
and tall buckets of flowers. Nikolaus bypassed them, and the famed Doktor
Fountain, tucking into the narrow street that flanked the right side of tiny
“Pointed House,” all those sights which, in happier times, drew visitors to the
village.

Now, few people traveled and no
one spent money unless absolutely necessary. Although the political speakers
talked in glowing terms of the new prosperity brought by
der Führer
, Nik’s parents spoke in hushed voices about the rising
cost of goods and lower wages. It seemed everyone had a job now but most of
them did not pay a lot. His father and grandfather were bricklayers; aside from
some government projects designed by the Chancellor, they had difficulty
finding work and were more likely to be found helping with the grape harvest
and then hanging about their favorite
weinkeller
for a glass or two.

Nik ran through the streets,
happy to be free for a little while. He would soon need to get ready for
school. Beyond the
Ratskeller
he made a few more
turns and came to a stop at the narrow stairs that led to his family’s
apartment above the now-closed jewelry shop. The windows had all been broken
out and the place looted a few years ago; now there were boards over them to
keep mice out.

“Where have you been, Nikolaus?”
Mutter
called out from the kitchen
alcove. “Your breakfast is ready.”

She stepped to the table and leaned
outward to see into the hall.

“What’s that you have in your
hands?”

He quickly shoved the packet
behind his back. “It’s a surprise. For your birthday.”

She gave a patient sigh and waved
him on. “That isn’t for another week.” She knew very well that none of her boys
would plan so far ahead. “Put it away and wash your hands. You’ll be late for
school.”

In their attic room on the third
floor Nik could hear his two older brothers stomping about—a boot dropped, then
a raucous laugh. He held back, tucking himself into the tiny space below the
stairs until the others thundered down and into the kitchen. Behind him, he
caught the sound of his father, clearing his throat noisily. A loud fart issued
from the bedroom at the back of the apartment and Nik repressed a giggle. He
slid around the corner and tried to be quiet as he climbed the stairs.

He couldn’t resist taking a
minute to examine his newfound prize. The cloth around the wooden box was of
fine quality and it would actually make a nice gift for his mother. She could
use it as a headscarf or place it on the table. He had no idea how women chose
their adornments—she might do anything with it. It was the box that fascinated
him.

Dark-stained wood, carved in a
crisscross pattern, a nice texture. He raised the lid and held the box toward
the lamp. Letters carved into the lid spelled M-A-N-I-C-H-E-E. He had no idea
what that meant. As he held the box it seemed to grow warmer, the wood becoming
a lighter color and taking on a glow. His breath caught. What was happening?

“Nikolaus! Breakfast—now!”

Oh, if only he could catch a
fever or something so he would have an excuse to stay home from school. He
wanted to play with the box, to learn more about it. His gaze darted about the
small room, searching out a hiding place. Under his small bed was the only
somewhat private place for his things. He pulled out the trunk that held his
winter clothing and shoved the box in behind it, against the wall, then slid
the trunk back in place.

“What are you doing up there?”
his father shouted. “Get to the table—you will be late!”

Nik brushed the dust off his
hands and raced down the steps, remembering at the last moment that he’d been
sent to comb his hair and wash his hands. He smoothed the persistent cowlick
and swiped his hands twice against his pant legs.

At the table, his father grumbled
before turning his attention back to his cereal. Across from him, Grandfather
toyed with a crusty roll and read the newspaper. His brothers had apparently
already left.

“
Der Führer
is building a collection of fine art, it says here in
the news. ‘With the success of the Summer Olympics four years ago, Germany is
rising to the forefront of European culture. Our beloved Chancellor wants to
fill the museums in Berlin with the best examples of art so that the rest of
the world will know how great a nation we are. Citizens are encouraged to
donate or loan paintings and sculpture from their personal collections.’”

Nikolaus caught the glances
between the adults.

“
Puh
!
We are at war,” said his father. “Who will come from the rest of the world to
visit our museums? That newspaper is a rag.”

Mother hushed him.

“What? There is no one around.
Half the old shops are closed.”

“There are other apartments …”
she said through her teeth. “It is impossible to be too careful these days.”

She gave a little tilt of the
head toward Nik.

“I can keep secrets,
mutter
,” he insisted.

“Well, see that you do, boy,” his
grandfather said. “She is right. These are uncertain times and everyone must be
careful.”

Nikolaus already knew this. In
school his teachers now taught only from the state-issued books. No stories
were told, no discussion other than the official curriculum. And in the market
last week, his mother had asked after the health of one farmer’s wife and got
only a small shake of the head. People were keeping all sorts of secrets.

*
* *

Martin Helgberg turned off the
wireless, astonishment reverberating through his body. It started with Hitler’s
men making casual ‘visits’ to homes and public buildings in a search for
artworks to enhance the displays in the national museums and galleries—all in
the name of preserving national treasures. Now the latest news held that
der Führer
considered fine wines and
good liqueurs to be among these treasures and a new law allowed the Nazis to
commandeer almost anything they desired. Martin knew these items were going
into the Führer’s personal collection or were being hidden away, perhaps to be
sold off to pay for the war effort. He thought of his livelihood, the vineyards
and wine cellar, particularly his prized 1921 vintage
Bernkasteler
Kabinett
.

Twenty years he had held that
wine—a full case of it—knowing that its value increased each year. And that was
but one of the expensive wines in his cellar. And in the aging room—forty casks
of five hundred liters each, ten seasons of backbreaking work on precipitous
slopes in the adjacent vineyard, ten years of nurturing and loving his grapes
to make them the best in the region. And now the Mosel wine region had become a
target.

Helmut looked up as Martin rushed
from the office. “What is it? What’s going on?”

“Son, they have reached Cochem
and Zell, on their way by river!”

“They?”

“Nazis! They’ll take whatever
pleases them.”

“The nineteen-twenty-one?”

“And more! I have a plan. Hurry
and get Herr Schenke. His father, his son … As large a crew as possible.”
Martin was out the door, headed for their cellar on Grabenstrasse.

He rushed inside, pulling the
heavy, carved door closed behind him. In the dark he reached for the electric
light switch, knowing from habit exactly where it was on the wall. A string of
small lights showed the way down the tunnel and into the main room containing
the huge casks. He stopped when he reached them, heartsick. There would be no
way to hide them all.

He sank to a wooden bench where
he often sat while labeling bottles. What to do?

“Do
something
!” His shout echoed back at him through the damp and
chilly chamber ten feet below ground level.

He got up and walked down the
center aisle between the casks which, on their sides, stood nearly as tall as
he did. The small room at the back—it was their only hope. He flipped another
switch, illuminating the five- by five-meter space. It held rows of bottles,
their older vintages, chosen bottles from the best years. If nothing else, he
could save these. He heard voices and quickly shut off the light.