exist, along with some black and whites that certainly do no justice to its beauty.”
“I saw those pictures when searching. I also saw room before war. Truly magnificent. No photo could ever capture. Sad, but it seems lost forever.”
“My employer refuses to believe that.”
“Evidence good that panels were destroyed when Königsberg was carpet bombed in 1944. Some think they rest at bottom of Baltic. I investigateWilhelm Gustloff myself. Ninety-five hundred dead when Soviets send ship to bottom. Some say Amber Room in cargo hold. Moved from Königsberg by truck to Danzig, then loaded for trip to Hamburg.”
Knoll shifted in the chair. “I, too, looked into theGustloff . The evidence is contradictory, at best. Frankly, the most credible story I researched was that the panels were shipped out of Königsberg by the Nazis to a mine near Göttingen along with ammunition. When the British occupied the area in 1945, they exploded the mine. But, as with all other versions, ambiguities exist.”
“Some even swore Americans find and ship across Atlantic.”
“I heard that, too. Along with a version proposing the Soviets actually found and stored the panels somewhere unbeknownst to anyone now in power. Given the sheer volume of what was looted, that is entirely possible. But given the value and desire for the return of this treasure, not probable.”
His visitor seemed to know the subject well. He’d reread all those theories earlier. He stared hard at the granite face, but blank eyes betrayed nothing of what the German was thinking. He recalled the practice it took to so inconspicuously post such a barrier. “Have you no concern for the curse?”
Knoll grinned. “I’ve heard of it. But such things are for the uninformed or the sensationalist.”
“How rude I have been,” he suddenly said. “You want a drink?”
“That would be nice,” Knoll said.
“I be right back.” He motioned to the cat sacked out on the couch. “Lucy will keep you company.”
He stepped toward the kitchen and gave his visitor one last glance before pushing through the swinging door. He filled two glasses with ice and poured some tea. He also deposited the still marinating fillet in the refrigerator. He actually wasn’t hungry anymore, his mind racing, like in the old days. He glanced down at the file folder with articles still lying on the counter.
“Mr. Borya?” Knoll called out.
The voice was accompanied by footsteps. Perhaps it was better the articles not be seen. He quickly yanked open the freezer and slid the folder onto the top rack next to the ice maker. He slammed the door shut just as Knoll pushed through the swinging door and into the kitchen. “Yes, Herr Knoll?”
“Might I use your rest room?”
“Down hall. Off the den.”
“Thank you.”
He didn’t believe for a moment that Knoll needed to use the bathroom. More likely he needed to change a tape in a pocket recorder without the worry of interruption, or use the pretense as an opportunity to look around. It was a trick he’d utilized many times in the old days. The German was becoming annoying. He decided to have a little fun. From the cabinet beside the sink he retrieved the laxative his aging intestines forced him to take at least a couple of times a week. He trickled the tasteless granules into one of the tea glasses and stirred them in. Now the bastard really would need a bathroom.
He brought the chilled glasses into the den. Knoll returned and accepted the tea, downing several long swallows.
“Excellent,” Knoll said. “Truly an American beverage. Iced tea.”
“We proud of it.”
“We? You consider yourself American?”
“Here many years. My home now.”
“Is not Belarus independent again?”
“Leaders there no better than Soviets. Suspend constitution. Mere dictators.”
“Did not the people give the Belarussian president that latitude?”
“Belarus is more like province of Russia, not true independence. Slavery takes centuries
“I saw those pictures when searching. I also saw room before war. Truly magnificent. No photo could ever capture. Sad, but it seems lost forever.”
“My employer refuses to believe that.”
“Evidence good that panels were destroyed when Königsberg was carpet bombed in 1944. Some think they rest at bottom of Baltic. I investigateWilhelm Gustloff myself. Ninety-five hundred dead when Soviets send ship to bottom. Some say Amber Room in cargo hold. Moved from Königsberg by truck to Danzig, then loaded for trip to Hamburg.”
Knoll shifted in the chair. “I, too, looked into theGustloff . The evidence is contradictory, at best. Frankly, the most credible story I researched was that the panels were shipped out of Königsberg by the Nazis to a mine near Göttingen along with ammunition. When the British occupied the area in 1945, they exploded the mine. But, as with all other versions, ambiguities exist.”
“Some even swore Americans find and ship across Atlantic.”
“I heard that, too. Along with a version proposing the Soviets actually found and stored the panels somewhere unbeknownst to anyone now in power. Given the sheer volume of what was looted, that is entirely possible. But given the value and desire for the return of this treasure, not probable.”
His visitor seemed to know the subject well. He’d reread all those theories earlier. He stared hard at the granite face, but blank eyes betrayed nothing of what the German was thinking. He recalled the practice it took to so inconspicuously post such a barrier. “Have you no concern for the curse?”
Knoll grinned. “I’ve heard of it. But such things are for the uninformed or the sensationalist.”
“How rude I have been,” he suddenly said. “You want a drink?”
“That would be nice,” Knoll said.
“I be right back.” He motioned to the cat sacked out on the couch. “Lucy will keep you company.”
He stepped toward the kitchen and gave his visitor one last glance before pushing through the swinging door. He filled two glasses with ice and poured some tea. He also deposited the still marinating fillet in the refrigerator. He actually wasn’t hungry anymore, his mind racing, like in the old days. He glanced down at the file folder with articles still lying on the counter.
“Mr. Borya?” Knoll called out.
The voice was accompanied by footsteps. Perhaps it was better the articles not be seen. He quickly yanked open the freezer and slid the folder onto the top rack next to the ice maker. He slammed the door shut just as Knoll pushed through the swinging door and into the kitchen. “Yes, Herr Knoll?”
“Might I use your rest room?”
“Down hall. Off the den.”
“Thank you.”
He didn’t believe for a moment that Knoll needed to use the bathroom. More likely he needed to change a tape in a pocket recorder without the worry of interruption, or use the pretense as an opportunity to look around. It was a trick he’d utilized many times in the old days. The German was becoming annoying. He decided to have a little fun. From the cabinet beside the sink he retrieved the laxative his aging intestines forced him to take at least a couple of times a week. He trickled the tasteless granules into one of the tea glasses and stirred them in. Now the bastard really would need a bathroom.
He brought the chilled glasses into the den. Knoll returned and accepted the tea, downing several long swallows.
“Excellent,” Knoll said. “Truly an American beverage. Iced tea.”
“We proud of it.”
“We? You consider yourself American?”
“Here many years. My home now.”
“Is not Belarus independent again?”
“Leaders there no better than Soviets. Suspend constitution. Mere dictators.”
“Did not the people give the Belarussian president that latitude?”
“Belarus is more like province of Russia, not true independence. Slavery takes centuries
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