Page 53 of Beehive

He was speaking to a soldier in rapid Russian, too quick and low for me to hear. His tone was sharp, commanding. The soldier nodded, lifted the lid of one of the crates, and pulled out a stack of photographs. I watched as Antonov’s eyes narrowed slightly. He glanced back at us, then handed the photo to the soldier and rejoined us.

“We have records here—images and documents—of items recovered from private collections and museums, even homes,” he said, his tone suddenly lighter, almost conversational. “The Nazis took what they wanted. They did not care who it belonged to.”

Will stepped forward. “May I see?”

Antonov hesitated, then gestured to the soldier, who handed over the photograph. It was an image of a statue carved from dark wood. Its details were worn but still distinct. A man with a full beard wearing a brimmed hat—perhaps a rabbi—sitting on a bench, a book open in his lap. The label beneath it was faded to the point of illegible.

“A religious artifact?” Will asked, his eyes flicking to Antonov.

“Perhaps,” he replied, then turned away. “Continue looking. You may find something of interest.”

We moved through the ruins, the thick, musty air making every breath feel labored. Antonov led us deeper into thebuilding, down a narrow corridor that opened into a large, vaulted room that must have been a central office or maybe a meeting hall. Now, it was filled with crates, each side stamped with Soviet insignia.

Another group of soldiers worked on one side, their conversation a rapid murmur. I caught a few words, something about wooden pieces, though the rest of the words escaped me.

I glanced at Will.

His face betrayed nothing.

Antonov gestured to one stack of crates. “Feel free to look, Mr. Richter. Most of this is junk—household items, personal effects—but you never know. There might be something valuable hidden among the refuse.”

There was that edge again, the tone that suggested Antonov knew more than he was telling us. Will moved toward the crates, lifting the lid off the nearest one. He sifted through the contents—mostly old books, tarnished silverware, and faded photographs. Nothing looked particularly important to our search.

A flash of Arty in my mind’s eye reminded me thateveryitem we explored was important to some family not so long ago. What a sobering thought.

“Quite the collection,” Will said, his voice light.

Antonov forced a smile. “The city is full of such collections, Mr. Richter. People hid what they could when the bombs began falling. Now,wemust decide what is worth saving, and what is not.”

I moved toward a nearby shelf, my fingers brushing the dusty surface. A small wooden carving caught my eye—tucked behind a stack of ledgers, almost as if it had been forgotten. It was rough, not nearly as refined as the statue in the photograph Will had been given, but there was something about it—something that felt familiar.

I picked it up, the wood cool against my palm. A figure of a man or a woman? It was hard to tell. I turned it over in my hand, then glanced at Antonov.

“Another trinket?” I asked, holding it up.

He looked at it, his expression revealing nothing. “Yes. Just another trinket. We have found hundreds like it.”

He turned back to the soldiers dismissing me, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to it than that.

Will caught my eye and raised a brow. I gave a shrug.

The next stop was a smaller depot on the outskirts of the sector. Antonov’s car bounced over the uneven roads as the sun glared through the windshield. The heat had only grown more intense, humidity making the air feel thick, almost unbreathable. Lowering the windows only helped so much.

The depot was a squat, windowless building, little more than a bunker. Soldiers and civilians moved about, cataloging items, their faces slick with sweat.

Antonov waved a hand at the scene. “Just like in our other facilities, every piece is documented and preserved, as you can see.”

Will wandered toward a stack of paintings and brushed his fingers along the edge of a gilded frame. “Impressive work,” he said. “Though I imagine it’s a monumental task.”

Antonov gave a short laugh. “We Soviets are thorough, Mr. Richter, and not afraid of a little hard work.”

I lingered near a table covered in smaller items—jewelry, books, more statuettes. Antonov had been right. The people of this area loved their carvings.

One caught my eye—a small, roughly carved figure, similar to the one I’d seen earlier. I picked it up and studied it. The craftsmanship was crude, but it had a certain weight to it, a sense of history.

“Find something of interest?” Antonov’s voice made me turn, the statue still in my hand.

“Just curious,” I said, holding it up. “Does this mean anything to you?”

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