Page 87 of Hell to Pay
Ashleigh said, her nose still red and her eyes still leaking, “How can you be so … sophilosophical?Why aren’t you crying?”
Alix, who hadn’t cried, buthadindulged in the sort of “How could this have happened?” rage that rarely provides any real illumination, said, “OK, I know why you’re not crying—because it’s just a thing, and things aren’t people—how many times I’ve heard you say that!—and all the rest of it, but why aren’t you at leastmad?”
Ben said, “It’s just athing?It’s worth, like, a million dollars!”
“Well,” I said, cutting off another little piece of rich cake and preparing to savor it, “as I have little use for a million dollars at the moment, that’s not such a terrible loss. Am I disappointed? Absolutely. As to how it can have happened?” I shrugged. “It seems impossible, but it’s clearly not, for the tiara isn’t there anymore. A former servant, who’d somehowheard of the secret entrance and perhaps even the parure? Lippert will have known—Lippert knew everything—but she’d never have told, so …” I shrugged again. “More likely a Russian soldier finding the secret entrance from the church, and perhaps the stone not replaced perfectly in the cistern and catching his eye. I can’t remember how well I closed it up. It was very dark, and I was very shaken.”
“Maybe a group of soldiers,” Ben said, “and they all fought over it. Imagine if we’d seen, like, a pile of skeletons in Russian uniforms with holes in their skulls from where they’d shot each other, and one of them clutching the tiara in his bony hand. That would’ve been awesome.”
“Not so much for the soldiers,” I said. “But if Ashleigh weren’t such a committed historian, she could stage an excellent hoax. Purchase a few models of skeletons and some replicas of Soviet pistols, bore your bullet holes, pose the skeletons artistically, and ask the audience to imagine the victor running down the passage with his prize? Much more satisfactory than an empty hole.”
“Too bad the TV people filmed the empty hole, then,” Ben said, “and everybody’s going to know it didn’t happen like that, because that would’ve been epic.”
Alix said, “That lucrative career in fraud is justwaitingfor you, Oma. Who knew?”
Ashleigh wiped her nose again with a tissue and said sadly, “I can’t. Documentaries don’t work that way.”
“What I don’t get,” Alix said, “is why he didn’t take the bag. I wouldn’t want to walk around carrying a diamond-and-emerald tiara. It doesn’t seem very smart, life-expectancy-wise.”
“He’d have had a rucksack,” I said. “I imagine he shoved it in there hastily a moment after he pulled it from the bag and realized what it was, afternotkilling his companions.”
“And it’s never surfaced since?” Sebastian asked. “Have yousearched online? It seems like the person who took it would have sold it. I don’t imagine the average Red Army soldier was very well off.”
“I’vesearched online,” Alix said, “and there’s nothing.”
“Quite possibly,” I said, “knowing it might be recognized, a morally questionable jeweler could have removed the stones and reset them, while melting down the gold. It would greatly lessen the value, but only if it were known to be Josephine’s tiara, and how would he know that? There was no internet then, remember, and he wouldn’t have been the grandson of the court jeweler in St. Petersburg or whatever you may be imagining. Such a man would never have desecrated such a fine piece. Unfortunately, such a man would also have long since been shot. Not precisely the proletariat.”
“So it’s either hidden away by its eventual owner,” Alix said, “or in about a hundred engagement rings, or maybe being worn to the Bolshoi Ballet right now by some Russian oligarch’s wife—do they go to the ballet, or just to the South of France and Dubai, where they can gamble and ride around on yachts? No idea. In any case, it hasn’t come up for auction recently. Are those the only possibilities, do you think?”
“No,” I said. “It could have been a German—a workman, a soldier, a civilian; who knows? I merely speculate, as we all do. But to answer everyone’s question—I’ll cry a little tonight, I’m sure, for the loss of this dream. And then I’ll remind myself that I came here to remember my parents, to remember Frau Heffinger with her cakes, and Herr Kolbe with his kindness, and Lippert with her witch’s nose and her devotion to my mother, and Franz, who chopped the wood and hoped to be a butler. And the Beckers, and all those who helped us along the way. And most of all—” I had to gather myself here for a moment—“I’ll remember that I came here with my beloved granddaughter and was able to share all thiswith her. With you, Alix, and your family. There are some things more precious than jewels, after all.”
Ashleigh was still sniffling. She was also recording again. That girl was going to go far.
39
LIMBO
To my surprise, I didn’t have that cry after returning to my room. I was very tired, and, yes, disappointed, too, but not hopeless or depressed.
I’d probably never really believed I’d find the tiara. It had been gone so long, and I’d made my peace with that decades ago. Had it always been a mere pretext to tempt Alix here with me? How little we understand our own motivations.
I knew now, anyway, that the real value of this journey was in the company and the memories. That last especially, because once I’d removed the Chanel suit and was in an armchair with a cup of tea, I found myself reaching for Joe’s letters and my diary again. It was hard to remember, now, what exactly had happened over those weeks, but the documents brought it all back.
My diary entries, first:
26 April 1945
Rumor everywhere that the Russians and Americans have met at last, arriving from east and west at the Elbe near Torgau. Barely 50 miles north of Dresden, so the Red Army may be in Dresden now aswell, or will be coming very soon. It’s hard to think of them trampling through our beautiful palace in their boots, and as for spoiling the furnishings and breaking the mirrors—that doesn’t bear thinking about.
Of course, it may all be broken and spoiled already. It’s difficult to remember that the palace could now be destroyed almost entirely; I didn’t see enough of it, I suppose, for the destruction to live in my memory as the living building does.
The mention of “Torgau” makes things quite specific, so I think the story must be true. We hear no reports of the Soviets and Americans turning on each other, to the disappointment of some of our customers. Most are resigned and just want the war to be over. We’re still blacking out, although we haven’t seen any planes for days—if the air-raids are no longer a danger, nobody’s told us. As far as we know, the war goes on.
Flour stores quite low, and still the supplier doesn’t call. I’m putting more oats and rye into the potato bread and saving the precious wheat flour. I find the challenge interesting; how can I best stretch the wheat flour and still make a delicious loaf?
I do have to rise very early to bake, but the memory of all that footsore wandering is still fresh enough that I find that no trial at all. Much food is scarce—meat in particular can’t be found, and our ration is only 2 ounces of butter apiece per week, though herring is still available. If this war ever ends, I shall never want herring again! We do of course eat bread, though not as much as we’d like, and sometimes take goods in trade, so we’re luckier than most.Quark,recently, which was a real treat, bacon another day—our normal ration is four ounces a week—a cabbage—even eggs! That was amorning,I’ll tell you: six eggs for breakfast, neat and tidy in their egg cups, like things used to be. The extra egg, Frau Adelbergsplit among the children. She really is a kind person, although a bit fearful for my taste—she’s still worried about what the Americans will do to us. I told her it could hardly be worse and might be better—at least we won’t be bombed! She doesn’t appreciate that as much as I do; she’s never experienced it.
Oh. The eggs. With bread and preserves, they made a most satisfying breakfast. Most importantly, Dr. Becker, with his Aryan Kennkarte and ration book, receives the full amount of rations and is losing a bit of his starved look, and Gerhardt looks better too. What luck that I knew how to bake! I enjoy the baking process itself, too, especially in the quiet hours of the morning when even the sun isn’t up, all by my spotlessly clean self in the spotlessly clean kitchen with my hair tied up in a tea towel. There’s an orderliness to baking that my soul has longed for, and freedom in having a few hours alone with my thoughts. A refugee is never alone, you see (and never clean, either). I believe I must be a quiet person at heart, for I relish those hours.
