19. Thomas
19
Thomas
A ntonov pulled up in front of the Reichsbank—what was left of it, anyway.
Like so much of Berlin, the once-proud facade was a shell of its former self, cracked and broken, a fading remnant of a shattered empire.
Antonov cut the engine, his expression unreadable beneath the brim of his hat. Will and I exchanged a quick glance, his eyes betraying none of the wariness I knew we both felt.
“Today, please, gentlemen,” Antonov groused.
We climbed out of the car.
“Now, you will see what it means to be thorough. The Reichsbank may have fallen, but what it held within—its records, valuables, traces of what the Nazis were hiding—that is what remains, and that is what we seek, yes?”
There was an edge to his words, a coldness that matched the hawkishness of his eyes. Will nodded, his face the picture of polite curiosity. He had perfected that look—equal parts intrigued and unimposing. The art expert he was pretending to be fit in well here, nosing around the ruins of a bank turned art warehouse that had seen better days.
A couple dozen yards down the street, I spotted one of our goldfish.
Antonov stepped through the crumbling entrance, gesturing for us to follow.
The building’s marble floors were broken and still covered in debris. A Soviet banner hung over a shattered doorway. I couldn’t help seeing the bloody swastika that hung there a year earlier.
A dozen or so men milled about. Their voices were low, their movements deliberate, a stark contrast to the chaos of the ruins around them. As we strode past, I noticed they worked in teams of two or three, but never alone—cataloging, lifting, recording.
I kept my face neutral, though I couldn’t shake the feeling that the building itself was somehow watching us.
Antonov gestured toward a stack of crates piled haphazardly against a wall. “This is where we begin.” His voice echoed off the stone walls. “The Nazis were meticulous in their record-keeping; I must give them that. Everything they stole, everything they held—it is documented. Somewhere in these records may be the answers you seek.”
“Answers?” Will asked, stepping closer to one of the crates. “About stolen art, you mean?”
Antonov looked at him, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. “Of course. Was there something else tickling your Amer—forgive me, German curiosity?”
The smugness of his smirk would’ve made the Mona Lisa blush.
I’d never wanted to punch someone so badly in my life.
“The Nazis were greedy, Mr. Müller, but they were also frightened. They knew their time was running out, and they hid things—valuable things. Your job is to find them, is it not?”
“Yes, quite right,” I said, reminding myself to remain calm and in character.
I moved toward a nearby table, covered in papers and ledgers. The documents were old and yellowed; some bore char at the edges. I picked one up, careful not to tear the fragile page. It was written in German, the ink faded but still legible. A list of names, perhaps? Or an inventory? It was hard to tell.
Will’s eyes scanned the room. “They certainly weren’t sparing any effort, were they?”
“Guess not,” I replied, my eyes flicking toward Antonov.
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 the building, 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 that every item 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, we must 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?”
“No. Looks like another trinket.” He turned away, but I caught the briefest flicker of something in his eyes—annoyance, perhaps? Or interest? Had I inadvertently struck upon something important? I tried replaying the day, searching for when I’d first seen Antonov address an item we’d found. There were so many; it was impossible to sort through them all, to parse out what might have been important and what was merely lost.
Will stepped closer, his voice casual. “You know, I’ve heard stories about pieces like this, things the Nazis took from private collections, religious artifacts, even.”
Antonov’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Stories, Mr. Richter, are often just that, stories. In Berlin, stories are worth little more than the rubble they are told in.”
Will stared at a nearby painting. “Of course.”
As we wrapped up our visit and turned toward the entrance, Antonov painted on his brightest smile. “Did you see everything you hoped today?”
“Today was quite helpful. Thank you.” Will brushed his hair back and mirrored the man’s smile. When he spoke again, his words were halting, as though what he asked felt awkward to say. “Captain . . . the art community is like a small village. It can be quite close-knit, even across borders and miles.”
Antonov stopped walking.
Will bowled onward. “I have heard of an event that would be truly special to anyone in my profession. One might even call it . . . a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
Antonov waited. Will hesitated.
“As you are no doubt aware, the Kulturhistorisches Museum Viktoria is one of the world’s greatest museums. Prior to the war, it housed treasures from many places and generations. Much of the complex was spared destruction—or so I was told.” Will pretended to struggle for words. “I have come to understand it will reopen, that there is to be an event of some kind to celebrate this. I was wondering . . . if possibly . . .”
“Yes, please stop floundering. I will get you tickets,” Antonov said, appearing more annoyed at how Will asked than the fact that he’d made the request at all. “The event is tomorrow evening and will be a formal affair. Do you have appropriate clothing, or do I need to assist with that, as well?”
“Oh, yes, please . . . and thank you, Captain. That’s amazing and wonderful. Wilhelm, can you believe it?” Will turned to me, a child who’d just learned Santa Claus would attend his late December birthday party.
I rolled my eyes and looked toward Antonov. In the most disinterested tone I could muster, I said, “I’m thrilled.”
For the first time since we’d met, the Soviet spy laughed, and I believed it to be genuine. If I read things correctly, we might have found our first bonding point over our mutual disinterest in an art show.
“I will take care of everything,” Antonov said, wiping the smile from his face and resuming his perpetually stoic expression. “Shall we go?”
The ride back to the hotel was silent.
I watched the city pass by. There was so much destruction. It was painful to witness. The crumbling buildings. The people moving through the ruins of their lives. Shadows grew longer as we made our way through the battered streets. It felt like a different world, one we were only visiting—one we could leave behind if we wanted to.
Antonov didn’t speak a word. I got the sense he was as lost in thought as we were, though I suspected his thoughts strayed far from the devastated city in which we traveled. After we stepped away from his car, the man’s gaze lingered on us for a long moment.
Will and I wandered the few yards to lean against our smoking tree as Antonov drove away.
“Well?” I asked, my voice low. “What do you make of it?”
Will’s eyes were fixed on the horizon. Finally, he shook his head. “I don’t know. There’s something there. The way he reacted—those soldiers—they’re looking for something. Something specific .”
I nodded. “The statues? The carvings?”
“Maybe. Antonov wanted to see every time I picked one up, but maybe he was just bored and has a thing for statues,” he said, his voice thoughtful. “It could be something else, some kind of art we’re discounting. A painting? Pottery? It could be anything, really.”
“Whatever it is, it’s something they don’t want us to see.”
We stood there for a while, me pretending to smoke, and Will lost in thought. I felt the weight of the day settle over us. The truth, whatever it was, lay buried deep in ruins, in crates, perhaps in the guarded expressions of men like Antonov. If we wanted to find it, we had to keep digging.
For the moment, we had more questions than answers, but I could feel us inching closer . . . but closer to what?