Florian's Gate (40 page)

They sat on a park bench, the afternoon sunlight making playful golden streamers through the breeze-tousled trees. A trio of beautiful young girls walked by arm-in-arm, giggling over some private gossip. Jeffrey turned his face upward, closed his eyes, and thought back over the past several days.

He had begun to see things in the people's faces that had not been visible before, things he had missed in his concentration on their sadness and their injuries. He was finding a strength, a silent power of endurance, bearing weights no one else knew about. He saw the wisdom of pain in their faces, and determination tested by fires he dared not even imagine.

Another transformation was tied to this first one, a change as startling as it was revealing. As he learned to understand and love these people, he came to know and accept Katya's reserve. Her own stillness mirrored the strength he found in so many of these people, the ones who had not given in to
the bottle or the hopelessness or the fury. She had her own sorrows, her own battles to conquer, and in growing through them she had equipped herself with a faith and a strength that remained unshakable. Jeffrey marveled at the power that this slight young woman held in her heart.

He opened his eyes to find Katya staring at an old woman on the next bench. The woman was watching a group of children playing with bright-eyed eagerness. The old woman's gaze was the only part of her with life—her body looked little more than a shell.

When the last child had left and the
planty
was empty, the crone edged her way up from the bench by degrees. When erect she was just over four feet tall and dressed entirely in black—kerchief, sweater, blouse, skirt, stockings, lace-up shoes. She listed to one side and leaned heavily on her black cane as she walked. She moved one foot forward eight inches or so, then the other sort of fell forward to meet the rest of her body, another tiny step, and on she went.

“Look at her,” Katya said. “She was born when her country didn't even exist, except in people's hearts. When she was a teenager, Poland gained independence for the first time in over a hundred and fifty years. Her children were still in school when Hitler invaded and wiped out one-fifth of the country. She survived, but she probably saw her own relatives killed right before her eyes. Almost everyone did.”

Jeffrey slid his hand into hers. She looked down at it uncomprehendingly, then turned back to the slow-moving crone and continued with her story. “When Hitler was finally defeated, Stalin and his hordes took the Nazis' place. No doubt she struggled to keep what remained of her family strong and together through forty nightmarish years of Communist occupation. Her children and grandchildren are now either grown or dead, and today Poland is independent again. If she has any thoughts on it at all, I bet it is for those children she was watching. What flicker of hope she still has, she has willed to the children of this nation.”

That afternoon Katya accompanied Jeffrey to the Ministry of Culture. It was located down Ulica Grodzka, a street leading from the main market square. The building probably dated from the early eighteen hundreds, which meant that sometime at the beginning of that century either a new structure had been erected on the site or an older one restored—there had been a structure on that spot for over twelve hundred years.

The building was again newly renovated, painted a pastel peach on the outside, with large wood-framed windows and a massive oak door taken from an earlier medieval structure. Inside, it still smelled of fresh paint. There was no receptionist to direct newcomers, no plaques or directions on the walls, no signs by the doors. Jeffrey hesitated a moment in the utterly bare foyer, then started down the central hallway, calling out if anyone was there.

A voice called down from the galleried landing above. “Ah, Mr. Sinclair! Please come up! Welcome! Welcome!”

Jeffrey followed Katya up the winding staircase and met the man's outstretched hand at the top. He was in his late forties and wore a Western-cut double-breasted suit and silk tie, rather than the standard gray Communist garb. Beneath the well-trimmed gray hair was a rounded pasty-colored face and gold-rimmed glasses over alert brown eyes. More than anything else, the eager friendliness marked him as a member of the new regime.

“I'm sorry, we are still housecleaning,” he said, leading them down the hall and stopping before his office. “Come in, please.” He waited until they had entered, closed the door, and stuck out his hand once more. “I am Dr. Pavel Rokovski.”

“Jeffrey Sinclair,” he replied, growing accustomed to the traditional formality. “This is my associate, Katya Nichols. She speaks Polish, if you require it.”

“
Bardzo mi milo
,” Dr. Rokovski said, taking her outstretched hand and bowing down as though to kiss it. He
stopped when her hand was about ten inches from his face, and rose back in a formal, practiced motion. Katya stood with graceful inattention.

“
Prosze, prosze
. Please, sit down. I speak some English. It is good to practice. Maybe some coffee?”

“Coffee would be fine, thanks.”

“I also have some very good cognac,” he said, returning to his door. He hurried across the hall, said something in the tone of one used to giving orders, hurried back, closed the door behind him.

“I think it's a little early in the day for cognac,” Jeffrey said. “But you feel free to go ahead.”

“No, I wait too.” He seated himself behind his desk. “I am so very pleased to meet you, Mr. Sinclair. Mr. Kantor's advice has been very helpful in the past. When he called me last night to say you wanted an appointment, I was very happy to rearrange my schedule. I understand you have some information.”

“Yes, sir. I have to say, though, I don't know how reliable it is.” He hesitated, went on, “And it's important that you understand that I have to keep our sources absolutely confidential.”

Dr. Rokovski waved his hand toward himself, urging Jeffrey on. “Of course, of course.”

“Research on antiques, as you know, is the reason for my visit here.” Jeffrey leaned forward. “And of course you know that we have several applications pending here in your ministry for export permits.”

Dr. Rokovski was giving nothing away. “Mr. Kantor would certainly have something very interesting to discuss if he were to call me at night and say it is urgent for us to meet.”

“We think it is, yes.”

“Well, then. In that case we would certainly owe you and Mr. Kantor a favor.”

The coffee arrived; Dr. Rokovski leaped from his seat, took the tray from his assistant, and with formal bows poured
and served the coffee. He then returned to his seat, said, “Among trusted allies of the new Polish government, such export documents are just formalities. I'll see that your applications are expedited.”

“You realize that we intend to export nothing that might be even remotely considered as a part of the Polish heritage.”

Dr. Rokovski nodded. “We have the greatest respect for Mr. Kantor's honorable name.”

“Thank you.” Jeffrey took a breath. “About this other matter, as they say in America, I have some bad news and some good news. The bad news, Dr. Rokovski, is that we believe one of the Old Master paintings exhibited at your Vavel Castle Museum is a forgery.”

Dr. Rokovski turned even paler than before. “This is always possible. May I ask which one?”

“The Rubens portrait.”

“The one of Isabel of Bourbon?”

“I'm afraid so.”

Rokovski bent toward his desk, picked up a paper clip and began unbending it. After a moment he looked up and said in a resigned voice, “And the good news?”

“The good news,” Jeffrey replied, “is that we also have reason to believe that the original is in Cracow. Probably in one of the museum's underground vaults.”

Rokovski leaned back. “A Rubens lost in our own vaults? But everything is carefully inventoried.”

“Yes, but if a certain painting was packaged and mislabeled, it might go unnoticed for a very long time.”

“I see,” he murmured. “May I ask how long?”

Jeffrey hesitated. “A few decades.”

“So long.” The head slowly nodded. “And who else knows?”

“The three of us, and of course Mr. Kantor.”

“No one else?”

“You need not concern yourself with it going any further,” Jeffrey replied firmly.

“And do you think you could identify this mislabeled carton in the museum vaults?”

“I would need to do a little more research, but yes, I think I could.”

Rokovski glanced at his calendar. “Tomorrow I am scheduled to be in Warsaw. Could you complete this research by the day after tomorrow?”

“I think so, yes.”

“Then meet me here at three o'clock that afternoon. We will go together to the museum.” Dr. Rokovski rose to his feet. “And of course you understand, in a matter of this delicacy, everything must remain between us.”

CHAPTER 22

Their morning appointment was only a few blocks from the hotel—a priests' residence attached to a church-run children's hospital. As they strolled through the morning sunlight, Katya talked about the Catholic church in Poland. “To be Catholic does not necessarily mean to be religious in Poland. From 1772 to 1918, Poland was partitioned between Russia, Prussia, and the Austro-Hungarian empire. For a good deal of this time, Poland ceased to exist as a country. Patriotism to the Polish nation was a crime punishable by death. You could not call yourself a Pole without being arrested. Your language was outlawed and could not be spoken in public. You could not be seen to own a book on Polish heritage or literature. The Austro-Hungarian empire swore to erase Poland's memory off the face of the earth.”

“But you could be Catholic,” Jeffrey guessed.

“A
Polish
Catholic,” Katya emphasized. “The Catholic church became the only legal haven for Poles. The only place where people could defy the occupying forces and be Polish. All the hymns were Polish. All the prayers were in Polish. All the confessions were in Polish. Christian instruction was given to the children in Polish, so that when the language was outlawed in the schools, they were still able to learn.”

“Which meant every family would send their children to church,” Jeffrey said. “Whether or not they were religious. Smart.”

“
Every
family,” Katya agreed. “It was the only way for their children to remain their children.”

“And then history repeated itself under communism,” Jeffrey said.

“In a way it did. Under Communist rule, church activities were restricted to the church buildings themselves. The church was too powerful to outlaw entirely, which was of course
what the Communists wanted to do, and did accomplish in other Eastern Bloc nations. Here, they had to be satisfied with cutting off all outside charitable and evangelical efforts.

“Their ruling allowed churches to be seen as totally separate. They became totally isolated from the regime and its oppression. They became havens, islands of safety and peace to which the people could turn and find a renewal of hope.”

“Just like before,” Jeffrey said.

“All the nuns were thrown out of hospitals and schools, so that there was no threat of evangelism in state-controlled operations. The church used these experienced women to set up religious schools and local church clinics. Because this could take place only inside the churches, children at the age of five or six were introduced to the church and religion, even by families who otherwise would not be seen within these walls.”

“What about other denominations here in Poland?” Jeffrey asked.

“Today, there are less then forty thousand Baptists in Poland, out of a population of just under forty million,” Katya replied. “The other Protestant denominations are somewhat smaller. At the same time, we are seeing an interesting phenomenon, something unique in all the world, as far as I can tell. Many of the people who have either lost their faith as Catholics or never had any faith at all are finding it in Protestant-run Bible studies. But they do not leave the Catholic church. The Catholic church is history, culture, and heritage. For many, to leave the church would mean to break with an important part of their past, and they do not wish to make such a break.”

“They are forcing an internal revival,” Jeffrey guessed.

“Exactly. Even in some of the small villages you can find spiritual renewal. Home churches and evening Bible studies are springing up all over the country. Not only that, but they are maintaining their very close ties with the Protestant churches. These new believers have no time for those who wish to quarrel across established lines of doctrine. They
have found faith, and it is too precious to allow somebody else's arguments to stand in their way.”

“A strong Polish nationalism is emerging,” the priest told them through Katya. “It is wedding itself to the Polish church. A number of priests are becoming involved in what is called ‘black power.' It means church involvement in politics, named so because of the color of priestly robes. It does not usually signify running for office. More often it is a priest who takes an active interest in local or national politics, backing certain candidates, weaving politics into his sermons.”

He was an intelligent-looking man in his mid-forties, his face seamed by years of hard work and worry. In the background could be heard faint cries and shrills of laughter as children thundered down unseen halls. Here in this room, however, all was at peace. They sat in a small entrance chamber, the only furniture being a simple crucifix on the wall, five straight-backed chairs, a small center table, and a large item in one corner—the piece they had come to acquire.

“Although I do not agree with those who are so politically oriented,” the priest continued, “I can understand their concern. Many parish priests work with under-educated people who are totally confused by these new earth-shaking transitions. In the last election,
seventy-eight
political parties fielded candidates. How is a sixty-year-old man who has never been allowed to vote for anyone but the appointed Communist official going to understand what to do? Naturally, he will turn to his local priest, as he has done on numerous occasions in the past when faced with problems and an uncaring, too-distant government.”