Роберт Фиш - The Gold of Troy

Berlin — April 1945

The fighting had reached the western edge of the city; the shattered buildings, the burning trees of the Gruenwald, the tilted telephone poles, dangling wires, all testified to the ferocity of the battle, now approaching the Elbe. The troops under the command of Captain Mikhail Sudikoff had borne their share of the attack, and the captain heard with relief from his radio-man that his battered company had been detached from the fighting and were to retire to the larger of the two bunkers at the Berlin zoo, now firmly in the control of Russian troops, for rest and what little recreation they could find.

The bunker lay like a huge obscene blister on the crater-filled area of the zoo; the last of the many paintings that had been stored there by the Nazis — depriving residents of the city precious space during the air-raids — were in the process of being removed. The young Russian lieutenant in charge of the operation smiled at Sudikoff and made a welcoming gesture.

“It’s all yours,” he said, and climbed on the truck bearing the paintings away.

The organization of the bunker fell to the quartermaster, Sergeant Fedor Kolenko. Sergeant Kolenko had been a university professor in the days before the war, but now he was satisfied to serve a younger and more military-minded captain as quartermaster. Under his direction a first-aid station was set up as being the first priority, followed quickly by the establishment of the field kitchen near the huge ventilation ducts that fed air to the half-buried bunker. Then the troops were distributed the bedding that had been abandoned by the fleeing former occupants. A hammock, which was discovered, was taken by the sergeant and hung in the room selected by the captain for his headquarters.

These essentials to normal military operation completed, the sergeant moved on to the next task. He assigned Corporal Leon Sokolov and Private Dmitry Boldin to go through the many rooms and warrens of the huge bunker and make some sort of inventory of anything they might find. Not, the sergeant had to admit, that there was apt to be anything of much value left either by the retreating population, or the troops under the young lieutenant who had liberated the paintings. And also, of course, anything left over would have been instantly commandeered by their own troops before any meaningful inventory could be taken. Still, if there were any food supplies, they would have to be turned over to the quartermaster for equal distribution, and it was not unknown for important personages to see to it that proper food supplies, and even liquor supplies, were available to them in their enforced incarceration while enemy bombers made life on the surface untenable. Both the corporal and the private were more than willing to undertake the important survey, even though Sergeant Kolenko added ominously, “And anything you find, you bring back here!” Soldiers, after all, he felt, were not all that different from students. They needed to be kept in line every now and then. “Understand?”

This last, of course, being rhetorical and requiring no comment, the two nodded happily and went off, the corporal’s rifle from habit accompanying him hooked by its webbing over his shoulder, while the private’s machine-pistol — his pride and joy since he had only captured it that morning — swung from an arm strap. The two started at the foot of the few steps leading up the Tiergarten and the almost-decimated zoo, and followed the many passages and corridors of the bunker to their ends, finding little more than their comrades settling in, soldiers who resented the thought that they might be asked to give up this acquisitioned chair or that liberated table. But there was no sign of food, and the corporal and the private were about finished when by pure accident — Private Boldin kicked at a pile of rubbish more in frustration than for any other reason — they discovered a small recess in the wall. Apparently the recess had once been covered with plaster, but the plaster had crumbled under the heavy bombardment. The corporal bent down and studied the interior of the small cavelike opening. Then, with a sigh — for he had small expectations of finding anything either useful or valuable or even edible at that late date — he dragged a small trunk into view.

It was a small trunk, less than three feet long, several feet wide, and several feet high, with an old-fashioned rounded top. The two men examined it with increasingly diminishing interest. It was simply a small traveling trunk of an earlier era, made up either of cheap wood or imitation board covered with wood veneer, that had been, in turn, inexpertly covered with some sort of faded and malodorous artificial leather, and with bands of greenish copper riveted about it to give it the appearance, if not the actuality, of security. As if to add to this charade of invulnerability, someone in the past had fastened a heavy, efficient-looking padlock through the cheap hasp. Private Dmitry Boldin sneered openly at the padlock and raised his machine-pistol; he loved firing it at any excuse, and this seemed like a reasonable time to test his newly acquired acquisition once again. But just as quickly Corporal Leon Sokolov knocked the private’s arm up before he could fire.

“Idiot!” he said reprovingly. “What if there are bottles inside?”

Private Boldin had the grace to blush. He lowered his machine-pistol as Corporal Sokolov reversed his rifle, preparing to bring the butt down on the padlock. At this point Private Boldin retaliated.

“Or if it’s booby-trapped?” he asked.

Corporal Sokolov managed to restrain his downward thrust in time, and stared at the small trunk with a frown. Then he did what he should have done in the first place; he simply pulled his bayonet from its sheath, slid it through the hasp, and with an easy twist removed the hasp entirely, padlock and all. For a while he hesitated about opening the trunk, but the temptation was too great. He reached down and tipped the lid back, stepping back quickly. There was no explosion. The men stepped forward again and stared inside.

There were four packages there of approximately equal size. Corporal Sokolov put aside his rifle, picked one up, and began to unwrap it. The contents seemed to have been protected with exceptional care, the outer wrapping being of fine suede leather, and the inner one of sheet after sheet of tissue. The corporal’s hopes of a rich discovery began to increase as he noted the care with which someone had packaged his find. But his face fell when, after peeling away the final sheets of tissue, there only appeared to be some poor examples of buttons and beads made from what seemed to be a poor-quality brass. With a disappointed grimace he put the package aside and began to unwrap a second.

Private Boldin could not understand this waste of time with something obviously Germanic, especially since nothing edible or drinkable had been discovered.

“Let me put a couple of bursts through the entire works,” he said, his finger caressing the trigger of his machine-pistol almost sensuously. “Let me shoot it up. Whatever that junk is, let’s make sure no German bastard ever has a chance to use it. Although,” he added, frowning down at the opened package with the profound judgment of a Ukranian expert, “whoever on earth would want to use garbage like that, is beyond me.”

Sokolov shook his head. He had finished unwrapping the many folds of tissue that protected the contents of the second package, and while the contents were made up of larger pieces, the same cheap or inexperienced labor had apparently been employed, as well as the same inferior material. Still, the corporal had been sent on a mission, and about the only thing he had found that the troops hadn’t already taken over was this one small trunk, and he would have a hard time explaining to the sergeant why he had permitted Private Boldin to use it for target practice without at least first reporting it.