Of an Old Man, Golden SIlverware and The House That Looks Like a Boat

The little bell stringed to the top of the door rang briefly when it opened.

“Good morning, sir,” I greeted the old man entering my shop. “How may I help you today?”

“My, my, what a place you got here,” he said, looking around the little room crammed with antique books on shelves and books stacked on top of each other in neat columns in the middle of it.

“Thank you kindly,” I said, smiling. “What brings you in today?”

“Oh, I was just passing through the main square when I noticed this store that wasn’t here a week ago.”

“I opened just yesterday.”

“Oh? And how’s business going?”

“Well, to be honest, you are my first customer.”

“Lucky me,” he laughed. “So, you sell books?”

“Not just any books, sir. They’re all old books, a lot of ‘em straight up antiques. Feel free to have a look,” I said, waving my arm around the store.

“Old books, ey? Well, that won’t exactly win you millions.”

“It’s not millions I’m after,” I smiled.

“Well then what did you open a store for if not to make money?”

“I’m lucky enough to not have to do it for the money.”

“Ah. Strapped, are you?” I laughed a little, mostly to hide my embarrassment.

“Sort of, yea. My grandfather passed recently, leaving me with more money than I could ever know what to do with. So, I dropped out of Law school and opened my own bookstore.”

“And here I thought your generation doesn’t read books anymore.”

“Well, I don’t know about my generation, but I sure do.”

“Alright then, let’s see what you got.”

I told him to feel free to ask if he needed anything.

And ask he did.

He was shocked, and even slightly impressed, that I had some genuinely rare pieces, like a 19th century first edition Jules Vern novel – actually, I had a lot of those. When asked, if they were all my grandfather’s, I told him that most of these books were his, but some of them I collected myself, including some Verns, seeing as I was a big fan and that yes, I knew French. My grandfather moved to France when he was a young man, you see, and he never returned to his homeland.

“But my father did,” I continued. “After the revolution in 89.”

“When the Commies kicked the bucket, ey?” he grinned. “And where was your grandda’ from?”

“Well, he was originally from this town, but from what I understand, he left sometime after the war.”

“Must’ve been a German,” the old man muttered under his breath.

“Pardon?”

“Well, back in the day, even before the war, that is, this town hosted a large German minority.”

“Right, Hitler used that as an excuse to occupy this part of the country,” I said.

“Course you know,” he smirked. “How could you not with all of them old books lying around. Well, the Germans that used to live here were all ridiculously rich. Them pretty houses in Old Castle Hills used to be their manors, you know. It’s where all of them bastards lived, until we kicked ‘em out after the war.”

I thought about what he just said for a moment and about the implications that carried. “Well, I’m fairly certain my grandfather wasn’t German,” I said, thinking to myself that there is no way in hell that my grandfather used to be a Nazi. But, then again, I never actually met the man….

“Well, anyway,” the old man said without finishing the sentence. Instead, he just shrugged and resumed looking around the store. I, meanwhile, decided that I’ll explore Old Castle Hills later. I wasn’t exactly sure why I suddenly felt such an intense urge to go there, but I did, nonetheless.

He didn’t look like he would actually buy anything, rather, he was looking around just out of courtesy. I thought that he must simply be a bored and lonely old man, who needs to strike up conversation with someone. And I was happy to oblige.

One book did catch his attention, though. He was straight up staring at it, as if he just found an old photo of someone he used to know a long time ago and hasn’t seen since. The book was Karel Čapek’s War with the Newts from 1936. The old man, who had until now been keeping a dignified pose - back straight up (or as straight as it would go), chin high, arms placed on his hips comfortably - was now intently staring at that one book, eyes wide open, chin dropped to his chest, arms hanging next to his body and back deeply hunched.

“Something I can help you with?” I asked.

“No, no,” he said in a drooly, almost unconscious voice. “I’m good, thanks. I’ll be going now,” he turned to the exit, mostly back in control of his body and voice. Mostly, but not entirely. “It was nice meeting you, youngster.”

“You too, sir, and thank you for coming by.” I gave him a wave, though he hadn’t looked at me since seeing that book. “Hope to see you again.”

The old man walked out of the door, accompanied by the ring of the bell.

***

A week later, he came again.

“Good afternoon, sir,” I greeted him.

“And to you,” he said. Four other customers had been in, checking out the store. “Well, someone seems to be moving up in the world, ey?”

“A little better every day,” I said, omitting the fact that I had sold only two books so far. “Something I could help you with?”

“Nah, nah, I came to see how you were doing,” he said, looking away. I assumed he was just shy.

“I did a little digging since our last conversation,” I said.

“Digging into what exactly?”

“My grandfather’s origins.” That caught his attention.

“And?” he asked, slowly.

“Turns out, you may have been right.” His posture somewhat stiffened. “I asked my dad about it. He said he never knew his grandparents from his father’s side and that his father never talked about them, and he never uttered a word in German either.” The seemed to relax his muscles.

“Well, that’s that then.” I wasn’t quite sure what he meant by that, but I kept talking.

“Apparently, though, he did used to live in some fancy house in the Hills.”

The old man suddenly stopped breathing. In fact, he stopped moving altogether. He just stood there, staring at me, kind of like he did at the book. Just then, a woman came up to the counter with a book picked out.

“Oh, what a scary place that is,” she said.

“How so?” I asked her.

“Well, you know that one pink house, the one that looks like a boat?”

“A boat?”

“Well,” she continued. “The owner’s used to be some posh German family that loved cruising the Nile in Egypt, so they had their house designed to look like a Nile cruise ship.”

“That sounds fun.”

“I don’t know about that,” her face darkened. “One day, after the war, they were found dead by Soviet soldiers in their home.”

“Wow, the whole family?”

“I think so,” she said. “And whoever killed them apparently also robbed the place.”

“Actually,” another, slightly older woman joined the conversation. “I heard they had a son who disappeared after the murder. I’m willing to bet my good kidney that he was the one who offed his parents and took off with the money.”

“I think it was the Soviets, who raided their house,” said a man on the other side of the room. “And took their stuff.”

Just then, a sudden cascading THUD sounded from behind the woman at the counter.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said the old man, bending to his knees to pick up the stack of books that had fallen on the ground. “God, I’m such a clutz, I must have pushed it down or something.”

“It’s no problem.” I got down and began picking the books back up. “Don’t strain yourself, I’ll get it.” The old man stood up, sighing.

“So terribly sorry, lad. Oh, I hate it when others must clean up my mess.”

“Seriously, it’s alright, sir.”

“Well, thank you, son. I ought to be on my way now, I think I’ve caused enough trouble for today.”

The doorbell rang and the old man was gone.

***

To be honest, he made quite a mess. He toppled not one, but two and a half columns of books. So, I just sort of stacked them up on each other randomly and decided to get it fixed up properly after I close shop.

That evening, after closing, I began reorganizing the columns. It was already dark outside. Taking a break, I stood up and stretched. I looked around the shop and felt pride for the collection I had gathered here. I started inspecting the shelves one by one, when I noticed something out of place. Or, rather, something not in its place.

Karel Čapek’s War with the Newts was missing. I knew I hadn’t sold that one and I knew that it was there just this morning. I remembered the old man staring at it for a long time when he first saw it. Did he… take it? When? When he toppled the books? No, that was an accident.

But was it?

A knock on the door pulled me out of my thoughts. It was the old man.

“Evenin’,” he said. “May I come in?”

“Of course.” I held the door for him. “Is this about the book?” He looked up at me with an odd spark in his eyes.

“Yes, I thought you would figure it out sooner or later, heh. I would like to apologise.” He handed it to me.

“Apology accepted.” I returned the book to its shelf, but when I turned back to the old man, my heart nearly stopped.

He was pointing a gun at me.

“I think, by now you understand that I knew your grandfather,” he said.

“This is really not nece-,”

“Shut up and let me speak! I know you like old stories, so lemme spin you one you haven’t heard before.” Pointing the gun at me, he sat down on the counter. “It happend in 46, after the war…”

***

Back then, Germans were being rounded up all around the country to be expelled and sent back to Germany. We didn’t care if their families lived here for generations, we simply couldn’t forgive them.

Nowhere was this hate more pronounced than in the border regions of the Sudetenland, this town included. Your grandfather was the son of the family that lived in that pink house that looks like a boat, up in the Hills.

His parents were hardline Nazis, but not him. In fact, unlike his parents, he actually spoke Czech. Your grandfather was a smart man, he was among the first to realise that after the war, Germans here would either be kicked out or exterminated. As I said, he didn’t approve of his parents much, so he decided to rob them of whatever he could and run west.

Sooner than he had hoped though, Germans around the country started to be rounded up into these big open-air cages, where they would await expulsion, but his parents made a deal with some bigwig of the Soviet occupation forces to be kept in house arrest. Their house was guarded day and night however, so that kind of ruined your grandfather’s plans. He realised that he would need help.

Luckily - or unluckily - for him, I was one of the locals recruited to guard their house in nighttime, specifically the back yard. I was 17 at the time, so I guess he saw an opportunity with me and took a chance. Over the coming days, he would frequently chat with me through the fence, bring me snacks and coffee and the like.

Then, one night, he told me of his plan and that he needed my help doing it. He told me he would pay me, I just needed to let him through at night. He said that he would bring me silverware made of solid gold, and crystal glasses infused with diamonds from the kitchen, giving it to me on his way out.

Of course, we couldn’t talk about these things outside like that, so we would write secret messages in a book and pass it to each other through the fence. It was that book, Karel Čapek‘s War with the Newts. You must hold the pages over a fire to see the messages. Here, take this lighter, try it.

My hand shaking, I picked up the lighter, opened a random page in the book and held it over the fire. Golden hued words appeared on it and overshadowed the printed text.

Neat, ey?

The night of the heist came. I was anxiously waiting by the backyard for your grandfather. Maybe I was just an impatient, nervous 17-year-old kid, but it felt like he was in there for too long. Maybe, he got cold feet, I thought. Either way, I did something really, really stupid.

I climbed over the fence and ran into the house through an open window, carrying a Soviet issue rifle on my shoulder. I quickly found the kitchen and started rummaging through it for the crystal glasses and golden silverware – it didn’t take long to find them.

I obviously hadn’t brought a bag or anything, so I just held my shirt out like a pocket. I started throwing all that loot in, when one of those crystal glasses slipped out of my sweating nervous hands and shattered on the floor. I was scared enough as it were already, no wonder that I dropped all the stuff I was holding at the sound of the glass shattering.

Then, a door opened upstairs, and I heard someone coming down. The lights in the hallway turned on and a man shouted something in German. The whole time, I was just standing there, a scared kid who had just broken into someone’s house.

A scared kid with a Soviet issue rifle on his shoulder.

Your granddad’s father came into the kitchen and turned on the lights. He was startled when he saw me at first, but he quickly came to his sense and pointed a revolver at me. Then he yelled something in German again. I was shaking, staring at him like a deer caught in the headlights of a car.

But before I knew it, I was pointing my rifle at him. He stood there yelling at me for a while. I was so afraid, I thought I saw his trigger finger move. I don’t know if it actually did, but either way it scared me, so I shot first. I hit him in the shoulder, but he didn’t drop the gun. He aimed it at me and this time I was sure he would fire, so I ran at him and tackled him. I grabbed his neck and started strangling him. He tried to poke out my eyes with his fingers using his good hand, but I overpowered him. Soon, he stopped breathing.

Then I heard a scream from the doorway. His wife was standing there, pointing a little golden pistol at me. But again, I shot first, using her husband’s revolver.

This time, I hit her straight in the heart.

That’s when your grandfather appeared. He stared at their dead bodies, then looked at me. I saw the hatred in his eyes, the determination to kill me. But before he could do anything, the guards outside the house broke in. Your grandfather grabbed the leather bag lying next to him and ran out through the backyard, I soon did the same.

Except I had no treasure to show for it.

***

“So, that’s what happened in 46. I assume your grandfather must have run to France back then, cause I hadn’t heard of him since. Until you came along, that is. I was suspicious at first, but I wasn’t sure until I took the book.”

“So, what do you want from me?” I was still shaking, but I began thinking clearly again.

“I want my share.”

“But I don’t have any golden silverware or crystal glasses.” I looked around the room. The light switch was on the other side of it, next to the front door. I got an idea.

“I know you don’t, but you inherited your grandfather’s wealth. Be it gold or jewellery or money, I don’t care. Just give me what I’m due! Or else… or else it would have all been for nothing.” A tear went down his cheek. “I’m not a murderer. Nor a thief. They were Nazi scum, damnit. They didn’t deserve all that wealth in the first place!”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.” He raised the gun at me, frustrated.

“JUST GIVE ME WHAT I CAME FOR!”

That’s when I grabbed a book and threw it at the light switch, turning the room dark. The old man shot into the darkness but by then, I was already crouched behind the stacks of books in the middle of the room. I looked out from around the corner and saw him rubbing his eyes in his sleeves. I jumped out from around my cover and whacked his arm with the book, sending the gun sliding across the floor.

He stumbled and lost his footing, his head hitting the counter.

Despite all that just happened, I wasn’t just going to let him bleed out, I only wanted to disarm him.

“Sir, hold on, I’ll call an ambulance!” He weakly waved his hand and whined; “N-no, no am-bulance. I liv-ved long enough. That w-was m-my penan-penance.”

3 minutes later, the ambulance came to haul him off to the hospital.