The Star of Ascania

The Star of Ascania

By Cuirbouilli

"What inspires respect for woman, and often enough even fear, is her nature, which is more “natural” than man’s, the genuine, cunning suppleness of a beast of prey, the tiger’s claw under the glove, the naiveté of her egoism… the incomprehensibility, scope, and movement of her desires and virtues."

-Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil

The skyline of Naumburg, Germany was dominated by its cathedral, much as it had been since the medieval era.  The picturesque old town on the river Saale was paved with cobblestone streets winding among terracotta-roofed burgher houses.  The marketplace there was located at the intersection of ancient trade routes, surrounded by Renaissance and Baroque buildings that were being restored to their former glory.  Almost a decade after the fall of the Berlin Wall the grim, gray vestiges of Soviet Occupation were gradually disappearing.

The Cathedral of St. Peter and St. Paul, referred to locally as the Naumburger Dom, was consecrated the seat of a bishop in the eleventh century and remained the cultural landmark of the city to the present day.  The Romanesque basilica blended with early Gothic architecture, flanked by two western towers topped with green copper steeples and two eastern towers with copper domes.  An adjoining cloister enclosed a courtyard to the south with a gate that opened to a square.  In fair weather months tourists sat at outdoor tables in this scenic Domplatz while enjoying a cup of coffee or a glass of white wine from a local vineyard.  

Thousands of people visited the cathedral every year, not out of religious devotion, but more often to see “the most beautiful woman of the Middle Ages”.  She was famously known as Uta von Naumburg, and she stood in the west choir beyond a monumental Gothic rood screen with a mournful rendition of Christ crucified upon the threshold.  Uta was one of twelve life-size donor statues sculpted in sandstone by an anonymous artist known as the Naumburg Master to commemorate the founders of the cathedral.  These secular figures of high nobility occupied uniquely elevated positions along the pillars of the choir usually inhabited only by saints.  The human proportions, individual expressions, and richly detailed cloaks and gowns of each lord and lady were unprecedented masterpieces of thirteenth century art.

Foremost among them were the Margrave Ekkehard II of Meissen and his wife Uta, represented as a couple on the north wall of the apse.  Ekkehard was a powerful warlord who defended the eastern border of the Holy Roman Empire and founded the parish church at Naumburg that later gave rise to the cathedral.  He was depicted as a stalwart knight according to the aesthetic of the time, adjusting the strap of a triangular shield on his arm while grasping the hilt of his cruciform sword in its scabbard.

Little was known about the life of the Margravine Uta except that her marriage was childless and she left her wealth to the church.  However, it was not the woman herself, but the timeless beauty of her statue that was so renowned.  Even by modern standards, her chiseled features were captivatingly lovely.  In a masterstroke of creative genius the sculptor portrayed her raising the pointed collar of her voluminous cloak up to her cheek, endowing her with a distinctive, self-possessed sophistication all her own.  Uta became a national icon in Germany after photos of her were published in the 1920s.  The Nazis misappropriated her image as the supreme example of female perfection.  Art connoisseurs compared her to Botticelli’s Birth of Venus.  Elderly gentlemen reverenced her by placing roses at the foot of her statue.  Even the Italian philosopher Umberto Eco commented that he would most like to spend an evening, “In first place, ahead of all others, with Uta von Naumburg.”

***

Late one afternoon in December 1998 a singular woman of striking silhouette lingered in the west choir of Naumburg Cathedral after all other visitors had left.  A big black hat was cocked glamorously upon her head.  Chocolate brown hair cascaded in lustrous waves to the middle of her back.  Her svelte figure was enclosed to the ankles inside a sleek black leather coat and a black leather bag hung on her left shoulder.  The high heels of her black leather boots clicked on the stone floor as she strolled casually around the apse with her hands in her coat pockets, admiring the statues and stained glass windows.  She paused to study the statue of Uta for some minutes, her face obscured by the wide, curved brim of her hat and the popped collar of her coat.  Then she proceeded before the altar to gaze outward at the lofty, vaulted ceiling of the nave.

The woman was stunning with a radiant porcelain complexion, dark alluring eyes, and full red lips.  She was visibly in her youthful prime and serenely composed; a fetching lady who surely turned heads everywhere she went.  Tall and elegant, she sashayed in her formidable outfit with the carefree poise of a fashion model.  Her luxurious, full-length leather coat was tailored with a notched collar and sealed by five polished buttons from her perky bosom to her shapely thighs.  A tie belt gathered the supple lambskin into shiny ripples about her slender hourglass waist.  A crisp white shirt spilled from her lapels, layered poshly over a black turtleneck.  She adjusted her purse strap with tapered hands sheathed in glossy black leather gloves; her movements accompanied by a sumptuous creaking that was quite audible in the resounding silence of the cathedral.

A docent appeared in the choir and silently approached the foot of the four stairs leading up to the apse.  He was a thin, older gentleman with grey hair and glasses, clad in a dress shirt, cardigan sweater, and tweed blazer.  The woman was so lost in thought she did not notice him, nor did he speak to her immediately as the sight of her was quite remarkable.  It was certainly unusual to see such an intimidatingly attractive lady in the cold stone confines of the ancient church, but the fellow was not merely smitten with her beauty.  There was something else about her aspect that caught his attention.

From his perspective it seemed that the young woman unintentionally struck the iconic pose of Uta’s statue visible directly over her shoulder.  She glanced off slightly to the right with a placid, melancholy expression upon her exquisite features, absently tugging the upturned collar of her leather coat so that it brushed against her smooth cheek.  Her delicately splayed left hand clutched her bag close to her side.  Gleaming black lambskin bunched and flowed over her statuesque figure as resplendently as the mantle and gown of the medieval countess, fastened with glistening horn buttons instead of gold clasps.  Her wool felt hat was decorated by a simple leather band instead of a jeweled coronet, but she appeared no less regal.  Truly, the woman might have been a countess or baroness herself, appareled in the finest, most stylish couture from Paris or Milan. 

The docent was among the many who had idolized Uta his entire life.  Beholding what her perceived to be a modern manifestation of the noble lady provided him an unexpected moment of private joy.  

Then he cleared his voice to make his presence known to the woman as she slipped her right hand back into her coat pocket.

“Entschuldigen Sie, meine Dame,” he spoke politely.

“Die Kathedrale schließt in fünfzehn minuten.”

Her pretty chestnut eyes widened as she spotted him for the first time.

“Oh!  Yes!  Thank you,” she exclaimed softly in fluent German.

The docent fidgeted in place for few seconds, grinning at her amiably.  

“What do you think of the Countess Uta?” he asked.

The woman considered her answer.

“I find her rather thought provoking,” she replied eloquently.  

“Her beauty has been immortalized in stone for seven hundred and fifty years.  I wonder, though, what would she be like now if she was immortal in the flesh?”

Her thoughtful response impressed him further.  

“I suspect she would be a lovely woman… much like you, madam,” he observed courteously with a twinkle in his eyes.

Her lips spread in an appreciative smile at his compliment.  The man nodded giddily and turned to leave her alone in the west choir again with a vigorous bounce in his step.  

“Much like me indeed,” she sighed to herself pensively.  

“But, who am I?”

Her long dark eyelashes batted as she roused from her deep contemplation to focus on the present situation.  She slid the sleeve of her leather coat back from her left wrist to check the time on a gold Cartier watch between her glove and the buttoned cuff of her white blouse.  It was 3:46 PM. 

Her lips pursed impatiently.  She was obviously waiting for someone and appeared anxious for their arrival.  

The sweeping hem of her coat swished about her long legs and the heels of her boots knocked loudly as she circled around the apse once more.  She stopped to stare at Uta again, if only for sake of distraction.

Less than a minute later a man passed through the rood screen portal into the choir.  Even in her peripheral vision the woman discerned he was not the docent.  She glanced at him, her collar hitting her chin just a finger’s breadth below her strawberry lips.   

The man was middle-aged and large, his hulking stature exceeding six feet.  A cossack hat of black muskrat fur capped his gray hair.  His facial features were coarse and ruddy with a heavy brow, squinting eyes, a bulbous nose, and a jutting square jaw.  He bore himself with a brutish sort of dignity and was affluently dressed.  His brown wool overcoat gapped open over a bespoke black suit, charcoal shirt, and a maroon silk tie.  He limped on his left foot as he tromped toward her in Italian leather shoes, striking the bone tip of an ebony stick cane on the flagstones as he went.  

She took her measure of him within two seconds and gazed back up at the statue of Uta with cool indifference.  She had never met him before, but the man’s appearance matched the verbal description she was given.  Since she did not know for certain she let him approach her first.

He grunted as he trudged up the four steps to the apse and breathed somewhat heavily as he stepped beside her.  He was nearly a head taller and his shoulders were twice as broad as hers.  He did not address her directly, but folded his hands on the handle of his cane and briefly examined the statue her eyes were fixed upon.  

“Uta von Ballenstedt,” he rumbled in a deep voice, naming the founding lady by her proper household.

“The icon of pure ‘Aryan’ womanhood according to Hitler.”

He spoke English with a thick German accent.  

“Walt Disney’s portrayal of her as the Wicked Queen in Snow White was far more tasteful in my opinion,” she observed pointedly.

“Wouldn’t you agree, Herr Schumann?”

She turned and greeted him with a congenial smile.

He acknowledged himself with a nod only.

“So.  You are the fräulein,” he remarked without the slightest pleasantry.

There was a hint of surprise in his voice.  

“Ms. Coates, if you please.  Maxine Coates,” she introduced herself assertively, presenting her gloved right hand from her coat pocket.

He did not offer his own hand to shake.  Whether he was simply an old-fashioned German and did not think it appropriate to conduct business with a woman, or he was purposely rude, she immediately suspected that he was not going to deal with her fairly.

She pressed her hand to the hollow of her flat abdomen discreetly and pinched the coat button there for lack of anything else to grasp.

A grimacing smile creased his face that was rather unpleasant.

“You work for Stanislaw Liskowiak?” he verified bruskly.

“I am here on his behalf,” she answered.

“And how is the old Polack?” Herr Schumann inquired.

Her finely arched brows raised at his derogatory reference.  

“My friend and colleague, Mr. Liskowiak, is very well thank you,” she responded with polite indignation.

“And what is this business he is in charge of now?  Some kind of treasure hunting service for hire?  Has he finally realized there is more profit to be gained by selling antiquities than keeping them behind glass at a museum?” he chortled.

“I fear you are mistaken about his intentions, Herr Schumann,” she replied.

“Mr. Liskowiak has founded an agency dedicated to recovering lost and stolen artifacts.  He is particularly passionate about finding artwork looted by the Nazis during the Third Reich and facilitating its return to the rightful owners.”   

The large man snorted and cleared his throat with a harsh cough.  His breath reeked of cigarette smoke and vodka. 

“Liskowiak is still playing the humanitarian I see, but for a fat commission, no?” he smirked at her.

“Whether you share his ideals or not, Mr. Liskowiak’s business is the purpose of our meeting here and you stand to profit from it,” she stated pointedly.

“Vielleicht,” he grunted.  

“But, first you must tell me what it is you are here for.”

“With pleasure,” she replied, unruffled by his boorish demeanor.

Leather creaked softly as she slipped both of her hands back into her coat pockets.  

“Six months ago a client approached our agency regarding a thirteenth century brooch that had been an heirloom in her family for centuries.  The brooch disappeared when her parents fled their country house in the Lorraine ahead of the invading German army in 1940.  They speculate that their butler stole it before defecting to the Nazi cause, but he was killed during the war and they were never able to locate the jewel again afterwards.  Luckily, our client had a photograph showing the brooch and it just so happened that Mr. Liskowiak recalled a clasp of similar description in your collection from several years ago.” 

She shifted her weight to her curvaceous right hip.  

“You are a difficult man to track down, Herr Schumann, from what Stan tells me,” she commented.

“I wonder; how do other buyers and sellers reach you to do business?”

“Those who need to know, know where to find me.  Or I find them,” he answered with an even stare. 

“I see,” she said with a coy smile.

Mr. Liskowiak had already informed her that Herr Schumann was an unscrupulous fence who made his fortune trafficking stolen art and artifacts between Eastern and Western Bloc countries during the Cold War.  He profited greatly by acquiring treasures looted by the Nazis from nervous possessors and selling them to the highest bidder.  As much as Stan Liskowiak attributed his own sense of optimism and philanthropy to being an orphan of the Holocaust, a childhood in post-war Germany left Wilhelm Schumann irreparably hard-bitten and mercenary.

“In any case, Mr. Liskowiak succeeded at contacting you and verified that you have the jewel our client is looking for.  You agreed to sell it for the price of $6,000.”  

“I agreed to sell it to Liskowiak.  And I expected to deal with him in person,” Herr Schumann grumbled.

“Mr. Liskowiak extends his apologies,” she explained.

“He was called away unexpectedly and could not come to make the exchange personally, so he sent me to close the deal for him.”  

“Ja.  I got the message this morning that he sent a fräulein in his place.  I think he lacked the nerve to face me and that is why he did not come himself,” Herr Schumann blustered.

“On the contrary, he was disappointed that he could not make it.  He said he looked forward to catching up with you about some ‘old scores’, but it would have to wait until some other time,” she retorted, smiling sweetly.  

“I know nothing of these ‘old scores’ you speak of,” he denied, squinting at her.

“I’m sure you don’t,” she replied, pursing her lips shrewdly.

“But, that's none of my business.  I am simply here to pay you for an antique brooch.”

She readjusted the bag on her shoulder with a sharp creak, the strap puckering her supple leather coat into shiny creases.  

“You are here by yourself?” he questioned, scrutinizing her.  

“My associate is waiting for me in the square outside,” she informed him.  

“Hmmm…” he rumbled, transferring his weight off his left foot and rapping the bone tip of his cane on the flagstones.

“Had I known that Liskowiak was sending such a pretty little salesgirl I would have arranged to meet you at an inn for a drink instead of a church.”  

He grinned at her menacingly.

“Oh.  This magnificent old cathedral suits me just fine,” she remarked, her delicately chiseled jaw pricking upward with indignation.

“And this ‘pretty little salesgirl’ happens to be the owner of a very successful antique shop in New York City.  I negotiate my own deals and acquire much of my stock from auction houses like Sotheby’s and Christie's.  In this case I am merely acting as an agent for a client, but I am more than capable of completing the task I assure you.”

Her lovely brown eyes glittered at him confidently.

He scowled, unimpressed by her qualifications.  

“Now, let's make the exchange, if you please,” she requested pertly.

“Do you have the brooch?”

He glared at her sullenly for another moment and then grunted in affirmation.

Tucking his cane under his right arm, he reached inside his left coat flap to retrieve something from a hidden pocket.  He produced a small hexagonal jewelry box covered in oxblood leather embossed with gold filigree around the edges.  It appeared a bit miniature for his thick fingers to manipulate, but he managed to open the lid without difficulty.

“This the bauble Liskowiak wants.  Ja?” he stated, holding the box out for her to see.

The brooch displayed on the red velvet interior was shaped like a Gothic six point star with trefoils at the tips, surrounding a central boss with an sapphire set slightly off center.  It was finely crafted of gold that still glinted with a dull luster even after seven hundred years.

She gasped with feminine wonder.

“The Star of Ascania!” she proclaimed softly.

“What is that?  What did you call it?” Herr Schumann questioned.

“This jewel is known as the Star of Ascania by its ancestral owners.  As you may know, Uta von Ballenstedt was one of the original members of the Ascanian dynasty, more commonly known today as the House of Anhalt.  While the statue in this cathedral was erected in her honor sometime in the mid-thirteenth century, Uta actually died two hundred years before then,” she explained, her eyes fixed on the brooch.

“My client’s family claims that this jewel was fashioned for Princess Irmgard of Thuringia, wife of Henry I of Anhalt, and they further believe that Irmgard may have personally commissioned Uta’s sculpture around the time of her death in 1244.”

“How could they possibly know that?” Herr Schumann scoffed.

“There are no markings on the jewel to identify it.  And nobody knows who the stone mason was that carved the donor statues, or even why they were placed here.”

“Indeed.  But, have you not noticed the similarity of the brooch to the one on Uta’s statue?” she inquired, glancing at him cleverly.

Three buttons glistened along the cuff of her leather coat sleeve as she gestured upward with a gloved hand toward the statue of the founding lady.  

“Mein Gott!” Herr Schumann exclaimed.

It was obvious that he never made the connection before.  He peered at the statue as if seeing it for the first time and then held the brooch up to inspect it with renewed interest.  The annular six-pointed brooch adorning Uta’s stone chest matched the jewel in his hand in almost every detail.

“I was not aware of this provenance!”

“Of course, as you say, we have no way to know if this is the same jewel because the style is not unusual for the thirteenth century,” she qualified her previous statement.

“No,” he shook his head.

“It does not matter if anyone can prove it is the same jewel.  Your client believes it is the brooch of Uta von Naumburg.  And the similarity is so great that others would easily be convinced it is true as well!”

He ground his teeth with sudden rancor.

“This jewel is worth far more than I am getting paid!  Liskowiak is trying to cheat me!”

“He intends nothing of the sort,” she replied, maintaining her cool composure while cursing herself silently.

She was so tantalized by the potential significance of the artifact that she said too much.  Herr Schumann was more greedy and ill-tempered than she anticipated.  Now she would have difficulty placating him.

“Six thousand dollars is more than a fair price for that brooch.  I saw similar pieces auction for much less at Bonhams in London just a few months ago.  Most of them go for just a couple hundred pounds.”

“Ja, ja,” he responded with blatant disregard.

“I have no need of your opinion, fräulein.”

He lowered his cane and banged the tip on the floor.

“Do you have the money?”

Her brows knitted at his dismissive comment as she swung her bag in front of her and unzipped it along the top.  The smooth-grain leather attaché creaked against her supple leather coat as she discreetly spread it open to show three stacks of American currency marked $2,000 each placed neatly inside.  

He leaned forward and satisfied himself that the amount was correct at a glance.   

“Shall we proceed with the exchange then?” she asked anxiously, closing the bag and settling the strap on her shoulder again with a leathery crunch.

He glowered at her for a few seconds with malcontented deliberation when something at her throat caught his attention.  

Her movements had caused the unbuttoned collar of her crisp white blouse to splay, revealing a cameo pendant on a pearl necklace within.  A red carnelian gemstone set in gold filigree glimmered brilliantly against her black cashmere turtleneck, carved with the profile of a lovely young woman as a Roman goddess in ivory relief.  It appeared to be antique, but meticulously well kept with a rich luster.

“Hmmm… that is a fine necklace you are wearing,” he remarked.

The comment caught her off guard.

“Oh!  Yes!” she exclaimed, pressing her right hand to her lapels with a bent wrist.

“Natural pearls and 18-karat gold settings; dating from the middle of the nineteenth century from the looks of it,” he appraised it systematically with a calculating eye.

“Worth every bit of two thousand dollars, I wager.”

She could tell what he was getting at, and she didn’t like it.

“My cameo is not for sale,” she told him flatly, plucking the collar of her blouse together with tapered leather fingers to conceal it again.  

“I did not ask if it was for sale,” he chuckled ominously.

“I said it should fetch a good price; enough to make up the difference of what this brooch is actually worth.”

“I am not here to negotiate,” she advised cautiously.

“I am here to deliver this money to you in exchange for that brooch… and nothing else.”  

“And what if I am no longer satisfied with the deal?” he challenged.

“That makes no difference to me.  You signed a sales agreement,” she reproved.

“Ha!  That agreement means nothing!” he scoffed, rapping his cane on the floor again.

“Liskowiak failed to fully disclose the provenance of this jewel when the agreement was made.  Then he sends me a fancy little fräulein by herself holding $6,000 and thinks I will simply comply with his demands?”

“Mr. Liskowiak warned me about your business practices in the past, but he trusts that you will uphold your end of the bargain in this matter,” she countered.

Her relaxed posture grew increasingly more tense as her hope for a civil transaction deteriorated.  She tugged the dangling ends of her leather tie belt, securing the knot at her narrow waist.

“Liskowiak is a fool,” Herr Schumann rumbled.

He snapped the jewelry box shut loudly and waved it at her with his massive right fist.

“I will have the money.  But, if you want this brooch... you must give me your necklace also.”

“No,” she refused emphatically.

“That is not part of the deal.  If you refuse to accept the contract price there will simply be no exchange.”  

He stuffed the brooch back inside of his coat.  Then he stepped forward to hulk monstrously over her slinky black leather figure.

“And what is to stop me from simply taking the money and sending you back empty-handed?” he threatened domineeringly.

“That may not be as easy as you think,” she responded intrepidly, clutching the attaché to her side tightly.  

Her pluckiness clearly annoyed him.  

“Do not waste my time, fräulein.  If you do not want to get hurt I suggest that you put your necklace in the bag and hand it over.  Now!” he ordered in a booming voice.

She did not cower, nor did she obey his command.  Fiery spirit sparkled in her gorgeous chestnut eyes as she looked up to meet his glare directly, her face framed by the notched collar of her leather coat and the curved brim of her hat.

“Excuse me, mein Herr,” she replied with bold sarcasm.

“I don’t know how you treat other women, but nobody forces me to do anything!”

An ugly frown wrinkled his stern visage.

“Typical American woman,” he spat.

“You need a man to put you in your place!”

He emphasized his chauvinistic insult by smacking her on the butt.  The meaty palm of his hand struck her toned, shapely backside with a palpable leathery splat.

She gasped aloud and promptly slapped him across the face with her gloved right hand.  

“And you need to keep your hands off of me!” she scolded him.

He barely flinched at the stinging blow, but it infuriated him all the more.

“Miststück!” he bellowed.

“You will regret that!”

He lurched forward, reaching for her with hands like bear paws.  

She evaded his grasp with ease, gracefully sidestepping as if she was swaying in a foxtrot, and withdrew from him.

“The only thing I regret is putting up with your deplorable behavior,” she retorted.

“We are finished here.  I will inform Mr. Liskowiak that you reneged on the agreement.  He can deal with you himself if our client agrees to a higher price.  But, personally, I am done with you.”

“You are not going anywhere until I have that money!” Herr Schumann fumed.

“Oh yeah?” she shrugged.

“Watch me!”

She turned her back on him with a toss of her lustrous brown hair and descended the stairs from the apse.

“Get back here!” he roared, waving his cane with outrage.  

“No one walks away from me without paying what they owe me first!”

She ignored him, briskly sweeping across the choir without another word.

He lumbered after her, grunting, grimacing, and swearing vehemently in German all the while.

She outpaced him with little effort, strutting along with a long, lively stride; her head held high and her splendid bosom thrust prominently forward.  Her shiny black leather coat rippled back and forth over her voluptuous figure with the feminine swing of her hips.  She nimbly alighted the rood screen steps and continued down the central aisle of the nave, her tall boots flickering in and out of her billowing coat flaps and the sound of her clicking heels resonating within the soaring vaults of the pillared arcade.  Veering to the right of the east choir, she paused at the arch leading into the south transept to glance over her shoulder. 

Herr Schumann was still at the other end of the nave.  He was twice her age and impeded by the infirmities of his gluttonous excesses, but he limped toward her relentlessly, hammering his cane on the flagstones as he went.  

“You can run, fräulein, but you won't escape!  I will get that money!  And I will get you too!” he thundered, letting out a burst of raucous laughter that echoed sinisterly.

She unfastened the lower two buttons of her coat so that she could hurry on her way without any restriction to her movement.  Fitted trousers made of smooth black lambskin were tucked inside her knee-high boots, encasing her slim legs entirely in sleek leather.

Bustling through the transept, she passed through a set of massive double doors into the gatehouse corridor and found the glass-paned visitors entrance roped off due to the cathedral closing.  A signpost pointed her to a side door through which she immediately exited. 

She emerged into the cloister.  The outside air felt cold and damp against the exposed skin of her face.  Heavy clouds had already blotted out the last rays of the setting sun, shrouding the evening sky in darkness.  It had started to rain while she was inside.  The drizzling shower was visible in the yellow glow of artificial lights beyond the covered walkway.  She didn’t relish getting wet without her umbrella, but she dared not linger.

She turned to leave and halted with a gasp.

She was not alone.

Another man lurked like a gargoyle in the stone doorway that led to the courtyard.  The butt of his cigarette blazed bright orange, giving away his presence as he inhaled a long drag at the sight of her.  His pointed head was shaved.  He was relatively young, but his face was gaunt with hungry eyes and a long crooked nose that had obviously been broken more than once.  An olive drab Soviet-style parka hung slack and half-unzipped over a crewneck pullover on his rangy frame. 

He was an Eastern Bloc thug left over from the Cold War.  Whatever his nefarious purpose was for loitering there she was certain he was not visiting the cathedral as a tourist.

Tossing his cigarette aside, he let out a catcall whistle and stepped in front of her.

“Hallo hübsche mädchen!” he jeered with a mouth full of cracked teeth.

“Wo gehen sie, hübsche mädchen?”

“Please move,” she sighed impatiently in German.

“Not until you give me that bag,” he responded, shaking his head.

“Why should I?” she asked.

“Because that money belongs to my boss,” he sneered.

“I don’t think so,” she huffed.  

“No exchange was made.  And if your boss thinks I’m leaving empty-handed he is sadly mistaken.”

She had not planned on contending with a goon, although she was not surprised that a bully like Herr Schumann brought a henchman along.   

She tried to brush past him, but he blocked her with arms outstretched.

“Get out of my way,” she demanded, cocking her brows with irritation.

“I don’t have time to mess with you.”

“Oh, but I’ve got all the time in the world to mess with you, pretty girl,” he chuckled lecherously.

“Now give me that bag!”

Without further warning he lunged for her.

She attempted to feint to one side and sidestep around him like she did Herr Schumann, but he was too fast.  A lifetime spent mugging people in the streets of East Berlin hardened his reflexes.  He deftly snatched her strap and jerked it violently from her shoulder.

She did not surrender the bag to him so easily, though.  She clung to it tenaciously with both hands and yanked against him, her red lips pursed together tightly.  He tottered forward, astonished at her resistance.  He did not expect such a refined-looking lady to put up a fight.

“I thought you didn't want to play!” he guffawed at her feistiness.

The attaché dangled precariously between them as they engaged in a match of tug-of-war.  He was bigger and stronger, but she was extremely determined and animated.  Her heels scraped against the flagstones, seeking any leverage as she leaned into her effort.  With a sinuous sleight of hand, she managed to wrench the bag away from him. 

Unfortunately, she pulled with such force that it sent her reeling backwards to collide directly into Herr Schumann!

The disgruntled giant seized her with a victorious yawp.

“You did not get very far, fräulein,” he panted like a charging bull.

As long as she was out of his reach she was safe.  Now that she was in his grasp he overpowered her with ease.  His fingers sank into her supple leather arms, drawing her close to his great girth.  Her elbows folded inside his coat flaps as she pushed against his chest, trying to pry herself away from him, but to no avail.  His grip was like a vice.

“Get your filthy hands off of me!  Let me go!” she cried out in dismay.

“Nein!  I think not,” he growled.

“I do not tolerate insolent women!  You will pay for causing me so much trouble!”

He hunched over her oppressively, staring down at her with his brutish countenance.  

She winced, averting her nose from the repulsive smell of his breath.  

“So.  I will take the money.  And your necklace.  Then we will search inside of your coat for… hidden treasure.”

Her eyes widened at his frightening innuendo.  His lewd expression confirmed exactly what he meant.  

“You wouldn’t dare!” she huffed.

He chuckled and roughly spun her around so that his assistant could unhook the bag from her arm.  

“Felix!” he called to his lackey.

“Nimm ihre Tasche!”

“Jawohl, Herr Schumann!” the thug barked, grinning at her like a hyena.  

Brows raised and lips parted breathlessly, she considered her predicament for a desperate moment.  Unless she did something quickly she was going to end up robbed and possibly even violated.  Any other woman confronted by the same situation would crumple into a shrill, sobbing victim.  

But, Maxine Coates was no ordinary woman.  

Gold fire flickered in her chestnut eyes as she inhaled deeply.  She then stomped the tapered 3 ¼ inch heel of her boot into Herr Schumann’s left foot as hard as she could!

He howled with pain like a wolf caught in a trap.  Whether he limped because of gout or arthritis, the stabbing impact of her stiletto heel inflicted such agony on him that he released her incoherently and hobbled over to lean on the the cloister ledge for support.

She scurried free without a second to lose.  Felix was only an arm’s length away.  He laughed as he pounced, thinking he would capture her with ease.  Much to his amazement, though, he found himself pursuing her; grappling for her tooth and nail as she skirted by.  Not only did she arc and twirl with the feline grace of a ballet dancer, but her lissome body was so slick in her head-to-toe leather outfit that she literally slipped out of his grasp more than once.  

Indeed, she proved so exceptionally elusive that she made it through the door and into the rainy courtyard before he finally got a firm hold on her.  Wrapping his arms around her lithe waist, he hauled her, boots kicking, off the ground.  Her big black hat tumbled off her head as she struggled against him frantically.  

To have such a beautiful woman writhing in his clutches only provoked a raunchy hooligan like Felix all the more.  She screamed in distress as he groped her buttery, round breasts with crude, pincer-like fingers. 

“Ooh!  I never felt the tits of such a high-class bitch before!” he leered.

Heaving with all her might, she twisted herself toward him, her long hair spilling over her shoulders.

“You will find that mine are quite painful to touch!” she declared spitefully, driving her right knee full-force into his groin.  

He let go of her and doubled-over, groaning with pain.

Her heels clip-clopped as she whirled around, swinging her bag widely by the strap and bashed him on the side of the head.  The terrific blow sent him sprawling to the cobblestone pavement, stunned and dazed. 

Satisfied with her handiwork, she reached up to rake the fallen tresses of her hair out of her eyes when a hand clamped savagely onto her right arm.

It was Herr Schumann!

“You are more trouble than you are worth!” he bellowed, his coarse features red and livid from pain and exertion.

He resembled a shambling ogre, towering over her.  His breath puffed like smoke from his flaring nostrils.

She cried out in anguish as he crushed her delicate wrist in his iron grip.  He bent her arm mercilessly, forcing her to contort backwards to prevent her shoulder from dislocating.

“Please!  Stop!  You don’t have to do this!” she pleaded, her eyes popping.

“Here!  You can have the money!”

Her bag landed with a solid clunk as she tossed it onto the ground next to Felix.

“It is too late for that fräulein!” he raged inexorably.

“I am going to beat your pretty little face into a bloody pulp!”

He lifted his cane high.  The ebony shaft was topped with the head of an Imperial Eagle cast in sterling silver.  He brandished it like a mace aimed to hit her.

She shrieked with terror, throwing her left hand up to protect herself.

At just that moment someone else appeared beside her and slammed a large, rectangular object into Herr Schumann’s head, jolting the muskrat fur hat off of his thin, gray comb-over!

The blow would have knocked a man of lesser stature unconscious, but only rendered Herr Schumann stuporous.  The madness blazing in his eyes glazed over and his jaw fell slack.  His hold on her loosened enough for her to slither her arm free and leap away.  His legs buckled beneath him and he collapsed onto his knees, stubbornly propping himself up on his cane to keep from falling down completely.

“Shame on you for raising your hand to a lady!” a familiar voice reproached him severely in German.

She was shocked to see that her savior was the kindly docent she spoke to in the west choir.  His spectacles were crooked on his nose and he appeared rather provoked.  The implement he wielded was a sixteenth century Bible the size of a large briefcase bound in tooled walnut leather fitted with metal clasps.  He held it at the ready with both hands as he watched Herr Schumann slump in defeat.

“Are you hurt, madam?” he asked gallantly, straightening his glasses as he turned his attention to her.

“No.  I’m fine,” she answered, surprisingly composed after being so brutally assaulted.

She rubbed her wrist through her coat sleeve as she glanced around herself warily.

Felix was still on his knees, preoccupied with searching inside her bag.  He rummaged past the bundles of money and lifted a bottle of Ketel One Vodka from the bottom of the soft leather satchel.  The crystal clear liquor was intended to be a peace-offering for Herr Schumann compliments of Mr. Liskowiak.  Instead, it served as an effective weapon of self-defense for her to clobber her attacker with.  Felix snarled at her incredulously, touching the throbbing red lump that swelled on the side of his head. 

“Hurry!” the docent urged, waving her onward.

“Now is your chance!  Get away while you can!”

“Danke schön!” she acknowledged him with a dazzling smile of gratitude.

Her tousled tresses, alluring eyes, and polished sophistication captivated him.  Serenely poised despite the imminent danger and sprinkling rain, she was a vision of vivacious splendor that stirred his austere spirit more manfully than any other woman he ever met.  

“Gern geschehen, meine Dame,” he responded with due restraint, bowing to her reverently.

She started across the courtyard and then careened back, bending at her limber waist to retrieve her hat from where it lay on the ground precariously close to Felix.  He swiped at her, but she nimbly scooped it up by the brim and dashed through the arched gateway. 

Having seen the lady safely away, the docent retreated into the cloister and bolted a heavy wooden door reinforced with scrolling medieval iron hinges.  

Herr Schumann had collected his wits enough to realize he was being cheated of his prey.  His voice grated stridently as he shouted at his henchman.

“Idiot!  Hol sie!  Schnell!  Schnell!”

Felix did as his boss ordered and clambered onto his feet unsteadily to chase after her.

Floodlights illuminated the cathedral towers with a majestic ambience against the night sky while streetlamps cast a yellow sheen on the wet cobblestones of the Domplatz.  Wisps of white vapor drifted from the exhaust of a black Mercedes-Benz 500E parked along the sidewalk about forty yards away from the cloister gate.  

Maxine fled across the square towards the waiting car.  Her pace quickened as she heard Herr Schumann yelling.  Indeed, she ran in her high-heeled boots, unimpeded by her slick soles on the uneven pavement.  The bottom half of her coat was slit with a back vent that allowed her long, sleek leather-clad legs to glide frictionless through the satin-lined panels of liquid lambskin flaring wide from her ankles.  Her gleaming bosom bounced firmly, straining the button at the center of her bustline.  She held her hat in her hand, letting her brunette hair stream in a glorious wave behind her shoulders.  Her porcelain face beamed exuberantly with the thrill of her escape.  

She was certainly an unexpected, spectacular sight to see if any of the locals happened to spy her as they closed shop for the evening; a ravishing lady with a burnished hourglass silhouette gracefully swooshing by.  Glittering raindrops splattered and streaked off her glossy leather coat as she raced along with buttons flashing and clicking heels.

She reached the Mercedes and opened the rear passenger-side door.  Glancing over her shoulder, she evoked Uta’s image once more as a gust of wind flapped her notched collar up against her right cheek.

Felix trailed halfway behind her, staggering drunkenly in his army boots due to the concussion she had given him.  Herr Schumann shook his fist at her from the cloister gate.  Among his profuse cursing she distinctly heard him utter her last name with fury.

“Coates!”

“Tschüß!” she chirped at him smugly.  

Then she ducked into the back seat of the car, thumped the door shut and locked it.

“Time to go Béla!” she told the driver emphatically.

The man at the steering wheel was a stout fellow with a dark, neatly-trimmed beard and mustache.  Sporting a black derby hat and a navy wool jacket, he resembled a Viennese Fiaker.  He was was engrossed in listening to the climax of the Liebestod of Richard Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde on the car stereo.

“Aha!  There you are Maxy!” he greeted her robustly, turning the music down.

He spoke with a deep Romanian accent.

“You must have flown out of the cathedral!  I did not see you come.  How did it go?”

Even as he asked there was a loud metallic bang.

She started with a little scream.

The windshield wipers oscillated, clearly revealing the source of the noise.  

Felix had whacked the hood of the car with the vodka bottle, shouting and flailing his arms riotously.  Holding the bottle upside-down like a club, he ran along the passenger side ready to break her window with it.

“What the Devil!” the driver blurted.

“Go Béla!  Go!  Go!” she cried, slapping his arm urgently.

Without further prompting he shifted the car into drive and jammed on the gas pedal.  

Felix swung a second too late as the Mercedes took off.  His bottle missed the window and ricocheted off the fender.   

“Hang on Maxy!” Béla cried.

The street ended in a pedestrian zone barred by iron posts directly ahead of them.  Tires squealed on the cobblestone pavement as he skillfully circled the car around in a tight U-turn without slowing down.  

Felix made a half-hearted attempt to block them before jumping out of the way as they zoomed past.  The vodka bottle shattered in the middle of the road as he threw it after them in anger and frustration.

Maxy laughed blithely as she watched him out the back window.

“Nice driving Béla!” she complimented her chauffeur enthusiastically.  

“Who was that?” he asked, still flabbergasted.

He made a left turn and accelerated along the north side of the cathedral.  

“That was Herr Schumann’s lovely assistant Felix,” she answered sarcastically.  

“Well, whatever he is he put a big dent in the hood of my cousin’s car, and I will need to get it repaired!” Béla complained in a ruffled voice.

“Don’t worry.  I’ll see to it that Mr. Liskowiak compensates you for any damages,” she assured him.

Béla obviously trusted her word implicitly.  He nodded without making further issue of the incident.  

He slowed down as they came to another intersection and turned right onto a long, winding cobblestone road.

“So I take it the exchange with Herr Schumann did not go smoothly,” he observed with understated gravity.

“Oh!  That man is a beastly, insufferable criminal!  I have known mafiosi with better manners than him!” she ranted.

“Not only did he refuse to accept the contract price, but then he strong-armed the money away from me with no intention of giving me the jewel!”

“You did not get the brooch then?” Béla questioned with disappointment.

“I didn't say that,” she replied, a sly smile curving her full red lips.  

She tugged her gloves off and tossed them into the top of her hat on the other seat.  Her lambskin coat creaked sumptuously against the creme leather-upholstery as she leaned to her left side and snaked her right hand into her pocket.

“I don't know if Herr Schumann has realized it yet or not, but the exchange was indeed made.  I’m just glad I won’t be there when he figures it out!”

“What do you mean?” Béla asked, glancing at her in the rear-view mirror.

She produced the oxblood leather jewelry box in her dainty ivory hand.

“Maxy!  Did you pick his pocket?” he surmised jovially.  

“Slick as a gypsy!” she nodded cutely, delighting in her hidden talent.

She opened the hexagonal lid and held the box out for him to see.  

“I present to you... the Star of Ascania!”

“Well done Maxy!  Bravo!” he commended her bombastically.

The light from passing street lamps glinted on the golden prize.

“Truly a magnificent piece!  Fit for a medieval countess!  Mr. Liskowiak should be very pleased!”

“Yes.  I need to have a little chat with Mr. Liskowiak about these ‘old acquaintances’ he assigns me to meet,” she commented petulantly.  

“Herr Schumann isn’t the first crook he has sent me to.  He seems to have a much higher opinion of these people than they deserve, and then I have to deal with them!”

“You know Mr. Liskowiak always sees the best in people,” Béla said.

“I know he does,” she sighed.

“It’s one of the reasons I respect him, even if it does keep me on my toes.”

Leather popped and crackled all about her as she settled into the plush seat with her knees together and ankles crossed in ladylike fashion; one boot over the other.  Glistening raindrops spattered her impermeable coat, although she was quite warm and dry buttoned up inside of it.  She tossed her dark, damp hair into a deep side part on her right shoulder.  Her white blouse crinkled along her jaw as she nestled her head into her notched collar, smiling to herself contently. 

Maxy was in her element; whisking away safe and sound after a successful escapade.  

A museum curator would surely scold her for not wearing cotton gloves as she removed the brooch from its velvet-lined case with her bare hands, but she could not resist the temptation to touch the precious artifact.  She admired it in the headlights of the car behind them shining through the window.  Handling the jewel meticulously with her tapered fingers, she marveled at the fine craftsmanship of it; the sharply-defined edges and precise curves.  The central sapphire sparkled bright blue, and the annular star of gold reflected brilliantly in the sultry shadows of her discerning eyes.

“Oh, damn!” she abruptly exclaimed with feminine pique.

“What is wrong?” Béla responded, duly concerned about whatever her dreadful discovery might be.

“I cracked a nail!” she complained vehemently, inspecting her elegantly splayed right hand.

Her manicured fingernails were polished the same strawberry color as her lips.  There was a crack halfway across the oval tip of the nail on her index finger, undoubtedly caused sometime during her struggle with Herr Schumann and Felix.  

“And I just got them done the other day!”

“Ah!  My dear Maxy,” he chuckled at her, shaking his head.

“You try to be so intimidating in all that leather you wear, but you are still a girly girl!  Always so prissy!  I keep telling you; if you do this job you need to get tough chic!”

The trendy American slang rolled rather comically off his heavy Romanian tongue.

“Oh, come on Béla!” she laughed ebulliently.

“I’m the toughest old broad you ever met and you know it!”  

Her leather coat creaked on her spectacular figure as she leaned forward to peck him on the cheek affectionately.  Her cameo pendant tumbled from the collar of her blouse as she did so, catching his eye in the rear-view mirror.  He grinned proudly at the red lipstick stain she left above his beard.

“You are no broad, Maxy!  You are gem!  A real gem!” he proclaimed.

“Yes,” she exhaled resolutely, reclining back into her seat with a leathery squelch.

Her fingertips absently caressed the carnelian gemstone dangling on the strand of pearls at her throat.

“So it seems.”

Béla Negulesco was far from a mere cab driver.  He was a renowned paleopathologist with connections in every town from Edinburgh to Jerusalem.  Exactly how or when he met Maxy was a bit of a mystery that neither of them spoke of, but he was fiercely devoted to her.  He never failed to answer her call for anything; whether she needed him to research a lost artifact, explore an ancient ruin with her, escort her to a high class event, or in this case, be her chauffeur.

They had hotel reservations less than an hour away in the city of Leipzig.  Later that evening they toasted her success over a gourmet dinner in a vaulted wine cellar.  Maxy sipped a glass of Pinot Blanc with her leather coat draped over her shoulders while Béla loosened his bow tie and drank a tumbler of cognac neat.  Their conversation was cheerful and lively; the banter of old friends who revelled in each other’s company.  The chef and bartender joined them with a bottle of wine before the night was over, intrigued by the fetching brunette telling stories of her frolicking adventures.  

The next morning Béla drove her to the airport in Berlin where she would depart for New York.  She fondly embraced him farewell, gracing him with another red lipstick stain on the cheek.  He watched her strut through the gate in her glamorous hat and sleek coat, rolling her black leather suitcase behind her.  The Star of Ascania was zipped securely inside the designer purse on her shoulder.  It seemed quite fitting to him that a modern woman as beautiful as Maxy Coates should be the one to recover the jewel of Uta von Naumburg- the most beautiful woman of the Middle Ages.

Béla whistled the tune to “Danke Schoen” as he walked back to the Mercedes and pulled away.

-Dedicated to M. Liskowiak