Bob Schuster had worked at Miller’s Jewelry since it opened in the seventies. At the time it opened, the strip mall was considered state-of-the art retail space. It devolved, as most have, into a jumble of judo studios, gun shops, dollar stores and other low-end retailers. Miller’s still had a large sign with a diamond ring, but the neon had long ago blinked out. It was dark and narrow inside, save for the lights shining on the display cases. Bob was one of two bench jewelers in the shop, sitting in the back watching customers come and go, readjusting prongs, repairing damage to stones and settings and occasionally making a custom ring for someone. He sat with all his tools in easy reach, which he picked up and replaced without looking. He had learned his craft as a young man in Germany and was especially good at restoring antique rings that had been worn down or simply had a lifetime of residue embedded in them. He was a steady, reliable employee and took pride in his work.
His counterpart was much younger, a woman in her late twenties named Kristen Challis who had attended an arts and crafts college in Portland, graduating with a jewelry-making emphasis. She tried to build a career through her Etsy store, but quickly discovered the demand was too low and production costs too high to make a living selling her jewelry online. She had worked at Miller’s for five years, and Bob resented her on most of the.
She slurped Starbucks, wore custom ear gauges and typed on her phone endlessly. She loved custom orders and to work with a couple to make matching rings, or tongue studs, or jewelry for God-knows-where. She liked working with titanium and stainless steel or any other trendy alloy, but was sloppy with restoration work, thinking it beneath her talents.
“Jewelry carries meaning for people, it’s passed down through families and represents a link to their past and the memories they have for a loved one,” Bob explained with a residual German accent
“Yeah, well, a lot of that old jewelry was crap. Mass produced, stamped out metal or pipe cut rings with no art to them at all,” Kristen volleyed.
“People couldn’t afford much back then. The scrollwork in the rings was designed to dress up cheap diamonds or to make them look bigger. People sacrificed to buy them; there was no credit then, only cash. Now people go into debt for flashy crap that looks just like every other crappy ring on the market. People have confused the ring as a measure of the relationship, but it’s symbolic; it could be a simple loop of silver but would become priceless to the person who wears it because of the love and relationship it represents,” Bob said.
“People go into debt for college, for a car, for a house, and anything else they want. Jewelry is no different. Times have changed and people want something truly unique and beautiful to embody the feelings they have for each other,” Kristen retorted.
“Suppose you own two dogs: a purebred and a mutt. Which one do you love more?” Bob asked.
“The reason people want purebred dogs is because they’re better; better temperament, easier to train, healthier; just all around better,” Kristen replied.
“Well, I can tell you from experience that either type of dog can be a prince or a pain in the ass, but for most people, no matter what the personality of the dog, it eventually becomes part of the family. They love it, faults and all, and miss it when it’s gone.”
This same conversation went on for years, with Bob rolling his eyes whenever customers would swoon over Kristen’s latest over-the-top design, often something to match their shitty tattoos or nipple clamps. He despised Kristen’s nose ring, her foul mouth and white-trash tastes.
To boost business, the owner built a website and Facebook page through which she sold jewelry and touted the restoration and custom jewelry services of the shop. Profiles of Bob and Kristen were included, with photos of them at their benches. E-mails and phone calls trickled in this way, and helped to keep the lights on.
One day a padded envelope arrived, addressed to Bob marked “Private, For Robert Schuster’s Eyes Only.” It had German postmarks on it but no return address.
“Looks like to you have a fan in Germany,” the owner said, handing him the envelope. Bob set it on his bench and continued with his work.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” the owner asked.
“I’ll take a look when I’m done with this setting.” Bob ended up working late, the owner and Kristen left at closing time.
“Don’t forget to go home Bob,” Kristen chided, and locked the door.
Once he heard both cars drive off, he opened the envelope. Inside was a smaller envelope as well as photographs of Bob as a young man. There were half a dozen photos of him in his teens and twenties, dressed as a skinhead touting Nazi emblems at various demonstrations. There was a copy of his arrest record from Germany, August 5th, 1968, which included assault and hate crimes. It also included two of his on-line aliases, which he used when he visited White Power chat rooms. Bob nearly fainted but grabbed the bench on his way down. He recovered, carefully put everything back in the envelope and drove home via side roads.
Back as his house, he dumped the envelope contents on the kitchen table. He opened the smaller envelope and found a ring, worn with age but with a large ruby in the center, and prominent swastikas on either side. The note inside read, “I do not mean you harm, but I need your skills. My grandfather was a prominent officer in the SS and is near the end of his life. He served Germany proudly, but for this he has been shamed and punished. Adolf Hitler himself gave him this ring, which he has kept hidden for over seventy years. Restore the ring and send it back, so that he can be buried with his pride restored.” Bob was to send it to a PO Box in Frankfurt under the name John Smith.
Bob was reeling. He thought he was safe, he thought he had covered his tracks. His father had been a diplomat and was able to get Bob to the US on an education VISA under his new name, “Robert Wilhelm Schuster.” Then Bob quietly disappeared to Idaho where he assumed correctly that no one would look for him, until now.
“That fucking on-line profile!” Bob exclaimed. He blamed the Miller’s Jewelry website, assuming that someone recognized him from the photo, hacked into his accounts somehow and uncovered his past. He immediately removed the hard drive from his computer and smashed it to pieces in the garage. He realized he had no choice but to restore the ring.
It was bittersweet work for Bob; if he weren’t forced to hide, he would have been proud and honored to do this work for the SS officer. But having a gun held to his head, he was in constant fear of being discovered; not only as he worked on the ring afterhours, but every time the mail was delivered to the store. Would there be another envelope from Germany? Or would the police simply walk in one day and take him away?
Bob restored the ring beautifully. The ruby once again sparkled, the skulls, eagles and swastikas stood out in sharp relief from the black dimpled background. He put it in the mail and feared that this was the beginning of something terrible.
He tried to focus on his work, and not let the ring and the note impede him. He had burned the envelope and its contents, bought a new computer and joined Facebook liking as many human rights and diversity sites as he could find.
Six months passed and nothing more happened. Bob knew someone out there had found him, but it was becoming less of a day-to-day worry. He started to attend human rights rallies, gay rights rallies, transgender rights rallies, and volunteered to help out with events for Black History Month. He even donated money to the Anne Frank Memorial.
December in the store was always busy, and both he and Kristen usually worked late. One evening Kristen announced, “Well, that’s enough for one day. This girl has to get home to some trash TV.” Bob acknowledged her leaving with a small nod.
“Oh and Bob,” Kristen added as she slipped on her leather jacket, “I wanted to let you know that I think I understand what you mean about crappy jewelry having sentimental value for people. I think you’re right.” She held out her hand, and on her middle finger was the SS ring. “You really do beautiful work, and I’m glad to see you so involved in the community. I’ll be keeping an eye on you.” As she left, she turned, sticking her head through the door, “Merry Christmas you adorable old Nazi fuck!” and locked the door behind her.