``You understand, of course,'' the commander said.
``Of course.''
He stood in the doorway and faced the commander, the soldiers behind him. He stood aside to let them enter. Of course he understood. No representation of the human form could be allowed. The commander was here to most kindly relieve him of the responsibility of harboring any.
Not that much was left. The museum was in ruins. No tourists or students had entered the place in more than a decade. So much smashed, so much destroyed. He, the curator had stayed on without pay to guard and conserve what he could. Now the commander was here to remove the statues, the Greek pottery. To put them in a safe place, the commander said. A place where they would be available to scholars.
Was the commander so cynical that he could look him in the eye and say these things as he had said them once before? Or did the commander not recognize him? Once before he had come and said the same words and taken the statues, the textiles and paintings and yes the curator had assisted in the removal because he had believed. Trusted. Then he heard how the idolatrous objects were publicly destroyed with much cheering, much righteous indignation.
Now the commander and his men strode through the snow filled rooms poking, kicking at piles of rubble.
``There is nothing left,'' he said. ``What you left was taken by robbers long ago. As you see there is nothing.''
``That is not my understanding,'' the commander said. ``It is believed that you still have two Greek statues, infidel gods. A collector from Japan has offered us much for them. We have need of his dollars as of course you understand.''
``Of course,'' he said, ``but unfortunately I cannot help you. A few shards of pottery are all that remain.'' They would not find the statues. It had taken months to hide them.
``May I offer you tea?'' he asked. The commander could not refuse.
His fire on the mosaic tile floor was fed with remnants of picture frames. He boiled used tea-leaves with a pinch of dry mint. The two men sat in silence at the little fire as the snow sifted about the mosaic floor and the soldiers climbed the hazardous stairs.
``It is a long struggle, is it not?'' the commander asked.
``A long struggle,'' the curator reiterated.
The soldiers returned with a handful of shards.
``A Grecian urn,'' the commander said. ``Wasn't there a poem?''