by Tony Bulmer
Eva felt nervous. She felt herself longing for the familiarity of her small one bedroom apartment, on Friedrich Strasse, She could be home now, listening to the wireless, or reading a relaxing book, perhaps something by Goethe or the new American author Raymond Chandler; his convoluted detective tales reminded her of the Hollywood movies long since forbidden in Germany. Such a pity really, it was almost impossible to find escape in this modern age. Eva gave a quiet sigh and turned back to thoughts of a warming hearthside and a delicious cup of cocoa. The ideas of warmth and safety consumed her now, as she poured quietly over her ledgers and listened to the men talk. They had been drinking Schnapps and Cognac for quite some time now, and the conversation was getting looser and more ribald, with every passing hour. Eva shrank into her books, longing fearfully for their arrival in Paris. The sun was sinking low now, heading down, beneath the drab blur of plough-broken fields and the ragged black hedgerows, that stretched away so endlessly into the rapidly falling dusk. Rain began spotting against the carriage window—slowly, reluctantly at first, but soon it became a torrent, travelling across the window in crazed, wind driven rivulets.
As the last hope of the day sank into the rain-darkened night, the fearful terror of an endless blackness encroached around them. A hell of Goethe’s making, thought Eva wretchedly.
The train roared onwards—with each passing mile it seemed that the darkness would stretch out through eternity—as though all hope of civilization were lost forever. Then, just as all hope seemed lost, hellish pinpricks of light began punctuating the gloom. Who could live in such isolation, thought Eva, as the far distant dots shimmered in the rain-filled darkness. What manner of people were they, in this strange rain sodden land? Were they enemies, or friends? Survivors, or war ravaged victims, clutching at the last vestiges of their ruined lives? As consumed as she was by the depth of her own misfortunes, Eva couldn’t help but feel sympathy for the inhabitants of this strange, rain-darkened land.
Contemplating the dark horrors that lay outside, Eva shrank back in her seat. As she eased back in her seat the thrum of conversation encroached. She began to doze, moving in and out of consciousness as she felt her head grew heavy, with fatigue.
She never knew when the moment came, but all at once she was sucked back into a world of burning books, and broken glass and the interminable ranting of an ideology that echoed into her room from a crackling wireless set that could never be turned off. Crooked faces, thin and cruel pressed in upon her, imposing judgment—and all the while, giant golden eagles and broken crosses, blackened by the flames of hate, circled though a storm filled sky.
Awaking with a start, Eva felt the eyes upon her still. As she focused, she realized with a sinking heart that she was not in the safety of her cozy little apartment, but trapped in the middle of a rain-soaked land, surrounded on every side, by a million enemies. She blinked, stretched and stifled a yawn. Hofer, sat directly opposite was staring at her with his pervert eyes. “You were asleep Fräulein,” he said, his wet little lips finding pleasure in this banal accusation.
Eva squirmed, adjusting her position to find comfort, yet finding none. The long journey had sapped her of energy, and filled every bone and sinew with a dull ache. Again she stretched, then realized with shock that the train was moving more slowly now. As they rumbled forward Eva could detect the blackened outlines of buildings, looming past in the shadows.
“We are arriving in Paris Fräulein,” announced Hofer—his voice had a triumphant quality that Eva found abrasive. She closed the ledger that lay before her on the table and slipped it into her attaché case. She looked out of the window and saw dim city lights picking out the curves of glistening rain-slick rails. A major rail junction, no doubt about it—but the endless darkness—could this rally be the famous city of love and light, of which she had heard so much?
Dark though the station was, there was no hiding the Reichsmarschall’s ebullient mood, the train had hardly reached a halt, before he was leaping out onto the platform, he landed heavily, with questionable agility, but quickly found his balance and double timed it down the platform. Hofer was more reticent, waiting for the hiss of escaping steam that signified they had finally, incontrovertibly come to a rest. Then at last, he stepped down from the carriage and tottered after his master, like a nervous hen. Eva, taking care that she had gathered up her belongings was more slow to follow, as she made the door, Diels was waiting, a cigarette hanging jauntily at the corner of his mouth. He held the door wide, offering his hand in assistance as she stepped down from the carriage.
Eva shyly thanked him then said, “The Reichsmarschall is in an awful hurry.”
“He wants to get to Maxim’s, Von Behr has a fabulous welcome party arranged.”
“Of course, it has been such a long and tiring journey I was hoping to retire, so I can make fresh for tomorrows business.”
“But we are in Paris—there is not time for sleep Fräulein,”
“I am afraid I do not have much stomach for parties, Herr Diels.”
“Come, come, Eva, you are far too elegant to waste away the night in a dreary hotel room.”
In the gloom of the smoke filled railway station, Eva felt herself blush. She trusted the darkness would hide her embarrassment, but she knew, as she turned away from his gaze she had given herself away. As she looked back, the small malformed teeth were glistening. “I am sure Herman will be as disappointed as I if you choose to spurn our distinguished company.”
There was no way of knowing from the inflection of his voice, whether he was joking or not. It seemed that there was no longer any place for humor in these perilous times, only blind subservience. She stood awkwardly, clutching her attaché case as though it might offer some kind of protection from an evening at Maxim‘s and yet knowing she would have to submit to the wishes of her superiors.
Diels took her silence as an agreement to his proposal. He clapped his hands in delight, and took her by the arm, then marched her down the steaming platform, towards the rapidly disappearing figures of Göring and Hofer.
Reluctant to succumb to such forwardness, Eva felt her body become rigid as Diels escorted her down the platform, her heels wobbled underneath her, as her limbs, stiffened from long hours on the train protested against the unexpected trauma of movement. She staggered slightly, but Diels took her weight on his arm, and clasped a reassuring hand over hers. “Relax my dear, the evening will be quite wonderful, you can rest assured of that.”
She turned to look at him, to see if he was mocking her but Diels stared ahead, his gaze fixing on the unseen shadows that crowded before them. Other figures were dismounting the train now, the Reichsmarschall’s private staff and honor guard. As Diels moved close and attentive, Eva felt her pulse quicken—they were heading into the unknown, a strange and dangerous city full of fear and conspiracy.
THE FINE ART OF MURDER 35
As they drove through Paris, the hour was approaching curfew, there were few people about, and the roads were devoid of civilian traffic. Reichsmarschall Göring made the limousine driver take the long route. They circled the Arc de Triomphe and drove at speed down the Champs-Élysées, towards the Place de la Concorde, as they emerged from the wide, tree-lined avenue, the Eiffel tower rose up before them, a black dagger outlined by the caress of a breaking moon.
They circled the Place de la Concorde twice, at the Reichsmarschall’s insistence. As they drove he indulged in a blood curdling narrative, relating how the famous square had once been named, The Place de la Révolution, a place where decadents and royalists from the Ancien Régime, had been brutally guillotined during the terror years of the French Revolution.
As he described the horror of the state sanctioned beheadings, Eva noticed a new and dangerous excitement overtake the Reichsmarschall. His pinprick eyes bulging with enthusiasm, as he related his bloodthirsty tale. Eva clutched her attaché case, and pulled her headscarf tight, as the cold night air cut inside the limousine. Sitting to Göring’s right, Bar
on Kurt von Behr, autocratic chief of the Einsatzstab Reichsleiter Rosenberg’s Paris office sat nervously, as his master blustered enthusiastically. Eva had never met the baron before, but she had dealt with very many of his distasteful letters. The Baron was a party man, a nasty little toady of the very worst sort, which was no doubt the reason he had been given the Paris job. The Einsatzstab or EER were responsible for the sequestration of art from across Europe, a program that amounted to nothing more than the systematic looting of every great art collection in the occupied territories. As for the former owners, of such works, many of whom were Jewish, the law was unclear, but Eva had suspicions that they were deported unceremoniously, to the work camps in the east. The Baron and his assistant Lohse were responsible for carrying out the French side of the EER operation, a task they carried out with ruthless efficiency. So great were their successes, that the Reichsmarschall had been forced to step up the number of visits he made to the Paris office, in order that he might make a prioritized selection of art, for his private museum, Carinhall, northeast of Berlin.
Having finished his dramatic tale concerning the grisly execution of Louis XVI and his wife Marie Antoinette, the Reichsmarschall, turned his attention to Eva, “Fräulein Bergen, you look so pale in the moonlight, perhaps my historical tale has unsettled your nerves?”
Eva gave him a sickly look, “I am afraid that so much travel in one day is having a most unwelcome effect on my constitution Reichsmarschall.”
“You poor girl, I will have my personal physician attend to you, he has an advanced understanding of such conditions.” Göring leaned forwards from the backseat, his pin-prick eyes peering at her closely, as though he was examining her soul for signs of betrayal. The bulbous face hovered before her, for much longer than politeness allowed. She felt revulsion, as her bosses bitter smell reached out to her. Göring grasped her hand. “You are cold Fräulein, icy cold, I fear you are getting a chill.”
“Perhaps a drink of schnapps from my hip flask would revive her, ” suggested Hofer.
The Reichsmarschall’s face glistened in the moonlight, like dead meat on a butcher’s block. His pinned pupils darting like flies. “Fräulein Bergen is unacquainted with the questionable benefits of strong drink Hofer. What she needs is a sustaining meal, to rebuild her strength.
Eva smiled weakly by way of confirmation, as the ghastly faces pressed in around her. “Perhaps the hotel will serve sandwiches? although I am sure that the kitchen will be closed at this time of night.”
Reichsmarschall Göring laughed loudly at this, but his eyes betrayed no mirth. “The city belongs to us Fräulein Bergen, you shall have what ever you desire—and should anyone deny you, refer them to me, I am sure you will find that the service will shape up immeasurably.”
This comment caused a ripple of amusement amongst the assembled company. But Göring did not laugh, he simply drew closer to Eva and grasped her hand tighter, “You must conserve your energy Fräulein, for we have much work to do tomorrow.” He paused, then pressed two small capsules in her hand, “Here, take these,” he said, “I think you will find that they will improve your energy levels quite markedly.”
Eva looked doubtfully at the capsules in her hand, wondering how she could rid herself of them without causing a scene. But all eyes were upon her. Such an act would be quite impossible. She pressed the gelatinous pills into her mouth and dry swallowed, feeling them sink slowly to her stomach, with a heavy distasteful sensation that arced upwards through her brain. She felt sick, but double swallowed, hoping to God that the nausea wouldn’t show.
The Reichsmarschall watched her carefully. When at last he was certain that she had swallowed the pills, he became suddenly buoyant once more.
“The Baron here, has been busy in our absence, accumulating many artworks from the great artists of Europe. Tomorrow we will assess their merit and decide which must be transported back to the Fatherland, so that they might be protected from the decadent extremes of the so-called modernist age.”
It was a statement that met with murmurs of approval. Eva twisted uncomfortably in her seat as the fizzing pills exploded inside her. What they contained, she dared not ask, the Reichsmarschall was prone to screaming tantrums at the slightest provocation. One never knew what might set him off. Eva had long since discovered that total compliance with Herr Göring’s wishes was the only way to avoid his fury.
As she listened to the conversation, Eva found her thoughts of food melt slowly away, replaced instead, by a new and sudden alertness, as though the trauma of the long journey had been suddenly and miraculously forgotten. Enlivened by a newfound attentiveness, she found herself repelled by the Baron’s grand boasts. Eva had no desire to see the looted art that the Baron and his creepy assistant Lohse had been hording, in preparation for the Reichsmarschall’s arrival. In her experience, such paintings all looked very much the same—great scenes from classical antiquity depicting muscled heroes, overcoming the challenges of a past that was filled with Greek temples, and swooning damsels in diaphanous robes. Eva put on a brave face. She knew, that despite his many faults, the Reichsmarschall was a man of great sentimentality. There were rumors that he had a grand altar, in his Berlin home, dedicated to the memory of his tragic wife Carin. She was his greatest love, a woman who had died before her time, due to a weak heart, brought on by the tragedy of consumption. Eva did not know for sure if this was true, Reichsmarschall Göring was averse to questions about his past, but Eva knew he had named his country estate in honor of his poor dead wife—so anything was possible.
The power of the pills was racing though her now, a crescendo of energy like nothing she had experienced before. Eva struggled to maintain her composure, feeling a flush of heat race across her flesh, as though a hellish was drawing her inside towards a raging inferno Struggling to control the sensations Eva heard the Reichsmarschall bark curt instructions to the driver and the car raced away from the Place de la Concorde with building speed, pulling, heading now down a Palladian street named the Rue Royale.
“Prepare yourself, Fräulein Bergen you are about to experience the finest culinary experience of your life.” Announced the Reichsmarschall.
In the eerie glow of the blue-tinged blackout lights, the whole world took on a monstrous dream like quality. Perhaps she was asleep at home. Perhaps this whole journey was nothing more than a horrible nightmare and she would awaken well-rested at daybreak—to attend her old job at the State library on Unter Den Linden, the memories came so real, Eva could hardly contain herself. Her pulse racing forwards, as she imagined herself cycling along a dappled tree lined avenue, admiring the statue of Fredrick the Great on horseback. How noble he looked guarding the citizens of Berlin against ignorance and intolerance.
Suddenly, the bright reality of the past was snatched away, into the darkness of the Paris night. The car had come to a rest before a portentous doorway, picked out by flickering gaslight, austere gold letters above the door read Maxim.
THE FINE ART OF MURDER 36
It seemed fitting, that the evening would progress to Maxim’s, the most fashionable dining club in Paris. For many decades, this exclusive little club had been the cultural and political epicenter of Parisian nightlife, a private preserve of the wealthy and famous. But now, it entertained a quite different clientele—the heroes of National Socialist Germany, the greatest power the world had ever known.
The arrival at Maxim’s, was cause for much jubilation amongst the Reichsmarschall’s party. As they swaggered in through the blackout curtains covering the door, they entered into a glittering inferno of red and gold. The interior was small, but exceptionally grand. A long thin room of restaurant tables, all of them packed to capacity with the officer class—hundreds of soldiers, sailors and airmen, all of them great hero’s of the Nazi Wehrmacht.
It took a moment for the arrival of Reichsmarschall Göring and his party to register amongst the assembled throng. But, as the heads turned, a spontaneous cheer rose up, louder and louder, un
til the room was filled with a roaring cacophony—everyone on their feet now. A thundering ovation, to equal anything that Eva had heard—even for the Führer himself.
As infernal faces, flushed with liquor and the sweltering nightclub heat pressed in from every side, a sea of hands reached out in congratulation. The Reichsmarschall was in his element, delirious with his own importance, as he moved through crowd, greeting everyone he met, with the boundless enthusiasm of a conquering hero. Ahead, Eva saw a group of harassed waiters working furiously to prepare a table. The impeccably dressed maître d’hôtel fussed and flapped around, barking directions, and gesticulating wildly, as he orchestrated table-setting details. The table was situated pride of place, at the very front of the house, before a tiny low-rise stage, dressed with red velvet drapes. The atmosphere was sumptuous and repellant, the thick air hanging heavy with booze-ridden squalor.
As Eva reached the table, Diels and Hofer, jostled competitively over her chair, in order that they might monopolize her attentions. Hofer managed to take hold of the chair and draw it out. But Diels moved in quickly, placing a guiding arm around her and shoehorning her into her seat, as though Hofer was nothing more than an impertinent Hungarian waiter, who had overstepped his remit.
The chair was hard, and wobbled unsteadily as Eva slid into it. She squirmed around on the lumpy leather pad, trying and get comfortable, but it just wasn’t possible. As she struggled to find comfort, the Reichsmarschall sat down beside her, landing with such force, Eva felt sure that the fragile chair would disintegrate underneath his great weight. Instead, Göring clasped his hands across his great belly and regarded her with a thin smile, “How are you feeling Fräulein Bergen.”