by Tony Bulmer
Eva held her breath, hoping with building panic that the intruder would find what they were looking for then leave. But it was not to be. Just as it seemed the intruder had seen enough, there came the sound of heavy, shambling footfalls heading her way. Outside the bathroom door, another pause, then slowly through the swirling clouds of steam, Eva watched with building panic as a mysterious hand depressed the door handle from the outside, testing to see if it was locked.
“I am in the bath!” shouted Eva. “Please give me a moment, I will be out directly.” But her fevered protests were in vain. Shrinking down beneath the milky water, Eva watched with horror as the door swung open.
Peering fearfully over the lip of the roll-top bath, saw a robed figure emerged through the haze hands on hips—with the attitude, if not the stature of the mighty Zeus himself.
Eva’s eyes widened with surprise. It was as though Napoleon Bonaparte himself had climbed down from his vantage point on top of the Vendôme column to pay tribute to her day, but this was no reanimated emperor of the past, this was her boss, Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring, and he was wearing a toga.
“Fräulein Bergen, what on earth are you doing?”
“I am taking a bath Herr Göring.”
“This I can plainly see,” snapped Göring. “What I want to know is why you are taking a bath—we have much to do and our day is stalled already. Very soon it will be lunchtime and you know what that means.”
“I assumed you were keeping to your regular schedule Herr Göring, I thought that…”
“Assume nothing. Very soon the Führer will be awake—raging down the telephone no doubt and you know how that affects my digestion,” Göring paused momentarily for breath, as his building ire plateaued, then ascended ever higher. “I absolutely refuse to have a fabulous Parisian lunch spoiled by indigestion, am I clear Fräulein Bergen?”
“Absolutely Herr Göring, I—”
Hermann Göring advanced now, moving into the bathroom, with his hands angled petulantly against his hips. As he set foot in the bathroom, his enormous girth juddered and swayed, as he struggled to find his footing, on the slick marble. But the floor proved too slippy and he skidded towards the bath in a most unseemly fashion.
Eva let out a shriek, expecting at any moment her corpulent boss to come splashing into the bath on top of her. Instead, he regained his balance with as much dignity as he could muster and snapped, “You left soap on the floor? What on earth were you thinking?”
“There was no soap, Herr Göring, I left the faucet running, I—”
“Enough. I have heard enough,” barked Göring, before adding rather more gently. “Come Fräulein, get out of the bath, we are behind schedule and I am anxious to dispense with our duties for the day, so that we might focus more fully on the real reason for our visit.”
“Ah, the paintings,” said Eva carefully. Shrinking so far down in the water now her chin was covered.
“Indeed. Hofer has arranged a showing at the Musée du Jeu de Paume, a small gallery situated very close to the Hotel. The Einsatzstab Paris have liberated many new works from the hands of criminals and profiteers so that we might care for them. Hofer tells me he has identified one of these works as a Leonardo da Vinci. Can you imagine? A painting by da Vinci in the Carinhall collection!”
“I do not like Hofer—he seems sly, untrustworthy. As for his friends Lohse and Von Behr, they are money men, who live by the percentage.”
Göring sat on the rim of the bath and gave her a dangerous look, “It is good that you speak your mind in confidence Fräulein, I would expect that from a person of your bookish concerns, but you really mustn’t worry yourself—we are engaged in defending and preserving the cultural heritage of Europe.”
“But the prices they ask are quite without precedent.”
“Great Art is beyond value Fräulein. We liberate for cultural posterity. A heroic role that is beyond the vulgarity of the balance sheet.” Göring stared down at her with his pinprick eyes, a thin smile passing over his lips. “You are a woman of virtue Fräulein Bergen, and as such are given to the debilitating moral scruples that go with such a condition. But we cannot let such knee jerk liberalism divert us from our moral quest. The civilized world is depending us, if we shirk in our duties now, we will be surrendering to the forces of barbarity.”
“Rumors have been circulating Herr Göring—of the Einsatzstab and the methods they employ.”
“Rumors, Pah! You would be well advised to close your mind to such idle gossip Fräulein. Our methods are beyond reproach. Why, you yourself, keep the records proving the legitimacy of our dealings.”
Peering up from the rapidly cooling bathwater, Eva blinked like a deer in headlights. She certainly kept the records, there could be no denying that, but much of the Arts fund budget went on commissions to local Einsatzstab agents, like Lohse and Von Behr. As for Hofer, he worked strictly freelance, using the Reichsmarschall’s seal to his own advantage. The ledgers showed he had already made millions from his dealings, the percentage he paid to the original owners of the art works was anyone’s guess, but Eva knew it wouldn’t be much—if anything.
Göring rose up now, and adjusted his toga. “Come Fräulein we must make ready for business. Today I will weal my white uniform. I trust you will bear this in mind and accessorize wisely, newsreel cameras will be in attendance throughout the day.”
“The bath water is growing cold Herr Göring.”
“Of course it is Fräulein, get out immediately, or you will catch a chill”
Eva blinked. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to pass me a towel?”
Another thin smile passed over his lips. “There is no need for false modesty Fräulein, the power of opiates has freed me of animalistic urges and heightened my sense of aestheticism.” He stood there, hands on hips, watching her expectantly.
Slowly, reluctantly, Eva rose to her feet, and climbed out of the bath. All the while the Reichsmarschall’s pinprick eyes darted after her.
“Your resemblance to my first wife is really quite extraordinary Fräulein Bergen.”
Göring’s breathing came heavy and intermittent now, like a breathless fat man climbing the stairs.
Eva stepped out of the bath naked and reached out for her towel. As she came close to Göring a thick, repellant aroma of hair-grease and lavender assailed her. She wrapped the towel about herself wide-eyed and awkward. The Reichsmarschall’s nostrils flared, like he was inhaling her very being. Then, as his silent eyes bore into her he said, “Get some clothes on, I put a vial of pills on your dresser, take two of each color, they will suppress your nausea and enliven you for the tasks that lie ahead. He turned then, walked back to the doorway. Outlined by the sunlight he looked back once, pausing like he was going to say something more, then suddenly thought better of it. Eva shuddered, hypnotized by the image of a man who would haunt her to the grave.
THE FINE ART OF MURDER 38
A couple of blocks at the most from the hotel, the Gallery du Jeu de Paume on the west side of the Tuileres Gardens, overlooked the Place de la Concorde. The journey would have made a pleasant walk on such a beautiful spring afternoon. But the Reichsmarschall was not a walker. He travelled everywhere by car, citing overriding security concerns and a hectic schedule and as the reasons for such ostentation. Eva suspected sloth and the need for a grand entrance were rather nearer to the truth.
Arriving at the gallery shortly before lunch. A newsreel crew from the Ministry of Information, were set up and ready to roll. From the outset it was clear to Eva that the event had been carefully stage-managed. A select group of supporters had been marshaled into shot, out front of the gallery. No doubt the final footage would give the impression of a wild throng, when in reality the small group were vastly outnumbered by a contingent of gun-toting thugs from the Reichsmarschall’s personal protection division.
Naturally, Baron Kurt von Behr and Bruno Lohse of Einsatzstab Paris, featured prominently in the welcoming line, whilst Walter Ho
fer made beaming introductions for the cameras, acting like everyone had just met for the first time. Rudolf Diels hung back behind the scenes, his dark eyes scanning the crowd, for any hint of trouble. Watching him closely, through the stage-managed scramble, Eva had a sudden epiphany. Diels was a hired goon, an acolyte of the Göring camp—a man who could be relied upon in treacherous times. The subtext was the Reichsmarschall trusted no one, not even Hofer. It was a thought that made Eva smile. As the smile widened, Diels’ restless eyes suddenly met with hers. In the daylight he looked even paler than she had imagined, and more roguish too. With his Fedora pulled down and a cigarette in one corner of his mouth, he looked like a Hollywood gangster. Diels held her gaze for a long minute, then threw her a nod. Surrounded as she was by the party men, underlings of unquestioning obedience, it was clear that Diels was different, Frightening though he looked, he might even be a friend—at least for the moment. Eva looked away. Such friendships were foolhardy. In the party hierarchy, loyalty was judged on association—and association with a maverick like Diels, could only mean trouble, even if he was a trusted lieutenant of the famous Hermann Göring, a man so powerful he stood shoulder to shoulder with the Führer himself.
Eva followed quietly in the Reichsmarschall’s wake, watching as he strutted and posed in his white uniform, presenting a triumphant profile for the cameras. Göring was an old hand when it came newsreel photo opportunities. He had every nuanced move down to a fine-practiced art. In contrast, the contingent from Einsatzstab Paris came across like grinning buffoons, as they bowed and toadied, eager to make the most of their moment of fame.
Once the euphoric reception had been dispensed with, Bruno Lohse Deputy Director of the Einsatzstab Paris took the lead, guiding the small party into the voluminous interior of the Jeu de Paume. Lohse was an, athletic Prussian, as tall as an SS major, but he had a simple, almost boyish face, that gave him a deceptively innocent quality.
As they moved into the main gallery Eva was staggered by the number of artworks on display. Unlike a normal gallery, there were paintings everywhere. Every inch of wall space was filled to capacity and the substantial overflow of work was stacked high on the floor, in no apparent order. Where had these paintings come from, wondered Eva, what stories did they bring with them, to this cold, impersonal little cavern in the heart of Paris. She shuddered. The room had the air of a waiting room in a provincial railway station, the kind of place you could wait for hours to escape while cattle trucks shunted past in an endless journey east.
Eva followed in the wake of the party, as Lohse bragged triumphantly about the efficiency of the Paris section. She found the conversation boring. She didn’t know much about art, but she knew that she liked to see bright colorful scenes—happy faces and flowers—sun-filled meadows dancing in the wind, or mischievous animals gamboling innocently, as loving hearts looked on. But the art gathered here was much different—dark varnished pastoral scenes, filled with nymphs and satyrs; grim faced medieval patriarchs, and austere looking saints, with thin tortured bodies and mournful expressions of reverence. It seemed to Eva that every work had a dour and unwholesome quality, devoid of joy or expression.
Yet, the Reichsmarschall seemed enthralled. He surveyed the shambolic display as though walking through a shrine to great genius. His face glowing with enthusiasm, as he listened with rapt attention to his team of underlings, as they gushed and competed with their tales of artistic liberation. Every once in a while, the Reichsmarschall would pause, and examine a piece he found engaging—then, with a single word, yes or no, he would indicate his intention to buy or reject. As he made his intentions clear, Lohse’s mouse like assistant, a bespectacled Frenchwoman named Rose Valland would scurry forwards and mark the selected artwork as sold.
As they ambled through the rooms, in the wake of Reichsmarschall Göring, Eva lost count of the number of casual purchases he made—three, maybe four hundred at least. So many that Lohse’s assistant had to scuttle away for more labels and inscribe them with the neatly printed initials H.G. Very soon, these works would be on their way to Germany to Carinhall the Reichsmarschall’s lavish retreat in the Schorfheide forest district north of Berlin. Eva had visited the place a number of times, a spooky old pile in the middle of the woods, packed to the rafters with hunting trophies and gaudy, gilt covered furnishings of every description. The Reichsmarschall held sumptuous parties there for his friends in the Nazi elite. Those who had been invited spoke of the generosity of his hospitality. Those who hadn’t, muttered darkly of black magic orgies and degenerate conduct more suited to the excesses of the Weimar Republic. Eva shuddered, as the gloomy and oppressive paintings closing in around her. Why did high culture have to be so dark and tedious?
Longing for release from her duties, she stifled a yawn.
“Not an art lover then I take it?”
Eva turned in surprise, to find Rudolf Diels at her side. In his hand he carried a discreet hip flask. He offered it without looking at her. But she shook her head, “No thank you,” she said.
Diels smiled and held the flask to his lips, tossing back a throaty mouthful of what smelled like hard liquor. He swilled the booze around his mouth and swallowed, noisily rounding out the display with a satisfied sigh. He screwed the top on the flask and said, “I take it you had enough last night Fräulein, I have to confess—even I was impressed by your capacity for champagne. They do say, that the hair of the dog that bit will restore a modicum of humanity to those who have fallen victim to indulgence.”
“From my limited experience alcohol is more a sickness than an indulgence Herr Diels, and after last night I can perhaps understand why our American cousins saw fit to make such toxic beverages illegal.”
Diels laughed, “The Americans have a touching need for utopian ideals, but fortunately they lack the stomach to enforce them.”
Eva shot him a look, “You would do well to be more discrete Herr Diels.”
Again Diels laughed, louder this time, “You think I give a damn what these jackasses think?”
“Opinions are like snakes Herr Diels, once released they often return with venomous consequences.”
Diels gave a derisive snort, “You think anyone cares what these whoreish little bureaucrats think? If they had anything useful to say, they would be sitting in Berlin massaging the Führer’s ego. Instead, they are banished to the outer realms of the empire collecting ugly pictures in the name of culture.”
“Please, I beg you, moderate your language,” hissed Eva.
Diels stared at her now, a look of genuine delight spreading slowly across his broken face until his tiny malformed teeth glistened in the sepulchral light, “I like you Fräulein Bergen, you act like you have a conscience—but what place is there for people of conscience in the new Germany?”
“They say in Berlin that you are a fool, given to dangerous talk. Having met you, I can see those rumors are true.”
Diels nodded then said, “They are always good at spreading rumors. It would seem rumors are the foundation new Reich—a rather unsound footing on which to build a new world order, wouldn’t you agree Fräulein?”
“I agree to nothing—such talk is dangerous—think of yourself, of the future Herr Diels, such sentiments can only lead to trouble.”
“I thought of the future for many years Fräulein then it arrived,” Diels drew out his cigarette case and offered her one. When she refused, he took one himself. He inserted the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, and lit it with a flourish. Breathing deep, he examined her with his sharp, dangerous eyes, “Question is Fräulein Bergen, what does your future hold?”
The sepulchral chill closed in then, as the bright rays of sun filtering down from the high windows juddered weakly, then faded altogether. There was a fresh storm front moving in from the darkening western skies. They stood in silence then, Diels smoking his cigarette. Eva brooding and disconsolate over the comments that he had made. She wanted to call him a fool and a liar. She wanted to tell him that all the t
hings he said were wrong. But she knew that just wasn’t possible. Turning the gilded words over in her mind, Eva felt a new doubt creep in. How could the world ever come good again in the face of such uncertainty? As she pondered the implications, the Reichsmarschall suddenly uttered a loud and guttural profanity.
Diels took a last suck on his cigarette and ground it out underfoot. Eva shot him a nervous look, but his dark eyes betrayed no emotion—nothing, it was as if a dark mask had descended, over his face—brutal and uncompromising.
Moving quickly to the Reichsmarschall’s side Eva was surprised to find him looking at quite the most beautiful picture she had ever seen. Set in an aging gilt frame, it was the portrait of a woman from another age—her face had a soft familiar quality, with glowing skin and dark provocative eyes, that seemed to follow the viewers gaze. Not only that the girl had a beautiful smile edging across the corners of her mouth, a smile that seemed to respond to the viewers gaze. It was plainly a painting of outstanding quality. Even though she was inexperienced in such things, Eva could see at a glance that this little painting was something special—more vibrant and alive than any of the other paintings in this dreary little gallery. She could also clearly see the problem—a small label marked A.H. was hanging prominently from the frame. A.H. Adolph Hitler. The painting had been earmarked for the Führermuseum in Linz.
“This is the Da Vinci?” thundered the Reichsmarschall, his voice rising high.”
The Einsatzstab Paris team exchanged nervous glances.
“I thought you had found the Mona Lisa—the famous painting—and you present me with this.” Göring paused momentarily allowing the implications to sink in, before saying quietly. “You do realize I came all the way from Germany for this Gentlemen?”
Baron von Behr stepped forward and stuttered, “I am afraid there has been a terrible misunderstanding Herr Reichsmarschall.”