The End of Law

by Therese Down

  In a dimly lit, wide corridor which stretched away apparently infinitely, some way from the Jagdhalle and all the noise, Goering exchanged words with the soldier on guard, who stared straight ahead and saluted. The soldier clicked his heels together, turned rigidly towards a wall, and pressed a number of switches. Immediately, the corridor was illuminated and an Aladdin’s cave of glinting gold and sumptuous colour was revealed. The corridor was covered in a deep-pile rubicund carpet, which made silent all footfalls and added to the reverence and mystery of the space around them. On each wall, as far as the eye could see, were affixed paintings of all sizes, expertly hung and spaced. Above many were shaded or muted bars of electric light, which brought depth and texture to the coloured oils of the paintings. Gilt frames shone and smouldered in the silence, and Goering watched the awe on the faces of his guests with unconcealed satisfaction.

  He extended an arm in the direction of the corridor. “Shall we?” he said and, without words, the family stepped onto the carpet and began viewing the glorious works of art that presently adorned this particular Carinhall gallery. “These are some of my favourites – and some of my latest acquisitions,” Goering informed Walter as they progressed slowly down the corridor.

  “Stunning, Herr Reichsmarschall Goering – simply stunning,” replied Walter, truly mesmerized by the obvious grandeur of the paintings he beheld. Neither he nor Hedda was an art connoisseur, but there were masterpieces before their eyes that both recognized from magazines or, for Walter, from pre-war visits to galleries in Paris with his parents. Old Dutch and German masters, which they had learned about in school or had come across in encyclopaedias or family Bibles, hung in resplendent surfeit before them, mixed with prints of lesser value or artistic merit. There were hunting scenes and naked ladies from all eras.

  “My goodness!” Walter exclaimed. “I recognize this. This was part of an exhibition I went to as a young man, with my parents, in Paris. I thought it the most exquisite thing. It is sixteenth century, isn’t it?”

  Goering’s chest puffed out with pride. “Indeed. This, my dear Walter, I acquired just last month – from Paris, as you rightly say. I am very proud of it. It is of course Gossaert’s Madonna and Child. Fabulous, isn’t it? For me, the Dutch Masters are unsurpassed. Do you agree, Walter?”

  “I am afraid, Herr Reichsmarschall, that I do not know enough about art to agree or otherwise, but I bow to your superior judgment. In any case, I love this painting.”

  “I have many more. You know, I now have well over a thousand paintings here at Carinhall. They come to me from France, from Holland – from many places in Germany. I buy them all, of course.”

  “You are a man of great taste and culture, Sir,” responded Walter. “A thousand, you say?”

  “Yes – at least. Matisse, Granach, our own dear Grunwalde – even some van Gogh, although I do not shout about such things.” Here, Goering leaned towards Walter and lifted his right hand to his mouth as if he were sharing a secret, and lowered his voice in mock caution. “Our great Führer is not a big fan of modern art, and so…” Goering’s plea for complicity was obvious in an exaggerated widening of his eyes as he glared at Walter, and he nodded slightly, “it follows…”

  “Of course, Herr Reichsmarschall – I understand completely.” Walter smiled briefly and bowed in deference.

  “You are a fine man, Walter; a fine man.” Goering returned to full volume and smiled. “I have plans, in any case, to trade the van Goghs, I think. Certainly, the Matisses and the Degas will go – if I can just get my hands on the one great prize I yearn for!”

  “What is that, Sir? If it is not impertinent to ask.”

  “Ah, Walter, Walter. Can you imagine? There is a possibility I may be able to get my hands on a Vermeer! There is a Dutchman – van Meegeren – who is believed to have at least one. I may have to pay a very high price, but if I can persuade him to part with just one Vermeer, it would be worth it, my friend. Do you know Vermeer?”

  “Alas, I…”

  “What a genius! Dutch again, of course. Those Dutchmen – how did they do it? Do you think their country is so boring that they turned to art for distraction?”

  “That could be it, Herr Reichsmarschall, sir.”

  “Ah, and your daughter has impeccable taste, Oberst Gunther. Look at her face; she is enraptured.”

  While Walter and Goering had been talking, Hedda and her children had walked ahead. Hedda was now entreating Anselm not to grizzle, to be patient, that he would soon see the trains, but the child was very tired and would not be pacified. Hedda had almost decided to take him out of the gallery and wait for her husband and Prime Minister Goering in the hall from which they had entered the gallery corridor, but as she picked up her son he became quiet and then fell fast asleep on her shoulder.

  Hedda carried Anselm towards Agnette and studied the painting that had so absorbed her daughter. The painting was very large – as Goering proudly announced, 135 by 173 centimetres – taller than Agnette herself and longer than Goering was tall. The painting dominated the central area of the gallery and was skilfully lit so that its sumptuously decadent colours almost pulsed in richness. The textures of the garments adorning the figures took on a depth and a slickness that made touching them almost impossible to resist, though Agnette could not have reached to do so. The foremost characters were robed in ivory, gold and softly glowing rose salmon. In the bottom right-hand corner as the observers faced the canvas, a basket of pink roses lay discarded in the limp embrace of a carelessly strewn damask and ivory printed scarf, as though dropped in haste. A small dog regarded the abandoned flowers with some interest, apparently oblivious to the imminent tragedy captured in the central tableau.

  A devilish figure held aloft a knife and seemed to be about to slay an auburn-haired girl in an ivory dress. None of the assembled figures surrounding them – not even her executioner – could look upon the girl, and had adopted various ways of averting or shielding their eyes. A deer stood before but facing away from the sacrificial altar on which the girl was recumbent, and before the deer, a woman in gold knelt – the owner of the discarded roses? At the kneeling woman’s back, a very young boy fled the scene, his right hand raised to his face as if to suppress tears, and in his left hand a bow and broken arrow. A man in sumptuous salmon robes, and wearing a crown that slid from his head, sat beside the dog in a gorgeously upholstered chair and hid his face with his right hand in apparent sorrow or shame. Smoke rose from the altar, and on the top left-hand side of the painting a mysterious ghostly figure seemed to wait, unconcerned, for the knife to do its worst. A crowd of women to the left and of men to the right, dressed variously in garb to denote their station, appeared to argue and remonstrate among themselves.

  To Agnette, the entire scene was at once terrifying and wholly absorbing, though anything beyond a simple emotional response and understanding of it was impossible, as she was not quite five years old. Her fascination seemed, nonetheless, as profound as any child’s wonder might be upon, for example, beholding the ocean for the first time. She started as if from a reverie at Goering’s booming voice.

  “You like this one, Agnette? You have excellent taste.”

  “What are they doing to the lady?”

  “Well…” Goering cleared his throat, seemed to search his memory and also for the right words to render simply what he recalled. “That man there is going to kill the lady. Well, in fact he is not, because do you know what?”

  Agnette shook her head, never taking her eyes from Goering’s face.

  “That deer – can you see him? He will be killed instead of the lady and the lady will vanish – pooff!” And Goering widened his arms and eyes suddenly to indicate surprise and nothingness. “Just like magic.”

  “Why do they want to kill the lady?”

  “Hmm. That is a very good question.” Goering made a grimace that indicated his inability to explain to a small child the sacrifice of Iphigenia by her father Agamemnon. He looked for help to
Walter and Hedda. Hedda shook her head as if to say “Don’t ask me!”, and Walter bent down, lifted his daughter and sat her upon one arm, supported it with his other.

  “You ask too many questions, little Agnette,” he said, then kissed her forehead.

  “I tell you what,” said Goering. “How about I send your mama and papa a copy of this painting and the story that goes with it, eh? Then they can read the story and tell it to you. How does that sound?”

  Agnette looked towards the painting and nodded and smiled her enthusiasm, then added quite wistfully as she lay her head against her father’s cheek, “I think it is a very sad painting.”

  Goering laughed briefly, then addressed Walter. “You and I should have that chat now, Walter. It’s getting late. I don’t want to keep your family here too much longer. Come.” And the party turned back towards the entrance of the gallery corridor.

  As they walked, Goering explained to Walter and Hedda that he had only just acquired Steen’s Sacrifice of Iphigenia; that it was a seventeenth-century masterpiece and worth a fortune. He explained that the Jew from whom he had “purchased” it was a phenomenal Dutch art dealer called Goudstikker, from Amsterdam, who had fled the Netherlands as the Nazis marched on Holland. Goudstikker had secured the necessary immigration visas for him and his wife in late 1939, when he had judged – shrewdly – that Germany would invade. On the 13th May, he and his wife had boarded the last cargo boat bound from the Netherlands to England.

  “Tragically,” Goering recounted, though his smirk and feigned seriousness of mien indicated anything but sympathy, “on the 16th of May, within striking distance of British soil, Goudstikker fell through a trap door on the deck of the boat and broke his neck.” Goering snorted in amusement and Walter laughed out loud, then shook his head and tutted in mock remorse. “Luckily,” Goering continued, “he didn’t have time to organize the export of all his fine art collection. It was fortunate for me that I was able to… acquire a great many of Goudstikker’s thirteen hundred paintings. The Steen was one of them.” Goudstikker had been a nice enough fellow for a Jew, Goering continued, very knowledgable and quite charming. “I did some business with him in early May, in fact,” he added. “Goudstikker had handled the sale of an art collection previously owned by a chap who could not pay his bills. The bank foreclosed and possessed the paintings and a friend of mine bought no fewer than nineteen for me. In fact, they were delivered to Carinhall on just the 10th of June – last month.”

  “You are clearly doing Germany a great service in bringing all these wonderful works of art to Carinhall. What a national treasure is here!” remarked Walter in sincere admiration, though it did occur to him that in May, when Goering was in Amsterdam negotiating prices for paintings, he and Goering’s brave Fallschirmjäger soldiers and officers were risking their lives in battle in Denmark, Norway, Belgium and France. On and before the 10th June, thousands more were fighting and dying in France and in the skies over Britain.

  “Yes, Walter, my friend, I believe I am. I think of myself as one of the last Renaissance men. In a very practical way, of course,” he went on, “we are all Renaissance men these days. We want racial perfection and cultural sophistication – everyone wants to be Greek! In a roundabout way, my art collection is underpinning the entire National Socialist philosophy.”

  Hedda pressed her cheek against Anselm’s soft hair and wondered what part in such a great empire her husband could possibly play and what sort of empire it could be if he had a part to play.

  “On a lighter note, come and see my fabulous model railway – I think you will be impressed. Mussolini loved it! Ah,” he added more quietly upon beholding Anselm, “is the little boy asleep?”

  “Yes, Reichsmarschall, I am afraid he is completely gone.” Hedda turned her body so that she could address Goering without speaking over Anselm’s head.

  “What a pity. Now he will not see the trains. Still, another time, perhaps? Can you ladies find your way back to the Jagdhalle from here? Walter – Daddy – and I need to have a chat, and a very manly game of trains!”

  It was not difficult for Hedda to find her way back to the Jagdhalle. The Bavarian band was playing again, though with less gusto. A fairly mournful air was pressed from the accordion, and lightly accompanied by a gentle drumming and flugelhorn – no oompah. People had started to leave and it was easy for Hedda to make her way to her table with Anselm in her arms and Agnette close beside her.

  “Hello again. May I join you?” No sooner had Hedda settled than Karl’s voice caused her to look up from adjusting Anselm so that both were comfortable. The child was now deeply asleep and his mouth was open, his whole body relaxed and easily cradled.

  “Of course. Please…”

  Agnette took the opportunity provided by Karl’s distraction of her mother to seek more interesting entertainment. “Mutti, may I play outside? I promise to come back lots of times and not go far.”

  Hedda nodded and smiled at her daughter and then at Karl as he sat down.

  “Your children are charming, Hedda. Very sweet.”

  “Thank you. They are good children.” Hedda kissed Anselm’s head and held him a little closer to her for a moment. She saw the look of tenderness and longing on Karl’s face as he contemplated Anselm’s and found herself wishing for a husband who regarded his own children with such open affection. “You don’t have any children yourself, you said?”

  “No. My wife is very ill. She has been for some time.”

  Hedda watched the darkness return to Karl’s face and his brow furrow. His eyes slid from Anselm, seemed to follow his thoughts downwards.

  “I am sorry. Forgive me.”

  “No, not at all.” He looked at her and smiled. “How could you know? Greta is mentally ill. She suffers from severe depression. It didn’t begin until after we were married. While I was a medical student I could just about cope with her care, but we were very poor. I would medicate her in the mornings, attend lectures and practicals, then rush home to look after her. At night, when she was asleep, I would study. It was hard, but… we managed. She was not so bad then. When I joined the SS and was posted to Norway, of course I could not take care of Greta any more. She went home to her parents in Leipzig. I don’t know if you know anything about depression?”

  Hedda shook her head, shrugged her shoulders a little.

  “Well, it obliterates the personality – fragments it. You can see the person you know begin to fracture, as if they were trapped in a mirror, and you can’t help – there’s nothing you can do. It’s a slow breakdown. All vitality just ebbs away. The eyes become so lifeless and dull. Drugs slow down the process, but they make the patient sleepy. You lose them either way.”

  Hedda could think of nothing to say, bowed her face to Anselm’s sweet-smelling hair and kissed his head. Karl seemed to need to talk, although Hedda wasn’t sure it mattered much to whom he spoke.

  “She was a brilliant lawyer – graduated from Leipzig University. That’s where I met her. We both come from Leipzig, although we did not get together until 1933 – soon after you and I went out, in fact. We married within a year. She too had moved up to Berlin, as that was where the jobs were. She was – is – beautiful and so sharp. She could make me laugh in spite of myself.” Here, Karl stopped and smiled, as if watching Greta waving from far away. He “hmphd” to himself. “That’s the irony – she cheered me up all the time.”

  Hedda watched Karl speak, saw the love on his face, and her heart ached, but it was not for his or Greta’s loss.

  Then Karl’s demeanour changed and he was once more serious and frowning. “Then, of course, the Führer was elected and no women were allowed to practise law – or teach or work at all, really. That’s when the depression really kicked in – when she could not work any more. It was as if everything she had worked so hard to achieve, everything bound up with her vision of herself and our future – well, as if it was suddenly…” Karl seemed to search for adequate words. Gave up. “For someone like
Greta, having an outlet for her intellect – being independent – well, these things to her were more than privileges she could adapt to being without. They were who she was.” Karl’s jaw tensed and his deep brown eyes were smouldering with anger. Then he seemed to recall once more where he was. “I am sorry. I didn’t mean to go on like that. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “Please.” She shook her head. “Don’t be sorry. I just wish I could think of something helpful to say. It sounds as if you have been through a lot.”

  “And what about you, Hedda? Are you happy?”

  The question startled her and she found herself unable to answer him, because the immediate response was an exclamatory “no”, which she could not allow. She stared at him in surprise for a moment, as much at his directness as at the certainty of her response.

  “I am sorry – again. People tell me – have always told me – that I am tactless. There is always something I am saying which is too spontaneous or not thought out. Excuse me.”

  Hedda composed herself once more and began to answer him, to make him feel less embarrassed. “I am not sure what ‘happy’ means. I am not depressed, like your poor wife – Greta? I have my children.” And she smiled again, though her eyes did not, and kissed Anselm’s head once more.

  Karl looked at her, mildly and levelly, as though about to make an evaluation. This time, though, he did not speak; he only thought how terribly unhappy she suddenly looked. “Do you know much about your husband’s work?”

  Again, his directness and the apparent unrelatedness of this question to his last one made Hedda frown. She felt a tinge of irritation and was reminded again of their evening in the Friedrichstrasse club, when his intensity and unease so unsettled her.

  “No. Of course I know he fought in Norway, like you, and before that he worked for Prime Minister Goering at the Reichsluftfahrtministerium. I don’t know what he did – sent planes to places and organized pilot training courses, I think. Then, of course, he trained as a parachutist and joined Flak Regiment Goering. He doesn’t talk to me about his work. I just know the obvious details.”