The Seventh Secret

by Irving Wallace

  As other men collect stamps, coins, rare books, Kirvov had taken up the hobby of collecting Hitler's drawings and paintings. Kirvov had located eight of Hitler's art pieces moldering away in storage in the Red Army's archives, traced three more to East Berlin, and four to Vienna, obtained photographs of them for study, and finally, when he had been appointed the head of the Hermitage six months ago, he had acquired every one of the forgotten canvases on loan. To what end he had them stacked in the cupboards of his private office, the one adjacent to his public office, he did not know. Possibly for some future article or pamphlet. Maybe even some kind of showing. His purpose was unclear yet. He knew only that he had coveted the fifteen, and, with a collector's greed, coveted even more.

  For that reason, today was an exciting day. For today, by sheer chance, Nicholas Kirvov was going to have an opportunity to set eyes upon a sixteenth Hitler painting, one he had never seen before.

  The letter had come to Kirvov from Copenhagen a week ago. This letter, written in perfect English, was signed by one Giorgio Ricci, who claimed to be an Italian-American with an apartment in San Francisco. Mr. Ricci had introduced himself as a steward on a luxury cruise ship, the Royal Viking Sky, a Norwegian vessel based in San Francisco that took a summer cruise that encompassed stops at Copenhagen, Leningrad, Helsinki, Stockholm, Oslo, and London. Mr. Ricci had stated that he possessed a modest art collection, and, while visiting West Berlin recently, he had obtained from a reputable gallery an unsigned oil painting attributed to Adolf Hitler. Mr. Ricci had been uncertain whether the painting was authentic. Shortly afterward, he had come upon a magazine article that spoke of Nazi art, and the feature had included a reference to the early paintings by Hitler. It had also mentioned the names of several persons who were known to be experts on Hitler's artistic efforts, and one of these experts was Mr. Nicholas Kirvov, formerly an assistant curator at the Pushkin Fine Arts Museum in Moscow, recently appointed curator of the Hermitage in Leningrad.

  Since Mr. Ricci was on the cruise ship that would stop over in Leningrad for two days, he had seen this as a wonderful opportunity to bring his questionable Hit-ler oil ashore and show it to Nicholas Kirvov at the Hermitage. Mr. Ricci had given the date of the ship's arrival, and hoped that Mr. Kirvov would be in the city and have time to see him.

  Disappointed that Ricci had not described the Hitler oil, but excited that another of those unknown to him still existed, Kirvov had cabled the steward care of the Royal Viking office in Copenhagen and said that he would be pleased to meet with Mr. Ricci. Then, Kirvov had alerted the Leningrad customs office to pass Ricci through with his painting.

  The appointment was for this very day, and, coming to work in the morning, Kirvov had been able to visualize the arrival of the sleek white Royal Viking Sky, which he had once seen glide into the harbor of Leningrad. If nothing had gone wrong, then Giorgio Ricci should be in his office, with the Hitler canvas, in—he glanced at the wall clock—in fifteen minutes.

  Discarding the paper wrapping from his pirozhok, brushing the crumbs off his desk, Kirvov tried to think if he had any pressing museum business before receiving his caller. He was extremely attentive to his job because his appointment as curator had been a surprise and a tremendous honor. He had been doing nicely in a secondary museum spot in Moscow, had been able to live comfortably with his wife and young son, when the magic had happened. Curator of the Hermitage at the age of forty. The minister of culture had overnight made Kirvov one of the Soviet Union's intellectual names.

  Kirvov had loved the Hermitage from the day of his arrival. He had loved the five buildings that comprised the museum—the original Winter Palace, the Small Hermitage, the Big Hermitage, the Hermitage Theater, and the New Hermitage—the first four of these lining the left bank of the Neva River. He had wished there were more funds to spruce up the main building, the Winter Palace that housed his offices—money to provide some fresh paint, some plastering, better lighting—but whatever money was available had been earmarked for new acquisitions. Not that there wasn't the best of everything on hand already. Ever since 1764, when Catherine the Great had authorized the first major purchase-225 canvases from the German merchant Johann Gotzkowsky, including a Franz Halsthe acquisitions had never ceased arriving. In 1772 Italian art had begun to flow in, Titian, Raphael, Tintoretto, followed by the French masters Watteau and Chardin. Then in 1865 a Leonardo da Vinci. After 1931, the Postimpressionists, filling the Hermitage in its upper halls with thirty-seven Matisses, thirty-six Picassos, fifteen Gauguins, eleven Cezannes, four Van Goghs, and countless other treasures.

  The first organizer of this flood of paint had been known as a "custodian" in 1797. By 1863, a curator was added, and soon after two expert assistants. Gradually there were catalogues to popularize the collection, and eventually sophisticated equipment like an X-ray machine to detect forgeries or authenticate masterpieces. In fact it was X rays that had proved that the Hermitage's Adoration of the Magi by Rembrandt, thought to be the copy of the original in Sweden, was the original itself.

  Now Nicholas Kirvov was the new curator and in control. He had used his first six months to arrange better placement for the masterpieces, and to undertake preparation of a new catalogue that would highlight the best of over eight thousand works of art in the Hermitage. A catalogue would accompany his first exhibit, and he wished he could find some way, some unusual approach, to popularize the exhibit further. There were more than three million people who came to wander through the Hermitage each year, but Kirvov wanted more, many more.

  His eye caught the wall clock, and he realized that his musings had taken up most of his spare time and that his caller should be here any minute. That instant there was a rap on the door, and his secretary opened it and said, "Mr. Giorgio Ricci is here, sir."

  "Show him in," said Kirvov, springing to his feet.

  His visitor came tentatively into the office, carrying an unwieldy package under one arm. He was a slight, unprepossessing young man, maybe in his thirties, with big Italian round eyes and an undershot jaw. He wore a pale blue sweater and faded blue jeans. Some gold showed in his teeth and he smiled. "Mr. Kirvov," he said. "I am Giorgio Ricci, of the Royal Viking Sky."

  Kirvov came forward quickly, his stocky five feet ten seeming to make him much bigger than his visitor, and warmly shook his hand. "I am delighted you could come to see me," said Kirvov, leading his guest to a chair beside the desk. "Do sit down. Be comfortable. Can I get you something to drink—Pepsi, vodka, coffee, anything?"

  "No, thanks. I don't want to take up too much of your time. And I don't have much myself."

  "Very well," said Kirvov, settling in his seat at the desk. "Then we shall get right down to business. Let me see your so-called Hitler painting."

  Ricci lifted the package to his lap. "They assured me at the gallery in West Berlin that it had been done by Hitler. Because it was not signed, they made it a bar-gain price. I could have been taken. I don't know. I hope you can tell me."

  "Maybe," said Kirvov. His curiosity was getting the better of him. "Perhaps you'd let me see for myself."

  Ricci had undone the brown paper wrapping and pulled free the picture. "I took it out of the frame," he said. "It's reinforced with these thin wooden slats."

  It was apparently light, because he needed only one hand to grasp it and pass it over the desk to Kirvov.

  Kirvov had it before him under the glare of his over-head fluorescents. He judged it to be fifteen inches across and twelve inches high. It was a dark oil canvas, a rather somber painting of what appeared to be the front of a weather-beaten official building of some sort or other. It had been rendered by the artist from across a wide street, so that one could see the pillars before the entrance to the six-story stone building. The inset entrance and the decorated wall to its left were dim and lost in shadows. There was no signature.

  "A government building, I'd guess," said Kirvov. "it could have been done by Hitler. He was partial toward painting buildings in Linz, Vienna
, Munich. But I don't recognize this one from what I know of those cities or of Hitler's other art." He looked up. "Any idea where and what this is?"

  "No idea. The gallery wasn't sure, either. But they guaranteed me, from the provenance, it was by Hitler."

  "What was the provenance?"

  "They said they couldn't reveal that. It was part of their deal in acquiring it. Anyway, they were positive it was by Hitler." He hesitated. "I guess someone did not want to admit owning an original Hitler from the old days. Is it real?"

  "Umm, possibly real," murmured Kirvov, studying the painting closely. "Mostly, he did not paint canvases this large. He was supposed to have made three hundred pictures. Only a handful have survived. He did some drawing in his youth, in Linz where he went to Realschule, what Americans would call high school. Then in 1907 he went to Vienna to enter the Academy Of Fine Arts. There was a two-part test. In the first half, Hitler was told to depict, among other subjects, Cain killing Abel. In the second half, he had to paint or draw the Good Samaritan and Noah's Flood. His test verdict read, 'Test drawing unsatisfactory.' Hitler returned a year later for another attempt to enter the Academy of Fine Arts. His new samples were regarded as poor, and he was not allowed to take the test again."

  "So he became a politician."

  "Not yet. He was bitter about the Academy of Fine Arts' rejection and blamed his failure on the Jewish bureaucrats he claimed dominated the academy. Still, he didn't go into politics right away. He went on with his painting to support himself meagerly. He did watercolors of postcard size, copies from real postcards, and he had a friend who peddled them in return for half the income. His friend sold them to art dealers who needed innocuous pictures to fill empty frames for display, and to furniture dealers who varnished the pictures on wooden chairs and love seats."

  "Did he do any larger pictures?" asked Ricci.

  "Yes, eventually. Some twice the size of postcards. A few oils the size of this one you've brought me. Even some posters. He signed all of them 'A. Hitler.' He usually earned thirty-six to fifty-four rubles—ten to fifteen dollars in your money—for each one sold."

  "And you know that he favored buildings over portraits?"

  "Definitely. He had no feel for people. Someone once said that when he drew human figures they looked like stuffed sacks. But he had an eye for architecture. When he moved to Munich he registered himself as an 'architectural painter.' " Kirvov paused to examine the canvas on his desk again. "Considering Hitler's taste, this could have been done by him." Kirvov stood up, the canvas in hand. "One second."

  He went to the door of his secretary's office, and opened it. "Sonya," he called out. "Have Comrade Zorin take a look at this." He handed the painting to his secretary. "Tell him this unsigned oil supposedly was painted by Adolf Hitler. Tell him I'd like his opinion."

  Returning to his desk, Kirvov said, "Comrade Zorin is one of our experts who shares my interest in Hitler's youthful artistic follies. Most definitely, buildings. In 1911, he drew the Minorite Church in Vienna. Earlier, he drew or painted the Vienna Burg Theatre, St. Stephen's Cathedral, Schonbrunn Palace, the Feldherrnhalle, a watercolor he called Street. in Vienna. After he moved to Munich he painted the Der Alter Hof—as late as 1914, I believe—The Old Court, which showed a grand house with a courtyard before it. Later, when Hitler came to power, he rounded up and destroyed many of his early efforts. Still, Hitler was not always displeased with his work. He once gave Albert Speer, his architect, a canvas of a Gothic church he had painted in 1909. He gave a few other canvases he liked to Göring and to Mussolini."

  Ricci leaned forward. "Then you think what I've shown you is an authentic Hitler?"

  "It certainly has some of the characteristics of Hitler's brush. First off, an official building as the subject. Then the style. Hitler praised his own artistry for its 'photo-graphic exactitude.' That is what your painting offers—a photographic quality, very real, but unimaginative and ordinary. It has what Hitler so admired in an artist he himself collected, one Adolf Ziegler, a Munich second-rater—it has a kind of stilted grandeur. Yes, what you have shown me could be a genuine Hitler."

  "I hope so," said Ricci nervously. He kept glancing at the door, obviously conscious that the verdict would soon be in. Then, as if to fill the passage of time, he asked, -Do you know anything of Hitler's own tastes, not as a painter but as a collector?"

  Kirvov wrinkled his fleshy nose. "Hitler was devoid of any true artistic taste. When he became chancellor of Germany, he tried to wipe out all modern and avant-garde painters and paintings. He called them degenerates. He despised Picasso and Kandinsky. He liked classical art, anything derived from Greek-Nordic art. He called modern eroticism in paintings 'pig art,' al-though he admired healthy and innocent classical nudes. A dull and mediocre man, our artistic Hitler. Still he is elusive and mysterious as a person and it amuses me to collect his art."

  For ten minutes, Kirvov discussed German art under Hitler, and then there was a knock on the door. Kirvov jumped up, opened the door, took the oil back from his secretary along with a note.

  Sitting, Kirvov laid down the painting and read the note. He nodded to himself and took in his guest once more. "As I expected," said Kirvov. "My expert out there believes this might be a Hitler. Of course, he can't be positive with such a brief examination. He would need more time to study it. At any rate, I think you can rest assured that my associate and I believe it is probably authentic."

  Kirvov stood up to return the canvas to his visitor.

  The cruise steward also rose. "I appreciate this. I want to thank you, and pay you whatever you—"

  Kirvov smiled. "No charge. On the house. In fact, I appreciate the opportunity to have been able to see an unknown Hitler painting." He started to hand over the canvas to Ricci. "You will be pleased to add this to your Hitler collection."

  Ricci did not take the painting. "I have no Hitler collection. To be honest, I have no interest in Hitler's art at all."

  "But then why did you . . ." He stared at his guest. "You want to sell it? Is that it?"

  "No, not really," said Ricci. "I bought it in order to trade it for something I'd rather have, something else I've been collecting for a few years now."

  Kirvov raised a quizzical eyebrow. "What are you collecting?"

  "Icons. Old Russian icons. I love them. Actually I've been in Russia before on cruises, and made some contacts, and I have three so far. I'd like more. But I find them rather expensive." He hesitated. "I—I'd let you have this Hitler painting in return for a genuine icon, if you have any to spare."

  Kirvov thought about the offer. But not for very long.

  He coveted the Hitler painting on his desk. It might be a rarity and would certainly enhance his collection. He had little doubt about its authenticity. As to icons, he had dozens to spare in storage, several that could please Ricci and yet were too mediocre to display in the Hermitage. As curator, he had complete autonomy when it came to trading minor or duplicate items.

  Kirvov grinned. "Agreed. I have your Hitler. You will have my Jesus Christ."

  Five minutes later, Ricci had his icon—small, glittering, a silver-plated frame holding a miniature painted head of Jesus, his robe a golden metal finish—and the ship's steward was thrilled.

  Showing the steward to the door, Kirvov stopped him for a moment. "Just one more thing. The name of the gallery in West Berlin where you purchased the painting?"

  Ricci's face was briefly blank. "I don't remember now. Somewhere near downtown Berlin. Let me—" He tried to think, with no apparent success, and shrugged his shoulders. "Never mind. It's on the receipt I mailed home. I'll remember to send it on to you the minute I get back there."

  "Please do remember."

  After Giorgio Ricci had left for his ship, Kirvov was once more alone in his office. He started slowly back to his desk, picked up the Hitler oil, studied it, and beamed.

  For an idea had struck him as he had been showing the ship's steward out, the perfect unusual mean
s to publicize and popularize his first major exhibit at the Hermitage. It was clearly defined in his mind now. He would segregate one hall on the top floor and label it THE ART OF THE FASCIST MURDERER ADOLF HITLER. From the four walls he would hang blowups of photographs of the Nazi devastation of war-torn Leningrad, Stalingrad, and the fall of Berlin, as well as the naked corpses of innocent people that greeted the Allied liberators in Auschwitz, Dachau, and the Warsaw ghetto. Then, as ironic counterpoints to this savagery, Kirvov would hang the fifteen pieces of Hitler's early art he already had in his possession. Once more the Russian public would be reminded that the German dictator had been an animal and a violent schizophrenic.

  Yes, this latest oil, along with the other Hitler art he had on loan, would be the springboard to his first great success as curator of the Hermitage.

  But then, studying the ponderous oil of the dark building, Kirvov had one concern. Millions would see it and accept it as Hitler's, yet there might be one among them who would question its authenticity. Kirvov knew that he must be certain that this oil was by Hitler, and if possible learn what kind of building it portrayed and its location as well.

  How to authenticate it immediately? At once, Kirvov remembered a recent article he had read by Professor Otto Blaubach, the East German government minister who was an eminent historian of the Third Reich and the Führer's life. If anyone could tell him about this painting, it would be Blaubach. Kirvov riffled through his desk calendar and saw the notations he had made on it. Next week he was to go with his wife and son to Sochi on the Black Sea for their annual vacation. In a way, that made it easier. He would send them ahead while he spent a week in East Berlin to see Blaubach. After that he would join the family at their vacation resort.