The Seventh Secret

by Irving Wallace

  In a relentless, rasping monotone, Leo Oberstadt recounted his story. Foster listened, fascinated at how Oberstadt's reliving of the past made it come alive in the present.

  Leo Oberstadt's father had been part Jewish, part Lutheran, and his mother had been Jewish. He himself was in his twenties, a civil engineer and a partner in the family's modest construction business, when the Second World War broke out. Hitler's conquest of Europe was well underway when Leo's parents' religious origin was discovered. His mother, father, and he were arrested and thrown into a concentration camp. Within a month, his parents were sent off to the gas chambers in Auschwitz. "I never saw them again. I also was slated for extermination in Auschwitz, and had already been ordered into the death chamber, when a Nazi officer—an SS doctor—noticed my powerful shoulders, and chest, and biceps, and yanked me out of line. A directive had just come through from Albert Speer. Hitler wanted able-bodied young men from the KZ Häftlinge—Kon-zentrationslagers Häftlinge—concentration camp prisoners—Jews, Poles, Czechs, Ukrainians, gypsies—to serve as slave laborers who could construct a series of underground bunkers throughout Germany."

  Leo Oberstadt toiled as a slave laborer on two subterranean bunkers outside Berlin—backbreaking, sweaty, inhuman work with hundreds of other prisoners---when it was learned that he was actually a civil engineer with experience in his father's business. After that he was elevated to serving as a construction foreman, forced to take orders from Nazi guards and give orders to his fellow prisoners.

  When their last job was almost complete, perhaps two months before the war ended, all of Leo's fellow slave laborers were led away to be liquidated. Leo alone, as their foreman, was allowed to stay alive the final two months to supervise the construction of rooms, offices, technical facilities in this last bunker. All the actual labor was done by young and fanatical members of the Hitler Youth. At no time before this construction began, or during his two-month imprisonment in the partially completed bunker, did Leo have the faintest notion as to where in Germany it was located. He had been brought to the job in the beginning blindfolded, and each night he was led away from the bunker site blindfolded until that last two months.

  Then one morning he was blindfolded again and thrown into the back of an army truck by SS troopers. He could hear heavy cannonading all about him. He was being driven off somewhere, and he sensed he was to be executed, but his eyes were covered and his wrists were bound and he was helpless.

  After a slow roundabout drive—a drive that took what he guessed to be at least twenty minutes—Leo heard one of the guards shout, "Get rid of him here! Let's beat it before we're ambushed!"

  Roughly lifted to his feet, Leo felt himself being shoved and pushed, until he was heaved off the truck to the pavement below. As he landed in the street, momentarily stunned, his blindfold fell off. He could see the German truck starting to wheel away as three of the SS troopers in the rear aimed their rifles at him.

  Frantically, Leo flung himself on his face, trying to avoid execution. But as the shots rang out, and he fell, one bullet caught him low in the back. He flattened out, was about to lose consciousness, when he saw before him a Soviet company of Red Army soldiers and three tanks break out of a onetime wooded area—now rubble-strewn, filled with stumps—and begin firing over him at the fleeing German truck. He thought that he heard the truck blow up, and then he sank into darkness.

  "I woke up in a Russian field hospital," Leo Oberstadt recalled painfully. "Surgery saved me, although I lost most of the use of my left leg. Eventually, when my background became known, I was released. I revived my father's old construction company. I married. I had a son. I worked hard. My business prospered during the rebuilding of Berlin. About five years ago, I lost the use of my other leg and had to retire." He fell silent, and picked up the stein of beer that had been served. He drank, licked his lips, and said, "Now, Mr. Foster, what can I do for you?"

  "I'll tell you exactly," said Foster. He spoke of his architectural book once more, and of the seven missing pieces, all underground headquarters bunkers inside West Germany. He told of the six he had found through Zeidler, each of their locations identified, and of the seventh bunker he had recovered from Spandau Prison. "I've located six bunkers. It's the seventh one, the only one Zeidler did for Hitler that bears no site identification, that I must know about. It is the largest of the bunkers, by far, and Zeidler thought that a laborer who worked on it might recognize it by its dimensions."

  "Let me see," said the elder Oberstadt.

  Foster tugged the folded plan of the seventh bunker from his jacket pocket, opened it, and handed it across the sofa to his host.

  Leo Oberstadt sipped his beer and examined the plan. "You are right," he rasped, "a big one, a very big one. And—very familiar."

  "You recognize it?" Foster asked eagerly.

  The elder Oberstadt nodded.

  "What we have here is the last bunker I worked on before they took me out to shoot me." He handed back the plan. "In fact, I'm certain this is the one."

  "But where was it built?"

  Leo Oberstadt looked at Foster with surprise. "Where was it built?" he repeated. "Why, I already told you. In Berlin, of course."

  "How can you be sure? You were underground most of the time, and then you were blindfolded."

  The old man shook his head slowly. "No, not all of the time, and not always blindfolded. I told you that they took me out of the bunker with my eyes covered to shoot me. They drove me what seemed to be twenty minutes away—it could have been only ten minutes away as the crow flies, but they had to go around the rubble—before they realized that they were about to be attacked by the Russians coming out of the devastated woods area. So they dumped me and tried to run and failed. "

  Foster seized on the last. "The Russians coming out of the woods area? What woods?"

  "Why out of the Tiergarten, of course. Today, it once again is one of the loveliest sites we have in Berlin. A short walk from what was then Hitler's Chancellery and the Führerbunker. Somewhere near there, I am sure, this seventh bunker was built."

  It surprised Nicholas Kirvov that, although it was still morning, he was so weary. He sat lumpily at the metal outdoor terrace table of something called Delphi's Taverna, and nursed his cup of dark tea. He stared across the terrace into the thoroughfare named Kantstrasse, and thought what a high-flown name it was for a street that was so low-down and second-rate. From the Esso gasoline station at the corner to the sex shop without windows but with provocative posters mounted beside it there were only cheap, nondescript stores. He could not imagine what kind of art gallery would be located in this block, but his list promised him there was one, the Tisher Gallery, probably no more than another half block away, and he had vowed to overlook no art gallery in central Berlin.

  What had made him stop for this brief respite was not weariness but discouragement. Despite his heavy frame, he had always been proud of his strong legs and his ability to bound up endless steep staircases. At home, he had always been propelled by enthusiasm. Here, in Berlin, he had become cramped in the legs and footsore because of frustration.

  He had been on his feet, and hiking about, for hours yesterday and since early this morning, trying to cover every art gallery in the Kurfûrstendamm area. After all, that ship's steward, Giorgio Ricci, if sure of nothing else, had insisted that he had purchased his Hitler oil not far from the Ku'damm. So Kirvov's goal had to be somewhere in this section. Yet each of the galleries he had already visited had rejected his Hitler painting without interest as a work they did not recognize and had never handled.

  Kirvov realized that the sun was finally peeking out from between gray clouds, and automatically he shifted his chair from under the partial shade of a tree to catch some warmth. Momentarily, he wondered if he should not quit his tiresome search and return to Leningrad, and then go on to join his wife and son on their vacation in Sochi. After all, he told himself, he had already managed to identify the subject of the Hitler painting.
It was certainly Göring's Air Ministry building. Identification enough to satisfy any viewer of his Hitler exhibit. Still, he had gone on, and knew that he would continue to go on, for another reason. Presumably Hitler had died in 1945. Yet his painting of the Göring Air Ministry had been painted in 1952 or later. In some respects, Kirvov had a literal mind. It did not entertain artistic discrepancies. Until this anachronism was explained, Kirvov knew that he would not leave Berlin.

  The sun had warmed and somehow revived him. He quickly downed the last of his tea, paid up, and descended into Kantstrasse.

  In five minutes, Kirvov saw the sign beside the door of the large modern shop on the ground floor of the six-story office building. It read: GALERIE TISHER BERLIN ANKAUF-VERKAUF

  Kirvov moved over to the display window. There were three large paintings, naturalistic, of Berlin scenes.

  Promising, Kirvov thought, and he walked back to the main entrance and went inside. The beige carpeting and blond paneled walls gave the room a lightness that only slightly offset the gloomy darkness of most of the hanging oils all around. There was a small desk, and a bespectacled young man at work behind it. A curving stairway led up to a small mezzanine which also displayed framed paintings for sale.

  Kirvov proceeded under the crystal chandelier to the young man writing at the desk. Aware that a customer was approaching, the young man came hastily to his feet, brushing his straw-colored hair away from his glasses.

  "Mr. Tisher?" Kirvov inquired.

  "Yes, I am Tisher. If I can be of help ..... His eyes fell on the painting, wrapped in felt, that Kirvov was carrying under his arm. "You perhaps have something to sell? We are always—"

  "Something to inquire about," said Kirvov. He laid his package on the desk, uncovered it, and held up the painting. "I hoped you might recognize this."

  Tisher took up the painting and squinted at it, wrinkling his nose. "A Berlin scene, I would presume. Probably from the Third Reich period. Not very good." He looked up. "Yes, we get—and get rid of—some of these from time to time."

  "I was hoping this was one of those you got rid of A gallery around here, possibly your own, sold it to someone I know. I acquired it. I'd like to know more about the provenance of the painting. I'd like to know if you handled the sale."

  "Offhand, I don't recognize this one. However, I'm not the person to consult. Our manager, who also makes most of our minor acquisitions, may be able to tell you with more certainty." Tisher put down the painting, cupped a hand to his mouth, and called up to the mezzanine. "Fräulein Dagmar! Can you please come down for a moment?"

  Nervously, Kirvov waited, watching the staircase. Soon a pair of legs materialized, and then a long formidable-appearing lady, possibly in her thirties, with severe features, horn-rimmed spectacles, black hair cut short.

  Tisher turned toward her. "This gentleman has a question. Perhaps you can help him." He peered past Kirvov toward two customers, a youngish couple, who had just entered. "If you will excuse me," he said to Kirvov, and was off to attend to business.

  "Yes?" Fräulein Dagmar was saying to Kirvov.

  "I'm here about this," said Kirvov, taking up his painting and handing it to her. "Do you recognize this work?"

  She merely glanced at the oil and looked at Kirvov. "Of course," she said. "I had this piece in the gallery for almost a year before I sold it. It is one of those Nazi pieces a few nostalgic collectors like, something very much in the style of Hitler's own art, although I could not definitely authenticate it. To me, a piece of junk I kept around in storage for a collector, and when none came, I finally had a whim to exhibit it. Two or three weeks later there was a buyer, a foreigner, an Italian as I recall. He knew little about art, but he was intrigued that it might have been done by Hitler himself. He bought it."

  Kirvov felt a sense of excitement. "I know who bought it," he said. "What I want to know is who sold it. I mean, sold it to you." He pressed harder. "You must have a receipt of purchase."

  Fräulein Dagmar stiffened. "I do. But I am afraid I can't reveal this to anyone. Our transactions with clients who dispose of their art must necessarily remain privileged information. I am sorry, but I simply cannot tell just anyone who comes in off the street."

  In desperation, Kirvov sought his wallet. He fumbled inside it, and drew out his card, passing it to the lady, "I am not just anyone off the street, Fräulein , as you will see."

  She looked down at the business card with disinterest, and then her head jerked up, her eyes widening behind their thick lenses. "You—you are Mr. Kirvov, curator of the Hermitage museum in Leningrad?"

  "I am."

  Fräulein Dagmar was immediately respectful, even awed. "Forgive me, I apologize. This is an honor. What can I do for you?"

  "Simply tell me how you got the painting, who sold it to you. In the Hermitage we have a large collection of early paintings and drawings by Hitler. They are historic curiosities. When I acquired this one I determined to show it as part of an exhibit that will be widely attended. As curator, I feel it is my duty to establish the provenance of this work. I hope you will help me."

  "I certainly shall try!" said Fräulein Dagmar enthusiastically. "You deserve our cooperation. Let me find my copy of the purchase slip."

  She hurried off on her long legs, disappearing behind an office door. Smiling for the first time this day, Kirvov slowly and lovingly wrapped his treasure in its felt cover once more.

  He had hardly finished when Fräulein Dagmar was striding toward him again, carrying a slip of paper. "The person who sold it to us was a German woman in her early thirties, my guess. Her name is Mrs. Klara Fiebig. I remember that she told me she had got the painting as a gift from a friend or relative. She did not like it, but kept it out of sentiment. Her husband did not like it either, because it was a Nazi work. Finally, he insisted that she get rid of it. So she came to us here at Tisher. I did not see much of a market for it, but I checked in the office and realized that it just might be a Hitler or an excellent imitation of a Hitler, so I decided to buy it as an unusual minor item." She handed Kirvov the slip of paper. "This is the address Mrs. Fiebig gave me on Knesebeckstrasse. It is off the Ku'damm, an apartment district, a short taxi ride from here but not too far to walk either."

  "I thank you very much."

  "I bought it for a pittance." Then she added regretfully, "I wish I had sold it for more. I did not know it was quite so valuable."

  "It is not, as art. Only as history."

  Kirvov walked swiftly out of the gallery, his legs springy and once more strong.

  Waiting patiently outside the door to the Fiebigs' third-story apartment after ringing the doorbell, Kirvov realized that his tension was mounting. He held the covered painting more possessively under his arm, and continued to debate within himself what excuse he might use to gain admittance for this interview.

  Not until he heard footsteps behind the door did the excuse come to him.

  The door was opening, and Kirvov girded himself.

  In the doorway stood a rather tall young brunette, dark eyes, tilted nose, wearing a light pink maternity gown. Since she was slender, showing no sign of pregnancy, Kirvov guessed the gown was a premature celebration. She appeared to be in her thirties. She was gazing at Kirvov with curiosity.

  "Mrs. Klara Fiebig?" Kirvov inquired.

  "Yes," she replied tentatively.

  "My name is Nicholas Kirvov. I've been given your name. I wanted to have a brief word with you."

  "About what?"

  "About a work of art," said Kirvov.

  Klara's expression was puzzled. "Art? I know nothing about art. I don't understand."

  This was it, Kirvov knew, and he must not give her time to think. "Let me explain," he said, digging into his inside jacket pocket for his wallet. He pulled out his embossed calling card, put his wallet back, and handed her the card. He spoke quickly. "I'm the head of the Hermitage art museum in Leningrad. It is quite well known—"

  "Of course, I've heard of it,"
she said, still concentrating on the card.

  "I've come to Berlin to interview some collectors about German art."

  'But I'm not a collector," Klara said.

  "I am aware of that. I merely want your opinion, your thoughts, on something I hope to write about and exhibit. Please, may I have a word with you? It won't take up much of your time."

  He took a decisive step, putting a foot across her threshold, as if expecting to be invited inside.

  Klara Fiebig seem flustered. "I don't know. I'm not—"

  "Thank you for your kindness," said Kirvov. He was inside her entry hall. "I won't be a minute."

  "Well, all right, but I'm sure you are wasting your time." Her good manners got the best of her. "You may sit down. But I'm really very busy today."

  "A minute, no more," said Kirvov. He was already in the parlor, automatically noting the tasteful prints on the wall. He glanced at a wheelchair in the corner, then sat down in one of the armchairs that flanked the coffee table.

  He began to unwrap his Hitler painting, as Klara Fiebig lowered herself onto the sofa near him. He was aware that she was watching him guardedly.

  He had the painting out, and held it up for her to see. "I am told that you once owned this painting," he said. "I am told that you sold it to the Tisher Gallery."

  She eyed the oil briefly, but showed no reaction or recognition. "This painting," she said. "What is so important about it that you must know?"

  "It is a rarity of the Third Reich," said Kirvov, "and as such is of interest to me as a museum curator and a collector of German art. I want to authenticate it." He stared at her. "I must learn where you got it."

  Klara squinted, studying the oil closely. At last, she shook her head. "No," she said, "I never saw this one before. I did once own an old painting of a Berlin street scene that my husband considered ugly. So finally—I do not remember when—I disposed of the piece."

  Kirvov tried to determine her sincerity. Her expression gave no evidence of familiarity. Kirvov repressed his disappointment. "Mrs. Fiebig, the lady at the Tisher Gallery, a Fräulein Dagmar, when I showed her this painting, she remembered it and remembered having bought it from you. It was she who gave me your name and address. Does that jog your memory?"