But Klara was adamant in her denial. "Your lady at Tisher is confused completely. She is mistaken. I never saw this before."
Kirvov searched for a crack in her composure, but there was none. He suspected that she had seen the painting before, and even had owned it, yet there was no way to prove it. Slowly, he began to wrap the painting once more. "Very well," he said. "It must be a mistake."
"It certainly is," said Klara, standing. "I am sorry you wasted your time."
Kirvov was on his feet, and she showed him the door.
"I appreciate your help," he said. "Too bad I couldn't learn more about the oil. It would have been useful."
As she opened the door for him, she could not resist one last question. "This oil of yours, what is so interesting about it?"
Stepping into the corridor, Kirvov replied offhandedly, "Oh, simply that Adolf Hitler painted this work in 1952 or after."
"How ridiculous," Klara snapped. "Everyone knows that Hitler died in 1945."
"Exactly," said Kirvov. "That's what makes this painting so interesting. Good day."
Throughout the rest of the afternoon Klara remained shaken, as she awaited the arrival of her aunt Evelyn Hoffmann.
The moment she had observed that the menacing stranger, the Russian curator, had left the apartment building, she had rushed to the bedroom to awaken her mother, who was napping.
Once her mother was fully aroused, and sitting up, Klara was apologetic. "Mama, I hate to bother you like this, but I had to. There is something I must tell you."
"What is it, Klara? You look frightened."
"I am frightened, Mama. Remember the painting of the government building that Aunt Evelyn gave Franz and me on our first wedding anniversary? The one Franz hated so much, until I had to get rid of it?"
"Yes, of course."
"Well, a man was just here, an art expert, who said the painting was done by Adolf Hitler."
"Ridiculous!"
"That's what I told him. And even crazier, he insisted that Hitler painted it seven years after the war—"
"This crazy man, who was he?"
"I'll tell you . . ."
She rapidly recounted everything of Nicholas Kirvov's visit.
When she concluded, Klara added helplessly, "Mama, I don't know what this is all about. But this Kirvov is going to write about it. I'm afraid Aunt Evelyn will find out that I sold her present. I—I'd better see her and explain before she hears of it. I'll call her right up."
"Klara, you know Aunt Evelyn doesn't have a telephone. But I know how to get hold of her. Just leave it to me."
"I want to see her today."
"If it can be done. Now help me out of bed. Then leave me alone in here. I'll take care of everything." That had been two hours ago.
Klara knew from her mother that Aunt Evelyn had been informed and would be over soon. She waited expectantly in the parlor for her aunt, eager to see her, but dreading the confession she would have to make about selling the picture.
Ten minutes more passed, as Klara's nervousness increased, and then there was the doorbell and there was her Aunt Evelyn, attractive and composed, and now seated across from her.
"I'm sorry I had to drag you out like this, Auntie."
"No matter, no problem at all. My only concern was that something might be wrong with you. Are you all right? Your pregnancy?"
"I'm fine, Auntie," Klara said. "But there is something wrong, and I thought I had better tell you about it as soon as possible. I—I have a confession to make, and I only hope it won't upset you."
"Klara, dear, nothing you say can upset me," said Evelyn. "I love you dearly. Tell me what you have to confess."
Klara swallowed. "Auntie, it's about the painting."
"Painting?"
"The one you gave to me and Franz on our first wedding anniversary. The one of the Berlin government building that was in your husband's collection of German art. You remember?"
Evelyn nodded. "Yes, now I remember."
"Well—" Klara gulped, then blurted, "Auntie, a year ago I sold it—sold it to a gallery."
Evelyn seemed bewildered. "Sold it?"
"I had to," Klara pleaded, and rushed on. "I'll be honest with you. Franz never liked it, but because it was a generous gift from you I kept it. Then, one evening, maybe a year ago, Franz had some of his friends, his fellow teachers, over here for a card game. He showed one of his friends, the art instructor at his school, the painting. This friend asked Franz what he was doing with such a terrible painting around. Franz asked what he meant. His friend said the painting was clearly a picture of one of the Nazi government buildings, and obviously had been done by a Nazi artist who painted in the style that Hitler favored, even possibly painted by Hitler himself. At any rate, Franz's friend was positive it was a work of Nazi art." Klara swallowed. "Well, you know how Franz feels about the Nazis. Anyway, when his friends went home, Franz came to me and asked me to get rid of the piece. I told him I couldn't, that it was a gift from you. 'Nevertheless, get it out of here,' he insisted. 'Your Aunt Evelyn will never know. Just get it out of here.' So, much as I didn't want to, I—I went to some gallery in the neighborhood and sold it to them, and just forgot about it." She swallowed guiltily. "I hope you'll forgive me, Aunt Evelyn."
Evelyn Hoffmann remained composed. "Is that what you wanted to see me about, Klara? I completely understand. After all, your first duty is to get along with your husband. I'm sorry he was displeased by the painting, and you had to sell it, but if that's all there is to it."
"That's not all, Auntie," Klara interrupted. "There is something else that happened."
For the first time, Evelyn Hoffmann's face betrayed an indication of concern. "Something else?"
"Early this afternoon," Klara hurried on. "A man came by here, an art curator from Leningrad, a man named Nicholas Kirvov, and he had the painting with him. The painting you gave us. Apparently he had seen it at the Tisher Gallery and acquired it from them. He wants to show the painting in an exhibition of German art he is mounting at the Hermitage in Leningrad. He wanted to know more about the painting, for his catalogue or maybe an art book, I'm not sure."
"What did you tell him?" Evelyn asked slowly.
"Not a thing. I told him I'd never owned the painting nor even seen it before. I didn't want to get involved in this."
Evelyn showed her approval. "You behaved correctly, Klara. There's nothing to worry your head about. If all that is worrying you is that I might learn you sold it, and be upset—well, don't give it another thought—"
"There's something else, Auntie. Something really strange and spooky."
"What's that?"
"When Mr. Kirvov was leaving, I asked him what was so interesting about his painting. He said that the painting was done by Adolf Hitler, and it was done in 1952. I told him that was absurd, that Hitler couldn't have done it because he died in 1945. Mr. Kirvov said yes, that was what made the painting interesting."
Evelyn Hoffmann straightened herself. "That is absurd. Mr. Kirvov must be a lunatic."
"That's what I thought, Auntie. It couldn't have been painted by Hitler, could it? I mean, where would you have got such a thing?"
"It was not painted by Hitler," said Evelyn Hoffmann firmly. "That would have been impossible. My husband, your uncle, would not have permitted anything by a Nazi to be in his collection. Your uncle was an old-fashioned Social Democrat. This man who visited you, he was talking utter nonsense. I can't imagine his motive. Anyway, we know this city is filled with crackpots and provocateurs. You can forget the whole thing, dear Klara. As for selling off the painting, I do understand, and you can put your mind at ease." She rose, leaned over, and pecked a kiss at Klara. "I will always love you, dearly. Now I must hurry off to an appointment."
Evelyn found Wolfgang Schmidt at their isolated restaurant table, so absorbed in his lunch that he did not see her at first. She noticed that he was busy slicing and swallowing a grilled Leberwurst, and chomping on a piece of Westphalian pu
mpernickel, which he was washing down with a strong beer.
She smiled at his appetite and was about to sit down when he became aware of her presence, came ponderously to his feet, still chewing, and made a motion of kissing the back of her hand. "How good to see you, Evelyn," he said as they both sat down. He gestured at his plate. "Forgive my not waiting. I was too busy to eat earlier, and my stomach was rumbling."
"And I am late," she said.
"Will you join me? The sausage is excellent."
"Not today, Wolfgang. I have no stomach for food. I think I'll have a glass of white wine . . ." She saw a waitress approaching and called out, "A glass of Kallstadter Sammagen, please." She turned back to him. "I was hoping that you could see me."
"Your message was enough, Evelyn. Liesl said it was urgent. Is that so?"
"I'm afraid it is. At first I had no idea how important, but a message from Klara is unusual, so I lost no time seeing her." Evelyn nodded gravely. "Yes, Wolfgang, it is important."
He wiped his mouth with his napkin and eyed her. "You will tell me about it?"
"It concerned the painting I once gave Klara."
Schmidt was momentarily confused. "Painting?"
"It was long ago, so you may have forgotten." She tried to explain the painting. "Many years before, in a time when the Feldherr was bored and restless, I had an idea to keep him occupied. I took a hasty photograph one late day of the Reichsluftfahrtministerium—Göring's old place—and gave it to the Feldherr so he could busy himself rendering it as a small painting."
"Of course I remember. Then you gave this painting to Klara as an anniversary present."
Evelyn waited for her wine to be served, and for a while stared at it gloomily. "It was a mistake, that gift. I should never have done it."
"Why not?"
"Because Klara sold it. Of course, she had no idea of its value. Her husband did not like it, so she sold it to a local gallery. A Russian obtained it—a Russian who is the curator of the Hermitage in Leningrad—"
"Nicholas Kirvov," Schmidt said promptly. "One of Miss Ashcroft's new friends."
"I was afraid of that. Yes, Kirvov. He recognized that it had been painted by the Feldherr. Kirvov is an expert in such matters. He wanted to know more about it, and traced it to Klara. He called on her."
"But she could tell him nothing," said Schmidt. "She knows nothing."
Evelyn took a sip of her wine. "That is not the point, Wolfgang. Of course she could tell him nothing. But he was able to tell her something."
"Tell her what?"
"Before leaving, Kirvov told her that the painting was interesting because it had been done in 1952 or after, although the artist was supposed to have died in 1945."
"How could he have known that?"
"I have no idea, Wolfgang. I really don't know what put Kirvov onto this." She took another sip of wine. "I only know that now Kirvov is suspicious that the events of 1945 may not be as they have been reported."
Schmidt grunted, and automatically cleaned his plate as he tried to think. "You believe it is serious?"
"Very serious."
"Possibly."
Evelyn sighed. "We must be wary, Wolfgang." She shook her head. "I am sorry I let that painting out of my hands. It could be damning."
"You need not worry," Schmidt assured her. "I can take care of the painting. It will soon not exist as evidence."
"You are sure?"
"I promise you. Meanwhile, I must give this whole matter more thought, try to anticipate Kirvov's next step, try to think of precautions." He reached out for Evelyn's hand. "Do not worry, Effie. Meet me here again tomorrow. I will have a defense. Our intelligence is excellent. We will be ready for any threatening act. We will move faster." He began to rise. "Tomorrow, Effie. Right here."
"I will be here, Wolfgang, you can be sure."
The handsome old woman had walked the distance on foot, vigorously for her age, and Nicholas Kirvov in his rented Opel had followed her slowly until he had seen her turn off the Ku'damm and disappear inside a restaurant that bore the name Mampes Gute Stube.
Fortunately, Kirvov was able to find a parking place less than a block away. Hurriedly, he left the car and strode back to the restaurant. Approaching, he could see that the Mampes Gute Stube was a combination enclosed sidewalk Café and restaurant. The Café area was glassed in and had a sloping roof. Since Kirvov thought that he had seen her go through the Café into the restaurant beyond, he felt it safe to enter the Café area.
Inside, he found the Café quite elegant, round tables set on green carpeting with chairs upholstered in green velveteen. He looked around and saw one unoccupied table, near the central aisle. Going toward it, he noted through the door of the restaurant that a bar and dining room were visible. The older woman was not visible.
Seated, Kirvov accepted the menu from a waiter. He was not hungry, but he knew that he had to order something. Glancing at the list of desserts, he settled on sour cherries and cream, and placed his order.
Smoking, he reflected on what had taken place earlier in the afternoon. The meeting with Klara Fiebig had been fruitless. Yet, leaving her apartment, he had been suspicious. He wondered whether she had been lying. There was no way to find out unless, in a panic about his visit, she left the apartment to meet someone else. He had decided to sit and wait in his Opel, parked on Knesebeckstrasse, and keep an eye on Klara's building.
After two hours or more, his vigil had seemed useless. Three people had entered the apartment building—an elderly man carrying a shopping bag, a good-looking older woman, a boy with some schoolbooks in hand. No one had emerged from the building. Obviously, Klara Fiebig had found no reason to panic and leave. Finally, Kirvov had made up his mind that his suspicions about her had been senseless. He had reached a blind alley.
About to start his car and drive away, he had paused when he had seen the entrance door of the apartment building open and two women emerge. One was Klara Fiebig holding the arm of the handsome older woman he had seen enter the building earlier. Klara spoke to the older woman, and the older woman nodded, and then they kissed. Klara had gone back inside the building, and the older woman proceeded down the street. In his rearview mirror, Kirvov considered the receding figure of the older woman. She had come here to visit Klara. Perhaps she had been summoned by Klara. A tenuous lead, but still a lead.
Kirvov had made a U-turn and, at a distance, had followed her to the Kurfûrstendamm, and then crept along, honked at by other drivers for his slowness, until he had seen her go inside the restaurant.
Now, spooning his cherries and fresh cream, he was waiting for her to emerge from inside. To what end he did not know, but still he had nowhere else to go. So he ate and he waited, and finally he smoked.
At least forty more minutes had passed, and Kirvov had just paid his bill, when his patience was rewarded. There she was, the handsome older woman, starting down the Café aisle, followed by a big erect grizzly bear of a man, a healthy specimen for one in his sixties or seventies. Watching them come near, then pass him, Kirvov saw someone in a purple dress, a middle-aged female, rise from another table and reach out to get the big man's attention.
"Wolfgang," the female greeted him. "How are you?"
The big man named Wolfgang stopped and shook her hand. "Ursula. It's been a long time." The handsome older woman, who had preceded him, halted and turned, distracted. For an instant the big man hesitated, and then he introduced the two women. -My dear, this is Ursula Schleiter. Ursula, please meet Evelyn Hoffmann." A waiter intervened, noisily setting down some plates, and Kirvov lost the rest of the conversation.
Then he saw the big man named Wolfgang leading Evelyn Hoffmann out of the café. On the sidewalk of the Ku'damm, they exchanged a few words and parted, going in different directions.
Quickly Kirvov rose and decided to follow Evelyn Hoffmann once more. Probably an exercise in futility. Still, she was the one tie to Klara Fiebig.
On the Ku'damm, well behind her, he did
not have far to go. Evelyn Hoffmann's immediate destination was the corner bus stop across the street. She queued up with the others waiting for a bus, and in a few minutes a yellow double-decker bus, with the number 29 above its windshield, rolled to a halt. Kirvov watched until he saw the Hoffmann woman step into the bus, and then he whirled around and hastily made for his parked car.
Driving on the Ku'damm once more, Kirvov kept the bus in view all the way along the busy boulevard to Breitscheidplatz, watching to observe whether Evelyn Hoffmann left the bus, and saw that she didn't. Falling directly behind the bus, he slowed his car at every stop to confirm that Evelyn Hoffmann was still aboard, and remained satisfied that she was.
Staying close to the bus, he marked a whole series of new signs blur past—Tauentzienstrasse, Kleiststrasse, Liitzowplatz Landwehrkanal. Going through this unfamiliar territory, he noted they were fifteen minutes away from their start, and there was no doubt that she was still on the bus.
Since the bus was slowing down, Kirvov put his foot lightly on his own brakes and also slowed. The bus came to a halt on Schöneberger Strasse, and Kirvov came to a halt behind it. Automatically, he bent to see if anyone was leaving the bus. Two people were exiting. One of them was Evelyn Hoffmann.
As the bus pulled away, Kirvov watched Evelyn Hoffmann walk to a curb, glance to her left, then cross a broad street, and with familiarity cross another. She stood momentarily before a modest Café one shop from the corner, and then she opened the front door and went inside. Kirvov, who had been idling his car on Schöneberger Strasse, cruised toward the Café . He turned left at the corner and drove past it slowly. The name above read CAFÉ WOLF. It was near the corner of Stresemann Strasse and Anhalter Strasse.
Kirvov sought a place to park on Stresemann Strasse, and observed several empty spaces. He slipped into one, parking diagonally against the curbing, shut off his motor, and left the car.
The Seventh Secret Page 27