by Peter Watson
Lieutenant Falcon had done a reasonably efficient job, considering he was the first man on the scene. He had added a concluding paragraph to his report in which he said that he believed Mrs. von Zell’s story, that she had not seen or heard from her husband for nearly a year. He had written, “The fact that von Zell told Hohenberg and Edelmann that he intended to move south, and yet gave his wife the impression that he was going north suggests that he was deliberately trying to obscure his real path. What this is we can only guess, but without a proper, trustworthy sighting, tracking him down will be very difficult, if not impossible. If he does go abroad, or is there already, then conceivably, in a few months or a couple of years, he may seek to contact his wife. That is a little late for our purposes. I suggest we abandon this case and devote our energies to problems more likely to be resolved.”
That had been in June of 1945, before there had been much evidence of an active Nazi underground. A few months later, in September-October, another investigator had examined the case. Major A. P. Wordsworth had visited Mondsee and concentrated his attentions on the boy, Dieter. The boy had cried easily, being just seven, after all, but he, too, had denied seeing his father. Wordsworth had taken away a number of photographs and documents, letters mainly, but to little purpose. He also concluded that von Zell had not been in touch with his family since their meeting on May 9 and that neither Mrs. von Zell nor Dieter knew where he was.
The third interrogation had taken place in January 1946, barely two months before I came on the scene. This coincided with a series of scares that several leading Nazis had made it safely to South America and that the underground conduit, ironically modeled on the one developed by the French resistance to move their people from Switzerland to Spain and Lisbon, was working far too well. The idea that this conduit was financed by von Zell’s gold naturally sparked our side into action once again and a monuments man was dispatched to Mondsee.
This time Captain Ernst Kretch was rather tougher than either Falcon or Wordsworth had been. There was no question, of course, of using any physical methods of persuasion on a civilian woman and child, but nonetheless Kretch did try force of a kind. He had established that both Mrs. von Zell and her son suffered from and needed to visit the doctor frequently. This was the time when the world was learning with horror about the atrocities carried out by the Russians toward the end of the war, things like the Katyn massacre and the mass slaughter of Yugoslavs. Kretch had therefore informed Mrs. von Zell that, unless she revealed the whereabouts of her husband, he would turn her and her son over to the Russians in Berlin. He said they wanted to trace her husband for their own purposes and were prepared to be far more brutal than the Americans. And she would have no access to a doctor.
It was a total bluff on Kretch’s part, but he carried it through to the extent of forcing Mrs. von Zell to pack a few things and accompanying him to the railway station in Munich, where she was to be put on a train for Berlin. He had hoped she might crack at the last minute, but she didn’t.
Kretch wrote that he had arrived at the station deliberately early, so that their wait for the Berlin train would be that much longer and more harrowing. Mrs. von Zell, he had written, had been well-dressed that day in a heavy coat with a fine pair of leather boots. She had never once spoken to him of her own accord. He noticed, he said, that it was as if she had two selves: a strong, fierce presence, with a clipped voice, which she reserved for him; and a much softer, looser side to her nature, which she kept for her son.
As the Berlin train had arrived, there was a moment when—what with the noise and the steam and the people—she had disappeared, out of his sight, and could have made a run for it. But no, as the steam cleared, she stood, just staring at Kretch, her face filled with hatred. Then, when he had at last to admit it was a bluff, she had not smiled or shown relief in any way. And all she said was: “Please take us home.” So Kretch’s ploy was exposed and he, too, reached the conclusion that Mrs. von Zell did not know where her husband was.
That was as far as the investigation had gone. I picked my way through some of the other pieces of paper—letters in German giving examples of von Zell’s handwriting, lists of addresses of the people mentioned in the reports, a few photographs. The von Zells certainly made an attractive couple. He had a rather round face, clean-shaven, with smooth and shiny dark hair, swept straight back. There was what appeared to be a dueling scar on his left cheek. She was even more impressive: a full head of blond hair, shoulder length, a strong nose with a narrow bridge, a wide but firm mouth. She was very attractive, but she looked every inch the tough nut she had proved to be.
I put the two photographs before me on the desk and studied them, sipping my coffee. There was no doubt that Kretch’s failed bluff made things infinitely more difficult for me. If Konstanze von Zell didn’t know where her husband was, then she didn’t know where her husband was. No matter how clever my interrogation, it would fail. But if she did, if she had been dissembling all along, then her resistance would have grown stronger each time she successfully saw off her interrogators. And, after Kretch’s failed gambit, that resistance must have increased tenfold.
So, my first tactic, I decided that day, was to avoid Mrs. von Zell completely, or, in any case, until I was more certain of my ground and all other avenues of inquiry had been exhausted.
I looked at the photographs again. I thought it interesting that none of the other interrogators had considered it at all relevant to investigate the von Zells’ relationship. The war had destroyed many marriages. Men away from home—particularly men on important jobs—had taken mistresses who, over the years, had become something more. Wives left at home had taken lovers, men who, in many cases, had become the fathers of their children. In its way enforced separation may have destroyed as much as blitz bombing. Absence only rarely makes the heart grow fonder as I knew, because it had happened to me.
Sitting there, in that makeshift office, I thought of my own wife, all those miles away in California. We shared a small house, but we had part of the bayshore to ourselves and we could even see the Golden Gate bridge from our bedroom. We should have been content. Yet when I left to go to the war, after just eleven months of marriage, it was obvious that we had made a mistake. We had married quickly—I did most things too quickly in those days. We had enjoyed a wild, six-month-long sexual romp, then it had stopped. I was an academic, in both the best and the worst senses. I was good at my job, had studied art history under Panofsky in Hamburg and Berenson in Italy. So, as a professor, I had an “interesting” career rather than a well-paid one, and I was happy in myself, a quality which, I have learned, many women find more attractive than good looks. But, as an academic, I lived too often inside my head for my wife’s taste. I tended to think things rather than do them. I cared for my wife but didn’t show it. It didn’t occur to me to show it; I knew how I felt and that was that. It never crossed my mind that, if I didn’t show it, to her that was tantamount to saying I didn’t feel anything. Now we had been separated nearly three years; we hardly wrote and I suspected that she missed me as little as I missed her. I figured we would divorce as soon as I returned.
I stood up to loosen my limbs and went through into the cubicle. This room, unlike ours, had a window on the street. As I looked out I noticed a marked contrast between the old city itself, its roofs shining splendidly in the afternoon sun, and the people moving about in the streets below. Neither their clothes nor their faces appeared yet to have fully recovered from the war; even their weary, pinched expressions looked as though they had been manufactured under conditions of austerity when other, happier materials had been in short supply.
Were the von Zells in love still? I asked myself, shifting my gaze to the discreet splendor of the cathedral. Was that why she protected him? Or had the war destroyed their marriage, as it had contributed to the decay of my own and so many others? If so, then she might well not know where her one-time lover and husband had gone.
In front of me and
slightly to the right, the elaborate, curly black spire which rose above the Franziskamerkirche seemed almost to scratch the sky. As I watched the birds circle about its topmost digit, I worked out my plan of campaign in more detail. No one had achieved very much by confronting Mrs. von Zell head on. Therefore, I would use a different ploy. Some seemingly less important leads had not been followed up and I would start with those. There was von Zell’s mother in Worms. There was von Zell’s last job, before the collapse, in the Party Chancellery in Munich. He must have had secretaries who, if they could be traced, might tell me about their boss’s habits—for instance, whether or not he had a mistress. If he had a mistress he might be in touch with her still. And there was the last address he had lived at in Berchtesgaden. He may have let something slip to his landlord, or he may have made enemies locally who might just remember something significant. All the while, though, I would keep myself alert for details that told me something about the von Zells’ relationship. Then, if I did have to face the wife, I might have some information that would turn the tables.
My approach did not promise the rapid results that Maxy Hobel craved. But it was obvious I would get only one crack at Mrs. von Zell. I had to be properly prepared. Three interrogators had already failed. If I succeeded I would have earned the damn medal everyone kept talking about. I decided to set out the next day for Worms.
I was just putting the papers back into the folder when Hartt returned. He offered to escort me to the Goldener Hirsch to make sure that everything was as it should be. On the way he was full of admiration for the BMW, pleased as punch that we could drive around town with the top down. Watching the dowdy Austrians stare at us from the pavements, or from their bicycles, he suddenly said, “Cars. Everybody is going to want one of these, once the world is on its feet again. If you have any spare cash, you could do worse than invest in automobiles.” Such advice may seem blindingly obvious now. But in 1946, in a Europe that was still on its knees—remember Austria had been invaded in 1938—it was not at all obvious to me. Hardly anyone had private cars in Europe.
As we crossed the bridge back to the cathedral side of the river, Hartt, or Sammy, as he insisted I call him, showed himself to be extremely knowledgeable about cars. Or so I thought. He used words like cam shaft, differential, tappets and power-to-weight ratio with what appeared to be an easy familiarity. I listened, impressed. In fact, I was to learn that Samuel Hartt, who was not what you would call a good-looking man, had solved one of life’s little secrets to perfection. Instead of reading regular books, like the rest of us, Sammy read encyclopedias. He wasn’t interested in plots or characterization, in feelings or happy endings. He was interested in facts. Sammy had made it his business in life to learn several paragraphs on any subject you cared to name. Be it cars, horse racing, the French novel, pasta or religious history, he was never at a loss. His encyclopedias gave him a smattering of the right jargon, the right names to drop, a couple of funny anecdotes with which to salt his observations. And, in a sense, it made him irresistible. Whenever he met someone new, man or woman, Sammy quickly winkled out their special interests and, for a short while, was able to talk with them as if he was an equal. However, once this person was launched on their favorite topic, Sammy would withdraw and allow them to shine. It was a very clever form of flattery and it made him extremely popular with men and far more successful with women than he might otherwise have been had his looks been his only asset. He certainly charmed me very quickly.
It didn’t take him long to see that, although I liked driving cars, what went on under the hood was as mysterious to me as von Zell’s current whereabouts, and he tried other subjects. He hit the jackpot with Venice; I was mad about the place and I yacked happily all the way to the hotel.
All was fine at the Goldener Hirsch—they were expecting me and the room was ready—so Sammy left me to rest for a while, to shower and change. Drinks in the mess at 7:30; dinner at eight.
And what a curious dinner it turned out to be. The mess was in a small castle back across the river, not too far from our offices, the Schloss Mirabell, I think it was called. They have concerts there these days, I’m told. The walls were lined with tapestries showing hunting scenes, and I remember the ceilings were a brilliant white with carvings in the cornices. They reminded me somewhat of Venice.
Sammy looked after me, made sure I had a drink and then introduced me to the military governor of the area, a Colonel Mortimer Rowe, who was tall and formal, cold almost, an American version of one of those unsympathetic army types you find in Kipling. Stiff and ungiving, with a bearing like a statue. Hobel was there, drinking morosely, I thought, as if he already had a start on the rest of us. Was he a secret lush? I wondered if that was the real reason he hadn’t made it to colonel just yet. I tried to ignore him.
That was made easier, all of a sudden, by a commotion. Just before the rumpus blew up I had noticed a small, rather Jewish-looking officer who was the only person not in mess uniform. It took me a while to realize that he was the cause of all the bother.
It soon became apparent that there were elements in the mess who objected to this man not being suitably clad. A thick-set, blond-haired major was rocking back and forth on his feet and barking at another man, roughly the same age and exactly the same rank. I caught only the end of what he was saying.
“… if he’s your guest, George, I can’t believe he wasn’t told what to wear for tonight and that the dress rules are strictly observed. The rest of us stick by them; we’re proud of them, for chrissake. Why not you?”
George, whoever he was, appeared a little uneasy but nowhere near as much as I would have been under the circumstances. He was a touch taller than the other man, with black wavy hair, not unlike that of the young Laurence Olivier. “I’ve told you twice, Harry, for goodness’ sake. The old man said it’s all right, just this once. Now, stop it. Please.”
Just then dinner was announced and I suppose I would have forgotten about this exchange except for the fact that the Jewish-looking officer was placed next to me at the table. Sammy was opposite and he kicked off before the soup plates had even been set in front of us, dredging something up from volume Aa—Art.
“They say you are an architect in real life, major?”
The man nodded, holding his glass forward for Sammy to fill it.
“Tell me,” Sammy went on, “who would you say produces the best buildings—religious architects, civic ones, or the professional boys who do it just for the money?”
It was not exactly the most subtle way of changing the conversation. In fact, it sounded exactly like what it was—something Sammy had picked out of an encyclopedia. Nonetheless, the major was visibly relieved to have something else to concentrate on, so we were all very grateful. I noticed several disapproving looks still snaking down the table from where Harry and his camp were seated but we in our group managed to turn our backs on them.
It turned out that the visitor was not, in fact, a practicing architect but the architectural correspondent for a New York newspaper. He was therefore knowledgeable and opinionated and in no time Sammy was able to retreat safely, his “ignition function,” as he called it, complete. Now he would listen, so that the next time he needed a spat of architecture, he would be even better informed.
Architecture was—is—my field, however, and so I was able to keep up with the major for a good deal longer than Sammy. We introduced ourselves and swapped cards. His name was Saul Wolfert and we spent what turned out to be a most enjoyable dinner discussing what we thought were the world’s great buildings. It was a relief to get away from army, army, army, and, as sometimes happens, we erected an invisible cocoon around ourselves which, aided by roast lamb, flown in from America, a 1934 claret and local pastries for dessert, kept us apart from the affairs of the rest of the mess until the toasts obliged us to stand.
Wolfert refused to say what he did in the Army, so I naturally assumed he was in some sort of intelligence unit. As I knew from my own experie
nce with the von Zell case, there were plenty of fugitive Nazis in hiding, as well as secret Nazi sympathizers in influential positions throughout Germany and Austria. He was probably involved in searching them out.
In any event he was much more forthcoming about the buildings I should see, if my duties allowed, in Austria. He didn’t anticipate any difficulty, though, for when I told him about my hunt for the gold coins and von Zell, his face broadened into a sparkling smile. It turned out that the monasteries from which the gold had been taken, and where I would almost certainly need to visit, were among the most stunning examples of baroque architecture in the whole of Europe, indeed, throughout the world. He said he envied me my job, and this I thought a curious remark. To me, intelligence work was probably the most interesting army specialty of all.
After the toasts we soon adjourned for brandy and cigars. I smoked a lot in those days, especially a pipe, and though this adjournment was generally meant to be a device to help people move around and change companions, Wolfert and I, as relative outsiders, tacitly agreed to stick together.