by Aaron Elkins
"Well, there was a lot of information they had to have—" I began.
"Tell me, how many people did I murder? How many Jews did I kill? No, my only crime was the preservation, when civilization was crumbling all around, of the world's greatest art, here in Altaussee. That was my terrible crime."
I really didn't want to get into a fight with him, but this was too much to take sitting down. "Dr. Haftmann, the only reason that art was in Altaussee was that it'd been looted, often by force and always by intimidation—"
"In wartime such things are bound to happen. Apparently you have already forgotten My Lai."
"—from the rightful owners. You can't expect—"
"You speak to me of rightful owners? And what of the art rightfully owned by the German people, what of that? Where is the great art collection of Frederick the Great? In Berlin and Potsdam, where it rightfully belongs? No, in Paris, thanks to Napoleon Bonaparte. And what of the contents of the Austrian Imperial Gallery, flagrantly looted from Vienna in 1809? Of the collections plundered from Munich in 1806 by foreign soldiers? Where is the world's outcry over these outrages?" He spoke, not with outrage of his own, or even passion, but with a clipped, cold, fluent fury, like a fire-and-brimstone preacher laying into the doubting Thomases.
An unrepentant Nazi, a true-believer; it seemed fantastic. Naturally I'd known that such people still existed, but I hadn't really known it, if you know what I mean, not down deep, not grasped that they got grease spots on their lapels, and had eye infections, and ate fish for lunch. I found myself watching his mouth as he spoke, the way I'd watch a talking snake, fascinated and repelled at the same time.
"From my own city of Kassel in 1807," he went on, "the French stole three hundred masterpieces: Titian, Rembr—"
I came out of my trance. "Dr. Haftmann, you know as well as I do what an old, old story that is. How did Frederick the Great come by his collection? Where did the Austrian Imperial gallery get theirs?"
"I am speaking of Germanic works."
"You are? I think Titian might have been surprised to hear himself classified as Germanic. And what about the famous Correggio and the Watteaus from Potsdam? Are they Germanic too?" If it came to hectoring, I could get right up there with him. "Soldiers have been looting art for a thousand years, sometimes the same pieces, over and over again. That doesn't make it right, and it's certainly not an excuse for the systematic, government-approved looting of every piece of art that Hitler or Goering or Rosenberg—"
"And what would have happened if they hadn't been, as you call it, 'looted'?
"As I call it? What do you call it?"
"Ben?" Alex said, "there's no point in fighting about it."
I already knew that; I just couldn't help myself. I mumbled something to Alex.
"But we're not fighting," Haftmann surprised me by saying. "We're having a hypothetical discussion, an academic debate, that's all."
The hell we are, I thought but managed not to say.
"I can tell you exactly what would have happened," he continued. "Much, perhaps most of it, would have been bombed, burned, destroyed in the war—gone forever, these priceless treasures. How could the possessors possibly protect them? It was we who saved them."
I responded with no more than a glum nod. I'd known that good old Elgin was going to get into the act somewhere, and as far as I was concerned, the issue, while hardly hypothetical, was certainly moot. Besides, the longer he went on, the less fascinated and the more repelled I was becoming. All I wanted to do was finish up, get away from him, and find someplace to have a drink, or two drinks, with Alex.
"Dr. Haftmann," I said, "may we move to another subject, please? I've been able to study two of the pieces that were . . ." I made myself say "safeguarded." ". . . in the mine, and one of the things I noticed was a cataloguing code of some sort that was stamped on the backs. There was an ne-2 on one, and an sr-4, I think it was, on the other. I was wondering if you could tell us their significance."
He jerked his head irritably, not much happier with me than I was with him. "They had no significance. They were merely a crude clerical notation, a system that the Paris ERR units used for a while to indicate the source of the acquisition; it had nothing at all to do with the way the objects were eventually catalogued at Altaussee. The system I used here, you see, my system, was not contextually based at all, but was derived from the broad historico-cultural principles first defined in Otto Kümmel's great work on the dispersion of Germanic art and its inevitable reclamation. To understand this system, it is first necessary . . ."
* * *
On the drive back down to the town Alex was quiet, looking out the window and watching the Alpine landscape slide by. It was more than pretty enough to hold one's attention, but I could tell that she was somewhere inside herself. During the last few minutes of our talk with Haftmann she had gradually grown pensive and dropped out of the conversation.
"What a horrible old man," she murmured now. "He'll give me nightmares tonight. I just want to go somewhere and get clean."
"Oh, I don't know. At least you have to give the old guy credit for sticking to his principles and not backing down just because the rest of the world thinks they're putrid. He can't be too popular. You notice he was eating alone."
It was meant to lighten things but it missed the mark by a mile. "I knew it," she said, turning fiercely from the window. "I knew you'd say something to defend him."
I was dumbfounded; she was really angry. "I . . . Alex, I'm not—"
"Can't you just say he was a monster and let it go at that?"
"All right, he was a monster. He still is a monster."
"And I want you to say: 'The Austrians were Nazi allies in World War II. They were on the same side.'"
Ah, so we were still on that. "All, right, fine. They were. But—"
"No, without the 'but'! A simple declarative statement."
Whatever was bugging her, she'd succeeded in getting under my skin too; she was good at that. "Alex, how about telling me what the hell is going on? What's bothering you?"
"Nothing's going on. It's just that—oh, Ben, sometimes I wonder about you, I really do."
We had reached the bottom of the mountain and I pulled the car over to the side of the road so I could look her in the eye and show her I was mad. "Because I said 'but'? Because I can see somebody else's point of view? Real life doesn't lend itself to nice, clean, declarative statements, Alex. Don't you ever see anything in shades of gray?"
"Do you ever see anything but shades of gray?" she shot back, and I could see she was close to angry tears. "Haftmann is a monster—but on the other hand you have to give him credit. The Austrians were bad guys—but not really. The Russians are wrong about keeping their trophy art—but they're not really wrong. Stetten should definitely get his paintings back—but of course other claimants have a valid point too."
"But—"
"But, but, but, that's all you ever say. Ben, if everybody's right, then nobody's wrong, and I just have a hard time with that, that's all." She lowered her head and covered her eyes with her hand. "That's what's bothering me."
It was my turn to say something, but I just stared straight ahead with my hands on the wheel, resentful and wounded—and still trying to figure out what had happened.
"This is sure fun," I said meanly and as if to myself. "Almost as good as being with Trish."
I was ashamed even before I finished saying it, but the words of apology jammed in my throat and wouldn't come out. Alex stared at me, took a breath, and said, very calmly: "Would you mind very much if I caught the train back to Salzburg this afternoon instead of going to Vienna with you tomorrow?"
"And then what? Fly to Vienna?"
"I don't know."
"Go home?"
"I told you, I don't know."
"If you go to Vienna, will you get in touch with me there?"
Silence.
"I'll call you when I get back home, all right?"
She was s
taring down at her lap. "All right."
"Alex—" I hardly knew what I wanted to say. "I don't know what we're fighting about; this isn't even about us. Look, you've come all the way out here, I'm glad you're here, and I don't want . . . I don't want to see this happen."
"Neither do I, Ben. I just think it would be better if I left." She still wasn't looking at me.
"Fine," I said, feeling as if my chest were packed with lead, "whatever you want."
"If you'll drop me off at the pension I'll get my things and catch a cab to the station in Bad Aussee."
"You don't have to get a cab. I'll drive you to the station."
"That's all right, a cab would be easier."
"Suit yourself," I said, starting up the car again, and five minutes later, having said nothing in the intervening time, we made our brief goodbyes.
Maybe, on second thought, I hadn't turned any corners.
Chapter 29
I felt miserable: angry, letdown, and—this I wouldn't have expected—strangely rudderless and off-balance. And even now I didn't have a clue as to what had started it, except that I knew it wasn't me.
Well, it wasn't. What did I do?
"The hell with her," I mumbled unconvincingly to myself as I turned the key in the door of my room after a late, solitary lunch, "who needs her?"
The telephone message button was blinking; I banged it with my fist. The call had come in only ten minutes earlier. It was from police headquarters in Vienna, asking me to get in touch with Polizeioberstleutnant Feuchtmüller as soon as possible. Christ, what now? Well, at least it wasn't Pirchl who was after me. I sat down and dialed.
"Hello, Alois, it's Ben Revere. How'd you know where to reach me?"
"I'm a detective, am I not? Or at least I have detectives helping me, which is much better. I've just had a long conversation about you with a police captain in Budapest."
"Oh—you know about Szarvas, then."
"Yes, I know about Szarvas. Am I mistaken, or weren't you going to keep me informed from time to time?"
"Well, yes, and I meant to call you, but . . . oh, hell, I'm sorry, Alois, I should have called you right away. It kind of got away from me."
"Mm. Suppose you give me your version now."
I did, including the various speculations I'd made about Szarvas's murder.
He listened without comment until I'd finished. "You know what the Budapest police think, don't you?"
"No, what do they think?"
"They think that you're an international crime boss who set up the shooting with a contract killer. They've issued a warrant for your arrest."
I waited for the rumbly laugh that would tell me this was one of his heavy-handed jokes, but it didn't arrive.
"Are you serious? I hope you're not serious."
"Oh, but I am."
"But . . . they only think that because . . . I mean, you know I'm not . . ."
"Yes, that's exactly what I told them, and I think that Captain Nagy was reasonably convinced or your innocence, although he did choose not to withdraw the warrant."
"Does that mean I have to go back there?"
I heard the click of his pipe against his teeth as it came out of his mouth. "Dr. Revere, if I were you I would not go within ten miles of the Hungarian border for the rest of my life—however long or short that might be."
"But if the police—"
"I'm not thinking about the police. The police will do fine without your help. The problem is, their local mafia appears to be under the same misapprehension and is—understandably, under the circumstances—annoyed with you. Unfortunately, I was unable to speak with them to set them straight."
"Christ," I said.
"But all is not bleak. We've been making a little headway here. We need to talk to you again."
'We' being Pirchl?" I said, hoping otherwise.
And now his growly laugh did rumble across the 200 miles between us. "Yes, actually, but, don't worry, I think you and I can handle this between us. It should only take a few minutes. When can you be in Vienna?"
"I was planning to be there the day after tomorrow."
"That will do. I'll see you at the station at, say, three o'clock?"
"No good, I have an appointment with Mr. Nussbaum at three o'clock."
"Two o'clock, then. This will only take a few minutes."
"Okay, two o'clock. Alois—I'm not in any trouble with your people, am I? With Pirchl?"
"My son, when you're in trouble with Pirchl, you won't need me to tell you about it."
* * *
At eight-thirty the next morning I drove to the Salzburg airport, returned the rental car, and bought a ticket on the eleven a.m. flight to Vienna. Without Alex, the idea of driving slowly along the Danube valley, let alone staying in a romantic old inn, had lost its appeal, and I thought I might just as well get myself to Vienna without delay.
I'd reached that conclusion about fifteen seconds after dropping Alex off at her pension the day before, but I'd waited until this morning to do anything about it because I'd been hoping that sometime during the evening I would get a remorseful call from her, maybe even a tearful one, that would somehow chalk up the painful exchange we'd had to a misunderstanding and make everything right again. I was more than ready to be persuaded, but the call never came.
As soon as we were in the air I telephoned Alois to tell him I'd be in a day early, and I was at his disposal. He had a lunch date he couldn't break, so we set up the meeting for one-thirty, which would give me a chance to check into the Hotel Imperial and leave my bag there. Then, looking for something to do, I pulled out the MFA&A report that Alex had brought. The first thing I saw when I opened it was a three-page fax that had been put in the front. Alex had mentioned it at the time but I'd forgotten all about it. The cover sheet was from CIAT's Christie Valle de Leon, and it was dated four days earlier.
Dear Ben:
This letter only came to my attention yesterday. I know it will interest you. It was sent to the Boston Police Department a little over a week ago.
Christie.
The second sheet was murky from photocopying, but still legible. It had been typed on plain paper, no letterhead, on a cranky manual typewriter that had seen better days, and it was from Mr. Nussbaum, the man I would be seeing in Vienna.
Prinz-Eugen-Strasse 24,
A-1030 Wien
To Whom It May Concern:
My name is Jakob Nussbaum, I am 77 years of age. I understand that you have found a painting called The Count of Torrijos, by Diego Velazquez, and are searching for the owner. I have seen a photograph of this painting in the Neue Kronen Zeitung, and I believe that it may have been the property of my late uncle, Eberhard Nussbaum, who was the owner of the Galerie Eberhard in the First District of this city from 1931 to 1938, and who bought it at an auction in Brussels some time in the 1920's.
At the time the Racial Purity Laws came into effect in 1938, the picture to which I refer was given by my uncle Eberhard Nussbaum to his friend, the French art dealer Paul Cazeau, for the purpose of saving it from being confiscated. Shortly after this, the Galerie Eberhard was Aryanized and my uncle and I were sent to the labor camp at Lublin with those of our family who were still living.
After the war (my uncle died in the camps), I learned that Paul Cazeau took the picture to Paris with him in 1938, where it was hidden from the Nazis with other paintings belonging to Austrian, French, and Dutch Jews, in a secret room in the cellar of the Galerie du Cloître, which I understand was located on the Place Vendôme. But in 1942, the Gestapo learned of the existence of this room. Paul Cazeau was arrested and made to confess under torture who these paintings belonged to. They were then taken away by the ERR, and this brave and good man was sent to Theresienstadt, where he died.
I never heard again of the painting until now. Since my father's entire family was killed in 1939-1944, I am the only relative to Eberhard Nussbaum who still remains alive. Therefore, I would like to submit a claim to this picture. I w
ould appreciate it if you would tell me how I should go about this.
Respectfully,
Jakob Nussbaum
I was sweating by the time I finished. Racial Purity Laws. . . . My uncle and I were sent to the labor camp. . . . Everyone in my family was killed in 1939-1944. . . . Another truly wretched life story to put into perspective the petty bitching and whining that I'd been doing all my life. And I was supposed to see this guy, this nice guy, tomorrow and tell him to forget it, that he had to be mistaken, that the painting wasn't his? I felt my resolve slipping. Maybe I could call the whole thing off. This was just make-work on my part, after all; it wasn't what Stetten had hired me to do.
Christie had written a few paragraphs diagonally across the bottom, then, running away with herself (as she often did), continued them on another sheet when she was out of room.
A lot of this checks out, Ben. There really was a Galerie Eberhard in Vienna in the 1930's, and also a Galerie du Cloître on the Place Vendôme in Paris. And the owner, Paul Cazeau, was definitely arrested by the Nazis for helping Jews and is believed to have died in the camps.
On the other hand, if Count Stetten can really prove his ownership, then this version can't possibly be accurate. All the same, the letter strikes me as credible. My guess would be that his story is true, but that he's thinking of another painting (all he's seen, apparently, is the one newspaper photo).
That's what I thought too, but what she had to say next opened up a new angle.
You know, there are still some unclaimed paintings from World War II that could easily be confused with a Velazquez, and I've been wondering if one of them might be the one he's talking about. I'm thinking in particular of a portrait that the French government has been holding, unclaimed, ever since it was returned by the Germans. It's unsigned, but is almost certainly by the young Juan Bautista del Mazo, and is possibly a student exercise based on the Count of Torrijos, which makes sense because, as you know, Mazo was a pupil of Velazquez's. Mazo is also believed to have done a similar study of the Countess of Torrijos at about the same time, so they may have been workshop productions made to order for some of the Torrijos kinfolk. At one time they were both believed to be Velazquezes, but that was a hundred years ago.