Weapons of Peace

by Johnston, Peter D. ;

  “Maria is out on an errand,” Gunter replied coolly.

  “I have no doubt she is,” Berg said. “Fortunately, Grandt and I are much more interested in Maria’s sister—Emma, I believe her name is—and her whereabouts. Is she upstairs in your living quarters by chance?” he asked with a wink.

  Gunter pretended to look perplexed, disregarding the insinuation. “Emma? She lives in Munich. She travels here to visit, but only occasionally.”

  “Oh, I see. And does she travel elsewhere in the country?” Berg inquired.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I thought I might have seen her on a train running from Rügen to Berlin a couple of weeks ago. Grandt and I tried to say hello, but she ran off before we could speak. You see, she once gave me a lovely gift and I never felt as though I’d properly expressed my gratitude.” Berg paused, looking down at his unpolished black shoes. “Do you happen to know if she might have been on that train from Rügen?”

  Berg knew he’d risked revealing too much, but he was growing frustrated in his search for the elusive young woman. He wanted closure. Grandt hadn’t seen her once during his stakeout. Berg watched Gunter carefully as the art-gallery owner processed his question, hoping he might flinch or even betray the blonde.

  “You’d have to ask Emma. I personally wasn’t aware that she’d made any such trip,” Gunter answered. His eyes flicked over to Grandt. Could this be the wiry Gestapo officer that Emma and Manfred had been forced to render unconscious when he intruded on them? Had Grandt been sent by Berg to find Emma on the train?

  “I see,” Berg said. “Do you happen to have a photo of Emma that I could show to Grandt here? You see, my assistant loves beautiful blondes, and Emma, as I recall, is both blond and beautiful.” Berg winked once more in Gunter’s direction.

  Gunter shook his head, understanding the game now—they were simply trying to confirm that Emma was the perpetrator from the train.

  “No, I don’t have any pictures of my wife’s sister. Photographs are so expensive these days. We really don’t have many of them.”

  “And yet you continue to make enough money to keep your empty gallery open, live upstairs in some luxury, I’d expect, and drive your Mercedes, Herr Hildebrand?”

  “Priorities,” Gunter said, smiling.

  Berg wasn’t in the mood to smile. “Well, if Emma were my sister-in-law my priority would always be to have a picture of her nearby,” he said.

  Berg had developed spots of sticky white froth at the corners of his mouth, either from the remains of his bratwurst, Gunter speculated, or from aggravation. Gunter could tell that the criminal director was disappointed not to have uncovered more during his visit. This gave him a jolt of satisfaction, one that would prove fleeting.

  “So sorry I couldn’t help you more,” Gunter said, shepherding his unwanted guests toward the main door and trying not to overreact as Berg stopped and eyed the gallery’s huge, mirrored central pillar—which hid the long spiraling staircase that descended into the group’s headquarters below.

  “Mirrors are quite something, aren’t they?” Berg commented, looking up and down at his reflection, his feet slowly circling the pillar, hands behind his back, eyes continuing to rove. “They can make a room so much bigger than it actually is.”

  Gunter froze, hoping Berg meant nothing more than what his words conveyed in concrete terms. “I designed that myself,” he said, “to make the point that our interpretation of art is really just a reflection of ourselves.”

  “Aren’t you clever, Herr Hildebrand!” Berg said, clapping his hands, sneering. “Now, when your equally clever sister-in-law comes to visit next, have her contact me so I won’t have to surprise her like I surprised you today.” He reached into his pocket and took out a bent old card, handing it to Gunter, a look of disdain falling across the folds of his face. “By the way, do you expect Emma for Christmas?”

  “Perhaps, but you really should come back before then, because we’ll have a number of new pieces soon,” Gunter said, keeping his voice steady as he feigned nonchalance.

  “Thank you, Herr Hildebrand, but you should know that I don’t require an invitation to visit your gallery. I’ll come and see you whenever it damn well suits me.” Berg and Grandt turned and strode toward the door.

  It was only as Gunter watched the two men leave that he noticed the gallery’s door bell had been dismantled and placed carefully on the floor just inside the entrance.

  Chapter 36

  Friday, December 22, 1944

  6:30 p.m.—Berlin’s Altes Museum

  Alfried Krupp’s long gait helped him move through the thick snow on the sidewalk and toward the cleared stairs of the Altes Museum.

  The billionaire businessman owed favors to the men running his country, those who continued to order armaments and steel from his family’s company, Krupp AG, and tonight he’d happily repay a small portion of his indebtedness.

  The wily industrialist, still in his thirties, had been asked a month and a half earlier by one of Berlin’s most respected art dealers to host a gala auction. This evening, a dozen major art pieces were to be divvied up among Germany’s élite, including Nazi officials, diplomats, and other leading businessmen like himself.

  Krupp’s role was to be a simple one, and he’d been flattered to be asked. He had booked the venue and paid for it while promoting the affair to the most senior Nazi officials he knew, including his friend Adolf Hitler, godfather to his young son Arndt. Publicizing the event and offering himself up as host had hardly been a burden—the paintings and setting would be exceptional, and everyone wanted one of the limited tickets available.

  The single request made of Krupp regarding security was that a member of the Gestapo named Rolf Berg not be allowed to work the event. Gunter Hildebrand had confided in him that Berg was not to be trusted on such an occasion because he’d shown poor judgment in similar situations, including lewd behavior toward women. Krupp could never take that kind of risk. He had decided to have members of his own private security team handle the event, yet another contribution he was glad to make free of charge.

  As he looked up from the stairs, he could see two of his guards waiting to greet him at the museum’s Ionic eighteen-column entrance. He was comforted in knowing how seriously his team took its responsibilities, fully anticipating that he, too, would be thoroughly frisked for weapons once inside. Despite every precaution being pursued, Krupp expected an uneventful evening for his top-notch crew; the city seemed remarkably calm and peaceful in the lead-up to Christmas, all things considered. Hopefully, a few of his men would even have a chance to enjoy a drink, he thought, as he saluted his guards and walked into the building’s warmth.

  —

  Gunter peeked through the black velvet curtains.

  He didn’t have to count as he scanned the 148 guests for the sold-out event—men in black ties and women draped in beautiful gowns, chattering away, drinking schnapps, picking at bacon-wrapped hors d’oeuvres, laughing as they sat two by two at small round tables covered in red satin and adorned with potted holly plants swathed in little Nazi flags.

  Alfried Krupp continued to make the rounds, shaking hands, patting people on the back, pecking women on the cheek, putting everyone at ease, precisely as intended by the resisters. Manfred had been right—the event was proving to be the perfect distraction for those in attendance.

  Gunter’s eyes moved past the guests—and past Ursula, serving them in a tasteful, low-cut black-and-white maid’s outfit—to the grand rotunda in which they sat.

  Modeled a century earlier on Rome’s Pantheon, the rotunda extended seventy-five feet upward from the center of its marbled floor to the gaping circular skylight at the top of its domed ceiling. Berlin’s architectural benefactors had decided to make the room, with its earth-toned Corinthian pillars and the pale statues of the gods of ancient Greece lining its circumference
, the focal point of their museum dedicated to the city’s fine arts. Maria had, in turn, decided that this would be the ideal location for the greatest auction ever.

  Maria’s red, black, and white decorations joyfully graced everything from the tables and the podium where Gunter would soon be standing to the ornate metal latticed railing that encircled the room one level up—providing a narrow gallery from which one could look down at the guests.

  Tonight, Kurt alone would be permitted to stand in this upper gallery. He’d work the spotlight and lower each painting on a wire pulley, leaving the piece covered with a black satin cloth. Maria would signal for him to reveal the work of art with the pull of a cord, after which she would describe its creator and the story behind it, ensuring that it could be seen by all and appreciated before the bidding began.

  None of the guests knew for certain which paintings would be auctioned. Gunter and Maria had done their best to spread rumors discreetly among their well-heeled Nazi clientele as to which twelve rare paintings Perfekt might have acquired for resale as its way of celebrating the twelve days of Christmas. The less people were allowed to know, the more they wanted to know, as Emma had predicted.

  But it was the final painting of the evening that had set Berlin’s wealthy tongues wagging in glorious anticipation: a never-before-seen original by a German master honoring the Third Reich and its efforts to reach a lasting peace in response to the war started by Poland in 1939. Many speculated that it might be the last work of art by Ludwig Dettmann, one of the Nazis’ most favored painters, who had died unexpectedly just a month earlier.

  Only 150 tickets had been sold, despite demand’s being fivefold as word of the event spread. But, so far, Gunter observed through the curtains, straining to see over and through the assembled guests, the man they’d aimed to bait with their final painting had yet to be seated at the table left open for him and one of his aides. The resisters knew that someone very senior had reserved the table at the back of the room, but it had been done through a series of secretaries, so it was impossible to know for certain who had claim to the only remaining seats in the rotunda.

  Emma, however, had no doubts about the ticket holder’s identity.

  “Don’t expect him to show up early,” she’d said. “He’ll come when he’s ready. If anyone needs a distraction right now, and this kind in particular, it’s Adolf Hitler.”

  —

  “Thank you, Herr Krupp, for your warm introduction,” Gunter said to applause. “On behalf of everyone in this room, I want to say that we are all grateful to you for envisioning such a splendid night. And thank you for inviting our gallery to provide the artwork.”

  Cheers cascaded down onto the event’s host. Alfried Krupp bowed in recognition, grateful to Gunter for having perhaps stretched the truth about the extent of his role and making him look even better in the eyes of those in attendance.

  We’ll see how history views Krupp after tonight, Emma thought as she stood at the edge of the room in a dress that started with spaghetti-strapped black silk and ended in gray chiffon well below her waist. Her camera lay waiting on a tripod near the side exit, where she would be taking photographs of the various auction winners.

  Before launching into the sale of the mysterious first item, which had already been lowered to the right of the main stage by Kurt, Gunter detailed the rules for the evening, which had been outlined on the back of the tickets but needed to be fully explained. “First, if you win your bid you must have your cash with you—no checks, no IOUs—no matter who you are,” he said with a humorous wag of his finger. Laughter rippled through the room. Many of the audience members had brought large denominations, stashed away in their jacket pockets, purses, or handbags.

  “Second,” Gunter said, “please be discreet and respect the privacy of others. No twisting around to get a look at other bidders.” More laughter.

  “Third, the winning bidder, as ordained by yours truly, is to walk to the far right side of the room near the exit.” He pointed toward Manfred and Emma, who waved to make their location clear. “This man will take your money, and this lovely woman will take your picture. There are to be no proxies acting for others. Winners must be present to be recorded as the official owner of a painting. A certified photo of the winners with their formally authenticated acquisition will serve as further legal proof of ownership. Clear?” Gunter said into his microphone. People nodded. “This is all to protect your interests as buyers.”

  —

  The cord was yanked upward. The audience fell silent. Then everyone started talking.

  “Yes!” Gunter cried out from the confines of his slightly tight tuxedo, his inner salesman leaping forward. “It is indeed one of our favorite artists from Germany, the irrepressible Peter Paul Rubens and his painting The Annunciation, a masterpiece crafted in 1609.”

  Maria, wearing a long black sequined dress, joined Gunter in the spotlight and slid behind the microphone.

  “Rubens captures the moment where the Angel Gabriel comes to the Virgin Mary, informing her that she will be the one to bear the Son of God in her womb,” Maria told her enraptured listeners. “I don’t know how you’d feel, but as a woman I’d find that quite overwhelming,” she said, drawing chuckles.

  She went on to detail the painter’s background and the splendor he’d captured in this heavenly exchange, despite being limited by such earthly tools as oil and canvas. She finished by telling the audience that The Annunciation had disappeared years before, only to be sold to the Perfekt Gallery recently. “When it was authenticated, I cried,” she said, “because I find this to be one of Rubens’s most moving, spiritual pieces.”

  Gunter interjected, “And, as with all our paintings this evening, the authenticity of each work has been confirmed by Jens Gunz, an expert from Gunz Auditors.”

  From up in the gallery, Kurt swung the spotlight to a hunched-over man with a long white beard. Gunz rose slowly to his feet, receiving a polite round of applause.

  Emma suppressed a grin. He looked like an expert, and his age made him seem about as old and wise as the unseen father-to-be from the painting now up for auction. But the truth, known by few, was that Gunz was nearly blind and sometimes authenticated questionable paintings only because he had been well paid to do so. The auditor’s job on this night had been eased by a large payment and the fact that half the paintings were brilliant forgeries by Peter that would be almost impossible to doubt as originals, while the other half were indeed originals—collected or stolen by Gunter over the years.

  “I will start the bidding at twenty-five thousand Reichsmarks and ask for minimum bids in increments of five thousand,” Gunter said.

  An older Asian gentleman slowly raised his hand. Gunter recognized him immediately: the Japanese ambassador to Germany, Baron Hiroshi Oshima, who’d received his honorary title from Hitler for his dedication to the Nazi cause.

  “I have twenty-five thousand Reichsmarks from this kind gentleman. Do I have a taker at thirty thousand?”

  The wife of Joseph Goebbels, Magda, raised her hand from the front row. Her husband had been unable to make the event. She sat instead with Hermann Göring, a Nazi legend whose military efforts as head of the Luftwaffe had been deemed insufficient on all fronts a couple of years earlier and who had since spent much of his time collecting art.

  “That’s thirty thousand. Thank you very much, Frau. Who can move us to thirty-five thousand?”

  A long-haired man with fluffy white eyebrows and a matching beard, wearing an eye patch and sitting close to the exit near Manfred and Emma, put up his hand. “Fine, dear sir,” Gunter shouted. “The Annunciation is yours unless . . . unless this man over here wants it more . . . ” Gunter turned toward the Japanese ambassador.

  Baron Oshima raised his hand. He now led the bidding at forty-thousand Reichsmarks.

  Gunter reminded potential buyers that a portion of the proceeds f
rom the evening would go to a local charity. People nodded their approval, feeling that much better about themselves—perhaps no one more so than their host, Alfried Krupp. He’d become concerned about perceptions of Krupp AG amid rumors that he’d exploited prisoners in inhumane working conditions—which was true, as he’d later acknowledge to a war-crimes tribunal. But, true or not, he didn’t want any negative public perceptions to interfere with the growth of his business, so he welcomed this reference to a charitable cause, because, as the host, this could only reflect well on him.

  Emma smiled, knowing that Gunter’s unnamed local charity was their resistance group—dedicated to destroying the hopes and dreams of most everyone in the room.

  Minutes later, The Annunciation sold for 110,000 Reichsmarks to a man some said was more of a Nazi than the Nazis themselves: the Japanese ambassador and loyal Axis partner from the East. Baron Oshima would die some thirty years later, also a convicted war criminal, apparently never realizing that his intercepted messages to his home nation had provided the Allies with critical insights into Hitler’s plans.

  Manfred took Oshima’s cash and disappeared behind a curtained barrier that led to one of the exits. From there, as explained to one of Krupp’s guards who stood nearby, Manfred would shuttle the money out of the museum, knowing he’d be frisked on the way back in. Once outside, he went around a corner, ran halfway down a side street, and placed Oshima’s funds in the trunk of Gunter’s Mercedes, returning to the rotunda minutes later, colder but at ease. If anything went wrong, the group wanted the money it had already earned free and clear of the room.

  While Manfred couriered funds to the car, Emma used Peter’s telephoto lens from ten yards away to line up the ambassador beside his large seventeenth-century painting. To her left, not more than two feet away, was a thick, steel-backed mirror the size and shape of a door but with metal wings off either side so it could stand on its own. It had been designed for war-zone entertainers, so that they could change onstage and protect themselves in the unlikely event of enemy fire. Gunter had added the mirror, where Baron Oshima could now see his full reflection. The ambassador fixed his hair and adjusted the medals on his lapel before being captured for posterity with his newly acquired piece of art.