“Smile, Baron Oshima,” Emma directed before bringing him into focus. She pushed down on her flash and snapped his photo.
The ambassador approached Emma afterward, bowing and thanking her. He then returned to his seat, again offering a bid, this time for a Bellini depicting Mary with Jesus after his birth, the perfect complement to his first acquisition.
As Gunter guided the bidding on the Bellini rapidly upward, followed by equally famous works by such artists as Canaletto and Rembrandt, he kept glancing at the vacant table at the back of the room. He told himself to stay patient.
—
Rolf Berg didn’t expect anyone to notice him, including his wife, who sat opposite him at their tiny table.
Not only was most of the rotunda steeped in darkness, but Berg looked unrecognizable even to himself. He rarely wore a tuxedo anymore, let alone the short top hat that adorned his head. He wouldn’t have dressed up, but he wanted to blend in. He’d gone so far as to thoroughly polish his shoes.
The veteran Gestapo officer sat midway between the back of the rotunda and the podium, where he noted that Hildebrand, normally so introverted, was putting on quite a show. What Berg couldn’t figure out was the exact purpose of the show. Ever since he and Grandt had surprised Hildebrand at his gallery, his intuition had told him that the gallery owner and the two blond sisters were up to something. He’d already scouted the entire rotunda while his wife sat gorging herself on fried-chicken balls. He hadn’t noticed anything suspicious. Nor was Hildebrand’s blond sister-in-law anywhere to be seen.
When Berg learned that Hildebrand was to be involved in the auction—and that a private detail was handling security, meaning his hope of working the event had been dashed—he’d asked one of his superiors for the two free tickets that had been given to him by Krupp. His request was initially denied, but just the day before, his boss handed over his tickets after coming down with the flu. He’d asked for money in return, though, to which Berg snapped, “I think my work is payment enough, don’t you?” His boss did not. Berg had to ante up one hundred Reichsmarks, stunned that his work continued to go unappreciated. If he could figure out what Hildebrand was plotting, surely all of his efforts would be widely celebrated.
Berg looked on as painting after painting sold for increasing amounts that he wouldn’t earn in a decade, especially without his long-awaited raise. He hated to admit it: he had to admire Hildebrand and his vivacious wife for attracting these famous works and converting them into big financial gains. But, again, to what end?
As Berg’s mind cycled, he heard commotion in the dimly lit main doorway behind him, where some unseen guests had apparently just arrived. As others quickly turned their attention back to the podium, where bids were spiraling upward for a Pissarro—The Boulevard Montmartre, Twilight—Berg’s eyes remained fixed on the back row of the rotunda. Several figures conspired unintentionally to block his view, prompting him to tilt his large body precariously sideways on the small chair as he tried to catch a glimpse of the new arrivals.
“Ouch!” he cried. Berg’s wife had nudged him hard in the ribs with her elbow, reminding him that it wasn’t appropriate to stare or look back at anyone.
She was right. He pretended to listen to her, leaning over casually one last time to complete his due diligence. An unexpected line of sight suddenly opened up between him and the previously vacant table in the back row. Berg caught his breath. He could now see the dignified, mustached man wearing a sleek tuxedo that even Berg could readily identify as a Hugo Boss, the same designer who’d put his unique stamp on so many Nazi uniforms. He looked again.
His sharp eyes hadn’t deceived him. The man in the tuxedo was Adolf Hitler.
Chapter 37
Friday, December 22, 1944
9:30 p.m.—Berlin’s Altes Museum
Kurt waited for Maria’s cue to unveil the final painting of the evening.
Gunter had seen the führer take his seat, and reminded himself to stay on task. The end was near. This is for you, dear Gottfried.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Gunter began, steadying his voice. “Before he died, one of Germany’s greatest painters left a message for this nation’s courageous leaders, only this message wasn’t written—it was painted.” Excited murmurs broke out. “Ludwig Dettmann revered his country and was one of our most celebrated artists. His last painting was intended to remind us all that victory still lies ahead for the Third Reich.” Applause exploded, gathering at the top of the rotunda before falling like the fresh snow outside that had blanketed its skylight.
Maria signaled Kurt to pull the cord, exposing the large gold-framed painting, done on canvas with bold strokes of oil paints, darks contrasting with bright whites. The sound of shouts and chatter overwhelmed the room as people gazed at Dettmann’s final gift, some grasping its meaning, others needing it explained to them in whispered exchanges. The führer’s eyes glowed, his cheeks rosy, his rushed late-night visit to the rotunda fully validated. Underneath the table, he grabbed the hand of the person sitting with him and squeezed it in celebration.
After several requests for silence, Maria finally quieted the room. “What you’re looking at, of course, is our führer’s plan to turn this city into a global capital—Germania,” she said. “The domed building at the center of Dettmann’s painting is reminiscent of the rotunda in which we find ourselves tonight, as well as the Pantheon in Rome. Germania’s Grosse Halle, however, will be as tall as the Eiffel Tower. It will be symbolic of complete dominance, the Third Reich ruling the world forever.” The audience rose, cheering wildly.
“And, as you can see, Dettmann chose to have our most cherished bird flying over the Dome—the peace swallow, which, though not seen of late, will soon grace our skies as an imminent sign of lasting peace and harmony.”
Even Rolf Berg was on his feet to join in the ovation. He tried not to look back. Finally, the temptation proved too much. But all he could see were the people standing behind him, most still oblivious of the führer’s presence among them.
Berg had heard that, increasingly, at private events such as this one, Adolf Hitler preferred anonymity, often signaled by his not wearing a military uniform. It had become understood among the élite that he was not to be approached. A polite nod at most was appropriate, and only if Hitler initiated eye contact.
At the front of the hall, Gunter prepared to start the bidding, hoping that all the rules detailed at the outset of the evening—with this very moment in mind—were about to pay uncommon dividends.
“Due to its extraordinary nature,” the auctioneer said above the simmering but persistent noise in the room, “we will start the bidding for this painting, called Germania at Peace, at half a million Reichsmarks, with bids rising in minimum increments of a hundred thousand, please. Now, who will get us started?”
A hush fell over the assembled, taken aback at the starting price. Gunter began to sweat in the spotlight. He scanned the back row and thought he’d caught a glimpse of Hitler looking somewhat perplexed, if not astonished, at where the bids were supposed to begin. The uncomfortable silence continued. Gunter grew remorseful, figuring that he’d been too greedy, rushing things rather than letting the bidding slowly take root and spiral upward.
“Seven hundred and fifty thousand,” said the man with the white beard, eye patch, and a large mole on his nose, the same man who’d bid earlier on a number of paintings.
The opening bidder’s thick Eastern European accent pointed to Polish roots, or so many around him speculated, though Rolf Berg was thinking Hungary.
The bidder’s jet-black tuxedo and matching top hat were made from one of the most expensive fabrics available. This man had money. That much was clear to Magda Goebbels as she gaped at him after he bid so high. Alfried Krupp figured that he was royalty but thought that he could also be a successful businessman, the way he carried himself with such confidence.
The foreign bidder was seated with a Nazi official who obviously didn’t know his identity, either. Gunter was well aware that this strange-looking fellow had bid for most of the paintings. He also knew that the man had never once finished a winner.
He thanked the man for his bid, knowing that the next bid, if it came, would determine just how much money could be reaped from this single painting.
“Does anyone want to go to 850,000 Reichsmarks for an original Dettmann—the last canvas ever touched by his brilliant hands?”
“One million Reichsmarks,” the Japanese ambassador said, raising his right hand.
Emma almost yelped. They had already reached the amount they’d calculated would be the maximum bid for the Dettmann painting. The room went silent again.
“One and a quarter million Reichsmarks,” countered the Eastern European gentleman, now fingering his worn eye patch, as he was apt to do when nervous.
“Is anyone willing to go higher?” Gunter asked. “Do I hear 1.5 million?” He waited.
Many gasped. Had any auction in history ever yielded such a result? Adjusting for inflation, Gunter guessed there had been at least one, whereby a savvy Babylonian in 500 B.C. figured that, rather than pursue a direct sale, he’d gather all of his city’s wealthiest old men together to compete, bidding furiously against one another to marry the most gorgeous woman ever seen. And voilà, the auction was born, along with the winner’s curse—meaning you don’t always get value for what you’ve paid, especially when beauty so often runs only skin deep. Touché, Gunter thought, smiling as he scanned the audience for one last, elusive bid.
“Yes, I bid 1.5 million,” a voice quietly said from the back row of the rotunda. Gunter beamed, accepting the bid. Emma immediately knew the identity of the bidder, and she, too, smiled. She’d suspected that the führer was already in the room but hadn’t been able to see him through the crowd.
“The fish is on the hook and about to be netted,” she told herself.
Her group had the money they needed from the night’s sales. Peter had been given strict instructions to stop at this point. He could retire his Eastern European accent, his fancy top hat, and the exquisite tuxedo Ursula had found for him.
“Going once, going twice . . .” Gunter said loudly, ready to declare the winner.
“I’ll raise to 1.75 million Reichsmarks,” Peter declared from behind his disguise.
You could hear a napkin drop in the rotunda. Gunter’s face turned white.
What the hell is he doing? Emma thought, shooting Manfred a glance. If Hitler decided the new price was too steep, their plan for killing him would be null and void. Emma noticed four empty wineglasses sitting in front of Peter. Her eyes rolled toward the ceiling.
“Two million,” responded a muffled voice from the back row. The voice sounded familiar to some, but no one dared look to confirm who’d made this latest bid.
There, Gunter surmised, we’re done. “Going once—”
“Two and a half million,” the Eastern European said with a slight slur.
Ursula had moved in beside Peter, ostensibly to remove the pile of glasses from his table. “Have you gone mad?” she hissed, grateful for the excited chatter drowning her out. Gunter looked on, furious, though he did his best to veil his emotions and keep smiling.
“Three million,” came the voice from the back of the rotunda.
“Once, twice, three times sold!” Gunter shouted, the five hasty words blending into one. The game was over.
Thank God, he thought.
“Perhaps I would have gone higher!” Peter slurred, his accent slipping. “I did not have the chance—”
Ursula drove her heel down on top of one of the thin, finely crafted Italian leather shoes she’d bought for him.
The pain shot through him, the effect similar to that of coming out of a dream state after being pinched—or punched. But it would still be days before Peter fully realized that he’d become intoxicated not only by the wine he’d used to calm his nerves but also by the auction’s power to make his painting, the one he’d created on Dettmann’s behalf, the most expensive painting in history.
At this moment in time, however, as Peter headed toward the rotunda’s side exit, he was more inclined to believe that he’d performed brilliantly, far exceeding what had been expected of him. He’d assumed that Hitler would never allow himself to lose the auction once he had committed publicly to wanting the painting. And now, Peter rationalized, they had all the money they needed to buy off Kammler and maybe even live on a beach themselves after the war.
He passed one of Krupp’s armed guards, skipped down the museum’s stairs, dodged into a nearby street, and ran to the Mercedes, where he found Kurt, Ursula, and Maria waiting.
“Well, I guess you won’t be driving” was all Maria could bring herself to say of his performance.
The others sat nervously, saying nothing. Gunter would soon join them.
The moment had arrived.
Emma was about to take the führer’s photograph.
—
It had been Kurt’s idea, which explained its simple brilliance. A thin layer of plastic explosive would be placed along the entire back of the Germania painting’s canvas, with a second wooden backing applied directly on top of it. No one would be able to detect anything without ripping Dettmann’s creation apart. Krupp’s private security team, though extremely thorough in scouring the rotunda for all manner of potential threats, would never have risked damaging the painting for fear of his wrath.
Emma could see a group of men surrounding the führer as he made his way toward Manfred to pay, all of them no doubt congratulating him on his extraordinary purchase. He’d managed to avoid most audience members by moving nimbly before the lights came up.
She felt her left hand twitch, and steadied it. This hand now controlled a remote detonator, prepared by Gunter and Kurt, and disguised as a flash. All she had to do to play out their charade was line up her camera and bring her subject into focus as he stood by his painting or, even better, held it. At the very last second, as he smiled for her, she would step behind the metal shield to her left as though she needed something from behind it. She’d drop to her knees and set off the bomb.
The führer approached the table where Manfred was taking payments, adjacent to her photography area. Once he’d spoken to Manfred, Hitler turned and called for one of his attachés, who moved to his side and handed him a worn leather satchel, fat with bills; it was enough even with the enormous price tag. The benefits of being the führer, she thought.
As Hitler signed Manfred’s transfer-of-ownership documents and completed his payment, she reflected with some unease that everything had gone almost too well, with only two minor exceptions: Peter’s drunken bidding, and an unexpected visitor.
Earlier in the evening, Emma had looked up and seen the Gestapo officer Rolf Berg approaching from the back of the rotunda. He wasn’t supposed to be at this event, according to Gunter. She’d kept her head down as she examined her equipment. Berg walked right by. She kept waiting for him to stop, only then remembering that he’d be looking for a blonde. She had cut her hair very short and dyed it black right after Gunter told her about Berg and Grandt’s visit to the gallery.
Hitler had finished with Manfred and was now walking toward her. She was surprised by his small stature as he drew closer. She estimated his height to be five feet eight inches. With her heels on, she was a couple of inches taller. In the Nazi propaganda newsreels she’d seen, Hitler had always been made to look as though he towered over everyone.
Emma directed him toward his new painting, which Manfred had placed on the same stand they’d used for the others. He was almost inside the zone where she could detonate the bomb and blow him to pieces.
She had decided long before this moment not to engage Hitler in any form of conversation, remembering Nash’s insights abo
ut the führer’s charm being his last, potent line of defense.
Something is wrong.
A look of confusion had suddenly come over the führer. Apparently, perhaps due to his late arrival, he hadn’t realized that a photograph was going to be taken. He had stopped a dozen yards from the painting, too far for Emma to activate the detonator. She needed him closer. Even a few yards would make a difference.
We know he’s made of rock. He’ll survive at this distance.
Emma had no nerves now, only determination. She knew what had to be done. She motioned him forward and politely cajoled him. “Mein Führer, this will only take a moment. You just have to hold your painting by its frame and have me photograph you to complete the documentation process.”
“Yes, yes,” he said with a befuddled smile, not moving any closer to where she needed him. “I know, Fräulein. I’m sorry, I’ll be right back.”
Her heart sank. Before she could stop him, he had reversed direction and was going the other way. She couldn’t believe it. One of his men had followed him, while the other had stayed behind with her—potentially a positive sign. Maybe his boss would indeed return. Hopefully he wouldn’t be bringing soldiers with him to arrest her.
Emma looked over at Manfred, who had packed up his area and was about to head out the side exit. He glanced at her with concern, and she shrugged almost imperceptibly. She nodded toward the exit, indicating that he should leave anyway. He smiled to reassure her and left.
What the hell is going on? she wondered. But, instead of looking exasperated, she stood smiling, watching the führer disappear.
Weapons of Peace Page 33