What she saw in this country was clean, well-kept streets and houses, and the people in them the same. Everybody appeared well fed, and working from dawn to sunset; a peaceful and industrious land if ever there was one. Adolf Hitler was carrying out literally his promise to provide work for everybody; factory chimneys were smoking day and night—but don’t point this out, because if you do, Lanny will say that it’s preparation for war, and anybody can do that if he means to make war, but what is the good of it if he doesn’t? And all these Stormtroopers marching and singing war-songs! Irma doesn’t know the words of the songs, and it is enough for her that the men are young and good-looking, well dressed and happy, singing in tune and marching in step. But don’t say that, either!
Irma has lived all her life in free countries, and finds it hard to realize that there are any other sort. She has never witnessed an act of violence in her twenty-six years on earth, and she has difficulty in making real to herself the idea that such acts are frequently committed. To be sure, she knows that the Robins were plundered of their possessions, and she cannot go so far as to think that Lanny was having a nightmare when he saw old Solomon Hellstein being beaten with whips in one of the dungeons of the Gestapo. But Irma finds reasons if not excuses for these events. She knows that Johannes Robin, in spite of his being their friend and very agreeable company, was an unconscionable Schieber, a speculator in the currency of the German Republic. That seems to her a different thing from getting rich by building up public utility corporations after the fashion of the late J. Paramount Barnes. If you should mention such matters as stock-watering and the pyramiding of holding-companies, Irma would stare at you blankly, perhaps thinking you some sort of anarchist; for she has been taught that these are the processes out of which the prosperity and greatness of America were built.
Also, the misfortunes of the Robins were brought on them by those two sons. Hansi, the out-and-out Red, asked for the worst of trouble and escaped it only because Lanny and his wife managed to lure him out of Germany in time. The Communists had had no mercy on their class enemies, and why shouldn’t Hitler dose them with their own medicine? As for Freddi, who called himself a Socialist, Irma was willing to admit that he had been harmless, like her own husband; but she considered them both dupes of shrewder men, who were using them for a while and would throw them aside when the time for action came. If in the confusion of a great social change some of the innocent had got mixed up with the guilty, that was a tragic accident, and what Irma had got from it was an intense desire to keep her husband from putting his head into a bear-trap.
II
It was evening when they arrived in Berlin. They had telegraphed the Adlon for reservations, and they found newspaper reporters waiting; they were prominent people, well known in the city, and their coming would be made much of by the Nazi-controlled press. The “blood purge” of last summer had pretty well killed the tourist traffic, so important to the German economy, and the Regierung wished to establish the idea that all this was ancient history, an unfortunate necessity at the time, but now to be forgotten by everybody both at home and abroad.
Two shining American Zelebritaten would be interviewed amid the popping of flashlight bulbs and would have their opinions on art questions taken seriously. They had come with commissions to buy old masters and prepared to pay precious American dollars. They were expecting to run out to visit their old friend General Graf Stubendorf, also Herr Budd’s boyhood friend, Kurt Meissner, the composer. They would be interested to visit the autumn Salon, conducted under the personal supervision of the Fuhrer in order to exclude degenerate modernist stuff. Herr Budd agreed with the Fuhrer on this subject—he was the stepson of a French painter, a sound representational artist, and had had the honor of showing to the Fuhrer personally one of the best-known Detaze portraits. All of this had been published before and was in the Archiv of the newspapers, so the reporters had it prepared in advance. When, in answer to a question, Herr Budd stated that he was a non-political person, that pleased everyone, for the Nazis wanted all the world to be non-political except themselves.
Lanny telephoned to Stubendorf and made certain that both their friends were at the estate. Seine Hochgeboren renewed his invitation, and next morning they set out for Upper Silesia over another of the fast highways. It is a coal-mining region, and great numbers of factory chimneys were pouring smoke into the chilly air of approaching winter. The district of Stubendorf had been a part of Poland ever since the Versailles treaty, and if you asked why all the coal was burning and factory wheels turning in this vicinity, any German-speaking person would tell you that no German wanted war, but every German was determined to get back into the Fatherland. The arming and drilling—one of the commonest sights of the countryside—was for the purpose of making clear the German will to the whole non-German world. If they wanted war, they could have it; if they wanted peace, let them get out of German lands.
This was an old problem for Lanny Budd; he had listened to it being discussed at the Paris Peace Conference, day and night, from every possible point of view. He had seen with his eyes the elder statesmen known as the “Big Three”—Wilson, Lloyd George, and Clemenceau—crawling round on their hands and knees over a huge map spread on the floor, trying with colored pencils to mark out some solution of an insoluble problem. The various sorts of people were all mixed together, and if you tried to work on the principle of self-determination, you would have districts and even villages chopped up. In Stubendorf itself was a large Polish population, but they were mostly poor peasants, whereas the well-to-do and educated people were German; the latter were in position to make most of the noise and did so. They looked upon the Poles as a subhuman race, born to be ruled by the Herrenvolk, and now this Volk had a Fuhrer who was going to bring it to pass. The unanimity with which he was supported made a great impression upon Irma; but she mustn’t mention the fact, because Lanny would say: “It’s because all the dissenters have been murdered or put into concentration camps; and what sort of unanimity is that?”
III
They were welcomed to the modernized and comfortable Schloss, which didn’t seem so grand to Lanny now as it had at the age of fourteen. Seine Hochgeboren was an old-fashioned Prussian nobleman, very serious and formal, but intelligent within the limits of his training. He considered that he was doing something quite modernistic in receiving two fashionable but untitled Americans into his home. He had done so after he had met them in Berlin and carefully made sure that their money was real; also that they met influential persons, and could be discreetly pumped as to the attitude of Britain, France, and America to events in the Fatherland. The General Graf, a high-ranking officer of the Reichswehr, accepted the new government as it was his duty to do, and if he had any reservations in his mind no foreigner would be permitted a glimpse of them. He had no apologies to make, but took the dignified position that what Germans did became right as soon as they had done it.
Irma was impressed by this German aristocracy, almost as much as by the English. They were age-tested and from this they derived assurance; compared with them she felt herself a parvenue—though of course she wouldn’t admit it, even to herself. However, she watched what they did and said, and made mental notes. She had learned that when she didn’t know what to say, she could keep quiet, and this suited well her placid disposition. Afterward she could ask Lanny about the subject, finding it convenient that her husband knew so many things. His statements could be depended upon when they had to do with music, poetry, painting, or with history—everything except politics and economics. The fact that he was bored by the aristocracy and made fun of them was perhaps another way of being aristocratic; sometimes it impressed his wife and sometimes it annoyed her.
After a proper period of sociability Lanny revealed the purpose of his journey. He showed the telegram from Zoltan and asked if he might be permitted to inspect the Hubert van Eyck which was in the possession of the Baroninwitwe von Wiesenschmetterling. Seine Hochgeboren froze up and s
aid that he doubted very much whether his elderly relative would consider parting with this family treasure; Lanny, who had encountered this attitude many times and accepted it as part of the bargaining process, explained suavely the cultural importance of great collections which were being made in America, their effect in bringing sweetness and light to a well-to-do but spiritually backward people. Such was the European tone toward America, and Lanny had learned from Zaharoff that one must belong to that nation in which one is putting over a deal.
The Baroninwitwe lived in the Neumark, not far off their route returning to Berlin. If it had been in well-to-do but spiritually backward America, the General Graf would have called up his aunt and made sure she was at home and told her about the matter. But this was the spiritual but frugal Fatherland, and so the master of the Schloss contented himself with writing a note and giving it to Lanny. However, the American was fairly certain in his own mind that his host would send a telegram or otherwise give warning to the old lady, so that she would demand a high price or perhaps refuse to put a price until she had taken his advice.
IV
Kurt Meissner still lived in the five-room stone cottage which the lord of the castle had set aside for his use. It was the Nazi party which had paid Kurt enough money to build a studio near by—much like the one Beauty Budd had built for him at Bienvenu. Kurt’s gentle blond wife was becoming what the ladies call plump, and had presented him with four children who were perfect models of what the Nazi leaders approved but so rarely exemplified. The eldest was six, a pink-cheeked and solemn-eyed little boy, who already played the piano better than Irma Budd had ever learned to do with the help of the most expensive teachers.
Kurt was the same long-faced, severe-looking man, prematurely aged by war and suffering. Being slightly older than Lanny, he had always patronized him, and now felt gently sorry for him because of the way he was wasting his life. While Irma practiced her German with the admiring Hausfrau, Kurt took Lanny to his studio and played his new piano sonata; Lanny listened attentively, and thought: “It is rather dry. Kurt is now imitating Kurt. That is, when he’s not imitating Bach. The fountain of his inspiration is drying up. That adagio is almost a plagiarism of Beethoven. Those stormy passages are forced.” And so on. It makes a great difference in what mood and with what predisposition one approaches music; this same sonata had just been rendered by its composer to an audience in Breslau, which considered him the new Germany’s most promising composer and had listened to the work with rapt attention.
Lanny knew what he was expected to say, and said it. He knew how to deal with Kurt, because for fifteen years or so he had considered him a great man and his spiritual mentor. He knew all the phrases of admiration and devotion, and he must use them now, and tell himself that he was doing it for Kurt’s own good. Some day this Nazi nightmare would pass, and a noble soul would awaken and rub his eyes and be glad that Lanny had stood by those ideals to which they had pledged themselves in boyhood—of love and service to all mankind and not merely to blond Aryans.
By tacit agreement they left the subject of politics alone, and did not once mention a family of Jewish Schieber. Kurt was free to assume that since Freddi was buried and the rest were free, that unhappy page might be turned and forgotten. When Irma was alone with Kurt she took the occasion to tell him that Lanny was conducting himself much more sensibly now; Kurt was glad to hear this, and said so. Kind and fundamentally good, but weak—this was the composer’s judgment of his boyhood playmate, and Lanny let it stand that way.
Living a double life had been Rick’s phrase; and here it was. Lanny was a spy in Hitlerland, a secret agent in the enemy’s country. It is supposed to be romantic and exciting, but that is in the imagination of persons who have never experienced it. There may be some who like to lie and cheat and find pleasure in outwitting other persons, but Lanny was not among them and it hurt him every time he said something to Kurt which did not represent his true beliefs.
He had to remind himself that Kurt had done this himself, as a German agent in Paris right after the armistice. Would it occur to him now that Lanny might be returning the compliment? If so, the composer would probably not reveal it; he would dig deeper under Lanny’s position, as entrenched troops do in wartime, mining and countermining. Lanny watched for signs of this; for he feared that Kurt was deeper than he and would probably outwit him if it came to a real showdown. They would be two antagonists in darkness, groping for each other’s throat; yet they would still be friends, using the language of love and, strangely enough, feeling it.
Yes, Lanny decided that no matter how hard he might be fighting Kurt, he would still be yearning after him, with true old-fashioned German Schwarmerei. All the time they were playing four-hand piano compositions, Lanny knew this with every fiber of his being: while they prayed in solemn ecstasy with Bach, while they danced in gilded ballrooms with Mozart, while they labored in spiritual anguish with Beethoven. Brothers have fought against brothers, and fathers against sons, in all civil wars; and here was a new kind of war, spreading rapidly all over the earth: National Socialism against true Socialism, racialism against the brotherhood of humanity.
V
The widow of the Baron von Wiesenschmetterling lived in a fine old mansion entirely surrounded by potato-fields. At present they were bare and dark, but if you had come in midsummer you would have found them green, and would have seen a hundred or so Polish women, clad in what appeared to be potato-sacks, patiently hoeing the furrows from dawn to dark. They were brought into Eastern Germany by long trainloads, and all Germans agreed that they had been providentially created for two purposes, to produce potatoes and to produce potato-hoers.
The mistress of the estate was a white-haired lady with a large bosom covered with black silk and old-fashioned ruching. Over it she had placed her best string of pearls, saying plainly that if you thought she was hard up and was going to sell any of her art treasures, you were vulgar intruders. She looked upon all Americans as dubious characters, and what business had they ever had to come and kill Germans? She held herself stiffly, and did not unbend even after she had read the note from her nephew. She could find no fault with the appearance of this young couple, or with the German speech of the man; the young woman had sense enough to keep her mouth shut, and that helped. The noble widow, gnadige Witwe, consented to let them inspect her picture gallery; and only when Lanny told her that she had real treasures and began to explain their qualities to his wife, did she realize that he was an exceptional person. On the field of the arts even the most implacable of enemies can lift their visors and salute each other.
The Hubert van Eyck was only about sixteen inches wide and twenty inches high, but a great deal had been crowded into that limited space. It represented a stained-glass church window, and so was art within art. It was done with extraordinary finess and exactness, so that you forgot it was small and thought you were in church. It portrayed the Blessed Virgin seated upon a throne, clad in a jeweled robe of remarkable splendor, really almost good enough for an archbishop. Above her hovered three cherubim who, presumably because they were young and active, didn’t need any robes. Golden sunlight shone upon the varicolored scene, and appeared to be as bright as when it had been painted more than five hundred years ago. It was marvelously contrived to look like glass and at the same time to look real.
Lanny never tried to do business in a cheap way, to depreciate what he was buying; no, indeed, he was an aristocrat among experts, and dealt only in what he could praise. He delivered his “spiel”—oddly enough, the Americans use that German word, while the Germans call it a “Rolle.” He was trying to help his country to acquire worthy art works which might some day stimulate American painting. His clients were able to pay for the best; but naturally, there being many old masters, Lanny would recommend those which offered the most for the price. He explained that it was his practice never to make an offer for a painting; he invited the owner to state the price at which he or she was willing to sell,
and he would cable that price to his client, and if the offer was accepted he would come in a day or two and pay the sum in cash.
The young expert examined several other paintings which the Baroninwitwe didn’t say she would be unwilling to sell; he gave her a list of these, and would be pleased if she would quote him a price on each. He wasn’t wasting his time or hers, for while he examined them he was busily thinking of persons who might purchase this and that. He left the severe old lady his addresses in Berlin and England; and when they had left the mansion and were driving past the potato-fields, Irma said: “Do you think she wishes to sell?”
He answered: “It depends upon the state of her mortgages.” He explained that most of these estates had been loaded down with debts in wartime; many of them had come under the shadow of the Osthilfe scandal, which had had so much to do with the Nazis’ getting into power.
Irma had heard talk of this affair, but had paid no attention to it, so Lanny told how the government of the Republic had paid vast sums to the great Prussian landlords to help them in reconstruction, and most of the money had been wasted. Hindenburg’s son had been involved, and that had helped to break down the old President and force him into a deal with the “Bohemian corporal,” as he had been accustomed to call the founder and Fuhrer of National Socialism. The question whether this van Eyck would ever be viewed in the United States might depend upon whether the aunt of Seine Hochgeboren had been able to collect her share of this respectable German graft.
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