by Michael Dean
Was that a threat? Hoffmann’s reddening handsome face was the picture of Bacchic innocence. He poured himself another whisky and smiled. ‘Here! Heard the latest one? What’s the Nordic ideal? Eh?’
‘Don’t know.’ Glaser simulated polite interest.
‘The Nordic ideal ... thin like Göring, tall like Goebbels, blond like Hitler.’
Hoffmann slapped his thigh, booming out laughter, checking Glaser was laughing with him. And he was. Hoffmann’s ingratiation brooked no resistance. But a small alarm bell rang in Glaser’s mind that he was quite so firmly identified as an anti-Nazi.
Chapter Six
Ernst Buchner had art in his blood. He was the son of the painter Georg Buchner, one of the group known as the Munich Secession. He had studied art history at Munich’s Ludwig Maximilian University.
At the age of forty-one, Dr Buchner realised his lifelong ambition and became Director of the Bavarian State Painting Collections. He was responsible for the art, not only of the three major galleries in Munich, but the 10,500 pictures in galleries all over Bavaria, from Aschaffenburg to Würzburg. His salary for this responsible position was a hefty 14,000 Reichsmarks a year. And yet he was not happy.
In fact, his wide-browed, intelligent face was contorted with fear above his red bow tie, and below a remarkable patina of hair. This hair rose not only above but also out to the side of his head, like the halo on a medieval saint – except that it was black, not gold.
Ernst Buchner had been in the dream job less than a month, and he was in danger of losing it. His world, he feared, was about to come to an end: The Restoration of the Professional Civil Service laws were naturally meant to get rid of Jews and socialists. But Hess was applying them so vigorously that any non-Party Member in a Civil Service job was under threat, especially in the arts. Twenty museum directors and curators had gone already.
Buchner had never used the Hitler greeting, well, not until recently, nor worn a Party pin. He was a natural conservative, deplored the Versailles Treaty, and believed in a Greater Germany and the superiority of German art. But he had expected a philosophy from the Nazis. What a disappointment. All there was, was gassy rhetoric about race, woolly anti-Marxism, and a jumble of pictorial projections and myths. Well, that’s what he thought until this month.
To his horror, Buchner had been attacked in the Völkischer Beobachter for his friendship with a Jewish curator, August Levy Mayer – a friendship he now bitterly regretted. To counter the attack, he was trying to join the Party, only to find, horror of horrors, that he couldn’t – or at least he might not be able to.
There was growing resentment among the Old Fighters about the March Violets – Johnny-Come-Lately opportunists who were trying to join the Party now, just as the Nazis were seizing total power. Party membership had been closed. Buchner’s application to join might or might not get through. He twisted his red bow tie in anguish at the thought of what could happen if it didn’t.
What more could he do? He had contacted his detested former wife, Hildegard, who he had not seen for two years, for the sole purpose of enrolling his two boys in the Hitler Youth and the girl in the BdM.
He had made a huge thing of taking race into consideration in promotions – writing to the Bavarian Ministry of Education that ‘Dr Busch is of Ayran extraction and his orientation is national.’
He had revised his view of what is and what is not art. Art, he now understood, must reflect a world view embodied in the race. Works of art which did not reflect this world view, were entartet – a biological term meaning a plant or animal which had so changed it no longer belonged within its species. It was outside the race. Deviant, perhaps one could say. Racially deviant. Yes. Buchner was now quite clear there could be no racially deviant art.
But was it all too late? How unfair that would be. He had instigated the seizure of art from Jewish homes well before gallery directors in other cities. The Political Police – Section 4, responsible for cultural matters among other things – had allocated him half a dozen men under the command of Inspector Forster to help out. He would soon take over a private Jewish gallery – Weintraub – and add it to the list of state galleries.
But best of all, he had managed to establish contact, well, one brief meeting, with the Führer himself. Shortly after his appointment, he had been invited to the Führer’s apartment in Prinzregentenplatz. There, sitting under Ziegler’s modern altarpiece, he, Ernst Buchner, had purchased a painting from the Leader himself, on behalf of the Bavarian State Painting Collections. Surely this connection with the Führer would lead to Party membership, wouldn’t it?
And then, out of the blue, there was this visit from the Justice Department. Two of them, here in his office, at the Pinakothek Galerie. The first a large, shapeless, serious-looking man with a close-cropped beard and piercing blue eyes. The other one a smooth-faced, pale young fellow with eyes like glowing coals, who was apparently the son of Cajetan von Hessert, no less. Buchner mopped beads of sweat from his brow with a red-spotted handkerchief, kept in the breast pocket of his jacket.
‘Could you outline your dealings with the Weintraub Gallery?’ the Public Prosecutor asked.
Buchner gulped, instinctively glancing at von Hessert. At this delicate time, it didn’t matter how good or bad you were at your job. All that mattered was who you knew in the Party. A high-up enemy and you were finished; a high-up friend and you were made. He could do without his entire future hanging on this visit.
‘I ... er ... was, am, in negotiation with the owner of the gallery, Frau Ballat, concerning the ... er ...’ Oh God, where did the Public Prosecutor stand on Expressionist paintings? Did he want them saved or burned?
Goebbels had defended one Expressionist, Nolde, who was a Party supporter. He had a Nolde in his flat. But there was a rumour that the Director of the Berlin Galleries, Eberhard Hanfstaengl, cousin of the Munich Hanfstaengls, had selected it, and Goebbels didn’t know it was racially deviant – or possibly what it was at all. There was another rumour that Hitler had been to Goebbels’ flat, noticed the picture, and told Goebbels to get rid of it. It was all so complicated. Buchner decided to hedge his bets.
‘Concerning the ... er ... repossession of artworks out of non-Aryan property ...’ Buchner stopped and smiled.
The Public Prosecutor gave a faint nod. ‘Are you not trying to take over the Weintraub Gallery as well as the artworks?’
Buchner shrugged. ‘Not “take over”, no. I wouldn’t say “take over.”’ He smiled at von Hessert. ‘The Aryanisation of the gallery was mooted ...’
‘Mooted?’
‘Floated. But ... it was just a suggestion.’
‘The owner intends to leave Germany,’ the Public Prosecutor said. ‘Arrangements have already been made for a sale. Your floated or mooted suggestion is interfering with that.’
‘I had no idea!’ Buchner expostulated, truthfully as it happened. ‘Why on earth didn’t Frau Ballat say anything?’ He looked from Glaser to von Hessert, then back to Glaser.
‘So would you withdraw from negotiations, to let the original sale proceed? Gallery and paintings?’
Buchner mopped his forehead with the handkerchief again. It was a damp ball in his fist. ‘Yes! Yes!’
Buchner resolved to use his own trustees in future Aryanisations of Jewish galleries, not try to take them over direct. There were plenty of other Jewish galleries – he was already putting pressure on the Kunsthandlung Helbing on Wagmüllerstrasse. And the Fleischmann Galerie. So he could afford to write off Weintraub. Cajetan von Hessert’s son! You don’t cross men like that ...
‘Good,’ said the Public Prosecutor.
Buchner again glanced at von Hessert, but the younger man was silent, staring straight ahead. Buchner sensed a tension between him and Glaser. It emboldened him, though he could not have said why.
‘Do you know anything about a painting by Franz Marc, called Blue Horses,’ the Public Prosecutor continued. It sounded like an afterthought.
&
nbsp; ‘Why yes,’ Buchner blurted out. ‘I bought it last week.’
Von Hessert seemed to come to life at that. He met the Public Prosecutor’s gaze, with a half-smile.
‘Who did you buy it from?’ Glaser asked.
Buchner spread his arms wide in an exculpatory gesture. ‘Why from the Führer himself,’ he said proudly. ‘From Adolf Hitler. I made the purchase at his apartment. Herr Hess was there.’
Chapter Seven
‘What’s wrong?’ Glaser said to Rudi von Hessert, back in his office, after the visit to Ernst Buchner.
Rudi had not slept properly for a month; his head was ringing. He sensed that, if he spoke now, a breach might open never to be closed. And in any case, they could no longer speak freely anywhere in the Ministry of Justice. So he did what he always did when faced with a problem, he introduced Ello into the equation. Another invitation to his sister’s room was issued and accepted.
*
Ello had stained the floorboards green since Glaser’s last visit. A white cat, introduced as Krafft, after Krafft-Ebing, was curled up on the ottoman. Rudi, in diamond-patterned sleeveless pullover and pale-blue open-necked shirt, looked a little more relaxed, though he was still hollow eyed and a cheesy colour.
‘Look, I’m not getting into a tizz about this, Gerhard,’ he blurted out as soon as Glaser had sat down, and been given wine. ‘But I’m a bit miffed, frankly. I have no status on the Weintraub case, and I am considerably junior to you. I know all that. But if I am to be involved, you might at least let me know what’s going on.’
Glaser nodded hard, understanding, agreeing he had behaved thoughtlessly. Lotte was always telling him he kept too much to himself, lived within himself too much, bottling up his feelings, not sharing. It went on and on. And Glaser agreed. It was a fault in him, he acknowledged it, but he didn’t see what he could do about it.
Rudi looked drawn and tense. ‘I sat there in Buchner’s office this morning,’ the probationer went on, sounding really angry, ‘not knowing whether I was coming or going. I had no idea why we were even interviewing the man. Because you haven’t told me a ruddy thing’
Glaser held up a hand to stop him. Instinctively addressing both von Hesserts, he made a dignified but complete apology. He then told them what he had found out so far.
Zipporah Weintraub had been unable to sell up because threats from Lange and Buchner cancelled each other out. That at least was now solved, as Buchner had agreed to withdraw. The Marc picture had been sold to Weintraub by Heinrich Hoffmann, but Hoffmann had denied it when he visited. He recapitulated, as Rudi knew, that the Marc picture had ended up with Buchner, having been sold to him by Hitler.
‘So we’ve lost the painting for good,’ Glaser said. ‘But I believe Hoffmann may hold the key. I believe he was lying, with his flat denial. But at the same time, I can’t imagine how he could have got hold of a previously unknown picture by Franz Marc.’
To his amazement, the von Hesserts burst out laughing. The atmosphere in the room lightened. Rudi got up and topped up Glaser’s quarter-litre glass, affectionately putting his arm round the older man while he did it.
‘Shall I tell him, or will you?’ Ello said to her younger brother.
‘You.’ Rudi beamed at her, sitting down and taking a large swallow of his wine.
‘As you will see, Gerhard,’ Ello began. ‘It’s best to keep us informed.’ She softened the sentiment with a big smile. ‘Gerhard, we’ve known the Hoffmanns since we were kids. They used to have an apartment in Schnorrstrasse. Then Herr Hoffmann rented their present place in Schellingstrasse. Until last year, Franz Marc’s letter box was still outside with his name on it ...’
Glaser groaned, holding his head in his hands. ‘Schellingstrasse ...’ he said. ‘Frau Weintraub said Marc’s studio was in Schellingstrasse, but I didn’t make the connection.’
He thought bitterly, ironically, that Ascher Weintraub would have known that and could have told him, had he not needed the information to investigate the art dealer’s own murder.
‘Number thirty-three,’ said Ello solemnly. ‘When you went to see Hoffmann, you may well have been standing on the spot where Maria kept the painting. She left in a hurry, abandoning a lot of his work. Obviously, this Blue Horses was left behind. Hoffmann saw his chance to make some money and sold it.’
‘Henni, by the way, loves Marc’s work as much as you do, Gerhard,’ Rudi added, smiling now. ‘She was brought up with it.’
The mention of Henni’s name brought back the image of her naked before two SA men, but Glaser would not have dreamed of telling the von Hesserts about that – regarding it as tittle-tattle.
But, anyway, Rudi was back on form, grinning at his big sister, the colour back in his face. ‘Ello is a scientist, Gerhard, so she can’t understand Franz Marc. No soul.’
Ello put her tongue out at him; Rudi blew her a kiss. Glaser wordlessly asked if he could open another bottle and, getting the nod, got up and did it himself.
They talked long into the night. There was yet another phone call home to Lotte, to say her husband would not be home for his dinner. Glaser asked the question he had been wanting to put to the von Hesserts for some time. Brought up surrounded by Nazis as they were, and having known ‘Uncle Dolf’ from such a tender age, was there ever a time ...? He let the sentence hang there, unfinished.
Again, both of them laughed. ‘Call it an Oedipal rebellion,’ Ello said.
‘No, not for a second, Gerhard,’ Rudi said. ‘We used to laugh at Adolf. But when the time for laughing stopped, we started to hate him. He’s scum and his people are trash.’
‘And your parents?’ Glaser asked.
‘Oh ... Mother wants me to marry him,’ Ello said. She tried a smile but it failed.
‘Our father is no fool. And he didn’t get where he is by being soft,’ Rudi said. ‘He knows our views, Ello’s and mine, but if it came to it – he’d sacrifice us.’
Ello nodded. ‘Oh, surely.’ And then, with their friendship re-cemented, even firmer than before, Ello was the next one to broach something long on her mind.
‘You think Hitler is involved in Herr Weintraub’s murder, don’t you, Gerhard?’ she said.
She spoke guardedly, as if touching a sore point. It was obvious to everyone, except Glaser himself, that his desire not to let Hitler off the hook ‘this time’ was clouding his judgement.
‘Yes!’ said Glaser heatedly, as his trigger subject was touched on. ‘After Buchner said he got the stolen painting from Hitler himself? Of course I do!’
‘Maybe,’ Ello said. And then, after a pause: ‘I did a course in logic last year,’ she added. She was lounging on the ottoman, now vacated by the cat, in the languid pose which had once annoyed Glaser, but certainly didn’t now. ‘A certain Professor Lachenmaier ran it. It trained you to look at the underlying assumptions being made in any procedure.’
‘And?’ Rudi said, smiling at her.
Ello looked questioningly at Glaser, who nodded to her to go on. ‘It seems to me, Gerhard, that you are making two assumptions in this investigation – one big, one small.’
Glaser smiled and poured more wine. This one was a Lemberger, dry as Glaser’s wit. ‘And what would these assumptions be?’
Ello concentrated for a second. ‘OK,’ she said and took a deep breath. ‘The small assumption is that only one man was involved in the murder.’ She waved an elegant arm. ‘I’m not saying that’s wrong, I’m just saying it’s an assumption.’
Glaser nodded. ‘True,’ he said. ‘Go on.’
She nodded to herself. ‘The large assumption is that there was nothing else in the safe, apart from the Marc painting.’
Part V - Spring 1933
Chapter One
That evening at Ello’s room at the university was the start of the Glaser family’s friendship with Rüdiger and Ello von Hessert. It started with dinner at the Glaser flat, so Lotte could get to know these new friends of her husband’s, which she did, instantly, as they t
alked long into the night. And she loved them, both of them.
After that, Rudi visited all the time. Ello popped in when her studies allowed. She never again came to a formal meal. Glaser suspected she would have felt trapped. She just telephoned when she needed a break, arrived and stayed as long as she wished. Sometimes she appeared every day, at other times not for a fortnight. This was a reflection of her mercurial temperament, the Glasers believed. Ello was as hard to pin down as sunshine.
How many cross-currents were there, in all the feelings between them, in what turned out to be the last weeks when happiness was possible? So many, all so complex.
There was Glaser’s friendship with Rudi. He lost the last of his reserve; and that with a man half his age. They discussed the Nazis over and over again, in Ello’s room or in the Glaser apartment – places where they were safe and private. They were the sort of discussions which needed no conclusion or outcome or justification. Sometimes analytical, sometimes anecdotal, often funny, they were a balm to both men.
And then there was Ello and Lotte. They formed a firm alliance, becoming more like sisters than friends. Ello told Lotte about her studies, her suitors, love and sex, with no reserve or secrets. Lotte told Ello about her concerns for her family. Within the limits of loyalty she shared her fears for Kaspar and Magda and even for Glaser.
The last tangle of relationships was the most complex. The burly, sensitive, fundamentally shy, talented eighteen-year-old Kaspar developed a harmless crush on Ello, and Magda a consuming passion for Rudi.
The feelings were different in nature, as well as degree. Kaspar was well aware that a sophisticated and soignée young woman of twenty-five would not look at a schoolboy as a suitor. But he looked forward to seeing her, tried to find out everything he could about her, and nearly burst in the effort to impress her.
