by SL Beaumont
The Carlswick Affair
By SL Beaumont
Copyright © 2013 SL Beaumont
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1492208825
ISBN 13: 9781492208822
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013915575
Paperback Writers Publishing
Auckland, New Zealand
For Mum
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
A Note from the Author
Prologue
Nationalgalerie, Berlin, March 1939
The clock in the old tower chimed eight times and fell silent. The neoclassical building was in darkness, except for a pool of light emanating from a single lamp burning in the curator’s office.
A loud pounding on the front doors echoed through the stillness of the night. Karl Hoffman was startled and jumped up from his desk. Who could it be at this hour?
The pounding sounded again, louder and this time accompanied by shouting: “By order of the Führer, open up!”
“I’m coming,” muttered Hoffman as he hurried down a sweeping staircase to the foyer. The moon shone in through the large picture windows, bathing the foyer in an eerie light. The normally benign marble statues standing in a semi-circle facing the doors, now cast menacing shadows. Hoffman, a short, slightly overweight, balding man in his mid-forties, shuddered and felt his heart racing as he began the process of unlocking the bolts and lifting the heavy metal bar from across the massive wooden doors. Inserting a large metal key in the lock, he had barely finished turning it when the doors were pushed open with such force that he was sent sprawling backwards across the marble floor.
Heavily armed soldiers filed into the foyer and stood to attention as an officer strode in and stood over him.
“Hoffman?” he sneered. He cut an imposing figure in his Nazi uniform. He was over 6 foot tall, with cropped blond hair protruding from under his peaked cap.
“Yes,” Hoffman replied, the icy hand of fear clutching at his throat. Having your name known by a Nazi officer was never a good thing.
The officer thrust a piece of paper towards him. “I have orders to gather all the remaining Degenerate Art that is in your possession.”
Hoffman scrambled to his feet, sweat beading on his forehead. “Now? At this hour?” he asked.
“Are you questioning an order from our Führer?” the officer shouted as he began to peel off his black leather gloves.
Hoffman held up his hands and took a step backwards eyeing the soldier’s rifles uneasily. He, like many Germans, had heard the rumours of people who disagreed with a request from Hitler, disappearing, never to be seen again. “No. No – of course not. I am just surprised not to have been given more notice. I have no staff here at this hour to assist.”
“This is why I have brought my men.” The officer smiled a cold, cruel smile. “Now, where are they?” he demanded.
Hoffman ran a hand through his thinning grey hair and took a deep breath to steady his nerves. “Follow me”. What would they want with the art and why suddenly at this time of night? he wondered.
He led the soldiers down a winding staircase into the depths of the gallery to a large basement room. He paused, unlocking the door.
“Now, which pieces do you require?” He glanced at the document he had been given by the officer. It didn’t specify, it just stated all Degenerate Art still being held at the Nationalgalerie.
“All,” the officer said sharply.
Hoffman stood up straight at the officer’s tone. He wanted to know where the soldiers were taking the artworks, but he was too afraid to ask. A few years earlier, Hitler had labelled all types of modern artistic expression as Degenerate Art, and called any artist who did not have Aryan blood a degenerate. Hitler’s decree of June 1937 had given Goebbels authority to ransack all of the German museums. Along with works by German artists, his team had also scooped up pieces by painters such as Picasso and Van Gogh.
“The items in this room are all by lesser known artists and have little value on the international market,” Hoffman said indicating the hundreds of paintings stacked on their ends in rows along the walls. Shelving at the back of the room contained many books and row upon row of bronze and terracotta statues and sculptures, stacked there only because they had been created by Jewish artists.
A wave of nausea passed over him. He recalled the Degenerate Art Exhibition he had seen in Munich in late 1937 where 650 paintings, sculptures, books and prints had been gathered from German museums and were displayed in a way that made a mockery of them. Hitler had called the artists ‘incompetents, cheats and madmen’ and over two million visitors had flocked to see the exhibition that Hitler said showed qualities of ‘racial impurity, mental disease and weakness of character.’
Hoffman prayed that this wasn’t about to happen again. He, like many in the art world, had been horrified to see works by artists such as Chagall, Klee and Mondrian treated in such a dismissive manner. But they had been powerless to stop the exhibition, which had been the brainchild of Hitler himself.
The officer signalled to his men, who pushed past Hoffman into the room and began gathering the paintings and marching back up the stairs to the foyer.
“Careful,” Hoffman couldn’t help but call after them, his curator’s hackles raised at seeing artistic treasures so roughly treated.
The officer gave a nasty laugh. “Oh, you needn’t worry about that.”
The first of the soldiers returned to the room, carrying out more paintings and sculptures. In no time the room was empty.
The officer turned to Hoffman. “Are there any more?”
“Only those being prepared for auction,” Hoffman lied.
The officer studied him. “Very well,” he said, and turned on his heel and marched back up the stairs. Hoffman let out a shaky breath and looked sadly into the empty room before closing the door and following the officer.
“Excuse me?” he called. He couldn’t help himself. He had to know. “What are you going to do with them? Is there to be another Degenerate Art exhibition?”
The officer paused at the top of the winding staircase and looked down at Hoffman with scorn and laughed. “Come, my friend, you will see.”
It was then that Hoffman smelled smoke. He ran up the stairs past the officer, whose laughter echoed through the silent gallery. He pushed open the massive doors leading onto the front steps. There on the gently sloping grass frontage, the Berlin Fire Brigade had started a large bonfire and soldiers and firemen were tossing the paintings and books from the gallery’s basement room onto it. Hoffman gave a cry and sank to his knees, watching
in disbelief and horror as hundreds of works of art were systematically destroyed.
Chapter 1
London, August 2011
Stephanie Cooper hauled two large suitcases out of the black cab and deposited them on the footpath. The taxi driver remained seated behind the wheel, no offer of assistance forthcoming.
Well, there goes your tip, Stephanie thought, paying him the exact amount owing for the journey. The cab pulled away, the driver muttering something about bloody tourists.
Stephanie smiled to herself. That may have been true on her previous visits to London, but she was no longer just a tourist, now she was a bona fide resident, due to start studying for her degree at Oxford in October.
Turning, she gazed across at the National Gallery, which dominated one side of Trafalgar Square. With a smile she remembered attending an exhibition with her father a couple of years earlier. Her love of Impressionism had begun that day. I must make time to visit the Gallery again before Uni starts, she thought.
Stephanie pulled the retractable handle out of each suitcase, and adjusting the strap of her bag across her body, started walking into Charing Cross Station, wheeling the heavy suitcases behind her. Her father had offered to drive her down to Carlswick at the weekend, but Stephanie was keen to get settled into her Grandmother’s house, so she had decided to take the train. She might as well get used to being independent.
The light streamed onto the station concourse from the magnificent arched glass roof that joined the brick entrance of the underground to the platforms for the overland trains.
After purchasing her ticket at the electronic ticket booth, she stopped beneath the large overhead arrivals and departures board and located the platform that her train was to depart from and slowly made her way towards it. She paused briefly at a coffee stand, but just couldn’t work out how she could balance a coffee cup and manage her bags at the same time. Coffee was one of the things she really missed about home. Londoners, for all their cosmopolitan ways, still seemed to be focused on tea. God only knows what Carlswick will be like, she thought. I might have to start drinking the stuff.
The train was already at the platform, its doors open ready for passengers. Bypassing the first class carriages, she stopped at the next empty one. She glanced around to make sure that it was safe to leave one of her suitcases on the platform for a moment, while she lifted the other one onto the train. A guy around her age caught her attention as he sauntered down the platform towards her, guitar case slung over his shoulder. He looked vaguely familiar. He was very attractive - tall, with messy dark hair, tight black jeans and a Beatles t-shirt. She was puzzling over where she had seen him before, when he looked up and locked eyes with her.
Caught staring, she blushed and busied herself retracting the first suitcase’s handle and struggled onto the train.
“Here, can I help you?” a deep, slightly husky voice asked behind her.
When she looked around, the guy had stopped. She automatically started to say, no thank you. But looking back at her were gorgeous green eyes, framed by unfairly long black eyelashes, and the words died on her lips. Deciding it would be churlish to refuse his help, she instead replied, “Sure, why not. That would be great, eh.”
He easily lifted the second bag, and placed it beside her first one in the carriage. Together they pushed the two suitcases into the empty luggage rack.
“Thank you,” she smiled at him, as she took a seat in the row nearest the door.
“No problem,” he smiled back at her, holding her gaze. “Going on holiday?” he asked swinging his guitar off his shoulder and sitting down opposite her.
“No. Moving. Temporarily, at least,” she replied.
“Anywhere nice?” the cute guitar player asked.
“I’m going to stay with my grandmother for a couple of months before Uni starts. She lives in a little village called Carlswick,” Stephanie replied, before remembering that this was London, and she shouldn’t be chatting to strangers as openly as this - even good looking, helpful ones. She silently admonished herself and looked down at her hands.
“I know Carlswick very well,” the guy replied.
“You do?” she asked, looking up.
“Yeah, I live there,” he said with a grin. “I’m James,” he added, introducing himself.
“Stephanie,” she replied. “You know, you look familiar. I haven’t been there in a while, but maybe I’ve seen you in the village.”
“No, I don’t think so. I’d remember meeting you, trust me,” James replied flirtatiously.
Stephanie inclined her head slightly and smiled shyly, acknowledging the compliment.
“And you are Australian, right?” James caught his bottom lip with his teeth and frowned slightly as he guessed.
Stephanie dragged her eyes away from his mouth and instead pulled a face at him.
“God, I got that wrong, didn’t I?” James grimaced. “New Zealand?”
“Yeah, I’m a Kiwi,” Stephanie confirmed.
“Would I be digging myself an even deeper hole if I said Australians and New Zealanders are very similar?” James teased.
“Similar? New Zealand wasn’t settled by convicts, we have a superior rugby team, friendlier people, bigger mountains and better ice cream,” Stephanie said with mock seriousness.
“And more sheep than people, if I remember correctly,” James added.
Stephanie rolled her eyes and laughed. She glanced at his guitar. “You play?” she asked. God, shoot me now! Stupid question. Of course he plays, he wouldn’t be carrying it around if he didn’t, she thought, mentally kicking herself.
James gave a slight chuckle, “Yeah, you could say that. I’m in a band.”
“That’s cool. I might have to come and see you play,” she said. One thing Stephanie loved was live music and it didn’t matter how big or small the band, she could watch and listen for hours. And with eye candy like James playing, even better.
The train gave a jerk as the doors closed and it slowly pulled out of the station. Stephanie looked out of the window and watched the buildings start to rush by as the train gathered speed. She gave a sigh and settled back happily in her seat. Her adventure was beginning.
She studied James as he, too, looked out of the window. From the artfully messy hair, to the sexy grin and easy laugh, he was gorgeous. Stephanie suddenly wished she had worn something a little nicer than skinny jeans and a little tank top.
As though he sensed her scrutiny, he turned his head and locked eyes with her again. Her breath caught in her throat. Wow. Now say something witty and entertaining, she told herself.
“So what do you do other than play in a band?” she asked. Not witty or entertaining, but it would have to do.
James gazed at her for a moment, a slight frown on his face and then broke into a relaxed smile. “Nothing much. Gap year, I suppose you could call it. A long gap year,” he said.
The journey passed quickly as they relaxed and chatted, mainly about music – Stephanie explaining about the small New Zealand music scene and James discovering that her musical taste ranged from The Beatles to Snow Patrol and Muse.
“You must find London strange after growing up in New Zealand,” James commented.
“I’ve been to London a lot. My father lives there and I visit him a couple of times a year. But I seem to discover something new about it each time. It’s my favourite city in world,” she explained, as the driver came over the intercom announcing that Carlswick was the next station.
James nodded in agreement. “I love it too. I saw Key City play at the Roundhouse last night. It’s so great to have all that live music just on the doorstep,” he said.
He stood and slung his guitar back over his shoulder, and held out his hand to her.
“This is our stop,” he said. She took his hand and jumped up, their legs brushing in the enclosed space. They stood holding hands and gazing at one another for several long seconds. Stephanie knew that she should say something, but she didn�
��t want to break the moment.
“Would you like to catch up for a coffee sometime?” James asked finally, as the train eased into the station. She released her hand from his and reached into the luggage rack for her suitcases and wheeled them towards the doors. James followed her and took one.
“Yeah, I’d like that,” she smiled shyly at him and held onto a pole with her free hand to maintain her balance, as the train eased to a stop.
James pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and nudged her shoulder with his. “So, what’s your number, then?”
She gave it to him and he keyed it into his phone. The doors opened and they stepped off, pulling the suitcases down behind them onto the platform. James continued wheeling one as they walked through the station to the car park.
“I’d offer you a lift, except, I just don’t think all your bags would fit,” he grinned waving his hand in the direction of a row of motorbikes and scooters.
“That’s ok. I’m getting a cab,” she said, smiling at the driver who jumped out and started loading her suitcases in the boot. She turned towards James, “It was nice to meet you,” she said quietly.
“Likewise, Stephanie,” James said, his eyes roaming her face. “See ya.” He turned and sauntered off towards the row of motorbikes. Stephanie gave her grandmother’s address to the driver and climbed into the backseat of the cab. She watched out of the window as James pulled away on a Vespa.
She smiled and crossed her fingers that he would call, soon.
Chapter 2
Stephanie’s grandmother, Ellie Cooper, lived in a six bedroom, two storied, red brick, Georgian manor house called Wakefield House, on the outskirts of the village of Carlswick. Stephanie had always loved visiting the house as a little girl. It had been in the family since the First World War and it was where her grandmother had been born.
The front door was flung wide open before the taxi had even come to a halt. Stephanie leapt out and greeted her grandmother with warm hug and kiss on her cheek.
“I am so pleased that you decided to come down early. I have been so looking forward to seeing you,” Ellie said, smiling. She was an elegant woman in her 80s, immaculately groomed, with soft white hair pushed off her face and curling gently at the nape of her neck.
