Soul Intent

by dennis batchelder

  Would the depositary accept ill-gotten riches? Mr. Morgan said they wouldn’t. He said their lengthy investigation into Hermann Goering’s belongings was precisely because of this concern. “We will not accept goods to which others have a claim,” he promised. “We will not be a knowing party in any theft.”

  So Flora had helped the overseer catalog and research Goering’s treasures. The paintings and jewels were deemed too risky to deposit, and James arranged for them to be “discovered” by the OSS’s Art Looting Investigation Unit. Those riches now sat in Munich, part of over one million other recovered works of art and gemstones slated to be returned to their rightful owners.

  The gold, however, still lingered. All seventy-two bars of it.

  Mr. Morgan unwrapped the bars last week, after they arrived as a special delivery from Goering’s lawyer. Flora shrank from the hated German eagle and swastika stamped on the top of each bar, but she copied down the serial numbers and dates of each one.

  A gold bar weighed four hundred troy ounces, exactly twelve and a half kilograms. At thirty-five dollars an ounce, the seventy-two bars were worth more than a million dollars.

  At the trials, the prosecution showed how the Nazis pulled the gold teeth and fillings from the bodies of their concentration camp victims and sent them to the Reichsbank for re-smelting. Flora was convinced that her father’s teeth made up part of Goering’s gold now housed in the basement.

  But Mr. Morgan had no such fears. After researching the serial numbers, he claimed it was impossible to identify the bullion’s source, and therefore it would remain as part of Hermann Goering’s wealth. So they had repacked the gold in sawdust, six bars to a keg. The gold and three boxes of Goering’s papers sat locked in the basement, and as soon as the Nazi pig became a certified Soul Identity member, they would be transported to the depositary’s Swiss facility.

  The thought that the bad guys always seem to win was stuck in her head as Flora returned to the front room. “Your coffee, James,” she said.

  “Thanks, doll.” James glanced up, then back at the drawing. “Just leave it on the desk,” he said. “We’re onto something here.”

  “You found a way to get Baba inside?” Despite her misgivings, the challenge of breaking into a prison intrigued her.

  “No,” Mr. Morgan said. “James is correct on that point—it is quite impossible.”

  “Then Mr. Goering cannot join Soul Identity?” she asked. Maybe the world still had some justice left in it.

  Mr. Morgan frowned. “He will join. And you will help us.”

  “Haven’t I helped enough?”

  The overseer took a deep breath. “Miss Drabarni—”

  “Flora,” she said.

  “Miss Drabarni.” His words were cold. “You will continue to help us until Hermann Goering is a member and his remaining collection is safe in the depositary. I should not have to remind you that your grandmother is counting on you. Am I clear?”

  She stared at him, unblinking, and forced herself to regain control before her tears betrayed her. “Yes, Mr. Morgan,” she said without a tremble.

  “Thank you, Flora.” He spoke with a warmer voice. “Now, have you ever used a camera?”

  nine

  September 1946

  Nuremberg, Occupied Germany

  James reached up and massaged his brow with his fingertips. “How many more pictures are you going to take?” he asked Flora.

  She attached the new portrait lens onto the camera. “As many as it takes to get one that works,” she answered.

  Despite how the overseer had manipulated her, Flora had enjoyed the last month with her Kodak Six-16. The camera was a mechanical marvel, and she loved loading the film by turning the winding key slowly until the bubble indicator showed a ‘1’. She loved opening the front of the box and drawing down the bed until the lens and shutter clicked into position. She loved determining the f-stop and shutter speed, and revolving the lens mount to the right focus.

  Most of all, Flora loved capturing moments within her photographs. Every time she looked through the view finder and pressed the exposure lever, she felt as if she was stopping time in its tracks and recording a piece of history.

  And the photographs she’d taken! She started with buildings and landscapes. Mr. Morgan suggested she practice taking pictures in both bright sunlight and shadows, and she rambled all around Nuremberg’s bombed-out ruins. Sometimes James came with her, and when he did, sometimes he let her drive the Jeep.

  Flora loved going out in the early mornings, when the golden sun cast long shadows from the wreckage, before the weight of the day crept into the homeless Germans’ faces.

  Her black and white photographs covered the walls of her bedroom in the Soul Identity house. She had pictures of the ruins and the reconstruction, of stray cats and dogs, of fields and trees and soldiers and the homeless. And of children. Lots of children.

  James helped her earn some money by selling framed copies of her photos to the American soldiers and VIPs who came to gawk at the Nazis on trial.

  But with all of her picture-taking practice, she had been unable to capture a photograph of James’s eyes detailed enough for Baba to calculate his soul identity.

  For starters, Baba needed color. The war had destroyed the German photography laboratories, and Kodak only processed color film in the States. It had taken Soul Identity’s best procurement team the entire month to pay for and establish a Kodak branch office in Nuremberg.

  Then, the first ten rolls of the Kodachrome film produced fogged slides. Mr. Morgan found another source, and the images had cleared up.

  Now the problem was the detail. To get close enough for clear eye images, the Six-16 needed a portrait lens, but the first lens arrived with a built-in diffusion filter. Its soft-focus effect left Baba unable to see any iris details. Mr. Morgan scrambled to order a replacement, and it just arrived yesterday.

  She and Mr. Morgan planned to pose as a photographer and reporter so they could get into the Reichsmarschall’s cell. She would have just one chance to capture a clean picture of the Nazi’s eyes, because Goering’s lawyer, Dr. Otto Stahmer, could only request a single meeting for any individual. Dr. Stahmer’s message had come this morning: the Nuremberg Prison Commandant, Colonel Andrus, had approved their application. She and Mr. Morgan would meet Goering at noon tomorrow.

  Based on photographs she had gleaned from various news magazines, she had arranged half of the dining room to resemble Goering’s cell: a small table and chair against a white wall with almost no outside illumination.

  Flora pointed at a chair against the wall. “Sit there and lean back,” she told James.

  He sat.

  She placed the Six-16 on the back of another chair exactly six feet from James’s head. The lighting in Goering’s cell would be poor, and the chair would help her keep the camera steady during the long exposure.

  “Now look into the lens and don’t blink,” she said.

  Flora shot all six pictures in the roll, experimenting with the shutter speed and the f-stops. She rewound the film into the cartridge and placed it in its canister. “Let’s get to the laboratory,” she said.

  While they waited for the technicians to develop the film, James took Flora on a walk through Nuremberg’s downtown. The economy had recovered in this district, mostly because of the trials and the money the press and tourists spent. Flora saw construction crews working on almost every building in the square.

  James stood with his hands on his hips in the center of the platz and slowly turned a full circle. “You’d hardly know that over ninety percent of this city was destroyed,” he said. “This old town district is beginning to look pretty spiffy.”

  Flora nodded and they walked on. She grabbed James’s arm as they paused in front of the Grand Hotel. “Can we go in the club?” she asked. She had read about it in the papers, and could only imagine how glamorous it was inside.

  James shook his head. “They only let active duty officers, pres
s, and VIPs in. We don’t have a pass.”

  Tomorrow she’d have a press pass. Maybe she could convince James to take her next weekend.

  They walked another half hour until they reached the Palais du Justice. The articles said that the prison cells were deep in the basement, and the Nazis had their own elevator to get to and from the courtroom.

  “Are you ready to go in there tomorrow?” James asked.

  Playing with the camera and exploring around town with James the past month had been fun, but tomorrow she had to pay for it by confronting the man she considered responsible for her father’s death. Worse, she would help him prolong his memory and bury his loot. She stopped and wrapped her arms around her chest to keep from shivering. “I can’t believe I have to help that monster win.”

  James looked at her. “It’s the price of freedom, darling,” he said. “We may work on the train, but somebody else decides where it stops.”

  Flora just shook her head.

  They were quiet on their walk back to the laboratory, where the technician handed them six mounted 2x2 color transparencies. They remained quiet as James drove back to the Soul Identity house.

  In the dining room, Flora pulled the drapes shut and James readied the Kodaslide projector.

  While the projector warmed up, she looked over at Baba and the overseer. “It should work this time, Mr. Morgan,” she said.

  “It had better work—we are out of time,” he replied.

  James dropped in the first slide and projected the first image of his eyes onto the wall. They looked no better than the ones she had taken through the diffusion filter.

  “Can you focus it any clearer?” Flora asked.

  James turned the projector lens. “That’s as good as it gets.”

  “Try another one,” she said.

  James had blinked in the next three slides.

  “How many pictures did you take?” Mr. Morgan asked.

  “There’s two more.” Flora held her breath.

  This time James’s eyes were clear. Baba stepped over to the wall and peered at his projected irises. “Can you make them any bigger?” she asked.

  James slid the projector back to the far wall and refocused.

  Baba stood looking at James’s projected eyes. She ran her fingers around the irises. “Flora, get me a proof sheet,” she said.

  Flora tacked a blank proof sheet against the wall, aligning the projected eyes with the two top circles. She handed Baba a pencil and stepped out of the way.

  While Baba spent the next half hour tracing the lines from James’s irises onto the proof sheet, Flora squeezed small amounts of blue, brown, black, white, and yellow oil paint from their collapsible tubes onto a palette. She mixed in some turpentine, and when Baba was done, she handed her the palette and a tiny paint brush.

  Flora moved the proof sheet to an easel. Baba stood next to the projected image and mixed the paint on the palette into shades matching James’s blue irises. She walked to the easel and filled in the colors on the proof sheet. After an hour, she had completed painting the first eye.

  “What the—” James said as he pointed at the wall.

  His projected face was crumpling. A growing white circle engulfed first his nose, then his whole head. The room went dark.

  Flora opened the drapes.

  Mr. Morgan stood holding the end of the projector’s electrical cord. “The bulb melted the film,” he said. “This is not going to work.”

  “We have one more slide left,” Flora said. “Let’s let the bulb cool off, and then keep going.”

  The overseer nodded. “Let me know how it turns out.” He left the room.

  Another two hours crept by. Baba finished the second painting, then used her gold reader to calculate the soul identity. Mr. Morgan was pleased when he saw it matched James’s identity on file—the camera was going to work after all.

  In the morning, to fulfill her duty to Soul Identity and to get Baba to the States, Flora would face the Nazi monster. She just hoped she had the nerve.

  ten

  September 1946

  Nuremberg, Occupied Germany

  Flora thought Colonel Burt Andrus looked like he was trying to be a movie star with his crisp uniform, white shellacked helmet, and wooden baton. She and Mr. Morgan followed Nuremberg Prison’s Commandant down the two flights of stairs into the bottom level prison block.

  Andrus stopped outside the first prison cell on the right. Flora read “H. Goering” on the metal plate at the top of the door frame.

  A pair of soldiers stood outside the white door. One faced out toward the hallway, and the other peered through a small opening into the cell. Andrus tapped the peeping soldier with his baton, and he turned around. Both soldiers saluted.

  The Commandant returned the salutes. “At ease,” he said. He took out his key ring. “Mr. Goering, the reporters are here.”

  Flora held her breath. She was about to stand face to face with the man responsible for millions of concentration camp deaths; the man responsible for her father’s death. Although she had dreaded its arrival, this moment seemed to have come too quickly for her to prepare. She hoped she could maintain her composure and do her job and get out of there.

  Andrus unlocked and opened the door. “You have exactly five minutes,” he told Mr. Morgan. He turned and swaggered further down the hallway, tapping his baton against the wall.

  The facing-out guard walked into the cell and stood to the right of the doorway. “Enter, but don’t touch anything,” he said.

  Mr. Morgan stepped into the cell, and after a moment’s hesitation, Flora followed him.

  The cell looked smaller in person than it did in the magazines and in Flora’s dining room mock-up. A bed took up the whole left side. On the far wall, a frosted window high above let in scant light—even less than she had feared. Goering sat in a chair in front of a desk on the far right wall. A seat-less toilet bowl lurked in a recess in the corner to the right of the guard.

  Reichsmarschall Hermann Goering looked shorter, thinner, and happier than Flora expected. His uniform, mottled with spots where badges and medals once hung, draped loosely on his frame. He stood up from his desk and rubbed his hands together. “Archibald Morgan, finally you have come.”

  Mr. Morgan shook his hand. “Hello Mr. Goering. The Colonel only gave us a few minutes for our magazine interview, so we must be efficient with our time.”

  Goering gave him a wink. “Of course, of course, Mr. Morgan,” he replied in English. “What questions for your magazine can I answer? Would you like to hear how much I admire the Western political system? Or how about we discuss why you will be fighting the communists in only a few years?”

  The overseer’s lips twitched upward. “Our magazine is more spiritual in nature. How about you explain to our readers your thoughts on the afterlife?”

  Goering smiled. “Very well. Please tell your readers that I am looking forward to my return to this world. I am waiting for the day when I can view the marble monuments that my beloved countrymen will erect for me in a rebuilt Berlin.”

  Mr. Morgan motioned for Flora to set up her camera. He looked around the cell. “Maybe you can tell us a bit about your current living conditions.”

  The guard stepped forward. “Colonel Andrus does not allow any questions on prisoner security.” He pointed at Flora. “And I must examine your photographic equipment before you take any pictures. You now have four minutes left.”

  Flora held her camera out to the guard, and he took it and opened the front. “Mind if I take a picture of you, darling?” he asked.

  Flora looked at Mr. Morgan, who shook his head. “We only have six pictures, sir,” he said. “We cannot afford to waste any.”

  The guard scowled. “She’s the prettiest photographer we’ve ever had in the cells. If I don’t take a picture of the girl, then she don’t take a picture of the prisoner.” He looked at his watch. “And it seems I was mistaken about the time. Now you only have two minutes left.”<
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  Mr. Morgan’s eyes narrowed, but then he nodded.

  Flora brought over Goering’s chair. “Rest the camera here on the chair’s back, so it doesn’t shake when you take the picture,” she told the guard.

  He set the camera on the chair and turned it toward Flora. She focused the lens and showed him how to work the exposure lever. “Press here when I smile.”

  The guard ran his hands on top of hers. “Like this?”

  She pulled her hands away. “Like that.”

  He smiled. “Stand next to the prisoner.”

  Flora took a deep breath and walked over. She tried not to cringe when Goering put his arm on her shoulder.

  The guard took the picture, and Flora walked back to him and retrieved the camera.

  Flora advanced the film. She looked through the view finder and frowned. Goering’s eyes weren’t in the light.

  She looked at the guard. “Excuse me, sir. Can we please use the other wall? This side is too dark, and our readers need to see his pale blue,” she leaned close to him and dropped her voice to a whisper, “evil eyes.”

  The guard frowned, and Flora summoned up the courage to flash him a smile. “Maybe we could find a way to work a diligent guard into our feature story.”

  The guard slowly nodded his head. “Mr. Goering,” he barked. “Sit on the toilet and put your head in the light.”

  Goering frowned. “I will not sit on the toilet,” he replied. “It is undignified for the highest ranking prisoner in Germany to be sitting on the toilet with guests in his cell.”

  “Suit yourself.” The guard looked at Mr. Morgan. “Are you ready to go?”

  The overseer took a deep breath. “Mr. Goering,” he said, “we need this picture. You need this picture, sir.”

  Hermann Goering shook his head and planted his hands on his hips. “This is outrageous,” he said to the guard.

  The guard shrugged. “Might as well start packing it up,” he told Flora.

  Goering marched across the tiny prison cell and sat on the bowl. “You guards are despicable,” he said as he leaned forward.