Long Buried Secrets: James Dieter Book 4

by Francis Joseph Smith

  His choice status as a whale was the main reason for his invitation to one of the most exclusive poker games in the Philly area.

  Of the ten players originally invited, only two still sat at the table: Eian and the head of the Philly Irish Mob, Mike Dolan Jr. The remaining eight players watched from afar as they smoked expensive cigars and drank single malt scotch courtesy of Dolan, the games organizer. Dolan’s two goons, ex-middleweights and Golden Glove champions, provided double duty of serving and providing security for the game.

  Dolan eyed Eian with contempt. “Eian, my friend,” he said in a hard South Philly accent, “you know you still owe me $150k plus 20 vig from our last game?”

  Eian nodded. “I’m well aware of how much I owe,” he said with an all-knowing smile. “After this game I have the strange feeling my slate will be clean. So do me the favor of showing me what a losing hand looks like.”

  Dolan smiled as he withdrew a .38 from its worn leather holster beneath his jacket, laying it on the table beside him. He pointed to the pot and then to Eian before laying down his cards. “I hope you can beat a full house. I really do.”

  Eian swallowed hard as he tossed his cards onto the table. “It’s all yours, Dolan.”

  Dolan greedily pulled the pot of plastic chips towards his side of the table. “You win some, you lose some. Am I right, Eian?”

  Eian mustered the best smile he could in response.

  “But you tend to lose more than most. By my count, with your latest loss, you now owe me $220k.”

  “And you added that up so fast. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  Dolan motioned for both of his goons to stand behind Eian.

  Eian realized things were starting to go downhill, fast. “You know I’m good for the money, Dolan.”

  “You told me last week you would have the money this week. Well it is time my friend. And you are not leaving until I get my cash.”

  One of his goons grabbed Eian from behind and jerked him up and out of his chair. The other struck Eian three times about his face breaking his nose, blood trekking down to his mouth. Not satisfied, he started to use his stomach as if it were a punching bag. After a dozen or so blows, Eian fell to the floor clutching his ribs.

  “It takes a special kind of idiot to gamble and lose week after week. And you my friend are that idiot.” Dolan walked over to him and leaned down, handing him a handkerchief. “This is bad for business, Eian. I don’t want to do this but you have forced me into a corner.”

  The eight remaining players decided it was a good time to bid their goodbyes, exiting the room, leaving Dolan and his two goons to finish.

  “See, it’s just the four of us, Eian. Just us friends. Now true friends pay their debts. How do you intend to pay yours?”

  Eian coughed a few times, spitting blood onto the wooden slatted floor. “You’ll get your cash,” he replied with difficulty. He tried his best to smile, blood covering his teeth. He reached into his inner pocket of his suitcoat only to be stopped by one of Dolan’s men. “It’s just my damn cell phone,” he muttered.

  Dolan walked over to where Eian sat on the floor. He helped Eian by removing his cell phone for him. After several seconds, he again took pity on the man, handing him his last handkerchief. “Who are you going to call, Eian? With your track record of losses, who the hell is stupid enough to lend you any cash?”

  Eian used the handkerchief to stem the blood loss from his nose before replying.

  “Jim Dieter.”

  CHAPTER 4

  30 June 1937: Berlin, Germany

  Joseph Goebbels, Hitler’s Minister of Propaganda, limped about his empty office, speaking aloud to rehearse his delivery for a speech he was to present to the German people later that day. His limp was due to a childhood bout with polio, which left him with a deformed foot and one leg two inches shorter than the other. Other than that, he was a small man with a large head, and a fragile body, but his voice was mesmerizing. Unlike his hero, Adolf Hitler, whose rough voice sometimes broke when he reached a fever pitch of oration, Goebbels' speech was deep and resonant, never wavering from its carefully crafted message of German superiority and rabid anti-Semitism.

  In addition, no one believed the message more than Goebbels.

  When Hitler ascended to power, Goebbels assumed control over the Ministry for Public Enlightenment and Propaganda, which controlled radio, press, publishing, cinema and the other arts. Goebbels soon subjected artists and journalists to state control and eliminated all opponents from positions of influence.

  Today’s speech was to be distinctive from his many others, one Goebbels had envisaged for years since assuming his post. In it, he authorized the head of Reichskammer der Bildenden Künste (Reich Chamber of Visual Art), to confiscate from museums and art collections throughout Germany, any art deemed degenerate. He was following the direction of his boss, Hitler. Hitler hoped to incite further revulsion against what he called the "perverse Jewish spirit" penetrating German culture.

  Moreover, he said that spirt persisted in art. Degenerate art.

  Soon over 5,000 works were seized. Masterpieces including 1,052 by Nolde, 759 by Heckel, 639 by Kirchner and 508 by Beckmann, as well as smaller numbers of works by such artists as Chagall, Ensor, Matisse, Picasso, and van Gogh.

  Once seized, Goebbels ordered them taken to the Reich’s Bank in Berlin and stored in its vaults housed five stories below the surface to await destruction.

  FAST-FORWARD THREE YEARS, the collection sat forgotten until the early days of WWII. German Armies had already conquered most of Europe but were experiencing a need for hard currency to keep its war machine running.

  This is when Hildebrand Gurlitt, a German art dealer who had the ear of Adolf Hitler, first rose to prominence. Gurlitt convinced Hitler to sell the degenerate art on the world market. He could set the auctions up in neutral Switzerland.

  Hitler saw an opportunity to not only rid himself of the artwork but also make a profit in doing so. He commissioned Gurlitt to sell the whole lot. Of course, he would have to do so slowly, piece by piece to not raise alarms in the art world.

  It was the beginning of a mutually beneficial relationship, one that would enrich both, considerably.

  CHAPTER 5

  February 1945: Moscow, Soviet Union (Russia)

  Stalin had just returned from a month at Yalta where he met with his Allies, Churchill, and Roosevelt. While at Yalta, Stalin made it a point to repeat previous Russian demands of wanting over $10 billion dollars in compensation for the damage his country had suffered during the Nazi invasion. Unfortunately, Churchill and Roosevelt argued amongst themselves and could not come to an agreement. Hours past, then days with no response. Stalin was infuriated. Just before the conference was to conclude, Churchill and Roosevelt both reconvened to inform Stalin that they would turn down Stalin’s request.

  Stalin was no fool. He expected as much. Nevertheless, he was only acting on a grand stage. He would obtain everything he wanted and more. Even if he chose to liberate it. In the weeks prior to attending the Yalta conference, he established a secret "Special Committee on Germany." The Special Committee would be responsible for confiscating valuables in the occupied territories. He demanded the Special Committee ensure that everything of value, from entire factories to rail yards be dismantled and transported from Germany, to the Soviet Union. He also demanded compensation for the destruction of Soviet Museums in the form of equivalent art works from enemy collections. He soon ordered all state ministries to send out “Trophy Brigades” to select suitable goods and deliver them back to mother Russia.

  Soon more than a hundred Trophy Brigades were formed, all dispatched to Germany, Poland, Hungary, and Czechoslovakia.

  Their mission: To steal whatever they could.

  CHAPTER 6

  23 April 1945: Berlin

  Western Allied forces had already crossed the Rhine River, capturing hundreds of thousands of troops from Germany's Army Group B. Meanwhile, in the east, th
e Red Army had entered Austria, Hungary, Czechoslovakia, Poland, and Germany.

  In the air war, strategic bombing campaigns by Allied aircraft continued to pound German territory, sometimes destroying entire cities in a single night.

  There was no doubt who owned the skies over Germany.

  Now Russian forces had entered Berlin proper. American, British, French, and Canadian forces were just 50 miles to the west with nothing in-between to stop them.

  The Allies were concentrating their forces on Berlin. Between Russian nonstop artillery barrages from the 1st Belorussian Front armies, and daily attacks by British & American bombers, the city was in a constant state of attack.

  No one, or thing, was safe.

  It was time for the rats to leave a dying ship.

  HITLER ORDERED THE REMAINING valuables stored in the Reich’s Bank vaults to be moved to the only place the Allies had not yet conquered, the southern German state of Bavaria. Most of the Reich’s bank upper floors were destroyed during a British bombing raid back in February, but its vaults located five stories underground, lay untouched. Since the raid, SS guards were stationed 24/7 at every possible entrance to keep the curious at bay.

  Hitler’s order was the excuse Hildebrand Gurlitt had been patiently waiting for. For seven long years he bid his time for just this moment. Of course, along the way, he was careful enough to safeguard his activities to dodge any suspicion.

  He had to, he had Hitler’s ear when it came to art. Most of Hitler’s cronies were jealous of Gurlitt’s position, especially Himmler. Gurlitt was aware of Himmler’s attempts to discredit him, but Hitler always curtailed any investigations into his activities. But there was incentive for Hitler to do so. If Gurlitt was exposed, Hitler’s bloated Swiss Bank accounts could also be divulged.

  He had what you might call a Golden Pass.

  Nothing to look at, Gurlitt was a frail man in his late fifties. He was small in stature, on the losing end of five and a half feet, thick glasses perched on a sharp nose, balding to a point; what was left lay matted to his scalp. He and his mousey wife had a single child, Cornelius.

  Now with Hitler’s authority in hand, Gurlitt was one of the lucky ones and allotted three German army trucks to move the last of the “degenerate art” collection from Berlin to Bavaria. It consisted mostly of pieces he purposely held back. None of it on view since 1938.

  As originally ordered by Hitler, starting in 1938, Gurlitt sold most of the “degenerate art” abroad to finance Germany’s World War II effort. Mostly through auction houses in neutral Switzerland. He was able to raise billions through the sales, returning most to Nazi Germany coffers and Hitler’s secret Swiss account. He also managed to keep a small tidy sum for himself. After all, he had Hitler’s backing. With no one to answer to or question his accounting, he also secretly accumulated a large number of artwork for himself including numerous masterpieces by Picasso, Matisse and Chagall to name a few. Some were at his home in Munich but most were secreted, unbeknownst to Hitler, in the Reich’s bank vaults.

  GURLITT STOOD SCRATCHING his full white beard as his trucks were loaded. He expected they would soon depart having heard reports the Russians would encircle the city in a matter of days. He resumed his count, clipboard in hand. One-by-one the precious works of art were loaded onto the trucks, minus their frames, rolled up and placed into heavy paper tubes for transport. In the distance, Russian artillery was focusing on the outer edge of the city, the city bracing for another attack that was sure to come.

  The German Army Major in charge for the convoy approached Gurlitt. “That’s the last of it,” he said confidently before eyeing his watch. “Our pass provides us only another 40 minutes to exit the city. After that we are stuck with the rest of the rats.”

  “Then you better hurry, Major,” he said. Gurlitt waited until the Major turned his attention to the other soldiers in the convoy before he approached his son, Cornelius, in the lead truck. “You know what you have to do,” he said.

  Cornelius, all of sixteen years old, nodded. Typical teenager: lanky, taller than his father, approaching five foot ten. Thin as a rail.

  His father handed him an MP-40 submachine gun and two additional ammunition clips. In a low voice he said: “We will meet up at the place we agreed.”

  Again, his son merely nodded as he fidgeted about the trucks cabin. He knew what he had to do. His father and mothers survival lay in his hands.

  The major took his place as driver in the lead truck beside Cornelius.

  The major turned to Cornelius, pointing to the weapon he now held. “You might need that before we reach Bavaria.”

  If only he realized, thought Cornelius, merely nodding at the hardened soldier.

  In a matter of minutes the three-army trucks sped off in a cloud of diesel smoke.

  They would be one of the last convoys to escape Berlin.

  GURLITT WATCHED AS THE trucks sped off. He wished he could have departed with them. Unfortunately, Hitler had other ideas and summoned him to his underground bunker one last time. Apparently, he wanted one last update on the status of the artwork. The thought had briefly crossed his mind to disregard Hitler’s wishes and climb aboard with his son, but even in these last days Hitler’s grasp on power was still firm. People were still terrified of Hitler’s reach, Gurlitt included.

  With his son safely embedded in the convoy, Gurlitt next had to worry about his wife, who, for the moment, was safe in Munich.

  But for now, time was of the essence.

  Gurlitt had to meet with Hitler as soon as possible and then be creative in finding an excuse to depart. Only then could he attempt his own escape from Berlin.

  That, and he had a fortune to claim.

  CHAPTER 7

  23/24 April 1945: Berlin, Germany

  Hildebrand Gurlitt returned to his apartment just off Potsdamer Platz, in order to gather a few remaining items of personal interest. He also wanted to purge his apartment of any documents that could possibly link him to the paintings, burning them in his fireplace. He wanted neither the Russians nor Americans to find anything connecting him to Hitler’s artwork. Satisfied he had indeed sanitized his apartment he departed for his 10PM meeting with Hitler.

  After several hours dodging artillery fire, he soon found himself face-to-face with Hitler in his underground bunker. Gurlitt informed Hitler of the paintings departure on a three-army truck convoy to Munich. Normally a six-hour drive on the Autobahn, but with certain sections in Allied hands and bridges destroyed, additional time would be required. Gurlitt said he had hoped they would reach their destination within a week. Possibly ten days. Hitler brushed aside references to the Autobahn being in Allied control. He quickly shifted his train of thought, suddenly expressing a desire to Gurlitt that the paintings be used to fund the next Reich. The Fourth Reich. Gurlitt alone could help finance, through the sale of the paintings, the next war. Gurlitt knew better than to contest and just allowed Hitler to continue his rant. Of course, Gurlitt had no intention of allowing the paintings out of his control. Hitler spoke for hour or so, laying out specific details, everything from whom to contact, to how the sale was to take place. Abruptly he stopped, thanked him for his service, and ordered him to escape the Russian onslaught. He then called in his personal secretary, Traudl Junge, into the room asking her to type up a document that would provide Gurlitt with unrestricted travel from Berlin to Munich. Gurlitt would be allowed to use Hitler’s authority to commandeer any mode of transport he saw fit.

  This in a time when roving bands of SS soldiers were shooting or hanging deserters in the streets of Berlin, above the very bunker they occupied.

  Hitler performed a cursory view of the document before signing it, handing it to Gurlitt. “Be on your way before you become trapped like myself in this retched city.”

  GURLITT WAS LUCKY ENOUGH to link up with a small band of soldiers and civilians also looking to escape the Russian onslaught as their noose tightened around Berlin. After several days of constantly pro
dding the Russian defenses for a weakness, they located one in a nighttime swim across the Spree River. Once on the other side of the river, he was able to avoid capture and escape into the night.

  He was alive.

  And rich beyond his wildest dreams.

  CHAPTER 8

  April 26, 1945:

  Three kilometers east of Cheb, Czechoslovakia;

  Trophy Brigade Mishka

  Russian Major Vasli Petrov, using a pair of RKKA Field binoculars, scanned the valley before him, eyeing the single road that led into the Czechoslovakian border village of Cheb. For three days and 125 kilometers, they pursued a three-truck German convoy that escaped Berlin and known to be traveling on the same road that lay before him. With most of the roads from Berlin to Munich already cut off, the German Army convoy had no choice but to change its route with a dip into Czechoslovakia for 30 kilometers before they could reenter Germany. Unfortunately for Petrov and his Trophy Brigade, they had orders to halt at the German border due to an agreement reached between the American and Russian governments dividing the conquered territories.

  Scanning from left to right, he was able to distinguish the town’s church steeple from its historical clock tower. In front of the church, the main road divided into two additional routes heading toward either Munich or Prague. Using the church as a baseline, he surveyed the road to the right, following its winding path for several kilometers only to be rewarded with his three-truck convoy approaching the church.

  “We have them now!” Petrov shouted. He turned to his subordinate, Lieutenant Sergey Kuznetsov, “Form up the men. We have to catch our rats before they cross the border.”

  Kuznetsov laughed as he saluted. Within minutes, the ten-man unit loaded up their two ZIS-5 4x2 Russian built trucks and were in hot pursuit. The ZIS-5 was one of the standard trucks of the Red Army. But its 68 horse power engine could only muster a top speed of 45 miles per hour. Luckily, it made up for the lack of speed with its large truck bed in the rear, able to accommodate up to 20 men.