CHAPTER 15
May 1945
American Occupation Zone, Germany
Major Vasli Petrov wasted no time contacting Dolan, only days after the independent board cleared them of any wrongdoing in the Russian, German, and American shooting. The shootings were deemed accidental. Now Petrov wanted his cut. He was being transferred back to the Soviet Union and obviously did not trust his new partners to keep up their end of the bargain.
As agreed, they met several days later on the German side of the German - Czechoslovakian border in a recently reopened pub. It was a pub in name alone. It still had a large gaping hole in the wall where a tank shell blasted its way through only weeks earlier. The pub’s roof had enough holes in it to warrant ten metal pots placed strategically about to catch the rainwater that leaked through. Four wooden stools sat empty at the bar. To the left, three wooden tables sat empty by a large hole where a window was blown out. For the foreseeable future, the pub could only offer watered-down beer. In these difficult times, hard liquor was still tough to come by.
The pub’s only customer for the moment was Dolan nursing a beer. He purposely arrived early to scout the location just in case the Russian was trying to set him up. Petrov soon arrived carrying two bottles of vodka. He approached the bartender first, handing him one of the bottles. “A gift from the Russian people to you. Feel free to serve it to your customers,” he said joyously.
The bartender nodded his thanks as he looked around at his empty bar.
Obviously in a very good mood, Petrov sat down with Dolan. He placed the bottle between the two of them. He took Dolan’s full glass of beer and dumped it on the earthen floor. “This is better for you,” he stammered, obviously drunk. He signaled the bartender for another glass. They being his only customers, the glass came without delay.
“What the hell are you doing?” said Dolan.
“Getting drunk, my American friend. And you?”
Dolan could see he was going to have his hands full.
THE BOTTLE EMPTY, they moved on to the cheap, watered down German beer. For two hours Dolan tried to talk him out of taking his share, but Petrov still insisted he receive his cut before he was transferred home.
“You will never get the paintings through your army checkpoints,” Dolan warned him adamantly. “Your people are on the lookout for theft. They think everything belongs to the Government of the Soviet Union. You of all people should realize this. You would be considered just another common thief.”
Petrov fumbled through his tunic before he found what he was looking for, holding up his orders and a gold embossed pass for Dolan to see. “These two pieces of paper say otherwise. They will allow me to proceed through all checkpoints unmolested.”
He handed them to Dolan who eyed them skeptically. “How in the hell do I know what they say?” He said. “I can’t read Russian.”
Petrov smiled. “They say I am to be provided free passage through all Army checkpoints. The soldier in possession of this pass is working directly for Comrade Stalin.”
Petrov signaled the bartender for another round of beer. Then he turned his attention back to Dolan. “I will be safe, my friend,” he said. “You do not have to worry about Petrov.”
“Okay, say you are able to get through all of the checkpoints. What will you do with the paintings in the Ukraine? They would nail you in a New York minute if you tried to sell them. And who would you sell them too? You live in a communist country. Nobody has money. You would be better off keeping your share with us.”
“I will find buyers,” replied Petrov confidently. “Not everyone is poor.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, in the West we can find buyers in Switzerland or the United States. People who are looking for art. Not just any type of art mind you but exactly what we have to sell. In addition, the buyers are people who can keep a secret for a discounted price on a painting or two. They know where the paintings are from, and they still don’t care.”
Petrov shook his head. “I have made up my mind. I want my share or nobody will profit.”
Dolan paused for several seconds. “Are you threatening me?”
“You can take it any way you want, just give me my share and we all walk away happy.”
Dolan could see what Petrov planned to do. If they refused and held onto his share of artwork for a later sale, he would report them to the Allied High Commission. They would soon investigate and discover their stash of paintings. Petrov would be a hero.
Albeit, a poor hero.
DOLAN HAD NO CHOICE AND SOON contacted Cornelius. He explained the situation. Within a matter of days, the three of them had managed to load a Russian Army ZIS-5 truck with Petrov’s share.
“I think you are making a big mistake, my Russian friend,” said Dolan. “I would think twice if I were you. We can make countless American dollars or Swiss Francs from these paintings. We can even have your cut placed into a secret Swiss account that you could access anytime you want. It would all be on the sly. Nobody would be able to connect you to the artwork or money. You would be rich beyond your wildest dreams.”
Cornelius agreed. “If your people catch you with the paintings they will first torture you, and then shoot you. But remember one thing: before that happens they will force you to divulge how you came across the paintings. Then, they will come after Dolan and myself and shoot the both of us.”
“It all sounds very convincing but I have to take the chance,” Petrov replied. “Neither one of you understands what it is like to live in a communist country. Unlike yourselves, once I am back in the Soviet Union they will not let me travel outside of its borders for a long time, if ever. I would never be able to collect my monies.”
Truth be told, Dolan really didn’t care what happened to Petrov. But he agreed with Cornelius. If Petrov were captured there was no doubt the Russian would be tortured until he had no choice but to inform on them. Taking this into account Dolan slowly reached for his holstered 45, but Petrov had anticipated as much, bringing his weapon to bear on his former partners. “Let us depart as friends,” Petrov said with a slight smile. He then indicated for Dolan to toss his 45 into the bushes. “We will all be very rich soon enough. You can purchase a new one.” He then climbed up and into the driver’s side of the cab of his truck, waved to them, and began his long trek back to the Soviet Union, or more specifically, Ukraine.
PETROV’S CREDENTIALS DID INDEED work their magic, allowing him to pass through a total of six Russian Army checkpoints and almost 600 miles of roadway, unscathed. He merely flashed his documents and the guards, upon viewing Stalin’s signature, crisply saluted and quickly waved him through. The only downfall so far was the time it took to travel the 600 miles of war-damaged roadways to the Soviet Union’s border. What would have, under normal circumstances, taken 14 hours to drive, had now taken eight days. Eight days where he was forced to seek shelter, meals, and valuable petrol for his truck. No one refused him. Stalin’s signature had commanders falling over themselves to assist him. Especially after Petrov indicated he was keeping a log of all who assisted him in his journey. His documents also enabled him to utilize local military units to guard the truck as he slept, eat, showered, or relaxed. Now, as he approached the Ukrainian border town of Byxo, he was so confident of his choice to take his cut and run, he could smell the money.
Maybe with his newfound wealth he would buy a new home by the Black Sea. Maybe Sochi? He had heard Stalin and members of the Politburo vacationed along its sandy banks during the cruel winter months.
Unfortunately for Petrov, much had changed in the eight days it had taken him to reach the final checkpoint on the Soviet/Ukrainian border. Stalin was on a rampage. His three top Generals who commanded the Trophy Brigades had been arrested on charges of theft. Not just theft on a small scale mind you but they had the audacity to steal entire contents of German estates and even castles, all for their personal use. They even had the boldness to ship everything back in army trucks, and in commandeere
d military aircraft. Stalin had his suspicions after the head of the Trophy Brigades, General Minov, was caught the week before with several valuable paintings hung in his bedroom and dining rooms. After a more methodical search, conducted by the KGB, they soon found over a million dollars worth of rugs, silverware, and paintings scattered about his home. Stalin was livid. Now he turned on his charges, ordering everyone to be thoroughly searched upon return to the motherland. From Generals to lowly privates.
No exceptions.
PETROV HAD NO INKLING of what had transpired in the preceding eight days as he approached the final checkpoint, a KGB checkpoint at that. He handed his papers over to a young lieutenant.
“Out of the truck,” the lieutenant demanded.
“I am a major,” Petrov replied confidently, “You will address me as such. How dare you order me about as if I were some lowly private.”
The lieutenant smiled at him before speaking. “So sorry, get the hell out of the truck, sir.”
Petrov sneered as he pointed to the papers. “Do you see whose signature is at the bottom of the second paper? Comrade Stalin. He will bust you down to a lowly private when he finds you have hampered my progress. Now step aside and allow me to continue.”
The lieutenant nodded to Petrov. “These papers and pass have no authority over KGB checkpoints. As per Stalin’s latest directive, as of three days ago, every person and vehicle is to be searched. Even your Trophy Brigades boss, General Minov was searched. And now he is in jail for theft.”
Petrov turned pale, a feeling of nauseas suddenly swept over him. This is not good, he thought to himself. The lieutenant led him to the trucks rear.
“What is your cargo?” he demanded.
Petrov stood staring at the man for several seconds before he regained his composure. “Wooden crates of files. Many important documents.”
“We will see about that.” The lieutenant lowered the trucks rear gate and jumped up into the truck to perform a closer inspection of the crates.
Petrov was ready to run when two additional KGB guards suddenly appeared behind him, AK-47’s at the ready. “Please wait where you stand, Major,” said the one closest to him. “It won’t take long.”
AFTER THE KGB SEARCHED Petrov’s truck, they easily located the paintings, each individually rolled up in cardboard tubes and placed into three separate wooden crates for their trip to his home. A quick inventory of the first crate included 75 paintings and drawings by Veronese, El Greco, Degas, Daumier, Renoir, Tintoretto, and Goya.
Petrov tried to talk his way out of the mess. “The paintings are due to arrive at the Hermitage Museum in a few days. This is all just a minor misunderstanding.” The KGB swiftly placed him under arrest, taking him to a small house they had been occupying for a more through interrogation.
IN A MATTER OF 30 minutes, a bloody and beaten Petrov was overheard informing on his former partners as he was being placed into a make shift jail cell; a cage normally used to transport large gorillas, liberated from a nearby zoo.
A KGB ART EXPERT was quickly dispatched from Berlin. Flown in on a captured German Fieseler Fi 156 Storch, arriving two hours after the first call was placed. Everyone knew Stalin wanted quick results but above all he wanted traitors looking to profit from the war. The art expert was a former staff member at the Soviet National Museum. In a matter of hours she surmised that the first 75 paintings they identified were worth anywhere between $50-$60 million US dollars on the open market. But they still had another two crates with 225 paintings to inventory. Petrov had revealed during the interrogation that they might be worth over $200 million.
His KGB interrogators brutally forced him outside, placed him up against a stonewall and summarily executed him.
Now the KGB only had to track down the remaining 900 or so paintings. At least that’s what Petrov disclosed was still in hiding.
But they knew exactly where to look.
CHAPTER 16
May 1945: Munich Germany
After three weeks of walking, sleeping in fields, eating whatever he could scrounge, Hildebrand Gurlitt arrived home in Munich, 15 pounds lighter than when he escaped Berlin.
He never had the opportunity to use Hitler’s pass, destroying it as soon as he reached the opposite banks of the Spree River. He could not risk the Russians capturing him with such a document in his possession.
Gurlitt was stunned at the damage Allied bombings had caused and the devastation inflicted upon its neighborhoods, particularly those around the old city. Even his favorite beer hall, The White Mouse, had been destroyed. Fortunately for Gurlitt, he lived some distance from the city center in a section called Bogenhausen, one of Munich’s least devastated quarters as only a few buildings were hit, and even those by errant bombs. The Bogenhausen area consisted mostly of immense villas representing the old aristocracy. This included the stylish villa that Gurlitt and his family chose to call home.
As Gurlitt walked up the Belgian stone driveway that announced his elegant home, a sense of relief spread across his face as he immediately noticed it had some how escaped the bombing raids that so damaged the city center.
And that meant his family was safe.
He chose to ring the front door bell. Having not washed in weeks and living in the same set of cloths since escaping Berlin, he had the appearance of a vagrant. He knew his wife kept a small pistol for protection and the last thing he needed was being shot in his own home after traversing some 600 kilometers unscathed.
After several minutes he heard footsteps, then the porch light flickered on above his head. The curtain on the door was drawn aside several inches. Next he heard his wife, Helene, scream for joy as she yelled for her son to come downstairs. She quickly opened the door to greet her husband, having thought for weeks that he was surely dead or captured by the Russians. Despite his appearance and stench from his weeks on the road, she embraced him.
Soon Cornelius joined his mother in clutching his father.
After several awkward minutes, they held his hands, one for each, pulling him into the house’s entryway. The intoxicating smells of dinner wafted over him.
“We were just getting ready for dinner,” his wife said. “You look as though you could use a good meal or two.” She patted his midsection.
Hildebrand smiled. “I haven’t eaten a full meal in weeks. Lead the way.”
Over dinner he tried to maintain some decorum as he regaled his family of his daring escape from Berlin. When dinner concluded, he excused himself explaining he wanted to take a nice long hot bath. His wife started to clean up the dishes while Cornelius offered to get the bath ready.
When Cornelius and Hildebrand were out of earshot, Hildebrand pulled him aside. “What news of the paintings?” he asked.
Cornelius informed him of the deal he negotiated with the American and Russian.
Hildebrand was ecstatic. His son had done well. “I knew you could do it,” he said, slapping his son in the back in congratulations.
IN A MATTER OF DAYS Hildebrand was promptly arrested by the American authorities who held sway as the governing authority for Bavaria.
Someone had betrayed his presence in Munich.
Gurlitt was prepared for the inevitable. His long trek from Berlin over the past few weeks had provided him with time to contemplate all possible options. He realized that as someone who had personal dealings with Adolf Hitler, the Americans would no doubt arrest him as a potential war criminal. He had accepted this.
The Americans who questioned him, a Colonel from the so-called Monuments Men unit, and a Lieutenant assigned as legal counsel for the 3rd Army, desired to know the whereabouts of stolen artwork. Particularly the ones identified as “degenerate art” by Hitler. They had numerous witnesses that could identify Gurlitt as Hitler’s right-hand man when it came to art.
They also sought to claim Gurlitt’s own extensive collection of 115 pieces of artwork openly displayed throughout his home, all thought to have been stolen.
Soon after
his arrest, American Military Police showed up at Gurlitt’s front door, holding orders from the American Governor of Bavaria, General Patton, to confiscate all of the artwork in his home. His wife and Cornelius could only stand by and watch as the soldiers removed all 115 pieces of art. Luckily for them the rest lay secreted by Cornelius in Presdorf.
For days they held Hildebrand under the Allied War Powers Act. The Americans were unyielding. They interrogated Gurlitt for hours on end. Returning him to his cell only to drag him back to interrogation. This happened repeatedly. He lost all sense of time.
They also withheld the basic essentials of food and water. This, combined with everything that had transpired only days after his three-week trek from Berlin, his stomach and bowels were in an uproar. After a week of this treatment, he was a broken man. Seeing Gurlitt’s condition worsening hour-by-hour his interrogators saw an opportunity. They went in for the kill, once again demanding Gurlitt turn over documentation, not only about his personal artwork, but also about the “degenerate art”. They wanted to know who his customers were. Where they were from. And whom they represented. If he refused to supply this information, due to his condition, they informed him he could be dead within days. Then they would have his family turned out on the street like paupers.
Gurlitt had no doubt they would strike at his family, using them as pawns. He had planned for as much.
“I’ll tell you everything,” said Gurlitt. “Provide me with some water and you will know what I know.”
His interrogators saw it as a major breakthrough, pouring him a tin cup of water. Gurlitt took it eagerly in his hands. They waited patiently for him to compose himself. He nodded his thanks to them before speaking. “I was Hitler’s art buyer, that much is true. I did keep detailed records of every transaction and who purchased what painting.”
Long Buried Secrets: James Dieter Book 4 Page 5
