Long Buried Secrets: James Dieter Book 4

by Francis Joseph Smith

  His interrogators looked at each other in congratulations. They would be the first United States Army authorities to locate any of Hitler’s personal art besides the Merker’s Cave find back in March.

  Gurlitt went on to describe how he documented everything, whom it was stolen from, where it was stored, and eventually whom it was sold to.

  “Where are the documents?” the Colonel said. “Provide those and you just might be out of our custody today.

  “I stored all of them, including documentation for my personal collection in my second home, in the city of Dresden. Unfortunately all of it was destroyed during British bombing raids in February 1945. As for the so called degenerate art, I sold it all,” he lied. “All proceeds going to help the German war effort.”

  What his interrogators did not realize was that Hildebrand Gurlitt had many powerful friends in the west. People who had purchased paintings or statues during his wartime art auctions in neutral Switzerland, most for pennies on the dollar. None of them wanted Gurlitt to disclose and identify who had purchased the stolen pieces.

  When word spread of his capture, many American and English industrialists who had the ear of Allied authorities quickly sought his release. One of the more influential collectors approached General Eisenhower, the Allied Supreme Commander.

  Within hours Gurlitt was released. On his release documentation was a statement that he was a victim of Nazi persecution due to his Jewish heritage.

  His interrogators were dumbfounded. He was a victim?

  Soon after his release, 115 pieces in the custody of American and German authorities were returned to him. They provided him with documentation to state he had acquired them legally.

  Or what could be termed legally, with Hildebrand Gurlitt paying pennies on the dollar to his victims who signed over ownership before being sent to concentration camps.

  The remaining 1,100 or so Hitler collection pieces had been secreted by his son Cornelius, and Sergeant Mike Dolan in a mine on property owned by Hildebrand Gurlitt.

  They were about to become very rich.

  CHAPTER 17

  May 1945: Moscow

  JOSEPH STALIN PACED ABOUT his ornately decorated Kremlin office with the prowess of a tiger. He was furious. He soon picked up a silver paperweight, presented to him by the people of Stalingrad, flinging it at a gilded mirror behind his desk, the mirror shattering into thousands of tiny pieces. “Are you telling me some little piss ant Army Major decided to steal artwork destined for the Soviet Union?” he demanded of General Pastekov, his commander of Operation Eastward.

  Stalin had ordered Pastekov to systematically round up all the greatest art treasures stored in the Russian-occupied sector of Germany and ship them back to Russia. Twelve trains and three cargo planes carried about two and a half million works of art to Moscow, Leningrad and elsewhere. The haul was referred to as "trophy art" as in trophies of victory.

  “You bring me that bastard, alive,” he demanded, his face turning crimson. “Do you understand?”

  General Pastekov was well aware of Stalin’s mood swings. He saluted. “Yes, Comrade Stalin,” he replied. “It will be done within the next 24 hours. Our KGB has already captured him on the Ukrainian border. But…,” he stammered.

  “Don’t you but me,” he screamed. “Make it so, or it will be you who is taking the next train to our far eastern lands.”

  “…he had partners.”

  “What do you mean had partners,” he demanded.

  “The KGB have already executed the major. He is dead. The major had an American soldier and two German nationals as his partners. One of whom was Hitler’s private art collector. They all reside in the newly created American Occupation Zone in Germany. We just can’t charge across the border and demand the paintings, Comrade Stalin.”

  “It’s our artwork. Nobody else’s. It’s owned by the people. Our people.”

  Stalin’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the General. He allowed several seconds to pass before he looked away. “Then we can deal with the rest of his crew. We will eliminate them one by one until I get what is mine!”

  CHAPTER 18

  August 1945: Moscow

  Comfortably seated behind his plain wooden desk, Stalin eyed the two gangly men who stood at attention in front of him. They had recently changed from their army uniforms into ill-fitting civilian clothing.

  “You are two of the best agents General Pastekov could provide me?” He barked. “You can’t even dress like spies! You look like two refugees.” He pointed to their baggy pants and mismatched suitcoats. ‘How do plan to infiltrate the American zone and kill the bastards who have the rest of my paintings?”

  The taller of the two continued to stare straight ahead as he responded. “But Comrade Stalin we were instructed to look like refugees in order to blend in.”

  Stalin suppressed the need to grin. “Then you have succeeded.” He stood up and walked over to a side table where an aide had earlier laid out two Tokarev TT-33 semi-automatic pistols. Beside them lay two magazines containing 7.62×25mm cartridges. Stalin picked up one pistol and expertly slid the magazine into its handle before repeating the process for the second pistol.

  Satisfied, he then picked up both pistols and walked over to where the two men stood.

  “Normally I would never hand a loaded weapon to anyone. But we must establish trust between us don’t we?” He said, handing each a pistol. Stalin previously had forbad weapons in his presence since an assassination attempt two years earlier by a junior officer. Now everyone had to submit to a thorough search of their person before entering his office, even his leading generals.

  “Thank-you, Comrade Stalin,” they both replied in unison.

  Stalin realized that General Pastekov was waiting in the outer office, him conveniently having the next appointment. “So the general has filled you in on what needs to be accomplished? To steal back the paintings from the American soldier and the two Germans?”

  “Yes, sir,” they replied once more in unison.

  “Good,” he said, turning to take his place behind his desk. “Then tell me how you plan to accomplish this mission.”

  Each looked to his weapon, removing the safety in one quick action. The taller of the two smiled at Stalin, raising his pistol and pointing it at the tyrant of the Soviet Union. “The General said if we killed you, he would reward us beyond our wildest dreams.” He pointed to his weapon and to that of his cohort. “I guess we now have been provided with that very opportunity by none other, then yourself.”

  Stalin slowly reached under his desk where he had a Tokarev TT-33 semi-automatic pistol taped to the bottom of his desk drawer. Only his was loaded with real bullets. “The general is a smart man. He knew there would only be the three of us in my office due to the delicate nature of this assignment.” He slowly eased his pistol from its hiding spot and, carefully keeping it hidden, aiming it up through the desk at where the first soldier stood.

  The second soldier spoke up. “The general was afraid he was going to jail due to his own theft of goods from Germany. So he used us to get to you.”

  Stalin smiled at them both. “I guess you have me. May I be permitted to provide you with a word of warning? Right now the two of you are in a very powerful position. Maybe I could offer you something in return for not murdering your premier?”

  “We could not trust you to follow through if you did.”

  “The general told you this?”

  “Yes, the general has been very good to us.”

  “Then why don’t you shoot me and get this charade over with?” He demanded.

  “It’s not that simple,” said the first soldier. He pointed down to the intercom on Stalin’s desk. “First I want you to tell your secretary to allow General Pastekov into your office.”

  Stalin smiled at them. “So the general wants to personally see me executed? Maybe he even wants to do it himself? I don’t blame him.” He pushed the first button on his intercom. “Tell General Pastekov
to enter,” he ordered.

  Within seconds, the General was standing beside his two assassins. He had contempt in his voice as he spoke to Stalin. “You thought you would kill me,” he said, “but it is I who will have you killed. I have always detested you. The whole General staff detests you. You are nothing but a career criminal who bullied his way to the top of the pile. Now, your time is done.” He turned to his two men. “Shoot the dog.”

  Two soft clicks were heard in response. Followed by two more. Each of the men now realized their guns were empty.

  The general realized the desperate situation he was now in, the tables reversed. “I don’t believe this.”

  It was Stalin’s turn. He slowly raised his own weapon from its hidden location under the desk, a wide grin on his face as he laid the weapon down on top of his desk as if daring them to act. He knew the general would try something underhanded such as this. Or hoped he would.

  “Don’t just stand there, get him,” the general ordered his two assassins.

  Stalin was quicker, picking up his weapon and swiftly shooting both of the soldiers with a bullet to the head, each dropping to the floor, dead.

  He then turned the gun on the general. “Any last words?”

  The general straightened his tunic top and brushed his hair back. “I have no regrets. Do with me what you will. But you will always be a bastard to me!”

  Stalin shot him dead with a single bullet to his head.

  His office door came crashing in as his outer office guards burst into the room, weapons at the ready. Stalin indicated he was okay.

  He then signaled for his aide to enter.

  “I want you to suspend the operation to steal the paintings from the American and the two Germans. We will wait until I can at least trust someone on my general staff to carry out a simple order without one of them trying to assassinate me.”

  IN TIME, STALIN passed on the paintings, content with what his Trophy Brigades had already stolen. He had enough plunder.

  What he really desired were people he could trust.

  CHAPTER 19

  Present Day: Clyde’s Auto Body, Edgemont PA

  Dolan enjoyed having the floor, speaking down to Nora and Jim. “You are both smart people so I can skip with the details and just go with the basics. A little history for you. Early spy stuff. The predecessor to the CIA was the OSS or Office of Strategic Services. They set up shop back in 1943. By the end of 1945 they were receiving over half of their funding from captured Nazi treasure hoards. What they found, they kept. The old finders keepers rule. As the war was ending, and even in the years just after, say 1946 and 1947, they uncovered major treasure hoards such as paintings, gold, sometimes even cash. They were worse than the Russians in stealing stuff.”

  Nora and Jim appeared bored.

  Dolan noticed the disinterested expression upon their faces. “Trust me, its gets better. Just hear me out. He walked around to his coat and pulled out a pack of Camels. He offered them around the room, everyone declined. He put one in his mouth and one of his goons obliged his boss and produced a lighter. He was more at ease now, exhaling a ring of smoke before continuing. “My father, God bless his soul, was a numbers runner for the Philly Irish mob back in the late thirties, early forties. Believe it or not, he was one of the few who never got pinched by the cops. He was low level, but he had a lot of gumption. Unlike his cohorts, he never had an arrest record, so unfortunately he was eligible for military service. Just when he was moving up in the Philly organization, he was drafted. Fast forward three years and he’s an Army Sergeant assigned as a forward scout to old blood and guts Patton’s Third Army.

  Towards the end of the war in Europe, I am talking like the last day or two, my Dad and what was left of his platoon stumbled upon a three truck Nazi convoy parked in a field. Alongside the trucks, lay five dead German soldiers, and one survivor. My Dad said the lucky bastard was just a kid not older than sixteen. He was dressed in street clothes and evidently was not a soldier. After a few minutes of interrogation the German kid informs my dad about the contents of the truck. Are you ready for this? It’s Hitler’s personnel painting collection. Or sort of his personal collection. It’s all the paintings that Hitler said was “degenerate art”. What he really did was use it as an excuse to confiscate the paintings. Picture a Philly mobster stumbling upon a bunch of stolen art. And it basically fell onto his lap.”

  Now Dolan had Jim and Nora’s complete attention. Jim had heard rumors of such a collection but the paintings were supposedly destroyed in a bombing raid towards the end of WWII. If what Dolan was saying is true and he had proof these artifacts survived, the value would be in the billions of dollars.

  Jim’s interest was piqued. “What happened to the German boy in your story?” he asked Dolan.

  Dolan smiled at Jim. “So I have your attention? I knew once you heard a portion of the story you would be intrigued.”

  “A portion?” asked Jim in reply.

  “Oh yes, allow me to continue. When my dad and his platoon came across the German kid, he had just shot five German soldiers. His own people. Well, not really soldiers but Nazi’s, those SS types. When questioned by my father the boy admitted to shooting them. He explained he had to get rid of the witnesses and, that he didn’t like Nazi’s. Of course, my father took an instant liking to the boy. Within minutes, a Russian platoon shows up. But they are not your ordinary Russian soldiers, these were part of Stalin’s Trophy Brigades. They were looking for anything of value to bring back to Mother Russia. So here is my dad with his fellow American soldiers meeting up with Russian soldiers, and this German boy all standing around with three trucks full of enough stolen artwork to make them all rich beyond their wildest dreams.”

  Dolan smiled as he excused himself to fill up his empty glass with two fingers of Scotch followed by two pieces of ice.

  “You can’t pause now,” said Nora, she was just as fascinated as Jim and Eian. Even the two goons looked absorbed in the story.

  Dolan knew he had them right where he wanted. Unfortunately he required the pretense of their friend Eian, being in trouble. If not, they would have never left Florida. At least not for Dolan’s purposes. They wouldn’t have accepted his calls. Now, he had his proverbial hooks in them.

  He nodded to Nora as he continued. “Everybody’s standing around the dead Germans and the trucks full of art. Dad and the Russian officer send their men to make sure the Germans were actually dead. Of course it was all a ruse. While they were checking, Dad, the German boy and the Russian shoot them all in cold blood. No witnesses except for the three of them and now they only have to split the haul three ways.”

  “Oh my God,” exclaims Nora. “They were butchers.”

  “More like entrepreneurs, Nora,” Dolan replied smugly. “My Dad now only had two partners instead of potentially 15 to 20. Moreover, of those, he knew somebody would eventually slip up or even worse rat them out to the authorities. Now, in one swoop, only three partners. But all in all, less witnesses.”

  “I still say they were murderers,” said Nora. “They could have simply divided up the paintings and each would have been millionaires.”

  Eian and Jim nodded in agreement.

  Dolan held up his hand to quiet them. “Please allow me finish the story.”

  Jim was the first to speak. “Let the man finish, I’m interested in where the story is going.”

  Dolan smiled at him as he continued. “So here they are with all of these expensive paintings in the middle of nowhere. Now what do they do? My Dad knows there is no possible way he could bring back his share of the paintings to the US and not get caught. So the German boy shares the details of where he was heading before my Dad and the Russian surprised him. They come to find out the boy’s father owns an old mine in Bavaria, just a few miles away across the border from where they were standing. The German boy, my dad, and the Russian major, using the German trucks, transport the paintings to the mine in Germany. Luckily for them within a few weeks
it becomes part of the American Occupation Zone.”

  He takes a sip of his Scotch, savors it for a few seconds before continuing.

  “Several weeks go by and the Russian Major contacts my Dad and the German boy. He informs them that he must return to the Soviet Union and wants his cut of the paintings to take with him. Now my father and the German boy had a feeling from the start of their partnership that the Russian Major was going to be the weak link in the chain. Luckily for my father, the German boy’s father, had somehow made it out of Berlin and returned to Munich. So between the three of them, they devised a plan to screw the Russian out of his cut. Well, at least a portion of his cut. They managed to pull the old bait and switch on the Russian and had reproductions made up for 20 of the more expensive paintings that were slated to be part of his share.

  There were plenty of forgers out of work. The German boy’s father personally knew several from their work with the Gestapo. Within weeks, they had 20 Old Masters forged. When the time came, they helped the Russian Major load his share of close to 300 paintings. He had no way of knowing that the 20 most expensive had been switched. How could he? He was no expert. Within weeks the poor schlep was nabbed by his own government as he tried to transport his plunder back to the Soviet Union. I heard he actually made it to the last checkpoint on the border when they caught him. The Russians quickly put him to death and confiscated his share of the paintings. Fakes and all.”

  He took another sip of his scotch before continuing. “That left my dad, the German kid and his father. Over the years they managed to sell off paintings one at a time in Switzerland to not arouse suspicion. Most were private collectors whom didn’t care about the artworks provenance. It would be for their own viewing pleasure. The German boy’s father died in the 1950’s and the boy himself was caught in 2010 while on his way to sell a painting in Switzerland. But in-between they each made many millions. The government then searched Cornelius’s apartment and found almost a thousand paintings that had been stolen during the war. Of course they confiscated them, but in the end the German courts ruled they were owned by the man and the confiscation was ruled unlawful.in whose possession they were originally confiscated. So believe it or not the government returned most of his paintings. They had no law, and still to this day have no law on returning treasures appropriated during war. The German boy, Cornelius, lived until 2014 and when he croaked, he screwed my Dad, or me, since Dad died in 2010, out of my share of the paintings. His Will stipulated that upon his death the paintings were to be donated to a Museum in Bern, Switzerland. That included my father’s share of the stash.”