IV
Hugo also had been to the Parteitag. To him it was not merely a marvelous demonstration of loyalty, but a call to every Parteigenosse to see that the loyalty was not wasted. Those million devoted workers gave their services without pay, because they had been promised a great collective reward, the betterment of the lot of the common man in Germany. But so far they had got nothing; not one of the promised economic reforms had been carried out, and indeed many of the measures which had been taken were reactionary, making the reforms more remote and difficult. The big employers had got a commanding voice in the control of the new shop councils—which meant simply that wages would be frozen where they were, and the workers deprived of all means of influencing them. The same was true of the peasants, because prices were being fixed. “If this continues,” said Hugo, “it will mean a slave system, just that and nothing else.”
To Lanny it appeared that the young sports director talked exactly like a Social-Democrat; he had changed nothing but his label. He insisted that the rank and file were of his way of thinking, and that what he called the “Second Revolution” could not be more than a few weeks off. He pinned his hopes upon Ernst Röhm, Chief of Staff and highest commander of the S.A., who had been one of the ten men tried for treason and imprisoned after the Beerhall Putsch; a soldier and fighter all his life, he had become the hero of those who wanted the N.S.D.A.P. to remain what it had been and to do what it had promised to do. The Führer must be persuaded, if necessary he must be pushed; that was the way it was in politics—it was no drawing-room affair, but a war of words and ideas, and if need be of street demonstrations, marching, threats. None knew this better than Hitler himself.
Lanny thought: “Hugo is fooling himself with the Chief of Staff, as earlier he fooled himself with the Führer.” Ernst Röhm was a homosexual who had publicly admitted his habits; an ignorant rough fellow who rarely even pretended to social idealism. When he denounced the reactionaries who were still in the Cabinet, it was because he wanted more power for his Brownshirts and their commander. But it wasn’t Lanny’s business to hint at this; he must find out who the malcontents were—and especially whether any of them were in power at Dachau. Such men want money for their pleasures, and if they are carrying on a struggle for power they want money for that. There might be a good chance of finding one who could be paid to let a prisoner slip through the bars.
Their conference was a long one, and their drive took them into the country; beautiful level country, every square foot of it tended like somebody’s parlor. No room for a weed in the whole of the Fatherland, and the forests planted in rows like orchards and tended the same way. It happened to be Saturday afternoon, and the innumerable lakes around Berlin were gay with tiny sailboats, the shores lined with cottages and bathhouses. The tree-lined paths by the roads were full of Wandervögel, young people hiking—but it was all military now, they wore S.A. uniforms and their songs were of defiance. Drill-grounds everywhere, and the air full of sharp cries of command and dust of tramping feet. Germany was getting ready for something. If you asked what, they would say “defense,” but they were never clear as to who wished to attack them—right after signing a solemn pact against the use of force in Europe.
Another way in which Hugo resembled the Social-Democrats rather than the Nazis—he hated militarism. He said: “There are two ways the Führer can solve the problem of unemployment; one is to put the idle to work and make plenty for all, including themselves; the other is to turn them over to the army, to be drilled and sent out to take the land and resources of other peoples. That is the question which is being decided in the inner circles right now.”
“Too bad you can’t be there!” remarked Lanny; and his young friend revealed what was in the depths of his mind. “Maybe I will be some day.”
V
Seine Exzellenz, Minister-Präsident General Göring, was pleased to invite Mr. and Mrs. Lanny Budd to lunch at his official residence. He didn’t ask them to bring their paintings, and Lanny wasn’t sorry about it, for somehow he couldn’t see the Sister of Mercy in company with a lion cub. He doubted very much if Seine Exzellenz was being deceived as to the real reason for Lanny’s coming to Berlin; and anyhow, the Commander of the German Air Force was having his own art made to his own order—a nude statue of his deceased wife, made from photographs and cast in solid gold!
At least that was what the Fürstin Donnerstein had told Irma. There was no stopping the tongues of these fashionable ladies; the Fürstin had poured out the “dirt,” and Irma had collected it and brought it home. The good-looking blond aviator named Göring, after being wounded in the Beerhall Putsch, had fled abroad and married a Swedish baroness; the lady was an epileptic and her spouse a morphia addict. There could be no doubt about either of these facts, for they had been proved in court when the baroness was refused custody of her son by a former marriage. Later on, the lady had died of tuberculosis, and Göring, returning to Germany, had chosen Thyssen and the former Crown Prince for his cronies, and the steel king’s sister for his “secretary”; the quotation marks were indicated by the Fürstin’s tone as she said the last word. It had been assumed that he would marry this Anita Thyssen, but it hadn’t come off; perhaps he had become too great—or too fat! At the moment Anita was “out,” and the “in” was Emmy Sonnemann, a blond Nordic Valkyrie who acted at the State Theater and could have any role she chose. “But that doesn’t exclude other Damen,” added the serpent’s tongue of Fürstin Donnerstein. “Vorsicht, Frau Budd!”
So Irma learned a new German word.
VI
The utility king’s daughter had lived most of her life in marble halls, and wasn’t going to be awed by the livery of Göring’s lackeys or the uniforms of his staff and self. The lion cub was not for ladies, it appeared—and she didn’t miss him. The great ebony table with gold curtains behind it was really quite stunning; they made Irma think of Dick Oxnard’s panels, and she couldn’t see why Lanny had made fun of them. Pink jackets and white silk pumps and stockings for footmen—yes, but hardly in the daytime; and the General’s medals seemed more suited to a state dinner than a private luncheon.
However, the ex-aviator was very good company; he spoke English well, and perhaps wanted to prove it. He did most of the talking, and laughed gaily at his own jokes. There was nobody else present but Furtwaengler and another staff officer, and needless to say they laughed at the jokes and didn’t tell any of their own. Apparently it was a purely social affair; not a word about ransoms or hostages, Jews or concentration camps. No need for Lanny to say: “I hope you have noticed, Exzellenz, that I have kept my agreement.” The fact that he was here, being served cold-storage plovers’ eggs and a fat squab was proof enough that he had kept it and that his host had made note of the fact.
The assumption was that the holder of eight or ten of the most responsible positions in the “Third Reich” enjoyed nothing so much as sipping brandy and chatting with two idle rich Americans; it was up to Lanny to play his role, and let it come up quite by accident that he and his wife had visited Lausanne in the early days of the Conference on Arms Limitation, and could tell inside stories about the prominent personalities there, including the German. This led to the mention that Lanny had been on the American staff at Paris, and had met many of the men, and had helped a German agent to escape to Spain. He knew leading members of several of the French parties, including Daladier, the Premier, and he had visited in the homes of some of the British Foreign Office set—yes, there could be no doubt that he was a young man of exceptional opportunities, and could be very useful to a Reichsminister without Portfolio if he happened to be well disposed! Not a word was spoken, but always there was floating in the air the thought: “Why not take a chance, Exzellenz, and turn loose my Jewish Schiebersohn?”
VII
Herr Reichsminister Joseph Goebbels was so gracious as to indicate his opinion that the work of Marcel Detaze was suitable for showing in Germany; quite harmless, although not especially dist
inguished. Lanny understood that he could expect no more for a painter from a nation which the Führer had described as “Negroid.” It was enough, and he wired Zoltan to come to Berlin.
What did one do to obtain publicity with a gleichgeschaltete Presse? Lanny found out, even before his friend arrived. A youngish, very businesslike gentleman called; one of those Berliners who wear a derby hat, and on a hot day a vest-clip on which they may hang the hat, thus preserving comfort and respectability at the same time. His card made him known as Herr Privatdozent Doktor der Philosophie Aloysius Winckler zu Sturmschatten. In a polite philosophical voice he informed Lanny that he was in position to promote the reputation of Detaze—or otherwise. The Privatdozent spoke as one having both authority and determination; he didn’t evade or drop his eyes, but said: “Sie sind ein Weltmann, Herr Budd. You know that a great deal of money can be made from the sale of these paintings if properly presented; and it happens that I am a Parteigenosse from the early days, the intimate friend of persons of great influence. In past times I have rendered them services and they have done the same for me. You understand how such things go.”
Lanny said that he understood; but that this was not entirely a commercial undertaking, he was interested in making known the work of a man whom he had loved in life and admired still.
“Yes, yes, of course,” said the stranger, his voice as smooth and purring as that of a high-priced motor-car. “I understand what you want, and I am in position to give it to you. For the sum of twenty thousand marks I can make Marcel Detaze a celebrated painter, and for the sum of fifty thousand marks I can make him the initiator of a new era in representational art.”
“Well, that would be fine,” said Lanny. “But how can I know that you are able to do these things?”
“For the sum of two thousand marks I will cause the publication of an excellent critical account of Detaze, with reproductions of a couple of his works, in any daily newspaper of Berlin which you may select. This, you understand, will be a test, and you do not have to pay until the article appears. But it must be part of the understanding that if I produce such an article, you agree to go ahead on one of the larger projects I have suggested. I am not a cheap person, and am not interested in what you Americans call kleine Kartoffeln. You may write the article yourself, but it would be wiser for you to provide me with the material and let me prepare it, for, knowing the Berlin public, I can produce something which will serve your purposes more surely.”
So it came about that the morning on which Zoltan Kertezsi arrived at the hotel, Lanny put into his hands a fresh newspaper containing an account of Detaze at once critically competent and journalistically lively. Zoltan ran his eyes over it and exclaimed: “How on earth did you do that?”
“Oh, I found a competent press agent,” said the other. He knew that Zoltan had scruples, whereas Zoltan’s partner had left his in the Austrian town whence he had crossed into Naziland.
Later that morning the Herr Privatdozent called and took Lanny for a drive. The stepson of Detaze said that he wanted his stepfather to become the initiator of a new era in representational painting, and offered to pay the sum of ten thousand marks per week for one week preceding the show and two weeks during it, conditioned upon the producing of publicity in abundant quantities and of a standard up to that of the sample. The Herr Privatdozent accepted, and they came back to the hotel, where Zoltan, possibly not so innocent as he appeared, sat down with them to map out a plan of campaign.
VIII
Suitable showrooms were engaged, and the ever dependable Jerry Pendleton saw to the packing of the pictures at Bienvenu. He hired a camion, and took turns with the driver, sleeping inside and coming straight through with that precious cargo. Beauty and her husband came by train—there could have been no keeping her away, and anyhow, she was worth the expenses of the journey as an auxiliary show. She was in her middle fifties, and with Lanny at her side couldn’t deny it, but she was still a blooming rose, and if you questioned what she had once been, there were two most beautiful paintings to prove it. Nothing intrigued the crowd more than to have her standing near so that they could make comparisons. The widow of this initiator of a new era, and her son—but not the painter’s son—no, these Negroid races run to promiscuity, and as for the Americans, their divorces are a joke, they have a special town in the wild and woolly West where the broken-hearted ladies of fashion stay for a few weeks in order to get them, and meantime are consoled by cowboys and Indians.
For the “professional beauty” it was a sort of public reception, afternoons and evenings for two weeks, and she did not miss a minute of it. A delightfully distinguished thing to be able to invite your friends to an exhibition of which you were so unique a part: hostess, biographer, and historian, counselor and guide—and in case of need assistant saleslady! Always she was genial and gracious, an intimate of the great, yet not spurning one lowly lover of die schönen Künste. Zoltan paid her a memorable compliment, saying: “My dear Beauty Budd, I should have asked you to marry me and travel about the world promoting pictures.” Beauty, with her best dimpled smile, replied: “Why didn’t you?” (Mr. Dingle was off visiting one of his mediums, trying to get something about Freddi, but instead getting long messages from his father, who was so happy in the spirit world, and morally much improved over what he had been—so he assured his son.)
There were still rich men in Germany. The steelmasters of the Ruhr, the makers of electrical power, the owners of plants which could turn out the means of defense—all these were sitting on the top of the Fatherland. Having wiped out the labor unions, they could pay low wages without fear of strikes, and thus count upon profits in ever-increasing floods. They looked about them for sound investments, and had learned ten years ago that one inflation-proof material was diamonds and another was old masters. As a rule the moneylords didn’t possess much culture, but they knew how to read, and when they saw in one newspaper after another that a new school of representational art had come to the front, they decided that they ought to have at least one sample of this style in their collections. If they were elderly and retired they came to the show; if they were middle-aged and busy they sent their wives or daughters. Twenty or thirty thousand marks for a landscape did not shock them, on the contrary it made a Detaze something to brag about.
So it was that the profits of Lanny, his mother, and his half-sister—less the ten per cent commission of Zoltan—covered twenty times over what they had paid to the efficient Herr Privatdozent, and Zoltan suggested that they should pay this able promoter and continue the splurge of glory for another week. Even Irma was impressed, and began to look at the familiar paintings with a new eye. She wondered if it mightn’t be better to save them all for the palace with modern plumbing which she meant some day to have in England or France. To her husband she remarked: “You see how much better everything goes when you settle down and stop talking like a Red!”
IX
The Detaze show coincided in time with one of the strangest public spectacles ever staged in history. The Nazis had laid the attempt to burn the Reichstag upon the Communists, while the enemies of Nazism were charging that the fire had been a plot of the Hitlerites to enable them to seize power. The controversy was brought to a head by the publication in London of the Brown Book of the Hitler Terror, which charged that the Nazi Chief of Police of Breslau, one of the worst of their terrorists, had led a group of S.A. men through the tunnel from Göring’s residence into the Reichstag building; they had scattered loads of incendiary materials all over the place, while another group had brought a half-witted Dutch tramp into the building by a window and put him to work starting fires with a domestic gas-lighter. This was what the whole world was coming to believe, and the Nazis couldn’t very well dodge the issue. For six or seven months they had been preparing evidence, and in September they began a great public trial. They charged the Dutchman with the crime, and three Bulgarian Communists and a German with being his accessories. The issue thus became a three-mo
nths’ propaganda battle, not merely in Germany but wherever news was read and public questions discussed. Ten thousand pages of testimony were taken, and seven thousand electrical transcriptions made of portions of the testimony for broadcasting.
The trial body was the Fourth Criminal Senate of the German Supreme Court in Leipzig; oddly enough, the same tribunal before which, three years previously, Adolf Hitler had proclaimed that “heads will roll in the sand.” Now he was going to make good his threat. Unfortunately he had neglected to “co-ordinate” all five of the court judges; perhaps he didn’t dare, because of world opinion. There was some conformity to established legal procedure, and the result was such a fiasco that the Nazis learned a lesson, and never again would political suspects have a chance to appear in public and cross-question their accusers.
In October and November the court came to Berlin, and it was a free show for persons who had leisure; particularly for those who in their secret hearts were pleased to see the Nazis humiliated. The five defendants had been kept in chains for seven months and wore chains in the courtroom during the entire trial. The tragedy of the show was provided by the Dutchman, van der Lubbe, half-blind as well as half-witted; mucus drooled from his mouth and nose, he giggled and grinned, made vague answers, sat in a stupor when let alone. The melodrama was supplied by the Bulgarian Dimitroff, who “stole the show”; a scholar as well as a man of the world, witty, alert, and with the courage of a lion, he turned the trial into anti-Nazi propaganda; defying his persecutors, mocking them, driving them into frenzies of rage. Three times they put him out of the room, but they had to bring him back, and again there was sarcasm, defiance, and exposition of revolutionary aims.
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