Artifice

by Patrick Gooch

  I`ll leave you to judge what the outcome should be.

  Your loving grandfather.`

  I sat there for some time, summoning up the willpower to read the document. I was not sure I wanted to learn about Grandpa`s questionable activities. He had done much for me, and I had always held him in high regard. The thought he could be diminished in my eyes was an unwelcome possibility. I left the epistle on the desk and went through to the kitchen where Mrs Dimmock, our cook, was preparing breakfast.

  “Hello, Alan, you`re up early. Do you want to eat now, or with your mother?”

  “I`ll wait for her, thank you, Mrs Dimmock. I really came in to make a cup of coffee for myself.”

  “I`ll make it for you. Where will you be?”

  “In Mr Johns` study. No, on second thoughts, I`ll go through to the orangery.”

  “Right… well, I`ll bring it to you shortly.”

  I collected the key and the papers and went through to the orangery. Over the years grandfather had installed heating and a modest-sized water system that kept the humidity at sixty per cent. The result, a wealth of sub-tropical bushes, shrubs and plants, judiciously shading wicker chairs and tables.

  The previous day`s sunshine had been replaced by squally showers, and gusts of wind threw the rain in sharp bursts at the windows. I watched it cascade down the glass in wide rivulets.

  In the distance the trees and the lake were half-hidden in a misty pall. Although warm, I shivered and sank deep into one of the cushioned chairs as Mrs Dimmock appeared with the coffee.

  I knew I was putting off the moment: uncomfortably aware that the pedestal on which I had subconsciously set my grandfather might be about to crumble.

  Sipping from the mug I placed the document on a low table, and took up the first page.

  *

  My name is Michael Roderick Johns – I was born 12TH May 1920 at the family home in Peckham - at the time, a depressed suburb of South London. Although one of six children, despite the poverty we endured, my father encouraged me to apply for a scholarship to study art. I have always been interested in the subject, especially two-dimensional works - be they sketches, cartoons, paintings, murals, engravings, even etchings.

  When granted a place at the Camberwell School of Arts & Crafts – nowadays it is called the Camberwell College of Arts - somehow he managed to provide for me during those years of my education.

  In the summer of 1939 I graduated with a degree in fine art. I had applied for several positions, and was hopeful of landing a junior post at The Tate Gallery. I was fortunate to be accepted as an assistant to the assistant curator - the first step on the art world ladder.

  I began my employment at the gallery in Millbank, overlooking the River Thames, on Tuesday 1st August. By the end of the month I was out of a job.

  Although broadly aware, I had not realised Europe was a powder keg, about to erupt into widespread conflict. Alliances were created, orders given, battle lines drawn throughout the summer of 1939. Rather than wait and hope tempers might cool, the Tate administration took steps to safeguard their collections.

  My role quickly evolved into a packer of works of art. The gallery walls were stripped, everything was loaded into crates and shipped off to safe havens in the countryside, or stored in disused tunnels at Piccadilly Underground Station.

  When Germany invaded Poland on the first of September, Britain immediately declared war. By then the Tate was empty, and I was no longer in a job.

  With no immediate prospects, I enlisted in the army with two of my brothers. While they were whisked away to become infantrymen, I was posted to the fourth regiment of the Royal Horse Artillery. It was our lot that fired the opening rounds of the North Africa campaign against the Italians at a place called Sidi Barrani. Thereafter, the unit played a significant part in the many battles in the desert up to the capture of Tunisia. With the Germans finally defeated in North Africa, we were shipped back to England to prepare for the invasion of Europe.

  It was while we were training that Lieutenant Colonel `Jock` Campbell, the regiment`s commanding officer, took me to one side and posed questions about my degree in art, and my interests in the subject.

  That conversation radically altered my life. Two weeks later I was given a rail pass and told to report to Camp Griffiss at Teddington, west of London. I had been seconded to The Monuments, Fine Arts, and Archives programme.

  I quickly discovered it was a unit with art academics working alongside military personnel, in an attempt to safeguard historic and cultural monuments from the effects of war. In addition, as the conflict drew to a close, to find and return works of art and other items of cultural importance stolen by the Nazis.

  There were several hundred people involved with the MFAA unit, including some of the curators and conservators I had come to know during my brief career at the Tate.

  On 27th August, 1945, a matter of weeks after the Normandy landings, I was among the first wave of the `Monument Men` to arrive in mainland Europe. Led by Major Lord Methuen, we were stationed in the village of Le Plessis Grimoult. A stone`s throw from Mont Pinçon, the scene of a week-long battle to gain the vantage point.

  As the allied forces advanced through France, at first, our role was to inspect historic monuments, organise temporary repairs, and prevent damage from troops by posting “Off Limits” notices. We made contact with local art specialists, and set about the process of restitution. With their help, and the guiding word of residents, we came upon numerous caches of items left in remote hiding places by the retreating enemy. Most often, these comprised complete collections, and the owners were easy to trace. When we came upon individual pieces without a known provenance, these were passed to the local authorities, with the responsibility for finding their rightful owners.

  Chapter 4

  I was so absorbed in Grandpa Johns` account, I was not aware of visitors until Mrs Dimmock came into the orangery and mentioned their arrival.

  Mr Schendler was earlier than expected.

  It had become evident, from a brief appraisal of the paintings in the long gallery, the store-room in the basement, and the warehouse on Dinah`s Hollow Road, that the works of art were not in Dorset.

  So, if Grandpa Johns had them, they must be in St. George`s Square. Yet if he borrowed them to admire, why would he have kept them in a locked room which he seldom visited?

  McKenna had shown Schendler and his companion into grandfather`s study.

  “Good afternoon, my name is Alan Cleverden, Michael Johns` grandson. I`m afraid my mother hasn`t returned from Shaftesbury yet. You`re earlier than expected. However she should be here shortly.”

  “I have heard of you,” said Schendler, off-handedly. “You are the art critic, I believe. Yes, we are early. We flew here, and landed at the airfield at Compton Abbas. A strong tail wind shortened our journey time. Unfortunately, that same wind is likely to be a problem. I was speaking with the air ground operator, and she informed me the weather could soon be closing in. If that happens, they would have to cancel flights in and out of the field. So, Mr Cleverden, I would be obliged if you would hand me the paintings, and we shall be on our way.”

  I glanced at the other man. A tall individual, who appeared to be Schendler`s minder. He had the physique to suggest such a role, but his demeanour indicated a sharp mind. He stood to one side, quietly appraising the Rousseau painting on the wall.

  Schendler noticed my curiosity.

  “This is Peter Engel, my right-hand man.”

  He continued. “Are you interested in that Rousseau, Peter? It`s the real thing, a genuine piece painted by Le Douanier. I`m sure they would let you have it at a reasonable price.”

  He turned to me. “Wouldn`t you Mr Cleverden?”

  Just at that moment my mother came in the study.

  “My apologies, Mr Schendler. Sorry I wasn`t here to greet you. Let`s go into the drawing room. Would you care for some tea, or can I offer you something stronger?”

  As we walked across
the hall Schendler answered for both of them.

  “Thank you. That would be welcome, Mrs Cleverden. I would prefer tea. Such English habits are catching.”

  “Alan, could you arrange it?” she murmured over her shoulder.

  I waited until they had entered the room, and firmly shut the door. I noticed McKenna by the stairs tucking a shortened, pickaxe handle behind his back.

  “I don`t think we shall need that sort of help, at least not at the moment. Could you do me a favour, McKenna? Could you ask Mrs Dimmock if she would prepare afternoon tea for four?”

  He nodded, turned on his heel, and headed for the kitchen.

  When I went into the drawing room, they were talking generalities, principally about the weather.

  “I was speaking with the operator, who predicts she will have to shut down the airfield shortly,” said Schendler. “So, Mrs Cleverden, I would be obliged if you would let me have the paintings, and after tea, we shall be on our way.”

  I walked over and sat on the settee beside him.

  “I`m afraid that won`t be possible, Mr Schendler. You see, we have looked in every conceivable place here in Dorset, and not found them, The only other possibility, they might be in my grandfather`s house in London. Do you know what sizes they are?”

  “I can`t think what sizes they are, off-hand,” he said dismissively. “Anyway, that`s of no importance. They are mine, I want them back!”

  It was an angry declaration.

  At that point McKenna walked urbanely into the room and laid a tray on the coffee table. Mrs Dimmock followed with another tray of sandwiches, cakes and biscuits.

  “Will that be all, madam?” he enquired in a most butler-like manner.

  She glanced up, smiled, and said. “Thank you, McKenna. I`ll pour, would you kindly serve these gentlemen first. They appear to be in a hurry to leave.”

  Schendler glared at me. “When can their whereabouts be checked?”

  “On Sunday. I am staying there at the moment. Though I don`t have a key to his room.”

  I hoped the lie sounded convincing.

  He was trying to control his impatience. Here was a man who was rarely thwarted.

  “Then I strongly suggest you find it, and make sure those paintings are made available to me. Otherwise. . .”

  His voice had hardened. The implied threat all too obvious.

  He continued. “I shall be in London at the end of next week. I`m staying at the Intercontinental Hotel. You will bring the paintings to the hotel one week from today. Do you understand me?”

  He put down the cup and rose from the settee.

  “We shall not remain any longer.” He turned to Engel. “I cannot afford to miss the meeting in Antwerp. Come, Peter, let us leave Mr Cleverden to reflect on what we expect of him. Good afternoon, Mrs Cleverden.”

  Both men swept from the room. We heard their footsteps on the tiled hall floor, and the entrance door slam shut. Seconds later an engine fired, and their car drove off in a shower of gravel.

  “I didn`t like his attitude, Alan,” murmured McKenna. “If you had said the word I would have encouraged him to adopt a more agreeable tone.”

  “I think, McKenna, we ought to know a bit more about him, .and what he is capable of. Do you think this fellow Engel is his minder?”

  My mother answered. “He`s big enough, but he doesn`t look the thuggish type. I had the feeling he plays his cards very close to his chest. Revealing only what he wants you to know.”

  “Mm… we really should try to find out more about both of them,” I said, thoughtfully.

  Chapter 5

  I quickly found out more about Horst Schendler when I resumed reading Grandpa`s lengthy summary left to me with his will. The papers were still where I had left them when I returned to the orangery in the late afternoon.

  The advance on Germany was rapid. We were under constant pressure to keep up with the leading allied forces, to minimise the risk of valuable items being salted away, disguised as innocuous works of art, or even destroyed.

  Crossing the Rhine, by July 1945, the Monument Men had established two central collecting points: Munich and Wiesbaden. Secondary collecting points were set up in various German towns, such as Bad Wildungen, Heilbronn, Marburg, Nuremberg, and Oberammergau.

  I was posted to Wiesbaden.

  I had not been there long when ordered to make my way to Aschbach, a village approximately fifty miles to the south-west.

  The commanding officer informed me that someone had turned up with a lorry-load of works of art. I was to take a truck and, if he could not justify possession, bring them back to Wiesbaden.

  At the time, Aschbach was a town of a few hundred residents, complete with a castle on a hill belonging to the aristocratic Pölnitz family.

  The fellow I was sent to interview was Hildebrand Gurlitt. He had driven from Dresden with his family, and sixteen containers of works of art.

  During the interrogation, I discovered Gurlitt had been appointed a dealer for the Führermuseum in Linz, in Austria. On instructions from Reich Minister of Propaganda, Joseph Goebbels, Hermann Göring created the Commission for the Exploitation of Degenerate Art. The Commission, in turn, appointed a series of dealers, approved by the official Nazi Confiscation Service, the ERR, to handle the marketing of these assets.

  Four men were chosen: Karl Buchholz, Ferdinand Möller, Bernhard A. Böhmer and Hildebrand Gurlitt. They were instructed to sell these works abroad and make a handsome profit. Hildebrand's extensive network of European and North American contacts proved invaluable, even though the four men did not always report to the Commission all the proceeds of their sales. Many works of art never appeared on the market.

  At first, Gurlitt declared that the items he had brought to Aschbach were part of his personal collection. He claimed that what he held on behalf of the Nazi Confiscation Service, and all of his records, had been destroyed at his home in Kaitzer Straße during the bombing of Dresden in February 1945.

  I was not convinced.

  After three days of interrogation, Gurlitt eventually confessed to a cache of paintings hidden away in a salt mine on the outskirts of Munich.

  I sensed a possible opportunity.

  On the fourth day I hinted that if he wanted to hold on to some of the sixteen containers, we might be able to come to some sort of arrangement. It was put to him obliquely; but the suggestion we might co-operate to mutual advantage, was acknowledged. Two days later we had the workings of an agreement.

  I contacted my commanding officer in Wiesbaden, and explained that the latest arrival was a German art dealer. A victim of Nazi persecution due to his Jewish heritage. He had a legitimate claim to the containers he had brought to Aschbach, having legally acquired them between 1942 and 1944 from a French art dealer in Paris. However, Hildebrand Gurlitt had indicated that he knew of a hoard of paintings hidden away near Munich.

  I told him. “Give me three days and I`ll bring the works back to the Wiesbaden Collecting Centre.”

  I was given the OK, and with Gurlitt beside me, we started out for Munich, some three hundred and fifty kilometres to the south-east.

  On the way to Munich we were stopped on several occasions by Allied patrols. Fortunately, the vehicle was empty. However, on the return journey we met a roadblock outside Mannheim. The officer demanded proof of my mission, and I told him to contact Captain Philips, my superior officer at Wiesbaden.

  It took two hours before he managed to clear it with Philips, and for the roadblock to be set aside so we could continue our journey.

  Now I had to move fast.

  Wiesbaden knew my location, and the likely time of my arrival at the Collecting Centre.

  Fortunately, I had scouted the area around Aschbach for a suitable store before setting out for Munich. I dropped Gurlitt at the castle and drove to Burgebrach, ten kilometres north-east of Aschbach. On the outskirts of the village was an old, disused water mill. Among the fallen masonry and tangle of wooden beams I had come across th
e cellar. It was perfect for the purpose I had in mind.

  It took me three hours to unload thirty containers of paintings, and make the place safe and secure.

  Then, at a feverish pace, I drove to Wiesbaden with nine containers on board.

  I had my first leave in September 1946.

  I had originally requested a trip home to England in the month of June; but then changed the date to volunteer as a driver with a mass return of army vehicles three months later. In all, there were fifteen lorries making the homeward journey, each returning with items no longer needed in occupied Germany. These comprised communications equipment, bedding, tents, utensils and items used in the field.

  I had my hidden treasures safely stowed away. The intention being to retrieve the many works of art in the future, when travel to and from the continent would not be so much of a problem.

  But this was a heaven-sent opportunity.

  I spent time at the Burgebrach mill stencilling the thirty containers with British Army of The Rhine (BAOR) reference numbers, identifying them as spare tank parts.

  The day before our departure I took the Bedford three tonner I had been allocated to the fuel bowser and filled the tank and jerry cans.

  I mentioned to the sergeant in charge of the operation that the engine was not running smoothly, and I should take it for a run to clear the problem. The fellow quickly agreed, for a breakdown on the journey would slow the whole convoy.

  In an hour I returned to inform the anxious sergeant that all was well. At the stores, I had loaded the vehicle with boxes and crates. There was plenty of room, for the Bedford had been designed to carry up to twenty nine soldiers and all their equipment.

  At Dover the convoy split up. The vehicles making their way to various destinations. I was to drive to the Tidworth Garrison in Wiltshire.

  I headed in that general direction, continuing on to Shaftesbury to look up a fellow soldier in the Royal Horse Artillery. Martin McKenna, a highlander, had long been a close friend. We had served together in the dry heat of Africa, and after the war he had not relished the thought of returning to Scotland`s bleak winters.