The Luzern Photograph

by William Bayer

  I asked him what it was about this particular drawing that made it so special. He told me he didn’t know and that he could tell by the Führer’s manner that the Führer did not wish to say, only that it was something of a highly personal nature and that if I were able to retrieve it I could expect a significant bonus and a double promotion in party rank.

  Needless to say I readily accepted the mission.

  My first task was to research the woman. Doing so I discovered some interesting things, among them that at a young age she had been a love interest of Nietzsche’s, that she’d later been the muse of the poet Rainer Maria Rilke, and that at age fifty-one she’d gone to Vienna to study psychoanalysis with Sigmund Freud. I tried to read several of her books but found them tough going and soon gave them up. I also attempted to read articles she’d written for psychoanalytic journals about deviant sexuality. I found these dense and difficult to comprehend.

  My first decision was how best to present myself. A little research among party officials in Göttingen revealed that lately the lady had been quite ill, and, since her husband’s death (Carl Andreas had been a distinguished professor of Oriental languages at the local university), had become reclusive. I considered approaching her as a prospective patient, but gave up that idea when I learned she was phasing out her practice. Then, because she was nearing her seventy-fifth year, I decided to present myself as a Munich journalist who wished to interview her at the approach of this important birthday regarding her memories of the many famous men and women she had known.

  I wrote her a flattering letter in which I thickly laid on the manure regarding my boundless admiration and respect. A week later I received a positive reply. I was summoned for tea and conversation to her residence, Loufried, a fine old house situated among linden trees on a forested slope north of the city.

  Arriving at the appointed time, I was received by the housekeeper, then shown to a large sunny study. A faint aroma of boiled beef and potatoes seeped in from the kitchen. The walls there, covered with blue-gray fabric, were embellished with colorful Russian peasant embroideries, and there was a pair of bearskin rugs on the floor. Waiting, I scanned the bookshelves. There were a good thousand volumes, many of them obscure. After several minutes the famous Frau Lou appeared, greeted me graciously, and gestured me to a seat.

  My first impression when she entered was of a rather sickly elderly woman. But when she sat down and peered at me, I felt myself devoured by a pair of brilliant searching pale-blue eyes.

  So this is the famous seductress! I thought.

  The housekeeper soon appeared with a teapot and cups. Frau Lou poured, we sipped while engaging in a few minutes of small talk about the weather, the view from the house and so forth, then she brought her hands together in her lap and sat silent, a signal she was ready to be interviewed. At this point, having determined she was in full command of her faculties, I decided to drop the charade.

  ‘I must confess, Frau Lou, that in truth I am not a journalist.’

  She showed no surprise.

  ‘As soon as I saw you I figured as much,’ she said. ‘Is your real name Ernst Fleckstein?’ And when I nodded: ‘You’re a government official?’

  When I asked her why she thought that, she smiled slightly. ‘Something officious in your manner.’

  I explained to her that in fact I held no official position, that I was a freelance private investigator who from time to time took on special assignments for the NSDAP, and it was in that capacity that I had come to speak to her.

  ‘You’re a party member?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ I lied. ‘I’m non-political. But I’m here today on the party’s behalf.’

  Again she nodded. ‘For some time I’ve been expecting such a visit. When I received your letter I assumed it was a subterfuge. I could have ignored your request. Despite the fact that we are now in precarious times I didn’t believe I had anything to fear. Because, you see, like yourself I am apolitical.’

  I assured her that indeed she had nothing to fear. I had simply come regarding a private matter and that as soon as it was cleared up I would be on my way. Then to put her further at ease I assured her that I had it from the highest authority in the NSDAP that she was not to be bothered or provoked in any way, that I had come to ask her for a small favor which I hoped very much she would be willing to grant, but which like any citizen she had every right to accommodate or not as she saw fit.

  ‘And what favor might that be?’ she asked, adding that she couldn’t imagine what a little old lady such as herself could do on behalf of Germany’s ruling political party.

  At this point I received the impression she was toying with me, that she knew perfectly well why I had come and now was trying to force me to come straight out with it. I was also impressed by her allure. This woman may be old and ill, I thought, but her face is alive and her mind razor-sharp. I decided then to postpone stating my business, preferring, as they say, to ‘beat around the bush’ for a while, because, to tell the truth, I found the lady intriguing, and I thought it might be amusing to engage her in a bit of cat-and-mouse before getting to the point.

  ‘Well,’ I told her, ‘I believe you know why I’ve come.’

  She shook her head. ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Earlier you said you were expecting such a visit.’

  ‘Yes, but without knowing what it would be about. For example, perhaps an official wishes to purchase my house for a paltry sum. Or the Nietzsche Archive wishes to take possession of my Nietzsche letters. Or perhaps the government would like to close me down, as it does not sanction the practice of psychoanalysis. Or perhaps simply confiscate my library,’ at this she gestured at the bookshelves, ‘because many of my books are considered decadent, morally corrupting, vile. I’m referring to the writings of Heinrich Mann, Bertolt Brecht, Heinrich Heine, Sigmund Freud, Robert Musil, Erich Maria Remarque, Arthur Schnitzler, Ernst Toller, Franz Werfel, and others … many of whom have been close friends. I’m sorry to say there was a celebratory burning of books by these authors and others last year by students at several of our finest universities. So perhaps such a confiscation would be the purpose of such a visit?’ She shrugged. ‘There are many possibilities.’

  ‘You say you’re apolitical, Frau Lou, but in your words I detect a strong undercurrent of political opinion.’

  ‘I don’t consider my views to be political. I am but a humble old lady with a great fondness for German literary culture.’

  At that she smiled rather kittenishly. And so, I thought, the game is on!

  ‘Do you have views concerning our Führer?’ I asked.

  ‘I have listened to his broadcasts. I think he is an amazingly compelling public speaker.’

  ‘And the content of what he says?’

  ‘I don’t pay much attention to content,’ she said. ‘I’m far more interested in presentation.’

  ‘I understand you were in Vienna in 1912 and 1913?’ She nodded. ‘Our Führer was living there then. In Mein Kampf he wrote about that period. He wrote that those were the years that made him “hard”.’

  ‘So I am told,’ she said. ‘Perhaps he was influenced by something Friedrich Nietzsche wrote in Thus Spake Zarathustra.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘The last line of “The Other Dancing Song”. Nietzsche wrote: “Become hard!”’

  Ah ha! It was now clear there would be no admission she’d ever known Hitler. My tea was getting cold, Frau Lou seemed to be tiring and had not offered to refill my cup. Time, I decided, to get down to business.

  ‘All right,’ I told her, ‘a certain gentleman, whose name we won’t mention, made your acquaintance back then. Even today, after his meteoric rise, he remembers you with fondness and has no wish to cause you any difficulty. I have been so instructed. It seems that some years back, in the spring of 1913 to be precise, he presented you with a drawing as a personal gift. He does not expect you to return it to him, but he would like to purchase it from you at a very g
enerous price.’

  ‘Theoretically speaking, just how generous a price are we talking about?’ she asked.

  Theoretically speaking indeed! I took her question as a promising sign. The drawing, I believed, was now in play.

  I gestured to show her that I meant a very high price indeed, adding that the amount would be many times more than anyone else would ever be willing to pay.

  ‘And why,’ she asked, ‘would the gentleman be so generous? What could possibly make such a drawing so valuable?’

  I told her that truthfully I had no idea, that my instructions were simply to pay whatever amount she asked in exchange for the drawing, and if there happened to be some special value to it I assumed she would understand what that was.

  She smiled again, the same kittenish smile she’d been showing me all along. At that moment I realized I’d overplayed my hand, that Frau Lou had drawn me out to find out how much I knew. I’d been out-gamed. She had no intention of selling back the drawing at any price.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘this has been very interesting. I wish I could assist you, but I cannot.’

  ‘You’re saying you won’t sell me the drawing even though I’m prepared to offer you an enormous sum?’

  ‘I’m saying that I have no such drawing in my possession, that I never had such a drawing, and that I have no idea of whom you are speaking or what you are speaking about.’

  She sighed. ‘Forgive me. I’m tired. The years have taken their toll. These days my memory is poor.’ She rose. ‘It’s time for my nap. As charming as you are and amusing as this has been, I think it’s time now for you to leave. Unless there’s something else?’

  Not waiting for me to respond, she snatched up a little bell. ‘I’ll ring for Marie. She’ll show you out.’

  We stood in silence. I could feel her measuring my disappointment.

  ‘Well,’ I shrugged, ‘in my business you win some, lose some. That’s how it goes.’

  ‘You seem a nice young man. I hope this loss won’t get you into any trouble.’

  ‘They won’t kill me for failing, but they won’t pay me either. I work on commission.’

  ‘You’re a species of salesman, then?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose,’ I agreed. ‘Please, Frau Lou, if your memory should improve and you should happen to come across the drawing, don’t hesitate to contact me. May I leave my card?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  I laid my business card on a side table, then gestured toward a chaise longue covered in fine needlepoint. It was, I observed, set in a prominent position in the room.

  Noticing my gesture, she peered at me curiously.

  ‘Is that where it’s done?’ I asked.

  ‘You mean psychoanalysis?’

  I nodded. ‘It seems so mysterious what you people do, all that talk about sex.’

  ‘It’s not all about sex,’ she corrected me. ‘That’s a common misconception. And it’s really not all that mysterious. The chaise longue, or analytic couch as we call it, is not a kind of confessional, as some believe. It is simply a comfortable place for the patient to relax, open up his heart and soul, and reveal what is troubling him. I sit in the chair behind. That way he cannot see my reactions. The most important aspect of my job is to listen very carefully and in a very particular way, to pick up on clues much as you likely do in your work as an investigator. So you see the analytic couch is but a tool, an important one, some might say a powerful one, but in the end it is neutral. It is simply … a couch.’

  The housekeeper appeared, Frau Lou and I shook hands, then the housekeeper showed me to the door. Just before I stepped into my car, I turned to look back at Loufried. I spotted Frau Lou standing in the window of the room in which we’d met gazing out at me, a smile of triumph curling her lovely lips.

  Bormann, needless to say, was not pleased.

  ‘The lady was firm?’ he asked, his squinty eyes betraying his annoyance.

  ‘She denied all knowledge,’ I told him.

  ‘Did you believe her?’

  ‘Frankly, no. She’s old and ill, but mentally very alert. You could almost say steel-willed. She’s also crafty, devious, and very sure of herself. But there were certain things she did – shifts in the eyes, tension in the hands – that made me think she has the drawing, or at the very least remembers receiving it. She is not, I should tell you, much of a fan of our new order. She made it clear she’s offended by it. Of course it’s possible she may decide she needs the money and reconsider. But, to be honest with you, I doubt she will.’

  I exhaled. I felt I needed to give Bormann something to chew on, something he could take back to Hess and Hitler.

  ‘I have a hunch she hasn’t long to live,’ I told him. ‘I shall keep a close eye on her, and if it appears she’s about to die, I’ll let you know. Meantime I suggest we prepare to raid the house as soon as she passes, go in there, turn everything upside down, make a thorough search. If she has the drawing we’ll find it. And if she doesn’t then we’ll know that too.’

  Bormann grinned. ‘Excellent idea! I like the way your mind works, Fleckstein. Even though you’ve come back empty-handed, I’m going to authorize half payment. Consider it an advance against the full amount when and if your post-mortem search succeeds.’

  I should mention here that my 1934 visit with Frau Lou was highly memorable. In fact it would be years before I fully understood the impact of our interview and the ways it would affect my life. Even after so many decades I clearly recall her words and expressions.

  I should also mention that the sight of her analytic couch and what she had to say about it were etched firmly in my mind, incubating a fascination with this strange science called psychoanalysis, a fascination that crystallized some years later when I devised my personal escape plan and created my alternate identity.

  FOURTEEN

  Soon as we arrive at Grace Wei’s, Luis walks around the ballroom gazing at the walls and floor. Then he pulls a chair to the front of the room, tunes up, and starts playing Bach. His smile tells me he loves the acoustics. Grace’s ballroom is a perfect sound-box.

  Rex shows up, oohs and ahs over the venue, then I introduce him to Grace. We chat a bit, then when she withdraws he asks us to run through our performance. When we’re done he’ll offer notes and ‘a few ideas.’

  Up to now Luis and I have been rehearsing apart. It’s now time to integrate our performances. And though Rex constitutes but an audience of one, his presence changes the dynamic.

  When we finish, I slump down against a wall. My breakdown scene took even more out of me than my performance at Vertigo. Luis is tired too. His playing was magnificent. The energy he put into the final mad Morton Feldman solo was enormous.

  ‘Your piece is called Recital,’ Rex tells us, ‘a musical performance followed by remarks. But what’s it really about?’

  ‘It’s a portrait of a lady,’ I tell him.

  ‘Right! But the way it’s structured now the music seems like a pretext to get people into a room so they can watch a middle-aged lady experience a melt-down. Recital shouldn’t just be a piece about a gifted cellist and his older woman patron, it should be about their relationship. That’s what you’ve got to work on. Your characters need a shared secret.’

  Rex wants us to be involved in a smoldering affair. ‘For Mrs Z (and she must know this) it’s most likely her last amorous adventure. For Luis it’s perhaps the first in a series of affairs as he moves toward musical stardom. Each of you needs and uses the other. Each also knows that this recital, in which Mrs Z introduces Luis to the elite of San Francisco, will mark the end of the affair. Recital is an emotional turning point for you both. Your roles in each other’s lives are about to change.

  ‘Playing her off the stage is too cruel,’ Rex tells Luis. ‘I’d like it better if you go to her after she cracks, comfort her, and then, when she grasps your arm, gently lead her off. The way you touch her,’ Rex turns to me, ‘and the way you react to his touching, should say it all. Som
e in the audience will get it, others won’t. All the better – they can discuss it on the way home.’

  Rex shows me how he wants me to sit during the music: at the end of the first row with my chair angled so the audience can see how moved I am as I listen.

  Both Luis and I are excited by Rex’s notes. We agree to meet here again in ten days for a full-dress run-through. I’ll wear my evening gown and makeup. Luis will wear a black suit with open-neck black silk shirt. If the next rehearsal goes well, Grace will set a date and send out invitations.

  A knock on my door. It’s Clarence, wearing jeans and a tank top, standing beside Chantal’s movie-prop chariot.

  ‘I thought it’d be nicer to deliver it in person,’ he says. ‘Dusty in the cellar so I cleaned it up.’ He looks around. ‘Where do you want it?’

  I ask him to roll it into the main room. He positions himself between the traces, grabs them, and with rippling biceps pulls the chariot to a corner of the loft.

  ‘Hey, cool!’ He points at my framed inkblots. ‘You’re into psychology?’ I nod. ‘Chantal majored in German and psych. Told me she combined them when she became a domme. She was into what she called “ceremonies of penance and absolution”.’ He pats the chariot. ‘She used this in her games, said it was great for obedience training. She was special,’ he adds wistfully. ‘I really miss her.’ He looks at me, brightens. ‘I’m thrilled you’re living here, Tess. As I told Aunt Esther, having a famous performance artist in house classes up the joint.’