In the Claws of the Eagle

by Aubrey Flegg

  Captain Winkler couldn’t resist intervening: ‘You see, he admit–’ he began, but the presiding officer rose.

  ‘Silence!’ As he had risen, Erich noticed the light shine for a second on the silver-on-black shoulder boards of a full general. Erich blinked. A general! He really must be for it!

  ‘I think you have made your case, Captain Winkler,’ he said. The voice was authoritative but neutral. ‘You will both wait outside while the court considers its verdict.’

  They were marched out and put to sit, one each side of the door, under the watchful eye of the Sergeant Major. A secretary, typing her way through a pile of forms looked up, caught Erich’s eye, and smiled encouragingly. Angry voices rose inside.

  ‘Just because he climbed the Adlerwand doesn’t make him beyond the law!’ A moment later the door flew open and they were being marched in again.

  The general addressed them: ‘Untersturmführer Erich Hoffman, you have been found guilty as charged. You will remain here for sentencing.’ He turned to the captain. ‘Hauptsturmführer Winkler, you may return to your quarters.’

  For a moment Winkler stood, his mouth opening and closing like a fish; he wanted to hear Erich’s sentence. ‘Dismiss!’ He had no alternative but to go.

  The general then turned to the other two presiding officers. ‘Gentlemen. I will now interview the prisoner on my own.’ Erich’s heart sank.

  The general ushered his colleagues to the door, put his head outside, told the girl who was typing that they were not to be disturbed, and turned back into the room where Erich was standing ramrod stiff.

  ‘At ease, Lieutenant,’ he said. He came up with his hand outstretched. ‘Von Brugen.’ He clicked his heels. Erich shook his hand. He recognised the name as that of a general from the First World War, one of Grandpa Veit’s heroes. He had a lined face and eyes set deep under bushy brows. Most SS men were young, ex-storm troopers who had been handpicked for Hitler’s bodyguard. The general moved stiffly to a small table, extracted a file from his briefcase, waved Erich into a chair opposite to him, and fixed him with a penetrating look.

  ‘You may not have been told, Lieutenant, but I am the head of the Art Acquisition Programme. I decided to involve myself in your case when I heard that you had applied to join this programme. You have not made the most auspicious start, have you?’ Erich inclined his head. ‘You understand that it will be my duty to punish you, no matter how much I may be in sympathy with your attitude. You struck a senior officer, and also countermanded his orders. If it was wartime I could have had you shot. Captain Winkler may be over-zealous, but technically he is in the right, and will expect a maximum penalty. My job, however, is not to waste a good man over a silly argument. In order to decide what I do with you I need to know a little more about you. I see that you are a graduate of the college of art here in Vienna.’

  ‘Yes sir. I specialised in art history.’

  ‘Your thesis was on Dutch Art of the seventeenth century; good. So this is why you volunteered to work with the new SS Art Acquisition team?’

  ‘Yes sir.’ The general was running his finger down the sheet.

  ‘It says here that your mother is an artist?’ Erich nodded. Suddenly the general chuckled. ‘Oh dear! “Modern, degenerate” it says on your file. Would you say her art was “degenerate”, showing Jewish or Negro influences, perhaps?’

  Erich’s colour was mounting; he was, as always, torn between loyalty to his mother and his dark associations with her paintings. In his dreams Grandpa Veit, though years dead now, looked out at him from her pictures. Erich continued to be tortured with doubt about Mr Solomons and his influence on Mother. Were the catalogues and books he brought for her intended to corrupt her or were they to draw her into his arms?

  ‘I’m afraid she was infected, sir. I don’t like her work.’

  ‘Well, never mind. Perhaps you will learn. And the Jewish thing?’ Erich gulped; he found these changes of direction confusing.

  ‘If, as they say, there really is a conspiracy to establish a “Jewish Republic in Europe”, to overwhelm the Aryan nations, then of course something has to be done. We need a solution. The British have supported the idea of a Jewish homeland in Palestine. We need somewhere for them to go.’

  ‘But you don’t approve of seeing old Jews scrubbing the streets, and a violinist having his fingers stamped on?’

  ‘Of course not, that just degrades us.’

  ‘How about acquiring their art?’

  Erich winced. Ever since his visit to the Abrahams’, he had been struggling with this. ‘The Jews are bleeding our country of its wealth, sir. Art should not belong to individuals but to all the people. This is the idea behind the Führermuseum, isn’t it? That’s why I volunteered to work on the selection of suitable pictures for it. It’s for the common good. Owners should, of course, be compensated,’ he added lamely. His scalp was prickling, as it did whenever he was unsure about what he was saying.

  ‘So you would be offended if people started taking these works of art for profit, or for their private collections?’

  ‘Yes, sir, of course! I would be horrified. Who would do such a thing?’

  ‘You’d be surprised, Lieutenant … very surprised. But we will come back to that.’

  ‘Now, tell me a little about your ascent of the Adlerwand?’

  This time the change of direction was welcome. Erich began his usual three-minute account of the climb, but the General was having none of it.

  ‘You say it took you three days – so that means you had to carry food and water and something to sleep under?’ So Erich had to give him a detailed account of their diet and their equipment. ‘Did you have these new ice claws for your feet?’

  ‘Crampons,’ Erich confirmed. ‘Yes, sir.’ This was like being back on the Adlerwand, with a new companion on the rope. He began to relax, but again was brought to with a jolt.

  ‘When did you become a Nazi?’

  ‘Well, I’ve never actually joined the Party, sir. I was, well, swept in after the climb, as a sort of mascot.’ Erich spread his hands. ‘They wanted to make the climb a German Conquest. Before I knew what had happened I had a swastika pinned on me and a glowing career in the SS promised if I applied to join. It all sort of … happened.’

  ‘So that uniform you are wearing, for example, does it mean everything to you or …?’

  Erich supposed he should say ‘yes’ but he’d got the feeling that the general wasn’t looking for easy answers. The eyes under the bristling eyebrows were as demanding as ever; he took a deep breath. ‘To be honest, General, I’d feel more comfortable in my climbing gear.’

  ‘Yes. I thought you would. For my part I would more comfortable in the grey of the Wehrmacht uniform. My career has been in the regular army, you see, but I didn’t feel the SS should be left just to you young people.’ The general looked at his watch. ‘Time flies. So, what are we going to do about you?’ He looked at Erich quizzically, then appeared to make up his mind.

  ‘Let me explain. As I understood my orders, I was to have sole responsibility for seeing that works of art of all kinds were acquired, catalogued and stored in safety for the Führermuseum. Whether we agree with it or not, the great Jewish collections are going to be forfeit. My mission was to rescue their art so it is not dispersed or destroyed. My main reason for joining the SS was the promise that I would be responsible for this task. Now, however, the Führer has decided to create a new civilian Art Administration Organisation to do the listing and cataloguing. The SS will have no jurisdiction over this organisation.’

  ‘Surely there aren’t so many Jews with art collections in Austria, that we need two organisations, sir?’

  ‘It is not for me to read the Führer’s mind, but I think Germany’s search for living space, Lebensraum, is not going to stop with Austria. I think war is inevitable. If this happens, there will be a huge influx of items for the Führermuseum. Whatever occurs, I want to be sure that all these items end up in the museum, and no
t lining other people’s pockets. I already detect signs of a feeding frenzy developing among our own people. People who have never shown the slightest interest in art are looking to grab what they can for their own private collections, and worse, to sell them for profit to the highest bidder.’ The general’s voice had risen. ‘Now that we are to have two organisations I find myself with responsibility but no control!’ He leaned back, narrowing his eyes. ‘So … I am looking for an agent, someone of integrity to penetrate this new Art Administration Organisation and to report directly to me on all illegal appropriations by anyone, and I mean anyone, from the Führer down. I may not be able to do anything to stop items being taken in the short term, but my ultimate aim is to see that every single item that is acquired ends up in the Führermuseum.’

  He leaned forward. ‘I’m used to judging men, Lieutenant, and making decisions. You have the qualifications, and I think you have the integrity. Think before you answer. But it will be marginally better than peeling potatoes in some remote SS barracks!’

  Erich was flattered and a little nervous. ‘But … but Captain Winkler’s complaint? And what could I do?’

  ‘As for Captain Winkler, he will be delighted at having had you thrown out of the SS, at least until he finds that he has been posted to some obscure outpost in the Black Forest. When it is safe, you will re-emerge as a civilian looking for a job as an expert in the Art Administration Organisation. There you will make yourself a trusted member of staff and use your skills as you know best. You will, however, have one additional very secret duty. You will observe and report personally to me on every illegal appropriation and every theft that comes to your attention.’

  Erich was thrilled. In the six months since he had driven in triumph into Vienna, he had lost all interest in his uniform and in his duties as an SS officer. The thought of being able to throw all this off and get back to his beloved pictures was like being offered his dearest dream, but there was something that bothered him.

  ‘Wouldn’t that really be work for the Gestapo to do, sir?’ He shivered; everyone hated and feared the secret police.

  ‘Yes, it is indeed their work. Because of this it would make a lot of sense for you to join the Gestapo; they will train you, help you with what you need by way of codes and communications and will protect you if you are discovered. However, you will still report to me and to no one else. You might end up with two salaries: one from the Gestapo, and one from the Art Administration Organisation!’ Erich realised by now that he had little choice but to accept the general’s offer. Perhaps rumours of the Gestapo were exaggerated. Anyway, as General von Brugen had said, it would be better than peeling potatoes.

  Thanks, no doubt to von Brugen, there were no announcements or ceremonies. Erich simply handed in his uniform and insignia and walked out of the SS barracks in a civilian suit and made it known in his old art circles that he was in the market for a job. On the agreed day, a week or two later, he met General von Brugen ‘by accident’ in a side chapel in St Stephan’s Dom Cathedral. Here, kneeling side by side, Erich was given and memorised a password that even the Gestapo would know nothing about.

  ‘By the way, Erich, what is the name of your violinist, the Jew?’

  Erich had avoided mentioning this before now. He told the general.

  ‘I’ll keep it in mind,’ was all von Brugen said as he dusted off his knees.

  Later that same evening, for the first time since the day he had appropriated it, Erich thought about the portrait that still stood wrapped up in a corner of his room. It hadn’t occurred to him to mention it at his trial or even to the general. Perhaps he was better at keeping secrets than he realised. He would hold on to it for the moment. He could probably use it as an entrée to the Art Administration Organisation when he applied. In the meantime, he thought he would be nice to take it out and see if it was as good as he remembered.

  CHAPTER 20

  Limbo Years: 1939–1942

  Louise hardly noticed her own gradual drift into timelessness. To begin with she had felt Izaac calling her, as ever, through his music. She would awake feeling tired but stimulated, and would guess that Izaac had been drawing on her to work on some new piece or programme. If, however, she tried to recall what it was, it would fade like a dream. She wasn’t aware when the Nazi unwrapped her portrait and began his critical examination of it.

  Erich, however, was looking forward to the moment when he would hand the picture over to the Führer museum. Possibly it would be hailed as the greatest art discovery of the century. But, somehow, there never seemed to be a right moment to reveal it. Also, the more he saw of senior officers of the Reich squabbling over pictures they didn’t appreciate or understand, the less inclined he felt to risk it falling into their hands.

  Over the next months, as the Nazi race laws became more and more restrictive, Izaac’s performing career collapsed, and so did his playing. He felt debased by the yellow Star of David that all Jews were now forced to sew on their clothes. Even to go out on the streets was taking a risk. Normal life as he knew it ceased.

  A year in this limbo had passed when Nathan appeared at the door of Izaac’s apartment. His face was contorted with anxiety.

  ‘Izaac! They arrested Father last night, and came for Mother in a lorry this morning. They said he was a criminal for tuning an Aryan piano. I’ve been to every office in town and can’t find where they have taken him!’

  Izaac joined in the frantic search for information until he was threatened with arrest himself. That was how Uncle Rudi went. Just like that. The head of the family gone, probably to a concentration camp! Izaac had to lie to Mother; she relied on Rudi, more even than on Izaac’s father. Just to create an atmosphere of normality, he continued to practise, but he no longer had the will to play.

  Having lost its leader, The Tuning Fork Quartet was soon to lose its viola player. Nathan and Krystal, together with their two children: Rachel, eleven, and Herbert, nine, were ordered to assemble in the Juden Platz. As Izaac walked with them he remembered how Rachel – the baby then – had been with them on their wonderful holiday in Mödling. He took her hand and pointed out the Drei Mädel Haus, where Schubert used to come and play to the three sisters who lived there. At the Freyung he had to show his papers and was turned back. Nathan promised to try to keep in touch. They would, of course, meet up again later. They were just being evacuated to … that was the trouble; the Nazis never said anything more specific than ‘The East’.

  Izaac wasn’t overly worried about Nathan and his family. The sort of camps they were being sent to were nothing new. Ever since the First World War there had been camps designed to house displaced people. It had been a humanitarian move. There were rumours circulating that the Nazi camps were pretty rough, but then so were the ghettos that many Jewish people still lived in, even in Vienna. In some ways, Izaac wished he had been evacuated too. The waiting, the uncertainty, not being able to play, was wearing him down.

  In February 1942 all that ended.

  CHAPTER 21

  Arbeit Macht Frei

  ‘This can’t be our train, Otto. These are just cattle trucks. I’m sure you have the wrong platform.’ The high querulous voice ended in a nervous laugh. Izaac looked at the fur-clad lady who had spoken. Didn’t she know that they were using cattle trucks to transport Jews?

  He turned away, shifting his position on the platform to take a last longing look through the barrier to where Lotte, grey haired now, was waiting to see him off. ‘I’m like a boy going to school for the first time,’ he thought. They had had to sit separately on the tram as it clanged around the Ring to the Apsang station. By now he was resigned to the yellow Star of David on his arm, and having to travel in the Jews Only section of the tram.

  Restriction had followed restriction, and when the Nazis had finally forbidden Jews to take part in any public performances he had formed a quartet, so that he could keep playing and try, as best he could, to keep the now everyday horrors of the streets from his mind. M
adame Helena had always said he would never be a good quartet player, as he would bully the others, but it had worked out fine. She had gone back to Poland after Hitler walked into Austria; he wondered how she was now that Germany had invaded Poland.

  He wondered too if he would find Uncle Rudi, or Nathan and his young family at the end of this journey. Perhaps they had already been resettled in the east. Lotte had seen him and was waving. Dear Lotte, she had promised to look after his parents until they could come and join him. His mother was very fragile now, and Izaac wasn’t sure that she fully understood what was happening any more. It had been an easy task to convince her that they would only be separated for a short time. The SS would surely not transport them, he thought; they were old, they couldn’t work, and couldn’t breed, so what danger were they to the Aryan race? Lotte was signalling to him, drawing his attention to someone beside her; he raised an arm to wave, and then froze, seeing an unmistakable splash of gold. It was Gretchen!

  A flood of emotions swept over Izaac. Two years ago Gretchen had married one of Izaac’s dearest friends from the Opera Orchestra, Willie Henning. Izaac had been at their wedding. Ever since, as humiliation after humiliation had been piled on Vienna’s Jews, Izaac had breathed sighs of relief that she, at least, was free of all this. He had so nearly proposed to her, and she might well have accepted. What a catastrophe that would have been for her! He visited the couple discreetly and delighted in their happiness. Then a little over a year ago, he had been at the christening of their little boy, Konrad, who Gretchen was now holding aloft so he could wave to ‘Uncle Izaac’; he could see her mouthing the words. It was almost more than he could bear; she shouldn’t be here, it was dangerous. He waved, and even as he did so, he saw a man in a trench coat come up to them – Gestapo surely – and turn them away.