In the Claws of the Eagle

by Aubrey Flegg

  When the man talked about the Jewish ‘solution’ Louise was seeing through his mind a line of ragged people, men, women and children, their hands in the air, a machine gun trained on them. The officer in charge had his handkerchief raised to give the signal to fire. Before he dropped it he turned and winked. Louise broke her mind free before the handkerchief fell. If only Erich had turned her picture to the wall, but the voice, or the thoughts behind it, were too compelling to be ignored. Erich was rambling on happily about Vermeer, but Louise was seeing two chimneys belching black smoke, and bodies heaped like spillikins.

  Perhaps she fainted because the next thing she knew was that he was facing her portrait. An evil emanated from him that made her shrink back. And something else … even while he was telling Erich how he had found out about Izaac and her picture, his real words were directed at her: ‘I know a lot more about you than you think, young lady. More even than that poor sucker, Erich. You’ve cast a spell on him, too, haven’t you? But Klaus Steinman is immune to your charms. I don’t give a damn about art or about you. There is only one person I give a damn about and that is me. But that doesn’t mean I won’t take you, given half a chance. If you’re worth half what I suspect, then you could be a nice little pension. And I might need a pension one of these days. So, remember me. I’ll be back!’

  The encounter with Klaus left Louise trembling and fearful. Then the hateful images that he had conjured up in her mind began to take over her thoughts and a new and violent energy stirred within her. This man had given her a glimpse of evil stronger than anything she had ever come across before. So this was the Nazi mind: a cesspit of real or imagined horrors. She had just one desire now, and that was to defeat him – and his kind – in any way she could. But she could do nothing on her own. She must recruit Erich as an ally; he was her only hope. She remembered how he had stood up to Klaus that night back in the woods above Mödling, saving Izaac from a beating, or worse. Also, according to what she had heard Klaus say, Erich had gone back to rescue Izaac from a mob in Vienna. And just now, when he had turned her picture to the wall, she had felt protected, defended even. But yet he had greeted Klaus as an old friend, and had gone out with him willingly enough.

  At quiet times during the past months Louise would catch glimpses of another existence: a half-dream, half-real, world, where Izaac was calling on her to listen and to work with him on whatever pieces he had on hand. She would hear music, and occasionally get glimpses of drab audiences and strange places, but the minute she tried to grasp it, the vision would be gone, slipping away tantalisingly just beyond her reach. It was as if she was living in two parallel worlds with only the occasional dream-like glimpse to bridge the gap between them. The fact that Izaac was still making music should have been reassuring, but there was a desperate, almost frenetic feel to his playing. The snatches that she heard were superb, but why was she so often left with a nightmare taint, like a whiff of some dead thing passed on a country walk?

  Recently, however, Izaac’s playing had sounded more relaxed and the glimpses she was seeing were of pleasant things – a laughing audience, trees in a town square. Klaus had said that Izaac was in a holiday camp in Czechoslovakia. Despite her recent experience with Klaus, she allowed herself to be reassured.

  Without any particular plan, she left her portrait, and for the first time began to explore her surroundings. At the centre of the room was a large square worktable piled with pictures, reference books, a huge lens for examining the paintings, and bottles containing various chemicals. It reminded her of the Master’s studio in Delft. Ever since her capture, Erich had talked to her portrait, and she had heard about the progress of the war, and about the constant flow of art pouring into the Jeu de Paume from the great Jewish collections. Sometimes he would reminisce about his climbing and about a beautiful lake near the salt mines. He even told her of his clandestine spying into the activities of the senior Nazi art collectors. ‘There will always be rotten apples, even in the purest of regimes!’ he had said.

  Louise halted in her prowling. Was that what he had said? Then, quite deliberately, she forced herself to listen again to Erich’s voice. This time, as with Klaus, she heard another voice, hidden beneath Erich’s self-righteous tones, a voice that said: ‘What can you expect other than rotten apples in a rotten regime!’ Louise’s pulse was racing. She remembered how Gaston, the French hussar, had described his involvement in a ‘glorious’ engagement at the Pont de Chasse, which turned out not to have been a glorious battle at all, but a tragic encounter with a group of peasants armed with scythes! The more she thought about Erich’s talk of the great Führermuseum, the more convinced she became that under this was a whispered voice of shame. Which was the real Erich? Could the lad who spoke up for Izaac above Mödling be the real Erich, the ally she needed? There was only one way to find out.

  Erich could never have contemplated an evening with an elite group of SS officers without Klaus’s support. At the very least he could expect to be shunned. Most SS men would regard being dismissed from the force for rounding on a senior officer as a matter of shame. When he spotted a couple of colleagues from his training days he would have slipped away if Klaus hadn’t stood up, drink in hand, and called order.

  ‘Gentlemen, please! Let me introduce my good friend Erich Hoffman.’ He put his arm over Erich’s shoulder. If anybody says “Snap” I’ll kill them.’ There was laughter; they certainly did look alike. ‘You’ve all heard of the climbing of the Adlerwand?’ there was a murmur of interest, and heads turned. ‘Well, young Erich here was not only on that first ascent, but he was first to the top. I filmed him myself as he broke through the… what do you call it … the cornice, that’s it. Let’s drink to “Erich and the conquest of the Adlerwand!” Soon Erich had a small circle of officers about him, mostly from the Waffen SS, the fighting unit, who wanted a firsthand account of the climb. For a while then he felt part of the group, the old camaraderie sweeping him in. The friends from his training days came up, and they reminisced about old times.

  ‘You were a star performer during training, Erich,’ one of them commented. ‘What’s the civilian suit for?’ He was evasive, and then felt ashamed. His oath had been to stand by these men, his comrades, to the death if needs be, and he had deserted them. What had he been doing over the last years while these men had been out there fighting for him? He missed the camaraderie they had shared in training, and when they began to talk among themselves of their fighting, and of the mad rush of their armies through freshly conquered territories, he regretted having talked about his own paltry climbing exploits. Since his training days these men had acquired a whole new vocabulary of words that meant nothing to him now, but had them nodding solemnly, or guffawing with laughter at some in joke.

  Whenever the babble of voices dropped, there would be a call for a toast to anyone one from the Führer down, with ‘bottoms up’ to show that their glasses had been drained. As the evening wore on he became more and more conscious of the isolation of his work in the museum. He should be out there fighting with these men. Erich, now unsteady on his feet, wandered over to where Klaus and other officers of the Death’s Head detachment were chatting and laughing. As he approached, he saw Klaus signal to the others to be careful of what they were saying. Erich would have gone away, but Klaus, as if to make amends, raised his glass.

  ‘Here’s to the Jeu de Paume and the Girl in Green!’ Nobody knew or asked what he meant, but glasses were raised and the moment passed. Klaus, however, looked at Erich over his glass, and despite his smile, Erich knew that this toast was a challenge: She’s got you in her thrall hasn’t she, Erich? Fancy, you – conqueror of the Adlerwand – losing your manhood to a girl in a picture! With a shock Erich realised that Klaus was right; Louise had become part of his life. Tomorrow he would write to General von Brugen and explain to him that, with the dire state of the war, he would like to be relieved of his spying responsibilities so that he could volunteer for the Waffen SS, the fighting regiments
of the SS.

  When he arrived back in the Jeu de Paume he struggled to get his key into the keyhole, which, for some reason, seemed to be scuttling about the door like a mouse. At last he got to his room and stood braced against the doorjamb until the floor stopped tilting. Now he finished the SS song with which the company had ended their revels: ‘… Diese gotverdammte Juden Republik!’ He began again: ‘Blut blut–’

  ‘Don’t you dare sing songs like that!’ The voice came from inside the room. He let go of the doors and stepped in unsteadily, to be met by a vision in green. The girl, whoever she was, was berating him for being drunk, for singing Nazi songs … His eyes were beginning to focus now. He recognised her now, of course! Who else, but the girl from his picture?

  ‘Lou … ise!’ he said, having difficulty with the word. ‘You look ’zactly how you look in your portrait.’ He lurched forward and opened his arms, not quite sure of his intentions.

  ‘Come to Erich.’ The girl looked at him in disgust. Then, avoiding his grasp, she slipped behind his desk and headed for her portrait.

  All evening Louise had been thinking about Erich, wondering how best to appeal to his better nature. Surely his Nazism was only skin deep? But now the fool had come in drunk; he hadn’t even reacted to her presence. He was no use to her in this condition. She turned to her painting but it had disappeared! It must be there! What in God’s name was a portrait of Hitler doing there, where she was sure her picture should be? Where could she go? She never left her frame unless she knew where her picture was!

  ‘What have you done with my picture? Where is it?’ she demanded.

  Erich stopped, looked puzzled, and turned to the wall. Then he let out a roar of laughter and lurched over to the Hitler portrait, reached up and turned it around. Oh, joy. There it was – home – her own place, where Pieter had made a special room for her in the studio, and the Master had teased her about Galileo, and where Annie had sat sipping Kathenka’s special brew. It had never occurred to her that there might be another picture on the other side. Erich was standing back, pleased as punch with his conjuring trick. He bowed; she was free to go.

  Erich manoeuvred himself upright with care, feeling as though an axe had been driven through his head. He put on a dressing gown against the chill, went out into his workroom and sat down at his desk. He remembered his dream about Louise. Klaus had said he was in her thrall, perhaps he was right. He would hand her picture over to the archivist as soon as he had written his letter of resignation to General von Brugen. It was nonsense to think that a mere picture might influence him.

  Making a conscious effort to smarten himself up, he washed and shaved with only one cut to the chin, and went out to the café where he usually went, under the colonnade on the Rue de Rivoli, for breakfast and a cup of the brown liquid that they called coffee.

  Elaine Colville, the proprietor’s pretty daughter, came over and sat with him for a while. She worked in the gallery as a cleaner, a job she had got through her father, who was a strong supporter of the Vichy Government of France that co-operated with the Germans. Erich liked her and flirted with her when he could.

  When she had gone, he thought back to the events of last night and how he had felt with his old comrades. His route to the SS had been so different from theirs. It had really started after the climbing of the Adlerwand, when the Nazi propaganda machine had taken over, claiming that it showed what Germany and Austria could do together if they merged. When Erich was offered a commission in the SS, it had seemed logical to accept. In the months before the Anschluss, while he was at SS training in Germany, Erich had seen nothing but Germany’s industry and prosperity. Autobahns streaked the country like arteries. Volkswagens – ‘people’s cars’ – buzzed like bees, factories boomed, whereas in Austria everything seemed to be stagnating.

  The disipline and the training had suited him; he was hailed as the model recruit, a man of steel when it came to route marches and assault courses. He was top of his class at the bookwork as well, but he glossed over that; for all their Aryan looks, his fellow recruits had not been the brightest.

  He had been able forget his father’s blue face and heart attacks, and his mother’s strange disturbing pictures – degenerate art – as he knew now, with that Jew, Solomons, around her all the time. Grandpa Veit had had been right about that. In the SS it had been a relief not to have to think, but to follow orders, and to ride on the crest of the Nazi wave. Last night’s meeting with Klaus and his old SS colleagues had brought it all back. Talking to that girl’s picture just showed how far he had slipped; it was time to give her up. He paid his bill, forgot his change, crossed the Rue de Rivoli via the Metro underpass, and climbed the steps to the Jeu de Paume two at a time. He then spent the day tidying up until all he had on his desk was a blotter and a tray of pencils. The Führer stared down on him with intense blue eyes.

  Élaine Colville came in. ‘Erich, mon cher, you have something on your mind? You forgot your change.’ She put the coins on the table, then sat on the edge of his desk, and fiddled with his pencils. Normally he would have enjoyed her company; she would ask questions about his work and didn’t object if he put an arm about her waist while he explained. She asked endless questions about the odd collection of experts that worked in the gallery during the day. ‘They are all pigs!’ she would say irreverently, and then give him a pat on the cheek before slipping away.

  ‘I’ve a letter to write, Elaine.’

  ‘Is she beautiful?’

  ‘What? Oh no, it’s a business letter.’

  ‘Then I will go. But just in case you are lying to me, I will turn my little Dutch friend around so that she can keep an eye on you.’ To Erich’s astonishment she got up and turned Louise’s portrait face out.

  ‘How did you find out about her?’ he asked, but Elaine just laughed and said, ‘Erich, I know everything!’

  He turned the key in the door, pulled out a sheet of paper, filled his fountain pen with special ink, flexed his fingers and looked at the ceiling. He would normally communicate with General von Brugen in code, but invisible ink was allowed in an emergency; he felt that offering his resignation did constitute an emergency. He was still looking at the ceiling when he realised that he was not alone. He lowered his eyes slowly and found himself looking into the level gaze of the girl in the green dress. So it hadn’t been a dream.

  ‘Guten Abend,’ he said as politely as he could.

  Louise noticed the change in Erich’s manner. His acceptance of her, and a gaze as level as her own, was disconcerting and she found herself apologising.

  ‘Excuse me, I hope I’m not intruding.’

  ‘On the contrary, I think I was expecting you. Let me, however, say straight away that, whatever you have to say to me, you are wasting your time.’

  ‘But I haven’t said a word?’

  ‘But you were going to. So, let me tell you first that I have taken my decision. I am going to join the Waffen SS. The situation in the world is changing. Our forces are struggling on the Eastern Front against the Russians, and there have been setbacks in North Africa. In time we must expect the British to try to invade. I have a duty to fight for my country.’

  ‘And I suppose this was Klaus’s idea?’

  ‘Not just Klaus; the members of the Waffen SS – the men who are actually doing the fighting – who I met last night.’ Louise felt a surge of anger. Damn all wars! she thought. First Gaston, and now Erich. She looked at him with disappointment.

  ‘But you can contribu–’

  ‘No! I don’t want any more interference from you. I am sitting here to write my resignation from the Art Administration Organisation and at the same time volunteer for the Waffen SS. My country needs me, not all this bloody art. And there is nothing you can do to stop me. You have influenced me far too much already!’

  ‘Influenced by me? How can you say that?’

  ‘You have been influencing me ever since I first saw you on Abrahams’s wall, I realise that now. Klaus open
ed my eyes to you. Oh, it’s stupid I know; just some look that an artist a few hundred years ago captured in paint that had me besotted. If it hadn’t been for you, maybe it wouldn’t have occurred to me to go back to see what the mob were doing to Abrahams. And for rescuing him I got thrown out of the SS.’

  Louise was desperate. She could feel herself losing him; soon he would be beyond any appeal from her. If he wrote that letter he would surely hand her over to the Art Administration, and she would have lost her one chance to strike a blow against Klaus and his like. She still had nightmares about the foul things she had seen in Klaus’s mind. She liked this new, more positive Erich; she responded to his level gaze, but that just made it more urgent. He must not be allowed to march off to war and leave her helpless.

  ‘Erich,’ she said, ‘I’m not going to try to make you change your mind; I can’t. I promise I won’t interrupt, but I want you to tell me what Nazism really and truly is. Then you can shut me out of your mind and go and fight your war if you must.’ She waited with bated breath. All he had to do was shut his mind to her, stack her picture with all the others against the wall, and she would be powerless. Two seconds … three …

  Erich sighed, got up, and went over to the door. He took a ‘Bitte nicht stören’ – don’t disturb – sign and hung it over the handle. He smiled ruefully; the night watchman would guess that he was ‘entertaining’ a girl.

  ‘The principles of National Socialism are … ’ he began. Carefully and precisely he laid out them out, omitting nothing, from the theory of racial superiority to the Jewish conspiracy. The girl listened, intent and silent. Apart from the occasional request for clarification she said nothing. It was past midnight when he said, ‘Do I believe in all this? Well, the answer is it doesn’t really matter what I believe. We are at war. Either I act without thinking or I think without acting. The time has come to act, and for me the SS is the obvious means. Now, if you’d be so good as to leave, I will continue with my letter.’