9

A light breeze failed to dispel the uncomfortable sultry pall that hung over the Schorf Heath, a low-lying forested area northeast of Berlin.

Carinhall, a palatial hunting lodge with vaulted ceilings and thatched roof, could not shield the August mugginess from its owner, Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring, who was feeling the oppressive heat in more ways than one. The second-in-command of Nazi Germany tugged at the gold Luftwaffe insignia attached to the collar of his pastel blue summer uniform while his aide-de-camp, Oberst Walter Heller, trailed in his wake.

“How did the Führer receive the news?” Heller cautiously inquired as they strode down the hall of the sumptuous residence.

Göring slowed his gait and came to a stop inside an ornate drawing room, where he surveyed the French cut-glass and ormolu chandeliers that hung from beams of oversized timber. The pair stood flanked by anterooms named Gold and Silver. Inside, hundreds of the finest Italian, French, German, and Dutch paintings and floor-to-ceiling Flemish tapestries occupied every available square centimeter.

“I’m afraid our beloved leader did not accept the latest situational report very well.” Göring let out a heavy sigh. “Just hours ago, the Führer asked General Jodl, ‘Is Paris burning?’ When told that the Commander of Gross Paris had surrendered with barely a fight, the Führer shrieked and flew into a rage. He called von Choltitz a mutinous cretin for disobeying direct orders.”

Göring had witnessed the volcanic eruptions before. He didn’t need much imagination to envision the Führer, with neck veins bulging and bloodshot eyes, working himself into a good lather. Direct orders from Hitler were not to be ignored, and the Reichskanzler had been specific, telling von Choltitz that the French capital “must not fall into the enemy’s hands except lying in complete debris.” Von Choltitz was lucky to be taken prisoner by the Allies. Whatever the conditions, a far less hospitable fate awaited him back home.

For Göring, the Teletype message from Berlin an hour ago declaring that Paris had fallen was distressing, though not unexpected. A silver lining in the gloomy transmission was that the most beautiful city in the world hadn’t been turned into a smoldering slag heap.

A week earlier, a source on General Jodl’s staff had told him that the 813th Pionierkompanie—Engineer Company—had strapped U-boat torpedoes underneath forty-five bridges spanning the Seine. A cache of dynamite had been also set aside to blow up the most recognized landmark in the world—the Eiffel Tower. Sheer lunacy!

“Let’s look at some of my paintings,” Göring said to his aide, attempting an upbeat tone. Sometimes in low moments like this, he needed to be close to his art. The works of Old Masters gave him perspective and a chance to think clearly. On occasions, he believed treasures of the past spoke directly to him.

They continued along the white arabescato marble flooring he had personally selected from an Italian quarry. He had approved every detail of Carinhall’s construction, right down to the lavish door handles. The memory caused his heavy chest to swell with pride. No residence in the world housed as many pieces of exquisite art, all chosen by him.

“Each day that I’m here gives me immense satisfaction, Heller.” His gaze focused toward the masterpieces hanging on the walls, many having come from—or through—Paris, where Heller had traveled at his behest to purchase the very best art available on the market. Yes, purchase, because he could afford them. As Prime Minister of Prussia, Minister of Aviation, State Foresting and Hunting Master of Germany, Field Marshall of the Luftwaffe, and director of the Four-Year Economic Plan, his bank accounts overflowed with Reichsmarks.

Of the eight homes Göring owned, Carinhall was the one he loved most. He had intended to build a simple hunting lodge, but one remodeling project beget another—plus the need for more wall space to display his art. A small army of carpenters worked for nearly seven years, adding high-ceilinged atriums, oversized sitting rooms, and wood-paneled studies until his country home reached Versailles-like proportions.

“What do you think of our latest Cranach?” Göring stopped in front of a tall, rectangular oil painting that had replaced an inferior piece traded to an unsuspecting dealer.

Together, Göring and Heller took a long moment to study Cupid Complaining to Venus by German Renaissance artist Lucas Cranach the Elder. The tableau depicted Cupid as a naked, potbellied preschooler complaining to Venus, a long-limbed nude, that bees had stung him when he stole a handful of honeycomb.

“It’s certainly allegorical,” Heller replied. “It speaks to the idea that life is a mixture of pleasure and pain.”

“I see your point, Heller. Pleasure. Pain. A metaphor for these times.” For pleasure, Göring took great delight from indulging his appetite for masterpiece paintings, valuable jewels, and exquisite objets d’art, just as he satisfied his palate with sumptuous meals, expensive French wines, and Dutch cigars. He rather enjoyed the role of bon vivant and grand patron of art, music, and theater—mantles that underscored his exalted position within the Reich. He was a Renaissance man, the only member of the Führer’s inner circle with an upper-class upbringing who moved smoothly within sophisticated international society.

But today was one of those painful days—the loss of National Socialism’s crown jewel. At one time, Paris represented the Reich’s future, the inauguration of their belle époque—beautiful era. The loss to the Allies was further proof that the Third Reich’s trajectory was tilting back toward Earth. A horrific and deadly crash was inevitable unless Werner Heisenberg and his nuclear physicists could come up with a Wunderwaffe, a wonder weapon.

They approached a masterpiece by Flemish painter Jan Brueghel from the early seventeenth century.

“Ah, The Vision of St. Hubert, one of my favorites,” Göring declared.

They regarded Brueghel’s composition of a heavily wooded forest scene. At stage center, a proud stag stood before St. Hubert, bent on one knee and gazing at a light and a crucifix between the deer’s antlers. A white steed and hunting hounds surrounded the huntsman.

“Because of your love of hunting, Reichsmarschall?”

“St. Hubert is the patron saint for hunters—particularly deer hunters. His intercession was said to ward off rabies. Not that I believe any of that superstition.”

Göring studied the painting. He had never counted the number of tracking dogs in The Vision of St. Hubert, but today he enjoyed the diversion, which took his worried mind off the funereal dispatches from both fronts. He regarded the five beautifully drawn hunting hounds and thought about how they had nothing to worry about except for loyally serving their master.

If only life were as simple for him. He had joined the Nazi Party in 1922 after hearing Adolf Hitler deliver a mesmerizing speech about the great injustices of the Versailles Treaty. He ingratiated himself to the former Austrian corporal, who appointed him to command the Sturmabteilung (SA)—the brownshirts. A year later, he took a bullet in the groin for Hitler after Bavarian police broke up the Beer Hall Putsch. He nearly died, but he had proved his
mettle.

There was no one more loyal to the Führer, yet at this present time, he was in the Führer’s doghouse. Ever since the Battle of Stalingrad ended disastrously in the spring of 1943, Hitler had blamed him for the Luftwaffe’s deficiencies. He was shuttled to a side rail and replaced in the National Socialism hierarchy by Heinrich Himmler, the toadyish bootlicker of the Gestapo. Göring knew that he no longer had the ear of the Führer, who had been acting more and more erratic. The Führer’s nerves were kaput, evidenced by the trembling of his left hand.

Heller interrupted his thoughts. “The legend goes that Hubert, a Frankish courtier around the year 700, went hunting deep in the Ardennes forest on a Good Friday. A stag appeared before Hubert with a crucifix glowing between its antlers, and a heavenly voice reproached him for hunting on Good Friday.”

“Ach—more superstition. I would have never guessed that side of you.” He regarded Heller and his close-cropped black hair. The colonel was twenty years his junior and considerably more trim. “Heller, how long have we known each other?”

“Let’s see. In 1937, you plucked me out of my art studies at the University of Berlin. I have served you faithfully ever since.”

“Yes, indeed. You have undertaken many sensitive tasks for me over the years.”

Heller registered surprise. “That’s correct, Reichsmarschall. It has been my honor.” The aide regarded him with a wry smile. “Can I be of service to you in some manner? I assume that’s why you invited me.”

“Very perceptive. The fact is, I want you to contact our people in Zurich. For a sensitive mission. One that could determine my fate—and yours.” He let the thought hang in the summer air.

“I’m listening, Reichsmarschall.”

He looked over Heller’s shoulders, then glanced behind to ensure they were alone in the main hallway. “What I am about to say to you must stay within these walls. This is for your safety as well as mine. Do you understand?”

“Jawohl, Herr Reichsmarschall.” The officer clicked his boot heels.

“How many paintings are in my possession?”

“Total? Including the paintings in all your homes as well as the special works kept in Switzerland for safekeeping?”

“Yes, all of them.”

“I can’t give you a highly accurate number, but it’s close to 2,000.”

“Are any of those paintings priceless?”

Heller assumed a quizzical look. “We purchased them at prices you were willing to pay on the open market. Then there are the confiscated pieces in the inventory, which came at no cost. That doesn’t mean they aren’t quite valuable. The Jews have an eye for art.”

“But nothing in my possession could be placed in the priceless category.”

“Correct. Priceless paintings, by definition, are national treasures that cannot be bought or sold at any price. May I inquire why you are asking?”

“Because I desire to add a priceless piece to the collection.”

“Excuse me? I’m not sure what the Reichsmarschall—”

“I’ve been giving this some thought, and I have a particular piece in mind.”

“But sir, as I just said, priceless paintings do not have a price. There is no purchase tag.”

“Which means we’ll have to acquire it . . . by other means. There is more at stake here, Colonel Heller, than just another addition to the collection. Our very survival may depend on this.”

Heller muffled a cough. “What priceless work did you have in mind?”

“The Mona Lisa.”