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Berchtesgaden—a soldier’s paradise. Once the Allies crossed into Germany, the conquering army kicked civilians out of their homes and billeted soldiers under warm roofs. However, as I overheard Whiskey say, “the houses didn’t compare” to the lavish resort Minister Speer conceived and built in the Obersalzberg for Hitler and his high-ranking officers. In late April, some of the complex had been bombed; however, much of the town and its buildings were still intact, and the 101st took no time settling into the Alpine Village. Checkpoints were set up, patrols still ran shifts throughout the day and night, but hot showers, three squares a day, and comfortable beds lifted everyone’s spirits.
I requested and was granted permission to remain with the 101st as a member of the press corps after assuring the colonel, who had luckily never heard of me, that my reporter colleague would be joining me as soon as permission was granted. Immediately following that conversation, I phoned to beg Maggie, my roommate at Buchenwald who’d moved on to Dachau, to come to Berchtesgaden. It didn’t take much to convince her to leave the tragedy of concentration camps for the beauty of the Obersalzberg for a few days. She promised to arrive as soon as she could.
Being in Berchtesgaden gave me something I hadn’t had in a while—time. I took to writing letters that I’d been remiss in doing.
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Dear Father,
It is good to be back in Bavaria. The land is as beautiful as I remember from my childhood. The Allies have conquered Berchtesgaden and the men couldn’t be happier. A Maypole festooned with banners of swastikas stood tall in the middle of a fountain at one end of town. The banners flapped in the spring breeze when we arrived. By the following day the streamers had been stripped from the pole, hidden in pockets as souvenirs. The swastika and eagle topper were knocked down and replaced with an American flag. I have enclosed a photo for you to see. The town is rife with Tyrolean architecture and the Gasthof Neuhaus, where I am staying in a miniature room in the attic, is as quaint as a Swiss chalet, but it is nothing compared to the estates of Hitler’s high-ranking Nazis.
I’ll admit the men loot anything not nailed down. Lugers and first editions of Mein Kampf are popular with the enlisted men, whereas the officers tend to enjoy the finer things in life, and more valuable items such as silver platters, china, and flatware go into their coffers.
Little did I realize I would wind up being the recipient of some of the looted bounty. The second morning, I awoke from the best sleep I’ve had in months to find a trunk full of women’s dresses, shoes, coats, and underthings outside my door, pillaged from a variety of households. When I asked the commanding officer about it, he shrugged and suggested I not look a gift horse in the mouth. Secretly, I’m pleased to be rid of my slacks and into a fresh dress.
All my Best,
Sarah
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It was early afternoon by the time I left the regimental photographer behind in his dark room and spotted Charlie eating on the patio of a nearby hotel.
“There you are.” He wiped his mouth and pulled out a chair for me. “Where have you been? My orderly has been searching high and low for you.”
“I made friends with Staff Sergeant Gerard.” I laid a pile of photos at his elbow and flopped back against the wrought iron chair. “This reminds me of Paris.” I yawned. “Is it too early for a drink?”
“Funny you should mention that.” He flipped through the pile. “These are good. Very good.”
“Thanks. What is funny about wanting a drink?”
“The five-oh-sixth discovered Hermann Goering’s private wine cellar today.”
“I thought his estate was bombed.”
“Some of it is still intact. Including the subterranean levels.”
“Wine cellar, hm. Goering, the fat gourmand... I imagine it holds some of the best wines Europe has to offer.” The breeze had me tucking a stray tendril behind my ear.
“Hundreds of bottles of some of the finest wines and champagne from Austria, Germany, and France. Or so I’m told. But it’s not the wine cellar that I think will interest you.”
I fingered the compass at my neck as he spoke. “Do tell.”
Charlie surveyed my fidgeting as he spoke. “They’ve found secret tunnels beneath his home housing an art collection worthy of a museum.”
My interest piqued, I dropped the compass and sat forward. “It’s well known Goering fancied himself a superior art connoisseur. The Nazis have been pillaging the finest Jewish-owned artworks all over Europe ever since the Anschluss. Speer was in charge of commissioning das Führermuseum, in Linz, Austria. Colette told me, when the Germans invaded France, the Louvre crated and filled armored trucks with artworks, such as the Mona Lisa. The trucks were constantly on the move to keep them away from Goering’s greedy hands. How many paintings did they find?”
“I’m not sure. They’re moving it now. You seem to know quite a bit about it.”
“Oh, I am not an expert by any means.” I waved my hand. “But on rainy days at finishing school, Madam Frischon would have us gather in the parlor for art lectures. I can identify the significant artists of their time. Cezanne, Da Vinci, Picasso, Monet.” I listed them off on my fingers. “And the different styles, impressionism, realism, cubism.”
“Someone needs to document the find. We suspect most of the artwork is stolen.”
“Most likely. Stolen from the Jews, Poles, Czechs, Austrians. By thirty-nine, Jewish citizens had no right to own property. The Nazis basically downgraded Jews to” —I tapped my chin trying to think of an appropriate adjective—“enemies of the state, subhumans. Everything they owned belonged to the government as far as the Reich was concerned. When the Anschluss happened, the Germans immediately began pillaging from wealthy Austrian Jews too, claiming they owed the Reich taxes and taking anything of value to pay those ‘taxes.’”
Charlie stared meditatively at me.
“What?”
“How do you know all this? Your work at the OSS?”
“Some. And I read.”
His brows rose.
“A lot of reading. Most of it was gleaned in letters from finishing and boarding school friends. Camilla remained at Mont-Choisi long after I did. At night we’d listen to the National Swiss Radio station, one of the few German-speaking stations telling the truth about what the Nazis were up to.”
“Are you up for the task?”
“The army will allow me?”
“I think I can arrange something.” He winked. “After all, you are an expert.”
“Stay right here. It’ll take but a moment to get my camera.”
Charlie laughed and seized my hand before I stepped away. “What about lunch?”
“Not hungry.” I shook free of his grasp. “How do I get to Goering’s place?”
“Go get your camera. I’ll find someone to take us.”
Stacks and stacks of paintings and statues lined the walls of underground tunnels Goering had built between his home and Reichsleiter Martin Bormann’s. The men carried out canvas after canvas. I identified at least one Botticelli, a Klimt, and a possible Renoir. Two days later, troops found locals looting a train car, hidden in a blocked-up tunnel; it held more of Goering’s stolen artworks including statues and tapestries of unimaginable value. The artwork gave me a purpose, and Marguerite, when she showed up three days later, dove into the project with gusto.
