Lanny was sure of this when the ex-minister came to the real meat of his discourse. He wanted this terrible war ended, just as he knew the son of Budd-Erling did; and he had his own clever formula for settling the problem. He didn’t suggest, as Hitler and Göring had done, that Britain and America should come in against the Soviet Union; no, something much slicker, just that Britain and America should go easy on the western front, so as to give Germany time to put the Bolsheviks out of the fighting. Just a little more of what they were doing now, at the end of February 1943! And if Lanny had said they were doing it, or that he and his father would advocate doing it, the Herr Doktor would have something he could report to the Russians, to increase their suspicions of British and American intentions in the matter of a second front!
The knobby-headed and red-faced Prussian signed a memo for this lunch, and Lanny wondered: Would he put it on his expense account, and would the bill be paid by Ribbentrop’s Foreign Office, or by Goebbels’ Department of Popular Enlightenment and Propaganda?
VIII
Lanny had promised to call up Baron von Behr, and it would have been very bad tactics indeed to forget that. He remembered it, and the head of the Einsatzstab said he had some real treasures to show his new friend. He sent his car to the Donnerstein palace—such a distinguished address to give!—and Lanny was carried to what had until recently been the fashionable art shop of the dealer Diamant—such a distinguished name! Unfortunately a bomb had hit not far down the street and blown in all its windowglass; the windows were boarded up and the firm was out of business. Before that afternoon was over, Lanny had come to the conclusion that the firm had been out for some time, and was being used as a camouflage, either by the Einsatzstab itself, or by the Baron and his associates, operating a black market.
Inside this luxurious establishment, perfectly equipped for showing fine paintings, were half a dozen of the most charming examples of French Impressionist art that this expert had ever seen. Each had its own reflector, and a chair in front of it, so that the would-be purchaser might sit in comfort and admire. Only one light was turned on at a time, so there was nothing to distract the visitor’s eyes or mind. No too eager salesman stood by, singing the praises of the work; a tactful clerk said: “I am told, Herr Budd, that you are competent to form your own opinion of paintings, and therefore I leave you to examine them at your leisure. In the corner of each frame you will find a card with the necessary information and the price of the work.”
Nothing could have been more to Lanny’s taste. All he had to do was to read the card and make a memo, and then sit and study the work. When he asked for a magnifying lens, it was brought to him. When he was through with the inspection of one painting, he turned on the next light and turned off the other. If only all dealers would be equally tactful—and if they could have the same confidence in their customers!
Here was a Monet, a lily pond and a little stone bridge in bright sunlight. Here was a van Gogh from the Arles period, when he had been drunk with the sunshine and warmth of the Midi, and had made all his work a hymn to the Sun God. Here was a Gauguin, when he had fled from the blase and cynical art world of Paris to the bosom of Mother Nature in Tahiti, where the natives were peaceful and happy, or so it had been possible for a distraught painter to believe. All these works were “degenerate,” according to the official classification established by a former painter of picture postcards from the home for the Obdachlosen, the shelterless of the Vienna slums. Their prices were low, but not too low, because it was well understood that the degenerate non-Nazi world put a high valuation upon them. Lanny might have these old masters—for so they had become in the year 1943—for approximately eighty thousand marks, which was about thirty thousand dollars at the official rate, but less at the real rate. He had no doubt that some of his clients would be glad to pay double the price.
Buying paintings was Lanny Budd’s camouflage, and making money was the only way he could keep the rank-and-file Nazis from being suspicious of him. He had kept money in Berlin banks to cover such deals, and he would take the paintings out to Sweden and put them in a bank vault there. He would tell his Boss what he had done, and if the Boss approved, the all-knowing Baker would get the necessary permit, and the paintings could be brought to America and sold to Mr. Winstead or other collectors, and the profits given to the Red Cross.
IX
Lanny said that he would buy those paintings, provided that he could receive the necessary assurances as to their former ownership. The clerk said that had all been arranged for, and submitted for the customer’s inspection two documents, one a bill of sale signed by Baron von Behr, and the other a quit-claim deed signed by one Rosika Diamant, stating that she had been the former owner of the specified works, that the sale to Behr had been voluntary, and that for the sum of ten marks she hereby ceded to Lanning Prescott Budd any and all claims that she might have to the said works.
There was brought into the room an elegant-appearing young woman, concerning whose race he would have had to ask no questions, even had it not been for the yellow Star of David which she wore upon her bosom, according to Nazi police requirements. She was evidently a person of refinement, and it was not her fault that she was also ripe and luscious. She reminded Lanny of Olivie Hellstein, when that daughter of a great Paris banker had been presented to him as a possible wife, and had started an impressionable playboy to quoting from the Old Testament. “What thing shall I liken to thee, O daughter of Jerusalem? What shall I equal to thee, that I may comfort thee, O virgin daughter of Zion?” Like Olivie, this one had large dark eyes, such as poets are wont to compare to a gazelle’s. “Turn away thine eyes from me, for they have overcome me! How fair and how pleasant art thou, O love, for delights!”
The clerk, or salesman, or whatever he was who was handling this deal, said: “This is Fraülein Diamant, who was the owner of the paintings, and will tell you about them.”
“I am pleased to meet you, Fraülein,” responded Lanny politely. “I should be grateful for the information.”
The young woman—she could not have been much more than twenty—began her story in a soft voice, which became her style of beauty. Her father had acquired the paintings in the course of his art business; the father was no longer living and she was his sole heir. Inasmuch as the war had made matters difficult for her, she had been glad to dispose of them, at a price that she hoped would make the deal worth while to Herr Budd. This she said with gazelle’s eyes looking straight into Lanny’s, and without a trace of hesitation.
Lanny was fairly sure that this was a frame-up on the part of Baron von Behr, but what could he do or say? He might pin the young woman down, but she would surely have learned her story and would do nothing but repeat it. He would surely not be doing her any service if he were to break her down in the presence of any Nazi; and the same would be true of himself in his relationship to Göring and staff. A business deal is like a love affair—it is better not to start it if you mean to break off in the middle.
The P.A. said: “I accept your assurance, Fraülein. The price is satisfactory, and I am glad to hear that I can be of service to you.”
X
He had been to his Berlin bank and got a checkbook. His account had been sequestrated when Germany declared war upon America, but that would hardly apply to a payment to the Einsatzstab. Lanny could guess that this must be a favorite way of making deals, to sequestrate a man’s funds and let him know that there was just one person to whom he could draw a check. Lanny wrote the check and handed it to the clerk, and received the bill of sale and the other document. The precious paintings were taken out of their heavy frames, and each wrapped in a soft cloth; Lanny stayed to see that it was done properly and that he got what he was paying for. They were not large paintings, and were packed in two parcels, which could be handled without difficulty. They were put into the Baron’s car and taken, along with their new owner, to the Donnerstein palace. All this was an old story to an art expert; he had been doing it
for more than twenty years and always carefully watched all kinds of tricky persons.
He saw the treasures safely stowed in his icebox room, and told Hilde about them, so that she might not be worried as to his doings. He went about other affairs, and when he came back to the palace in the evening the elderly manservant told him that there had been a telephone call for him, a lady who declined to give her name but said that she would call again. Lanny at once guessed that it had been Fraülein Diamant, because he knew of no other lady who might have anything confidential to say to him. He was not surprised when he was called to the phone soon afterward and heard the soft voice of the daughter of Jerusalem; nor was he surprised that she did not give her name, but said: “This is the person with whom you made a business deal today.”
He did not make the mistake of naming her. He knew that she was taking her life in her hands, because it was forbidden for Jews to use either telephone or telegraph. “I understand,” he replied, and she told him that there was something she urgently desired to say to him. Would he be willing to meet her at the Brandenburg Gate at nine on the following morning? He recognized a device of the Berliners who wanted to discuss some confidential matter in safety; they went for a stroll in the Tiergarten. Lanny had done it himself, with Laurel and with others.
His mind was busy with the problem: What was it this young woman wanted? To back out of the deal? Manifestly he couldn’t do that without jeopardizing his standing with the Nazis. The Fraülein was in a trap, but so was Lanny. He would have to take the paintings out; but, if she had been robbed, he might promise her the profits. Or could it be that she wished to tell him that the paintings had been extorted from other persons and that his title was worthless? In that case he would have to hold them in Sweden and see what developed after the war. He debated these matters until his bed got warm and he fell asleep.
XI
In the morning, when he saw the young Jewish woman strolling through the great monument to Prussian arrogance, he did not make the mistake of greeting her. He passed her by and walked slowly into the snow-covered park, leaving it for her to catch up with him when she chose. She was clad in a coat that might have been worn by her serving maid, and he could guess that she had parted with her furs and jewels. When she joined him he did not stop, but kept walking, and passers-by would be free to assume that it was one of those assignations which do not cease with war—quite the contrary. “Pflücket die Rose, eh’ sie verblüht!”
“Herr Budd,” she began, speaking low, almost in a whisper, “I apologize for troubling you—”
“Not at all, Fraülein. Do not be uneasy. I am here to listen to whatever you have to tell me.”
“I am a stranger to you,” she went on, increasing the tempo of her speech, “but it is sometimes possible to tell a great deal about a person from a brief glimpse. I beg you to believe that I am an honest woman.”
“I can assure you on that point, Fraülein. I think I know a lady when I see one.”
“I mean more than that, Herr Budd. I mean that I am a woman with a heart and a conscience.”
“I am prepared to believe that, too,” he declared promptly.
“I no longer have any standing in this world where I live; but I have my sense of honor, and I am capable of gratitude that would never die.”
“Proceed, Fraülein, upon the belief that I accept your statements.”
“I am about to make what must seem to you a mad proposal. It is born of my utter desperation. I am a Jewess. I had a father and a mother, two brothers and a sister, and a good family position—you know, perhaps, of my father’s business, which was prosperous. Now, as you have seen, it is in the hands of others. All my family have disappeared; I have not heard a word from any of them for months, and I have no hope of hearing. I have given up asking, because it brings only angry words, and I have had to make up my mind whether I wish to live or not.”
“A dreadful position, Fraülein.”
“I am employed in the business because I used to help my father and so I have knowledge that they need. I am at the mercy of these men, and it is more horrible than any words can tell. I give them pleasure, but do not earn any gratitude or affection—these things are not to be had by any person of my race, no matter by what services.”
“That I can understand—”
“Today I met an American, the first I have seen in more than a year. I saw a kind man, and I read in your face that you did not think I deserved the badge of shame that Jews must wear in Germany. It is no shame to us, of course, but to those who force us to wear it.”
“You are right in your guess, Fraülein Diamant.”
“Do not use my name. Words may be overheard, and I am doing something that might cost me my life. It is my thought that you might help me to get out of this land where I am not wanted.”
“How could I help you, Fraülein?”
“There could be only one way—to marry me and take me to America as your wife.”
“Oh!” he exclaimed involuntarily.
“It would be in name only,” she rushed on, her voice trembling and almost breaking. “You could divorce me, or have the marriage annulled. If I had a fortune, I would offer it to you. As it is, I can offer only my services. I would be your secretary, your servant, I would work my fingers to the bone to repay you; and it would be for all the rest of my life. I would never ask to be released from the bargain. I ask only to live, and to have a chance to do something useful. This is the cry of a frantic woman—”
“You must spare yourself further effort, Fraülein,” he interposed. “I might do what you ask, but as it happens, I have a wife and baby in New York.”
“Ach, Gott!” she exclaimed, and her voice died away.
“I am truly sorry, but I am helpless in the matter.”
The kindness in his tone caused the spark to revive for a moment. “Do the people here know that you are married?”
“No, but they could easily find out.”
“It might not occur to them. Surely your wife would understand; and a Nazi marriage would mean nothing in America. I could go away and never see you again, just send you my earnings—”
“Leider, Fraülein, there is no possibility of it, and you must put it out of your mind. My circumstances make it impossible.”
XII
He could not say any more; he had to pronounce what both of them knew was a death sentence, and without any explanation. They walked in silence for a space. Then the woman said: “Forgive me, Herr Budd I had no right to trouble you.”
“It was a natural thing for you to think of,” he assured her.
“Tell people what is happening here!” she broke in. “They are exterminating our race. Not merely do they deprive us of our property and of the chance to earn our bread; but they are determined that there shall not be one of us left alive here, or in the lands that they have taken. They are shipping us away in cattle cars, to camps they have built for the purpose of wholesale murder.”
“Can that really be true, Fraülein?”
“There can be no question that it is true. Thousands of our people are perishing every day. They are making Jewish bodies into fertilizer and soap. There has been no such horror since the beginning of history.”
“I have heard such statements made, Fraülein, but it is difficult to believe.”
“Every Jew in Germany knows it. We no longer accept the tales that are told us, that we are to be taken to Poland to be settled on the land. We are taken to be killed wholesale in poison-gas chambers and then burned in furnaces or boiled in rendering vats. Jewish bodies become a choice kind of German soap. And the harder the war goes with Germany, the more determined these fiends become that there shall be none of our race left to share the benefits of victory.”
He took one glance at that lovely face, drawn with anguish; then he turned his eyes away. He couldn’t say: “I will report these statements in my country, Fraülein.” He couldn’t even say: “I believe you.” He could not forget the p
ossibility that this so plausible approach might represent a plot by some of Göring’s henchmen who suspected him and would be glad to get something against him. He had to harden his heart and say: “I regret that I cannot do what you ask, Fraülein. All that I can do is to assure you that what you have said to me will be locked in my heart, and that whatever may happen to you in future will not be because of this appeal to me. Good-by.”
They had come to a parting of the path on which they walked. He waited to see which one she would take, and he took the other. Such was his duty, and he did it; but the doing made him sick to the soul.
XIII
It wasn’t much of a walk to Göring’s Residenz, and there the dependable Furtwaengler made regretful note of the fact that Herr Lanny Budd was ready to depart from the Fatherland. He could have a seat on a plane to Stockholm in a couple of days, and the General-Major would see to it that the rules concerning baggage were set aside so that he could take his paintings. His exit permit would be ready for him, and Göring’s own cashier accommodated him by taking several of his ten-thousand-franc banknotes and giving him good National Socialist marks—at a rate in favor of the latter. That was the modern way of bleeding a country that you had conquered: you just declared your money worth several times as much as the other country’s money, and then your soldiers could walk into the shops and strip them bare. So the silk stockings and wines and watches of France had come to Germany, and the French had nothing to complain of.
A consequence of the closing of the cafés was that the white-collar workers and officials of the Hauptstadt had to bring their lunches, decorously hidden in a little satchel or something equally respectable. In cold weather they made up parties in one another’s offices; and Lanny phoned Heinrich Jung and was invited to one. He would bring his own, of course; so he went out and strolled, looking for a queue that was not too long. Many were a block long, and the trouble was that when you waited your turn, you might find the shop sold out. But in the better-class districts were shops that had more goods—the luxury articles, for which no prices had been fixed. Lanny bought anchovies packed in olive oil, and ripe olives and dried figs from Portugal and Spain; also a loaf of rye bread, and some cheese that he knew Heinrich liked. The American millionaire—all Germans thought him that—didn’t mind spending coupons, for he was going out, and before he went he would make a present to Hilde that would balance the account against his Puritan moral code.