Munich Signature (8 page)

Murphy laughed out loud. “I would like to quote that for my paper, Colonel, but there are a lot of hungry readers out there who would be happy to give up their freedom for an eclair.”

“Ah, yes. Difficult times. Difficult.”

President Beneš, pleasantly flushed and out of breath, escorted Elisa back to where Murphy and the colonel stood. Beneš kissed her hand and then peered up at Murphy. “All this beauty and she can also outrun the opera house guards too! All she talks about, however, is her husband, Herr Murphy. She says you are quite a journalist. And that for weeks you have tried to get a—a
scoop
?” He looked at Elisa questioningly. “That is the correct word?”

She nodded. “An American news term.”

“Ah, yes.” Beneš said thoughtfully. “I have made her promise not to talk about it next time we dance and in return, Herr Murphy, you shall have your
scoop
. Shall we adjourn to my office? We can talk while the colonel keeps your lovely wife company. He can dance with only one arm. Indeed, she will be much safer with a one-armed man.”

Murphy smiled his thanks to Elisa and then followed the president and his covey of bodyguards out of the ballroom.

***

Another kind of music was being played in Berlin. As the candles of Hradcany flickered hopefully, the Hitler Youth lit their torches and followed rank upon rank of SS Blackshirts in an endless march to honor the pagan German gods. From the balcony of the Chancellery, Hitler stood with arm outstretched above them in blessing. As the fires of the torches illuminated him, a million voices joined in this song of praise:

If such adoration pleased the Führer, his pleasure was not reflected in his face. Grim, unmoving, he watched them. These were his people, and he was their god. The seven hundred thousand youths he had torn from the church only four years earlier now became the fulfillment of his prophecy. “
I will see again in the eyes of youth the gleam of beasts of prey!
”

Tonight, those young eyes shone the flame of hatred. They reflected the face of their Führer. Their lord.

If parents grieved for their lost children, no one listened—not even God, it seemed. There was a new god in Germany now, a new order.

Hour after hour the procession continued. When other members of his Nazi entourage tired of the sameness of the spectacle and moved restlessly from the balcony, the Führer did not notice.

The thump of drums permeated even the thick walls of the Chancellery where Admiral Canaris had retired for a few minutes’ respite from the racket.

Colonel Oster sipped a cup of cold coffee and leaned in to ask Canaris, “How does our Führer keep his arm up like that all the night?” There was a twinkle in his eyes and Canaris shut him off with a look of warning. Hermann Göring stood gorging himself at the buffet table not ten feet away. He stuffed his belly with food and filled his ears with gossip. Any critical word would find its way back to Hitler.

Canaris raised his eyes to Thomas von Kleistmann, who chatted amiably with Göring. Göring had flown with the young man’s father over France in the Great War. He had been present when von Kleistmann’s father had been killed. This fact had boosted the career of Thomas in spite of his unfortunate entanglement with the daughter of a Jew.

Ah well, such youthful foolishness could be forgiven. Hermann Göring bore the young officer no ill will. Together they would forget the past mistakes and march forward for the Fatherland.

The conversation between Thomas and Göring pleased Admiral Canaris. Such attention brought von Kleistmann that much closer to Hitler’s inner circle. Such nearness might yield an unexpected item of information to help their cause. To stop the inevitable. To stop the god of war from overtaking them all.

Colonel Oster raised an eyebrow in astonishment. “Our Thomas is doing well,” he said as he tasted a sandwich. “It was a good idea to call him back from Paris for the holiday.”

“Göring was fond of his father. Wilhelm von Kleistmann was a hero for the Fatherland. It cannot hurt us if Göring and Himmler bring him close to the Führer.” His words were barely audible. He kept his eyes fixed on a beautiful young woman who was talking to yet another member of Hitler’s inner circle. Anyone watching Canaris would have suspected that he had an interest in her, that his whispered words were some obscene appreciation of the woman provided for the pleasure of the officers at the review.

Oster nodded and smiled and nodded as the young woman noticed them. “That fat, overstuffed hog has spent the whole evening at the buffet table. Von Kleistmann will have to learn to eat like a pig if he is to keep up with him.”

Canaris turned toward the heaping table. “And what do you suppose they are talking about?” Just then Göring threw his head back in a burst of laughter.

“Certainly not Czechoslovakia,” Oster retorted dryly.

“Nor Jews.” Canaris walked the brief distance to the buffet and took a plate as if he wanted to eat. Göring spotted Canaris and good-naturedly slapped him on the back.

“A good fellow you have here, Canaris! I have just been getting reacquainted with the son of Willie von Kleistmann!”

“I thought perhaps it was only fair for Thomas to share in the celebration remembering the fallen—“

“Ah, yes! The fallen! Just what we were talking about, eh, Thomas?” Göring nudged Thomas in the ribs and laughed again. “Yes, yes! The fallen! We were discussing the difference between the whores in Paris and the whores in Berlin! There is no difference, eh, Thomas?”

As if in agreement, Thomas shrugged. It was plain to see that Hermann Göring was drunk. Not out of control, but certainly drunk.

With half a smile Oster added, “I would have thought you would be talking about the difference between French art and German art.” Oster knew that Göring had amassed a fortune in collecting the art of arrested Jews. The jibe went right past Göring.

“Whores! Art! What’s the difference? Culture is culture,
ja
?” Göring stuffed a slice of ham in his mouth and continued to talk. “And we agree that German culture is the purest . . . the most
spiritual.
”

Thomas cleared his throat. “Perhaps more spiritualist than spiritual.” He raised his eyes toward the doors that led to the balcony and the torchlight procession. There was indeed an eerie spiritual quality to it. Göring did not notice the look of understanding that passed among the men around him.

“German culture,” he roared again. “Haven’t you read Rosenberg’s papers? The most unfortunate thing that happened to our tribe was the advent of Christianity. This religion of weaklings . . .” Now Göring was on the offensive. He was well aware that Canaris was a Catholic. He bowed in mock apology. “In most cases, not all.”

Canaris did not comment. This was the language that begged for confrontation, and any confrontation in the matter of the church was dangerous. “So—” Canaris attempted a smile—“you have decided that the ladies of Paris cannot be compared with those of the Fatherland—”

“Yes!” Göring interrupted. “But I still have only half convinced him about German art. Perhaps—”he patted his wide belly as though he had finally had enough—“perhaps I can show you something to convince you about that also,
ja
?” He took Thomas by the arm and motioned for Canaris and Oster to follow.

“The parade—” Thomas tried to protest as Göring dragged him out into an enormous marble corridor and then walked toward the elevator.

“There will be hours more of this yet.” Göring would not be dissuaded. “The Führer will not come in until the last little Nazi has goose-stepped past him. Come, come. I’ll show you.”

Drawn by a morbid curiosity, Thomas, Canaris, and Oster boarded the elevator with their intoxicated guide. Göring ran the elevator himself. His cheeks were flushed with excitement, and his eyes were bright like a child playing hooky from school. He laughed as he moved the lever and the elevator lurched downward with a loud whine. Göring prattled on about the virtues of German artists and the fact that Hitler himself was an artist and a man of great spiritual superiority. Did not the Führer possess the genius and the sensitivity to move the very soul of the German people as the gods of old had done?

Canaris and Oster exchanged glances. Yes. Hitler was an artist. A failed artist. How much better for them all if he had been accepted into the Vienna Institute of Art and was painting pictures instead of rearranging maps.

The elevator plunged downward. Deep beneath the ground level, a catacomb of rooms and reinforced concrete had been built for the Führer and his staff in the event of war. Göring had laughed and told Hitler that if any enemy bombers ever broke through to drop even one bomb on German soil, Göring would change his name to Meyers and wear a yellow star. For now, the rooms held a wealth of confiscated art.

“You are lucky I bring you here.” Göring smiled with yellow teeth as the elevator doors slid open. Beyond was utter blackness and silence, a heavy contrast to the cheering jubilation and tramp of boots on the streets far above them.

The three guests exchanged glances as Göring stepped out into the dark hall and waited for them to follow. Canaris was first.

“Darkness,” he quipped in a humorless tone. “So this is the German art and culture you have brought us halfway to hell to see?”

Göring laughed, unaware of the bitterness that was thick in the voice of the speaker. “God creates light and beauty out of darkness, Herr Admiral.” Göring clicked his heels and bowed slightly as he reached out to touch a light switch.

A string of bare bulbs illuminated gray concrete block walls. The German swastika emblem, topped by an eagle, was the only adornment in this drab corridor.

Göring marched ahead of the silent trio. The air was thick and the weight of the earth seemed to press in on them. Only Göring did not notice.

“In there, we keep the Raphael.” He gestured toward one door after another. “There Rubens. A da Vinci or two in there . . . ” Göring seemed immensely pleased but did not open the doors of those rooms or offer to let them see the stolen treasures. “The Führer is planning a huge museum in his hometown, you know. Speer is designing it now. It shall be the greatest and the largest in Europe.” Now he paused in front of a drab metal door that looked just like any other. “And there will be a special room for the work in here. You will see. Proof. It is absolute proof.”

“Proof?” Oster sounded amused. “Of what?”

In reply, Göring threw open the door and switched on the light. Before them, taking up nearly an entire wall, was a painting so frightening and fearful that Thomas backed up a step and stood holding tightly to the doorknob.

Demons and transparent human spirits writhed in torment across the dark canvas. Above it all, astride a powerful horse, Adolf Hitler peered from a whirling mass of smoke and bloody vapor. His eyes peered at them from beneath the dark shock of hair. Lips were tight beneath the small mustache. There was indeed a power in this morbid likeness that sent a chill up the spine of the little audience.

Tears filled Göring’s eyes and at last he spoke with a drunken slur. “What did I tell you? A perfect likeness,
ja
?”

Canaris spoke first. “Perfect. Hardly the sort of painting that will excite the masses to anything but fear.”

Göring turned to him in wonder. “But don’t you see? You don’t recognize the artist, Herr Admiral?” There was a strange smile on his lips. “It is the work of Franz von Stuck.”

“Franz von Stuck?” Oster stepped forward. “Impossible!”

Thomas moved forward to look at the signature at the bottom of the painting.
Franz von Stuck. My first oil painting. 1889.

Göring gave the explanation. “The year Adolf Hitler was
born
. You
see?
And Franz von Stuck painted this—the birth of the German god Wotan.”

“God of Creation. God of Destruction. God of opposites.” Oster’s usual flippant tone faded off with a shudder.

“Proof! Hitler
is
our god, you see. Can’t you see? Von Stuck was
given
this vision! This prophecy!
It is the Führer!
” Göring’s voice was an awed whisper. He continued to gaze at the evil face that stared out from the center of the whirling mist. It
was
Hitler! There was no mistaking the features.

Thomas backed from the room. He felt suffocated beneath the weight of the earth and the dark force of the eyes that gleamed from the painting like those of a ravenous beast. It was this gleam the Führer desired in the eyes of his followers. Thomas heard his own heart drumming like the snare drums of the procession.

Nothing but a painting, the year of his birth!

Adolf Hitler! God of Destruction! How could a handful of mere men fight against—

Suddenly the eyes of the painting bored into Thomas’ soul, searching out his hidden plans and hopes. Some said Hitler could read minds. Everyone knew that he called upon mediums to read the future. Could he see them now, this evil god? Did he inwardly count the men who did not stand beside him on the balcony with outstretched arms? The thought made Thomas want to run. But where could he hide from such eyes?

5

The Face of Evil

Albert Sporer had been placed in solitary confinement, yet he shared his cell with many others. He sat on the straw pallet and drew his knees up to his chest as three large rats scurried to fight to the death for a small piece of eclair. These creatures were the true inheritors of Hradcany, he thought. They owned the foundations of Prague, as had their fathers and generations of vermin before them.