Trophies of War Read online

  He tapped Reply and typed up a plea for help, telling her he was at the National Archives and reminding her about the prospect of recovering a lost, unknown Manet. Hopefully it would sound like a potential story to her.

  Lyon tapped Send, drained the rest of his drink and ordered another.

  Lyon was passed out on the bed when his phone beeped with a new email notification. In his dream, the Connecticut state trooper was asking his name and if he owned a red Audi A4. The second beep of his phone woke him up. He blinked at the brightness of the screen and tried to ignore the pounding behind his eyes as he read the message.

  Where are you staying? I live in Anacostia, so I’m probably not too far from where you are. I can meet you for coffee in the morning. 7am?

  -Beth

  Lyon groaned at the early hour. He replied with the hotel name and address and set the alarm on his phone for six.

  The hotel lobby was busy with people checking out and meeting for breakfast in the restaurant. Lyon picked an armchair with a view of the front door and sank into it with a groan. He popped two ibuprofen and drank from a water bottle he had bought from a vending machine on the way down.

  After a few minutes of watching people come and go, he recognized Beth Krasner from her byline photos. Or rather, the pictures Lyon had seen gave him a clue that it was her pushing through the revolving door, but those pictures definitely did not do her justice. For one thing… that hair. She had it pulled back in her professional pictures, but walking into the hotel, it was a mass of brown curls going in every direction. Lyon remembered the perm craze of the 80s, but there was no way anyone paid to get curls like that. It would be too over the top.

  He caught her eye and gave a wave. She smiled and came over, hand extended.

  “Hi. Beth Krasner,” she said with a firm handshake … a little too firm. Lyon suppressed a smirk. The bone-crushing grip seemed like a trend among professional women. As was her outfit of workout clothes. When she walked in, Lyon saw that the exercise was having the desired effect, as could the other men in the lobby who were sneaking glances. He guessed she was about thirty.

  Lyon introduced himself and they talked about traffic and the weather as they found a booth in the restaurant. Lyon ordered eggs and bacon, hoping to soothe his hangover with some grease.

  “Thanks for coming out here to meet me,” Lyon said as the waitress poured coffee into two over-sized mugs.

  “Sure,” Beth replied. “Happy to help. I just think it’s so sweet what you’re doing for your mother. Trying to find her painting after all these years.”

  “Yeah …” Lyon said, avoiding Beth’s eyes. “It’s sort of a surprise. So, how did you get into this art looting business, anyway?”

  “Oh God,” Beth exclaimed, rolling her eyes. “Only through the most roundabout way imaginable. I majored in art history as an undergrad, then looked at my career prospects. Not much call for corporate art historians. Put off reality for a bit and went to law school. During law school I saw an interesting talk on Holocaust assets restitution and interned at a firm that was working on it. After graduation, I turned down the white-shoe law firms and took a job with the firm I was interning for, focused on restitution work. Not much more lucrative than art historian.”

  Lyon chuckled.

  “Then, I got tired of the boring legal stuff and started writing about it,” she continued. “Much more fun and much more interesting. I’d rather be sifting through archives like you are than sitting in a law library. So, what can I do to help you?”

  “Well, I’d say I’m about hip-deep in the archives of the Monuments Men,” Lyon replied. “But I’m not getting anywhere. Any advice you can give me would be great.”

  Beth took a sip of black coffee and nodded, curls bouncing.

  “I feel your pain,” she replied. “I’ve actually been there and gone through some of the same records you’re looking at. I wrote a story a few years ago about Elizabeth Taylor being sued over a Van Gogh painting in her collection. It was alleged that the painting was stolen from a German Jew during the 30s. I came here to see if there was any mention of it in the archive. But then, I knew all the details of the people and the painting, so it made it a little easier than what you’re trying to do.”

  “Yeah, well … it’s the volume of documents that’s making it impossible,” Lyon complained. “I’d have to hire a team of people to help me get through all of it. And then if I do find a mention of a Manet with flowers and a lemon, is it going to be any help in finding what happened to it? Most of what I’ve seen is just a catalog of what was found as the Allies made their way across Europe. I’m assuming somewhere is a record of where it came from or where it went. I’m hoping you’ll talk me down off the ledge and give me some tips or direction to make it manageable.”

  Beth gave him a rueful smile.

  “You have to realize the scale of what happened,” she explained. “The Nazis weren’t just collecting trophies or cashing in on their defeated opponents. Art and culture were integral to their ideology. It was all about glorifying the Aryan Nordic race and its superior contributions to world culture. They even tried to claim credit for Greek sculpture and the Renaissance! When they took power, the art world in Germany was one of their first targets. Any of what they considered ‘pathological’ or ‘degenerate’ art was removed from German museums and sold at auction.

  “We’re talking about Matisse, Klee and Van Gogh here, not obscure junk,” she continued, waving her arms as she got louder and more animated. “The artists themselves were persecuted. Especially if they were Jews, of course, but even many Gentile artists were banned from exhibitions—they weren’t even allowed to buy art supplies!

  “So, what happened to the occupied countries was just an extension of what the Nazis had already been doing since 1933 in their own country. Purge Europe of politically incorrect art … persecute the ‘degenerate’ artists and seize the ‘good’ art for themselves. And, unfortunately for your mother, since Paris was the center of the art world before the war, France had the most to lose. When the Germans invaded in 1940, they already knew where to go to grab the collections of the big families: the Rothschilds, the Rosenbergs, the Schlosses. Then as they zeroed in on ordinary French Jews, all of their property fell in to the Nazis’ hands as well.

  “We’re talking about millions of objects, and the MFAA—the Monuments Men—tried to find and document all of it. To their great credit, the Allies had men whose sole responsibility was to find and protect the culture of Europe. Protect it from the fighting and protect it from the Nazis—who had men whose sole responsibility was to find and loot the culture of Europe.”

  “So the Nazis had their equivalent of the Monuments Men?” Lyon asked. Beth nodded.

  “Many equivalent groups,” she replied. “Typical for the Nazis—Hitler loved to send several competing factions out to perform the same task. Have you learned about the ERR yet? The Rosenberg Task Force? They were the ones really responsible for the looting in France, especially of French Jews.”

  “I’ve seen the acronym in the MFAA reports,” Lyon answered.

  “That’s what you should be looking at—the ERR documents. If there’s a record of your mother’s painting, it’s there. There’s a great story behind those records. When the Germans started up their art looting operation in Paris, they used a small museum—the Jeu de Paume—as their headquarters. The best part is that the idiots let a curator continue to work there who turned out to be a member of the French Resistance! She saw everything they moved through there and kept careful notes. A Monuments Man named James Clark was able to get those notes after the Allies invaded France. It helped immensely.”

  “What do you mean, it helped?” Lyon asked. His food had finally arrived and he took a bite of bacon. “Were they able to track down each work of art one by one?”

  Beth smiled.

  “That’s where the story gets really interesting,” she said, leaning in. “Mostly, they didn’t have to go loo
king for them one by one. The Nazis took it all back to Germany with them and kept many of these objects together in the same place.”

  8

  Thuringia, Germany

  April, 1945

  James Clark was in another waiting game with the US Army, hoping they would decide that his work wasn’t too annoying to continue. On what could be the most important day for the MFAA, no less. In an abandoned German office building, he had found a clear space in a hallway where he sat with his typewriter to write a letter home amongst the chaos of chairs, paper and boxes. Just enough morning sun came in through the dirty windows so he could see what he was doing.

  When he finished, he pulled the paper out of the Royal and read the letter again.

  Dear Lilly,

  Sorry it’s been so long since my last letter. I’ve practically been working 16 hours a day every day and if I have a spare moment, I sleep.

  In my time in Paris, I almost forgot there was a war on. There was so much to do in the Louvre and other museums that it was like being home and back at work. I say almost, because of course every night I went back to an empty room without you and the children.

  Well, I’ve left France and my new friends for a most unfriendly place. As I’m sure you’ve read in the papers, we’ve crossed over into Germany. What a change from France. The French are, well, French, but they were happy to see us (in their own way!) after their long years of German occupation. The Germans are of course not happy at all that we are in their country.

  Many of the French villages I saw in Normandy were heavily damaged, but much of France seemed untouched. Here, it looks as if every village, no matter how small, has been pulverized. I don’t know if it’s from our bombers or from Army artillery ahead of our advances into these little hamlets, but the scene is apocalyptic.

  The buildings are like skeletons, but it’s the people that I find so pitiful. Every road we travel down has families shuffling in the opposite direction. I don’t know where they think they’re going, since every other town and village is no better off. Still, they walk, most pushing carts piled with whatever they could salvage from their homes. No matter how pathetic their situation, they glare at us with undisguised hatred. I want to yell at them that it’s all their fault and to wipe those looks off their faces.

  I can't tell you exactly where I am right now, but if you read the front page of just about any newspaper, I think you can guess. Even though this place is swarming with reporters, Patton is steamed that any Army personnel would give away our location. So, I won't mention it. Yes, you read that right, I’m attached to Patton’s Third Army now. The stories I’ve heard! I don’t know what to believe. It’s impossible to tell where the myth ends and the man begins with him, like he’s a modern-day Paul Bunyan. But … he drove his tanks right into Germany and here we are.

  In other news, I finally have an assistant, Private Paul DeLuca, assigned to me and he’s been a great help. Paul is from Pittsburgh where he’s studying sculpture at Carnegie Mellon, so he’s got a head for art. Most of all, he’s some kind of genius for navigating Army protocol and bureaucracy. He found us a car (a convertible German staff car if you can believe it) and everywhere we go he talks his way into getting us a decent billet. He somehow manages to be cheerful all the time. I don‘t know how he does it.

  I know everyone thought the war was going to be over by Christmas but then the Battle of the Bulge happened and here we are in April. Now I really think the end is near. I hear from some of the men that they’re seeing less and less of the Wehrmacht. Instead, they’re running into the Volksturm (which is mostly old men at this point) and Hitler Youth regiments. That has to be the Nazis’ last gasp. I hope so.

  Thank you for the photographs, they are wonderful. I’ve been carrying around the one of all six of us from that trip to Hyannis when Margaret was still a baby, and it’s just about ready to fall to pieces. You look the same, of course, my beautiful bride, but the girls have gotten so big! Karen hardly looks like a child anymore and I suppose she isn’t. Please tell the neighborhood boys that her Daddy will be home from the war any day, so don’t get any ideas! How did you get Catherine and Rebecca to sit still long enough to take their pictures? It sounds like they are turning into quite the duo. Please tell Mrs. Ouelette that of course we’ll pay for new tires once the war is over and the rubber rationing is lifted. Where did they get the pink paint? Does little Maggie walk around with that scowl on her face all the time? I hope she knows who I am when I get home. Keep showing her my picture.

  Give them each a kiss from me. I hope to see you all soon.

  Love,

  Jim

  As he folded up the letter, Paul DeLuca threw open the building’s heavy oaken door and shouted into the dimness.

  “Jim! Where are you? They’re going to let us in!”

  In his surprise, Clark struggled to his feet, typewriter in one hand, letter in the other.

  “There you are,” DeLuca said. “Let’s go before they change their minds!”

  Paul DeLuca looked more like a boxer than an art student, with the crooked nose to complete the picture as if it had been broken in the ring. He was the same height as Clark, just over six feet, but when they met Clark had guessed that he must outweigh him by seventy pounds, all muscle. The truth was that DeLuca had never been in a fight in his life, and he had made a terrible soldier, barely passing every physical test in basic training other than the ones that were just about brute strength. He was working for the Army quartermaster, loading and unloading trucks when the Monuments Men came looking for assistants.

  “Wait … who’s ‘they’ and what did they say?” Clark asked with a suspicious look.

  DeLuca gave a dismissive wave.

  “Some colonel waving around a letter from Patton saying that he has full authority on who can enter and who can’t,” he replied. “I convinced him that when Patton showed up he would be very displeased if the MFAA wasn’t prepared to handle the site. That seemed to get through to him!”

  Clark shook his head in disbelief.

  “That’s Colonel Berwin, and I said as much to him myself,” he said. “I said the site is at least partially my responsibility and that I need to get in there right away. He told me he’d think about it.”

  DeLuca laughed.

  “You know what your problem is, Jim?” he asked. “You try to deal with the Army bureaucracy using reason and common sense. That’ll never work!”

  They had both agreed that military protocol would be reserved for when other people were around. When they were alone, they were Paul and Jim. Clark chuckled and gathered his things.

  “Whatever your secret is, I hope it keeps working for us,” he said.

  DeLuca held the door open for Clark as they walked out into the spring air.

  “It’s easy, really,” he explained. “First, you need to appeal to their fear of superior officers being pissed off at them if they don’t do what you say. Second, you need to communicate the whole thing in Army jargon. Never say ‘It’s very important for us to do this.’ Say ‘Military necessity and operational security require it.’ Much more official-sounding.”

  They walked out of the building into a massive crowd of people and equipment moving in every direction. They’d hitched a ride from Frankfurt with one of the two Third Army infantry battalions milling about. There were also two tank battalions, Public Affairs officers, Signal Corps photographers and reporters from every major newspaper and wire service all swarming the Kaiseroda mine complex. What they were all interested in was buried nearly a half mile beneath their feet in one of the deepest salt mines in Europe.

  Clark led the way, weaving a path between the men and machines across a gravel lot toward the mine’s entrance. Two Sherman tanks from the 712th Tank Batallion were parked on either side like medieval guards, their long guns angled out like pikes. Colonel Berwin stood between them, a sunken-cheeked man with a toothbrush mustache. He looked unhappy.

  “There’s an elevator just
inside the entrance. One of my men will take you down. He’s expecting you, Lieutenant,” he barked at Clark, and walked away.

  Clark and DeLuca walked into the building that sheltered the mine’s entrance. The high-ceilinged structure echoed with the sounds of pumps and generators, but was otherwise quiet. A sallow-faced private with dark circles under his eyes leaned against the cage of a large elevator, big enough to carry a truck. He nodded to them without a word and slid the metal grating aside just enough for the three of them to enter.

  “It’s gonna take a few minutes to get down, sir,” he said, closing the cage. “And just to warn you—it’s pretty much pitch black the whole way.”

  DeLuca took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. He gave Clark a nervous look.

  Clark nodded. “OK, let’s go.”

  The private pulled a lever and the elevator dropped with a jerk, then settled into a steady descent. The light from the top of the shaft grew dim and soon they were in total darkness. The only sounds were the creaking of the hoist wheels and the metallic clang of the steel cable going down into the mine. Clark felt his ears pop and tried to yawn to relieve the pressure. No one said a word for the seven minutes it took to get to the bottom.

  Electric light penetrated the darkness as the elevator slowed at the bottom of the shaft. The tired-looking private flipped the lever up and slid open the cage.

  Clark and DeLuca found themselves in a tunnel carved out of salt. The floor, walls and ceiling were all a mottled gray with bare lightbulbs throwing shadows across the rough surfaces. Crystals sparkled in the light and the air was cool and dry. A jeep was parked a short distance away and DeLuca looked back at the private, pointing with a questioning look. The private nodded and waved toward the vehicle. DeLuca took his customary seat behind the wheel and Clark climbed in the other side.