The Night Gate

Chapter Eleven

Guido and I drove from Berlin to Carinhall in his fabulous Mercedes-Benz 32 °Cabriolet. It is a seductive powder blue, and with the top down, and the wind in our hair, the journey took little more than an hour. It was a beautiful, sunny summer’s day and Guido was in a fine mood. The Wehrmacht had swept through Western Europe. France had fallen. Göring’s Luftwaffe was in the process of blowing Britain’s feeble force of Spitfires out of the sky over southern Britain, and we’d begun bombing London to soften up the English for the coming invasion.

Forty-two years old and I was as nervous as my first day in the trenches. Dressed in my best suit with a stiffly pressed white shirt and blue tie, I had spent a good twenty minutes shining my shoes to the point where I could see my reflection in them. I was about to meet the second most powerful man in Europe.

Guido found my anxiety amusing. He never tires of teasing me and spent much of the drive berating me for my sense of humour, or lack thereof. Göring, he said, was genial company and looking forward to meeting me. For his part, Guido is a regular guest at the hunting lodge.

‘He built it in 1934 in the Schorfheide forest as a private retreat,’ Guido told me, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. ‘Named it after his first wife, Carin, three years after she died. But it’s been much enlarged since then, and is now an official state residence and hunting lodge.’ He turned towards me, amusement in his eyes. ‘All paid for by the German people, of course.’

Open countryside gradually gave way to the large area of forest north of Berlin that they call Schorfheide, and eventually we stopped at the gatehouse to the Carinhall estate to have our documents checked before being allowed any further. A long, straight road cut a swathe through the trees. I could see the hunting complex in the distance, shimmering in the heat of the day. Somewhere beyond it lay the Dölln lake, and there were birds circling lazily in the sky above the water.

‘There are wings for staff, and a doctor and a dental surgery,’ Guido said. ‘There’s a sauna and fitness room, and an indoor swimming pool. And, of course, Göring’s model train set.’ He laughed uproariously. ‘Nearly a hundred metres of electric rails, with tunnels, bridges, and even miniature aeroplanes. There’s also a cinema, if you fancy taking in a movie while we’re here.’ He turned and shook his head at the look on my face, which I can only imagine was open-mouthed and foolish. I have been to Guido’s house many times, but wealthy as he is, he possesses nothing on this scale. It was all far beyond anything I might ever have imagined in my wildest dreams.

We drove past all the outbuildings and into a large courtyard in front of an impressive, white-painted lodge. A wild boar stood mounted on a plinth in the middle of a square pond, testament to the building’s legacy as a hunting lodge. A grand entrance was framed in stone with Party flags raised on either side. Life-sized couchant stags flanked the doorway.

We drew up alongside several other vehicles, and Guido cut the motor. He turned to me then, and warned, ‘Hermann’s good company, as I said. But he can also be unpredictable.’ He lowered his voice as if someone might be listening. ‘You’ll probably remember the Beer Hall Putsch when Hitler first tried to take power in Munich. 1923. It was a disaster. A failed coup d’état. A lot of Party members were shot and killed by police, and Hitler was sentenced to five years in prison. Hermann was there, too, and was wounded in the shooting. A nasty wound that got infected. The doctors gave him morphine for the pain, and the poor guy got hooked on the stuff. All these years later he’s still addicted.’

Guido stepped out of the car, but then leaned back in, lowering his voice even further. ‘Morphine addiction’ — he shook his head — ‘leads to complications, Karlheinz. Excites the nervous system, creates excessive activity in certain glands. It can lead to extreme outpourings of energy.’ His voice reduced itself almost to a whisper. ‘And sometimes abnormal vanity.’ To my surprise he winked at me and grinned. ‘Which pretty much describes der dicke Hermann to a T. You never know quite how you’ll find him.’ He straightened up and his voice returned to normal levels. ‘Come on, my friend. Time to meet the Reichsmarschall.’

I think he enjoyed stoking the flames of my anxiety, making me even more nervous than I already was. And to describe our host as ‘fat Hermann’ just before we were to meet him was clearly and mischievously designed to unnerve me.

Inside a dark entrance hall, we were greeted by a flunky in white shirt and waistcoat. He made me think of a maître d’ in a restaurant. I was asked to sign the visitors’ book, which stood on a lectern just inside the door. It was huge, and heavy to open, and the pages released a fusion of scents left by a procession of visitors over many years.

‘You’re in exalted company now, young man,’ Guido said, as I leaned over it to scrawl my name and date and signature. ‘If you look back through these pages you’ll see that they have borne witness to such visitors as former US President Herbert Hoover, the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, Benito Mussolini, the kings of Bulgaria, Romania and Yugoslavia.’ He grinned. ‘Now everyone will be able to boast that they’ve seen your name in here, too.’

A long, tiled hallway led us past walls mounted with classical works of art, many of which I recognised from my studies in Frankfurt. There were sculpted figures and vases raised on marble plinths, all lit by ceiling panels that diffused light from overhead to minimise shadows.

Finally we were led into the Jagdhalle, a vast salon with exposed beams rising into the apex of the roof. It was sixty-five-and-a-half metres long, Guido had told me on the drive down, but I’d had no concept of how big that was until I walked into that great hall. A huge fireplace at the far end occupied most of the wall. Rugs laid on polished floors stretched between groupings of soft furnishings, discreetly patterned three- and five-piece suites gathered around large tables, a long dining table in front of the fire. Electric chandeliers hung from the cross-beams all along the length of the hall. Punctuating the outer wall, antlers were mounted above each arched window, and on the wall facing, formal chairs and long wooden tables stood beneath regal tapestries and priceless paintings.

Göring was lounging on a settee at the far end of the hall reading a newspaper. I could see that he was dressed in the white cotton summer tunic worn in many of the photographs I’d seen of him. A big, corpulent man with a full, round face and dyed black hair oiled back from a broad forehead.

Guido leaned in and whispered, ‘He keeps lions here, you know. So make sure you don’t get on the wrong side of him.’

Göring saw us coming, put his newspaper to one side and stood up to greet us. It seemed to take an age traversing the length of this Jagdhalle, to reach him. As we approached I saw his Iron Cross attached at the neck of his tunic, and the famed Blue Max dangling on a piece of leather from his collar. He had a florid complexion that spoke to me of too much good living and dangerously high blood pressure. He shook my hand vigorously, fat fingers adorned with ostentatious gold and silver rings.

I felt quite small in his presence, but bathed in the warmth of his bonhomie and gently smiling blue eyes. ‘Herr Wolff,’ he said. ‘I am pleased to meet you at last. Guido has told me so much about you.’

‘All of it good, I hope, sir.’

He grinned at Guido. ‘Herr Fischer is nothing if not discreet...’ He turned back to me. ‘May I call you Karlheinz?’

I have to confess to being quite taken aback. Though even had I wanted to, I was in no position to decline. And why would I? ‘Of course,’ I said.

He took me by the arm, then, and led me a little way down the hall to show me a painting that took pride of place on the window-facing wall. It stood almost two metres high, and was a depiction of a handsome woman in hunting gear set against a clear blue sky. She wore a high, turned-up collar, and a falcon perched on her left arm, wings outspread. ‘What do you think?’ he said.

‘Magnificent.’

He glanced at me. ‘You know it?’

‘The Falconer, by Hans Makart,’ I told him. Guido had provided me with a list of Göring’s most prized works. Homework for my visit. ‘A gift a couple of years ago from Herr Hitler, I believe. On the occasion of your forty-fifth birthday.’

Göring turned a knowing look in Guido’s direction. ‘Well briefed, Guido.’ His smile faded slowly. ‘Would you leave us now, please?’

If anything, I think Guido was even more startled than I. I could see him choke back his surprise. ‘Of course, Reichsmarschall,’ he said, and they seemed suddenly on more formal terms. He nodded to me, and turned to walk back along the length of the great hall before finally vanishing through the door at the far end.

Göring turned. ‘Come join me in a coffee.’ The waistcoated flunky who had shown us in was still hovering at a discreet distance. Göring waved a careless arm in his direction. ‘Fresh coffee for my guest, Daniel.’ And he steered me back to where the impression of his ample behind remained pressed into the settee. He flopped into it again. ‘Take a seat.’ And I sat, uncomfortably, in an armchair opposite, wishing to God that Guido was still there.

He seemed distracted. Searching about his person, and then the settee around him, for something that remained elusive. I sat in silence and felt as if he’d forgotten that I was even there.

The coffee arrived on a tray that Daniel placed on the table between us. He poured two cups black, bowed and left. Göring emerged from his distraction to brandish a hand towards the cream jug. ‘Help yourself,’ he said.

I poured a tiny drop of cream into my coffee and took a sip. It was as good a coffee, I think, as I have ever tasted. But Göring showed no interest in his. Instead he had turned his disconcerting gaze fixedly on me. ‘Are you a lover of the modern, Karlheinz?’ I frowned my lack of understanding and he clarified. ‘Art.’

‘It is mostly what I have dealt in, sir.’

‘That’s not what I asked.’

I panicked a little, then, wondering what would be the correct response, before deciding that honesty might be the best policy. ‘Some of it, yes. I am a great admirer of the impressionists, less so of artists in the mould of Picasso or Dali.’

‘You are aware that Herr Hitler believes all modern art is degenerate, a symptom of the decay of Western civilisation.’

‘I have read that, sir.’

‘We have accumulated vast quantities of the stuff, Karlheinz. Confiscated it. Much of it from Jewish collectors. The Führer would have it destroyed. But this work has an inherent financial value on the international market and Herr Hitler has been persuaded that its sale will boost the war coffers. I would like you to trade in this marketplace on behalf of the Reich.’

I was stunned. Why me? Yes, I’d been trading in art for Guido Fischer, but this was an entirely different level of responsibility. I had no idea what to say.

Göring smiled, as if he could read what was going through my mind. ‘At least, that shall be your cover.’

‘My cover?’

‘This war will extend the borders of the German state across all of Europe, Karlheinz. A redistribution of power. And wealth.’ He paused pointedly. ‘And art. Our Führer has an admirable plan to build what everyone is calling a super museum at Linz in Austria. The world’s best art will hang on its walls.’ His pause again presaged the unexpected. ‘He wants da Vinci’s Mona Lisa to be the centrepiece of that collection.’

I’m sure my astonishment was apparent in my expression, for it caused him to smile.

‘You know a certain dealer in art called Paul Lange, I understand.’

Even the mention of his name was enough to summon dark clouds of remembered anger. I’m sure he must have seen the shadow of it cross my face. ‘Yes, sir. We studied art together at Frankfurt.’

‘Herr Hitler has attached Lange to the Kunstschutz in Paris and asked him to secure the Mona Lisa for his Führermuseum. By fair means or foul.’

My astonishment was greater than my reticence. ‘Lange?’

‘Yes, Lange.’

I said, ‘But surely, we know exactly where the Mona Lisa is. Why not just seize it?’

The Reichsmarschall smiled at my naivety. ‘Because, Karlheinz, there would be the most almighty international uproar. We would leave ourselves open to accusations of the looting of national treasures.’ He chuckled. ‘We must be careful. Either we will go down in history as the world’s greatest statesmen, or its worst villains. So the acquisition of this work has to be achieved with subtlety, diplomacy, and preferably in the shadows.’

He fell silent for a long time, gazing at me, or rather through me. At least, that’s how it felt. And I found it hard to believe that I was sitting here, in the lion’s den so to speak, being taken into the confidence of the lion himself. Me, a Mischling. A lover of modern art. Everything that was anathema to the Nazis. And I very much feared for where this all was going.

‘I want it,’ he said simply.

I frowned. ‘Want what, sir?’

‘The Mona Lisa. I want it for my collection. Even if no one ever knows it. Even if no one ever sees it. It will be mine, to gaze upon whenever I choose. And I will know, when no one else does, where the missing Mona Lisa resides.’ Another pause before the coup de grâce. ‘I want you to get it for me before Lange acquires it for Hitler.’ His smile was filled with warmth, but his words chilled me to the bone. ‘It’ll be our secret, Karlheinz. Just you and me.’ And I understood in that moment just how fatally dangerous it could be to share such a secret with such a man.

But now that he had taken me into his confidence, there was no way out. He had committed me, whether I wanted it or not. There was no possibility to refuse.

He said, ‘You will, of course, accept my invitation to become an officer in the Luftwaffe. It will pay your wages, and open whatever doors you need. You will be attached to the ERR in Paris. You are familiar with this organisation?’

I was well aware that the raison d’être of the ERR was to confiscate art and artefacts, manuscripts and books in occupied territories. Procurement under cover of protection. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Ultimately, they are answerable to me. So you will carry that authority. You know Paris, I believe.’

‘I do. It is the world capital of art.’

‘Good. ERR will arrange office and living accommodation for you there.’ He shifted himself to the edge of the settee and leaned towards me. ‘I’m putting a great deal of trust in you, Karlheinz. Guido speaks most highly of your discretion, and I’m going to have to ask you to exercise that in relation to Guido himself. No one, and I mean no one must know about this.’ He reached for a small bell that sat on the table and rang it vigorously.

Almost immediately Daniel appeared from a door in the fireplace wall carrying a brown paper parcel. He laid the neatly folded package on the coffee table and retreated. Göring pushed it towards me.

‘A gift,’ he said, and smiled. ‘Go on, open it.’

It was with great trepidation that I unpacked the parcel to reveal a black leather flying jacket with a short, elasticated waist, large lapels and a collar that could be turned up for warmth. I gazed on it with astonishment, to Göring’s apparent amusement.

‘Usually it is only pilots who get to wear these,’ he said. ‘But since it is my gift to you, you can wear it with pride. I understand that you were awarded the Iron Cross for bravery during the last war.’

‘I was.’

‘Then you can pin it with honour to the left breast of this jacket, and let no man doubt your courage.’ As he spoke he absently fingered the elaborate gold and blue of the Pour le Mérite, best known as the Blue Max, that dangled from his collar. And, in spite of myself, I felt a frisson of excitement. I was no longer to be a bystander in this war of wars. I had a reason to be a part of it, and a precious function to fulfil.

I lay tonight with Lisbeth, in her apartment that overlooks the river. We left the drapes undrawn, and the same moonlight that reflected on the dark surface of the River Main also flooded her bedroom. I said my farewells to my wife and children this morning, and they believe me to be on my way to Paris already.

I am sitting at Lisbeth’s desk in the window that looks out on the river as I write this, and she lies sleeping among the warm folds of the sheets that wrapped themselves around us in the frenzy of our lovemaking. I love her with a great intensity, and never once have I felt those same base urges that have caused me to raise my hands to Kersten. They say that your partner can bring out the best in you. But they can also bring out the worst. I am happy to escape the worst that Kersten brings out in me, but sad to be leaving my Lisbeth. I feel that I owe her my honesty. The truth. But I simply cannot break the bond of silence that has been forced upon me by Herr Göring.

On the drive back from Carinhall to Berlin last month, it was all I could do to fend off Guido’s questions. He knew perfectly well there was more to Göring’s request that I trade confiscated modern art in the international marketplace on behalf of the Reich. And when it became clear to him that I was not going to share it with him, he fell silent and has been cool with me ever since.

However, I am consumed by excitement now. For tomorrow I will fly to Paris. I have been there many times since they had to drag me off that vile piece of excrement who made Erika pregnant. But always incognito. And never have I dared go near him again. Now it is different. Now it is I, and not the French authorities, who hold sway. I have often heard the aphorism that revenge is a dish best served cold, but never understood it. Until now.

What I found most extraordinary upon my arrival in Paris this morning was the sense of normalcy. If one can say that German soldiers standing on street corners in the French capital, and swastikas hanging from every other building, is normal. I think what I sensed was a lack of the tension I had most certainly expected. The streets were full of traffic, and pedestrians, all going about their daily lives as usual. Or so it seemed.

What I did perceive, perhaps, was a nervous excitement simmering just below the surface. A certain febrile quality to the atmosphere in this City of Light. But superficially at least, you would never have guessed we were at war, and that Paris was a city under occupation.

I strode along the crowded pavement of the Boulevard Haussmann, aware of drawing eyes that were reluctant to show too much interest. I cut, I think, a more dashing and exotic figure than those bored-looking soldiers in their field-grey uniforms and utilitarian helmets. As Göring had foreseen, I wore my Iron Cross pinned to the left breast of my leather flying jacket with the fiercest of pride. An embroidered Luftwaffe eagle was pinned to my right, the pips on my epaulettes denoting the rank of Hauptmann. I had not yet become accustomed to the baggy thigh britches tucked into my black leather boots, but I walked, I suppose, with a confidence verging on arrogance. France had fallen with barely a fight, and we were in the ascendancy. I was returning to Paris with a certain sense of entitlement.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the window of the Hôtel Commodore as I approached its entrance at the junction with the Rue Laffitte. With the peak of my Luftwaffe cap pulled down over my forehead, and my pistol in its leather holster, I thought I looked quite formidable. Not someone to pick a fight with lightly.

I very nearly walked smack into Bruno Lohse as I turned under the canopy at the entrance to the hotel. The Commodore had been commandeered by the ERR as its Paris headquarters. I imagined that as well as office accommodation, the hotel would also provide living quarters for many of the staff, and I wondered if I would be one of them.

I knew Lohse of old. Before the war he had traded art in many of the same markets as I, and although he was only number two to Baron Kurt von Behr here at the ERR in Paris, with the rank of SS-Hauptsturmführer and the blessing of Göring himself, he was effectively the Reich’s art looter in the French capital.

But he was not in uniform today. He wore a light grey double-

breasted suit, the collar of his white shirt turned up above a dark blue cravat. A matching fedora sat at a jaunty angle on neatly cut dark hair. He is a good thirteen years my junior, but comports himself like a man who considers his superiority to be apparent.

He recognised me immediately, of course. And would have known that I was here on Göring’s business. Though not being privy to exactly what that business was must have put his nose considerably out of joint. We blocked the doorway for a moment as he ran his eyes from my head to my feet and back again. ‘Didn’t know you’d got your wings, Wolff. I suppose you’re here to take up your sinecure?’ He pushed open the door and I followed him in, across the lobby and into a circular lounge beneath a stunning stained-glass cupola that shed wonderful filaments of light across a scattering of tables and chairs where officers sat in groups of two and three drinking coffee.

I hurried to keep up. ‘I’m assuming I’ll be allocated office space, Bruno.’

He stopped suddenly, turning abruptly, and I almost bumped into him. He lowered his voice. ‘You will be a part of this organisation in name only, Wolff. And don’t expect any favours from me. I have enough on my plate without having to pander to some freeloader.’

‘I’ll pass on your sentiments to the Reichsmarschall, shall I?’

He glared at me, and I could see latent fury bubbling up behind his black eyes. But he had no opportunity to vent it, for we were interrupted then by a laconic voice that I knew only too well.

‘Well, well, I’ve clearly stumbled upon the place to be in high Paris society, these days. All the top people are here.’

Lohse and I turned to see Paul Lange smiling sarcastically. I was surprised to see him in army uniform. He carried his cap in his hands and looked tanned and well, and his smile suggested the confidence of a man who operated with the explicit blessing of the Führer. The very sight of him made me want to lash out. But I forced myself to return his smile. ‘Hello, Paul,’ I said. ‘Here on holiday, are you?’

‘Yes, what are you doing here?’ Lohse growled.

Lange turned a withering look on him. ‘I had a meeting with your boss, Hauptsturmführer.’ And then his smile turned patronising. ‘I suppose the number two doesn’t always know what’s going on at the top.’

I had to restrain the urge to laugh out loud. Whatever I felt personally about Lange, I knew him to be a man of far superior intellect to Lohse, and I enjoyed the latter’s humiliation. Then he turned his sarcasm on me.

‘Come to join up with the looters, have you, Karlheinz? The den of thieves here at the Commodore?’

‘A marriage of convenience,’ I told him, aware of how infuriating this conversation must be to Lohse.

‘Yes, I’d heard you were into extramarital arrangements these days,’ Lange said, and I felt my face colour. ‘I’m with the good guys, the Kunstschutz, over at the Majestic across town. Perhaps it’s just as well we’re not going to be working out of the same building.’

Lohse glanced between us. ‘I didn’t realise you two knew each other.’

I said, ‘We were at university together at Frankfurt.’ And found it hard to keep the animosity out of my voice. Lohse did not miss it.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I have better things to do with my time than spar with two alumni from a second-rate university.’ He turned to me. ‘Report to personnel for office and living accommodation.’ He nodded curtly, and with a click of his heels, strode away across the lounge.

Which left Lange and I on our own beneath the splendour of the Commodore’s cupola. He pulled on his cap and said, ‘I’m surprised that a Mischling like you should find himself working for the Party.’

In spite of myself, I glanced around in case anyone had heard him. I lowered my voice. ‘I’m not a Party member.’

‘I’d have been surprised if you were.’

‘And you?’

‘Of course. One does what one has to in order to survive, these days.’ He hesitated only briefly, and the strangest smile flickered across his face. ‘I heard a rumour that Herr Göring is very anxious to get his hands on what the French call La Joconde.’

‘Did you?’ I was shocked, but determined to give nothing away.

‘I did. And I imagine that Herr Hitler would be less than pleased if somehow it went missing. It’s no secret that he would like to see it hanging at Linz.’

I was unblinking in meeting his gaze. ‘Unless, of course, it happened to go missing into the hands of someone in his employ.’

And there it was. All set out. Our shared objective for different ends, and different masters. And Göring’s assertion that the quest to acquire the Mona Lisa would be a secret only between him and me seemed like a distant and very hollow echo.

Lange just smiled. ‘Well, since the Louvre keep moving her around the Free French Zone, I imagine it could be some time before she might turn her smile upon a new master.’