Treasure of Saint-Lazare (27 page)

Frank had swiveled around to look at the painting. He stretched his hand to his right as he turned back to face Eric. “The one over there is a Rembrandt.”

He turned the other direction and pointed to a smaller painting. “Do you recognize that one?”

Eric stared a minute at the exquisitely framed painting that hung to the right of the door. “It looks familiar.”

“And so it should. It hung on the wall in that gallery where you worked for a month after you started.”

Eric did not understand Frank’s fascination with the paintings. Within the family he had the reputation of a single-mindedly political Nazi, perhaps slightly more refined than the criminals and street brawlers who had filled the party’s ranks before 1933, but only because he was educated — a lawyer who had Hitler’s ear and, in fact, had been Hitler’s personal lawyer. Rumors said he fought bitterly with the other old lions of the party leadership, especially Göring, the obese Luftwaffe chief.

“Nephew, I am telling you all this not because I want to educate you about art. It’s too late for that. It was too late long ago, since my poor sister failed to develop an appreciation for beautiful things. She even married a Frenchman, although on the one time I met him he did appear to be cultivated. I’m glad you have grown up in the warrior tradition of our German ancestors.

“What I am about to tell you is top secret. More, it’s
Führergeheim
.”

Eric nodded. He remembered that his mother thought her brother Hans was pompous and vain, and so far he’d seen nothing to convince him she was wrong. She said you could tell by his language — as he’d risen in the party and then the government it had become more and more bureaucratic. Eric understood now what she had meant.

Frank continued, “I have been charged by the Führer with putting aside resources for the future in case they are needed. You must never repeat that, because you would be charged with defeatism and certainly shot if it got to the wrong ears, but our Führer recognizes that we must have a fallback plan and he has entrusted part of that to me. I assume he has also asked other senior commanders to do the same, maybe all of us. They will no doubt send assets different places, some of them inside Germany. But I consider that too risky.”

Eric’s task, he said, would be to take a truck of art and gold back to Paris, where it would be hidden by a trusted collaborator until the end of the war. If Germany won in the end, the treasure would be there for the taking. If not, the Allies would quickly make friends with a new Germany and the treasure would still be there to finance the next incarnation of the Reich.

“You might call it the Treasure of the Fourth Reich, but I wouldn’t say that outside this room.”

As Frank droned on, a glimmer of understanding turned slowly into a frightening realization that this was not the rescue of the Reich but the rescue of Hans Frank, who after the war would have a fortune waiting for him in Paris. He nodded dumbly, struggling to keep his face blank as he began thinking of ways his uncle’s plan could benefit himself as well.

Frank pressed a button on his desk and the lieutenant appeared at the door. “Sir?”

“Please ask Major Steinhauer to come in.”

Frank told Eric that Major Steinhauer was in charge of preparations for his journey and would see that he had new identity papers and uniforms. He should be prepared to leave in two days.

Eric spent most of those days with a mousy captain whose name he never learned. The captain was, or had been until he lost his left arm in Africa, a navigator for a tank battalion, and he took very seriously his duty to find the safest and fastest route across Germany and France for Lieutenant Frank. He had been a mathematics teacher before he was drafted in 1941 and had the teacher’s interest in keeping records, which also made his Wehrmacht masters happy. He vacillated between licking Eric’s boots and pulling rank, but the knowledge that he was instructing Hans Frank’s nephew tipped the balance toward obsequiousness.

“You’ll have to drive north, around Czechoslovakia,” the gray captain said. The Russians were already threatening and had told the Czech government that any lands they liberate would be turned over to the civilian government. “It’s too dangerous. If you were in a larger group it would be OK, but as a single truck you might be attacked by the partisans. Better to drive a little farther and risk the American airplanes. After a day or two, depending on how far you can go, you’ll have to drive at night and find shelter from the fighters during the day. I suggest the forests rather than army posts, which will be targets.”

They marked out a route from Cracow northwest to Dresden, then southwest through Nuremberg, bypassing Munich, to Memmingen, the small city where Eric had grown up and where his mother still lived. The 400 miles from there to Paris would be the most dangerous part of the trip, and would have to be driven at night because the Allied air forces had almost unchallenged control of the air throughout France. By the time Eric arrived they might be almost at the gates of Paris.

“What will I be driving?” Eric asked.

“A small truck of some sort, probably a two- or three-ton, and probably made in France. A Citroën or Opel won’t attract attention on either side of the Rhine, since we took a lot of French civilian vehicles for our own military.”

“You can see the results in Paris. The streets are empty,” Eric said.

The captain leaned over the map table and rubbed his stump. “It still feels like I have my arm, and sometimes it hurts. The surgeons say that will go away eventually, but …” He grimaced in pain.

“I suggest you avoid the cities and look for food and fuel in the smaller towns. Most of them will have a Wehrmacht post commanded by a lieutenant or sergeant, and your papers will get you anything you need. You’ll leave here with quite a good supply.”

He paused and straightened up, then put his hand on Eric’s arm. “I know I don’t have to say this, and I hope you won’t take offense, but you haven’t been in Germany in a while. All of us in active service must remember times are very bad for our families. Your papers will see that you get everything you need, but remember never to take everything a farmer has. If we do that, his family doesn’t eat.”

“I’ll remember,” Eric responded. “I’ve seen some pretty bad behavior in Paris and I don’t want our own people remembering me that way.”

“Good. Now, if you go directly toward Dresden then pass it to the south you should be safe enough. There are several municipal forests along the back roads, although I don’t know how many of the trees have been cut for firewood.”

They discussed the merits of trying the autobahns versus the country roads, with the captain advising against the autobahns, especially in the western part of the country.

“The Allies are now bombing Berlin and the Ruhr from our old bases in France as well as from England, and they have a new long-range fighter escort called the P-51 Mustang. There is no way to defend yourself completely, but if you stay away from industrial areas and big cities you’ll have less chance of being hit.”

“The P-51. Major Steinhauer and I had to wait 12 hours for a new engine after a pair of Mustangs shot up our train not far from Stuttgart. They are dangerous, although from a distance they look like fireflies,” Eric said. “Is it true that the Mustangs with red tails are flown by black pilots?”

“It is true, and they are very skillful and dangerous pilots. I suggest you keep far away from them,” the captain said. He rolled the map carefully using his one hand and handed the roll to Eric. “Go with care, lieutenant. The Governor General himself came to give me my instructions, so I know your mission is important to him and to the Reich.”

He looked at his watch. “You have just enough time for lunch, then you are to meet Major Steinhauer and go to the garage to make the acquaintance of your new truck. Heil Hitler!”

Lunch was a meager affair of one sausage and a small pile of potato salad. The wurst tasted mostly of filler, and Eric avoided thinking about what kind of meat might be in it. He thought the filler might be oatmeal or bread, but more likely turnips. Before he left Vichy he’d heard of the red barrels of dried turnips marked “for prisoners only” that had gone on the deportation trains with the haggard crowds of deportees he and his milicien colleagues had rounded up. Earlier, the food had been better, because the thousands of young Frenchmen drafted for munitions work in Germany were in theory volunteers donating their labor for the good of the Reich and Marshal Pétain. They deserved better treatment, at least until they arrived in the Fatherland, from which many of them would never emerge.

Thin as it was, lunch was a better meal than he was able to scavenge most nights in the bedraggled cafés around the Hôtel Saint-Pierre. He was grateful at least for that.

The junior officers’ canteen occupied a high-ceilinged room in the southwest corner of the castle. He asked the old Pole who picked up his dishes how to find the garage, but got only a blank stare in return. He was tempted to lash out but decided it would be too much trouble, and there was a good chance the old man didn’t know in any case. The other lieutenant sharing his table hadn’t known.

Oh, well, he thought. I’ll just start looking. Someone will know how to get there.

But as he pushed his chair back, he heard his name.

“Kraft!” It was Major Steinhauer calling to him from the front door. “Come quickly.” He signaled with an impatient wave.

Eric caught up with him in the hallway. “I’m glad you’re here. I couldn’t find anyone who could tell me how to find the garage.”

“It’s not far.” The major led the way down a hall for fifty paces then turned into a staircase that led down to the ground floor. At their right stood a door, which he opened to find himself in the garage, an immense room full of staff cars. The nearest was a six-wheel Mercedes bearing fender flags — his uncle’s official car.

The major beckoned to a sergeant, whom he introduced to Eric as the senior guard. “Lieutenant, please show the sergeant your
laissez-passer
.”

The sergeant stiffened when he read it, saluted, and said, “I will tell all the guards you’re here, lieutenant.”

The major led him to a repair bay at the back of the garage behind Hans Frank’s grand Mercedes. There, surrounded by canvas panels, stood a prewar Citroën two-ton truck. Two Wehrmacht carpenters were painting the wooden bed.

“Eric, this is your duty. This truck must get to Paris safely and intact,” he said.

Eric leaned close to hear him over the sound of the large ventilation fans. “You will leave today. The cooks have prepared enough food for several days and will store it in a trunk. There are also blankets and other bedding. We will put up the canvas top, giving you a place to sleep if you need to avoid the American fighter planes by parking in a forest during the day. As an officer you will have a Luger as a sidearm. The armorer will be here soon to issue the pistol as well as a carbine with 200 rounds.”

“But,” Eric interjected hesitantly. “But what about the cargo?”

The major smiled. “The cargo is safe.” He patted the wooden sides of the truck’s bed. “The entire cargo is under the new bed they are painting now. There will be one more box, under the seat in the cab.”

He led Eric out of the carpenters’ hearing.

“Eric, you have been chosen for one of the most important missions in Germany. We soldiers work hard to do our duty, but seldom does our work result in the salvation of the nation. Yours, on the other hand, just might.

“The Governor-General gave me this duty because he knows I believe strongly in it. I have tried to give you the best information possible, but there is one more thing I need to tell you.”

“And what is that?”

“You will not be alone on this trip. You will have another lieutenant to assist you. He is older than you and also a native of Memmingen. I had intended that he would make the trip with an enlisted driver but your uncle wanted someone more trustworthy. We discussed it and he suggested your name, then sent me to find you. I think he was right, although it certainly wasn’t easy.” He smiled slightly.

“Who is the other man,” Eric asked.

“I know this will sound unusual, but he is a priest. The Governor-General brought him here and they are very close. Your uncle is becoming more and more religious. He and Father Otto pray together several times a week.”

“A priest? In the SS? I knew there were a few in the Wehrmacht, but not the SS.”

“Father Otto is here now so your uncle can protect him. But he has been away from his flock for four years, so he will return with you. It will be your decision, but your uncle and I will approve if he remains in Memmingen and you go on alone.”

“Jesus! My uncle, a senior Nazi, with his own private priest. I thought only the old French Nazis were still interested in God.”

The carpenters had left and removed the canvas privacy walls, giving Eric his first chance to look closely at the truck. It was at least six years old and battered. Only the bed had been painted. The rest of it looked like it was just back from the front.

As he ran his hand over the hood he heard a footstep behind him and turned to find a Wehrmacht mechanic in grease-stained overalls. He appeared to be in his mid-thirties, wearing regulation eyeglasses with thick lenses that caused his blue eyes to appear out of focus behind them. His blond hair was cut short.

“I’m Schmidt, sir. This is a good truck. She’s a Citroën 23R, the best we could do right now. She was built in France in 1939 but hasn’t had a lot of hard duty, not as far as we can tell. She’ll give you an honest 45 miles an hour on a good road, less if you have to move cross-country. We put on a new set of tires and gave you two new spares as well, and you’ll have enough fuel to fill up twice, although I’m sure you can get gas from any army post if you need it.

“You should blend in wherever you go. There are thousands of these still in service. One of the officers told me 14,000 were built and we only took 6,000 for army use.”