The Roses Underneath (35 page)

The man shook his head and tried to deflect her by getting irritated, but Anna cut him off. “Well if you did, you’d understand why I have to get to the files right away. He does not like to be kept waiting. You know how these
Amis
are. I’ll just go in myself. I know where it is, I’ve been in here many times.” She walked around the side of the desk.

“You can’t go back there,
Fraulein
. I was told to let no one in, under no circumstances. You’ll have to come back later. They’ve got the operator sending all the telephone calls to me, like I know anything about anything. I don’t even speak English. The damn machine is ringing like crazy.” He swung his hand at the phone and it obliged him with a loud metallic ring.

Anna took her chance. “I’ll just be one second,” she said as the man cursed the interruption. He answered the phone in officious German, relishing his temporary importance. Anna walked quickly to the last bank of files and ducked down to the bottom row. If he wanted to come get her he’d have to leave his post. Kneeling, she examined the drawers, selecting the one marked
Gallery Owners Hesse
. She began sifting through the files and found a few new ones had been added since her last visit. She ran her fingers over the tabs to find the S section. Schneider was still there but there was no file for anyone named Schenk. The clerk hung up the phone but seconds later it rang again. He answered it and sputtered his speech into the receiver.

At the front of the cabinet was a new file, a kind of master list. She ran her finger down the paper.
So many Jewish names. A chill seeped to the surface of her skin. She turned the page. No Schenk here either. When she got to the end, she started over, this time checking the names by city. There were only two names from Mainz—a Gerhardt Heinrich, who was noted as deceased, and a Karl Rosenfeld. There was no gallery listed anywhere named Neustadt, the name on the label on the back of the Runge painting. Anna flipped to the beginning of the list once more, looking for Neustadt under the people listing. No luck there, either. She stared at the list. She was sure she was missing something. Setting the list aside, she opened Schneider’s file and leafed through the papers. The same papers remained: the letter recommending Schneider for work at the Collecting Point, and the memo from Darmstadt stating the stash found at the villa had not been reported to the authorities. Anna paused, listening for the clerk’s voice, to ensure she still had time. He was giving directions to the Collecting Point in an argumentative tone, as if only he knew the right way to get there. When he hung up, he muttered to himself. Anna continued through Schneider’s file to the pages that had been added at the back—a letter from Schneider himself, dating back to June, requesting permission to reopen the business. It was addressed to the military government in Frankfurt this time, and a quick scan revealed a self-pitying tale of Nazi pressure in the face of his fervent opposition to the oppressive and shameful treatment of the Jews, culminating in his arrest and imprisonment in 1941, “for helping many Jews.” The purpose of his business, he said, would be to save and restore the many works of art currently rotting in damp cellars throughout Germany. The memo was a translation signed by Schneider with the original German document attached to it by a clip. Anna re-read the German version, which sounded even more pitiable. She didn’t believe any of it, but she realized that her own story condensed into ten simple lines of facts would sound just as disingenuous and hollow. She wiggled her tooth and turned the page. There was one more paper.

The clerk’s footsteps clicked down the row of file cabinets toward her. She took the last paper and the list of names, folded them in half and pushed them into the waistband of her pants. Untucking her blouse, she stood up, just in time to see the clerk’s flushed face.

“I was just leaving,” she said.

“Never mind that. Do you speak English? Didn’t you say you are a translator?”

Anna nodded.

“Good. Then you come and tell this
Ami
lady on the phone what she wants to know. She keeps talking louder and louder like I’m going to understand better if she shouts my ear off.” He pulled her by the arm the way Amalia did when she wanted to show her something urgent.

“All right, sure,” she said. “Who’s the
Ami
?”

“No idea.” He handed her the receiver.

Anna held it up to her ear. “Hello? I speak English. May I help you?”

“Okay, finally,” the female voice on the other end said. “I need to get some information here. The Major is looking for someone…well, he told me to take care of this and I didn’t really know where to start, so I figured I’d start with you guys. You’re the arts people in Wiesbaden, right?” The voice was high pitched, slightly nasal and flustered. She over-enunciated her words and spoke too loudly. Anna held the receiver away from her ear.

“Yes, we are,” Anna said. She smiled and nodded at the clerk, who sat back in his chair, happy to be relieved of duty.

“You keep lists there of people who can estimate the value of things?”

“Do you mean appraisers?”

“Yeah, appraisers. That’s right. You have someone like that? The major is looking for someone in the area to come take a look at…Well, he just needs an appraiser.”

“What does the major need appraised? People specialize in different things. Is it furniture, or a sculpture, or a painting maybe?”

The voice hedged. “Oh, okay, well, it’s a painting.”

Anna motioned to the clerk for pencil and paper, which he retrieved from the drawer and pushed across the desk. “It might be best if the painting came here. We have several appraisers on staff. I know they would be well qualified.”

“No. I’m pretty sure he wants someone to come to him. It’s just one painting.”

“Very well, can you tell me what kind of painting?”

There was silence on the line and then Anna heard shuffling sounds. The voice came back on. “I don’t know anything about art. It’s kind of big. It’s a picture of a kid; I think it’s a girl.
Kind of blond curly hair. She’s standing on a chair by a window. Is that what you need to know?”

Anna’s ears rang. She saw the painting in front of her as clearly as when she had held it in her hands in the basement of the villa. She calmed her voice. “I see. And can you tell me if there are any marks on the back? That’s also important.”

“OK, hold on. Yeah, there’s part of a sticker. It’s hard to read. I think it says ‘Darmstadt.’ The rest is torn off.”

Anna picked up the pencil and poised it over the paper. “Yes, I think we can help you. Could you please leave your information with me? I will ask the appraiser to call you back and arrange an appointment.”

“Sure. You can just have them called Major Philips’ office in Frankfurt. I’ll answer.” She recited the number. Anna wrote it down with a shaking hand.

“Thank you. Is there anything else I can do?”

“No, that’s all. Thank you. I thought I was going to have to call around all day. You’ve been very helpful. What is your name?”

“I am Frau Klein. I am the translator.”

“Great. I’ll tell the Major when he gets back. He’s on leave for a few days. This was one of the things he left for me to take care of. Thank you again,” she trilled.

“It was my pleasure,” Anna said and cradled the receiver.

“What was that all about?” the clerk asked.

“Oh nothing, just some paperwork that got lost. I’ll get this to the right person.” Anna took the paper and put it in her pocket. “Thank you.”

“Good you showed up when you did,” the clerk said. “Don’t tell them I let you go in there.”

“Not a word,” Anna replied.

Anna’s head ached. She could not keep her mind on her work and had made several mistakes already that morning. Her eyes wandered out the window to the spot where she thought she had seen Oskar the day before. The pounding of the typewriters punched at the inside of her skull and she thought she might actually vomit. After her pretense yesterday it was unlikely Frau Obersdorfer would have much sympathy. She glanced at her watch and saw with amazement that it had only been five minutes since she last checked the time.

Since the big shipments from Frankfurt had arrived, the typing pool was besieged with custody cards that that corresponded to each piece. A photographer took a photo of each item, which was stapled to a card that described it in detail—whether the item was signed, who the artist was, and any other relevant information. That day alone Anna had typed up custody cards for several masterpieces and felt a twinge of resentment return. Only four days ago she had been out in the courtyard with the others, surrounded by hundreds of paintings she had only ever seen in photographs. Now they were covered in dust and housed unceremoniously in shabby coverings, like a royal family in political exile. And she was trapped in the typing pool, privy only to the inventory and its accompanying bureaucracy. Her mind wandered and landed on Cooper again. She could only imagine his frustration, logging shipments at the airfield. Her fingers rubbed the keys of the typewriter and she followed her thoughts as she pretended to try to decipher the scribbles on the notes she was typing. She wondered if she might never see Cooper again.

“Frau Klein, more typing, less dreaming,” Frau Obersdorfer growled. Anna jumped. The woman was some kind of psychic. Anna began typing again and sent her thoughts elsewhere. But the one that she had tried hardest to submerge finally floated into her consciousness and she looked at it straight on. Oskar. She had seen him the day before after all. She was sure of it. He had been looking for her. She looked out the window again, instinctively, as if he might reappear, but her view was blocked by the hips of Frau Obersdorfer, who stepped between her and the window. Anna could smell the stale sweat on her dress as she leaned down, her face close.

“After lunch, you trade places with Fraulein Walter.” She pointed a finger toward the young woman at the desk closest to the wall, far from the window and its cooling breeze. “You’ll be able to concentrate better.”

Anna clenched her teeth and poked at the keys. Frau Obersdorfer straightened and clapped her hands. “
Meine Damen
, it’s lunch time. See you in one hour. Enjoy your lunch.”

Anna picked up her bag and made her way into he hall and down the stairs. Instead of falling into step with the others going toward the canteen across the street, she turned the other direction, toward the courtyard. There were no trucks and not much activity, so she pulled herself onto the side of the loading dock, the same spot where she and Cooper had conspired together. She pulled the papers she had taken from the file room from her bag. With a cautious glance to check her surroundings, she shuffled the list of gallery owners and pulled the last memo to the top and began to read. It was from the Military Headquarters in Frankfurt, addressed to the regional military government in Darmstadt, which had questioned the lack of reporting on the villa’s stash. Dated 20 August, the same day the large Merkers mine shipment had arrived at the Collecting Point, it described the pieces of art at the villa as insignificant and not important enough to be classified as a major find of art objects. In addition, the memo continued, the collection had been claimed as the holdings of the gallery owned by the deceased wife of Ludwig Schneider. It was just as Cooper had said.

Anna looked up and stared into the distance. Schneider had already claimed the stash at the villa. She had been right. Schenk and Schneider knew exactly where the painting she tried to sell them had come from because it was Schneider’s own painting. She shook her head. How stupid. She returned to the memo, which went on to exonerate Schneider from any wartime crimes, per careful review of his
Fragebogen
and other documents. He had moved the stash to the villa to protect it from Allied bombs, under the permission of the local
Gauleiter
. The memo concluded with the claim that he would supply a full list of the inventory, at which time all the art should be returned to him, pending his finding a more suitable storage place.

Anna gripped the paper between clenched fists. Of course, that list would not include the Runge painting. That had been Phillips’ payment in exchange for holding his nose to avoid Schneider’s stench. Her thumb rested on top of the signature and name of the memo’s author, but she almost didn’t need to look. She lifted her thumb and there it was: James E. Phillips, Major, Military Government,
Frankfurt.

Anna paused and tried to catch up with her thoughts. Maybe the Americans who had questioned her were after Schneider and not Cooper. Were they one step ahead of her already? Or had Phillips sent the MPs to turn her against Cooper? Schneider was brazenly claiming ownership of the stash at the villa based on nothing but his word and Phillips was backing him up.

She scanned the courtyard. Most of the workers had left for lunch. The few that remained stood around smoking and talking or resting in the shade. A jeep sat near the entry gate, its nose pointed toward the opening in the fence like the getaway car in a bank robbery. Anna stared at it. She chewed on the inside of her cheek and looked around again, her heart accelerating alongside the idea hatching in her head. There were no Americans anywhere that she could see. Maybe the jeep was one assigned to the Collecting Point, or maybe it belonged to a visiting colonel—there was no way of knowing. She slid off the loading dock and began walking, slowly at first, then fast, as if her legs knew they had only a few seconds before her mind started slowing them down. She pulled her papers from her bag and tried to see inside the sentry booth but could only see the guard’s back. He was busy flirting with a mousy young German woman who was standing on the sidewalk laughing too loudly and twirling her dirty hair between her fingers.