Paintings were stacked by the dozens against all the available wall space. Someone had moved her gloves, varnish removers, canvas patches, and neutralizers from the shelves to her desk, which was now piled with unopened mail, books with flagged pages, and teetering stacks of paper. The once-orderly shelves were now a cluttered display of bronze clocks, small sculptures, ceramic pieces, textiles stacked in disarray.
Edith’s dismay was only tempered by the fact that her friend Manfred was one of the few left behind. Manfred and his two assistants were now spending their days in the museum’s loading docks, equipped with a large camera and small tags to label each work that arrived. The museum had engaged two dozen laborers, strong men who spent their days unloading armored vehicles onto the museum’s loading area. “There are new works by Holbein, Cranach,” Manfred said, a tinge of excitement in his voice.
“Manfred,” Edith lowered her voice to a whisper and closed the door to her conservation laboratory. “Do you understand the magnitude of what is happening? We are being conscripted to strip the entire continent of its most valuable works of art. We are taking family heirlooms—people’s most valuable possessions. And they are going directly into the hands of Party leaders!”
Manfred blinked, his eyes wide behind his round spectacles. “I am aware of it, my dear.”
Edith blinked back. “You are?”
Manfred nodded. “Since you know more than most, I will share a secret with you. I am in contact with our colleagues in museums in Italy, France, and England. We communicate through channels that are . . . undisclosed. It is not only the museums that are being stripped, my friend. Personal collections—especially those of the Jews you see being corralled to the trains—are also being confiscated, not only here in Munich but all over Europe.”
Edith’s hands flew to her mouth. “My God, Manfred . . . What can we do?” Her words were muffled as she voiced her dismay.
Manfred continued. “We may not be able to stop the events that are already in motion. They are . . . larger than us. And rapidly moving. But at least we can document everything we see, everything we touch, everything we know. We are compiling complete records of each work of art—where it came from, who it belonged to. One day, when this is all behind us, we hope to be able to get the works back to their rightful owners.”
Edith took in the information. “And the Generaldirektor?” she asked. “He knows about this?”
Manfred shook his head. “I believe that before, Dokter Buchner’s intentions were honorable. But now . . . he feels compelled to please the Party; Munich is held to a higher standard than even the rest of Germany. We have been at the center of the German Day of Art and many other cultural exhibitions. Besides, he is also trying to secure our building from air raids. So what can he do?” Manfred shrugged. “Our city is the headquarters of the Nazi Party. And I would not dare tell him what I know now. It is much too dangerous.”
To what lengths would her other colleagues go to protect themselves? Now that Edith had had a taste of what safeguarding works of art meant, she wondered how many other German art professionals would lie, steal, and plunder if it meant saving their own lives, if not gaining attention from the Party leadership?
She perched on the edge of her desk, reeling from this newfound knowledge of Manfred’s mission and role. She struggled to imagine her mild-mannered friend as a cog in a great wheel of resistance, allied with museum professionals across Europe against Germany’s interests.
Manfred reached for Edith’s hand. “Now that you are back, perhaps you will join us in this effort.” He paused. “You are your father’s daughter, after all.”
“What about my father?”
Manfred squinted. “How much has he told you about his efforts after the Great War ended?”
“Almost nothing,” Edith said, searching her memory. “He has always said that people are easily misled, especially at the beginning. I don’t know much more than that.”
Manfred laced his fingers behind his back and began to pace, staring at the floor tiles. “You may not recall the uprisings in our city in 1918. You were young then. Many of us in Munich wanted to ensure that we never allowed that history to repeat itself. Your father was inspired, I think—we all were—by the sailors and munitions workers who organized strikes, and those soldiers who were brave enough to desert their barracks to demand peace instead of continued violence.”
Manfred continued. “Your father helped a group of students who wanted to print leaflets denouncing the corruption they saw in the different levels of government. He knew I was doing something similar with my associates. But your father had to be extra careful; there were—and still are—mostly supporters of the Party inside the universities. They managed to leave the leaflets in places where they would be readily seen: dropped in the corridors outside of lecture halls, affixed to the insides of lavatory doors, even tucked secretly into students’ book satchels.”
“My father did this?”
Manfred nodded. “He helped arrange the printing of the leaflets. He felt that it was important. As I said, we have already lived the consequences of men who want to aggrandize themselves at a cost that puts so many lives at risk.”
“And it’s happening again!” Edith cried. “Manfred,” she said. “If you could have seen it. General Frank . . . He wanted to keep a Rembrandt, a Raphael—even the da Vinci!—for himself.”
“Governor Frank? You have seen him yourself?”
“He tried to take the Lady with an Ermine right out of our hands!”
Manfred’s face blanched. “Edith,” he said, “my God. I feel pity for anyone who comes in contact with that man. Do you know what he has done? So many innocent people have lost their lives in Poland; Frank is the one issuing the commands. Edith, I worried for your safety every day. And I don’t doubt that they have stripped away anything at all of value from homes across the country. You will never read anything about any of this in the news reports. Most people are ignorant of it.”
“But Manfred . . . It’s my fault those pictures are now at risk. You were there during my ridiculous presentation right here in this museum. How could I have been so naïve? How did I not see how the information would be used? How they would make me a pawn?”
“You must not blame yourself. This conflict is much larger than you. The British newspapers are saying that General Frank has issued a decree for the confiscation of all Polish property. All of it—think about that, Edith. The Brits are reporting on the numbers of people Frank has already had executed or sent to the camps. That is why it is more critical than ever before that we act. And now, Edith, you have special knowledge of the situation in Poland—”
A knock on the door. Manfred paused in midsentence.
“Forgive me. Perhaps I have said too much. I must get back to the loading docks; they must be looking for me already,” Manfred whispered. He squeezed Edith’s hand. “Think about it, my friend. You know more than most of us. And you would be an asset to our effort.”
Manfred slipped through the doorway as a messenger boy entered the conservation studio, his bag slung across his torso and hanging to his skinny knees.