M:Tell me, when you were working for Goring selling off stolen Jewish art, what did you think of Berlin? Q: It was a huge city and not as pleasant as Munich.
M: I have to agree with you on that. Of course as a Bavarian I have some prejudice about that business. The Prussians have no taste at all.
Q: And I don’t really like your snide remarks about stolen Jewish art.
M: My, my, have I hurt your feelings again? I suppose it’s time to do that today. We have to hurt your feelings every day or you won’t feel happy later when I am nice to you. Not stolen? Nonsense. When Hitler rounded up all the Impressionist art and lumped it in with Klee and Kandinski, Fat Hermann got more than his share. Of course I managed to get off with a few pieces too. My wife did not like Renoir’s fat, mongoloid nudes hanging up in her very proper living room so I just took six Monets, one Manet and some minor pieces I gave to my poorer relatives for Christmas. You, on the other hand, helped old Hermann sell off his loot and don’t deny it. You know you have no secrets from me, don’t you?
Q: We do not need to discuss my situations with you here.
M: The stenographer knows everything. What you haven’t told her, I have. Still, if you improve your chess game a little, we might spin these talks out a few more weeks until we discover if Mr. Truman gets elected, but you did sell stolen paintings after all. And how many did you take back to your nice family in America? One? Two? Maybe three or four, just to protect them of course. Five maybe?
Q: I didn’t take anything back with me if you must know.
M: When I get to America maybe I will visit you at home and see how truthful you really are.
Q: We can’t do that, General. I will stay here and you have things to do in Washington that don’t concern me at all.
M: Maybe we can meet somewhere and then you can show me your paintings.
Q: I told you, I don’t have any paintings.
M: I’ll find the von Gloden picture albums we took from Stauffenberg and you can cut out all the nice pictures and put them up on your wall. I don’t suppose your family would like that at all, unless they are very open-minded.
Q: I am not interested in pictures of young Italian boys.
M: Maybe we could find some young Chinese boys.
Q: General, for God’s sake, must you go on about this?
M: God has nothing to do with it in the end. Or wherever else. Tell me, does your family know about the stolen Jewish art?
Q: I say, must you go on about this? Why are you so savage today?
M: No particular reason. Some idiot turned on the cold water on the second floor when I was taking a shower this morning and I almost scalded the more important parts of my body. That does not put one in a good mood. And speaking of that, one of my gardeners said he saw you in town yesterday with a particularly ugly woman at a cafe. Was she a relative by any chance?
Q: No, she was not a relative. Just a friend.
M: If you have the same taste in art as you do in women friends, I ought to give you a Renoir so you can explode with joy looking at the immense, flabby ass before breakfast. Notice I am now crediting you with rolling about with fat woman and not slim young Chinese nancy boys.
Q: I said just a friend.
M: What was the discription I got? Built like a beer keg with hair cut shorter than mine and no makeup. Is she tattooed by any chance? A sailing ship on her arm? Maybe a skull and dagger somewhere? Beware of women with men’s shoes and tattoos. Does she smoke cigars as well?
Q: A lady I know.
M: Well, you have too much taste to do the mattress polka with her. The only kind of a man who would even want to go at her would be a veterinarian. Besides, she’s six inches taller than you are, and built like the man from the brewery who delivers beer kegs to my service entrance. Come to think about it, it might well be the man with the kegs. No, an error. She has a bigger mustache. No doubt she was a guide for the night life here in Geneva. And believe me, nighttime is the only time someone like that should leave the girl’s school. You saw “Maidens in Uniform” didn’t you?
Q: Whatever do you have against Lesbians?
M: Fortunately, absolutely nothing connected to my body. Ah well, what is on the agenda for today? Any more looted art for me to sell for you?
Q: No, not today, but there is that Boucher we talked about...
M: Fake.
Q: I am sure not. Why do you say that?
M: It isn’t right. One gets a feeling about such things. By the way, did you get any of the Klees when Hermann was selling them?
Q: Do you like Klee?
M: Listen, if I ever brought one of those spastic sketches into my house, I would frame it in tile to match the lavatory walls which is exactly where I would hang it. I think Hitler was right when he had all of that trash burned. Not the Impressionist works, but the rest of it.
Q: Now you’re making anti-Semitic remarks again.
M: Do try to be funny and not flippant. I was speaking of burning degenerate art, not Jews. And besides, no one burned any Jews unless they were dead first. And those paintings were very, very dead as far as I am concerned.
Q: You know many Jews were burned.
M: That’s right. We used to have Jew-burnings on the Kudamm in Berlin every Friday night. After all the good Catholics finished their herring dinners, they went out and roasted Jews on the street corners. The little children helped with the babies you know. Listen, almost all of the Jews who lived in Berlin before the war were there after it was over. Unless, of course, you killed them with bombs first. I should tell you a really funny story.
Q: God, please no. You are not in a very good humor today and we have business to discuss.
M: Oh, let me tell you about the Jews in the cellar.
Q: Please do not.
M: It’s actually a heartwarming story of the basic kindness of mankind, so often overlooked these days. I will go on. You know in Berlin I lived on Cornelius Street in a very decent part of the city. Have you ever been on that street?
Q: I don’t recall.
M: It doesn’t matter. One day, the neighbor’s maid told my wife that her employer was hiding Jews in the cellar. That, of course, was considered a serious offense. One went away for doing things like that. Anyway, my wife told me and I said I would take care of it. I wanted to ask her where she kept the carving knives in the kitchen and I could go over and do some radical surgery on them, but I didn’t. With my wife, discretion was the better part of valor, believe me.
So, one Sunday, I decided to do my duty as a good guardian of the state and I put on a nice suit and took a package with me, and went to call on my neighbors with the Jews in the cellar.
This was the Schallmeyer family. He was a Lutheran minister and somewhat of a prig, but they were neighbors so I was very polite when I knocked on their door. The daughter came to the door and I asked her if her father was in. He was, of course, and he came into the entrance hall looking like death in a black suit. They were all terrified of the head of the Gestapo, and I must say I had such well-mannered neighbors. And there the good man stood, looking like he was about to wet his pants. Such polite conversation. “Good morning, General” he said and I said “Heil Hitler” just to keep him on his toes. Naturally, he replied in kind and we just stood there and smiled at each other like a couple of monkeys. I got tired of looking at his sheep-like face so I held out the package to him.
“Oh my, sir, what’s that?” he said. “Well,” I said, “just a little present from me. Something I think you can use.” When people tell me that, they usually give me a sweater that looks as if it was knitted by drunken baboons.
Q: What was in it? An arrest warrant? A pair of handcuffs?”
M: No. One of those large india rubber things that women who smoke cigars like to call “Darling.” What was in it? Guess.
Q: Something awful, I suppose. A human hand?
M: Try to be serious. He took the package and stared at it like it was full of cobras. I had to tell him to open it at least twice.
Q: I don’t think I need to hear any more about this.
M: Oh don’t be so sensitive. You always look like someone had just boxed your ears. He finally opened it and just stared and stared.
Q: Very well, I will play your sadistic game. What was in it?
M: I don’t know if I should even tell you. Well, perhaps I ought to after all. What’s the point of telling a good story if you don’t finish it properly. It was full of ration books for clothing and food. Without them, one could not buy anything during the war.
Q: Ration books?
M: Yes. When Herr Schallmayer asked me what the ration books were for, I told him with such a nice smile that they were for the Jews he had been hiding in his cellar. I was sure the poor man would mess himself and I did find out later from his daughter....
Q: Not so soon after breakfast, please.
M: Found out that he sat down on the floor for about ten minutes after I left. He was sure I would come back with the Green Minna and take the whole family away. As for me, I tipped my hat and went home so I could change my clothes and go to work on my motorcycle. Did you know that I used to drive a motorcycle? BMW R-75. Wonderful machine. We make the best motorcycles and there was nothing I enjoy more than working on motors. That was my trade before I terrified the local ministers, beat everyone in Berlin at chess, and maybe even had a baby roast for Sunday lunch. Why are you looking at me like that?
Q: Is that a true story?
M: Of course it is. It’s far too stupid to make up. Whatever is the matter with you?
Q: Did you do that? You actually did that, didn’t you? What happened to them?
M: Who? The Schallmeyers? I suppose they’re still there unless the Russians raped and ate them.
Q: The Jews. I mean the Jews. Did you take them away?
M: Of course not. Why should I do that?
Q: It was against the law.
M: It’s against the law to sell stolen art and we do one deal a week after all. Maybe I should have turned the Jews into garden slaves and get them to pull the damned lawn roller, or maybe dress up in costumes and stand around like big dwarves under the trees. They weren’t bothering anyone down there and who was I to get old Schallmayer into trouble with his employer?
Q: What about their maid? What did she do?
M: The maid. Well, I had an encounter with her just after that and described the joys of the women’s block at Ravensbruck so she settled right down and shut her mouth. One word and that would be the last one heard of her. I know who the old hag you were with yesterday reminded me of. One of the Stauffenberg women. The men were all strange looking and most of them married Russian women that looked like something you would stick out into a field to terrify birds.
Q: They died for your sins.
M: Oh come now. We only did two of them in. Of course we did stick the rest of them in various outdoor recreation centers, but I assume they survived intact. I don’t know for sure, but then I don’t care. We locked up almost all of them. Stauffenberg’s mother used to squat in her cell quoting Schiller by the hour. Of course she did that when she was at liberty and I really don’t think she had any idea where she was. That’s why I detest the aristocracy. Strange looking people with funny names like “Wahwah” or “Clumps.” Circus people. And children looking like laboratory specimens swimming in glass jars.
Q: You really must have scalded yourself today.
M: First I tell you about your fairy girlfriend and make you angry, then I make you happy when I tell you about the Jews in the cellar, and now you are angry because I make fun of the decadent old rabbits with a string of titles longer than your arm and about as many brains as a turtle. What do you have besides the fake painting? What about that nice chess set? Why not just take that out of the bank and give it to me as a present. The Rothschilds will never miss it and maybe using it will improve your game a little.
Q: You keep pestering me on these things. You know I just can’t go down to the bank and give you these things. There has to be a quid pro quo after all.
M: You keep pestering me about the Csar’s amber fittings. Now that I sold them for you, you want to know if I have any more pieces lying around. You can be such a pest at times. Do you want to ship the pieces home for the family?
Q: I have you there! You do have more pieces.
M: A very few and you can’t have them. On the other hand, the Durer looks magnificent in my office, thank you very much. Tell me something about your President Truman. Does he like art?
Q: You will have to define your terms. The bathing suit ads in the papers could be considered art, you know.
M: And no doubt you are a connoisseur of such things, as well as the snapshots of the late von Gloden, but Truman, does he collect art?
Q: I don’t know everyone in America and I don’t know Truman. I don’t think so. He’s a simple man from the country. If he likes paintings, they would probably be of flowers or a sunset somewhere.
M: No fat Renoir nudes?
Q: My God no. His wife would never allow such things.
M: If something is worth a lot of money, wives can overlook sagging breasts.
Q: Who are you talking about? Mrs. Truman?
M: No, the paintings, you idiot. Unless you had an affair with the woman and can discuss her anatomy from personal experience.
Q: Listen, can’t we be serious and get to business now?
M: I just wanted to know if we could bribe the President with some of our stolen art, that is all. You at once begin to discuss the sagging breasts of the President’s wife, and I notice you refuse to admit to having a long affair with her so why not get down to business. Can I give him a painting or two?
Q: Why don’t you ask him, if they ever let you within a mile of him.
M: I will bathe first and rub my body with Cologne water. Don’t worry, I will wager you that I will get the opportunity of meeting with him. If I step in cow messes first, maybe he might take more kindly to me. Of course the wife might object to my making tracks on her carpets, but then they belong to the public. Not the wife, the carpets. I ought to tell you about the party Goebbels held on the Swan Island in Berlin. What a terrible farce that was. The Minister tried so hard to have a super elegant affair to rival some of the shows Goring put on. A beautiful villa all fixed up with flowers and servants, bands playing, all kinds of pretty girls in fancy dresses dancing around, and nice lanterns in the trees. Of course, many of the guests were old
Party stalwarts who promptly got into the free liquor and became very drunk. While Goebbels and his attractive wife were trying to impress the members of the diplomatic corps and various prominent foreigners, there were frightful scenes in the wings and drunken Party bosses ran around trying to rape the pretty girls. Goebbels had to shout to be heard over the screaming, the smashing of crockery and the bellowing Golden Pheasants. I had to go out of necessity and I must say that I thoroughly enjoyed myself watching the orgy. It looked like a meeting of the Hungarian parliament. Tell me, do such things go on in Washington?
Q: People know how to behave themselves in Washington.
M: Well, I do like my entertainment. I imagine many of your Senators like to have a drink once in a while. What went on in the Roosevelt period? I am told the President was a cripple so I can’t imagine him chasing women around and from her pictures, the wife looked like the northern end of a horse moving south. She would have been safe anywhere, anytime. There are some advantages in being ugly.
Q: Mrs. Roosevelt did not like men. I do have a nasty story for you, but then we must get back to work, please.
M: Go on, please do.
Q: Well, I heard this from several reliable sources so I assume it is true. There is this fellow, Joe Lash. A leader of the young communists in America. Mrs. Roosevelt liked him....
M: From what I know, she loved his politics better...
Q: As I was saying...I don’t interrupt you, do I?
M: You wouldn’t dare. Do excuse my crudeness. I never went to a fancy college.
Q: As I was saying, Lash went into the Army and was out somewhere in the western part of the United States at a training camp when Mrs. Roosevelt and her secretary came to pay him a social call. He got a leave and they all went out for dinner and afterwards, they ended upstairs in the hotel bedrooms. Now it seems that the Army suspected Lash of being a practicing communist so they put a microphone in his room. All of the noises were recorded in a room down the hall. At first, someone thought that Lash was having sex with Mrs. Roosevelt, but it then turned out, after careful listening, that it was really Mrs. Roosevelt having sex with her secretary. Lash was in the next room with his girl friend.
M: And Mrs. Roosevelt was in bed with hers.
Q: FDR learned about this and had a fit about it. The tapes were ordered destroyed, but they weren’t. One of my friends heard them and said it was hilarious.
M: You must try to get a private hearing for me some time. God knows I have heard more than my share of such inarticulate gruntings and loud cries of passion. We did the same thing, as I am sure you know from personal experience., but we stray from business. Shall we leave the subject of sexual deviations behind and proceed to the making of money?
Q: I have been trying to do that for the past ten minutes.
M: Your watch is slow. I make it twenty.
World History
