I stopped to read a copy of the proclamation of 20 June 1940, badly tattered and weathered. Acts of violence and sabotage were to be severely punished, but none have happened that I knew of. Everyone was having too good a time, or so it appeared. Firearms were, of course, forbidden, but I was willing to bet that a few had been kept. No one was to assist non-German military personnel or civilians who were attempting to escape-were we to help only the German ones, and not those of the RAF and others still on the run from Dunkerque?
Though this was soon to be forbidden, you could still listen to your wireless, but God help you if you spread news that was contrary to the good of the Third Reich, i.e., the results of British bombing raids as reported over the BBC French broadcast from London.
No insults would be tolerated. All gatherings were subject to approval. The administration of the state-the police and schools, the banks, too-was to continue under the French as before the Occupation. Failure to report to work or to reopen your shop or place of business was punishable by fines, and imprisonment in the first instance and confiscation in others. Hoarding was to be considered an act of sabotage and subject as such, I guess, to the death penalty. Prison, anyway. The pears I had preserved, the apples, vegetables, even though I had three boarders. The.22 calibre rifle that Tommy and Jean-Guy had used-now hidden in the cellar, in an old piece of pipe; that Luger of Dmitry Alexandrov’s that I had kept, but did the Occupier really need an excuse? Ah, no, of course not.
Beneath the notice was another. It was signed by General Studnitz, the first, if temporary military commander of Greater Paris, but it applied to the whole of Occupied France. Art treasures were not to be removed from their present places-that was fair, wasn’t it? Transfers of them needed his approval-fair again?
Those whose value exceeds one hundred thousand of the new francs had to be reported in writing by their owners or custodians-ah, now, what about that? What about that nice diamond necklace you had kept for years in a safe-deposit box since your grandmother left it to you? Things that had been in the family for years? Gold coins that had been stashed away for your old age? Art treasures and valuables …
The auction was in the Jeu de Paume and, at first, I couldn’t understand how such a thing could happen, for this had been the place of places to see special exhibitions. Then it was crowded with crated and uncrated paintings, exquisite pieces of sculpture, tapestries, and other objets d’art. There were several large collections of Venetian glass, of coins both Roman and more recent. Each crate, each piece, bore a stamp or tag with the name of its former owner and the letters ERR, the Einsatzstab Reichsleiter Rosenberg, the agency for the confiscation of works of art that had once belonged to Jews, Freemasons, and other enemies of the Reich.
The ERR was my husband’s employer. Those lists Jules had made were being put to use. In loneliness and despair, I walked through several fortunes worth of art. No one stopped me. No one questioned my being there. Perhaps they knew who I was. Perhaps they had been warned to expect me.
Jules was waiting. Blue-washed, sticking-paper-X’d glass was above and all around us in the greenhouselike walls and ceiling of this former tennis court of royalty. Crowded … Ah, mon Dieu, German officers and senior officials were everywhere, but scattered among them were the art dealers and not just those from Paris and France, but from Switzerland, the Reich, Belgium, Holland, lots of other places-experts who had already sold themselves to the new order or were simply there to take advantage of the situation.
There were also members of the police, the Sûreté, and the Gestapo, though there were few of the latter at this time, and they kept to themselves.
‘Seven hundred thousand francs.’
‘Eight hundred thousand!’
‘One million!’
‘One million, two hundred thousand!’
‘Two million.’
‘Two million francs, mesdames et messieurs. I have two million going once … going twice … going three times … and sold to the Reichsmarschall.’
A Teniers oil on canvas, an absolutely gorgeous painting. Sold to the commander-in-chief of the Luftwaffe. At two hundred francs to the British pound, that was only ten thousand pounds sterling, or at twenty francs to the Occupation mark, one hundred thousand of those and a fantastic bargain, especially as the Occupier sanctioned the money and it was worthless almost everywhere but in France.
Jules accepted the bid from Göring’s chief buyer. It was all so nice, so friendly. Handshakes all round but no sign of the cash. Perhaps that would come later, perhaps never.
My husband, how could he do this? Göring was the man whose brave pilots had murdered our little girl.
Barging through the crowd, I knocked champagne glasses aside as I headed for that monster. There was no mistaking Göring even though he’d come in mufti: that bulk, that ham-slabbed face with its pig-blue eyes and skin that was flushed. Maudit salaud …
Jules grabbed me by an arm. ‘Herr Reichsmarschall, permit me to introduce my wife, the sculptress of that little piece I presented to you.’
Presented … What was this?
The cigar was raised but paused as he surveyed me, and what he said or did not say was completely lost, for my courage left and I stared bleakly at his shoes, knowing everyone was watching me now and that I’d betrayed myself. ‘Enchantée, Herr Reichsmarschall. That is a lovely Teniers you have just acquired.’
How could I have done this? As I watched, the lips began to move, and I saw the dampened end of that cigar as it paused before them, his smile now flaccid, his nod of dismissal curt as he turned away to confer with his art experts.
As Jules and I hurried from the auction, we passed the Vuittons, and I caught a look of utter hatred from that woman. Outside, Jules was far from pleased. ‘Idiote, just what the hell did you think you were going to do? Spit at him?’
He hurried me to a cellar office in the Louvre, which was cluttered with priceless things, threw me up against its door, and hit me three times. Blood trickled from my broken lips, but somehow I managed to say, ‘Don’t ever do that again, or I’ll kill you. I swear it!’
That shook him a little, but he still couldn’t keep anger from him. ‘Lily, these people mean business! Don’t you ever cross them.’
Finding a handkerchief, he offered it, but I used my own. ‘How can you do this?’
At least we’d talk now, he thought, and tried to smile. ‘Göring’s really not so bad. He’s got an eye for what’s exceptional and is still fond of the Impressionists, though the others aren’t. You of all people should appreciate him for that.’
A common bond. ‘What I understand, my husband, is that you’re engaged in a monstrous theft. You’re building yourself on the sorrows of others.’
‘No more than most. I’ve repaid the mortgages on the house. I’ve money in the bank.’
‘And the taxes?’
I was still the same, would always be that way. ‘There’s no need. You know as well as I that the house has been declared a repository. It’s under the protection of the Wehrmacht and not subject to taxes.’
‘And is that glorious Army of the Occupation protecting the Einsatzstab Reichsleiter Rosenberg? Has the German Army legalized the looting of works of art?’
‘Of course not. The military governor of France has expressly forbidden it but …’ He gave a sheepish grin, a shrug. ‘But there are those who wish it to continue.’