A Republic's Rise

By Clinton Aldrich

In the months prior to World War II, Nazi Germany dispatched agents throughout Europe to identify works of art to be confiscated. Derek Schorr, an art graduate student at the prestigious Berlin Academy of Arts, is ordered by the Reich Chamber of Culture to locate A Republic's Rise, a painting desired by Hitler himself and rumored to be in private hands in Prague.

In pursuit of this goal, Derek finds the painting, but in the process falls in love with the beautiful Jewish daughter of the gallery owner. This forces Derek to begin a dangerous game of deception and forgery as Czechoslovakia falls to the Nazis. A love story infused with art and fueled by surprising plot twists that heighten the suspense, A Republic's Rise captures the tension of the time - political treachery, the Jewish community's sudden scramble for safety, the Nazis' thirst for art and increasing brutality - in a page turning tale of betrayal, intrigue and - ultimately - escape.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9781734347036

Book preview

To Carol,

For believing, even when I didn’t.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2019 by Clinton P. Aldrich

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

without the express written permission of the author

except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Printed in the United States of America

ISBN 978-1-73434-702-9

ISBN 978-1-73434-703-6 (e-book)

Contact: clintonaldrichauthor.com

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Author’s Note

The painting at the center of this novel, A Republic’s Rise, is fictitious and a product of the author’s imagination. Alfred Seifert, the artist to whom it is attributed, lived between 1850 and 1901.

So it came to pass, when they had brought them outside, that he said, Escape for your life! Do not look behind you nor stay anywhere in the plain. Escape to the mountains, lest you be destroyed. – Genesis 19:17

Prologue

Vienna—March 1938

A crowd was taunting the men and women who were on their hands and knees scrubbing a sidewalk that was in the shadow of an apartment building with arched windows and neatly arranged flower boxes. Shopping bags, purses and briefcases lay scattered around them. A bouquet of yellow daffodils wrapped in white tissue paper that appeared stomped on lay in the gutter, its petals strewn like orphaned birds cast from a nest. A wide-eyed woman shaking a fist hysterically, shouted, Judenschwein! Judenschwein! as her curious and stunned children clutched at her skirt.

Scrub! Scrub! Scrub! chanted a bystander, egging others to follow. Nearby, two police officers carrying holstered billy clubs stood with folded arms appearing oblivious as men in brown shirts with swastika armbands controlled the scene. The crowd jeered at a man in a tailored suit who bled through his nose, yelling for him to sop up the blood from the curb while alongside him, a woman in a flower-patterned dress, her sleeve torn, wept. She wore only one shoe.

Few noticed the young military officer in a field-gray uniform with SS runes who stepped from a black sedan and entered the building. He sauntered up the broad, winding staircase to the third floor and into Jonas Bloch’s apartment, its front doors thrown open.

I’m Captain Alf Bundt, he announced to a group of soldiers loitering in the foyer. I’m looking for –

In there, Sir, said a soldier, pointing toward an adjoining room.

Bundt walked into the parlor where he saw Bloch seated on a striped camelback sofa. The aged man with snowy hair looked pale and withdrawn.

Captain Bundt! said a pock-faced, slender man in a suit and trench coat standing over Bloch.

Herr Gruen, I presume?

Yes. The man nodded as though he had just been complimented.

Slumped in defeat, Bloch raised his eyes to study Bundt, who appeared lean, clean-shaven, with his dark hair cut neatly and parted. A hint of cinnamon accented his presence.

Herr Bloch, you’re a collector, said Bundt, the heels of his polished boots echoing over the room’s parquet floor. "Cézanne?" He admired the painting over the fireplace mantel, inching forward as if breathing in its excellence.

Bloch remained silent, his head twitching from a slight tremor.

Oh, come, Herr Bloch. Bundt smiled affably. You and I have something in common. We appreciate art—good art. He wheeled and stepped towards a corner of the room where potted ferns huddled beneath a canvas on a lacquered easel. Oh my…, Bundt turned with a lazy smile. Such exquisite taste—Klimt. Bundt straightened and retrieved a document from his tunic. "This is a sales receipt for your Waldmüller in the bedroom and the most exquisite Klimt. Unfortunately, your Cézanne is deemed degenerate art by the Reich Chamber of Culture and subject to confiscation."

You, you…can’t be serious? Bloch stood and took the receipt with trembling hands. My paintings are worth six-seven times this! He glared at Bundt. Besides, I’m not interested in selling—

"I’m not offering, Herr Bloch." Bundt stiffened.

This is robbery!

Bundt took long, languid steps towards a tall, open window and propped his gloved hands on the sill. Come see, Herr Bloch.

Bloch hesitated.

Come. The SS officer waved him over. Do you see that? He motioned to the sidewalk from where shouts, slurs and taunts emanated. Austria is now Germany and you’re subject to its laws.

You mean I’m a Jew and have no rights!

I’m not here to argue politics. Bundt’s slate-colored eyes met Bloch’s. A thin smile graced the SS officer’s smooth face. Herr Bloch, life can be hard or easy but, it will be. Now, please sign the receipt for me. He handed Bloch a fountain pen.

Bloch returned to the sofa where he sank into a cushion and stared at the document. You have no right, he muttered, shaking his head. He sat a long moment listening to angry shouts echoing through the open windows. Resigned, he sighed, unscrewed the pen cap and with shaking fingers scribbled his signature.

Sergeant! Bundt called into the foyer. A noncommissioned officer promptly entered. Have your men collect the paintings!

Bundt dropped an envelope on the coffee table. I guarantee the check will clear.

Bloch looked at it absently, his complexion ashen. I don’t want your fascist money.

Bundt smirked. You’d be wise to heed my advice, Herr Bloch. Life can be hard or easy but, it will be. Good day.

As a chorus of Judenschwein! Judenschwein! carried through his windows, Jonas Bloch bowed his head and wept.

Chapter 1

As dawn crested Berlin’s slate rooftops and soaring spires, Derek Schorr drove his scull through River Spree’s glassy surface. Limbs burning, his body’s rhythm like a calming mantra, the morning chill sobered his mind from a gnawing question— Why had the Gestapo summoned him?

Tall with flaxen hair and studious blue eyes, he had broad shoulders that accentuated a lean, athletic frame. In 14 months, he’d receive his doctorate from the Berlin Academy of Arts, and translated his love of art history into a professorship. Grunting, he continued feathering and squaring his oars. Perhaps he’d be questioned about his appreciation of degenerate art. Had someone denounced him? He stabbed his oars harder and deeper. Water pricked his face like frigid needles. Degenerate art—the label given by Joseph Goebbels’ Reich Chamber of Culture for artistic forms rejecting tradition and logic and strictly out of favor with National Socialist values.

He thought of principled colleagues who’d challenged the government’s views only to be labeled subversives and sent to Dachau, the former munitions plant turned indoctrination camp outside Munich. He spat and stroked harder when an egret took sudden flight from a marsh. He turned, feathered his oars and coasted, admiring the fragile, graceful bird loping skyward against a fiery, golden sun. His muscles taut and burning, sweat dappling his face, he wondered: Could such beauty be considered degenerate and by whose right or judgment?

***

Otto von Troost sat on a paint-stained folding chair, smoking a cigarette and watching as teenagers in the mustard-colored shirts and black shorts of the Hitler Youth unceremoniously carried armloads of paintings from a garage studio to an idling truck. Renoir and Matisse… Rubens and Vermeer... He shook his head and took a firm drag.

Stooped over a table, Derek Schorr carefully studied Caravaggio’s Boy with a Basket of Fruit, through a magnifying glass. He marveled at the precise brushwork and dispersal of light on the varnished animal canvas riddled with tiny fissures. Exquisite, he thought. The boy’s dusky hair, supple lips and the grapes… such mastery of tone and shading. He sighed and turned to von Troost.

Your work? Derek asked, his German betrayed a Berlin accent.

Von Troost took a puff and nodded. I didn’t expect to pass it off as anything other than a reproduction.

Which is why you ground and blended the pigments as in the sixteenth century and baked in the fissures?

People like authenticity. Von Troost shrugged.

As do forgers and shady art dealers.

I can’t speak for others.

How about Heinrich Böhm and the Achenbach hanging in Hamburg’s town hall?

I’d love to see it. Von Troost inched a smile.

You’ve seen it, said Derek, pocketing his magnifying glass and brushing dust from his hands. Böhm fessed up. Told us how he commissioned the painting from you. Two months later you handed him a flawless landscape—or so you thought.

Von Troost cleared his throat and shifted in his creaky chair. He reached down, crushed-out his cigarette and folded his arms. I don’t know what he told you. He’s commissioned work from me in the past for clients seeking quality reproductions. What they do with them… He shrugged.

If you don’t level with me, Otto, I can’t help you.

Help me? Von Troost laughed through a cough. I’m to be made an example of. Artists doing Impressionist and Cubist knock-offs must be defiled. But, imitate one of the Dutch Masters, he said, wagging a finger, smiling, and one’s in good graces.

Derek stepped outside the garage where Dieter Becker offered him a cigarette. He accepted one from the thirtyish man with sandy hair and a solid build.

So, he’s back at it, said Becker, with a wry smile. A few years ago, we’d wait months for a trial—if they even had one. Becker expelled a stream of smoke. But now…well, Herr Schorr, you know how things are.

"I do know," Derek answered not bothering to look at Becker.

You don’t sound appreciative of our new laws. Have you seen some of the trash they’ve carted out? Works specifically banned by the state. Original works are bad enough but forgeries? Becker shook his head, drawing on his cigarette.

Where will he be taken?

Becker adjusted his fedora. Plötzensee Prison, where his attitude and political temperature can be evaluated.

Do you really believe that?

Becker gave him an icy stare. Take caution in your sentiments, Herr Schorr. This man is a Bohemian parasite. Likely, a Bolshevik.

He’s a talented painter and as far as forgeries go…, Derek drew on his cigarette. Some of the best I’ve seen.

Becker snorted a laugh. Is that what you learn in that Berlin Art Academy?

Derek cleared his throat. Not all of us have the aptitude to be Gestapo men.

You’d be surprised. Becker flicked his eyebrows and smiled. You really would.

The approach of a black sedan drew their attention. Time to go, Becker remarked, and snapped his fingers at two nearby men. They entered the garage and emerged with von Troost, steering him towards the car.

Herr Becker, Derek called, as the Gestapo man walked away. I’m curious. How’d you catch him?

Becker stopped and turned. He smiled. Oldest method in the book—a scorned woman.

Wife?

No, Becker grinned. A model. A third his age, can you imagine? Wanted more from him than to simply pose nude and drink Riesling on rainy afternoons. These artists, Becker shook his head and tossed his cigarette. Depraved Bohemians.

Chapter 2

C ome in, Herr Fangel, said Joseph Goebbels, extending a thin hand while rounding his desk. I trust you’re well?

Rupert Fangel nodded. I’m honored to have been summoned, Herr Reich Minister.

Let’s have a seat, said Goebbels to the tall, stout, fortyish civil servant with thinning hair and an unremarkable face. He led him to a seating area in his spacious, well-appointed Propaganda Ministry office. Coffee? Cigarette?

No, thank you, Fangel replied, sitting on a sofa.

Limping from childhood polio, Goebbels maneuvered his wiry frame into a club chair. Very well then, down to business. I have an assignment for you.

Fangel sat upright, his eyes focused on the propaganda minister’s.

The Führer has expressed to me something he’s contemplated for years. He envisions a great art museum, the world’s greatest. Goebbels’ eyes narrowed and his thin lips curled into a sinister sneer. There’ll come a time when Europe’s greatest artworks will be displayed in German galleries—the finest, in a Führer’s Museum in Linz. As we speak, we have agents scouring museums and galleries throughout Europe, identifying works most worthy of the Führer’s vision. Goebbels pressed his fingertips together. The Führer admires several artists. Vermeer, Spitzweg and of course, Grützner. But he’s made a special request of this office.

Anything, Herr Reich Minister.

He’s fond of Alfred Seifert, a Czech painter who spent most of his career in Munich, the Führer’s adopted home. He’s interested in a particular work, Goebbels said, referencing an index card, "A Republic’s Rise reportedly in a private collection in Prague. Their eyes met. This is your assignment—find that painting."

I’ll have people assigned immediately.

Goebbels raised a bowed finger, his tone softened. I want the matter handled discreetly. I don’t have to tell you of ongoing delicate negotiations for the Sudetenland. His expression darkened. To most Czechs, the lore of this painting depicting the 1848 Prague uprising against the Habsburg Empire is a source of national pride. You see, art, like music and literature, possesses the power to stir people’s passions—such as resistance. Goebbels looked down, thoughtfully scratching at a spot on his lapel before meeting Fangel’s eye with a crooked grin. Find it, Herr Fangel, and I assure you, the Führer will be very pleased.

Chapter 3

In a small office, Derek Schorr hunched at his desk studying Richard Muther’s The History of Modern Painting. As a tendril of smoke curled from an ashtray and brushed his eye, he furrowed his brow, flipping pages when his telephone rang. He frowned and answered on the second ring. Hello?

Derek, it’s Heinrich, announced a curt voice. Please come to my office.

Derek’s eyes remained on his work. Ten minutes, Herr Director?

Actually, now if you’d please.

Entering Heinrich Stolz’s office, Derek slipped on his jacket and adjusted his tie.

Derek, allow me to present to you, Rupert Fangel and Joachim Schacht from the Reich Chamber of Culture. Stolz turned to Fangel. This is the young man I was telling you about.

Herr Schorr, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, said Fangel, offering Derek his hand.

We can sit over here? Stolz motioned to a conference table awash in sunlight from windows facing Unter den Linden boulevard.

Herr Stolz, Fangel interjected. Thank you, but we’d like to speak with Herr Schorr in private.

Of course, Stolz exchanged a puzzled look with Derek and excused himself.

The scrape of chairs echoed as the men sat and Fangel opened a file jacket withDerek’s photo stapled inside. Derek Friedrich Schorr. You’re twenty-three years old, born in Berlin, raised in Dahlem. Your father, deceased, was a grammar school teacher. Your mother keeps house and dabbles in water colors. Their eyes met. You received your undergraduate degree from the Berlin Academy of Arts—on a scholarship—and are currently working towards an Art History doctorate. Fangel offered a leading stare. Yes?

That’s correct, Derek replied, folding his arms. Herr Fangel, what exactly can I do for you?

Fangel smiled. We’d like to accelerate your academic career, Herr Schorr. In the service of the Reich.

Accelerate my career?

Yes, Fangel looked at the file, flipping through pages. As you’re well aware, the Reich Chamber of Culture is responsible for all cultural and intellectual pursuits in Germany and we feel you’d be an asset to our efforts.

But my work is here, at the academy under Herr Stolz.

Yes, of course. Fangel tapped his stubby fingers together. But this academy’s purpose is to further the interests of the Reich… as it pertains to art.

I don’t understand.

Are you a party member, Herr Schorr?

Derek noticed the circular, red and white pins emblazoned with a swastika on both men’s lapels, which announced their Nazi party membership. No. He shook his head.

Why is that? Fangel’s eyes narrowed.

I…I haven’t found it necessary.

Necessary, Herr Schorr? Fangel shifted in his chair and smiled sarcastically. You’re aware of the party’s influence and control in our society. How much longer before you attain your doctorate?

Fourteen months.

Interesting. Fangel’s smile dissolved into a smirk. His chair creaked as he reclined. He threaded his fingers across his paunch. Currently, the Ministry of Public Enlightenment and Propaganda is reviewing the status of those individuals in artistic and cultural pursuits.

You’re familiar with Aryan certificates? Schacht broke his silence.

Derek reluctantly nodded.

Then you’re aware that without one, an individual cannot hope to participate culturally in Germany.

So, what are you gentlemen asking of me?

Whether you’ll conform? said Fangel.

To?

Your country’s needs! said Schacht.

Your Führer’s needs! echoed Fangel.

How?

Fangel’s expression softened, his smile akin to a kind uncle offering fishing tips. Germany is embarking on a cultural campaign in which the Führer envisions a central venue for Europe’s greatest art.

Here, in Germany? Derek knit his brow.

We’re identifying works throughout Europe…

It’s called, Operation Enlightenment, Fangel interrupted Schacht. The Führer is committed to attaining Europe’s—civilized man’s—greatest artworks.

That’s… remarkable, Derek commented, sitting back. Do you suppose the owners of all this art—some of it priceless—will sell?

We’re confident, said Fangel, his eyes narrowing like a serpent’s.

And how do I figure in your plans?

Fangel cleared his throat and propped his elbows on the table. "There exists a painting. A Republic’s Rise by Albert Seifert."

You mean, Alfred Seifert.

Of course. Fangel waved a dismissive hand. It hasn’t been seen in years, and is reportedly in a private collection in Prague. I’m sending you to find it and bring it back.

Derek looked at Fangel then Schacht then Fangel again. Gentlemen, I appreciate your confidence in me, however…

Herr Schorr. Fangel’s lips twitched a grin. This isn’t a negotiation. You’re being tasked on behalf of your government.

Your Führer! Schacht interjected.

In return, I’m prepared to guarantee your doctorate in less than fourteen months and, a full-time professorship here.

But the curriculum calls for…

The curriculum, this academy, Herr Stolz, Fangel laughed. "They all fall under the state’s purveyance. We decide who participates and how."

But, gentlemen, art… culture can’t be legislated. It speaks through creativity, appreciation, one’s soul…

"Art, Herr Schorr, is what the state says it is. Fangel stiffened. It’d be wise of you to remember that."

Derek straightened, squared his shoulders and cleared his throat. Herr Fangel, may I ask what it is you did before this—working for the chamber of culture, I mean?

Fangel leaned onto his elbows, his heavyset eyes boring intoDerek’s. I was a bank clerk.

Bank clerk, Derek muttered. And you, Herr Schacht?

Schacht rapped his fingertips on the table and sighed. I was a pretzel maker—still am on weekends.

Herr Schorr. Fangel cleared his throat. It’s men like us—the party faithful, who kicked and fought and bled in the streets to rescue this country from the chaos of the Weimar Republic—that made Germany’s place in the world respectable again. He scratched his nose pensively. "You can help us continue our work or… there are other