‘I guess that’s why he has four adjutants,’ I added. ‘To help keep everything off the record.’
‘Yes, I hadn’t thought of that. But you could be right.’
I turned back to the golden picture in front of us. ‘Who is she, anyway?’
‘Her name is Adele Bloch-Bauer and her husband, Ferdinand, used to own this house. A Jew, which makes you wonder why Göring likes her so much. But there it is. Consistency not his strong suit, I’d say. It’s a nice copy of course but I think it a great pity that the original isn’t in the house, where it truly belongs. We’re trying to persuade the Reichsmarshal to give it back, but so far without much success. He’s like a dog with a bone when it comes to paintings, I believe. Anyway, one can easily see why he likes it so much. To say that Frau Bloch-Bauer looked like a million marks hardly seems to do her portrait justice. Wouldn’t you agree?’
I nodded and allowed myself another look, not at the painting but at Captain Kuttner. For a man who was Heydrich’s adjutant, his free and frank opinions seemed to veer toward the dangerous. A bit like my own. It was clear we had more in common than just a uniform and a keen appreciation of modern art.
‘It’s different,’ I allowed.
‘Superficially stylish, perhaps. But somehow even a copy is deeper than the gold paint, which seems almost to have been spilled onto the canvas. Eh?’
‘You sound like Bernard Berenson, Captain Kuttner.’
‘Lord, don’t say that. At least not within earshot of the General. Berenson’s a Jew.’
‘What happened to her anyway?’ I lit a cigarette. ‘To the golden lady in the picture?’
‘Sad to say, and rather ingloriously given how she looks in this painting, the poor woman died of meningitis in 1925. Still, that might turn out to be just as well, when one considers what is happening to Jews in this country. And in her native Austria.’
‘And Ferdinand? Her husband?’
‘Oh, I’ve no idea what happened to him. And I don’t much care, quite frankly. He sounds like your typical grasping Jewish merchant and he quite wisely cleared off the minute we walked into the Sudetenland. But I do know that the artist – another Austrian named Gustav Klimt – died at the beginning of the influenza epidemic in 1918, poor fellow. But he was a frequent guest here, I believe. Adele was rather fond of old Klimt, by all accounts. Perhaps a bit too fond. Funny to think of them all here, isn’t it? Especially now that General Heydrich owns the house.
I nodded but said nothing. While the eccentric young adjutant seemed to be a cut above the average SD automaton, I wasn’t in the mood to mention the loss of my own wife to the influenza epidemic: if Klimt had been an early victim, my wife had been one of the very last to die of flu, in December 1920. Besides, there was something just a bit unpredictable about Captain Kuttner that made me wonder how someone like Heydrich could tolerate him. Then again, the General also managed, somehow, to tolerate me, and that spoke either of his enormous toleration – which seemed improbable – or his enormous cynicism.
Kuttner tried and failed to stifle a yawn.
‘The General working you late, is he?’
‘Sorry. No, actually I’m just not sleeping very well. Hardly at all, if I’m honest.’
‘He has the same effect on me. I’ve hardly slept a wink since I received his kind invitation to Prague. And it’s not from excitement, either.’
‘Really?’ Kuttner sounded surprised.
‘Really.’
‘You surprise me. Actually he’s been very understanding of my situation. Very understanding. He even referred me to his own doctor. He gave me something called Veronal, which is quite effective. For sleeping. Although you have to be careful not to mix it with alcohol.’
‘Then I’d better make sure I never take any.’ I grinned. ‘I’m usually very careful never to let anything stand in the way of my drinking. But what I meant was that the General’s reputation goes before him. He’s not exactly Mohandas K. Gandhi, is he? And I might sleep a little better knowing exactly why the hell I’m here. I don’t suppose you can shed any light on that, can you? In the same thoughtful and well-informed way that you have illuminated this picture for me.’
Kuttner scratched the duelling scar on his cheek. He seemed to do it when he was nervous, which was often.
‘It was my understanding that you and the General were friends.’
‘If you mean like a friend in need is a friend to be avoided, then yes we’re friends. But I guess the friends we have are probably the friends we deserve.’
‘You do surprise me, Commissar Gunther.’
‘Well, maybe you’ve put your finger on it, Captain. Maybe I’m supposed to be the licensed jester here, to make everyone else but the General feel uncomfortable. Knowing Heydrich as I do, I can easily see how that might amuse him.’
