“But surely you need a plan of some sort,” I insisted. “A way to get close to the target.”
“Yes, we needed that,” Danforth said. “And for a moment — long shot though it was — I thought I might have found it.”
~ * ~
Berlin, Germany, 1939
“He wanted to be a painter,” Anna said. “He tried to get into the Vienna Academy of Art but he was rejected.” They were walking in a small square, a summer breeze playing in the leaves. “You could say that you were interested in looking at his work.”
“Interested?” Danforth asked. “In what way? He sells very well here in Germany. Why would he be interested in an American buyer?”
“Because he’s vain,” Anna answered. “All I would need is one meeting. You could be out of the country before it happens.”
Out of the country, yes, Danforth thought, out of the country and back to America and a life he felt no desire to resume.
But it was a good idea, and so he nodded his assent, and later that same afternoon composed the letter on his personal stationery. It was simple, and very direct. There was an audience for Hitler’s work in the United States, he wrote, patrons of the arts who have no interest in crude Expressionism. Hitler’s painting, he said, would certainly appeal to such people. To this he added,
“Okay,” Danforth said. “Now, who do we send it to?”
“No one,” Anna said. “Just put it in the general mail, addressed to the Reich Chancellery. It’ll be less suspicious that way.”
They expected no response, of course, but while they waited they became more familiar with Berlin, walking its streets and parks, strolling through its most prominent buildings, observing places where their target might at some point appear.
There was an unreal quality to this interval, as Danforth would often recall, so that he sometimes imagined them as newlyweds on their honeymoon.
Then the honeymoon abruptly ended.
“It’s from the interior ministry,” Danforth said when he showed Anna the letter. He opened the letter and read it with ever-increasing astonishment. “It’s from someone named Ernst Kruger. He says that the chancellor welcomes my interest in his work. A car will be waiting for us at Wannsee Station on July nineteenth at ten in the morning.” He lowered the letter and stared at Anna in utter amazement. “We’re going to be shown some of the chancellor’s paintings.”
Anna took the letter and read it, then handed it back to Danforth.
“All right,” she said. “Let’s get started.”
For the next few days they did what they could to familiarize themselves with Hitler’s work. It was on display in several places throughout the city, small galleries and public buildings, and they spent long hours peering at the paintings, Danforth trying to place them within a school he thought Herr Kruger might find favorable but without resorting to obvious undeserved flattery.
“He has talent,” Anna said at one point. She was staring at a painting of a cathedral in Vienna.
Danforth nodded. “He can draw at least.”
The following days included other tours, and during these quiet days of waiting, Danforth gave Anna a crash course on the sort of art Hitler appeared to favor and imitate, a style heavy on traditional representation that ignored entirely any modernist influence.
On the appointed morning, they met in the hotel lobby for the trip to Wannsee, and when Danforth saw her emerge from the elevator he nearly swooned at the transformation. She looked every bit the worldly assistant to a major American art dealer. The clothes were the same she’d worn in Paris, but she’d lifted her collar, padded the shoulders of her jacket, and added a discreet white ruffle to each sleeve.
It was the art of an actress and the art of a seamstress, Danforth thought, both now applied to the art of murder.
“You look very” — he stopped and waited until he found the right word — “appropriate.”
In Wannsee, a black sedan was waiting for them, complete with a driver who was clearly not a driver at all but a security agent. A second man stood beside the military officer and appeared to be in charge. He was dressed in the long leather trench coat Danforth associated with the Gestapo.
“My name is Klaus Wald,” he said in German as he thrust out his hand.
Danforth greeted him in German, then introduced Anna.
“I was expecting only one person,” Wald said.
“Miss Collier is the real expert on American naturalism,” Danforth explained.
Danforth was relieved to see that Wald quite clearly had no idea what American naturalism was.
“She is a great lover of landscapes,” Danforth explained. “Which appear to be a favorite subject of Chancellor Hitler.”
Wald nodded crisply, then turned to Anna. “Good. Well, then. Shall we go?”
They got into the back seat, then waited for the officer to take his place at the wheel, Wald beside him. Anna peered out at the station. “Quite a lovely town,” she said in German as the car pulled away.
Neither of the two men spoke during the short drive from the station, but by prearrangement, Danforth and
