There were eighty-one cases in all. They varied greatly in size, because some of them contained sculpture and, consequently, were both bulky and heavy. Others, built for big canvases, were very large and flat but relatively light. We had to “design” our loads in such a way as to keep cases of approximately the same type together. This was necessary for two reasons: first, the cases would ride better that way, and second, we hadn’t any too much space. As I roughly figured it, we should be able to get them all in the five trucks, but we couldn’t afford to be prodigal in our loading.
The work went along smoothly for an hour and we were just finishing the second truck when I saw two men approaching. They were Dr. Csanky and his son. This was what I had hoped to avoid. The doctor was a dapper little fellow with a white mustache and very black eyes. He was wearing a corduroy jacket and a flowing bow tie. The artistic effect was topped off by a beret set at a jaunty angle. His son was a callow string bean with objectionably soulful eyes magnified by horn-rimmed spectacles. They came over to the truck and began to jabber and wave their arms. We paid no attention whatever—just kept on methodically lifting one case after another out of the storage room.
The dapper doctor got squarely in my path and I had to stop. I checked his flow of words with a none too civil “Do you speak English?” That drew a blank, so I asked if he spoke German. No luck there either. Feeling like an ad for the Berlitz School, I inquired whether he spoke French. He said “Yes,” but the stream of Hungarian-French which rolled out from that white mustache was unintelligible. It was hopeless. At last I simply had to take him by the shoulders and gently but firmly set him aside. This was the ultimate indignity, but it worked. At that juncture he and the string bean took off. I didn’t know what they were up to and I didn’t care, so long as they left us alone.
Our respite was short-lived. By the time we had the third truck ready to move away, they were back. And they had come with reinforcements: two women were with them. One was a rather handsome dowager who looked out of place in this rural setting. Her gray hair, piled high, was held in place by a scarlet bandanna, and she was wearing a shabby dress of green silk. Despite this getup, there was something rather commanding about her. She introduced herself as the wife of General Ellenlittay and explained in perfect English that Dr. Csanky had come to her in great distress. Would I be so kind as to tell her what was happening so that she could inform him?
“I am removing these cases on the authority of the Commanding General of the Third United States Army,” I said. If she were going to throw generals’ names around, I could produce one too—and a better one at that.
Her response to my pompous pronouncement was delivered charmingly and with calculated deflationary effect. “Dear sir, forgive me if I seemed to question your authority. That was not my intention. It is quite apparent that you are removing the pictures, but where are you taking them?”
“I am sorry, but I am not at liberty to say,” I replied. That too sounded rather lordly, but I consoled myself by recalling that Posey had admonished me not to answer questions like that.
She relayed this information to Dr. Csanky and the effect was startling. He covered his face with his hands and I thought he was going to cry. Finally he pulled himself together and let forth a flood of unintelligible consonants. His interpreter tackled me again.
“Dr. Csanky is frantic. He says that he is responsible to his government for the safety of these treasures and since you are taking them away, there is nothing left for him to do but to blow his brains out.”
My patience was exhausted. I said savagely, “Tell Dr. Csanky for me that he can blow his brains out if he chooses, but I think it would be silly. If you must know, Madame, I am a museum director myself and you can assure him that no harm is going to come to his precious pictures.”