Salt mines and castles: The discovery and restitution of looted European art

by Thomas Carr Howe

Then I mentioned my problem children—my German packers. Anderson didn’t think the Russians would look on them with much favor, if my trucks were stopped and inspected. I asked about another road to Hohenfurth. Perhaps there was one to the west of the Russian lines. He didn’t know about any other route but said that we could take a look at the big map in the O.D.’s office on the next floor.

To my great relief, it appeared that there was another road—one which ran parallel with the main road, four or five miles to the west of it. But Anderson tempered enthusiasm with the remark that it might not be wide enough for my two-and-a-half-ton trucks. There was nothing on the map to indicate whether it was much more than a cow path and the duty officer didn’t know. One of the other officers might be able to tell me. I could ask in the morning.

That night I worried a good deal about the hazards that seemed to lie ahead, and woke up feeling depressed. Things, I reflected, had been going too well. I should have guessed that there would be rough spots here and there. After early breakfast I called to thank the colonel, Anderson’s chief, for his kindness, and while in his office had a chance to inquire about the alternate route.

“The back road is all right,” he said without hesitation. “Take it by all means. You will cross the Czech frontier just north of Leonfelden. A telephone call to our officer at the border control will fix that up. You should be able to make Hohenfurth in about two hours. The C.O. at Hohenfurth is Lieutenant Colonel Sheehan of the 263rd Field Artillery Battalion.”

On my way through the outer office I stopped for a word with Lieutenant Anderson, and while there the colonel gave instructions about the call to the border control post. That done, Anderson said, “If you’ve got a minute, there’s something I want to show you.” I followed him down the stairs and through the back entrance of the hotel to the broad esplanade beside the Danube. The river was beautiful that morning. Its swiftly flowing waters were really blue.

We walked over to the river where a white yacht tugged at her moorings. She was the Ungaria, presented by Hitler to Admiral Horthy, the Hungarian Regent. Anderson took me aboard and we made a tour of her luxurious cabins. She was about a hundred twenty feet over all and her fittings were lavish to the last detail. The vessel was now in the custody of the American authorities, but her original crew was still aboard.

After this unexpected nautical adventure, Anderson took me to my trucks and saw us off on the last lap of the journey. Beyond Urfahr, the town across the Danube from Linz, we turned north. It was slow going for the convoy because the road was steep and winding. Our progress was further impeded by an endless line of horse-drawn carts and wagons, all moving in the direction of Linz. Most of them were filled with household furnishings. Presently the road straightened out and we entered a region of rolling, upland meadows and deep pine forests. After an hour and a half’s drive we reached Leonfelden, a pretty village with a seventeenth century church nestling in a shallow valley. Just beyond it was the frontier. We identified ourselves to the two officers—one American, the other Czech—and continued on our way. Our entry into Czechoslovakia had been singularly undramatic. In another twenty minutes we pulled into Hohenfurth.

It was not a particularly prepossessing village on first sight. Drab, one-story houses lined the one main street. The headquarters of the 263rd Field Artillery Battalion occupied an unpretentious corner building. Lieutenant Colonel John R. Sheehan, the C.O., was a big, amiable fellow, with a Boston-Irish accent.

“If you’ve come for that stuff in the monastery,” he said, “just tell me what you need and I’ll see that you get it. I’m anxious to get the place cleared out because we’re not going to be here much longer. When we leave, the Czechs are going to take over.” The colonel called for Major Coleman W. Thacher, his “Exec,” a pleasant young Bostonian, and told him to see that I was properly taken care of. The major, in turn, instructed his sergeant to show me the way to the monastery and to provide billets for my men.

It was after eleven, but the sergeant said we’d have time to take a look at the monastery before chow. He suggested that we take the trucks to the monastery, which was not more than three-quarters of a mile from headquarters. We drove down a narrow side street to the outskirts of town. The small villas on either side were being used for officers’ billets. The street ended abruptly, and up ahead to the left, on a slight eminence, I saw the cream-colored walls of the monastery.