In anticipation of Kress’ arrival, we spent the next morning assembling all the paintings that appeared to have suffered recent damage of any kind. His first job would be to make a photographic record which we would include in our final report on the evacuation of the collection. We found thirty-four pictures in this category. Only two had sustained serious injury. These were the side panels of a large triptych by the sixteenth century Italian artist, Raffaellino del Garbo. They had been badly splintered by machine-gun fire while the collection was still aboard the special train which had brought it to Berchtesgaden. Three other panels bore the marks of stray bullets, but the harm done was relatively slight. In general, the damage consisted of minor nicks and scratches and water spots. Considering the hazards to which the collection had been exposed, the pictures had come through remarkably well. I was reminded of what George Stout had said, “There’s a lot of nonsense talked about the fragility of the ‘old masters.’ By and large, they are a hardy lot. Otherwise they wouldn’t have lasted this long.”
We had worked our crew all day Sunday, so we told them to knock off as soon as we had finished selecting and segregating the damaged pictures. With the afternoon to ourselves, we turned our attention to the miscellaneous assortment of objects in the “Gold Room.” This was the name given the small room on the ground floor in which Sergeant Peck had stored the things of great intrinsic value. There were seventy-five pieces in all: gold chalices studded with precious stones; silver tankards; reliquaries of gold and enamel work; boxes of jade and malachite; candelabra, clocks and lamps of marble and gold; precious plaques of carved ivory; and sets of gold table ornaments. They presented a specialized packing job which Lamont and I could handle better alone than with inexperienced helpers.
Our first problem was to find some small packing cases. We searched the rest house without success. Then Lamont remembered seeing a pile of individual wooden file cabinets in the little chapel where most of the furniture was stored. These were admirably suited to our purpose. They were rectangular boxes about six feet long and two feet high. Each was divided into three compartments. There were thirty of them—more than enough for the job. We had a supply of flannel cloths which we had borrowed from a packing firm in Munich. After wrapping each piece, we placed it in one of the compartments of the file cabinet. We stuffed the compartments with excelsior so that the objects could not move about.
A few of the items were equipped with special leather cases. Among these were two swords: one, with a beautifully etched blade of Toledo steel, had been presented to Göring by the Spanish air force; the other, with a jewel-studded gold handle, had been a gift from Mussolini. There was also a gold baton encrusted with precious stones, a present from the Reichsmarschall’s own air force.
Of all these objects, perhaps twenty were of modern workmanship. In contrast to the older things, they were ornate without being beautiful. Ugliest of the lot was a standing lamp. The stalk, eight inches in diameter, was a shaft of beaten gold. The shade, with a filigree design, was also of gold, as were the pull cords. Rivaling it in costly vulgarity was a set of gold table ornaments. The large centerpiece consisted of an elliptical framework. At each end and in the center of the two sides stood Egyptian maidens, fashioned of gold, four feet high. The German slang word for such stuff is “kitsch.” I think the closest English equivalent is “corny.”
Toward the end of the afternoon we were waited on by a delegation of three officers from the 101st Airborne Division. They had come to inquire if we would consider turning over to them the gold sword which Mussolini had given to Göring. They wanted it as a trophy for a club of 101st Airborne officers which they were organizing. They planned to set up a clubroom when they got back home and have annual reunions. The sword, they said, would be such an appropriate souvenir. I told them that I had been directed to ship everything to Munich and did not have authority to make any other disposition of objects in the collection. But, since the sword could not be regarded as a “cultural object”—a fact which I called to their attention—I suggested that they take the matter up with Third Army Headquarters in Munich. I refrained from informing them that, for all of me, they could have their pick of the modern objects in the “Gold Room.”
We made an interesting discovery that afternoon. Rummaging in a closet off the “Gold Room” we found a stack of photograph albums. At the bottom of the heap lay an enormous portfolio. It contained architect’s drawings for the proposed expansion of Karinhall. The estate, greatly enlarged, was to have become a public museum. We had heard that Göring intended to present his art collection to the Reich on his sixtieth birthday. Here was concrete proof of those intentions. Each drawing bore the date “January 1945.”
Steve returned in triumph at noon the next day. With him in the command car was Kress, looking more timid than ever. Steve said that Kress had had a bad time after we left Alt Aussee; the boys at House 71 had clapped him in jail and left him there for two days before interrogating him. Steve had been “burned up” about it and had given them a piece of his mind. He said contemptuously that he had known all along they didn’t have anything on Kress. But he was content to let bygones be bygones. Steve had his man Friday back again.
He pointed happily to the six-by-six which had pulled up behind the command car. All of Kress’ photographic equipment was packed up inside it. There was a tremendous lot of stuff: three large cameras, a metal table for drying prints, reflectors, a sink, pipes of various sizes, boxes of film and paper, and a couple of large cabinets. Steve planned to get everything installed at once. Kress was to sleep in one of the rooms of the rest house. An adjoining room was to be set up as a darkroom.