His aunt died of pneumonia in December of 1943, but Yost continued to work in Hitler’s central collecting point in Munich, cataloging and caring for paintings that arrived from all over Europe by truck, train, and airplane.

“I was fairly well treated,” Yost continued. “I got a ration book, and an apartment to share with three other workers from the central collecting point. They even paid me a salary. I was told by the Gestapo that they knew about my father, knew where he lived, and if I tried to escape, ‘something would happen’ to Father. I didn’t think the Gestapo had enough people to worry about people like me, but I took no chances.”

Yost grimaced as he tried to stretch a stiff leg. “Whether it was because my work was so good, or perhaps because I had written a letter to Goering to deplore the sorry state in which the art was being stored at the central collecting point, I came to the attention of the men around Hitler responsible for the art. Among them was Hans Reger, director of the central collecting point, who singled me out for more and more responsibility.”

A knock at the door interrupted Yost’s story.

“Come in,” he called. The door opened moments later and the younger Jacob Yost entered with a tray of sandwiches, beer, and sparkling water. “I thought you might be getting hungry,” he said.

Instinctively Seth looked at his watch. It was nearly 9:30. The time had vanished swiftly.

“Thank you,” said the senior Yost. Seth also nodded his appreciation as the son cleared off the table between the wing-backed chairs and set the tray down on it He poured the beer from tall brown bottles into heavy lead crystal mugs and then left the room, closing the door behind him.

The room was silent for several moments as the two men surveyed the tray and then began to help themselves. Seth felt his stomach rumble at the sight of the food and suddenly realized how hungry he had become.

After they had settled back into their chairs, Yost resumed his story.

“I was gradually given more and more responsibility,” he said, washing down a mouthful of liverwurst sandwich with a swallow of beer. “I had, after all, spent my college career—all my life, in fact—learning to care for fine art. But I was lonesome for my family and constantly afraid of both the SS and the Gestapo. But I threw myself into the work. After all, I wasn’t for Hitler as much as I was for the preservation of the art of the ages. I didn’t care who had the art I just knew that I would never forgive myself if I let these works of the masters deteriorate.”

He looked vaguely into the fire, as if he saw the works painted with brightly dancing brushes of flame. “They were all there, you know.” His voice took on a dreamy nostalgia. ‘Titian, Rembrandt Leonardo, Rubens…all of them.” Yost seemed to mourn for a bittersweet lost memory. “Only the curators at the world’s most renowned museums ever have an opportunity to care for so many of the masters.”