Restitution (18 page)

But that was a question no one was equipped to answer.
And why were we so lucky?
Karl wondered again and again.
We never really saw the future, never imagined the scope of what was to come. How is it that we made the right decision to get out when we did? How did my mother have so much foresight? If only there had been more like her.

On June 28, 1946, Karl and Phyllis were married. The man who performed the ceremony was Rabbi David Monson, known affectionately as the “people's rabbi.” The exchange of vows took place in his basement recreation room where he had constructed a permanent
chupa
– or wedding canopy – for these occasions. Only a handful of people were present: Karl's mother and Arthur Brock, Hana, a couple of uncles and an aunt, and Phyllis's parents and a few close relatives of hers. Neither Karl nor Phyllis wanted a lavish wedding. In truth, this Jewish ceremony was not even part of their belief system. But civil ceremonies were unheard of at the time, so this was the only possibility. Following the service, the family and a few other friends gathered at the King Edward Hotel for a small luncheon, and then Karl and Phyllis left for Niagara Falls and Lake Placid on their honeymoon.

The couple settled into a small apartment in the west end of Toronto, close to Phyllis's parents and Karl's work at Goodyear. With his mother's marriage to Arthur a few months later in early 1947, Karl felt as if his life was indeed settling into a normal and fulfilling existence. He was content. He had found a loving partner in Phyllis. Hana was grown and becoming more and more independent. Karl had a good job and even dreamed of one day starting a family of his own. It therefore took him by surprise when Marie announced shortly after her marriage that she and Arthur were moving back to Prague.

“What do you think you'll find there?” Karl asked after listening to Marie explain that she had been thinking about this return nonstop since the end of the war was announced. “Go for a holiday. Go and see if our home is still there. But don't give up everything we've established and worked for here for something that may not even exist anymore.”

“I think about our house so often,” Marie continued. “And everything we had before the war. Since discovering that Mr. Schmahl was amongst those who perished, I've wondered more and more about the paintings that he gave us.”

Karl listened but did not respond. It was virtually impossible for him to think about the Czechoslovakia he remembered from before the war.

“The paintings were all beautiful, but I especially loved the one of the children washing up. I haven't had any letters from Alois Jirák,” she added, naming the colleague who had taken possession of the paintings along with the power of attorney for their estate. “I wonder if he even managed to get through the war safely, let alone take care of our things. It would be a miracle if any of it is still there,” Marie said. “I know they were just things, irrelevant compared to the loss of lives, but I can't help but wonder about everything we left behind.”

Marie's eyes revealed her unshakeable determination, a look that Karl had seen many times. “The Nazis took everything and forced us out,” she said calmly and deliberately. “We had to run, like mice from a sinking ship. Well, now the war is over and it's time to return, to take back our country and our home.”

“This is home,” countered Karl, shaking his head emphatically. “That's only an illusion.”

But Marie's mind was made up. “I have to find out what's left,” she said firmly. “I have to try to get it back. If necessary I'll spend the rest of my life fighting to regain our property.”

At that, Karl fell silent, knowing that once his mother had resolved to do something, there was no stopping her. He knew that if anyone was capable of reclaiming their property and belongings, his mother certainly was.

Karl and Phyllis, 1947.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Toronto, March 10, 1990

WHEN THE POST OFFICE called a couple of weeks later to say that there was a package waiting for him from Prague, Theo was perplexed. He was not expecting another shipment of art. The most recent lot had arrived with all of the paintings intact – the “legal” ones that he had cleared through the National Gallery in Prague.

Theo had been organizing regular buying expeditions to the city of his birth for years, ever since he had realized that he could acquire fine art there at a price that was a fraction of its worth, and sell it here in Toronto for many times its value. The first five paintings he had bought in the early 1980s had sold easily, and Theo had profited well from those sales. The next time he had traveled to Prague, he had returned with ten paintings. On the next trip, he had bought twenty, and then thirty. Not in his wildest imagination had he ever dreamed that this business would do so well. He had made a good profit for the gallery and for himself over the years, acquiring the kind of wealth that allowed him to enjoy a lifestyle similar to the one in which had had been raised, though, in truth, he cared little about the money. He would have somehow managed to maintain his lifestyle whether he had the means or not. More surprisingly, the business he had developed was entirely legitimate. The paintings he selected were all approved by the infamous National Gallery of Czechoslovakia, one of many arms of the Communist government. It could have easily denied permission for the export of valuable paintings, or taxed them so heavily as to make their attainment too costly to be worth the effort. So how was it that Theo had come to be a regular here at the post office, routinely picking up bundles of paintings that he had bought in Prague and legally cleared for delivery to Toronto?

The answer was that he knew what to look for when he shopped – eighteenth- and nineteenth-century European oil paintings. Recently he had begun to include some twentieth-century impressionist oils. Most of the paintings he bought were done by Czech artists. František Jakub was a favorite. Jakub's pastoral scenes of peasants, plump nude women, and cherubic infants were in high demand in Canada. Paintings by artists such as Alfons Mucha, František Ženíšek, and Václav Brožík were also desirable. Occasionally, he managed to acquire works by German and Austrian painters. Theo chose mostly landscapes, interior scenes, and still life paintings. No portraits – he had learned that Canadian art collectors didn't like them – and no religious scenes. There was no market in Canada for those either. Most importantly, he knew that all of the paintings he selected would easily pass the scrutiny of the National Gallery and its panel of commissioners who granted permission for export. The Gallery considered these paintings to be too bourgeois and of little value. Theo chuckled at that.
What did they really know of art
, he wondered. It helped that most of the panelists on the jury were women. Theo had learned how to please and even manipulate them to turn a blind eye to some of the paintings he slipped into the bundle. It was remarkable how far an engaging smile, a kiss on the cheek, and a bottle of fine cognac could go.

But over the years, while on his buying sprees, Theo had occasionally come across pieces that he knew with certainty would not pass the inspection, no matter how charming he might be. And yet, he longed to have these works. He knew that if he could somehow get them out of the country and sell them in Canada, he would hit the jackpot. And that's when he began to smuggle paintings out, using sources and acquaintances that, for the right price, were eager to help him with this illegal activity. Once they had crossed the border from Czechoslovakia into Germany, it was simple to bring these additional paintings overseas into Canada. Getting them
into
Germany was the hard part. It was a complicated procedure and anything but safe. If he were discovered trying to smuggle valuable artwork out of Czechoslovakia without the Gallery's approval, the secret police would be on him in seconds. He would be arrested, thrown in jail, possibly tortured, and perhaps never heard from again. His Canadian citizenship and passport would not protect him if he were suspected of being involved in some clandestine scheme to smuggle goods out of the country. Karl Reeser's request to retrieve his family paintings would require one of these complicated maneuvers. Was it worth the risk? Theo knew that the answer to that question was a definite yes.

“I didn't expect to be back here so soon,” Theo said as he entered the postal building and approached the desk. The clerk, a young man with a bright red face and awkward bearing, recognized him immediately and bent to confer with him.

“I'm the one who called you, Mr. Král,” the man said. “I'll get your package if you'll just wait a minute. There's a bit of a problem with it.” He frowned and shrugged before leaving the main room to search in the back.

Two mysteries
, thought Theo, as he waited for the clerk to return. Who was sending him a package? And what was this problem? His mail from Prague was either about the artwork that he was in charge of shipping or the occasional letter from family or friends. Neither posed any problems, unless the Czech government was somehow involved in this. At that thought, Theo paused and his mind flashed back to when he had first arrived in Toronto.

It had been a shock to his family when Theo decided to leave for Canada in 1978. It wasn't that he hated the oppressive regime. Quite the contrary. He knew the system well and had learned to move quite freely within it. He went where he wanted and spoke his mind. After graduating from film school, he had secured a good job working in the Czech film industry. This had also been a political position. Theo's job had been to function as a “commissar.” He organized film festivals and screened movies for the government, ensuring that those chosen for the public adhered to the strict rules of propaganda and politics. His was a senior position, supervising a large contingent of people in the film industry. It was expected that he would also observe all behaviors of those below him, and report any activities of interest or concern to the Central Committee. While others would have readily acted as spies for the government, at this, Theo drew the line, refusing to satisfy the Communists and become an informer. It was important to him that he not intentionally hurt anyone, even within this position of power. And he walked that line well. If he had wanted, he could have risen within the party to a position of authority, probably within the Department of Propaganda. With his charm and organizational skills, he would have done well for the system.

So why leave what was, for all intents and purposes, a good life? The truth was that Theo had seen the writing on the wall long before the regime began to falter. He envisioned the future of Czechoslovakia with the kind of foresight that he was known for, and he knew there was no future here for him. Besides, Theo was increasingly unhappy in this homogeneous society defined by identical three-story walk-ups and fearful citizens. He no longer wanted to live by someone else's rules. It was time to live entirely by his own.

No one understood his reasoning, least of all his parents. They cornered him and went at him with every argument they could muster.

“You are leaving all these comforts – your home, your position, your security,” his father said. “Are you really willing to abandon all of this?”

“You are leaving
us
!” his mother added, more gently. “When will we see you? It's not so easy to travel outside of Prague.” Travel visas were next to impossible to obtain. The government did not trust that those who left the country would ever return.

“Do you understand the seriousness of what you are doing? You'll probably be denounced and stripped of your citizenship,” his father concluded grimly.

Theo shrugged. “I'm still going.”

Earlier in his life, he had become involved in a Christian peace organization. It's not that he subscribed to any kind of religion. But the group had afforded him the opportunity to travel to various countries to participate in local symposia. A conference was being held in Toronto and, using his affiliation with this group as a rationale, he applied for and received the exit permit needed to travel to Canada, knowing full well he would not return.

Theo had to admit that those first few months in Toronto were difficult. He was homesick and spent evenings playing old Czech songs on the record player and poring over photographs of castles and châteaus from the Czech countryside. For the first time in his life, he felt truly alone. He had no Canadian friends, missed the old connections, and hated the isolation, something he had never experienced before.

But still he would not return to Prague. He ignored the letters that began to arrive from friends and family members begging him to come back. The Communists even went so far as to release his parents for a visit to Toronto to persuade him to return. But he remained firm. He was not going back. He was determined to weather those early days in Toronto and concluded that this was his destiny. The responsibility for establishing a new life lay with him now.
Lazy people do better in a socialist system where you're not allowed to think for yourself
, he concluded
.
That was not the life that Theo craved. He had his sights set on greater adventures. Eventually, he was expelled from the Communist party. He had been a golden boy within the system and his defection was viewed as a slap in the face.