Restitution (26 page)

MiloÅ¡ shrugged. “I'm not so excited about politics anymore. I survived the war
and
the Communist takeover. My life will change little, no matter who is in power.”

Karl reacted strongly. “But the secret police. Surely if things change, you and others will be able to relax and stop looking over your shoulders.”

“The secret police? Yes, there's always the possibility that a colleague or neighbor might turn you in. And for what? Looking at someone the wrong way. Maybe even exchanging crowns for American dollars.” He patted his pocket and glanced once more in the rearview mirror. “I've seen others disappear for less. But the truth is, I've stopped worrying so much about them. What would they want with an old man like me?”

How ironic
, thought Karl.
Those same words were once uttered by many Jewish families in advance of Hitler's campaign!

The drive to Rakovník took Karl west out of Prague, through some of the most picturesque countryside of Czechoslovakia. Industrial buildings gave way to fields of sunflowers that dotted the side of the road, thrusting their blooms upward into a clear blue sky. Thick green forests lay beyond the meadows, rising into undulating hills. Karl had picnicked many times in pastures and woodlands just like these. He had skied on those distant mountains, and bicycled on those hilly trails. Out here in the countryside, there was less of a feeling of oppression. Karl rolled down his window and breathed in the fresh morning air. He was reminded once more of the splendor of his former homeland, a beauty all the more bittersweet given the passage of time and the world events that had ensued.

Soon the terrain flattened out as the hills gave way to towns and villages, and the road became even more familiar as the car approached the town of Rakovník. Karl's breath quickened. There was the High Gate, the city's landmark. Somewhere over there was the old cemetery where his grandfather had been buried. Karl wondered if it still existed, or whether, like so many Jewish graveyards, it had been destroyed by the Nazis or neglected after Jews had been forced to leave their hometowns. Miloš navigated through the narrow streets, finally emerging onto Husovo
the central square. He came to a stop in front of the Hotel Družba.

Karl descended from the car and glanced across the street. The hotel that was hosting the reunion happened to be located directly across from Karl's former home. Curtains fluttered through an open window on the third floor that had once been Karl's bedroom. The red-tiled roof reflected the mid-morning sun. Karl closed his eyes and could almost see the salon on the second floor where the four paintings had once hung. The exterior white stucco of the building had grayed over time, but, mostly, the house of his childhood looked as it once had, still quite grand and stately. There was, however, one major difference. The house was now the district headquarters for the Communist Party. A huge banner hung above the street level windows, proclaiming:
zemí,spojte se!
–
Workers of the world, unite!
The sign of the hammer and sickle punctuated the end of that edict. Around the corner and next to the front door, a second sign said,
Okresní
Rakovník
– District Office of Rakovník. With a shudder, Karl turned away and entered the hotel.

The reunion passed by in a jumble of faces he didn't remember and names he barely heard in the noise. His schoolmates, now all elderly, were polite and pleasant enough. He tried to be similarly courteous in turn. He reminisced about the years spent in high school, and he and his schoolmates walked over to the cemetery to see the grave of Mr. Puchold, the art teacher who had been particularly well-liked and respected by the students, including Karl. He also discovered that Mr. Ulrich, the dreaded geography teacher who had been openly anti-Semitic, had been killed in a Czech prison after the war for being a Nazi sympathizer.

After several hours with his former schoolmates, Karl could feel himself becoming restless. He was anxious to get back to Prague and resume his efforts to recover the paintings. And, deep down, he was experiencing a sense of irritation with these men, and with the shallow nature of this reunion. Karl had reappeared in the lives of his schoolmates after fifty years and yet his presence was met with only superficial interest. He had expected that they would be more curious about him and his life; particularly how he had escaped in 1939 and how he and his family had survived. But conversations were awkward and felt forced. No one expressed sympathy that he had left school so abruptly without completing his
matura
. No one asked about his father, who had been a prominent businessman in this community. No one mentioned his home, which was now a Communist command center. The fact that his family had been forced to flee, and that his home and belongings were gone, appeared to be a non-event for these men. In fact, from Karl's perspective, his former schoolmates seemed largely indifferent to the fate of the Jews during the war, and indifferent to Karl and his circumstances. The only thing they were curious about was the fact that Karl still had his real teeth!

But he realized that he had been naive to have expected more. These former acquaintances had never been his true friends. They would likely have turned him over to the Nazis years ago. Perhaps they were even amongst those who had entered his home after the Gestapo left, and ransacked it for his family's remaining property. He wondered if he would discover a lamp, rug, or even a painting that had once belonged to his family if he were to walk into their homes today.

He knew that he was being harsh to castigate his old schoolmates in this way. Surely, at the very least, they must have felt some remorse or shame at what had happened to Jews in the war. Perhaps they were avoiding the topic for that very reason. But, in the end, Karl knew he had been right to dread this reunion, and he reminded himself again that this gathering had only ever been a means to an end.

Karl glanced at his watch and realized it was almost time for his appointment with the chargé d'affaires. He paid for his coffee and was just about to rise when a commotion broke out across the street. A black Tatra automobile came to a screeching stop in front of the embassy gates. Two men, dressed in dark suits and carrying briefcases, walked out of the embassy building, climbed into the car, and sped off, tires squealing. It was a puzzling moment, but Karl had no time to dwell on it. He left the café, rang the bell next to the iron gates, and climbed the stairs to the embassy.

“I have an appointment with Mr. McRae,” he announced to the receptionist behind the glass partition. “My name is Karl Reeser.”

The woman was instantly sympathetic. “Oh dear,” she began. “I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Reeser, but Mr. McRae has been called away for a pressing and unexpected meeting at the
Castle. He's just left with Ambassador Mawhinney.”

That must have been the car that had departed with such urgency, Karl realized with a sinking heart. Seeing the look in Karl's eyes, the receptionist quickly continued, “Mr. McRae would be happy to see you tomorrow, or, if you wish, you could meet with the vice consul right now.”

What to do, wondered Karl. He had so little time here in the country and had serious misgivings about delaying his meeting for another day. He needed to see someone immediately if he had any hope of putting plans together for the discreet export of the paintings. But it was McRae who had been sent a copy of Pekárek's letter explaining that he had the paintings and wanted to return them. It was McRae who had spoken with Karl from Zurich and had agreed to this appointment. What would this new man know of his situation? Karl stood in the vestibule of the embassy building, shifting from one foot to the other, and looking distressed and hesitant. Once again the receptionist spoke up.

“I assure you, the vice consul is familiar with the reason you are here,” she said, reassuringly. “He and Mr. McRae have discussed your situation. The vice consul's name is Richard VandenBosch. I think it would be worth your while to meet with him.”

Karl knew he had to act quickly. He nodded to the receptionist and followed her down a long corridor.

Richard VandenBosch was a tall, energetic man in his early thirties with an engaging smile and charming demeanor. He jumped from his chair as soon as Karl entered his office, and came around his large wooden desk to greet him. “Hello, Mr. Reeser,” he exclaimed warmly, pumping Karl's hand. “So sorry for the mix-up with the meetings. Robert expressed his regrets that he couldn't be here to talk to you. It couldn't be helped. But I'm pleased to fill in for him. Come, sit down.”

Karl felt instantly at ease in the presence of this likeable young man. He seated himself in a comfortable armchair next to Richard VandenBosch and waited expectantly.

The two exchanged pleasantries: Karl's early impressions of Prague, the hotel in which he was staying, his high school reunion. Then VandenBosch got down to business. “My wife and I have a great interest in art, and I'm most curious to hear the story of your paintings.” He stared attentively at Karl through large, dark-rimmed glasses.

“I know you must be a busy man,” Karl began. He sensed that he should be brief or he would lose the opportunity to present his case. And yet, Karl believed that he would have to take Richard VandenBosch back to March 15, 1939, and Hitler's invasion of Prague in order to do his story justice. To Karl's surprise, the vice consul was relaxed and in no hurry. He seemed to want to engage in a long conversation.

“I'm somewhat of a history buff,” he interjected. “Especially personal history. So please take your time and start at the beginning. How did your family escape from this country back in thirty-nine?”

Karl let out a deep breath and settled into the armchair as he unfolded the details of his family's history. Each time that Karl tried to abbreviate parts of his story, or gloss over details, Richard interrupted him, insisting that he go back and fill in the missing information. He was particularly fascinated with the story of how Marie had bribed the Gestapo officer in order to obtain their exit visas when they were first trying to leave Prague. “You mean she actually walked into one of the Gestapo headquarters in another city,
by herself
, and offered money to an official?” he asked, shaking his head in disbelief. “What incredible guts she must have had.” The meeting that Karl imagined would last no more than ten minutes stretched to over two hours.