Restitution (27 page)

“My parents were from the Netherlands,” Richard said as Karl was wrapping up his story. “My father was the first in his family to go to Canada in the 1940s. And while he had it relatively easy during the war, he also had to leave everything behind when he left his homeland.”

Richard VandenBosch tilted back in his chair and stared intently at Karl. He had been stationed here in Prague for almost two years, after a string of postings in cities around the world starting in 1978. This was a career that he had fallen into quite by accident. As a child growing up in Ottawa, he had never been a particularly strong student, and had been on the verge of being kicked out of school many times. At the age of seventeen, he left school to join the RCMP as a civilian, doing shift work in their office while attending night school to complete his studies. It was while he was working with the RCMP that a friend offered him a position in external affairs. Since he already had police clearance, a requirement of his job, he thought he might give this new opportunity a try. He was interviewed and hired.

As a consular officer in Prague, VandenBosch was responsible for looking after the visa and immigration concerns of Canadians who were visiting or working in Czechoslovakia. The issues that he dealt with were varied and often extremely compelling. Most recently he had helped a Canadian who had been hit by a car while in the country. Helping solve the predicaments and crises facing fellow Canadians was something that gave Richard VandenBosch a great sense of satisfaction. Karl's story moved him instantly and deeply. He was in awe of Marie, who had so boldly protected her family in the face of great odds. He was impressed with Karl, who was determined to fulfill his mother's dream of restitution. And he was captivated by the story of these family treasures that had resurfaced after so many years.

For his part, Karl felt an immediate kinship with this inquisitive, interested young man. He didn't know why he should trust him so completely. But he sensed that this man was honest. How ironic, Karl thought, that he had hesitated in agreeing to a meeting with VandenBosch. This was proving to be a lucky outcome. It was a relief for Karl to be able to tell his story, and gratifying to find someone so keenly interested and stirred by it. In spite of the previous nights of sleeplessness, Karl had never felt more awake as his mind struggled to find a solution to his predicament, and a way for this man to help him.

And then an idea came to him. Karl composed himself, faced Richard VandenBosch, and looked him straight in the eyes. “It seems to me that it will be useless for me to apply to have the paintings legally exported from this country. There is no question in my mind that they would be seized by the Czech authorities, and then they would be as good as lost to me.”

Richard nodded thoughtfully in agreement. He too knew that if the authorities got hold of the paintings, Karl would be in a battle with the government to extort money from him. There would be no victory in this for Karl, no happy ending, and no return of family property.

“I need to make sure that the Czechs do not get their hands on the paintings,” continued Karl. “I would like the Canadian embassy to take possession of them.” It was the only alternative. If he could get the artwork into a Canadian shelter, he reasoned, the Czech government would then no longer have access to them. “The embassy could provide a kind of asylum or sanctuary for the paintings until I figure out what I'm going to do.” Karl leaned forward in his chair, suddenly quite animated. “I need to do all of this in the next few days,” he added. “I'm due to fly back to Canada on May thirtieth, and I don't want to leave this country without securing a safe place for the paintings. I don't know when I can return, and I don't know how I'm actually going to get the paintings out of the country. But for now, and with your help, I'd like to deliver them here to the embassy. I want you to hide them and protect them until I can find a way to get them out of here.”

The bold request hung in the air between the two men. And then Richard VandenBosch responded, and with the words that Karl had hoped to hear. “I have no problem with that,” he said.

The meeting concluded shortly after that. Richard agreed to personally accompany Karl to Jan Pekárek's flat where they would take possession of the paintings and transport them to the embassy. VandenBosch would provide the automobile and the two of them, along with Pekárek, would do the lifting and carrying. Richard told Karl to call him two days later. “I need to check out some details with my colleagues,” he said.

Karl agreed, noting that he also needed to confirm the arrangements with Jan Pekárek. “This man thinks that I'm working with the Czech authorities to export the paintings from the country. I don't want to compromise his personal safety in any way with this change of plans.”

Richard nodded. “We're going to have to try to get the paintings here to the embassy on Saturday,” he added. “You may have noticed the renovations that are currently underway here.” Karl had seen the scaffolding outside the building and the workers in the hallway. “Most of the construction workers do not have security clearance.” In other words, surmised Karl, these people might be spies working on behalf of State Security. It was an effective and simple way for the government to keep watch on the embassy's business – simply plant party people, in the guise of construction workers, within the building. “We don't want anyone noticing that you and I are transporting goods into the building,” continued Richard. “On Saturday, the embassy is empty except for a Canadian Forces security officer. And he can be trusted. We can safely move the paintings then.”

The meeting was over. Karl stood and shook hands with Richard VandenBosch, once again giving silent thanks for having had the good fortune to meet with this man. 'Ihc future of the paintings now rested with him and with the Canadian embassy. One more step in this complex operation had fallen into place.

Karl's former family homo in Rakovnìk — now the district headquarters of the Communist Part).

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Prague, May 1989

SHORTLY AFTER Karl left his office, Richard VandenBosch headed down the hallway to meet with Robert McRae. He knocked softly on his door and entered, sinking heavily into an armchair across from his desk.

“How was the appointment with Mr. Reeser?” McRae asked. He had just returned from his meeting at the
Castle and was still extracting notes and binders from his briefcase. As soon as VandenBosch sat down, McRae put aside his papers, perched himself on the edge of his desk, and waited expectantly.

“Incredible!” Richard replied. “I need to talk to you about this.” McRae was not only Richard VandenBosch's superior, but had become a valued friend over the years. They had met while posted together in Yugoslavia. It was McRae who had recommended him for the position here. Richard respected and often sought out McRae's advice. “This man's story – his life – is quite remarkable,” he continued. Just as Karl had done for him, he unfolded the history of the paintings. “Mr. Reeser wants the embassy to take possession of the paintings while he figures out a way to get them out of the country,” he went on. “If he goes through the ‘legal' channels, you and I both know that they will be confiscated. Housing them here will give him time to figure out a better plan.”

McRae nodded thoughtfully. “And what did you tell him?”

“I said we'd have no problem with that.”

McRae nodded again but did not reply. The calm and acumen he possessed came from years of having worked in diplomatic service. Robert McRae had seen and heard it all.

“As far as I'm concerned, the paintings are the property of a Canadian citizen,” Richard continued. “The letter we have from this Jan Pekárek proves that. That makes the artwork Canadian as well. I don't care how long it's been here in this country.” He leaned forward in his chair to face McRae. “Look, there's no way we should let the Communists get their hands on this stuff. Our job is to help Canadians in need, and this guy is desperate for our help.”

It was no secret that Richard VandenBosch had little fondness for the government of the day. He had witnessed firsthand the repressive activities of the police and had seen the impact they had on the people of this country. Over the nearly two years that he had been here, his emotions had turned from sadness for the country, to irritation, and then to outright anger. He was tired of the crude campaign of harassment carried out under the guise of conducting government business. He sometimes wondered what the authorities thought they might uncover with this constant scrutiny, but he also knew that it was the very act of surveillance that kept the citizens cowering and on guard.

He had also had personal experiences of being watched and spied upon, notwithstanding his diplomatic immunity, which was meant to protect him from interference or intimidation by a host government. Most days, he could look out the window of his office and see the barely concealed undercover agents, training their long-lens cameras on the embassy building. He had answered telephone calls in the middle of the night where no one would reply on the other end, and he knew that his phone had been bugged.

There had even been a time, the previous summer, when he and a group of diplomatic families had all gone out for a weekend picnic. Twelve cars with diplomatic license plates headed out of the city toward a spot in the countryside. Richard had his wife, Anne, and his two young sons, Alexander and James, in the car with him. They eagerly anticipated spending a relaxed afternoon in the fresh air and away from their small, dank apartment where there was always a taste of burning coal in the back of their throats.

The families had found the perfect spot in a small valley where green fields dotted with daisies butted up against gently rolling hills. They had parked their cars, spread blankets on the grass, and pulled out baskets of sandwiches, sweet cakes, and beer for the adults. The children had begun kicking a soccer ball around the open field. But in the distance, on a sloping hill and clearly visible to all, a line of black cars was also parked. A half a dozen or more plain-clothed agents were standing in front of their automobiles, binoculars and long-range cameras aimed directly at the embassy families below. Big Brother was always watching.

Now that there was a sense of change in the political landscape of Czechoslovakia, the demands on the Canadian embassy to assist people had increased dramatically. Recently, people had been escaping from East Germany and were coming through Prague to get to the embassy in West Germany. Cars were being abandoned in the city as people tried to flee. Tents had sprung up in the gardens of public buildings, housing families who were desperate to get papers to go overseas. No one really knew what would happen to the citizens of Czechoslovakia if the Iron Curtain collapsed. And no one could predict what would become of personal property.

“I don't like people getting ripped off,” he continued, springing from the armchair in McRae's office and beginning to pace back and forth. He hadn't even seen the paintings, but was already drawn in by Karl's vivid description of them. “They'll be sold, and some corrupt Communist is going to pocket the cash. Or they'll end up on some party official's wall, someone who will never know or care about them, or the blood, sweat, and tears it took to get this family out of the country during the war.”

VandenBosch had listened to many stories over the years. But this one, Karl's story, had something more. It was the fact that his family had miraculously escaped unscathed in 1939, when so many other Jewish families had met a devastating fate. It was the injustice of having entrusted valuables to someone, only to have that person betray that trust. And it was the miracle of discovering their goods still safe here in Prague, and yet still unattainable.

He finished pacing and faced McRae. “This family defied the odds by getting out of here before the war,” he said. “Now it's time to reunite them with what is rightfully theirs.” He sank back down into the armchair and waited for McRae's response. But he was not worried. He and the chargé d'affaires were like-minded civil servants. They shared the same concern for the welfare of Canadians in need, and both were equally determined to right the wrongs committed against fellow nationals.