Restitution (7 page)

Karl's mother joined him next to the painting. “Look at how the light falls here on the manuscript pages and how her hair glows through the cap she is wearing,” she said. “She appears to be daydreaming.”

“Perhaps she wishes to abandon the tediousness of everyday chores for a musical interlude,” Mr. Schmahl replied. He may have been gaudy in his manner and dress, but he certainly did know art. Sensing that he had captured the attention of at least two people in the room, Schmahl continued. “Note how whimsical the painting is. It's the portrait of a woman longing for something more, something beyond the life that she has been leading.”

The other vertical painting told a different story of a young woman. This one was called
Ready for the Ball.
The woman depicted here was dressed for a party, in a deep red and green Spanish-style gown and an ornamental black mantilla. Her sleeves were adorned with fine lace, and she held a closed fan up against her face. Her eyes gazed longingly to one side, as if she were dreaming of a night of music and merriment.

“The artist is Antonio Ermolao Paoletti, an Italian,” said Mr. Schmahl. “He was known for painting the ceiling of one of the finest gothic churches of Europe, the Madonna dell'Orto. Mrs. Reiser, I can see that you recognize that the artist has painted a woman of aristocracy. She is attractive, alluring, and perhaps a bit mysterious.” Mr. Schmahl was now in his element, expounding on the virtues of the art that he had brought, gesturing in the air like a conductor leading a large orchestra. Karl's father remained silent, though even he had approached the paintings to examine them more closely.

“Take a look at this one.” Marie gasped as she paused in front of the last of the paintings.

“Ah yes, perhaps I've saved the best for last,” smiled Mr. Schmahl. “
Le lavabo à l'école maternelle
, by the French artist Henri Jules Jean Geoffroy. One has to look carefully to see and enjoy the many fine details of this work of art.”

The last painting was indeed special. Here, more than two dozen nursery school children were gathered in a bathroom along with two teachers or nannies who were attending to them. Several children were standing around a large tub scrubbing their faces. One little boy, off to one side, was bent over, trying to tie his shoelaces. A piece of bread lay on the ground in front of him. Another little boy was tugging at the skirt of the attendant. Several others were standing, arm in arm, waiting to scrub or to leave. In the background, more children were filing in through the open door.

“Yes,” Marie murmured. “It's particularly lovely.”

“And worth a lot of money,” added Mr. Schmahl, looking over at Karl's father. “I believe that these paintings more than make up for the money that you loaned me, Mr. Reiser.” Once more, Mr. Schmahl tugged at his tie, waiting for Victor's reply.

Father shrugged his shoulders and Karl couldn't help but smile again. Art was not new to the Reisers. Paintings hung throughout the house. His father admired fine art and often bought paintings abroad. In fact, art was the one place where Victor permitted himself to display his wealth, knowing it would not be obvious to those outside the home. But the truth was that Karl's father would help out anyone in need, and rarely took notice of the bill. He had assisted other merchants in other ways in the past – those who couldn't make ends meet, those who owed money. He could see that Schmahl was doing the honorable thing by paying off the loan in the only way he could. Karl knew even before his father answered that this exchange – art for the release of the debt – would suffice. The two men shook hands and Mr. Schmahl left the house soon after.

That night at dinner, Marie continued to elaborate on the merits of the paintings. “I've been doing some reading about them. I dare say they may be the most valuable paintings we have in our home – certainly the largest!” There were many art books in the family library and Marie loved to pore over them. “I'm simply riveted by these paintings, all four of them. The details are marvelous and they are so different from one another. Each one tells a unique story. I could stare at them forever.”

A guest had joined them that evening, an army officer who had command of the district in which Rakovník was located and who was staying in the Reiser home's guest quarters. It was common practice that the highest ranking military officer would be billeted in the best accommodation in the area, which, of course, was Karl's home. This was not the first time that this commander had stayed with them.

“Are you fond of art,
Plukovník
?” asked Marie, addressing the officer by his military rank.

The colonel smiled. “I'm afraid I have not had many opportunities to go to the galleries, though I am certainly enjoying the fine works here in your home.” He turned back to the platter of chicken and rice that one of the servants had placed before him.

“Hana, have you had a chance to see the paintings?” Mother asked. “Did you see the one of the small children? I know this artist, Geoffroy; I've seen his moniker, GEO, on other portraits of children. The faces that he paints are truly delightful.”

Hana shook her head and said nothing. She often became quiet when there were guests in the house. She preferred the family to be alone, just the four of them, and Leila of course, without all of those extra people occupying her parents' attention.

“Well you must go and look at them, Hana,” Marie continued. “They are really quite special, the most extraordinary paintings we've ever had. Victor, I think we are lucky to have received them, despite the particular circumstances under which they arrived.”

Victor glanced at his wife. “I'm glad you are enjoying them, my dear,” he said, and turned his attention to the officer. “Commander, please tell us what you can of the military operations that are going on. Surely we won't let that bastard, Hitler, get any more of this country than he already has.”

Karl leaned forward to catch this exchange.

The officer shrugged his shoulders, choosing his words carefully. “We are readying ourselves, just in case the Nazis decide to do anything else.” It was common knowledge that Czechoslovakia was in a state of military mobilization. Battalions of armies were being shifted and moved to border regions. The Colonel wasn't telling them anything they didn't already know.

“And a good thing that the army is preparing itself,” Marie interjected. “That man can't be trusted. I hope our government knows that.”

“My wife is a skeptic, as you no doubt can see,” said Victor.

“There is talk of an escalation in the conflict,” the officer continued, cautiously. “We are all waiting to see how the new president will handle the situation.”

Emil Hácha, the newly elected president of what was being called the Second Republic of Czechoslovakia, was facing huge challenges, particularly as the Sudetens, following the annexation of their part of the country, were continuing to agitate for more – for a completely independent state.

“Hácha!” sneered Marie. “That man is sixty-six years old, inexperienced, and has a bad heart condition. I am not certain that he is capable of dealing with this mess.”

“Nonsense,” countered Victor. “Hácha's sense of justice will prevail, just as it did for his predecessors. No harm will come to Czechoslovakia, or to us.”

The commander's face was grim. “The next weeks and months will be a critical time. I can't say much more than that. But we mustn't lose hope.”

Karl sat back. His hope was fading on a daily basis, and this officer was doing little to revive it. The country was being pulled into a powerful current, heading toward a precipice where there would be tragic consequences, and not even the army had answers for how to rescue it. On top of that was still the nagging uncertainty of what would happen to Jewish families if there were an invasion. There was no discussion about the situation for Jews with this commander. It was uncertain whether or not he even knew that Karl's family was Jewish. But it was better these days not to raise the issue. One never knew how someone, particularly a member of the military, might respond – it was hard to tell who was a friend, and who was not.

The commander thanked Marie for the meal, rose, and bowed to the family. “I would like to have a look at those paintings. Would you mind showing them to me?”

Marie led the officer into the salon, leaving Karl, his father, and Hana to finish their dinner in silence. Days later, Marie arranged to have the paintings hung in the salon. Though Karl passed them virtually every day, he rarely took much notice of them. They simply became part of the house and part of the family.

CHAPTER FIVE

Toronto, February 19, 1990

THEO ENTERED HIS OFFICE at the back of the small gallery in an affluent part of Toronto and switched on the light, sinking into a plush swivel chair behind a large mahogany desk. The desk was piled high with art books, file folders stacked into colorful towers, unanswered telephone message slips, and a number of unwashed coffee mugs. A half-empty glass of wine and several old newspapers added to the clutter. He placed the files on the floor, pushed the dishes and papers aside, and reached into his briefcase, extracting the photographs of the four paintings. Spreading them out in front of him, he leaned in so that he could study them with a critical eye.

Theo picked up the photo of the Spanish dancer first and brought it up to the light. It was probably a commissioned portrait of someone's daughter, he thought. He recognized it immediately as late nineteenth century, the end of an era, the last hoorah for that kind of painting of a young courtesan. The artist had achieved a beautiful lightness in the hands, the tilted head, and the eyes that almost moved. Yes, the eyes were certainly most appealing. But for the most part, the painting was heavy – a black dress, black hair. The young woman's body all but disappeared in the weight and color of her clothing.

He reached for the photo of the housewife next. It was probably the best executed of the four, he thought, simply because of the light that swept across the scene, creating a warm glow that almost lifted off the canvas. The woman was picking up a corner of some sheet music, and you could almost see the page move beneath her hand. Theo recognized the complexity of the artist's rendering in this painting; the background was intricate, from the window, with its complex wrought-iron design, to the rich, textured tapestry. The young woman's face was full of delight and curiosity. And, unlike the Spanish dancer, you could almost see this young woman's body underneath her dress, her full breasts, hips, and delicate neck.

The painting of the forest fire would probably be the least attractive to most people, though most would have to concede that it was well executed. It moved. The flames crept horizontally, while smoke drifted across the canvas in one direction and trees fell in the opposite direction. Theo was drawn to the sense of destruction and devastation it depicted; it was almost like a war painting. It must have been done from memory, as it would be unlikely for the artist to have been present for a fire of this magnitude. Perhaps the inferno had been personally significant for the painter; maybe someone he knew had died in the flames.

Finally, Theo reached for the photo of the children. This was certainly the most appealing of the four works of art, and it, too, was superbly painted. Theo noted that no two of the youngsters' faces were alike. That alone was an incredible feat. Typically, an artist would have used two or three models for a painting of this kind, and simply moved the faces around the canvas. But here, each child was unique: this one melancholy, this one a bully, this one a demure little girl with her eyes cast downward. Theo imagined that the artist would have painted the background first, and then placed each child into it. This painting would be extremely valuable, Theo surmised, both for its complexity and for its joyful nature.

He sighed and lay the photos down again, lining them up in a row in front of him. Two verticals and two horizontals.
Ready for the Ball
was the smallest of the four at 116 by 88 centimeters;
Forest Fire
, at 104 by 157 centimeters, the largest, though, in truth, the difference was trivial. Once framed, each one would fill half a wall.

Theo leaned back and questioned himself. What was it that was driving him to think about risking his own safety to liberate valuable property that he did not even own, for someone he barely knew? Was it fame – the notoriety that might come from duping the corrupt Czech government of the day and completing a rescue mission of this kind? It was no secret that Theo loved the spotlight, reveled in being the center of attention in a crowd of admirers. But it was unlikely that anyone beyond this particular family would ever know of his efforts here.

Was it monetary reward? The payment he would receive for this assignment was certainly respectable, though it didn't come close to equaling the real value of the paintings, and most of it would be used to fund this undertaking. Besides, money was not really a worry for him. He lived the same entitled and affluent lifestyle whether he had the means or not. And when he didn't have the money, he borrowed it, often burning the bridges of friendship when he failed to return the loan.

Was he tempted to simply steal the paintings for himself? He was after all, a self-proclaimed smuggler, one who had been moving valuable art out of Czechoslovakia for some years, even if this was merely a sideline to his legitimate deals. Why be altruistic now? The paintings were valuable – Karl had said that they could be worth in excess of half a million dollars. The opportunity to get his hands on artwork of this caliber and significance would be a tremendous coup for Theo.

But the truth was that there was something else that was drawing him to this journey. Like wrongly accused prisoners of war, the paintings were being held captive in Czechoslovakia – they were calling out to be rescued. And he was the one who had been summoned to respond. He envisioned himself swooping into Prague, liberating these paintings from captivity, and restoring them to their rightful owner. Theo chuckled at his theatrical fantasy and at having cast himself as such a hero in the adventure. Those who knew him well understood that he was all about pleasure and conquest, and this was an assignment he could not resist. The challenge of retrieving these paintings had already ignited a spark of excitement in him that was beginning to smolder. The operation itself – the thrill of the heist – was his driving inspiration.