Botticelli's Bastard

by Stephen Maitland-Lewis

  “Exactly,” Max said. “I’m glad you can appreciate the position I was in. Many non-Jews were in the same position at that time.” Max sighed and seemed to relax. He poured more brandy for himself and then took the neck of the bottle and reached toward Giovanni’s glass.

  “Just a little, please, Uncle,” Giovanni said.

  Max obliged with an additional finger’s worth and Giovanni thanked him. Again he raised the glass to his lips but did not let the liquor pass.

  “This is excellent brandy,” Giovanni said. “It’s such a terrible shame that Papa didn’t better understand the complexities of what was going on in Paris at that time. If he had, you and I would have had a relationship over the years.”

  “Yes, I wish the same,” Max said.

  “I read a little about Paris back then,” Giovanni said. “I guess Goering was in charge of the artwork they took.”

  “Yes. Works of art were catalogued and stored at the Jeu de Paume and the Louvre. Some of it was taken by leaders of the Reich, Goering and Hitler, mostly.”

  “Goering actually asked for your opinion on the value of art?” Giovanni pretended to be impressed.

  “Oh, no, certainly not.” Max shook his head and waved his hand to dismiss the idea immediately. “He did not deal with people like me. It was the ERR. There was an officer who was my contact. I was introduced to him at Maxim’s, I think. The Nazis had taken over all the finest restaurants in Paris, you know. Someone introduced me as an art historian, and later I was asked to give my opinion on certain works of art they had in their possession.”

  “Do you remember his name?”

  “Oh, no,” Max replied. “It was so very long ago. It was just some underling.”

  Giovanni nodded and did not contest his uncle’s reply, though it was almost certainly a lie. Instead he lightened the mood, but only for a moment.

  “I read the Nazis liked the Old Masters and Renaissance painters but considered Impressionism and other modern art as degenerate.”

  “Madness, isn’t it?” Max chuckled. “I consider my Picasso, Matisse, and Monet among my favorites in my collection.”

  Giovanni reached inside his jacket for the envelope of photographs he had brought. “I’d like to talk more about the crate you sent to my father. Actually, about the painting that was inside of it, along with your letter.” He found the image of the Count’s portrait. “I brought a photo of it.” He handed it to Max.

  He studied it. “I sent this?”

  Giovanni nodded. “And now I have it. I’m quite fond of it, actually. It looks Renaissance, doesn’t it?”

  “It certainly does. Who is the artist?”

  “That’s the remarkable thing, Uncle. It is unsigned. Even though it’s been many years, I was hoping you might know the artist’s name.”

  Max took another look at the photograph, shook his head, and handed it back to Giovanni.

  “Do you remember where you got it, Max?”

  “It’s hard to say,” he replied. “The passage of time, of course. And I don’t remember if I got it in France or Switzerland, frankly.”

  “It was France,” Giovanni said with forceful certainty.

  Max became confused, but also suspicious. “Are you asking me, or telling me?”

  “It was France.” Giovanni fabricated an excuse for his certainty. “The letter to my father you included in the crate, which I showed you.” Giovanni patted his jacket, inside of which was the letter safely tucked away, beyond the reach of further inspection that would expose his outright lie. “Perhaps you didn’t have a chance to read it entirely. In closing, you mentioned the collector from whom you acquired the piece. Meyerstein, I think it was. Does that ring any bells?”

  “Meyerstein?” Max took a sip of his brandy. “I don’t recall anyone by that name.”

  “Surely you remember,” Giovanni prodded. “He lived on Avenue Foch. He had a major collection. But his collection was confiscated by the Nazis. So forgive me, but I’m just a little curious as to how it came into your possession.”

  Max became concerned, and it was written all over his face—he was getting the hint of where this line of questioning was leading.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “I don’t know any Meyersteins, and in fact, I don’t even know if the painting ever belonged to me.”

  “Max, we’ve already been through all that. You sent the painting to my father. I have the crate.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything.”

  “That’s ridiculous, Max. It means everything, and we haven’t even got to it all yet.” The moment had come for Giovanni to produce the photograph he had held in reserve. “Here’s a photo of an older shipping label on the crate. Which, by the way, matches the handwriting on the letter that was inside the crate, written by you. I had it checked. The only difference is that you signed the letter Your loving brother, Max, but the sender on the label was W. Kreitel and your former Zurich address, which I found in my father’s address book. And furthermore…” Giovanni brought out yet another photo, this one of the crate in full, showing all of its markings. “See here, the spray-painted stencil on the side. Kreitel, right there on the crate. It’s your crate. You are Kreitel.”

  For Giovanni, it was no longer a hunch.

  Max set down his brandy and crossed his arms. “And what if I am? So I used the name to send a painting to your father. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Giovanni pulled out a photocopy he had made at the ITS in Bad Arolsen. “The International Tracing Service in Germany lists W. Kreitel as accompanying Bruno Lothar when the Meyersteins, sent off to die, had their art confiscated. Stolen is what I call it. Look, there is your signature, right next to Lothar. I suppose you’re going to tell me you don’t know him, either. Seems to me the two of you were buddies back in 1940.”

  Max did not respond.

  “It’s all clear now, Max. My father saw the war coming and got out of Paris, but not you. It was your big opportunity. Before coming here, I visited with some of my father’s old friends who live in Paris. They had some interesting things to say. Seems that during the Occupation, an art dealer named Kreitel came around peddling works they suspected were stolen from Jewish homes. Apparently it was all the rage at the time. Plunder their art and make a buck. Only glitch for you is the fake German name and your lousy French couldn’t hide the fact you’re Italian.”

  Max stood up, his eyes flared, and his face flushed. “How dare you come into my home and make these accusations. Is that the reason you traveled all this way? Not because I am family but because I volunteered to advise on the value of art in order to survive?”

  “Volunteered?” Giovanni shot back. “To make a profit, maybe.”

  “They took the art,” Max said. “I merely suggested its worth. That doesn’t make me a Nazi. I had to live.”

  “Live?” Up from his chair, Giovanni turned with arms out, indicating the opulent room. “This is not living? And what about the Meyersteins? Did they get to live?”

  “I did nothing to harm them.”

  “You stole from them!” Giovanni grabbed his uncle’s arms and drove him backward, into a bookcase. Books fell and Giovanni realized, though furious, he had gone too far. He relaxed his grip and stepped back.

  Max brushed himself off. “I think you should leave now.”

  Giovanni asked, “What other paintings in this house belong to the Meyersteins?”

  “I have nothing of theirs.”

  “Of course, because you’ve already sold it for a profit, when it wasn’t yours to sell.”

  “You have no right to judge me,” Max said.

  “No? I think I do. They should have shoved you in the oven.”

  His eyes grew wide and Max hollered, “I want you out!”

  “I’ll be happy to leave,” Giovanni said, “but let me say this before I go. It’s clear now why my father wouldn’t forgive you, and neither will I, ever.” Giovanni couldn’t
resist the urge to leave Max with one last revelation to stew over for the rest of his days. “And you know what? That painting you sent my father, the unsigned, apparently worthless portrait of the Count. It’s that very painting that led me to discovering what you did, Max. That painting belongs to a survivor of the Meyerstein family, Clara. I’m going to find her and return the painting. And here’s the best part, Max. That painting is by Botticelli. You sent a painting to my father that is worth millions.”

  Max was dumbfounded, staring at Giovanni, who couldn’t tell if Max had understood the words, did not believe them, or simply did not want to believe them.

  Giovanni found his own way to the front door, which he flung open and didn’t bother to close, letting the cool night air chill his uncle’s hell.

  Chapter 15

  Giovanni arrived in London, exhausted from his trip. During his taxi ride home, the gray skies encouraged him to sleep, which he was very much looking forward to doing. The driver, on the other hand, had apparently just polished off his hourly jumbo latte and wanted to talk ceaselessly, asking where his passenger was returning from, a question which Giovanni made the mistake of answering. The driver launched into a tirade about Germany, the war, and how none of his relatives would ever visit that despicable country.

  Giovanni really didn’t care.

  “Sir,” he said abruptly, “I don’t want to insult you, but I’ve had a particularly disturbing trip. Could we please complete this ride in silence?”

  The driver studied Giovanni in the rear view mirror.

  “Right, Mate. You’re the boss.”

  The taxi wended its way through early evening traffic. When they arrived at Giovanni’s flat, he paid the driver and wheeled his suitcase to the front door of his lonely home. By the time his clothes were hung and he had whipped together a snack, it was 7:30 in the evening. He turned on light background music, stretched out on the sofa, and tried to relax, but his mind could not stop replaying events from his trip.

  In recalling the night before, Giovanni’s emotions bounced between anger and shame over what his uncle had done and his harsh reactions to it. Shoving the old man into a bookcase, of all things, he thought. What if he had injured him? Would he have taken him to the hospital, despite his fury? There was no way of knowing, and it was worthless to think about anyway. In the end, there was no excuse for that kind of childish behavior. But then Giovanni’s mind turned back to the spite he had for Max, and the cycle of unresolvable thoughts started again.

  If only his father were still alive, Giovanni would’ve had someone to talk to. Someone to help clear his troubled mind. How absurd, he thought, even cruel, that he could talk to the subject of a sixteenth century portrait, yet he could not talk to the one person he wanted to most. He longed to sit with his father and discuss what Max had done. He wanted to know what his father knew, which must have been so much more than the scarce evidence that Giovanni had discovered.

  The longing for those closest to Giovanni overwhelmed him. He wanted his father and mother alive again. He wanted to see his son for more than a quick weekend twice a year, to see his old friends, and yes, to be with Arabella again, despite her infidelity. He wanted his life back. It had been upturned for one reason, which was safely stored in a strong room of his studio.

  *

  As he unlocked his studio, Giovanni realized that he should have had dinner. Snacks only go so far. But he was determined to confront the Count, despite the late hour. He opened the second strong room and turned on the light. In his haste to grab the crate, he almost dropped it, but he recovered and brought it to his work area, where he set the portrait on the usual easel.

  He sat on his stool and stared at the Count, who was silent.

  “I hate you,” Giovanni said.

  “Signor Fabrizzi,” the Count said. “One should carefully consider their words, particularly when choosing any so harsh that one might later regret.”

  “You’ve ruined my life.”

  “Pray tell, just what have I done to ruin your life?”

  “You’ve made me doubt my sanity, then waste my time listening to your endless, self-involved stories. Add to that, you spied on my wife and then told me about her affair. You have utterly destroyed me, but you don’t stop there. You had to go and tell me about Paris, which led to a rather unfriendly reunion with my Uncle Max.”

  The Count was silent for a moment, then said, “First, I must remind you that I did not care to tell you about Paris. As I warned you, it was a disturbing period, but you implored me to tell the story of Sergei.”

  “I don’t care about Sergei and his boyfriend. Whatever they did is nothing compared to the disturbing facts I learned about my Uncle Max.”

  “That would be my second concern, this uncle of yours. I am afraid it is difficult to relate when the topic of conversation is a person I know nothing about nor have ever met. I am already kept in the dark, as they say, more than enough.”

  “You’ve met him,” Giovanni said. “He’s Kreitel.”

  The Count hesitated. “I see.”

  “Right, now you see. So you should see how you’ve ruined my life.”

  “Is this perhaps your hunch, the details of which you refused to share with me?”

  “Yes,” Giovanni said. “But it’s not a hunch anymore. It’s true, I’m afraid. He stole artwork from Jewish families and sold it for a profit. And he did rather nicely for himself, I must say.”

  “It is evident that this revelation has upset you.”

  Giovanni vaulted upright. “Yes!” he screamed. “I’m furious. My own uncle, how could he?” He began to wobble, then clutched his chest and dropped to one knee.

  “Fabrizzi!” the Count called out.

  Giovanni steadied himself and took a few deep breaths. Slowly, he got up and retook his seat on the stool.

  “Are you all right?” the Count asked.

  “If you’re so concerned, why didn’t you help me up?” Giovanni joked about it but didn’t laugh. “Can’t you see? You’re a spirit locked inside a painting. You yearn for action, for company, to see, to travel. I’m not a young man anymore. All that’s happened since you came into my life, it’s just too much. I can’t bear it. I’m not strong enough.” Giovanni’s voice cracked and he held back his tears.

  The Count waited a moment. “Signor Fabrizzi. You must realize that I did not know Kreitel was your relative. The odds are incalculable.”

  “Maybe so, but it’s true. And while I can’t prove it, I know it in my bones, my father knew about Max and hid it from me. A lot more makes sense now. The cigar box, when I was young, with the name Kreitel engraved on the lid. Like your portrait, it was another useless gift from Max, trying to appease my father. He must have hated Max for selling stolen art, but he didn’t send your portrait back to Zurich. He kept it, knowing when he was gone, it would come to me. As if he were leaving me a chance to find out on my own.”

  “Perhaps your father had hoped that you would do what he could not.”

  “And what would that be?” Giovanni asked.

  “Forgive Max. After all, he is family.”

  “That is going to be difficult,” Giovanni said. “Maybe one day, but not now. Certainly not for some time.”

  “I am truly sorry to have brought you this pain,” the Count said. “It was never my intention that you would learn of your uncle’s deeds, nor that any action on my part would lead to you losing your wife.”

  “Don’t say losing,” Giovanni said. “We say that when a loved one has died.”

  “You are still very much in love with her,” the Count said.

  Giovanni hung his head. “I am.”

  “Then forgive her. And forgive me. And begin your life anew. Cautiously, but anew. Trust me, I know better than anyone. It is dreadful to be alone. But you have a choice. You don’t have to be alone.”

  Giovanni rose from the stool. “I’ll consider your advice, Count.” He reached for the crate, preparing to put the portrait away.r />
  “Please,” the Count said. “Leave me here. I have been in the dark too long. If you would, turn me toward the window. I want to see the street life of London. At least, as much as I can.”

  Giovanni turned the easel around and moved it closer to the window.

  “How is that?” he asked.

  “Perfect.”

  Giovanni turned off the lights, set the alarms, and left the painting alone to stare out into the night.

  *

  Giovanni returned home just before eleven o’clock. It was late, but he had to eat something after skipping dinner. He made a quick sandwich, then brushed his teeth and got into his pajamas.

  As he pulled the covers back to get into bed, he noticed on the nightstand, a blinking light on the phone that indicated a message. Whoever it was, they could wait, he concluded. He adjusted his pillow, stretched out flat, and pulled the comforter up to his neck. It was good to be home, he thought, even if he was alone.

  The phone rang.

  He growled. How rude for anyone to call so late. But then it occurred to him—any call coming so late might be an emergency. As his outgoing message played, he dragged himself across the bed, toward the phone machine, and turned up the volume.

  “Leave your message after the tone…” came from the speaker, and he waited to hear if the caller had bothered to record a voice mail.

  “Mr. Fabrizzi. This is Jana Vogler, calling from Germany. I left a message earlier. I’m sorry to call so late but it’s very important that I talk with you right away. I’ve found Clara Meyerstein.”

  Giovanni reached for the phone, but in the dark, he knocked it off the nightstand. He scrambled out of bed and picked up the receiver.

  “Hello?” he said. “I’m sorry. Hello?”

  “Mr. Fabrizzi?” Jana said.

  “Yes, I heard your message.” Seated on the edge of the bed, Giovanni reached for the lamp and clicked it on. “Please tell me everything.” Giovanni wasn’t going to get much sleep after receiving this important news. He scrounged through a drawer in the nightstand and found a pen and pad.