by Peter Watson
Mrs. Hecht—wrong-footed—now admitted that she understood Italian.
Eager to press their psychological advantage, Conforti’s men immediately said they were less interested in dirty antiquities than in the memoir that they had heard on the underworld grapevine that Hecht was writing.
Elisabeth Hecht stiffened but said that she knew of no memoir. Her slight hesitation was picked up on by Conforti’s men.
The French policeman leading the raid also noticed. “Right,” he said, adopting the Italians’ tactics, “either you lead us straight to the memoir, or we turn over the whole apartment.” He made it clear that there would be serious disruption to Mrs. Hecht’s routine and that her own bedroom would no longer be off-limits.
Without speaking, she turned on her heel and led them into the study. And there, in the middle of the room, was a desk, and in the middle of the desk, just sitting there, for all to see, was a plain, buff-colored folder. Inside, when they opened it, was a manuscript, its pages handwritten on lined legal-size paper, on plain paper, and on graph paper. The pages were covered in rows of untidy handwriting that, upon closer examination, the Carabinieri could see was in English. There and then they couldn’t understand it, but flipping through the pages, they saw a number of names, abbreviations, and initials they recognized—Vulci, Montalto di Castro, R. Symes, Euphr., “G.M.”
This was it.
The rumors had been true, the gossip on the grapevine had been accurate, Savoca and Guarini had been telling the truth. Hecht had written a memoir and now—at last, at long last—they had it.
The memoir was seized but, of course, it was seized on the authority of the French police. It would be some time before the Italians could get their hands on it. Meanwhile, realizing how serious the raid was turning out to be, from her husband’s point of view, Elisabeth Hecht now called him, in New York. She spoke to him, and he said he would leave for Paris immediately. He was, he said, anxious to speak to the law-enforcement authorities.
A day or so later, while the Carabinieri were still in Paris, seeing to the paperwork necessary if the objects and documentation found in the raid were to be transferred to Italy, Hecht got in touch. He had flown in from New York, he said, and was anxious to see the Carabinieri, not the French police. He asked for a meeting.
Ferri authorized a brief meeting, and one of his men met with Hecht the following day. Hecht chose the meeting place, in front of Notre Dame, the great cathedral of Paris, on the Ile de la Cité. Hecht said he would be there, at four o’clock in the afternoon, “on the left-hand corner as you look at the church.”
At four o’clock it was raining hard. But Hecht was on time, wearing a fawn coat, but with no hat and no umbrella. The lieutenant almost felt sorry for him. Hecht led the way to a nearby café, where the meeting lasted barely twenty minutes. Hecht wanted to know what had happened during the raid, why he had been targeted, what they thought they had found. The lieutenant was under strict instructions from Ferri to give nothing away. All he did say was to advise Hecht to “get a lawyer.”
It may have been a short meeting and next to nothing may have been said, but it had been important, Ferri felt. Hecht had asked for the rendezvous, and during it he had asked all the questions. Despite everything that had happened, it appeared that he had not been expecting the raid, and now—and for the first time, so far as Hecht was concerned—the boot was on the other foot. Hecht wasn’t frightened exactly, but he was certainly nervous. That hadn’t happened before.
Ferri planned an interrogation of Hecht, but before that, he needed to get his hands on the memoir in Italian. Ferri speaks some English but not enough to cope easily with a long, handwritten document in a scrawl that isn’t always easy to decipher even for a native English speaker.
The French provided the memoir quickly enough, but when they did, for evidential reasons (that is, to prevent pages from being deleted or new ones added), when the document arrived in Rome it was held together by a special binder—a hole had been pierced through each page and they had been laced together with twine—and the pages were numbered. This was all reasonable, except for the fact that the Italians quickly found that the pages were not in the right order—they didn’t all read on from one page to the next. Whatever had happened after the raid in Paris, the pages had been jumbled. Therefore they had to be photocopied and rearranged in their proper sequential order, and only then translated. All of which took time.
But eventually it was done, and at last Ferri and the others could read what Hecht had written.
Written in English, the memoir was eighty-eight pages long and appeared to have been compiled over several months and years. There are one or two idiosyncracies in the text—for example, instead of “with,” Hecht usually writes “c” or “ ,” shorthand for the Italian (or Latin) con; “C.C.” is the common Italian abbreviation for Carabinieri; “Æ” is silver; “Au” is gold, and so on. There are many references to food and drink, tennis and his family, but none at all to his gambling. The tone is self-confident, even self-righteous throughout, cocky in places. The narrative, which ranges from the 1950s to 2001, is divided into eight sections. It begins with the early years—the 1950s and the 1960s—in Italy, Turkey, and Greece. It gives—perhaps significantly, and certainly most interestingly—two versions of the Euphronios krater affair. There is a section devoted to the acquisition by the Getty of the Euphronios-Onesimos kylix, followed by a more theoretical section in which Hecht argues that his activities have benefited archaeology and in which he defends himself against the charge that he and his kind have desecrated the archaeological heritage of several civilizations.
In an early section, referring to 1961, he describes returning to his Rome apartment after a trip to Sicily with a miniature altar, or arula, that he had bought in Gela, a city founded by the Greeks in the eighth century BC. The very next morning he was raided by the Carabinieri, but they didn’t find the arula. Instead, he showed them some cheap archaeological items he kept in the apartment for just this sort of occasion, and to deflect suspicion.
At that time, the Carabinieri were carrying out one of their irregular sweeps on the antiquities trade and, by chance, stumbled on the Swiss dealer, Herbert Cahn, who was in Rome on a visit. Interviewed at Carabinieri headquarters, one of the people he admitted knowing in the Italian capital was Robert Hecht, but Cahn said that he did no business with the American expatriate because he was “a competitor.” However, he did name two Roman dealers he had bought from over the previous few years—Renzi and Pennacchi.
When I was told about this I couldn’t believe it. I called up Cahn and asked him if this was true. He replied, “Ja. Ich habe es aber minimal gehalten.” (Yes, but I kept it at a minimum.) Cahn did not realize or want to realize that he was dealing in contraband and that in this activity it is ignoble to inform against your collaborators.
This was an interesting sighting of the word “contraband.”
That wasn’t all. Cahn was carrying his address book on him and the Carabinieri seized it. In addition to the names and numbers of his contacts, the address book included a record of what he had bought and from whom.
These notes included a letter from Mr. Sabatini, a school teacher in Canino (near the site of Vulci—the biggest source of fine Greek pottery) agreeing to Cahn’s offer for two vases, one of which was a Rhodian oinochoe and saying that he awaited Cahn’s visit.
Then, without warning, Hecht completely changes the subject—to George Ortiz, a man he had dealt with over the past forty years. After first describing Ortiz’s background, he discusses his collecting, how he developed a passion for Greek art especially, starting with visits to museums, then using dealers on both sides of the Atlantic, buying mainly bronzes, usually of very good quality. But then, after familiarizing himself with the main dealers in Rome and Athens, Ortiz soon made contacts with grave diggers and traffickers in the countryside, especially in Southern Etruria.... George became well known among the villagers and in their investigations
the Carabinieri found correspondence and evidence of payments by George in houses they searched. They even found evidence of checks on Swiss Credit Bank which he had given to a gentleman in Montepulciano.
In the autumn of 1961, charges were brought against the Rome dealers Renzi and Pennacchi, against Cahn, Ortiz, and Hecht, who were accused of receiving stolen property. All were acquitted. On appeal, all were found guilty. Finally, in 1976 (yes, fifteen years later), Cahn and Ortiz were found guilty and given brief suspended sentences, while Hecht was acquitted.
The memoir, which was to become of considerable importance in the subsequent criminal trials, is full of interesting tidbits about the history of tomb-robbing. For instance, Hecht records how in 1963, a Swiss dealer went so far as to equip the looters in Tarquinia (well known for its painted tombs) with electric saws, with which they could more easily strip frescoes from the walls of tombs and villas. Ironically, when the police discovered what was happening, they decided that only Americans would risk and finance such flamboyant looting techniques and Hecht’s residence permit was revoked. He was expelled, as a result of which he missed the birth of his daughter.
It is known that Elia Borowsky bought several frescoes from Tarquinia at this time.
In another vignette, Hecht was shown some beautiful silver figures in Pandrossan Street in Athens. The Armenian dealer insisted on cash so Hecht prevailed on a female friend to fly in to Athens from Zurich for a short holiday—provided she brought with her forty one-thousand-dollar bills. That seems to have done the trick for, a few days later, she flew back to Switzerland—with the silver figures. These figures, Hecht says, are now in Copenhagen.1
Beginning in 1963, Hecht was allowed back into Italy, though at first his residence permit was for one month at a time, then three months, and finally, by 1965, it was for a year at a time. He had by now renewed a relationship with one “GZ,” George Zakos, a Greek who had grown up in Istanbul, whom Hecht had known since 1951. After a number of small deals, mainly having to do with coins, the bigger transactions commenced.
One involved the British Museum and began when Zakos produced three silver cups with floral designs and a scene from Iphigenia among the Taurians (an episode from Homer; Tauris is today’s Crimea). Hecht was in London the following weekend, ahead of a visit to Sir John and Lady Beazley at their home in Oxford. Not wanting to traipse the cups all the way to Oxford, Hecht asked Dennis Haynes, the British Museum keeper of antiquities, if he could leave the cups with him for safe keeping. Hecht’s initial thought had been to sell the cups to the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, because a friend of his, Cornelius Vermeule, had just been appointed curator. However, to Hecht’s considerable surprise, Haynes inquired after the price of the cups. Wrong-footed for once, Hecht said he would think about it and, after he returned from his visit to the Beazleys, gave Haynes what he described as a “defensive” price of $90,000. What he meant by this was that he thought such a figure would be well beyond the British Museum. In fact, Haynes didn’t turn a hair and Hecht was paid by the end of the month. In this way, Hecht identifies loot in the BM.
There are several episodes such as this one. Hecht is “brought” material, which he describes in detail, though the routes out of Italy, Greece, or Turkey are only rarely specified.
And so, vignette by vignette, the years elapse in Hecht’s narrative, before Medici (“GM”) is introduced. It was early 1967 and Hecht was out of Italy, when his wife told him on the phone that a middle-man called Franco Luzzi (mentioned in the organigram) had been offered a good-quality kylix but his suppliers, the tombaroli, wanted what was then a high price. His appetite whetted, Hecht returned quickly to Rome and met with Luzzi near the Campidoglio [Rome’s capital, today the seat of the municipality]. Hecht is usually very coy in his memoir about these meetings, and he makes it clear that he went to considerable lengths to avoid being seen with such middlemen by anyone in authority. At the rendezvous, he had Luzzi make a pencil drawing of the kylix, which showed that on each outside surface there was an owl between olive branches. In the central round part, the tondo, there was a youth with a vase. Hecht must have liked what he saw for he told Luzzi to buy the cup, whatever it took. Luzzi complained that the tombaroli were asking 1,800,000 lire (then equivalent to $3,000). Hecht said that he would guarantee Luzzi at least 2,500,000 lire, ensuring a tidy profit. However, when Luzzi went back to his tombaroli suppliers they countered by saying that Medici had already told them he would beat any offer Luzzi made. And in fact, on that occasion, Medici bought the kylix and sold it on to the man he then mainly supplied. According to Hecht, this was Eli Borowsky.
But Hecht wouldn’t be beaten. Medici had bought the kylix for 1,500,000 and sold it to Borowsky for only a hundred thousand lire more. So Hecht told Luzzi to go back to “GM” and offer him 2,000,000 lire. Although these sums are paltry by today’s standards, at that time such differences in price were significant and as a result of Luzzi’s improved offer, Medici got back the kylix from Borowsky and sold it to Hecht.
So, in the evening on the Lungotevere [the boulevard that runs alongside the River Tiber in Rome], in front of the [old] Palace of Justice, in my car, parked behind theirs, Luzzi and GM showed me the cup and I asked GM if he would be content with 2.2 [million lire]. He jumped with joy and said “yes” . . . I gave Luzzi a commission of 800,000 lire, so both were happy. Later, I sold this to Dr. Hirk, a Basel chemist, for 60,000 Swiss Francs (= ca. 8,500,000 lire).
Hecht was obviously a bit of a show-off, who liked people to know how clever he was and how readily he could read character. He certainly seems to have understood Medici very well, right from the beginning. In a passage which, as the judge noted in Medici’s trial, was confirmed by other tombaroli, Hecht wrote:Up to this time GM (in his 20’s) had been the purveyor to a pharmacist in Rome. GM’s father and mother had a stand at the open air market at Piazza Borghese and sold minor objects from excavations to tourists. GM was more ambitious and having bought a second hand Fiat 500 for $400, rose early each morning and toured the villages of Etruria visiting all the clandestine diggers. Each evening he returned with his booty to the pharmacist, who gave him in cash a small profit, but bought everything. The sale of the kylix was an eye opener for GM. He saw that quality had a high premium.
This proved to be an understatement. As we shall see, this episode had pivotal consequences for Medici’s career. From now on the objects he provided to Hecht began to rise markedly in value. Moreover, in Hecht’s text the prices of their deals are from now on recorded in dollars, not lire. The sums involved rise over the years from $1,600, to $6,000, to $63,000. In each case, Hecht is careful to tell us what happened to these objects, which collectors or museum they ended up with and, of course, what handsome profits he made. For example, a set of Etruscan silver chariot fixtures, which he says he bought from Medici for $63,000, he sold on to Mogens Giddesen at the Copenhagen Museum for $240,000.
“G.M. soon became a faithful purveyor,” he records, and indeed the list of objects Medici provided Hecht with is impressive. But of course, this background, though very vivid, is also very incriminating. And then, without any preamble or any other sort of warning or change of pace, halfway down page fourteen of this section of the memoir, Hecht broaches the subject of the infamous Euphronios krater.
In preparation for that, however, we need to consider one other matter.
In 1993, just before the investigations that are the subject of this book began, Thomas Hoving published his own memoirs. Since he had left the Met, he had become a journalist, among other things editor-in-chief of the magazine Connoisseur (now defunct), and had written at least one art book and a novel. His 1993 memoirs were entitled Making the Mummies Dance, a reference to his brand of showmanship when he was director of the Metropolitan, and chapter 17 was titled, characteristically, “The Hot Pot.” It began typically enough. “I have fallen in love more often with works of art than with women,” and it concerned the Met’s acquisition of the Euphronios krater. This
version differed in some interesting ways from the earlier version, as given here in the Prologue.
His most important revelations this time were:• He had first been alerted to the existence of the vase by a phone call from Hecht’s wife, directly to him, in September 1971; she said that her husband had “just” been consigned “a startling piece”;
• During subsequent negotiations Hecht constantly referred to the “dollar situation,” because that currency was weakening progressively at that time against the Swiss franc;
• Hecht was aware that the Metropolitan Museum was considering selling its coin collection and offered a swap;
• In a preliminary letter to the museum, Hecht said that the price of the krater would be comparable to that for an impressionist painting (the Met had just paid more than $1 million for a painting by Monet);
• The first photographs of the krater showed it recomposed but with the joins visible.
Hoving also said that in July 1976, he had received an unsolicited letter from Muriel Silberstein, in Chicago, in which she claimed that she had met Dikran Sarrafian in Beirut in 1964, when he had shown her some cylinder seals and a box containing shards of an ancient Greek vase by the artist Euphronios. Hoving never explained why it had taken her so long to come forward, but she stuck to her story, which she had independently told to several others.
For Hoving this didn’t clear up the matter—he was too experienced and canny for that. But, putting all he knew alongside Mrs. Silberstein’s information, Hoving in his 1993 memoirs came up with a new theory—that there were two kraters and one cup, all by Euphronios and all on the market in the early 1970s. The second krater, Hoving said, was the fragmentary one owned subsequently by the Hunt brothers, sold in their sale in 1990 and acquired by Leon Levy and Shelby White.o Both this second krater and the kylix, Hoving said, were acquired by the Hunts from Bruce McNall. Again according to Hoving’s new theory, the whole business had begun when Hecht had sold to Munich’s Antikensammlung in 1970 (actually 1968) a fragmentary Euphronios krater (a third one) for $250,000. Where this came from Hoving didn’t say, but he added that “it seems likely” that Hecht, in concluding this deal, recalled Sarrafian’s fragmentary krater, which he claimed to have seen in Beirut in 1965, and persuaded him to sell. And it was this that Hecht originally intended to offer to the Met.