by Rose Edmunds
Contents
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EPILOGUE
A WORD FROM ROSE AND FREE OFFER!
COPYRIGHT
To all my Czech friends, who have helped me in so many ways with this book.
1
They call me Crazy Amy, and I can see where they’re coming from.
After all, I totalled a Ferrari while high as a kite. Then I tried to fly from the roof of St Paul’s Cathedral. Apparently, these are not the acts of a sane person, even in extenuating circumstances. I could justify my position, but I’ll save my energy. Nothing I could say would make any difference because crazy people always deny their own craziness.
Arguably, if I’d been completely sane, I wouldn’t have agreed to help the octogenarian father of my deadliest enemy, Evil Boss Ed Smithies, lay claim to a valuable Picasso. But since you’re on the journey with me, I’ll try my best to explain that particular decision.
First, with the benefit of hindsight, evil is too strong a word to describe Ed. Admittedly, during the brief time we worked together, he first demoted and then tried to fire me, but his actions were driven more by narcissism than malevolence. Besides, the City of London is a jungle, where only the fittest survive. If I was too weak to stand up to his bully-boy tactics, I didn’t deserve the half mill a year.
Second, Ed ended up with a bullet in his head—not fired by me, I hasten to add. I was lucky, or not, depending on which way you look at it, to survive myself. Standing next to someone when you’re both moments from death is a great leveller, abruptly laying bare the triviality of past disputes. The abject terror on Ed’s face as he grasped this was the end game would haunt me forever. Sometimes, my survival to rehash those few minutes left me envying him for having one-upped me in an unbeatable strategic masterstroke. But on balance I felt appreciably more chilled about him now he was dead.
Third, I pitied George Smithies, who’d lost his son, as I’d lost mine.
And that, in summary, is why we were on a flight to Prague, back to George Smithies’ roots—going full circle, seeking closure, or whatever phrase you prefer.
2
THE DAILY GLOBE 10 FEBRUARY
By Claudia Knight
A MAN WITH A MISSION
After almost eighty years, a retired estate agent is returning to his birthplace in the Czech Republic to stake his claim to a Picasso painting with an estimated value of $10 million.
George Smithies, 84, was born Jiří Dušek in Prague in 1932. His father Josef was an art collector and owner of a gallery, with a particular penchant for contemporary works. His mother Eva was Jewish.
The family enjoyed a comfortable life until the Nazis took over Czechoslovakia in March 1939. Josef soon became a focus for scrutiny, since the new regime regarded the art he sold as degenerate. One night in June 1939, the Gestapo rounded up Dušek and his business partner, stripping the gallery and their homes of offending artworks. They then allegedly tortured and secretly executed both men.
With his father gone, George and his mother were left to survive as best they could. But as the months wore on and the Nazis’ anti-Jewish agenda became painfully clear, Eva arranged for Jiří, aged 7, to travel to England on a Kindertransport train. There he was lucky enough to be fostered (and later adopted) by the Reverend Alfred Smithies and his wife Florence. Eva did not fare so well, and although she tried to arrange a passage to England, time ran out. She ultimately died of typhus in Theresienstadt concentration camp in 1942.
George never returned to his homeland, as he feared the experience might resurrect painful memories. But recent events have prompted him to reconsider.
‘I’ve avoided my past for too long,’ said George. ‘And now it’s time to confront it.’
The catalyst for George’s change of heart was the recent discovery of an art hoard in a Prague apartment owned by Stanislav Novak, an eccentric recluse. Among the items found were important works assumed to have been burned by the Nazis. The entire treasure trove is thought to be worth a staggering $1 billion, but George is interested in just one painting—a portrait by Picasso of his one-time lover Fernande Olivier. Once press reports of Novak’s collection appeared, George recognised the picture as one which hung in his parents’ house in the 1930s.
‘My parents owned many works of art,’ he recalled. ‘But as a small boy I always loved this painting—the woman is both soulful and beautiful.’
The painting in question is an approximate copy, or study, of a more famous work by Picasso from his Rose Period, purchased at auction in 2013 by Russian oligarch Boris Ivanov. Ivanov, the great-grandson of its first owner, paid over $100 million to reclaim his heritage after the courts ruled he had no legal grounds for restitution. This painting was one of a pair—the other being a self-portrait of Picasso, missing since the 1930s. Ivanov has made strenuous efforts to locate the self-portrait, but without success.
Although a copy, experts estimate the value of the piece George seeks to claim at $10 million. Professor Maurice Beresford, a leading art historian from Wadham College, Oxford has been involved in authenticating this and other artworks in the Novak collection. He said, ‘The pigments used are consistent with other European works from the early twentieth century, but the brushwork and signature confirm beyond doubt that this is a genuine Picasso.’
George is not sure how his parents acquired the painting, but since his father travelled extensively and was well-connected in the art world, it is likely he met Picasso at some point. As to how the artwork came to be in Novak’s possession, George has a tentative theory.
‘Apparently the surname of my father’s partner at the gallery was Novak. Maybe he somehow survived and was Stanislav’s father. At the same time, I’m told Novak is one of the most common Czech surnames,’ George said. ‘So this may be a coincidence.’
Although George intends to establish his entitlement to the Picasso, his motives are not financial, as he is at pains to point out.
‘At 84 years old I have everything I need. My only son Edward was brutally murdered recently and I’m trying to make sense of my past before it’s too late. Should I be successful, I shall bequeath the painting to a Holocaust survivors’ charity.’
Stanislav Novak’s story is no less colourful than George’s. He was born in the UK in 1960 to an English mother, and a father who left Czechoslovakia when the Communists seized power in 1948. On his deathbed in 1986, Novak’s father revealed that when he fled, he had left behind a priceless art collection, stored in a “safe place”. After the fall of Communism, Stanislav moved to Prague to retrieve the art, and has lived there ever since. Except for the occasional sale of more obscure pieces to provide Novak with an income, he kept the existence of the collection secret.
The artworks might have remained hidden for many more years but for a routine interview by customs officials on a train from Zurich to Prague. Their suspicions were raised by Novak’s nervousness and on further examination he was found to be carrying eight thousand Euros in
cash. While this in itself is not illegal, they were surprised to find that Novak was essentially a ghost, with no Czech medical, social security or tax records. Curious, the Czech tax authorities gained a warrant to enter Novak’s apartment. When they entered, they found more than one hundred framed and one thousand unframed artworks, including pieces by Picasso, Matisse, Chagall, Otto Dix and other artists. Many of these were believed destroyed during World War II. The means by which his father obtained these works is shrouded in mystery, and the pictures have been confiscated pending enquiries into their ownership. Already, several interested parties have indicated their intention to apply for restitution.
‘There are many unanswered questions,’ said George. ‘And I sympathise with anyone who’s in the same position as me, trying to prove ownership.’
In a pleasing symmetry, while in Prague, George will stay at the five star Alcron Hotel, a historic Art Deco building erected in 1932, the year of his birth.
‘It used to be a popular meeting point for the “in” crowd, which may have included my parents,’ he said. ‘So hopefully I’ll be somewhere with positive memories for them.’
George will be accompanied on his trip by private investigator Amy Robinson, aged 38, who describes herself as a financial and legal expert. She will try to help George navigate his way through the minefield of Czech restitution law.
‘If I can make an old man happy by restoring his property, I’ll be satisfied,’ said Amy.
3
I must say, neither George nor I cared much for the article. Ed’s widow, Caroline, had browbeaten him into it, thinking the publicity might help him—but he instantly regretted his involvement, complaining that they’d portrayed him as a dotard. Meanwhile, I regarded the “she describes herself…” as a subtle slur against my credentials. And as for the crap about making an old man happy—don’t even start me on the subject—it made me sound like a gold-digging whore.
I reckoned I had just enough time to squeeze in another gin and tonic before landing in Prague, and summoned the steward. There are few benefits to flying business class on short haul—a white cover on the headrest and an empty seat between window and aisle. But a complimentary bar goes some way to compensating for these deficiencies.
‘That’s your third gin. And the wine,’ piped up a familiar little voice.
I turned to the previously vacant seat beside me and sure enough, there she was—Little Amy—the pesky hallucination of my teenage self who’d haunted me ever since my “perfect” life imploded. And those who call me crazy don’t even know about her—enough said.
She was more sensibly attired than on many other occasions, in navy leggings, a fluffy white sweater and grey pixie boots. Little Amy always enjoyed dressing up, and she had plenty of outfits to choose from in a house filled to the rafters by her mother’s compulsive shopping.
‘Don’t forget—the wine killed it,’ she said, wagging her finger at me.
I felt a weird cramping sensation in my abdomen as a surge of misery swept over me. I’d forgotten him again, and the guilt was as painful as the grief, even without Little Amy’s jibes.
‘It is a he, and he has a name—Zowie,’ I hissed at her.
‘How pathetic to name a bunch of cells. And you must be going soft in the head—you’re never this upset even when actual people die.’
At my twenty-week scan, two days after drinking almost a bottle of wine, they told me Zowie was dead. I don’t want to recall what happened next. Logically I knew it was unlikely one ill-judged bender killed my baby, but logic is irrelevant in the face of powerful emotions. The great David Bowie, an icon for crazy people everywhere, had just died, and I named my son after his. No bunch of cells, but a person, with a name—gone forever.
Little Amy was such a prize bitch, and disturbingly her cruel streak must be in me somewhere. And in one respect she was right—I don’t do grief. The five steps nonsense is designed for morons incapable of giving intellectual acceptance to death, and I’m usually better than that. But Zowie’s passing had snatched a whole future from both of us, and the loss of what might have been weighed heavily on my soul.
Still, it didn’t help to dwell on it. Shit happens. Drink the gin and move on.
‘If you can’t be more supportive, will you please piss off and leave me alone?’
I’d only muttered it to Little Amy under my breath, but perhaps I’d made more noise than I’d realised for George, who’d nodded off after lunch, stirred, then woke. And Little Amy was gone.
‘Are we nearly there yet?’
‘Not far now. My ears tell me we’re descending.’
I caught him eying my drink with what I interpreted as an air of disapproval. George’s spare frame and understated manner spoke of a life of moderation and restraint—words seldom, if ever, used to describe me. Anyway, he wisely made no comment.
‘I’ve been meaning to ask,’ George began, tapping into my thoughts. ‘What made you change your mind about helping me?’
Losing Zowie was the honest answer, but I doubted George had been aware of the pregnancy. If he’d noticed my swollen belly, and its subsequent absence, he’d said nothing, and now wasn’t the time to confide in him.
More intriguing was George’s rationale for requesting my assistance in the first place, because astonishingly Ed had told him I was a “good egg”. Well, if that’s how Ed treated a good egg, I shuddered to think how he might treat a bad one.
‘Oh, I guess I can’t resist a good mystery,’ I said, which was also true. And yes, I suppose this was a fourth reason for making the trip, even if not quite as rational as reasons one to three.
Baby aside, it was unwise, though not crazy, to become embroiled in another investigation, since neither of the two mysteries I’d been sucked into so far had brought me any joy. The first one ended my career, and the second came within a whisker of ending my life. I could only hope this one would be less traumatic.
I glugged down the last of my drink, stowed away the seat tray, and peered out of the window at the Vltava river snaking beneath us as we descended.
‘Back after the best part of eighty years,’ George said, stating the obvious. ‘Many changes since then, I expect.’
‘How do you feel?’
This was a question much used and much loved by the therapists during my short and wholly unnecessary stay in the Priory after quitting the mega job. Surely George must be prey to powerful emotions behind the calm exterior, and I figured it would help him to discuss them.
‘I’m not sure yet, but maybe if I recognise something, or remember the language, it might bring something to the surface...’
He broke off, as if unwilling to acknowledge what lay underneath.
‘I wonder if Stanislav Novak will shed any light on how your father came by the Picasso?’ I asked, turning to more prosaic matters.
‘I hope so,’ said George.
I didn’t share his confidence. Novak sounded a total nut job—a reclusive man in late middle age who lived “off the grid”, with none of the usual trappings of modern life. His rented apartment was reportedly filled to the ceiling, not only with his artworks but garbage such as empty tin cans, discarded food wrappers and old newspapers. I was well-acquainted with this mental illness, for my mother was a hoarder too, and an obsession with secrecy was characteristic.
Little Amy materialised again.
‘Perhaps you wouldn’t drink so much,’ she said, in the preachy tones of one who has virtually no experience of life, ‘if you focused on how dangerous this project is.’
The reason I hadn’t focused was that intuitively, this one didn’t seem risky—more like tying off loose ends and making amends for past wrongs. But Little Amy refused to be silenced.
‘Novak’s hoard is worth around a billion, right?’
Yeah, and so what?
‘So—you may not be the only one sniffing round.’
So?
‘Use your brains.’
And with this parting
shot she disappeared.
Later, I would have cause to reflect on Little Amy’s warning. I didn’t need to bring the full force of my razor-sharp intellect to bear on the matter—common sense should have sufficed.
4
In my opinion, the Alcron didn’t live up to George’s hype. True, it was close to Wenceslas Square, but situated in a seedy side street with an Irish bar and tired shops that might have been fronts for money laundering or prostitution.
As George had explained to the journalist, he had not chosen the five-star hotel at random. It had opened in 1932, the year George was born, before being requisitioned by the Communists in 1948. In the early nineties, after the collapse of the Communist regime, it was then restored to the children of the original owner. George considered this a promising omen and liked to imagine his parents, well-connected in Prague society, attending the opening ceremony. Why, they might have graced the very room in which we were now enjoying our pre-dinner drinks.
Inside, the hotel had been refurbished in Art Deco style, with two restaurants, one with a Michelin star, and the other in a sweeping, circular room. The remaining public room was the bar, where we now sat. Compared to the iconic splendour of my favourite watering hole at the Savoy in London, the décor seemed plastic and fake. However, they redeemed themselves by producing a surprisingly decent martini. The more temperate George stuck to orange juice, but hoped he might manage a glass of wine with dinner. I guessed at his age you have to be careful, though I severely doubted if I’d live long enough to find out.
We discussed the difficulties inherent in the project. From my preliminary research, the Czech law on restitution didn’t cover George’s situation, as it was aimed at assets confiscated in the Communist era. In particular, only property appropriated during the Nazi regime as a result of racial persecution was eligible. While George’s mother had been Jewish, his father was a political enemy, so this seemed unlikely to apply. I’d been told the legislation was byzantine, so I might have missed something, though I thought not. George was hoping for a loophole, but as a former ace exploiter of loopholes in tax law, I wasn’t optimistic.