by Cat Gardiner
Her eyes drew to Lizzy and Annette standing near the velvet-encased security ropes. Looking every inch professional, both women exuded quiet, sophisticated affluence. It was obvious to anyone observing them that they were mother and daughter, but for Juliana who acutely watched them, she could swear that Annette’s resemblance to William was uncanny—or maybe not so uncanny. Anxious to compare Annette to her uncle, due to the niggling suspicion in the back of her mind, Juliana couldn’t stop her not-so-subtle glances in her cousin’s direction. Having arrived early with Jack to assist in the final arrangements before Lizzy and all the others, she hadn’t seen the man in question or her grandfather arrive yet.
Through the crowd, her survey met Lizzy’s dazzling gleam and her great-aunt smiled, her fingers unconsciously touching the gardenia pinned to her pink Chanel suit. She looked different this afternoon. Even in spite of the speech she was about to make, she looked more at peace than she had since their initial meeting on the Fourth of July. She gave Lizzy a reassuring smile, remembering Jack’s initial objection to his grandmother’s insistence on personally addressing the assembly. He explained how he now understood that this was the final piece to his grandmother’s redemption. The secrets of the past would no longer remain concealed from the public. The guilt she carried would finally be assuaged by this last act of reparation. He further conveyed that Lizzy felt released after fifty years of retribution for acts of hatred committed by another upon a nation of people.
“Where is your grandfather?” Jack whispered into Juliana’s ear, breaking her stare upon her new family members. “They want to start the ceremony but can’t until they get here.”
“He’ll be here. Maybe he had a hard time getting my uncle to come. Grandpa said that Uncle Will doesn’t know what this is about.”
“So they’ve made up? They spoke to each other and cleared the air?”
“Yes, Grandpa didn’t go into detail but he said he got his money and that was that. When he smiled and winked at me, I knew everything was okay.”
“His money?”
“Inside joke about baseball.”
“So we did it— we’ve succeeded in half of our endeavor?”
She grinned. “Yeah, we did it. Let’s hope the next reunion goes just as well.”
Jack leaned down to her ear with a naughty grin. “Did I tell you that you look incredible?” A deep breath preceded his next compliment. “And you smell heavenly.”
Tilting her head, their eyes lovingly drank in each other. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“Only to the one I love.”
He looked striking, wearing a dark blue suit and light blue tie, which matched his dancing eyes perfectly. Her heart slammed against her chest almost as thunderously as the night before when they made love for the first time. Having committed her heart and soul, this morning, she was overcome with emotion and couldn’t suppress the urge to finally confirm aloud what was in her heart. “I love you, too.”
He cocked his head, reading her with a quizzical brow. “Do you mean that?”
“Yes, Jack Robertsen. I love you.”
Their tender smiles and sparkling eyes communicated more than those little three words.
The heartfelt exchange concluded rather abruptly as Louie and Louise entered the crowded gallery filled with a cacophony of excitement. Uncle William walked tentatively behind them, clearly unsure of what this was about. It wasn’t every day that one was invited to a private salon within the Louvre.
The debonair Martel brothers were both finely attired in business suits and silk ties, though the professional image they exuded faltered slightly when Juliana’s grandfather smiled his cocky grin and winked at her, before leading Louise to Marion and Henri.
The crowd seemed to disappear, no longer of interest when her uncle entered the salon. Juliana watched as his gaze instantly found Lizzy at the far end of the long room. Their eyes locked. Everyone present, even the preeminent veiled paintings, became blank canvas beside the deep, rich palette she knew to be their undying love. She was witness to their reunion.
Will smiled tenderly at Lizzy and Juliana felt herself an interloper. She could feel the tangible emotion as the fissure between them united, and it brought tears to her eyes.
He touched the gardenia pinned to his lapel; it matched Lizzy’s. When her great-aunt bit her lip, he responded with a chuckle as if they had been together forever. His smile grew, as did Lizzy’s. Clearly, they were sharing a private secret involving the flower adornments over their hearts.
Juliana’s focus settled upon that radiant smile of his—his dimple. The same smile as Annette’s and her son Adam’s—the spitting image of her great-uncle. It was then that her speculation was confirmed. No one needed to tell her that Aunt Annette was Lizzy and Will’s daughter. She wondered if Annette would notice the resemblance. Did she know? If not, this day was about to get even more interesting.
The assembly silenced as though they, too, could feel the electrifying energy between Pistol and Ducky but in fact, it was in response to the French Minister of Culture taking his position at the microphone. Clearing his throat, he alerted everyone to the beginning of the formal service.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to this auspicious ceremony. We would like to commence so if our participants could please take your designated seats on the podium and if our esteemed audience would please be seated, we can begin.”
Will took a seat in one of the white folding chairs that faced the podium, having no idea what this “special ceremony” was about, assuming it had something to do with Lizzy’s foundation. His girl had been very cryptic this morning after Annette telephoned to beg out of going jogging. After hanging up the telephone, Lizzy had settled back in his arms, resting her head against his shoulder.
“I know you dislike surprises, but I have another one for you this afternoon. Will you wear your gardenia for me?”
Now, five hours later, he was stunned to see his brother stride to the podium and hold out his hand to assist Lizzy, though Will’s eyes were momentarily diverted as her long slender legs gracefully surmounted the step up. Brother and sister-in-law sat side-by-side as the other participants took seats on the opposite side of the platform. Broad smiles were captured amidst the plenitude of cameras, flashbulbs popping. Lizzy sat closest to the lectern.
As the official carefully began withdrawing the concealing drapes over each of the paintings, Annette made her way through the crowd toward the virile aviator she recognized from the photograph Jack showed her at the museum. She took the empty seat beside him as the official solemnly completed his task.
Now exposed to the appreciative attendees, three long-lost masterpieces were revealed: a Degas, a Monet, and finally, an Avercamp. She watched the stunned expression appear on the handsome face of the man seated next to her.
Annette leaned to Will’s ear, whispering, “Do you know that painting? The Avercamp?”
The sound of his daughter’s voice and its particular Lizzy-like effervescence reached down into his soul where familiarity infused every cell of his body at the mere resonance. No one needed to point his child out to him. No one needed to make an introduction. He knew without a shadow of doubt that this stunning woman with chestnut curls was his little duckling, and he fought the overwhelming urge to take her into his arms and weep.
He tried not to let his voice tremble speaking his first words to his child. “I do know it. If memory serves, my family has an almost identical one in Brooklyn. I’m shocked to see one so similar here.”
“The one in Brooklyn, it was inherited by your mother, right? One for you—the other to be given to your brother.”
Will furrowed his brow, his eyes searching her face, drinking in the curve of her chin, the plane of her cheek, the sparkle in her green eyes. “How do … how do you know this?”
“Because that’s your brother’s painting on the easel, confiscated by the Third Reich during the Vel d’Hiv Roundups fifty years ago tomorrow.”
He looked to the Avercamp again and he wiped his brow. “My G-d. How … did …”
“My mother Elizabeth. She’s tenacious. For years, she’s been trying to get the painting back to your family but the French government wouldn’t part with it. I only just recently came to learn the painting’s history.”
Although shocked by her statement, he couldn’t help wondering if Lizzy had decided to tell Annette on her own about him. He leaned toward his daughter and whispered, “Do you know who I am?”
“Yes. You’re Lou’s brother, William, my mother’s old flame.”
Which still burns bright. “I am, and you must be Annette, her daughter.”
She smiled and nodded, turning in her seat to shake his hand with hers, grasping it, and squeezing slightly, unknowingly initiating an acquaintance he had dreamed of almost incessantly these last two weeks.
An impish grin formed upon her lips. “Isn’t my mother beautiful? As beautiful as you remember?”
Will looked to where his glorious Lizzy sat studying the paintings, her profile stunning in the afternoon sunlight streaming into the gallery. “More radiant than I remember.”
“She’s single.”
Will laughed lightly. No, she’s not and she never will be again. “That’s good to hear because for fifty years, I haven’t stop thinking about her.”
Their conversation ended when the officiating dignitary adjusted the bendable arm of the microphone and then straightened his tie. He spoke, segmented, in first French and then English about the restoration of lives and legacy and the darkness that removed these treasures from victims of the Holocaust. He spoke of France’s gratitude to The Phoenix Foundation for their coordination and diligent effort in locating the descendants of the rightful owners of these masterpieces, and he briefly spoke about the horrific events that transpired here in Paris five decades earlier. However, as usual, the government fell short in its much hoped for, anticipated apology for its complicity.
Will’s fist tightened and he sought the peace needed in Lizzy’s expression when their eyes met. The minister said, “Today’s restitution ceremony is a result of one woman’s tireless dedication. I would like to introduce Mrs. Elizabeth Robertsen, Co-Founder of The Phoenix Foundation.”
She rose, smoothed her skirt, then shook the official’s hand. Readying to make her address, her smile spellbound Will who waited in anticipation to hear her speak. He had no idea what she was about to say. He had had no idea about the painting, accepting that it had been lost forever after never hearing from the government following his claim submission in 1980 requesting its investigation and return.
Lizzy re-adjusted the microphone. “Thank you all for attending this long overdue occasion. I also would like to thank the French government for hosting the return of the Degas and the Monet. Although stolen from German citizens in 1941, the authentic provenance of these major artworks will be rectified today here at the magnificent Louvre Museum. My deep personal appreciation goes to the Ministers of Culture and Education who worked together to facilitate the return of the Avercamp to its rightful owners after its having hung in a regional museum in Dijon for over thirty years.”
Will clung to every word Lizzy spoke with her perfect poise and a professional maturity he had never known her to possess. The woman he had always loved had grown into everything he hoped that she would and he loved her more because of it.
“Personally, the process of reuniting the paintings with their families has been quite a campaign for me, one filled with deep contrition and committed recompense. It is a journey, which began in the summer of 1942, continuing throughout the years as a labor of love, and culminating in this very moment.
“As a young woman, I was inspired by a dashing Army pilot whose love, goodness, and principles taught me that true happiness is found when we think and act for others, when we believe that we can positively affect lives for the good of mankind, and pursue forgiveness at every turn for injustice. Happiness is best found when we answer the call to protect the marginalized and stand up for human rights and dignity.”
She swallowed and looked to him seated beside their daughter. A tender smile formed upon her lips as she gathered her strength from that poignant image. Will’s wink and buoying nod gave her stalwart courage.
“What we didn’t know then was that my father was the antithesis of those beliefs. It was only after my sweetheart flyer left to fight evil in Europe that I learned that the patriarch of my family was a member of the Third Reich, an American in name only. He was the recipient of both the Degas and Monet after they were stolen from your families. Papers found within his office attested to the fact that they were given to him as gifts for his anti-American acts and he had displayed them with bombastic pride at my family estate in New York. I did not come to learn of his affiliation with the Nazis until after his heinous financing helped to murder millions—including those of that young pilot’s family following the Vel d’Hiv Roundup exactly fifty years ago tomorrow. Both he and his brother are in attendance today to finally receive their family’s treasured heirloom—the Avercamp.
“The Avercamp was owned by his maternal Dutch family, the DeVrieses, for five generations, as I am sure the Degas and Monet were similarly cherished by the Hermann and Lentz families. Their return to you brings me an overwhelming sense of joy—one that words cannot sufficiently define. Their restitution represents another victory over an evil that sought to annihilate not just the human spirit, but the very attestation of their existence.
“As a result of the inspiration of that young man, William Martel, coupled with my never-ending love for him, The Phoenix Foundation was created in his honor—from the ashes a people will be reborn, their legacies restored, and their courageous stories, recorded and accurately told. Every dollar of its charitable contributions and restorative projects have been financed by my late father’s immense fortune and will continue to do so, until and beyond the time that his very last penny is spent. To date, the foundation has spent over a quarter of a billion dollars in reparations, an amount that is meager in comparison to the loss.”
Lizzy paused, again locking eyes with Will, resisting the urge to cry but it was for naught. Tears formed and her lip trembled. This forthright admission was so difficult, but his strength became hers, his calm giving her fortitude. She straightened her shoulders and raised her chin, ready to shed the massive weight, choosing to lean on his enduring love as her support.
“I stand before you and the Martel brothers, as well as some members of my family who have kept the secrets of my father’s role in the Shoah, and I … I publicly ask for your forgiveness. I humbly beseech you to not condemn me or my family for the sins of my father and to find it in your hearts to accept The Phoenix Foundation, its volunteers, and its financing as our public acknowledgement and sincere apology.”
Will’s heart clenched. He had never been so moved in all his life nor ever, so proud of someone. Without pause, amidst the applause and response from press and attendees, he immediately stood tall, towering over the seated audience. He walked through the chairs and advanced to the podium. His adoring smile told all present exactly how he felt.
Reaching for Lizzy’s hand, he stepped onto the podium and folded his sweetheart into his arms, holding her in a tight embrace so that everyone could see the measure of his love and forgiveness.
~~*~~
Will felt like a king holding Lizzy’s hand with a firm grip, reveling in the reality that she was walking beside him, not in a dream or a memory, but in the flesh. On the opposite side of him his daughter, the child born out of his and Lizzy’s abiding love, tucked her arm into the crook of his as they all casually strolled side-by-side. Annette squeezed into him to avoid the crush of passersby on the narrow bridge as they crossed the Seine River to the Ile de la Cite. He grinned. His girls. These were his girls and his heart was so full of emotion that he felt he could weep with abundant joy at any given moment.
It was just the three of t
hem on this outing. The others in the Robertsen and Martel families had made excuses following the restitution ceremony. Louie stayed behind at the Louvre to make arrangements for the transfer of the Avercamp back to the States, and Juliana and Jack had a familiar gleam in their eyes—one Will knew well every time he looked at Lizzy. Her eldest son, Henri, and his wife had previously visited this outing’s destination, the Memorial of the Martyrs of Deportation, having traveled the year prior on their family trip back to the Alsace in preparation for Lillian Renner’s Story of Courage. There were other memorials, places they would all, as a family, visit tomorrow on the Commemorative Anniversary of the Roundup.
No, this destination was meant just for Will’s immediate family.
“Tell me more about you and my mother, Will. Was she as wild as that snapshot alludes? The one of her painted on your bomber?”
“That photograph really got around didn’t it?” He chuckled and looked over at Lizzy and those twisting lips of hers. She looked resplendent in the sun, back dropped by the ancient white wall and rippling waters, and he couldn’t disguise the deep affection in his tone. “She stopped my heart, Annette. She had an infectious joie de vive, but she didn’t fool me. I knew there was a serious woman in there just waiting to blossom.”
“Yes … you did, Will,” Lizzy said.
“Did she tell you that she went skydiving for her seventieth birthday? Jack took her up. In the 1970s, she also took flying lessons on the q.t, but I found the pilot’s manual in her handbag.”
Again, Will glanced at Lizzy, admiring the schoolgirl blush that spread upon her cheeks. He made no comment to that divulged secret but it told him so much about his girl. He further delighted that their daughter was shamelessly trying to promote their renewed romance, having no idea that it had been sealed with a kiss at 6:20 that morning.
“After my father died, Mom even trained for the New York City Marathon.”
Impressed, he cocked his head. “Did you do it? Did you run?”