by sarvar. bhat
‘Shall we sit by the painting?’ suggested Fuchs. ‘It’s just over there.’
Celia followed Fuchs across the room. Fuchs didn’t believe in polite chitchat and decided instead to come straight to the point.
‘What do you think?’ he asked, and pointed to the painting.
Celia was stunned. The striking painting looked exactly like the one she had seen at the auction. The only difference appeared to be the frame, which was far more elaborate. Displayed on a small table in front of the painting was a piece of yellowish paper; obviously the receipt.
‘Extraordinary’, said Celia, genuinely surprised.
‘Your article that first alerted me to all this the other day was excellent, Miss Crawford. I like your style. Good journalism; quite rare these days.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Since then, my secretary has obtained a full transcript of what Mr Krakowski and Mr Rogan had to say at the auction. You can assume that I am familiar with all that.’
‘What do you think of the painting’s provenance?’ asked Celia, coming straight to the point. She sensed that Fuchs would like that. He did.
‘Impressive, and convincing, if it weren’t for this.’ Fuchs picked up the piece of paper on the table in front of him and handed it to Celia. ‘I bought the original painting in 1943 from Berenger Krakowski; here’s the proof.’
‘With respect, what makes you so sure it is the original?’ asked Celia quietly.
‘I understand, of course, where you are coming from. Firstly, I know art, Miss Crawford. In my considered opinion, this is a genuine Monet. However, there is more. The circumstances of the purchase.’
‘Please explain.’
‘The painting was offered for sale in the Warsaw Ghetto in 1942. Those were desperate times, Miss Crawford. For a man like Krakowski living in the ghetto with his family, selling a fake to the authorities would have been a death sentence; unthinkable.’
‘You seem very sure about all this.’
‘I am.’
Arrogance, thought Celia. She realised that the next part was the tricky bit and she had to proceed with caution. ‘I don’t quite know how to put this, Herr Fuchs, but for my paper to take this further, we need more.’
‘What do you mean?’ snapped Fuchs.
‘The painting sold at the auction was examined by a team of leading experts, and unanimously pronounced to be a genuine Monet. You also claim to have the genuine article …’ Celia paused, collecting her thoughts. ‘Obviously, both cannot be right, can they?’
‘Are you suggesting this is a forgery?’ demanded Fuchs, squirming in his wheelchair.
‘Certainly not, but you must understand it isn’t for me to say.’
‘No, of course not. Forgive me. So, where to from here?’
‘My paper has a proposal.’
‘Oh?’
‘It is willing to engage Professor Moreau—who is, as you are no doubt aware, the leading authority on Monet’s work—to come here and examine the painting.’
‘And he has agreed to this? Moreau has agreed to come here?’
‘Yes. My paper has already been in touch with him and he is prepared to take on the assignment, should you agree. As you know, he examined the painting sold at the auction, and is therefore very interested in having a look at this one. “A unique situation”, I think he called it. He lives in Paris, but we could have him brought here tomorrow should that be convenient.’
‘How extraordinary’, said Fuchs, running his fingers nervously through his hair. ‘Moreau coming here to examine my painting.’
Pride, thought Celia. Got ya!
‘I have nothing to fear, Miss Crawford. I am happy to agree to the arrangement, but with one proviso.’
‘Yes?’
‘That you write an article about the findings, and give it the prominence it deserves in your paper.’
‘Agreed’, said Celia. ‘After all, that’s what this is all about.’
‘Splendid. Now, let’s have some tea, shall we?’
THE EXAMINATION
For the leading expert on Monet with a worldwide reputation that had collectors, art galleries and auction houses hang on his opinions as pronouncements set in stone, Jacques Moreau was a surprisingly unassuming man. Quietly spoken, small in stature and balding, he looked more like a retired country librarian than the feared and respected expert he was. When it came to Monet, his word was final, and insurers set their valuations and premiums according to his opinions. If your Monet wasn’t on Moreau’s list, it wasn’t a Monet; simple.
Isis had acted quickly. By offering Moreau an astronomical fee and a ride in her private jet, she secured the services of the man needed to address the looming problem. After Fuchs had agreed to the proposed arrangement, Lola flew to Paris and collected Moreau. Despite his fearsome reputation and droll appearance, Moreau was surprisingly good company, and Jack in particular got on very well with him from the start. In fact, Lola, Celia and Jack spent an entertaining evening with Moreau in one of Gstaad’s finest hotels.
‘What do you think about all this, Jacques?’ asked Jack, leaning back in his comfortable chair facing the huge fireplace in the hotel bar. Helped by copious quantities of vintage wine consumed during the sumptuous dinner, he and Moreau were already on first name terms, and appeared to be getting on famously.
The little man sitting in the chair next to Jack seemed to have come to life. ‘It’s a unique situation for sure’, he said. ‘I haven’t come across anything quite like this before, especially with an artist like Monet. Two identical-looking paintings, both with unique histories and a convincing provenance, but as we both know, there can only be one original.’
‘Quite. So what’s your approach tomorrow?’
‘Same as usual: methodical and scientific. However, the painting will hold all the answers—it always does—and I will have to find them; that’s the challenge. There’s a tried and tested way to do this. In the end it all comes down to a few simple points. It’s all about uncovering facts. Facts cannot hide. It’s not that complicated at all.’
‘Many would disagree with you there’, said Jack.
‘Perhaps.’
‘How did you get into this?’ asked Jack. ‘I mean, become an—’
‘Authentication expert?’ Moreau cut in, laughing. ‘That’s what they call me, you know, but I like to think of myself as a forgery sleuth; does that make sense?’
‘A forgery sleuth? I like that.’
‘Usually, I can see—sense would be more accurate—a forgery as soon as I set eyes on a painting. The rest of the process is to support this with reasoning and facts. That’s the tedious bit. But first impressions are everything, and rarely prove me wrong.’
‘How interesting. Are you suggesting that when you see Fuchs’ painting tomorrow for the first time, you will form a view then and there?’
‘Most likely, yes.’
‘Just as you did with the painting at the auction?’
‘Yes. I have no doubt it is an original Monet, just as I said in my report. Nothing will change that.’
‘It’s been a long day. We had better turn in’, said Jack. ‘What do you think?’
‘I’ve enjoyed talking to you, Jack. We must do this again.’
‘Absolutely. I’m sure we’ll have an interesting day tomorrow.’
‘I hope so.’
* * *
The next morning, the hire car pulled up in front of Fuchs’ mansion at ten o’clock sharp, as arranged. Fuchs watched from above as Moreau and the others got out of the car. Moreau coming here; how fabulous, thought Fuchs, becoming quite excited, a rare emotion for a man like him. But when it came to his paintings, he turned into a different man; passionate, emotional even. His paintings were his friends, and in his lonely old age, they were the only friends he had left.
Just before Celia closed the car door, something caught Fuchs’ eye: someone sitting in the back seat who didn’t get out. Fuchs reached for his binoculars. Just b
efore the car pulled out of the driveway, he caught a glimpse of the profile of a man. I wonder, thought Fuchs, smiling, I wonder …
Fuchs chatted to Moreau while Celia’s team set up the equipment. It had been agreed that the examination would be recorded on video, and she had engaged an experienced cameraman with crew in Bern.
‘You have a fabulous collection, Herr Fuchs’, said Moreau, pointing across the room. ‘Degas, Manet, Renoir, Cezanne; how extraordinary! You are a fortunate man.’
Fuchs was obviously pleased. This was more excitement than he had had in years. His almost hermit-like lifestyle prevented contact with the outside world, and with no family to speak of, he lived like a recluse in monastic isolation surrounded by his paintings, and liked it that way. But to have an expert, the expert on Monet, sitting next to him discussing art, was a different matter altogether. Basking in the attention, Fuchs felt like the man he once was: powerful, in control, respected. A heady cocktail that made his heart beat faster.
‘We are ready for you, Monsieur Moreau’, said Celia, walking up to the two men sitting by the window.
‘Before we start, Miss Crawford, I would like to ask you something’, said Fuchs.
‘Yes?’
‘There was a man sitting in the back of the car with you. He looked familiar. May I ask who he was?’
Celia froze, her mind racing. He saw Jack! she thought. What am I going to tell him? Fuchs was watching Celia carefully. ‘That was Jack Rogan, the writer, who addressed the auction about the painting’s history the other day’, she replied after a while. Celia decided that this was not the time to gamble: if Fuchs had recognised Jack, which was possible, then any attempt to deceive him could have unwelcome consequences. Coming clean appeared the best option.
‘I thought I recognised him’, said Fuchs, frowning. ‘Please tell me, what is he doing here, Miss Crawford?’
Celia had been expecting the next question, and was ready for it. ‘We, that is the paper and I, thought it could be helpful to have him stand by in case Monsieur Moreau had some questions—you know—about the other painting …’ she replied casually.
‘I see’, said Fuchs, obviously satisfied with the answer. ‘So why not ask him to join us?’
Celia realised she had to be careful how she answered this. ‘We thought that might be inappropriate, considering—’
‘Our previous, let’s say, dealings?’ Fuchs cut in, laughing.
‘Exactly’, said Celia, relieved.
‘I appreciate your tact, Miss Crawford, but we are all adults here. I have nothing personal against Mr Rogan’, Fuchs lied. ‘In fact, I would very much like to meet him. So, why don’t you ask him to join us?’
Celia looked at Fuchs, surprised. It wasn’t what she had expected. ‘I’ll call him right away, if you wish’, she said.
‘Please do that’, said Fuchs, and turned towards Moreau, who was talking to the cameraman. ‘Ready to start?’ asked Fuchs.
‘Just about’, said Moreau. ‘This is the moment when I feel like a forensic pathologist, dissecting other men’s genius’, he joked.
Moreau adjusted the spotlights set up by the crew, which were washing over the painting, and stood back, the silence in the room deafening. At first, he looked at the painting from a distance and then slowly walked closer until he stood directly in front of it. With his hands folded behind his back, he let his expert eyes roam methodically over the canvas, taking in all the details of the painting: the colours, the brushstrokes, and countless other aspects only a lifetime of experience can interpret and absorb.
As his mind began to process the vast amount of information, something stood out: a name. David Herzl, thought Moreau. All the hallmarks are there. Then his eyes came to rest on the frame.
‘Now this is interesting’, said Moreau, looking at the frame. ‘I am almost certain that this is one of Monet’s standard issue picture frames. However, to be sure I would have to examine the back of the painting, which we’ll do later.’
Yes! I knew it, thought Fuchs, sensing victory.
‘The frame is a carved and gilded frame from the Régence period and appears to be from Monet’s original selection. Several of his paintings are still in his standard frame, notably the Grainstack, which he sold in 1891 to Horatio Lamb of Boston; catalogue number twenty-four’, Moreau droned on.
‘Frames can be very important pointers and most helpful in establishing provenance. However, authenticity can never rely on such considerations alone. A holistic approach is needed. The focus must always be on the painting itself.’ Moreau paused, stepped back and for a long moment stood perfectly still. He kept staring at the painting, looking at something only he could see. Mesmerised, Celia watched the fascinating little man do his stuff.
The housekeeper knocked and opened the door. ‘Mr Rogan’, she announced, and stepped aside. Celia walked over to Jack. ‘He saw you. I didn’t know what else to do’, she whispered. ‘He wants to meet you.’
‘It’s all right; don’t worry’, said Jack, and walked confidently into the room.
‘Ah, Mr Rogan,’ said Fuchs, ‘we meet at last.’
‘I was hoping this would happen one day’, said Jack, and walked over to the old man in the wheelchair to shake his hand.
Fuchs pointed to an empty chair next to him. ‘Please take a seat, Mr Rogan’, said Fuchs. ‘My life is full of surprises lately, and they all have one thing in common: you.’
‘You don’t say’, said Jack casually, and sat down.
‘I always wanted to meet the man who cost me millions. I just didn’t think it would be today.’
WARSAW GHETTO: AUGUST 1942
By August 1942, the mass deportations from Warsaw were in full swing. As part of the wider ‘Operation Reinhard’, Grossaktion Warschau had only one aim: to deport thousands of Jews from the ghetto to Treblinka for extermination. Between 23 July and 21 September 1942, some three hundred thousand ghetto residents were sent to the death camps.
Berenger Krakowski walked over to the window and looked down into the street below. ‘Look at them’, he said, watching another column of several hundred march silently towards the Umschlagsplatz on Stawki Street, the notorious collection point. There, herded together like cattle, they would wait for the arrival of the trains.
‘What are we going to do, Berenger?’ asked Ruth, his wife. ‘They are coming closer; it will be our turn any time now.’
‘I spoke to Mandel again yesterday’, said Krakowski. Emanuel Mandel was a Jewish ghetto policeman working for the SS, who was helping the Germans to keep order in the crowded ghetto. Krakowski had given violin lessons to Mandel’s daughter and was on reasonably good terms with him. He had fostered the relationship and used it as a source of valuable intelligence of what was happening in the ghetto. Being one step ahead of the SS could make the difference between life and death.
‘What about?’ said Ruth.
‘The Germans are looking for paintings, especially impressionists…’
‘Why?’
‘Not sure, but Mandel seems to think that he can prevent our deportation if we can come up with something.’
‘The Monet?’
‘It’s all we have left; we’ve sold everything else, except for the violin.’
‘No Berenger! You can’t do that!’
‘If the painting can save us, why not? I’ve taken it to Herzl.’
‘Why?’
‘To make us a copy. If we give them the painting, at least we’ll have something to remind us …’
Ruth walked over to her husband and put her arms around him. ‘You are a good man, Berenger’, she said, and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Do what’s best for us.’
‘Always.’
David Herzl was a talented painter, but in the ghetto, he was known as a master forger. Krakowski and Herzl were close friends, and when Krakowski told him that he was thinking of giving his Monet to the Germans to avoid transportation, Herzl offered to copy it for him.
Krakowski walked in
to Herzl’s ‘studio’ hidden in the back of a damp cellar. ‘How’s it going?’ he asked.
‘See for yourself.’ Herzl pointed to his easel.
‘Incredible’, said Krakowski. The painting was almost finished. ‘I can’t tell them apart. I don’t know how you do it, David; it’s perfect.’
Herzl smiled. ‘I can’t create, but I can copy’, said Herzl, slapping his friend on the back.
‘Mandel came around again today. He wants to arrange something for tomorrow if possible. About the painting, I mean.’
‘What?’
‘A sale.’
‘A sale? What do you mean?’
‘Apparently, the SS want to bring someone over, some big-shot from Berlin who wants to buy original paintings here in the ghetto. He’s especially interested in impressionists.’
‘Buy, you say? How weird.’
‘That’s what I thought. But who are we to question the Germans, eh? They are all mad, right?’
‘You can collect the painting in the morning; I’ll be finished by then. I’ll keep the copy for you here until you’re ready. I’ll even frame it for you.’
‘Thank you, my friend. Perhaps one day I can do something for you in return. I’ll let Mandel know.’
Herzl worked through the night to finish the painting. Finally satisfied, he stood back and smiled. It was one of the best copies he had ever made. Exhausted, he lay down on his bunk next to the easel to get some sleep. He closed his eyes, but the much needed sleep wouldn’t come. Instead, Monet’s Little Sparrow in the Garden began to whisper to him, seductively suggesting something daring. Covered in sweat, Herzl tossed and turned restlessly in his bunk, and tried to put the crazy idea out of his mind, but it wouldn’t go away. Finally, he sat up and lit a candle. Why not? he thought. It’s good enough. They’ll never notice the difference, those barbarians!