by sarvar. bhat
Feeling better for having made a decision, Herzl walked over to the original painting, took it off the wall and began to carefully pull the frame apart.
WARSAW GHETTO: THE ‘SALE’
The convertible Mercedes pulled up in front of Krakowski’s dilapidated apartment block at precisely noon the next day. The driver jumped out of the car and opened the back door for the SS major and his young guest.
‘Here we are, Herr Fuchs’, said the major, and got out of the car.
Mandel was waiting nervously at the entrance, cap in hand, and watched the major come strutting towards him. ‘Is everything ready?’ demanded the major.
‘Jawohl, Herr Sturmbannfuehrer’, said Mandel, standing to attention. ‘First floor.’
‘Show us the way.’
‘Jawohl, Herr Sturmbannfuehrer.’
Wearing his best—and only—suit, Krakowski was waiting in his tiny, sparsely furnished apartment. He had sent his wife and children to stay with neighbours to avoid any embarrassment or, God forbid, unintended offence. SS Officers were totally unpredictable; anything could happen.
The painting was hanging in its usual place above the sideboard. Krakowski had been painstakingly briefed by Mandel earlier that day. He had been told what to say and how to say it, how much to ask for the painting, and how to explain why he wanted to sell it. He had also been told that the buyer would ask for a receipt. Krakowski had pen and paper ready as instructed, and was waiting for his visitors to arrive.
Mandel opened the door and let the major and his guest enter. Ignoring Krakowski completely, the major walked over to the sideboard and pointed to the painting. ‘This is it, Herr Fuchs’, he said, I hope this is what you are looking for.’
Krakowski watched the tall young man follow the major across to the painting. Impeccably dressed in a grey double-breasted suit, white shirt, silk tie and black shoes so shiny they almost sparkled, the young man pulled a silver cigarette case out of his pocket. Turning to the major, he offered him a cigarette and they both lit up.
‘This is a truly remarkable painting’, said the young man. He bent down to look at the signature at the bottom of the painting. ‘A Monet; no doubt about it. And you wish to sell it, Herr—’
‘Krakowski’, interjected Mandel.
‘Krakowski’, repeated the young visitor. Krakowski then went through the prearranged charade and said all the things he had been instructed to say. After that, it only took a few minutes to complete the transaction. The major and his satisfied guest then swept out of the room followed by the driver, carrying the painting under his arm.
Slowly, Krakowski closed the door and then stared at the empty space above the sideboard. He felt as if part of his life had been torn away from him, never to return.
For the next hour, Krakowski wandered aimlessly through the ghetto until he found himself in front of Herzl’s studio.
‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost’, said Herzl, looking at his friend. ‘Come in.’
Herzl reached behind his bunk and pulled out a half-empty bottle of schnapps; a precious commodity obtained on the thriving black market. Krakowski took a swig, making the back of his throat burn with welcome pain. ‘Cheer up, not all is lost, my friend’, said Herzl. ‘You still have this—remember?’ He pointed to the painting on the easel. ‘I framed it for you this morning.’
Feeling better, Krakowski walked over to the painting and looked at it. ‘My God, David, I could swear it’s the real thing; thank you.’
Herzl smiled. ‘Take it home, my friend’, he said. ‘It will make you feel better. Also, for your family’s sake …’
‘You’re right; I’ll do that.’
Herzl took the painting off the easel and handed it to his friend.
‘I can’t tell you what this means to me’, said Krakowski. He reached into his pocket, took out two small gold bars and placed them on the easel. ‘Take this, it’s for you. This is what they gave me for the painting. I can’t keep it. The painting was never for sale.’
‘I understand’, said Herzl, and gulped down the last of the schnapps in the bottle. ‘We’ll buy some more of this.’
What Krakowski couldn’t have known was that the gold given to him in payment for the painting by the impeccably dressed young man was dental gold. Gold that had been harvested from the bodies of dead Jews in the concentration camps. Gold fillings mainly, and bridgework, broken out of the jaws of the corpses by other Jews, doing the unthinkable to stay alive. This gold was then melted down, and often mixed with gold from other sources—mainly gold looted from other victims’ possessions on their way to the gas chambers—to disguise its true origin. It was then stamped with the German eagle insignia, the Reichsadler, and given a new, ‘respectable’ identity acceptable to the Swiss bankers before being transferred to ‘neutral’ Switzerland to finance the war.
What Krakowski didn’t know either was that Herzl had exchanged the painting in the original frame with his copy, and that the painting a very dejected Krakowski was carrying home was in fact his original Monet, given to him by the famous artist himself on that sunny afternoon in the master’s garden many years ago.
THE VERDICT
Moreau instructed the cameraman to take some more close-ups and reached for his notebook. ‘There is one final task left’, he said, and pulled a large magnifying glass out of his kitbag. ‘If I’m right, we should have the decisive answer shortly.’ Moreau adjusted the spotlight and began to methodically inspect the painting with the magnifying glass. He began at the top left-hand corner and then moved slowly to the right, and then back to the left again, covering every square inch of the painting.
‘What is he doing?’ asked Fuchs, leaning forward to see better.
‘Looking for something, I’d say’, replied Jack. ‘He’s certainly very thorough.’
‘Your book created quite a storm’, said Fuchs, changing direction. ‘You pressed all the right buttons, even after all these years.’
‘It took on a momentum of its own,’ said Jack, ‘and became unstoppable. I was perhaps more surprised than most by its unexpected success.’
‘It’s always difficult to interpret history after such a long time. Much becomes distorted, memories play tricks on people, and looking at the past through the lens of the present will always rewrite history.’
‘There’s a lot of truth in that’, conceded Jack. ‘However, facts are facts, whichever way we look at them.’
‘Quite, provided they are the right facts. A bit like what Monsieur Moreau is doing right now, I suppose. Uncovering facts.’
‘You seem very certain,’ said Jack, ‘about your painting, I mean.’
‘I am’, Fuchs said calmly.
‘Just as you were about the origin of the gold shipments your bank received from the Nazis during the war?’
Fuchs shot Jack a withering look that would have sent an attacking tiger running for cover. ‘I didn’t know about the dental gold’, snapped Fuchs. ‘None of us did. Our bank always acted in good faith. We were neutral. It was all strictly business.’
Jack realised he had almost overstepped the mark and decided to change his approach to placate Fuchs. ‘I understand’, he said. ‘It was a long time ago. Would you perhaps be interested in an interview to set the record straight?’ he asked, dangling a carrot in front of Fuchs’ ego he knew would be quite irresistible.
‘Could be’, replied Fuchs, surprised. ‘An addendum to your book, perhaps?’
‘It would depend—’
‘On what?’ Fuchs interrupted.
‘On what you tell me, of course.’
‘Here it is!’ Moreau cried out. ‘Just as I thought. Hidden in the lily pond; how ingenious!’
‘What exactly?’ asked Fuchs. He wheeled his chair over to the painting.
‘Here, have a look’, said Moreau. He handed Fuchs his magnifying glass, and pointed to a certain spot in the lily pond.
‘What am I looking for?’
‘Something that doesn�
�t belong in a lily pond.’
Fuchs raised the magnifying glass, bent forward and, for what seemed an eternity, kept staring at the painting. Looking suddenly quite pale and shaken, he let the magnifying glass fall into his lap and turned around to face Moreau. ‘Is, is this a p-prank?’ he stammered.
‘Far from it. It’s a signature.’
‘Are you telling me that what looks like a tiny Star of David and a small heart under this rock here is a signature?’
‘It is’, Moreau replied, elated. ‘And not just any signature, but the signature of David Herzl.’
‘Who is David Herzl?’ demanded Fuchs, becoming angry.
‘David Herzl was one of Europe’s most accomplished forgers during the war. He always signed his work in ingenious ways, with a Star of David, obviously for David, and a small heart for Herzl, which means heart in German. He lived in the Warsaw Ghetto and was killed during the uprising in 1943. If it’s any consolation, this is without doubt one of the best forgeries of a Monet I’ve come across. In its own way, it’s a masterpiece.’
THE FALLOUT
Jack admired the way Fuchs appeared to recover from the humiliating blow. Fuchs invited everyone, the crew included, to join him for lunch in the elegant dining room on the ground floor. This had obviously been planned earlier, because everything was ready by the time they went downstairs.
Fuchs seemed calm and controlled, but inside he was seething. Something that was supposed to have propelled him into the limelight had unexpectedly turned into a crushing defeat. His reputation as an astute art collector and connoisseur was on the line. Astute art collectors don’t buy forgeries, and collectors who do, become the butt of jokes and are ridiculed. All that was left, therefore, was damage control. To have this controversial episode splashed across the pages of his beloved New York Times was unthinkable, and had to be prevented at all cost. He had to find a solution quickly, while all the players were present.
All his life, Fuchs had been a master tactician who knew how to deal with the unexpected. He had navigated the family bank through the difficult and dangerous war years and made a fortune. He had seen people in high places come and go, and powerful regimes sink into the dustbin of history. He was therefore well equipped to deal with the problem at hand: he had to keep his embarrassment out of the public domain, and to do that, he needed a plan.
Racing through the events of the morning, he was formulating his approach. He knew that Jack and Benjamin Krakowski were close; he knew that Krakowski was the man of the moment with his generous donation of the auction proceeds to the Rosen Foundation. He also knew that Celia had written several leading articles about this. To therefore have Krakowski’s father exposed as a dishonest man who sold forgeries, regardless of the desperate times and circumstances, could cause some unwelcome character damage and take the gloss off the generous gesture and his reputation.
One of Fuchs’ many strengths has always been his ability to read people and find their weak spots. He therefore knew instinctively that he was on the right track.
‘Monsieur Moreau, I must congratulate you. The way you solved this intriguing puzzle has been truly inspirational.’
‘Thank you. I know it wasn’t the result you expected,’ replied Moreau, enjoying his second glass of splendid vintage Bordeaux, ‘but we are all ruled by facts.’
‘Quite. But something puzzles me …’
‘What is that?’ asked Moreau.
‘The frame. You said that in your opinion, the frame is an original. I think you called it one of Monet’s original selection frames; something like that.’
‘Yes, there’s no doubt about that.’
‘An original frame with a forgery?’
‘That puzzled me too’, said Moreau. ‘But facts …’
‘And the original painting you examined before the auction had a simple, quite ordinary frame, you say?’
‘Yes, it did.’
‘Certainly not a Monet original—right?’
‘No. it was added much later.’
‘That would suggest, would it not, that the deception was quite deliberate. I mean, when I purchased the painting from Berenger Krakowski, I was deliberately sold a forgery with an original Monet frame to make it look authentic.’
‘One could look at it that way,’ conceded Moreau, ‘but we’ll never know, will we?’
‘Perhaps not.’
Fuchs turned to Celia sitting on his right. ‘What an eventful morning, Miss Crawford’, he said. ‘It would appear that Benjamin Krakowski’s father wasn’t exactly the man we all thought he was.’
‘What are you suggesting, Herr Fuchs?’ asked Celia, a little irritated.
‘Well, I bought the painting from him in good faith, paid for it with gold as requested, got a proper receipt for the transaction, and was sold a forgery, albeit apparently a very good one. These are the facts, Miss Crawford, whichever way we look at the situation.’
Jack was carefully watching Fuchs and realised at once what he was doing. He thought it was time to step in. ‘That’s one way to look at it, but this whole episode has turned into—forgive me if I speak frankly—an embarrassment for you, has it not?’
‘There’s no denying that’, said Fuchs cheerfully. So far, the conversation was going exactly as he had hoped it would. He was getting closer to where he wanted to go. ‘However, you have to admit that the story has lost its gloss. The potential controversy has gone away. So, I have to ask myself, why write anything about it at all?’
Celia looked at Fuchs, surprised, but Jack had seen this coming all along. ‘Let’s cut to the chase, Herr Fuchs, shall we?’ said Jack, turning serious. He folded his napkin in half and reached for his wineglass. ‘If I understand you correctly, you would prefer it if we, that is, Miss Crawford’s paper, would forget all about this, and not publish anything about you and the forgery at all. Am I right?’
Fuchs looked at Jack, and smiled. He recognised in Jack a man he could deal with, because he understood the rules of the game: give and take; something for something; compromise. ‘Exactly’, said Fuchs.
‘And why should we do that?’ interjected Celia. ‘After all, we have invested in this story. At your request, I might add.’
‘Because of what I’m about to offer you in return.’
‘And what might that be?’ asked Jack, admiring the cunning old man’s tactics.
‘I will take care of all the expenses, reimburse the paper in full, pay for everything it has spent on this story.’
Jack took a sip of wine and watched Fuchs carefully. ‘And?’
‘I will agree to a comprehensive interview with you and Miss Crawford about your book—Dental Gold and Other Horrors—no holds barred. I assure you, I can fill in many of the gaps, set the record straight and, add a few surprises.’ Fuchs paused to let this sink in. ‘And,’ he continued, ‘Mr Krakowski’s reputation remains intact without a slur on the family name, or the painting for that matter. An important consideration I would have thought, especially in light of recent events: the auction … the donation … and the mystery buyer you are about to reveal. Let’s be frank, a story about a forgery could only muddy the waters and cast a shadow over everything, don’t you think?’ said Fuchs cheerfully, and reached for his glass. ‘And that’s certainly not what you would want, is it?’ he added quietly.
Celia shot Jack a meaningful look, the question on her face obvious.
‘Would you excuse us for a moment’, said Jack, and stood up. ‘Miss Crawford and I need a word in private.’
‘By all means’, said Fuchs, and raised his glass, confident of having won the argument.
* * *
‘I think we made the right decision here’, said Jack on their way back to London. They had just left Bern airport and were flying over the Alps.
Celia looked out the window, enjoying the glow of the setting sun reflected on the snow-covered peaks floating by. ‘I hope so, Jack.’
‘Your editor seemed pleased.’
‘Why wouldn’t he be? Thanks to you, I get to interview Isis, the megastar, and break the story about the mystery buyer. Without doubt the story of the moment. And then there’s the interview with Fuchs. No holds barred—remember? You’ll get a lot of publicity out of that, and my paper comes along for the ride. And as Fuchs quite rightly pointed out, the forgery story has certainly lost its controversy appeal. Not bad. I just don’t like being manipulated, especially by an old rogue like Fuchs.’
Jack began to laugh. ‘You must admit, he played this to perfection. You have to admire him for that. And, he’s paying all of the expenses. Your paper would have liked that too.’
‘I suppose so, but—’
‘Celia, this is the real world. You have to be flexible; prepared to change your mind. I think we’ve come out way in front.’
‘I think you’re right. Thanks for everything.’
‘We should drink to that’, said Jack, and reached for the bottle of champagne Lola had left for them in the ice bucket. She was in the cockpit flying the plane.
Celia watched Jack open the bottle. He’s without doubt the most exciting man I’ve met in a long time, she thought. Time to make a move. Sensing the growing tension, Jack looked at her, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes.
‘Are we going to have an affair?’ asked Celia, and put her hand on Jack’s thigh.
‘I hope so’, replied Jack, trying to sound nonchalant.
‘I don’t believe it’, said Celia.
‘What?’
‘You’re blushing!’
‘Bullshit! It’s the sunset …’
‘Nonsense! Come here, I wanted to do this for a long time’, said Celia, her voice sounding hoarse.
‘Oh? What?’
‘Kiss a country boy, silly!’
SIX MONTHS LATER
Jack was visiting Tristan and Countess Kuragin at her chateau in France, when he received a phone call from Isis.