Ruth shook her head. “Tim! Don’t be cute. Who is he?”
“He’s a nobody named Gregor Kovpak, from a nothing place called the Hermitage, or something like that, in Leningrad,” Rubin said with a wicked grin. “Or maybe it’s in Moscow. One of those small museums, as you guessed.”
Ruth’s eyes widened. Of course! She had seen Gregor Kovpak’s pictures in the journals often enough. And she not only had visited the Hermitage Museum in Leningrad several times, she knew it to be one of the finest and most prestigious in the world. She managed to look down the row of chairs as if merely checking to see how close they were to starting, but her look was for Gregor Kovpak. What was a man like Gregor Kovpak doing here? Was it possible that the Russians were behind the auction, after all? But that was ridiculous. If everyone there was behind the auction, it would be like Chesterton’s The Man Who Was Thursday. But whatever reason had brought the eminent Russian archaeologist, Ruth McVeigh was suddenly glad he was here. She told herself it was because it would give her a chance to meet the famous Dr. Kovpak at last. She became aware that Tim Rubin was speaking to her, and looked around.
“I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening. What did you say?”
“I was merely answering you.”
“Answering me?” Ruth looked at him, surprised. “I didn’t ask anything.”
“Yes, you did. You may have thought you just thought it, but you said it. You said, ‘He’s very good looking, isn’t he?’ And I said that I usually don’t notice those things in men,” Tim said dryly. “Now, if you want my opinion of that lovely from the Museo di Antichità in Turin, I’ll be glad to go into details. However, for your information, I might mention that Kovpak is a widower. That’s the good news. The bad news is that he’s not interested in any further entangling alliances, as I understand it.”
Ruth felt her face flushing. “Tim, you’re an idiot! I don’t believe I said a word. And I’m not interested in Dr. Kovpak other than to meet him. I’ve read his papers and I think he’s brilliant.”
“As well as good looking and single,” Tim murmured, but Ruth had turned away. The room was now full. People were settling down. She saw Dr. Lopez of Madrid come rushing in and hurrying down the table, peering over people’s shoulders at name cards to see if someone might have taken his seat. He finally noticed his empty chair and dropped into it, panting. Ruth smiled. Now the last one was here the meeting could start. She glanced at the wall clock, verified the time with her wristwatch, and reached for the gavel, promising herself that this first session, an afternoon session, would be a short one. Many people were tired from travel, and she promised herself an early night as well.
She tapped the gavel several times and the noise abated, people slipping on their headsets, pressing the proper buttons. Reporters at the press table also put on their headsets while those along the wall brought out their pencils. Ruth looked about the room, waiting for silence. Dr. Kovpak, his arms folded comfortably, was watching the proceedings with what appeared to be good-natured interest and nothing more. Ruth came to her feet, tapped the gavel once again, and then set it aside with a smile.
“I’m not exactly sure how to address an august gathering such as this,” she began. “Ladies and gentlemen seems a bit formal. Saying my friends seems a bit premature to say the least, although I hope by the time these sessions end we shall be, indeed, friends. So I’ll merely say, my colleagues in the field of archaeology, and let it go at that.”
She wondered, as she spoke, how much English, if any, Dr. Kovpak understood. It was a pity she had not known he was going to attend. She could easily have arranged a place at the table for him where he could hear her through a translator. It was pretty hard to impress a man with the brilliance of her ideas if he had no notion of what she was talking about. She brought her thoughts back to the meeting.
“This session will be a short one. It’s already two o’clock and I’m sure we all are tired from our travel. But we can consider it an introductory one and take up the more serious aspects of our meetings tomorrow.” She glanced at some notes and then back at her listening audience. “We all know we are here in connection with the auction of the Schliemann treasure, whether we as individual museums have been asked to bid, or not. We are unaware—I believe this is true of all of us—of exactly who is offering this collection for sale. In addition, I am sure there have been many discussions at the various museums represented here regarding the matter of legal title to the treasure. My own views on this are known to my board of directors, and in time will be known to you as well, but in the course of these discussions I expect we will hear the views of others. I shall also present certain proposals for discussion before we are finished with these meetings.”
She consulted her notes once again. The room was now totally quiet. She looked up, continuing evenly.
“I am sure there is no need to go into the history of the collection, of how and where it was discovered, or by whom. We in this room are all aware of this history, and from the world press coverage of the so-called ‘Auction of the Century,’ I should imagine almost everyone else in the world is equally knowledgeable. Suffice it to say, I believe that few other collections in the world could evoke the interest the Schliemann treasure has, or brought together such prestigious scientists as we are privileged to have here in this room today.”
There was a slight murmur of self-appreciation. Ruth waited until it had died down and then went on.
“I believe it would be best, before we make any concrete proposals, to open the floor for a general airing of views. I shall ask each speaker to limit his remarks to ten minutes. After that I’m afraid I shall have to use my authority”—she smiled and touched the gavel—“to ask him to wait until others have spoken, at which time he will be permitted to speak again. I shall not wish to embarrass myself. I shall not attempt to pretend to know everyone present today. Therefore, when a speaker is given the floor, I suggest he introduce himself, as well as the museum he represents, after which we will be pleased to hear his remarks. Who would like the floor, please?”
A hand shot up at once, ahead of several other hands. Ruth nodded to the man. He came to his feet, bending a bit to speak toward the console microphone. He spoke in German.
“I am Dr. Wilhelm Kloster, of the Museum Dahlen, in West Berlin,” he said in quiet, courteous tones. “I have been listening to our charming chairperson’s speech, and as I look about the room I must say I am, indeed, impressed by the quality of the people here. I am forced to give full credit for the eminence of those present to our charming chairperson, since had it been anyone less respected, less admired, than Dr. Ruth McVeigh who called us together, I should have been surprised had the meeting been this well attended.”
He paused and looked about, a short, rotund man with a pleasant smile, pince-nez glasses, and wearing a high, rather formal collar.
“However,” he went on in the same polite tone, “I must admit I am a bit puzzled by the presence of many of you. Of most of you, in fact. In fact, to be perfectly honest, of any of you. The Schliemann treasure, as we all know, was stolen.” He turned to look directly at Kovpak as he spoke; it was evident he recognized Kovpak and was not afraid to speak his mind. At the head of the table Ruth McVeigh wondered if Kovpak understood German; not a muscle had moved in the Russian’s face, he still appeared to be listening in a relaxed, easy manner. Kloster turned back to the console microphone and continued. “Stolen, as I say, from a bunker under the Berlin Zoological Station. I shall not say by whom it was stolen; this is not a political meeting. But I’m sure we all have our own thoughts on that. However, what I am trying to say, my friends, is that the treasure was taken from a part of a divided city that is today West Berlin.”
He paused to take a sip of water and then wiped his lips in a rather effete manner. This done, he tucked his handkerchief away and spread his rather pudgy hands as if seeking logic from those listening to him.
“Our charming chairperson mentioned the matter of a
problem of legal ownership. There is no problem, my friends. There is no question of legal ownership involved here at all. The treasure belongs to Germany, to the Museum Dahlen. There is not the slightest doubt of this at all! None!”
He paused to sip some water, his small eyes moving calmly from one person to another, his pince-nez glittering as the light struck them from different angles.
“But let us go even further and eliminate at once any pretentious arguments for ownership that may mistakenly be brought before this group. The treasure was taken to the Berlin Zoo from the Museum of Ancient History, which was a part of the Museum of Handicraft, a museum that was situated near the Potsdamer Platz, which is in West Berlin, as well. The treasure was given to that museum by Heinrich Schliemann himself, and it remained in the possession of that museum uninterruptedly, and”—a pudgy finger came up—“unchallenged as to ownership, I might mention, until the last war, when, as I say, it was removed for safekeeping and subsequently disappeared. The hour of safekeeping is long past. It now appears that the treasure has been found, no matter who had it all these years, or where it has been kept. Logic and law will both state unequivocably that it should and must return to its proper home at the Museum Dahlen in West Berlin. And may I add”—his voice hardened perceptibly, the small eyes behind the pince-nez glittered threateningly—“that when the treasure is recovered, or is bought, no matter who buys it or thinks he has bought it, the treasure rightly belongs to us, and I’m afraid we shall take whatever steps are necessary to see that our rights are not trampled upon!”
He sat down abruptly, but another hand had been held high during his final words, and Ruth recognized its owner. A stocky woman with gray hair in a tight bun came to her feet, speaking into the console, but with her eyes roving from person to person as she spoke, also in German.
“My name is Dr. Elsa Dornbusch. I am from the Staatliche Museen zu Berlin, which comprises the Bode, the Pergamon, and the Natonal Gallery. I have listened to Dr. Kloster with, I must admit, a touch of surprise that he did not end his pretty speech with a ‘Heil Hitler!’ and more than a little admiration for his utter and complete gall. While he is perfectly correct in wondering why this meeting was convened, or, rather, why any of you who are present attended, he failed to include himself in that number. I cannot imagine why Dr. Kloster is here. Certainly not, I hope, merely to fill our ears with the nonsense we have just been subjected to. He says the treasure was taken from the Berlin Zoo, which today is in West Berlin, and therefore it belongs to the Dahlen. I have seldom heard anything that ridiculous, even from Dr. Kloster. He might equally say the treasure was deposited there by a man named Herman, and therefore the treasure is his because he has an uncle named Herman!”
There was a slight titter from the audience, quickly muffled. But Dr. Elsa Dornbusch had not intended anything humorous and she frowned, her lined face remaining as uncompromising as before. Across the conference table from her, Dr. Kloster had reddened slightly, but he managed to remain calm, his thick fingers tapping nervously on the table. Dr. Dornbusch disregarded her opponent and continued.
“Dr. Kloster compounds this farcical position by stating that the treasure was given to the Museum of Ancient History—which I concede it was—and that since that museum was located in what is now West Berlin, again the Dahlen can claim ownership. On that basis they could claim ownership of just about everything in the shops on the Kurfürstendamm because that avenue is also in West Berlin. What idiocy!”
She paused to glare around, as if to dare anyone to even smile. Her audience watched her carefully, as one might watch a ticking package, wondering what might come next. She went on, satisfied with the attention she was getting.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen, let us look at some facts. The treasure was, indeed, given to the Museum of Ancient History, but that museum, of course, was not the Dahlen. The Museum of Ancient History, as we all know, was destroyed during the war and was never rebuilt. The Schliemann treasure, therefore, cannot return to that museum. But it was given to Germany, and it must therefore remain in Germany. But where? Obviously at the Staatsliche, not anywhere else. Let me explain. Prior to the war, all cultural activity in the city—the theaters, the concerts, the galleries, the museums”—she paused to look at Kloster as if challenging him—“the important ones, that is—were located in that section of Berlin—not East Berlin or West Berlin, but simply Berlin—that today is part of the German Democratic Republic. This is true. I doubt if even Dr. Kloster would deny it. And Potsdamer Platz, which Dr. Kloster went to great lengths to point out is in West Berlin, is less than half a mile from the Staatsliche, at the very edge of the zone, while being as far from the Dahlen in both distance and in conception, if we consider the museum there that no longer exists, as the moon!”
She paused to sip water and then went on in the silence.
“The proper museum—German museum—to lay claim to the treasure is the Bode, which is part of the Staatliche. Here is one of the finest collections of ancient treasures in the world, on a par with the Hermitage, the British, or the Metropolitan. It is the logical place for it. It is the moral place for it. And may I finish by saying—with less belligerency than Dr. Kloster, I hope, but with equal fervor and total intent—that that is where the Schliemann treasure is going to end.”
She sat down to silence. Ruth McVeigh involuntarily glanced toward Gregor Kovpak. The white-haired man at his side was leaning over, obviously asking Kovpak something. Ruth saw Kovpak answer in apparent good nature, and then return his attention to the discussion, while the white-haired man sat back, a frown of uncertainty on his face. Ruth became aware that other hands had been raised during her lapse. She reddened a bit and wondered who had been first, finally selecting one at random. The man who rose was heavy-set, with a pock-marked face and a fierce-looking mustache, but with a rich and surprisingly friendly voice. He smiled around the table before beginning, his hands idly caressing the back of his chair as he spoke.
“My name is Dimitrios Jacoubs. I am afraid I do not represent any particular museum, nor do I have all the letters after my name that you illustrious people do. However, I represent the Greek government, so I ask your indulgence to hear me out—”
He paused, seeing the frowns of non-understanding on everyone’s face, seeing hands reaching out, punching buttons on the consoles. He shrugged apologetically as the reason came to him. He had been speaking Greek, a language not on the translator. He changed to French, apologizing, and repeated himself. Then he continued.
“I have listened to the two people who have just spoken, and I can understand their differences. I can also understand their problem. Basically, what I believe they are saying is that neither one of them has a decent claim to the collection; that this poor treasure, its former home no longer existent, is without a place to lay its head, so they both want to adopt him. Well, possibly I can resolve the problem for them, because I should like to present my case for Greek ownership of this poor orphan, which I am sure everyone here will recognize as far more legitimate than the claims presented by the previous two speakers.”
He sipped water and smiled at his waiting audience as he picked up the thread of his argument.
“I should like to take you back to when the treasure was first discovered and brought to Greece. Yes, friends, it was brought to Greece and remained there for some years before it was given—without the right to give—by Heinrich Schliemann to a German museum. I say without a right to give, because the discovery of this treasure was a joint effort by Heinrich Schliemann and his wife, Sophie Engastromenos before her marriage, and a Greek. And Sophie Engastromenos wanted the treasure to be given to Greece, desperately wanted it. Her husband’s will prevailed, but the desire of a husband is not necessarily a legal right, not concerning a property that was found jointly and therefore should have been disposed of jointly. Now, when Heinrich Schliemann died, Sophie was his heir, and as such was now the full owner of the treasure. But Sophie Schliemann was a dutiful w
ife, and although her wishes should have been the ones that dominated, she allowed the treasure to remain where it was. The Greek government, however, is under no such compulsion to allow the situation to remain.”
He shrugged and spread his large hands.
“You may wonder why the Greek government has taken so long to press their claim to this collection. In the first place, at the time that Heinrich Schliemann donated the treasure to Germany—a treasure it was not his alone to donate—the German government was a powerful state, and we certainly had no intention of going to war over a collection of ancient artifacts. At that time, also, the German state was an entity. Today that is no longer the case. We have, in fact, heard representatives of the two German states arguing ownership today. The fact is, the Germany to whom Schliemann gave the treasure no longer exists. The thought that Schliemann would have given his treasure to West Germany, is doubtful; he wanted it to go to the country of his birth, and he was born in Neu Buckow, in Mecklenberg-Schwerin, which today is in East Germany. And the thought that Schliemann would have wanted his treasure to go to a Communist regime is unthinkable.”
He looked about the room and shrugged again.
“And then, when there was no longer a united Germany of any kind, in 1945, there was also no longer a Schliemann collection. It had disappeared. However, now that it appears to have been rediscovered, I suggest quite strongly that the proper place for it is in Greece, a country it should never have left. It is the country where Sophie Engastromenos always wished it to be, the country where it belongs. Regarding the desires of Sophie Schliemann in this regard, I might mention, they are fully documented and I have the documents here for anyone who wishes to examine them. I will close with the statement that the Greek government intends to pursue this matter to the fullest. Thank you.”
The Gold of Troy Page 16