Julia

by Marty Sorensen

  *

  Hugh stood in the center of his office as Wolfgang Zinsli, the assistant from Karl Epple, unpacked the paintings and drawings. Hugh opened an envelope and found the documents related to his purchases. He handed it to Julia.

  She opened it, and sat in a chair to examine them. “You know, we should have done this yesterday,” she said.

  “Nonsense. As they said, we have the full faith and credit of the Zurich International Bank. Hans Seifert recommended Epple. Everything’s fine.”

  “What if we discover something’s fake?”

  He smiled in condescension. “Hans will make sure it’s taken care of. Stop worrying.”

  The art works were unpacked and displayed on the floor along the wall.

  “I am ready to hang them, Sir.”

  “Yes, well-,” Hugh turned to Julia. “Where do you think?”

  Julia turned slowly around the room once, looking down at the paintings, then up at the French chalked wood paneling. “Your Degas, it should go next to the door.”

  Hugh wrinkled his brow. “Next to the door?”

  “Not because it’s next to the door. Because it’s directly across from your desk.”

  He smiled. “Yes, you’re right about that.” He turned left to face the fireplace. “And over there?”

  “I think, the Toulouse-Lautrec. You?”

  He thought for a moment, then said, “I agree. You’re very good at this.” Turning to Wolfgang Zinsli, he continued, “So, you have two pieces to start with.” To his wife he said, “Why don’t you stay here and finish the hanging. I’ll be in the library. Call me when it’s done.” Without waiting for a reply, he left the room.

  Julia smiled at the assistant. “Fine, hang the Toulouse-Lautrec over the fireplace.” She went to the row of paintings and picked up the Degas, sat in the leather sofa, and looked at it. She turned it over and looked at the back and a pain jolted her stomach. In the right hand lower corner she saw a piece of paper with writing that looked German to her, she wasn’t sure. But she was sure that below the writing was the stamp of a swastika.

  “Wait,” she said.

  The assistant stopped.

  “Let me see that, please, the back of it.”

  He held it up so she could look at the back. She searched the back of the painting, but there was no swastika on it. “Thank you. Please hang it up.” She went to the other pieces and looked at each one, but none of them had a similar stamp. “You may hang the others where you find a space. Just make them-no, never mind, I’ll supervise as required. I’ll place the paintings under the panels where you can hang them.”

  “Yes, Madam. May I make a suggestion, Madam?”

  “Of course. I’ll be happy to listen to it.”

  “The lighting is not good for all these paintings. I suggest you call in a lighting expert to make the paintings visible to their best potential.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Zinsli, we shall take your suggestion under advisement.” She turned around the room. “I see your point, however.”

  Julia’s stomach was still unsettled, but she placed each painting as she thought appropriate. Then she picked up the envelope with the documents and took them out. She sat at Hugh’s desk and organized them before her. She noted the names of the Swiss art dealers from whom Karl Epple had purchased the art.

  The assistant’s voice interrupted her. “I am finished with the hanging. Would you please give your approval?”

  Julia put the papers down and stood and looked around the room. “Yes, they are all beautiful. Thank you very much, Mr. Zinsli.”

  He bowed to her, picked up his tools, and left the room.

  She went back to the desk and looked down at the papers. And then, she saw the names of the previous owners of all these works. There were three: Paul Rosenberg, Solomon Blumenkranz, and Moshe Fleishmann. She knew what this meant. She held two documents in her hand when she opened the door to the library and looked for Hugh. He sat in his usual red leather wingback chair, reading the paper.

  “Hugh!” The shrillness of her voice startled her, but it came from the dread in her stomach.

  He turned and dropped the paper on his lap. “Why are you so loud? I can hear you. Has he finished?”

  “Yes, he’s finished, all right. That’s not why I’m here. Did you know this was art stolen from the Jews by the Nazis? Is that why Mr. Seifert introduced us to Karl Epple, because he has the connections to Nazis?”

  Hugh stood, his back stiff, the paper dropped to the floor. “My god, Julia. What do you take me for?” His lips tightened into a straight line. His voice was even but hard. “We went there to buy art. You looked at the art. You agreed to the best art and you yourself chose the secondary art. You and I, we bought this art from a reputable dealer in New York. What is this nonsense about Nazis?”

  Julia put her hands on her hips. “Your Degas has a swastika stamped on the back of it. The document is even signed below the words ‘Heil Hitler’. Don’t ‘my god’ me, Hugh. That’s about as Nazi as it gets.”

  Hugh cocked his head and frowned in disdain. “Must I repeat myself, I bought this from a reputable Swiss dealer in New York, not from some German in Munich. My transaction is backed by the Zurich International Bank. This is not about the Nazis.”

  She furrowed her brow. “Are you being deliberately obtuse? The previous owners of this art are all people with Jewish names. Isn’t it clear to you what’s gone on?”

  Hugh opened his eyes wide and extended his arms. “But of course. The Jews have always been big supporters of art. My god, think of Rothschild. Music, painting, sculpture, architecture. What’s so surprising here? Julia, they buy and sell art all the time. So some of that ends up in New York. There’s nothing unusual about it. Stop this hysterical nonsense.”

  “No, I will not stop it. We have to investigate this. We must demand a full accounting of the provenance of this art.”

  “Don’t you understand? What if it’s true? What if it is all art that Jews sold because they were leaving the country? The point is, they sold the art, they were paid for it, they received a fair price, the market price. That’s all you or I need to know. You cannot see sinister designs in everything.”

  “I will not let up on this.”

  “Listen to me. We have the provenance. The provenance does not tell you if someone sold their art for less. It does not tell you their intentions. We have acquired beautiful art. You of all people should be happy about it. We have purchased art from a reputable dealer with reputable support from an international bank. That is all we need to know. Now that is the end of it.”

  Julia folded her arms across her chest.

  He noted that and said, “Let’s go look at it, shall we? Now I am very proud of my office. It is every bit as good as Father’s library.” He went off, not waiting for Julia.

  She stood still, defeated. She imagined going back to Epple, or even Seifert, to complain. But she knew what they would say. They would defend their own purchases. No, they were not stolen. Maybe one or two had been sold under duress, but that happens all the time. Businesses fail, family fortunes dwindle, and art is sold for less. She could hear Karl Epple saying, in any case, our works of art were not sold at a loss in Europe. He himself would give her his personal word on that. And, of course, he could vouch for the personal word of the Zurich International Bank and Hans Seifert, whom she could certainly call upon to verify this. Seifert and Epple. The two of them.