A Sudden Change of Heart a Sudden Change of Heart

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  Rosa nodded. “There is no other proof, not anymore. So what did you do?”

  “As I said, I was at a loss, and then an amazing coincidence occurred. I mentioned my experience in Vienna to a client of mine, Sandra Newsam. She instantly recognized the name of the Matisse and said she had recently seen a photograph of it in an old art catalogue. She became very excited when she realized she had come across this at the home of a friend in Switzerland. She phoned her friend, a Mrs. Gilda Sacher, and discovered that she had seen the photograph, not in a catalogue, but in an art magazine that had run a story about the Sacher Collection. The Matisse had once been part of that collection.” Laura sat back, pausing for a moment.

  Rosa said, “Oh, don’t stop, please, this is so exciting.”

  “Obviously I went to Switzerland. To Montreaux, actually, where Mrs. Sacher lives. She’s a woman in her late sixties, English by birth, and she inherited the Sacher Collection from her late husband, Leon Sacher, a Swiss businessman. During his lifetime Leon Sacher had amassed an amazing collection of art. Naturally, every painting in the collection had its provenance, and listed on the one for the Matisse was the name M. Duval, Paris, France.”

  “Oh, my God! I can’t believe it!” Rosa’s eyes had widened and she could hardly sit still. “And so you were able to convince the curator in Vienna finally?” she asked.

  “Not exactly. There was a bit more to it than that,” Laura responded. “Let me tell you the rest of the story. I asked Mrs. Sacher how the Matisse had come to be in the museum, and she told me she had sold it along with a couple of other paintings, to a dealer in Geneva, who in turn had sold it to a client in Vienna. Later it was sold to the museum. She gave me all of the names, just in case I needed them. I asked her if there were any markings on the back of the canvas, and she said there were the letters DU, then a slash and the number 3958. I explained to Mrs. Sacher that this was the way the Nazis had catalogued the paintings they had stolen. They used the first two letters of the owner’s surname and added a number. She hadn’t known this. In any case, she then produced a copy of the provenance. It proved to be quite a remarkable document. According to the provenance, before Mr. Sacher bought it, the Matisse had passed from M. Duval of Paris to a Madame Wacker-Bondy of Paris, and from her to an H. Wendland. Now, those two names jumped out at me, meant a lot to me, although not to Mrs. Sacher.”

  “What did they mean to you, Laura?” Rosa asked.

  “I will tell you. As I am now very familiar with the fate of Jewish-owned art stolen during the Second World War, those names rang bells immediately. Hans Wendland was notorious. He worked for the Nazis, and he spent most of the war years in Switzerland, where he helped Goring and Hitler exchange “degenerate” art, such as the Impressionists and Post-Impressionists, for the rather pallid old masters the two Nazi leaders preferred. Now, it just so happened that almost immediately after my meeting with Mrs. Sacher, yet another document came into my hands, almost by chance. It was a British Ministry of Economic Warfare paper, which I got via Sir Maximilian West, and it said that in 1942 one Hans Wendland, working for, the Nazis, took delivery in Switzerland of a railway van of art from Paris. And this came from the transport firm of Wacker-Bondy.” Laura stopped and stared hard at Rosa. “You do see the connection?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “What is even more extraordinary, around this time, when I was doing research on your Matisse, Sir Maximilian was given a copy of a memo that had been written in June 1966 by a woman called Marguerite Gressy, who had been a wartime Resistance heroine in France. She was a curator and she had somehow managed to keep track of many of the paintings that were looted in Paris by the Nazis. Her memo confirms that a painting by Henri Matisse entitled Moroccan Girl in a Red Caftan Holding a Mandolin was stored by Maurice Duval of Duval et Fils ‘chez Madame Wacker-Bondy.’ Meaning stored in the warehouse belonging to their company.”

  Rosa sat looking at Laura, speechless, trying to absorb everything.

  “Mme. Gressy’s memo had been sent to Sir Maxim by an old friend in the French art world, a noted dealer, because several Renoirs were listed. However, they were not from the Westheim Collection, as it turned out. But Sir Maxim, very much aware that I was looking for information about the Matisse, passed it on to me.”

  “Surely you didn’t need more than this?”

  “Not really. At least, that’s what I thought. Armed with a copy of the provenance in Mrs. Sacher’s possession, a copy of the British government paper, and a copy of the Gressy memo, I returned to the museum in Vienna and met once again with the curator. This time he was a little less contentious, especially when I showed him the documentation. In fact, I gave him his own set of copies. I also informed him that I would soon start litigation against the museum for the return of the Matisse to you if we couldn’t come to an agreement. I also mentioned that I was planning a press conference to announce my findings and my plans on your behalf to the media. He seemed to be quite obdurate, said nothing had changed, and so I left. But I must have scared him, because he telephoned me at the hotel that evening. He asked me not to do anything until he had spoken to the board of the museum. After a couple of days, when I didn’t get a positive reaction from him or the museum, I left. I flew back to London, then on to New York. Once I was home, I started to prepare all of the documentation I knew I would need, and then suddenly three days ago I received a call from the curator. The museum is going to recognize your claim, Rosa. Although they say they bought the painting in good faith, knowing none of its history, they are going to give the painting to you.”

  Rosa shook her head. “Since they bought it legally, why are they giving it to me? Just like that? I don’t understand.”

  “They’re frightened, Rosa. They don’t want bad publicity, the kind that Switzerland’s had about dormant bank accounts and stolen Jewish gold, and cheating Holocaust victims. All of that’s been a world-class scandal. They’re trying to avoid this occurring with the museum, and, also, I like to think they might see that it’s your moral right to have the Matisse in your hands after all these years.”

  Rosa didn’t speak. She couldn’t, she was so touched. Again she shook her head wonderingly, and then she began to weep, totally overcome by the news.

  Laura went and sat next to her on the sofa, took hold of her hand. “A little bit of justice for you at last, Rosa,” she murmured.

  Rosa looked at Laura through her tears. “I can’t believe it … that you did all this for me … thank you, thank you. You’ve restored a piece of my soul, Laura, a little piece of my family’s soul. I will be forever grateful, forever in your debt.”

  30

  “You did something really marvelous for my mother, Laura,” Philippe Lavillard said several days later when he had driven up to Kent for a visit with Natasha. “And I thank you for that.”

  “Honestly, Philippe, thanks aren’t necessary. I did it because I had to, once I’d stumbled on the painting.”

  He laughed. “I know how you feel about Nazi-looted art. You’re like a dog with a bone. But very seriously,” he went on, his voice changing slightly, “I also know you’re a very ethical person, Laura. I admire your integrity.” His eyes settled on her intently. “Well, anyway, it’s such a good feeling inside, knowing that the Matisse is there, waiting for my mother at the museum. Certainly it’ll be satisfying to have it back in the family. But the most important thing to me is that you’ve given my mother something … something … rare. Peace of mind. And it’s more than likely the first time she’s had that since her parents and siblings were taken off to Auschwitz by those criminals fifty years ago.”

  “I hope I have done that!” Laura exclaimed quickly, returning his steady look. “I love Rosa. She’s the most remarkable woman, and it truly pleases me to think I’ve helped to make her feel better. God knows, her life’s been hard, harder than most people could ever imagine. So much loss and pain and fear when she was a child. I can’t help trembling when I think about it.”
/>   “She’s told you most of it, hasn’t she?”

  Laura nodded. “Yes, she has. But you sound surprised.”

  “I was actually when she first intimated that to me. Not because it was you and Grandma Megan, but because she doesn’t ever confide anything about her past. At least, she hadn’t until she told both of you.”

  “Why do you think that is, Philippe?”

  He thought for a moment before answering, and then he said, “Somebody once made a strange remark to her about professional Jews showing the numbers tattooed on their arms, and she said it made her shrivel inside because she couldn’t imagine a Holocaust survivor being anything so crass as a professional Jew. The woman who said it offended her deeply, and it made her … protect her past. She held it to her, allowed no one to share it but my father and me … I’m certain you’ll understand this … in a peculiar way her past became sacred to her. She didn’t want it sullied by people’s sympathy, indifference, or skepticism. Those were her very words, and I do understand what she means, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do. Her past is very private to her and so many people wouldn’t …” Laura’s voice trailed off. Clearing her throat, she finished. “Wouldn’t have the compassion to recognize the trauma it caused, the sense of dislocation she experienced.”

  Philippe sat back, not responding. As she usually did, this woman had managed to touch and startle him yet again. That was her way, he supposed. At least it was the way she affected him. He tried not to dwell on Laura Valiant too much. He realized he was in love with her, but he was afraid to tell her because he didn’t know where she stood. He supposed he would never know unless he made some kind of move toward her.

  Laura remarked, “Your mother is going to decide when she can come to Vienna with me to collect the painting. Has she discussed it with you?”

  “She has, and I think she’s hoping that you’ll be able to go at the end of this month.”

  “I’m pretty sure we can … and to tell you the truth, I’m as excited about the trip as she is.”

  “We’re all excited. Actually, Laura, what do you think about taking Natasha along with you? It’s going to be such a memorable occasion, stupendous really, she shouldn’t miss it.”

  “You’re right, I think she should come, Philippe.”

  “I’m glad you agree. You won’t mind if I tag along, will you?”

  Although she was momentarily startled by his question, she was able to disguise this, and she said cautiously, “No, of course not. After all, the painting will be yours one day. And I think you must be there to share your mother’s joy.”

  As she spoke, Laura shrank inside, worried about traveling with him, staying in the same hotel as him, and having to be in his company for any protracted length of time. In fact, lately it had become an agony to be anywhere near him, feeling the way she did. To her amazement, she had fallen in love with him. Once she had recovered from the shock and regained her equilibrium, she had realized she was in an untenable situation. She had to spend time with him because he was Natasha’s father and Natasha was in her care. But to see him was like putting herself on a rack. And so, finally, she had decided to make herself scarce whenever he was coming to visit his daughter. She invented business appointments, ran off to the office to work, and did as many other disappearing acts as she could. But eventually Natasha had become upset with her, and had insisted they all do things together; the girl had contrived to have them spend time together at Rhondda Fach, and in the city. Oh, well, she thought, I’ll have to manage in Vienna. But deep down she knew it wouldn’t be all that easy.

  He said, “I couldn’t help thinking about the coincidences that happened to you, how you got onto the Matisse in the first place, and then all those documents that came your way. Just like that.” He snapped his fingers and smiled. “You had lots of lucky breaks.”

  Laura did not crack a smile. Her face was serious when she responded. “I must tell you something rather strange, Philippe. There seems to be a lot of coincidence when it comes to tracking the purloined art of the Second World War. The Goodmans, two brothers now living in Los Angeles, just recently encountered four major coincidences when they were tracing art that their father had sought for forty years, art that had belonged to their grandparents in Holland. It seems to happen to everyone who is on the track of Nazi loot … somebody finds an old record book or a document or a deed of title. Then someone stumbles on a painting in an obscure museum, hanging in an exhibition, or coming up for sale. It’s quite uncanny really, all the coincidences.”

  “Maybe God has a hand in it,” he said softly.

  Laura glanced at him swiftly but didn’t say anything. Maybe God does, she thought.

  Philippe rose, walked across the library floor, and stood at the window, thinking how peaceful the scene outside was. A long meadow, two horses grazing, and faintly, in the distance, the plop-plop-plop of tennis balls. Natasha and her friend Katie were enjoying a game on the tennis court. What a reassuring sound that is, he thought, just as the bucolic setting is also reassuring. A far cry from the sound of Nazi jackboots and prison doors clanging, the anguished cries of the victims of the Holocaust. Almost sixty years ago now, but still those terrifying memories haunted his mother. The past is immutable, he thought. She never escapes her past. It is with her always.

  Laura startled him when she said, “Your mother never confided much in Claire, I mean about her past, did she?”

  He swung around to face Laura, feeling as though she had just tapped into his thoughts. “No, she didn’t. She just wasn’t able to, as I told you a moment ago. I did explain a few things to Claire myself, but perhaps I didn’t tell her enough. I’ve often wondered about that. I was nervous, I suppose.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was nervous about upsetting Claire, frightening her with the horror of it, the horror of my mother’s tragic past. I mean, Claire led such a quiet, sheltered life as a child, and she came from such a privileged and protected world.”

  Laura was flabbergasted, and before she could stop herself, she exclaimed, “Privilege, yes! If you’re talking about wealth, but protected, no! She wasn’t protected.”

  Philippe looked at her oddly, realizing he had touched a nerve, caught Laura on the raw. He came back and sat down near her in front of the fire, and said slowly, “I’m not sure I’m following you.”

  Laura shook her head, took a deep breath, and said even more quietly than ever, “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you for a while now. Something about Claire that I think she would want you to know. But I was waiting for the right moment. I guess I’ve already started to blurt it out, so I might as well tell you the rest. Do you remember, you once asked me in Paris if I knew anything that would shed light on the reason Claire so hated men?”

  “I remember.”

  “Not long before she died, Claire confided in me, told me about her childhood, and what she told me was so horrific, I don’t know how she managed to live through it.”

  Philippe frowned. “Are you trying to tell me Claire suffered at the hands of her parents?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “But why didn’t she tell you before? Or me, when we were married?”

  “Philippe, she was ashamed, embarrassed. That’s what she said to me. You see, she was physically abused by her father. He used to beat her and her mother when he was drunk. Even when he wasn’t. He treated her mother abominably. Aside from beating her, he was grossly unfaithful. Jack Benson was a regular dyed-in-the-wool womanizer. And at times he even sexually abused Claire. I suppose you could say she had plenty of reasons to mistrust and hate men.”

  A terrible coldness had settled over Philippe as Laura had been speaking, and he could not shake it off. He felt icy inside and his heart ached for Claire. After a moment he said slowly, “I’d say she had more than enough reasons, yes. Poor Claire, poor darling. She was such a fragile, dainty little thing, and she must have been more so as a child. How could anyone be
at her, hurt her? It’s just horrendous, inhuman. Her father must’ve been a monster. Oh, God, I can’t bear to think of what she must have suffered.” He brought his hands up to his eyes, closed them for a moment, and when he eventually looked across at her, Laura saw the tears glistening on his black lashes.

  “She managed to hide it all very well,” Laura told him, speaking softly. “And she managed to escape her father’s hideous brutality when she was here at Rhondda Fach with us. In fact, she dealt with him very well when she was a little older. She threatened to expose him to my grandparents, and that curtailed his violent and disgusting activities.”

  “If only she’d told me, I would have understood. And perhaps I could have helped her in some way, Laura. How sad that Claire shut me out in the way she did. Perhaps … well, to be honest, I think she saw me as the enemy.”

  “Oh, I’m sure she didn’t, not deep down. Not you, you’re such a decent man, Philippe—” Laura stopped abruptly, cutting off her sentence, knowing better than to say another word.

  Now wanting to change the subject, Philippe asked, “Shall we walk over to the tennis court and see how the girls are doing out there?”

  “Why not?” Laura answered, jumping up and heading for the door, no longer wishing to be alone with him.

  Philippe had also risen, and as Laura passed him he caught hold of her arm, stopping her in her tracks. Staring into her bright blue eyes, he said, “Thanks for telling me about Claire’s childhood, it explains so much. I’m glad you had the trust in me to confide.”

  Laura could only nod, wishing he would let go of her arm. His touch was like an electric current running through her. She knew she was vulnerable to him.

  “It’s been such a rotten year in so many ways, I don’t really feel like having a birthday dinner,” Laura said to Megan, giving her a faint smile. “Thanks, but no thanks, Gran.”