The Soldier's Mirror

by Jay Zendrowski

  Chapter 18

  “Are you coming to bed, Dear?” my wife asked later that evening.

  “No, you go ahead. I want to get caught up on some e-mails and a few things I haven’t had a chance to do in the last few days,” I responded as I sat in front of my computer.

  “Alright,” she said as she came in and gave me a kiss goodnight. “Don’t stay up too late; it’s been a tiring week.”

  “Thanks, Hon. I’ll be there shortly.”

  I heard her settle into bed in our room next door, her reading light on. I pulled up the internet and started searching, starting with ‘Nazi loot’. As I read, I couldn’t believe the number of pieces they had forcibly confiscated from both private owners and galleries as they’d swept through Europe. One thing I did read was that the SS had a certain stamp they placed on the backs of the paintings for the ones they had verified as being originals. The website even showed a picture of it. I never recalled seeing anything like that on the painting, but then again, I’d hurriedly rolled it up and put it back in the tube.

  I noticed that my wife’s reading light was now off, our room in darkness. I quietly closed the door of the den and pulled out the plastic tube from where I’d put it in the closet. I gingerly removed the painting and put it on the desk. I flipped it over. Sure enough, there in the bottom right-hand corner was the faded outline of a stencilled stamp, the words bordered by a heavier black rectangle. I leaned closer and read, “Sichergestellt durch den Einsatzstab RR, Stabsfuhrung”. I had no idea what it meant, but it was identical to the words shown on the website. I could barely control my rapidly beating heart; this painting was the real thing.

  I turned to my computer once more and started a new search; this time for famous lost paintings. On the third website I went to, I was scrolling through the pictures and accompanying text when a picture of the painting appeared on the screen. I was right, it was van Gogh alright. It was called “Painter on the Road to Tarascon”. It had been taken from the aristocratic Leveille family by the Nazis as they made their way through France, looting and pilfering as they went. It was listed as being one of the paintings supposedly burned during the bombing of a museum in Magdeburg, just as my father had said.

  I went back to my search engine and started anew, typing in the name ‘Leveille’. I kept at it until the middle of the night; I knew then what I had to do.

  The next morning I slept late and awoke to the smell of freshly-brewed coffee. My wife had let me sleep in after the last few arduous days. The funeral had been on a Friday and I still had the weekend before I was due to return to work.

  Wearily I rose and made my way to the kitchen to find my wife sipping her coffee and reading the paper. I poured myself a cup and took a sip as I sat at the table, the hot invigorating flavor flowing through me.

  “Honey,” I said as I set my cup on the table, “how would you like to take that trip to Paris you’ve always talked about?”

  “What are you talking about?” she asked, folding the paper and putting it down.

  “I’ve got a little story I need to tell you about my dad.”

  My boss readily granted me a week’s vacation and after multiple e-mails and a few long distance phone calls, a few days later my wife and I found ourselves on a plane to France. We booked into our hotel, caught up on a little sleep and then started exploring Paris. My wife had wanted to come here for a long time; I hadn’t seen her look this happy in years. It was a magical place and we both fell in love with it.

  On the third day of our trip I rented a car and left her to do some shopping as I drove out of the city. It was tricky at first getting used to the French roads and the crazy drivers, but I soon found myself on the right track.

  Just over a half hour later, I found myself at the gates of an imposing villa in the countryside. I buzzed and was quickly admitted. The drive up the curving laneway was impressive. The grounds were immaculate and beautifully landscaped as I wound my way towards a house set well back from the road. The house itself was massive, like something out of a movie.

  “Mr. Nuzurka?” A man dressed in a tie and vest nodded to me as I parked the car in front of the main door and got out.

  “Yes. Monsieur Leveille?” I asked, stepping forward and extending my hand.

  “Oh, no Sir. Mr. Leveille is inside. Would you follow me please? Can I take that for you?” He reached for the plastic tube I had clutched in my hand.

  “No, I’m fine. Thank you,” I replied, feeling more nervous than I had expected. The man’s English was very good; I’m not sure what I had expected, having never been to France before. I did notice when I had asked for ‘Monsieur’ Leveille, he had specifically called his employer ‘Mr.’ when he’d responded. I guess they were used to dealing with people who weren’t exactly fluent when it came to their language.

  The man led me through the house, which was exquisite. I was awestruck by the pure majesty of the building. There were beautiful tapestries and pieces of artwork everywhere. My head was on a swivel as I gaped at one thing after another.

  “Sir, if you please,” the man said as he stopped at a set of open doors that led to a large room that looked like a library, the tall walls covered with shelf upon shelf of books.

  “Thank you,” I said with a nod as I stepped past him and into the room.

  “Ah, Mr. Nuzurka I presume,” said a well-dressed man with silver hair standing next to a large desk. Another man of similar age got up from a seating area near the desk and stood as I walked over to them. They were both dressed immaculately; I was sure their suits would have easily cost more than I made in a month. As I looked at their beautiful silk ties and flowing pocket squares, I felt embarrassed wearing the cheap jacket and tie I’d bought at the local men’s store in the mall.

  “Yes. Mr. Leveille?” I asked, looking from one to the other, not sure if I’d misspoken again.

  “Call me Francois.” The silver-haired man extended his hand.

  “Michael,” I replied as I shook his hand, his grasp firm and confident.

  “And this is my good friend, Gilles Ducet,” my host said as he turned to the man next to him.

  “Mr. Ducet,” I said, shaking his hand as well. I knew from my research that Mr. Ducet wasn’t just Francois Leveille’s good friend; he was the family lawyer.

  “Gilles, please, call me Gilles.” The man smiled warmly as he gripped my hand in both of his, making me feel more relaxed and welcome. As with the man who’d brought me through the house, both of these men spoke excellent English.

  “Michael,” said Mr. Leveille, “we were just about to have a little refreshment. Would you care for some tea, maybe some fruit juice or water?”

  “Water would be nice, thank you.”

  He nodded to the man who’d shown me in as he turned and poured a cup of tea for Mr. Ducet and himself. Within seconds, the servant appeared carrying a tray with a bottle of Perrier and a crystal tumbler full of ice.

  “Please, have a seat, Michael,” Mr. Leveille said as he gestured to the seating area adjacent to his desk.

  There were two Victorian-type couches facing each other with a long coffee table in between. I had noticed where Mr. Ducet had been sitting when I came in, so I chose the couch opposite. The servant placed my glass down and poured some of the water in before setting the half-empty bottle on the table and leaving the room. I noticed that he closed the French doors behind him when he exited.

  “So, Mr. Nuzurka,” Mr. Leveille said as he and his lawyer brought their cups of tea and sat opposite me, “I understand you wanted to see me because you have some information that you think I might find interesting; something about the information being of ‘historical family importance’. Is that correct?”

  Now that this moment was here, I felt myself getting more and more anxious. “Yes, that’s right.”

  My host could see my nervousness as I took a drink, my hand a little shaky.

  “Michael, relax. We’re all friends here. I’m an old man living a quiet
life here in the French countryside.” The warmth of his voice and the smile on his face comforted me as he sat back and held his hand out openly. “Please, tell us why you’ve come to see us.”

  “I….I have something I need to show you,” I said as I picked up the tube that I’d put on the floor next to me. “May I?”

  “Please, be my guest,” he said as I started to unscrew the cap.

  They watched intently as I tipped the tube up and slid the painting forward. I pulled it from the tube and put the rolled canvas on the table between us. I unrolled it, the painting facing towards them.

  “No, it can’t be!” Mr. Leveille said as he quickly sat forward. Mr. Ducet did the same, both of them staring wide-eyed at the painting. After a few seconds of initial shock, Mr. Ducet said something in French as he pointed at the painting. The next thing I knew, they were engaged in a rapid conversation in a language from which I could only pull out a few words. At the speed which they were talking, I wished I had my father’s old friend Sam DuPree there to try and translate for me.

  “Ah, forgive us, please,” Mr. Leveille said as he saw the look of alarm on my face. “I apologize. It’s just…..just…..well, I never expected this.” He pointed to the painting. “Do you mind if I check something?”

  “No, not at all,” I responded.

  He reached forward and turned the canvas over, both of them nodding with approval as he pointed to the faded stamp of the SS on the back. He turned it back over, and I noticed how delicately he handled the old canvas.

  “How…..how have you come to have this?”

  “It’s kind of a long story. Do you have a few minutes?”

  “Michael, for this, I have all the time in the world. Please, go ahead.”

  For the next couple of hours, I told the story my father had told me. They sat and listened quietly, the lawyer jotting down a few notes in his leather folio every now and then. By the time I’d finished my tale, I’d gone through two more bottles of Perrier and they’d each drank multiple cups of tea.

  “That’s simply astonishing,” Mr. Leveille said as he let his eyes wonder over the painting, “but I have to ask, why did you bring this to us?”

  “I…I thought this painting had originally belonged to your family,” I said, wondering if I’d made a horrible mistake.

  “No, I’m sorry; I didn’t explain myself very well. Yes, you are right; this painting was taken from my family during the war, just as you said. What I meant was, I’m wondering why are you bringing it back to us now and not trying to sell it, even as a cheap forgery; which it is definitely not.”

  “I….I wouldn’t do that.”

  Mr. Ducet spoke for the first time in hours. “Mr. Nuzurka, did you come here today with the idea that Mr. Leveille would pay you for this painting?”

  “No, not at all. I didn’t come here expecting anything like that.”

  “Then why?”

  I paused and looked at them, both of them watching me intently. “Because bringing it home to the place it belongs is the right thing to do.”

  They exchanged a glance and I saw a smile of contentment appear on both of their faces.