“You stayed in her apartment.”
“Thank God, no. With all those leaks from the apartment above, I would have been in great danger. The lady had two servants’ rooms on the top floor. They were small but had a pleasant enough view. She allowed Sergei to stay in these rooms rent-free, provided he walked her hideous little dog three times a day and serve as her butler whenever she entertained, which was often. He was also required to do some shopping and cooking. It was at Avenue George V that Sergei realized he was a homosexual. The American lady surrounded herself with many such men, regularly inviting them to her frequent parties. There was a former Mexican male prostitute, a Portuguese jeweler, an Italian florist, an American antique dealer, several hairdressers, and an assortment of designers, actors, and poets. A particular fellow, another Russian whose name was Antinko Fetisov, seduced Sergei. I believe Antinko was attracted to Sergei’s exotic appearance, with his long hair and angular features. I myself have never seen a man with so small a waist. In any case, their relationship developed and Antinko invited Sergei to move into his opulent apartment on Rue Jacob in Saint Germain des Prés. So that became my next home. Antinko also offered Sergei a monthly stipend to work full-time as a dress designer.”
“Sounds like he did all right for himself,” Giovanni said. “But was he still a thief? Earlier, you said Sergei stole money from his grandfather while the poor man slept.”
The Count hesitated. “The acts I witnessed in Paris did not include further thievery. Perhaps he had reformed. Perhaps his change of interests was a factor. Sergei was very fond of clothing design, among other passions. He soon established a reputation for designing attractive Cossack-style blouses with ample embroidery and with emeralds and sapphires for buttons. He designed flamboyant pajamas and elegant headdresses for evening wear as well as small, chic handbags. He was also well known for his accented waistlines.”
“I get it.” Giovanni assumed that he had detected a pattern to the Count’s stories. “Your owners. At first they are successful and rise to the top, so the fall is that much harder.”
“I would not say that is true in all cases. The story of Sergei ends when we parted. You see, Antinko did not have a great eye for fine art, and he told Sergei to sell me because he did not like my portrait. Can you imagine that? More concerned with pleasing his lover, Sergei took me to one of his favorite clients, Henri Meyerstein, and proposed that he should become the new owner of my portrait. For a price, of course.”
“But you were a gift from his mother,” Giovanni said. “Then he sells you? That little creep. But maybe I don’t get it. You said it was appalling. It’s not that terrible.”
“Sergei did not have a terrible end,” the Count said. “In fact, I later learned that he had become enormously successful, famous even. It was his acts of decadence, many of which I was forced to witness, that were appalling beyond description. I was hung in their bedroom, you understand.”
“Oh.” Giovanni realized, “You mean, you watched them…”
“Yes,” the Count replied. “Pry no further, please. Certain details are best to remain unsaid.”
Giovanni nodded. “Agreed. What about your new owner? Monsieur…”
“Monsieur Meyerstein, and his family. Oh how I loved them, and their home as well, an apartment on Avenue Foch, which was richly decorated with other artwork. I was in very good company, you could say. They were much better owners, perhaps, I might even say, superior to all of my previous owners. Not only kind, Monsieur Meyerstein was a striking man. Tall, dashing, and very elegant. He would walk out of the house every day with a top hat, cape, and a silver-handled cane.”
“And his wife?”
“She was great reason for my love of their household. You see, Carmella was from Florence. Elegant and beautiful. When she laughed it was like a Tchaikovsky symphony. The Meyersteins were great patrons of the arts, music, ballet, and theater. I still recall how Monsieur Meyerstein, when he first saw me, went to the end of the dining room and held me aloft, proudly. I was so happy to hang there, able to witness their children, Daniel and Elise, grow up and prosper. I would have been proud to spend generations on their wall at Avenue Foch.”
“Would have?” Giovanni said. “What happened?”
“German soldiers came to Paris,” the Count replied.
“The Nazis. World War II.”
“War indeed. There were countless soldiers and many noisy vehicles. I shall never forget the sight of Monsieur and Madame Meyerstein as they stood by the window, tears in their eyes, as troops marched through the streets. A few days later, four soldiers, dressed in black uniforms and boots, burst into the apartment. They dragged off poor Monsieur and Madame Meyerstein and their children, Elise and Daniel. The soldiers also took Madame’s sister and brother-in-law, who lived in an apartment one floor up, and their daughter Clara as well.”
“Took them where?”
“I did not accompany them,” the Count said, “so I cannot say with certainty.”
“They were Jewish,” Giovanni realized.
“Yes.”
“I know where they went,” Giovanni said. “Probably Auschwitz.”
“The Meyersteins loved me as much as I loved them. After they were taken away, I never saw them again. Please, tell me their fate.”
“It’s complicated,” Giovanni said. “I’ll explain later. What happened after that?”
“I remained in the apartment in the days that followed. German soldiers came in and out, taking things away, it seemed at their whim. They were quite an odd group. When greeting others, the soldiers would snap their heels, stiffen their posture, and extend one arm as if pointing to the sky. I found their excessive theatrics rather absurd. They completed the ritual by hailing their leader, Hitler. I did not know of the man other than the soldier’s overzealous loyalty to him, as if he were a god to them.”
“His reign over Germany is a dark note in history,” Giovanni said. “I’ll explain later. Tell me what happened to your portrait.”
“The soldiers took many items but were instructed not to touch any of the artwork, of which the Meyersteins had a considerable collection, my portrait included, of course. Some days passed and then two men visited, one clothed in an extravagant military uniform. He appeared intent to let the world know of his importance. The other man was not so pretentious, clothed in a typical jacket and trousers. They spent some time in the apartment inspecting the artwork. As they examined items and spoke to one another, I learned more about the two men. The civilian appeared to be an art historian, acting as an advisor to the man in uniform, whose name was Bruno Lothar. He was definitely in charge, and their task appeared to be the gathering of artwork throughout Paris, which as spoils of war, had become the property of Germany.”
“It wasn’t theirs to take,” Giovanni said. “But that’s another story. However, now I wonder about your portrait. Did you realize the danger you were in?”
“Their visit was by no means pleasant, though I had not sensed danger. What danger do you speak of?”
“You’re unsigned,” Giovanni said. “Knowing the Nazis, you’d probably have made good fuel for a bonfire.”
The Count gasped. “Heavens, I had no idea the soldiers did such things.”
“That and plenty more, far worse. What happened when the men saw your portrait?”
“As they strolled through the apartment, the historian gave his opinion of the various items, primarily their value. Then they both stopped in front of me. They stood there for a couple of minutes appraising my portrait. When Lothar asked the historian if it seemed like a valuable work, the historian replied that it would have been, if it had been signed by a major artist.
“Herr Lothar,” the historian said. “As I doubt the Fuhrer or Reichsmarschall Goering would want this painting, would it be all right if I took this one for myself?”
Lothar replied, “Who in the Reich would want an unsigned faux renaissance painting? By all means, Kreitel, it is yours.”
> “Kreitel?” Giovanni became perplexed. “I’ve seen that somewhere before. Recently.” He was certain that he had but struggled to remember where. He went to the strong room and found the crate in which the Count had been shipped, picked it up, and twisted it around to view all sides. There it was, in black spray-painted stencil lettering on the side of the crate, the name Kreitel.
“The historian’s name was Kreitel?” Giovanni stepped out of the strong room.
“That is how Lothar addressed him.”
“Any first name?” Giovanni asked.
“Lothar and other soldiers only referred to him as Kreitel.”
“How is it spelled?” Giovanni glanced past the open door to the strong room, beyond which he could see the stencil lettering on the crate.
“I do not know,” the Count said. “I have only their spoken words.”
Giovanni realized somewhere else he had seen the name, and it was before he ever saw the crate. Long before. He approached the portrait. “Lothar called him Kreitel. Are you absolutely positive?”
“Of course I am,” the Count said. “They were standing directly before me, as you are now. How could I be mistaken? Then Lothar instructed other soldiers to take my portrait from the wall and put me in a crate.”
Giovanni seized the painting from the easel.
“What are you doing?” the Count asked.
“Putting you away.” Giovanni entered the strong room.
“But why?”
“I have a hunch. I’ll explain later.”
“When will you return?” the Count asked. “Are you going to honor your promise to have me tested?”
“Later.” Giovanni reached for the crate in which the painting had been shipped. He held up the panel and stared at the painted face of the Count. “Are you certain his name was Kreitel? Could it have been another name that sounds similar?”
“Signor Fabrizzi. His name was indeed Kreitel. I would not lie. I am a man of honor.”
“You are not a man. You are a painting. And if you are wrong, I will reduce you to ashes, whether you were painted by Botticelli or not.”
Giovanni slid the painting back into its wooden prison.
Chapter 9
Many years earlier, Giovanni had seen the name Kreitel but had long since forgotten the incident. After all, he was only a child, and he had made an innocent assumption, which remained plausible into his adult years. His father never explained otherwise, so Giovanni clung to his youthful conclusion and never probed further.
It was shortly after Giovanni’s tenth birthday when his father took him to the family studio, the first of many visits during which Federico would pass on the craft of art restoration to his son. As a young boy, Giovanni had much to learn and his curiosity was boundless. To him it was only a wooden box, but years later he would realize that it was a humidor, likely containing fine cigars. However, whether it contained cigars or other secrets, he would never learn. It all began when he came across the wooden box and noticed the brass plaque affixed to the lid, engraved with the name Kreitel.
When Giovanni asked what was in the box, his father became secretive and hid the box in a cabinet. “I’ll explain it to you when you’re older,” he had said. Giovanni thought little of the event until he became a teenager and realized the reason for his father’s odd reaction—he was simply shielding a child from a parent’s addiction to tobacco. Or so Giovanni had thought.
It was nothing of the sort, Giovanni realized after the Count’s story of Paris. There was more. There was something his father didn’t want Giovanni to know. He had to find out who Kreitel was, and he had to know if it were true—the individual had helped the Nazis steal Jewish art.
*
Giovanni went home and logged on to his computer. He opened an Internet browser and prepared to search. For a moment he stared at the screen, uncertain of the words he wanted to enter. After his conversation with the Count, he was disturbed and couldn’t think straight.
He entered stolen Jewish art Nazis and came upon a number of websites that looked official, in England, the United States, Germany, France, and elsewhere. Several sites had information about European looting during World War II. After studying countless pages, Giovanni learned that twenty percent of all European art had been seized by the Nazis, and over 100,000 works of art had never been recovered.
Giovanni focused his research on Paris, where the Meyersteins had lived when their art was taken. The Nazi unit responsible for confiscating artwork had a description that sounded innocent enough, the Special Staff for Pictorial Art. The group had been established in October of 1940 in Paris and was overseen by an organization known as the Einsatzstab Reichsleiter Rosenberg, the ERR. The Jewish possessions, taken from galleries, warehouses, and private homes, were stored and cataloged at an art museum in the Tuileries Gardens, called the Jeu de Paume, which oddly had once been an indoor tennis court.
The more Giovanni read, the more it astounded him. The appropriated artwork went from the Jeu de Paume to the Louvre, where it was stored, if not shipped to the personal collections of Adolf Hitler or Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring, or sold to raise cash for the Reich.
But the Count had said the Meyersteins’ art was also sold via Bruno Lothar. Next Giovanni searched for Kreitel but could not find anything linking the name with any individual connected to the Reich.
Giovanni discovered there was a major research center at the National Archives in America, in College Park, Maryland, containing twenty million pages of materials. He found another center in Washington, D.C., operated by the National Holocaust Museum. Closer to him was the Bundesarchiv, the German Federal Archives, as well as the French Diplomatie, the Diplomatic Archive Center of the Ministry of Foreign and European Affairs.
Giovanni had obviously known of Nazi looting during World War II, but prior to that moment, he had no specific knowledge of it, nor any idea of how far-reaching their activities had been. Countless works of art were involved. It was nearly impossible to imagine anyone discovering more details about the Meyersteins, Kreitel, or the Count. If the painting had been by a specific artist, with a specific title, and within a certain time period, it might have been easier.
Giovanni leaned back from the computer screen and stretched his arms. He had spent three solid hours researching without rest. He wasn’t tired, though, nor hungry. He was strangely energized, on a mission to learn the truth. If only he had similar zeal for restoring the Brueghel in his studio, which he hadn’t touched in over a week.
He went to the kitchen and made a pot of tea. He poured a cup and sipped it, but the tea was too hot to drink, so he took it with him back to the computer and set his cup on the desk. As the tea cooled, he resumed his search, this time entering stolen Jewish art largest research center.
A website appeared for the International Tracing Service, or ITS, in Bad Arolsen, Germany. The facility housed fifty million pages in thousands of cabinets of information spread across six buildings, contributed by eleven countries. When the Allies entered the concentration camps during the final days of the war, they found meticulous details about the transportation and extermination of Jews as well as gypsies, homosexuals, mentally ill, and political radicals. The materials were taken by US forces and stored in Bad Arolsen prior to the International Red Cross forming the ITS. Giovanni concluded the ITS was his best chance to learn more.
But he also felt an urge to visit the Jeu de Paume in Paris. Also, his father had lived in Paris before moving to London, and he had spoken of friends and clients there. Giovanni could not remember their names, but he knew where to find them.
The tea had cooled enough and Giovanni took a sip. In a drawer of his desk, he had stored some of his father’s belongings. There were letters he had sent to Giovanni, some pen and ink sketches from his father’s art school days, and most importantly, a battered red leather address book.
Giovanni flipped through the pages, each in his father’s handwriting. Some of the names were recognizable but
most were not. He scanned the pages for addresses in Paris.
He jotted down two entries from Paris although they were unfamiliar to him. He had nearly reached the last pages when he found the Paris address and phone number for Jean and Mathilde Touissant. He could not recall their faces, but Giovanni had the faintest memory of his father mentioning Jean before. He had been a client who had paintings restored from time to time by the Fabrizzis.
Giovanni wondered if, after so much time had passed, the Touissants could still be at the address and phone number listed. More than likely they were dead. If not, they would have to be in their late eighties, at least.
He reached for the telephone and dialed the number, fully expecting to get a disconnected message or a person who had never heard of the Touissants.
On the fourth ring, a man with a gravelly voice answered. Giovanni responded in his serviceable, although English-accented French, and politely asked if the person who answered was Jean Touissant. When the person confirmed that he was, Giovanni was truly surprised, but also thrilled.
“Monsieur Touissant,” Giovanni said, “I am calling from London. My name is Giovanni Fabrizzi. My father, Federico, was an art restorer in Paris for a short time before he moved to London. I believe you knew him. I found your name in his address book.”
“Fabrizzi?” Jean asked. There was a long pause, then a gasp. “Mon dieu! Federico. Yes, yes. How is he?”
“I’m sorry to say that he is no longer with us. But I am planning to visit Paris in the near future, and I was hoping to meet you and perhaps share some pictures I have of my father with you. It would mean a lot to me.”
“Of course,” Jean said. “I am sorry about your father. We are not so young ourselves, Mathilde and I.”
Botticelli's Bastard Page 10
