Botticelli's Bastard

by Stephen Maitland-Lewis

  “Is there any possibility,” Giovanni asked, “the man you think might be Kreitel tried to sell you this painting?”

  She studied the photograph in silence, during which the only sound was the ticking of a clock on the mantle.

  “I do not know this painting.” She passed the photo to Jean. “We didn’t buy anything from the man, as we feared the art was taken from Jewish families. If he was the man you are seeking, you are right to suspect that he was not a Nazi. I am sure his name began with K, and it was a German name, but he was not from Germany.”

  “Why would you say that?” Giovanni asked.

  She smiled. “When an Italian man attempts to speak French…”

  Jean added, “No offense.” He formed a wry grin. “Signor Fabrizzi.”

  Giovanni knew his French was imperfect but assumed his years of speaking English was to blame. He was surprised they could detect his Italian heritage from his accent. However, his brief moment of embarrassment was quickly pushed aside by the implications of the new information.

  “No, none taken,” Giovanni said. “This is important. It’s very good.”

  Giovanni was swept away by his thoughts. This detail was the first solid clue that could lead to Kreitel. But he had to ask himself—would doing so prove to be a wise choice?

  “Monsieur Fabrizzi,” Mathilde said. “Tell us, what does this man Kreitel mean to you?”

  Giovanni took a moment to consider his response, which he was not ready to share. “I’d rather not say, actually. That is, before I’ve confirmed my hunch. I hope you understand.”

  Together they nodded, then Mathilde said, “I’m so glad if I have helped.”

  “You have, greatly,” Giovanni said.

  Jean asked, “Will you be in Paris for a time?”

  “Yes. I’m interested in doing more research about Kreitel and the painting. In fact, I think I will go to the Jeu de Paume.”

  “Then you must speak with our friend, Adele St. Martin,” Jean said. “She was well acquainted with Rose Valland, the heroine of the Jeu de Paume.”

  “Really?” Giovanni was surprised. “Do you have her number?”

  “Don’t be silly,” Jean said. “She is one of our closest friends.” He got up from the table and started out of the room.

  Giovanni wondered if he had made some cultural error, or if he had been too presumptuous. Before Giovanni could ask Mathilde if he had done something wrong, he heard Jean’s voice in the kitchen. His voice became clearer when he returned to the dining room with a cordless phone into which he was speaking.

  “Yes, Adele, he is a researcher and restorer, and I knew his father,” Jean explained. “Do you think you might give him a tour of the Jeu de Paume? Wonderful. Hold on a moment.”

  The twinkle had returned to Jean’s eyes. “This is Adele St. Martin,” he whispered while covering the mouthpiece. “She is the perfect person for you to see.”

  Giovanni’s heart was filled with appreciation.

  Jean Toussaint handed the phone to an excited, though inexperienced, and elderly but newly energized, researcher in the field of stolen Jewish art.

  *

  An hour early for his appointment with Madame St. Martin, Giovanni sat on a bench outside the Jeu de Paume, content to watch the comings and goings of those enjoying the surroundings of the Tuileries Gardens. To the south was the Musée de l´Orangerie, the museum that had once housed Monet’s Water Lilies. During his research, Giovanni learned that the building and exhibition had been slightly damaged during the Nazi incursion.

  At the appointed time, Giovanni noticed an older woman who, despite her stocky physique and short legs, strode resolutely toward the Jeu de Paume, swiveling her head to and fro, looking for someone. Most likely searching for a man who fit Giovanni’s self-description that he provided over the phone the day before.

  Giovanni waved and she rapidly approached. He had guessed right and Madame St. Martin introduced herself. She was younger than the Touissants, in her early seventies, Giovanni estimated. Despite her age, she moved with a determined stride, and they entered the museum together. Giovanni prepared to pay for their tickets but Madame St. Martin tapped his wrist and motioned to the woman behind the ticket counter, who evidently knew her and waved for them to continue inside.

  Madame St. Martin expressed her pleasure to make Giovanni’s acquaintance, and rather than ask him probing questions about his research, she rattled on, quietly but without taking a breath.

  “And the Jeu de Paume housed much Impressionist art until it was transferred to the Musée D´Orsay. You have been there?”

  “Yes, I have been there with my…” He paused. “With my wife. A lovely museum. Like this one.”

  A dark cloud came over Giovanni as he thought about Arabella. Madame St. Martin noticed and they walked in silence for a while, viewing the art and avoiding conversation.

  The silence was broken when they both spoke at the same time, then they shared in light laughter. Giovanni prompted her to speak first.

  “No,” she said. “I have been talking too long. Please, Monsieur Fabrizzi, tell me about your research and how I can help.”

  Giovanni told her some of what he had come to believe regarding the Count’s story of the Meyersteins. Of course, he did not mention that he had learned the information through a series of discussions with the painting itself. She certainly would have excused herself and virtually galloped away on her short, sturdy legs if he had done so.

  “If my source is correct,” Giovanni said, “Kreitel was either an employee of the Nazis, or at the very least, a friend of Bruno Lothar.”

  “I am very sorry to have to say this, as a French woman,” Madame St. Martin quietly admitted, “but your man Kreitel could have been a Parisian who had knowledge about art, and the Nazis found him useful. Or he could have been a gallery owner who wanted the painting. There were also French black market dealers of stolen Jewish art who would resell works and make a living that way. Or he could have been a German who came here at Lothar’s urging. Or a German who had settled in Paris and had known Lothar previously.”

  “I have reason to believe he wasn’t German,” Giovanni said. “Not French, either.”

  “I see,” Madame St. Martin said as they paced the halls of the museum. “Well, that is not unusual, as great works of art, and those who treasure them, come from all corners of the world. However, and I regret to say it, but this fact only makes your search more difficult.”

  Giovanni nodded, and then he brought out a photograph of the Count’s portrait. “And this?” He handed it to her.

  She stopped and studied the image. Shaking her head, she handed it back. “I am sorry I could not be of more assistance to your research.”

  They continued to wander the museum in silence.

  After a time, Giovanni asked, “You knew Rose Valland?”

  “Yes. Before the Occupation, my parents took me here and they were friendly with Rose. She was the only staff member the Nazis retained when they took over, but they didn’t know that she understood German, which is how she compiled details of where paintings were being transported. The information she provided to the Resistance kept countless works from harm and helped in their recovery later. If the Nazis had ever known, she would have been executed for sure.”

  “We have her to thank for the precious works that were saved.” His sentiment was genuine, himself a lifelong conservator of fine art, though no match for the heroic efforts of Rose Valland. As Giovanni understood it, she and others had catalogued all of the stolen art. So the records should include the Count’s portrait, which according to his story, was in Paris at the time. But Giovanni found no reference to the painting in all of his hours spent searching the Internet. It didn’t make sense—which could be the one clue to prove the Count was wrong. At the very least, prove that details of his story were inaccurate.

  “There is one thing I need to understand,” Giovanni said. “All stolen art came here for cataloging. Is it po
ssible that a painting didn’t come here? I guess the question is, did all paintings go through this museum, or are there others that I should investigate as well?”

  “The Nazis made all kinds of deals with all kinds of people,” Madame St. Martin explained. “Some ERR staff gave lesser known works away as gifts before they had any chance to arrive here. And someone like Lothar knew many people. He would dine at Maxim’s regularly and was introduced to all sorts of people who would offer him information, trying to get close to him.” She cleared her throat, suggesting her own moral universe, and continued, “Lothar was a womanizer as well. He had so much control that many wanted to benefit from his power. The truth, Monsieur Fabrizzi, is that any painting could easily have slipped through a multitude of cracks and ended up anywhere.”

  Giovanni felt ill.

  “May we go outside?” he asked. “I could use some fresh air.”

  Madame St. Martin became concerned. She escorted Giovanni outside to find a bench and they sat down.

  “Are you feeling better, Monsieur Fabrizzi?”

  “I’m getting there,” he replied, patting his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief. “Madame St. Martin. My research depends on eliminating all possibilities until only one remains. From what you’ve told me, it appears entirely possible that Kreitel took the painting before it was cataloged. And it’s entirely possible that he was an art historian, or an art dealer, and he could have known Lothar, and perhaps he was even an advisor to him.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “All are very possible.”

  Giovanni looked away, then gazed into the blank sky. “Or an art restorer.” He did not direct the comment toward her nor did he expect a reply. Everything he had learned so far matched the Count’s story, which only fueled the nausea welling up inside of him. His research was leading to the one possibility that he dreaded most.

  Chapter 11

  Giovanni gladly would have spent more time in Paris, with not only his newfound friends, but with others whose names he had written down after finding them in his father’s old address book.

  But the Touissants had been surprisingly helpful, and more to the point, before leaving for his trip he had made an appointment with the International Tracing Service in Bad Arolsen, Germany. The ITS had agreed to allow him access to files with regard to his research on the Meyerstein family.

  He transferred between several trains during his travel from Paris to Bad Arolsen, a spa town near Munich of less than 20,000 people. After a restless night’s sleep in a small hotel, Giovanni rose early, had a light breakfast, and went out for a stroll in the chilly morning air.

  There was time before his appointment at the ITS, so Giovanni took in some of the sights. He had read about the Grosse Allee, the Grand Avenue, and wanted to see it for himself. It was about a mile long, a wide, stately street that had been built in 1676. Comprised of 880 oak trees, laid out in lines of six, the Grand Avenue’s leafy beauty was calming. Despite uncertainties about his life in London, and his current journey of discovery, Giovanni needed to savor the present moment. Walking the Grosse Allee was a great way to set his worries aside for a time.

  After walking for over an hour, Giovanni checked his watch. It was time. He got out his mobile phone and called a taxi.

  He arrived at the ITS complex, an unremarkable series of buildings that housed fifty million pages describing the fate of more than seventeen million people. Giovanni paid the driver and asked for his card, as he would need a ride back to his hotel. Then Giovanni walked the long path bordered by hedges that seemed to force visitors to focus on the doors of the main entrance directly ahead. As he drew closer, Giovanni wondered if coming to Bad Arolsen would lead to further clues, or turn out to be a dead end.

  Past the entrance, Giovanni approached the front desk and his appointment was confirmed. He provided a security officer with his passport and then again answered the same question he was asked on the form that he had e-mailed to them from London. Namely, to describe the purpose of his research.

  He could not tell the employees at the front desk, especially in his limited German, of all that had happened to him since opening the Count’s crate. Even if he could, they would never believe him and might deny him access to their files, suspecting both his motives and his sanity.

  In his initial contact with them, Giovanni realized that the Service was primarily for victims of the Nazi era, or family members of victims. He could not honestly tell them he was researching the death of a relative in the Holocaust. So he repeated what he had written to them—he was in possession of a work of art that, he believed, had belonged to a family that very likely perished in the camps. After all, it was the truth, at least, as far as he could trust the Count.

  Having provided by e-mail the names of Henri Meyerstein, his wife Carmella, and their children Daniel and Elise, Giovanni had received a surprisingly rapid reply from Bad Arolsen, stating they did indeed have records on Meyerstein and his family. They offered to send copies of the files for a fee but Giovanni knew he had to research more than just the Meyersteins, so instead he made the appointment to appear in person.

  Giovanni had been further motivated because the ITS documentation regarding the Meyerstein family meant two other important things to him. For one, whatever the explanation for his conversations with the Count, it was certain that Giovanni was not losing his mind. He had no previous knowledge of the family, their names, or if they even existed. To imagine such a thing defied all odds, leaving the most probable conclusion. However incredible, it was true—the long-dead subject of a painting had told him.

  Also significant was that the Count, despite his mercurial temperament, had been historically accurate, at least about the Meyersteins. At first, Giovanni was unsure of how to process the Count’s accusation of Arabella’s infidelity. But as events progressed, between her admission of guilt and the ITS acknowledgment that the Meyersteins were in fact victims of the Nazi occupation of France, Giovanni had no reason to doubt anything else the Count asserted. Which meant, for the first time, Giovanni also had to consider the possibility, however ridiculous it may have seemed—perhaps the Count was telling the truth and Botticelli really had painted his portrait.

  At the front desk of the ITS, Giovanni tried to explain in his rather uninspired German that he needed to find out if the entire Meyerstein family had perished in a concentration camp, but he didn’t know how to say concentration camp in German.

  “Do you wish to have help in English?” The woman at the desk had a German accent so thick, the phrase was likely all she had ever learned to say in English.

  Giovanni thanked her and sat down on a black leather sofa in the waiting area. Minutes later, a gentleman came to greet him. Giovanni was surprised by the young man’s tender age, which he gauged to be no more than late twenties. He had fine dark hair cut in a straight, solid curtain that concealed his forehead, and combined with the round spectacles that he wore, it gave him an owlish, intellectual look.

  “I am Johannes Roedelius,” the young lad said. “I have been assigned as your records liaison, to assist with your research.”

  Giovanni shook hands with Johannes and was grateful that he would no longer have to mangle the German language.

  Johannes led the way to a room lined with lockers for clients to store their coats and other personal belongings, as nothing was allowed in the Reading Room except for a pen and paper. Giovanni hung up his coat and stowed his briefcase in the bottom of the locker.

  Before proceeding, Johannes began a client orientation. He explained that more than ninety percent of their data was digitally referenced. The procedure entailed searching for information using one of the computer terminals in the Reading Room, and then the corresponding materials, housed elsewhere in the complex, would be retrieved.

  Giovanni listened but he felt guilty for not telling Johannes the full scope of his mission. Of course he would be looking for information regarding the Meyersteins, the very reason they had granted him acce
ss, but he also wanted to learn more about Bruno Lothar and the mystery man, Kreitel.

  Johannes continued the orientation. “Our database contains seventeen and a half million names, and it is important to realize that within that collection, many phonetic variations exist, due to different European countries and even slight surname variations within local regions. Entering the last name of a person for whom information is sought may not produce the expected result. In your case, however, it is fortunate that the name Meyerstein has no variations listed.” He smiled. “I believe your search will prove successful. Our records are organized into three major sections: Incarceration, Forced Labor, and Displaced Persons. After studying your application, I would say the information you seek will be found in the Incarceration section.”

  Giovanni liked the young lad. He was well-mannered and eager to help, which only made Giovanni feel worse about his desire to search for other information.

  “You can request up to three files at a time,” Johannes explained, referring to groups of documents to be brought to the individual researcher. “You will see the checkbox on the screen, in the document list. On the right. Select the documents you wish to view, submit, and I will bring you the files.”

  An actual demonstration would have been better. Giovanni was not even at the computer yet and already he was struggling to keep up. Next Johannes directed Giovanni to the Reading Room, where a computer was reserved in his name. Nine other people were working at different terminals. He sat down in front of his and stared at the confusing screen. It didn’t look like a normal browser. On the table was a sign to indicate that talking was not allowed in the room. That ruled out asking someone for help with the unintuitive screen. Giovanni glanced at the other people engrossed in their research. No one returned any glances, then Giovanni wondered if the others were searching for family who had perished in the Holocaust, and he felt bad for even glancing at them.