Botticelli's Bastard

by Stephen Maitland-Lewis

After a few minutes of studying the options, Giovanni began to understand how their system worked, which wasn’t too difficult after all, just that it was unusual. He determined how to perform a search and entered Henri Meyerstein. Eight references to the name appeared on the screen. They were the initial matches that led the ITS to invite Giovanni to conduct his research at their site. He narrowed his choices down to the three that looked the most interesting. Then he had to find the checkbox that Johannes had described, which wasn’t difficult, but he still didn’t understand what the young man had meant by submit. Oh, Giovanni then realized, as it was right there on the screen—the big blue button with the word right in the center. He felt a bit foolish but also pleased that he could figure it out on his own. In minutes Johannes delivered the requested files.

  It was uncomfortable for Giovanni to read about one of the most despicable periods in human history. He knew nothing about these people. As in really knowing about them. Among the Jewish friends he had known over the years, he had never asked any of them about the Holocaust. What was one supposed to say? How many in your family died? It was a topic of pain, and a topic to be avoided. Giovanni’s knowledge of the Holocaust came, like so many, from documentaries with horrific images shown so many times that the danger of unemotional acceptance was present. He had seen movies about the Third Reich, and he had felt the revulsion of knowing that genocide occurred and could be rationalized. Giovanni thought about the Fascism that arose in his native country of Italy, led by Benito Mussolini, which only showed that no country, no people, were immune from mass insanity.

  Giovanni knew, as people around the world knew, that the Nazis had tortured and killed millions. It had passed into the category of general knowledge. But handling the files on the Meyerstein family made it uncomfortably vivid. It was one thing to see the worn, black and white footage on a television program, showing the bodies of dead Jewish concentration camp prisoners being pushed into mass graves. But touching the paper, confirming the Meyerstein’s transfer to Auschwitz, and knowing the gruesome manner in which the good people had perished, Giovanni could only imagine their terror, and it put an echo of that terror into his heart and mind that would not leave him, ever, from that day forward.

  During his orientation, Giovanni had been given instructions on how to handle the documents brought to him in the Reading Room. He was not to hold them in his hands but to place them flat on the table. And he had to keep them in the order that he found them in the file. Giovanni stole glances at others. One elderly man wore white cotton gloves as he carefully handled fragile, onionskin typed pages.

  Giovanni lost track of time as he studied the transport forms. The Meyersteins’ initial incarceration was in Drancy, a transit camp just outside of Paris. Then they were taken to Auschwitz and separated. Their deaths—father, mother, sister, brother—were systematically noted, as if they were nothing more than shipments of a product, delivered to a warehouse. Each was recorded as merely a statistic.

  Giovanni needed to pause. He had to question his motivations versus the purpose of the ITS. He thought about the victims and their families who came there from all over the world, hoping to gain some kind of closure, if they could even find that.

  But it was his one opportunity to learn the truth—of more than just the Meyersteins. He wouldn’t be coming back for a second visit, or ever again. It was time for him to discover the rest.

  He entered Bruno Lothar and the screen began to scroll pages of information, far more than it had for Henri Meyerstein. Giovanni sifted through the text and selected three files dated 1940, then requested the files be brought to the Reading Room.

  The room was silent except for the intermittent pecking at keyboards. Giovanni noticed that new researchers had replaced some of those who were busy at their terminals when he had first arrived. He wondered if they had found what they were looking for, and if they had, just how heartbreaking the resolution must have been. He thought about the Count and how he described his time in the Meyerstein’s home on Avenue Foch. Of all his stories, theirs he expressed with great joy. And great sadness, when retelling of how they were hauled away by the Nazis.

  Johannes delivered the requested files and departed without saying a word. Giovanni opened the first. Lothar was one of Goering’s top advisors on the value of artwork, which Giovanni had already learned from the Internet. In fact, few details of his biography differed from the sites that Giovanni had already visited. However, the file contained far more images of the man, most of them newspaper clippings, along with many official documents. Giovanni turned page after page. One newspaper clipping featured Lothar holding court at Maxim’s, posing with members of the Reich, several attractive women, and others unknown. In his youth, Lothar could have been a movie star. His slicked-back hair, sharp jawline, and piercing eyes made him appear cruelly seductive.

  Some pages into the file, Giovanni found a document dated November 23, 1940. It was a listing of art taken from two residences on Avenue Foch. For an instant Giovanni lost his breath—one of the residences was the Meyerstein’s. It was the very document he had hoped to find. Carefully, as if more precious than anything he had ever restored, he took it from the file and laid it flat on the table so that he could study it in detail. The document listed the names of the artists and titles of their work. He went down the long list, searching through the names, but nothing was identified as the work of Botticelli. And there was nothing listed as an unsigned painting. The proof he was searching for—that the Count’s portrait was once a possession of the Meyerstein family—simply did not exist. But that lack of evidence, it could also be argued, supported the Count’s claim that he was given away, the very reason the portrait was never cataloged at the time of acquisition nor its arrival at the Jeu de Paume.

  At the bottom of the document, after all the paintings were listed, the name B. Lothar appeared as the officer in charge of the Meyerstein art appropriation. And listed as advisor, W. Kreitel.

  Giovanni flopped back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling. It was all too incredible. The Count’s story was true. And it was another discovery to support Giovanni’s hunch, which gave him no satisfaction, rather it made him ill. He would need a photocopy of the document and found an option to request one. As he waited for Johannes to return, Giovanni realized that he was exhausted from hours of work without food, drink, or any break. His stomach was growling and the room was warm, the air stuffy. When he stood after sitting too long, he felt that he might faint. He left the open file on the table in the Reading Room and went back to the lockers where his coat and briefcase were stored. At the main desk, he asked the receptionist to let Johannes know that he would be waiting in the lobby. Giovanni sat on the black leather sofa, his head in his hands, wondering if he should have stayed in London and never embarked on this crazy stolen art investigation.

  “Mr. Fabrizzi?” Johannes nudged him on the arm. “Are you feeling all right?”

  Giovanni looked up at him. “Just a little tired.”

  Johannes sat down, then handed Giovanni the photocopy he had requested.

  “Actually, I’m going to need three copies,” Giovanni said, having failed to find an option to request multiple copies. “And please, would it be possible to have it on a compact disc?”

  “Certainly,” Johannes replied. “Did you find what you were looking for, Mr. Fabrizzi?”

  “Yes.” The word came out more as a breath than as an actual word.

  “Then this is good.”

  “It doesn’t feel good,” Giovanni said.

  “I understand. But you must remember, many come here and never find what they were looking for.”

  “I realize that.” Giovanni looked at the photocopy. “It’s one step closer, but the document doesn’t prove my painting belonged to the Meyersteins. I now have to find this Kreitel. W. Kreitel,” he corrected himself.

  Johannes rose from the sofa.

  “Herr Roedelius,” Giovanni said. “Would you mind if I asked you
a personal question?”

  He sat back down. “You may ask. And you may call me Johannes.”

  Giovanni nodded. “All right, Johannes. Tell me, are you Jewish?”

  “No, I’m a Lutheran.”

  “You are a young man, not Jewish, and you were not even alive when World War II occurred. I think it’s wonderful that you care enough to do this work, but I’m curious as to why you chose to be here at the ITS.”

  “We who did not live during the Holocaust want to understand how it could happen. I, myself, feel it is a mystery how people can become so destructive toward their fellow humans. Working here is my chance to gain a better understanding of that. I may never fully understand what happened, but this is my personal effort to try.”

  “I too am trying to understand, in some small way.” Giovanni straightened his posture as he caught himself slumping from exhaustion.

  “You look very pale, Mr. Fabrizzi. Have you eaten lunch?”

  Giovanni shook his head.

  “You should go and have something to eat, and then come back. You still have three hours left, if you wish to research more.”

  “Danke, Johannes.” Somewhat ashamed of his abrupt departure from the Reading Room, Giovanni said, “I’m sorry, but I left the files on the table.”

  “It’s all right,” Johannes said. “We will keep them aside for you.”

  Giovanni struggled to get up and Johannes helped him rise.

  “Thank you,” Giovanni said.

  “Now find yourself a meal.” Johannes smiled and escorted Giovanni toward the exit. “Then when you return, you may ask for me.” He held the door open for Giovanni.

  “You are a fine young man.” Giovanni gently patted Johannes on the cheek.

  “I will see you soon,” he replied.

  Giovanni walked out into the cool afternoon, struggling to dig out the taxi driver’s card in his wallet, and then from his coat, he brought out his mobile phone.

  Chapter 12

  Giovanni finished picking at his meal, a meaty stew with a sprinkling of carrots and potatoes. He sipped his coffee and reached the bottom of the cup, his clarity renewed by the surge of caffeine. Giovanni set the cup down and was taken by a new idea. He opened his briefcase and sorted through the notes he had brought from London.

  Within his notes were the names the Count had mentioned while telling his story of the Meyerstein family in Paris. There was, of course, Henri and Carmella Meyerstein. And their children, Daniel and Elise. But another, which Giovanni had jotted down but not given more thought, was Henri and Carmella’s niece, Clara, who lived upstairs in the same building. He had not searched the ITS database for Clara’s name.

  Giovanni looked at his watch and realized he had less than two hours before the ITS would close for the day. He called the taxi driver but did not get an answer. Giovanni paid his bill and asked the waitress if another taxi could take him back to the ITS. As Giovanni struggled with his shaky German and became more panicked, a man waiting to pay his bill overheard the situation and generously offered to give Giovanni a ride to the ITS.

  When they arrived at the entrance, Giovanni thanked the man and walked the long pathway flanked by hedges. He entered the building and asked to see Johannes, explaining that he wanted to use the remainder of his research time.

  Johannes greeted him. “I have your photocopies and your disc.”

  “Thank you,” Giovanni said, “but could you hold onto them for now? I forgot about Clara Meyerstein, the niece. May I continue searching the records?”

  “Of course, but you need to be back here fifteen minutes before we close.” Johannes looked at a clock on the wall. “You have just over an hour.”

  “Then I must hurry.”

  Johannes nodded and escorted Giovanni to the room with lockers where he could store his coat and briefcase. Giovanni then returned to the same computer that he had used earlier. He entered the name Clara Meyerstein and waited for the result. He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer that at least one member of the family had survived the Holocaust.

  Various Meyerstein names began to appear on the screen. Then the specific target of his search—Clara. He requested the file and waited for Johannes to return. As it was late in the day, only one other terminal was still in use. The middle-aged woman looked up from her research and aimed a disapproving glare as Giovanni drummed his fingers on the desktop. He realized his nervous behavior and ceased immediately.

  Minutes later, Johannes returned with the file and then left. Giovanni opened the file and carefully turned the pages, placing each face down on the table as he studied the next.

  “Oh my God,” he blurted out, drawing the attention of the remaining researcher, who followed the rules and kept her mouth shut but the stern look on her face spoke volumes. Giovanni smiled sheepishly and held up one hand in a gesture of apology.

  He selected the option for a photocopy of the document and submitted his request. Then he left the Reading Room and waited in the hallway, fearing his excitement might cause further disruption to the lady doing research.

  A short while later, Johannes approached with the photocopy.

  “Johannes,” Giovanni called out. “Clara Meyerstein was released from Auschwitz. She survived the War. I want to find her. How do I do that?”

  Johannes handed him the photocopy. “You realize, of course, this does not necessarily mean she is alive today.”

  “I realize that, but it is a possibility, however remote. I have to know, because if she is alive, the painting belongs to her.”

  Johannes nodded. “I will bring you the name and contact information of an investigator who specializes in this type of work. It will be up to you if you wish to retain her services.”

  “Yes, please,” Giovanni urged.

  “Will that complete your research?” Johannes asked.

  Giovanni indicated the photocopy. “Yes, but I need extra copies of this one as well. And I don’t mean to trouble you further, but a copy on disc, too.”

  “No trouble at all.” Johannes smiled. “I will return shortly with your materials and a receipt.”

  In the lobby, Giovanni sat on the leather sofa and waited. No longer tired and hungry, he was like a child unable to sit still. Johannes returned and Giovanni signed the credit card slip. He was given the disc and his additional photocopies, as well as a business card for the researcher that Johannes recommended he contact. Her name was Jana Vogler, and she was based in Berlin.

  Giovanni tucked everything into his briefcase.

  “Mr. Fabrizzi,” Johannes said. “One last thing.”

  “Please, call me Gio.”

  “Yes, Gio. Jana Vogler is very good at what she does. I won’t pretend that success is guaranteed, but I do hope that you will use her to find Clara Meyerstein.”

  “I will. I’m committed.”

  “Do you mind if Jana Vogler contacts me with any news of your success?”

  “No, of course not.”

  Johannes pursed his lips and rubbed his smooth chin. “Please don’t interpret this the wrong way,” he said. “I won’t make excuses for the acts of my countrymen. As I explained, I hope to understand this history. But it would be wonderful for all concerned, I believe, if you were to find Clara still alive, and you returned the art stolen from her family.”

  “I completely agree,” Giovanni said. “Thank you so much for all your excellent help. I will do my very best to find her.”

  They shook hands and Johannes excused himself. Outside the entrance, Giovanni called the taxi driver and the car arrived within minutes.

  “To your hotel?” the driver asked.

  Giovanni hopped in the backseat and closed the door. “Not yet. First, take me to the nicest restaurant in town. In fact, if you’re available, I would be happy to invite you to join me. I have great news to celebrate.”

  *

  Giovanni was so excited about his mission to find Clara Meyerstein, he talked almost nonstop during the meal with the driver
, Helmut. Giovanni did not divulge details about the Count, other than to say that he had a historian friend in London who had known the Meyerstein family during the Occupation of Paris.

  As they enjoyed dinner, Helmut would nod and ask a question occasionally, when given the chance each time Giovanni paused to eat his food. After Giovanni had exhausted his words and realized he was repeating himself, he also realized that he knew nothing about Helmut. Giovanni thought to have better manners and shifted the conversation to Helmut and his life, details of which he was happy to share. He lived with his mother, he explained, had a girlfriend, and enjoyed meeting people from all over the world who came to Bad Arolsen, either to partake in the baths or to search the ITS archives.

  Giovanni offered to buy a second bottle of wine but Helmut politely declined, insisting that he needed to get home to check on his aged mother. Giovanni paid the bill, left a generous tip, and when they arrived back at the hotel, Helmut thanked him heartily for the meal and conversation.

  When Giovanni asked what he owed, Helmut was adamant about not taking any more money from him. After all, the fine dinner easily exceeded the cost of a short taxi ride. Giovanni insisted but Helmut stood his ground. Giovanni conceded, they shook hands, and Helmut wished him luck in finding Clara.

  Giovanni took out his key and entered his hotel room. He was tired but in the best possible way. He sat at the small desk and looked longingly at the queen-sized bed that beckoned him. He was truly ready for sleep. The day’s excitement had caught up with him in the solitary moment of reflection. It reminded Giovanni of the last time he and Arabella had gone out to dinner and the theater with friends in London. He thought of her and how them traveling together would have made him happy, no matter what he accomplished on the trip.

  He opened one of the outer pockets of his rolling suitcase where he stored notes on the developing investigation. The notion struck him as odd, that he had become an investigator. He was a detective asking difficult questions, which a month earlier, he could not have imagined he would be asking.