by Kris Tualla
*****
Three hours later, an older man with a shock of pure white hair and clear brown eyes was sitting across from Hollis.
“This is my youngest daughter, Amelia Kunst,” he introduced the thirty-something blonde who took the seat beside him.
Hollis shook her hand. “Thank you both for coming in.”
“He thanks you for finding the painting,” Amelia said. “We both do, actually.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Hollis warned. “There is a claim on the painting which legally cannot be ignored.”
“But it’s wrong,” Gerhardt insisted. “That painting was a gift.”
Hollis folded her hands on her desk top and kept her tone encouraging. “Why don’t you start from the beginning, Mr. Kunst. Tell me the whole story.”
Gerhardt settled back in his chair. “My father, Wilhelm Kunst, was born in Berlin in nineteen-twenty-one, after my grandfather returned from the Great War.”
“World War One,” Hollis said.
“It was not called that at the time,” Gerhardt corrected.
Hollis smiled her acknowledgement. “Go on.”
“When he was seventeen he was in love with the girl next door, Rachel Meyer.”
Hence the name of the painting.
Gerhardt’s expression softened. “She was sixteen. They were so young.”
Hollis did the math. “Rachel Meyer? In nineteen-thirty-eight in Berlin?”
Gerhardt nodded. “Yes, she was Jewish. You can see the difficulty.”
Totally. “Go on.”
“Her father, Benjamin Meyer, spent many years as an art restorer for the Neues Museum in Berlin. But in his lifetime, he only painted one original painting.”
“The portrait of his daughter, Rachel.”
“Yes.” Gerhardt cleared his throat; Hollis wondered if it was a habit, or if the man had some sort of condition. “And it hung in their drawing room.”
“Would you like some water?” she asked him.
“No. Thank you.”
Hollis glanced at Amelia, but the silent daughter didn’t seem concerned. “So how did you get the painting, Mr. Kunst?”
Gerhardt looked down at his gnarled hands. “One night, the Meyer family simply disappeared.”
Hollis felt the sting of tears; this man in front of her was just one generation removed from the Holocaust. “Your father must have been devastated.”
“He was.” Another throat clearing. “He went into the Meyer’s house and it was completely destroyed. Everything of value was gone.”
“But the painting was still there?”
Gerhardt nodded. “They tossed it into the fireplace, because who would want a portrait of some filthy Jew girl, painted by an unimportant museum employee?” He lifted his eyes to hers. “Thank God it was summer and there was no fire.”
“Your father wanted it,” Hollis whispered, totally captivated by the story. “Because he loved Rachel.”
“With all of his heart.” Gerhardt spread his slightly-trembling hands. “So imagine his surprise when he turned the painting over and saw the inscription.”
“Benjamin must have known what was coming.” That thought pushed a tear down her cheek. She grabbed a tissue. “I’m sorry.”
“No.” Gerhardt dropped one hand and pointed at her with the other. “Never, ever, be sorry.”
Hollis blew her nose and waved for Gerhardt to continue.
“When my father returned to his own house with the painting, my grandfather told him to pack a single suitcase. ‘We are leaving Germany tonight,’ he said.”
“And they did? And the painting fit in his bag?”
“Yes.”
“How did the painting end up in Arizona?”
Gerhardt shifted in his chair as the story shifted to his own. “My father moved to Arizona after the second World War. He’d had his fill of cold weather when he fought in Europe. He settled in Mesa. I was born there in nineteen-forty-six.”
Hollis smiled. “The first baby-boomer.”
“Yes.” He turned to Amelia. “Show her the picture.”
Amelia opened her purse and handed Hollis a four-inch square, glossy, black-and-white photo with white ruffle-cut edges. The year nineteen-forty-six was stamped in the white border.
The happy couple in the picture sat on a couch. The woman was holding a tiny, blanket-wrapped infant.
And the portrait of Rachel hung over her head.
“I am glad that my grandfather wasn’t good at aiming the camera or the painting might have been cut off.” Gerhardt gestured toward the photo. “As you can see, the painting has been in my family since Benjamin made it a gift.”
Hollis nodded; the man had a very strong case. “So how did Ezra Kensington end up with it?”
“Unfortunately, my father Wilhelm died of a stroke in nineteen-ninety-nine. I was traveling through Germany at the time, searching for any surviving family members.” Gerhardt’s expression turned sour.
Hollis waited in silent expectation.
“My younger sister, whose life was always a mess, and was always short of money, immediately held an estate sale.”
Hollis straightened, horrified. “No…”
Gerhardt nodded. “She cleared out the entire house before she told me. By the time I was able to return, the painting was gone.”
“That’s terrible.” It really, really was.
The older man managed a tremulous smile. “But when I saw you and the painting on the news, I was more surprised and relieved than you can imagine.”
“Ezra Kensington must have bought it at the estate sale,” Hollis guessed.
“We assume so, but all sales were in cash and untraceable.”
“God bless Ezra and his obsessive collecting,” Hollis murmured. “If he hadn’t willed all of his hoard to the museum, the painting would have been lost to you forever.”
Gerhardt relaxed then. “I so glad to hear you say that.”
Hollis titled her head. “Say what?”
“That I have provenance over that painting.”
Chapter Twelve
“But he doesn’t necessarily have provenance,” Hollis said to Sveyn after she related the story.
She had talked for so long that he had finished his deli-made dinner of poached salmon and something called broccolini—all drenched in delicious garlic butter.
“We still have to pursue the claim before we can release it to him.”
“I looked that up today,” he managed to slip his words into her narrative. “The claims against the Nazis are very strong.”
Hollis lowered her fork, the chunk of salmon untouched. “Judging by the number of emails you sent me, you looked everything up today.”
“Yes.” His eyes widened. “The internet is so interesting. Who put it together?”
“Al Gore.”
Sveyn was impressed. “He must have been a very smart man.”
“Let’s go with that.” Hollis ate the salmon and spoke with her mouth full. “I’m giving you my phone.”
That was surprising. “What will you use?”
“I got a new one.” She stabbed a forkful of broccolini. “That way, if something happens to it—”
“You do not trust me?” Sveyn interrupted, offended by the implication.
“I trust you, yes, of course,” Hollis stated. “But as with any new habit, sometimes we forget. And my phone is paid for, so there’s no contract issue.”
Sveyn didn’t understand all the words of that sentence, but Hollis seemed certain of her stance. This was not a battle that needed fighting, so he let it go.
“So now you have your own phone number. You need to memorize it.” She waved a hand toward her purse. “I already programmed my number and the museum number into it and set them on speed dial.”
“Speed dial?”
How quickly do people in this century need to speak to each other?
“If you press the two and hold it, the phone will automatically dial my
number,” Hollis explained. “And if you press and hold three, it calls the museum.”
“Ah. I see.” That was easier.
And easier seemed to define the goals of the current society.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Good. I am good.” Sveyn grinned. “No ibuprofen since yesterday morning.”
Hollis peered at him. “No pain?”
“Tender. Not pain.”
“Good.” Hollis’s new phone rang and she dug it out of her purse. “Hello, George.”
Sveyn’s attention focused on trying to hear both halves of the conversation.
Hollis glanced at him. “Hold on, say that again on speaker.”
George’s voice sounded better on this phone, Sveyn noticed. “I said that I climbed seven levels up in the Department of Records today until I found someone who could handle Sveyn’s situation.”
“What did they say?” Sveyn asked.
“They said we have to do a fingerprint check and bring back a clean and certified record,” George said. “In other words, prove that he isn’t trying to hide from some crime elsewhere in the country by creating a new identity.”
“How long will that take?” Hollis asked.
“With the rollout of unified databases last year, we could get an answer in twenty-four hours.”
Sveyn looked at Hollis, stunned. “That is fast.”
George laughed. “I said could—I’d bet on a week at the soonest.”
“That’s fine,” Hollis said. “He can’t work yet anyway.”
“Sveyn, I’ll pick you up tomorrow at ten and take you to the police department to get fingerprinted.”
“Thank you, George.”
“Maybe after that we could score a couple of hot lunch dates at the museum.”
Hollis found Sveyn’s blank expression quite funny. “I’ll explain that sentence to him when we hang up,” she told George. “And thanks for helping us out on this.”
“It’s not every day you witness an apparition brought to life,” he replied. “See you tomorrow.”
Sveyn looked at Hollis as she set her new phone—which looked quite a bit like her old one—on the table.
“I must assume that scoring hot dates for the midday meal has nothing to do with cutting slits into the fruit of a palm tree.”
“That’s really funny!” Hollis grinned. “But no. Scoring is like winning—remember the football games on television?”
Sveyn nodded.
“And in this case, hot means sexy.”
The light dawned. “Winning sexy dates—he means with you and Stevie. For lunch.”
“Yes.”
Sveyn nodded. “I will wear my new clothes.” He rubbed his prickly chin. “And I will shave again.”
Hollis looked around as she carried her now-empty plate to the sink. “Was there any mail today?”
Sveyn did the same. “Yes. I put it beside the bed.”
Hollis disappeared into the bedroom while Sveyn poured the last bit of chardonnay into his glass. She returned with the stack of various envelopes.
“Most of this is junk.” Hollis opened the lid of the trash can and tossed all but one envelope inside. “This one is from the hospital. I hope it’s not a bill.”
“Will you give me my phone?” Sveyn asked.
Hollis stuck her hand into her purse, pulled out the phone he was familiar with and handed it to him before she opened the hospital’s letter.
Sveyn considered the sparkly pink covering. “Does this come off?”
Hollis looked up from the paper. “Yeah—give it to me.”
Sveyn did and she peeled the flexible covering away from the phone, exposing a black phone underneath. “They only had black that day and I couldn’t wait for a white one. So I covered it.”
Sveyn was pleased to see the dark and sober color of the actual phone. “This is good.”
Hollis went back to reading. “Huh.”
“What is it?”
“They don’t miss a trick.” She looked into his eyes. “Seems my blood type is the universal donor. They are encouraging me to donate blood and as often as I can.”
“What is blood type?”
“There are different factors in our blood, so if we need a transfusion we need to get blood that has the same factors.”
Interesting. He knew about transfusions from the war. “What is universal donor?”
Hollis shrugged. “I guess they can use my blood for anybody.” She looked again. “It’s O-negative.”
I wonder if mine is the same. “Have you donated your blood before?”
“No.” She wrinkled her nose. “Not a fan of big needles.”
Wednesday
January 20
Hollis left for work with Sveyn sitting at his laptop. Before she walked out she reminded him that he could put a dozen thoughts into one email, not one thought each into dozens. She also left him her credit card so that he could order food when he got hungry.
“Food only, please,” she said. “No big purchases until we talk about it.”
“There is nothing I am in need of,” he replied and winked. “With the exception of modern cooking lessons, perhaps.”
Hollis grinned; having someone cook for her would be grand. “Look on YouTube.”
As Sveyn’s physical discomfort eased, his mood lifted in proportion. He had only been in his body for eleven days and was doing remarkably well, considering.
Hollis walked into the staff lounge.
“I got a marketing letter from the hospital yesterday,” she said to Stevie and Miranda, who were pouring their morning energy. “Apparently my blood type makes me the universal donor, and they are encouraging me to donate. Often.”
Miranda looked concerned. “O-negative?”
That took Hollis by surprise. “Yes. How did you know?”
“I’m a regular blood donor.” Miranda turned away from the coffee pot and leaned back against the counter. “Depending on whom you marry, having children might present some risks.”
“What kind of risks?” Stevie asked.
“If the mother is negative but the father is positive, the child is likely to be positive as well,” Miranda explained. “During birth, if the baby’s blood mixes with the mother’s, then the mother forms antibodies against the negative blood.”
Hollis was stunned. “Does the mother get sick?”
“I don’t think so.” Miranda gave Hollis a compassionate look. “But another positive fetus could be attacked by the mother and expelled.”
“Miscarriage,” Stevie murmured.
Miranda nodded. “And the antibodies build with each exposure.”
“I’m an only child,” Hollis blurted, her eyes widening. “I always wondered why my parents didn’t have more.”
“Did you ask your mom?” Stevie asked.
Hollis nodded, trying to pull up the memory. “When I was little. She gave me some vague answer about God giving them all their children wrapped in one perfect little girl.”
“I’m sorry,” Miranda said. “But she does clearly love you.”
“And there were some hospital trips, I remember.” Hollis closed her eyes to entice the memories. “She had a hysterectomy when I was twelve.”
Stevie frowned a little. “I’m surprised she didn’t say anything to you.”
“Me, too.” Hollis pondered that a moment. “She probably would have if I married Matt. Or got pregnant.”
“My guess is your mom is RH positive and your dad is RH negative.” Miranda pointed with her coffee cup. “You might want to call and ask.”
*****
George knocked on the door and Sveyn let him in. “Nice clothes,” the lawyer said.
Sveyn looked down at his jeans, sweater, and athletic shoes. “Hollis ordered them on the internet.”
“She got you talls, then.” George smiled. “And she has good taste.”
Sveyn touched his pocket to be sure he had the condo key. “Do I need anything?”
<
br /> “No. I have the order from the Department of Records excusing you from having to provide any identification.”
“Then I will lock the door.”
The men stepped outside and Sveyn used the little key to turn the little lock. “In my time, keys and locks were massive things.”
George looked at him as if in awe. “I can’t imagine all that you have seen, Sveyn.”
Sveyn grinned. “I will tell you. But only one story at a time. Nine hundred and fifty years is a long time.”
The downtown Phoenix police station was a massive and imposing concrete structure. Both uniformed officers and people in normal clothing streamed in and out. George led Sveyn to the area where the fingerprinting for non-criminals was done.
“There are a lot of occupations which require fingerprint clearance and background checks,” George explained in the car. “So they set up a special area and certain hours for those people to come in.”
Sveyn stared at his fingertips. “I wonder if mine will be different.”
George glanced at him. “It’ll be interesting to find out.”
When Sveyn was next, George filled out the paperwork for him. “When you’re ready, you’ll have to learn how to write English,” he said casually. “I know you can read, so that’s the first step.”
Sveyn nodded. “I will ask Hollis to show me. But I can use the laptop keyboard.”
George looked up at him. “Can you?”
“Yes.” He chuckled. “I asked her to leave her laptop with me when she went to work, and instead she ordered one for me.”
“You have your own laptop?”
“And email.” Sveyn reached into his back pocket and pulled out his latest treasure. “And phone.”
“I’m impressed.” George handed the paperwork to the clerk.
She glanced over it and then gave Sveyn what must be described as an appreciative head-to-toe gaze. “Over here, Mr. Hansen.”
Sveyn relaxed his hands as the woman efficiently rolled each finger over a small pad and watched as their grooves and swirls appeared on a screen.
“Okay, you’re done.” She tapped several keys in quick succession. “And now you’re in the database.”
She looked up at George. “You’ll be sent the results in about seventy-two hours, Counselor.”
