Prague, May 22, 1989
JAN ROSE FROM THE COUCH and motioned for Karl to follow him. Karl stood and reached for his jacket, wondering where they were going. But to his surprise, Jan turned and headed down the hallway to a bedroom at the back of the apartment. Startled and puzzled, Karl followed behind. The small back room was sparsely furnished with one large four-poster bed piled high with a feather comforter and quilted bedcover. A small chest of drawers sat in one corner, and a rectangular wool rug lay over the worn hardwood floor. Jan went first to the window and quickly drew the curtains. Soft light penetrated through the thin blinds. The room became dimly lit, though not dark. Glancing back at Karl, Jan moved over to the bed and began to strip back the bedcovers, comforter, and several blankets. Finally, he pulled away a large sheet and there lay the paintings, neatly stacked one on top of the other and separated by more blankets and sheets. Each one was carefully wrapped in paper and tied with string. Jan unwrapped the top painting and stood back.
“I made those inquiries to the Czech authorities anonymously,” he said, turning to smile at Karl. “No one knows about the paintings.”
Karl was dumbfounded. Not in his wildest imagination had he thought that the paintings might actually be here in Jan’s home, and buried in a bed! He stumbled toward the bed and ran his hand lovingly over the top painting. It was the Geoffroy – the children in the bathhouse – the one that may well have been his mother’s favorite. It was in perfect condition, preserved here in this bed cocoon as if it had been hanging in a gallery. It appeared that all of the paintings were still on their stretchers, though the gold frames were gone. Karl did not know what had become of them and it didn’t really matter. What mattered was that the paintings were here, all four of them, all together and safe.
“Please help me to stand them up,” Karl asked hoarsely. He still felt light-headed. Together, he and Jan unwrapped the remaining paintings, lifted them, and propped them up, each one placed against one of the four walls of the small room, nearly dwarfing the two men who stood in front of them. Even in the dim light, Karl could make out the exquisite details of each painting. The young children in the Geoffroy looked playfully and innocently at their teachers. The forest flames from the Swoboda filled the canvas with their radiance. The Spanish dancer’s face in the Paoletti stared back at Karl with expectation and longing. And the housewife in the Vogel looked demure and thoughtful. Though as a youngster Karl had barely paid attention to these works of art, they now felt as familiar to him as members of his own family.
“The paintings were kept in my father’s home, and we only found them after he and my mother had died.” Jan was talking and Karl pulled himself away from the paintings. “My grandfather said that the Gestapo searched the home on several occasions – even interrogated my father about the paintings.”
Karl wondered about this. He couldn’t imagine how it would have been possible to conceal four such large paintings, particularly if the Gestapo was intent on finding and confiscating them. But he didn’t question Jan.
“After I read the documents that had been left behind, and realized that there was a dispute about the ownership of the paintings, I felt uneasy about it,” Jan continued. “That’s why I contacted you. I’m convinced that the paintings are yours.”
Karl was gratified to hear Jan proclaim that he and his family were the rightful owners of the paintings; it was absolute exoneration for the legal dispute that had taken place between his mother and Jan’s grandfather. And yet, this moment was met with deep regret that his mother had not lived to hear this pronouncement. This vindication was wedded to another sorrow as well. Karl knew that Czechoslovakia would never surrender these paintings to him. The restitution of Jewish property was unheard of here in a country that had fenced itself in behind a myriad of complicated laws that enabled it to justify what the Nazis had done. In fact there were three injustices here: Jewish property had been taken during the Nazi regime, not returned to the rightful owners after the war, and stolen again by the Communists. But that thought only strengthened Karl’s resolve to get the paintings out of Czechoslovakia. Right then and there, he vowed that one way or another he would transport these family heirlooms to Canada.
With a deep sigh, Karl stepped back from the artwork. Then he and Jan lifted the four paintings and laid them gently back onto the bed. Karl rewrapped and tied each one in its paper and string, once again laying sheets between the canvases to protect them. With one last glance, Karl replaced the down comforter and tucked the quilted bedcover back in place, as if he were tucking his children in for a long night. He hated to leave them, but there was much to do and his mind was racing with the speed of a locomotive.
“I’ll drive you back to your hotel if you’d like,” Jan offered. Karl gratefully accepted. Before leaving the apartment, Jan went to his desk, opened a drawer, and withdrew two rusted windshield wipers. “Everything is in short supply here in this country as I’m sure you’ve noticed,” he said in response to the quizzical look on Karl’s face. “Even these old windshield wipers are valuable. People are likely to steal them if I don’t remove them from my car every night!” They left the apartment, walked down the long staircase, and emerged on the street. Jan’s jalopy was as dilapidated and decayed as the wipers. It squealed and sputtered its way through the narrow streets, finally and miraculously coming to a safe stop in front of the InterContinental Hotel.
The two men had said little to one another during the car ride. When they reached the hotel, Karl finally turned to face Jan. “I have to figure out how I’m going to get the paintings to Canada,” he began. “I’d like to try to do something while I’m here in the country.” The less he said to Jan about sidestepping government regulations, the better. Besides, at this point, he had no concrete plan, only the determination to do something in the few days he had available. “I will call you on May twenty-fourth, after I’ve returned from the high school reunion.” He wished with all his might that he didn’t have to attend the gathering. It felt like a bigger nuisance than ever, and a hindrance to proceeding with the important work of getting the paintings out of Prague. But he had no choice. The reunion was the reason he had been granted entry into the country, and following through on that plan was essential to keeping his alibi intact. “Thank you,” he added, somewhat awkwardly.
Jan nodded. “I leave the plans in your hands, and I look forward to hearing from you.”
As soon as he entered the hotel lobby, Karl headed for the front desk. He had the documents that Jan had given him specifying the ownership of the paintings and documenting the legal dispute between Jan’s family and his own. He needed to photocopy these papers before his meeting at the Canadian embassy. All his hopes rested on the possibility that someone there would be able to help him. At the front desk, he was directed to a small business center in the corner of the lobby.
“Excuse me,” he said, stepping up to speak to an attractive young woman behind the reception counter. He reached into his jacket pocket and removed the letters that Jan had given him. “I’m wondering if you might photocopy these papers and letters for me.”
The woman glanced down at the papers and then up at Karl. She eyed him suspiciously and Karl felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. There was important evidence contained in those letters, information that documented the paintings, their presumed value, and the dispute that had taken place between his family and Jan’s. Could she be one of the informers that were placed in every business and company to report on the activities of locals and even guests? Karl had unwittingly, and perhaps foolishly, provided personal information to this complete stranger. In that moment, he wished he could reach across the counter, withdraw the papers, and disappear from the lobby. But it was too late.
“A moment, sir.” She turned her back and moved into a small office behind the desk. Karl could hear the copy machine being turned on and the cover raised. The buzzing of the machine was loud and with every click, Karl realized that the woman was making two copies of each of his documents. Even here in this four-star American hotel, the secret police were close at hand. One photocopy of the papers would be for Karl. But where would the second copy be sent? He didn’t know, but every fiber of his being told him that he needed to get his plans in place for the transport of the paintings and do it soon, before the authorities became suspicious and moved in on him.
“Here you are, sir.” The woman returned and placed the documents in Karl’s hands. He thumbed through them. The originals were all there along with only one duplicate of each, just as Karl had suspected. A second wave of fear gripped him. He cleared his throat, thanked the woman behind the desk and proceeded up to his room, being careful to double-lock and bolt the door behind him.
Karl slept little that night. He tossed and turned, wondering and worrying about everything. Would he be able to come up with a plan to safely export the paintings back to Canada? Would someone at the Canadian embassy be prepared to help him? Would Czech authorities stop him before any of this could come to pass? He had just handed the evidence of his family’s history over to a hotel staff person and probable Communist disciple, who had collected the evidence that the authorities would need to come after him and Jan. Perhaps he had already blown his chance to recover the paintings.
Along with this jumble of thoughts and uncertainties, Karl also reflected back on his meeting with Jan Pekárek. It was hard for Karl to determine how he really felt about the grandson of Alois Jirák. Certainly he was grateful that Jan had contacted him and was prepared to return the paintings. But Karl couldn’t deny that he was also deeply suspicious of him. After all, were it not for Jan’s family, Marie would have reclaimed the paintings years earlier. She would have fulfilled her dream of being reunited with her treasured belongings, the paintings would have already found their true home in Toronto, and Karl would not be here risking his safety! And while Jan was doing the right thing by returning their family possessions after his grandfather had vigorously tried to prevent it, Karl didn’t believe that this made Jan a hero. It merely made him an honest human being. In the end it didn’t feel to Karl as if Jan was doing anything generous by making this offer of restitution. It felt as if he was simply putting something to rest, and in doing so, he was cleansing his own hands of the misdeeds of his family members.
Was he being harsh in judging Jan in this way? Perhaps so. But emotions that he didn’t fully understand and couldn’t control were battling inside of Karl. He had seen what the loss of their family property had done to Marie. He felt a deep loyalty to his mother and was angered by her inability to retrieve the paintings before her death. In the absence of Alois Jirák, the only place Karl could put that anger was on the shoulders of Jan Pekárek. Perhaps that wasn’t fair, but it was what he felt. He saluted Jan for coming forward to right this family wrong, but rightly or wrongly, that was as far as it went.
Karl groaned aloud and checked the clock next to his bed once more. Dawn was fast approaching. Tomorrow was the school reunion, the next day was the meeting at the Canadian embassy, and then he was due to meet with Jan once more. He wished he could close his mind to the memories, not to mention the worries. He wished he could turn his brain off but that simply wasn’t possible. As the early morning rays of daylight seeped into his room, Karl finally gave in to his insomnia. He rose and began to prepare for the day ahead.