CHAPTER TWENTY

Prague, May 24, 1989

TWO DAYS LATER, Karl found himself seated in a small café across the street from the office of the Canadian embassy. Due to Canada’s opposition to the Communist takeover of Czechoslovakia in 1948, the embassy had not been established here until April 1965. Before that, there had only been a diplomatic mission to Canada present here in the country, under the direction of a resident chargé d’affaires. The embassy building was quite lovely from the outside – a stately villa, surrounded by a high black wrought-iron gate. Trees lined the boulevard in front of the building, which sat in a quiet residential area. Close by and down a sloped bank, the familiar Vltava River flowed aimlessly toward the Charles Bridge. The red and white Canadian flag stood guard in front of the building and fluttered slightly in the early afternoon breeze that lifted and unfurled it from its flagpole.

Karl glanced at his watch. He was early for his two o’clock appointment with Robert G. McRae, but that was deliberate. He needed to compose himself and formulate his thoughts for this all-important meeting. He touched the breast pocket of his jacket, checking again to make sure his passport and visa were there. He had other papers as well, those that documented the family’s former property in Rakovník, as well as the evidence he had collected verifying that the family had had to abandon their home in advance of Hitler’s armies. Finally, there were the copies of letters that Jan Pekárek had given to him. Who knew what papers would be helpful for this meeting with McRae? But better to be prepared, thought Karl. And better to know what he was going to ask the embassy for! At that, he paused. What was he asking for? He knew that he would never report the paintings to the Czech authorities. Of that he was certain. Discovering them in Jan’s apartment had settled that matter in his mind. Relinquishing them to a government inspection would likely mean he would never see them again. So what alternative was there? And how could the Canadian authorities assist him? Surely as a Canadian citizen he was entitled to some protection under Canadian law. But did that protection extend to property – especially property that had been held here in this country for so many years? And would the Canadian government be willing to defy the edicts of a ruling government?

Karl ordered a second cup of coffee. He ran his hand through his hair and rubbed his tired eyes. He had not slept much in the last two nights.

The high school reunion had passed in a blur. He had been picked up at his hotel early in the morning by his old school friend, Miloš Nigrin, one of the few boys from his childhood with whom he had stayed in touch. Miloš had not aged well in the fifty years since they had seen one another. Once a handsome young man, he now had that same gray pallor that branded most Czech citizens these days, a pastiness that came from years of cigarette smoking combined with inadequate health care. Though still tall and slender, it startled Karl to see a friend whom he remembered so well from childhood now reduced to this withered man.

Miloš led Karl to his car, an old Simca automobile that looked as brittle as Miloš did. Once inside, the first thing the two men did was to exchange currency. Karl handed over American dollars for Miloš’s Czech crowns.

“I’m planning a trip to Vienna next year, if the Communists let me out of here. These American dollars will come in handy,” said Miloš.

As for Karl, he would not have to contend with the unreasonably high exchange rate imposed by the government in the banks. The trade was of benefit to both of them. “It’s good to see you, Miloš,” said Karl warmly. “Tell me how you’ve been – how is your family?”

Miloš quickly pocketed the money, glancing first in the rearview mirror and then out the window before replying. “I’m finally retired,” he said. He lit a cigarette and dragged on it deeply. He was a chemical engineer and had worked in a state-run company for many years. “I must say, I was a bit surprised when you wrote to say you were coming for the reunion. Don’t get me wrong – I’m delighted that you’re here. But as I recall, you were never too fond of this school of ours.” Miloš smiled and coughed loudly into his sleeve.

Karl nodded. He had never forgotten that Miloš had been an ally back in the days when they attended school together, one of the few schoolmates who had not participated in the taunting and bullying that Karl had been subjected to because of his religion. “It was time to come for a visit,” he replied, deliberately vague. “I was curious about what was happening here in this country. It feels as if Czechoslovakia may be on the verge of a new awakening, politically speaking.” It was important to steer the conversation away from the real reason for his visit. He couldn’t be honest about his motive for being in the country, not even with his old high school chum.

Miloš shrugged. “I’m not so excited about politics anymore. I survived the war and the Communist takeover. My life will change little, no matter who is in power.”

Karl reacted strongly. “But the secret police. Surely if things change, you and others will be able to relax and stop looking over your shoulders.”

“The secret police? Yes, there’s always the possibility that a colleague or neighbor might turn you in. And for what? Looking at someone the wrong way. Maybe even exchanging crowns for American dollars.” He patted his pocket and glanced once more in the rearview mirror. “I’ve seen others disappear for less. But the truth is, I’ve stopped worrying so much about them. What would they want with an old man like me?”

How ironic, thought Karl. Those same words were once uttered by many Jewish families in advance of Hitler’s campaign!

The drive to Rakovník took Karl west out of Prague, through some of the most picturesque countryside of Czechoslovakia. Industrial buildings gave way to fields of sunflowers that dotted the side of the road, thrusting their blooms upward into a clear blue sky. Thick green forests lay beyond the meadows, rising into undulating hills. Karl had picnicked many times in pastures and woodlands just like these. He had skied on those distant mountains, and bicycled on those hilly trails. Out here in the countryside, there was less of a feeling of oppression. Karl rolled down his window and breathed in the fresh morning air. He was reminded once more of the splendor of his former homeland, a beauty all the more bittersweet given the passage of time and the world events that had ensued.

Soon the terrain flattened out as the hills gave way to towns and villages, and the road became even more familiar as the car approached the town of Rakovník. Karl’s breath quickened. There was the High Gate, the city’s landmark. Somewhere over there was the old cemetery where his grandfather had been buried. Karl wondered if it still existed, or whether, like so many Jewish graveyards, it had been destroyed by the Nazis or neglected after Jews had been forced to leave their hometowns. Miloš navigated through the narrow streets, finally emerging onto Husovo the central square. He came to a stop in front of the Hotel Družba.

Karl descended from the car and glanced across the street. The hotel that was hosting the reunion happened to be located directly across from Karl’s former home. Curtains fluttered through an open window on the third floor that had once been Karl’s bedroom. The red-tiled roof reflected the mid-morning sun. Karl closed his eyes and could almost see the salon on the second floor where the four paintings had once hung. The exterior white stucco of the building had grayed over time, but, mostly, the house of his childhood looked as it once had, still quite grand and stately. There was, however, one major difference. The house was now the district headquarters for the Communist Party. A huge banner hung above the street level windows, proclaiming: zemí,spojte se! – Workers of the world, unite! The sign of the hammer and sickle punctuated the end of that edict. Around the corner and next to the front door, a second sign said, OkresníRakovník – District Office of Rakovník. With a shudder, Karl turned away and entered the hotel.

The reunion passed by in a jumble of faces he didn’t remember and names he barely heard in the noise. His schoolmates, now all elderly, were polite and pleasant enough. He tried to be similarly courteous in turn. He reminisced about the years spent in high school, and he and his schoolmates walked over to the cemetery to see the grave of Mr. Puchold, the art teacher who had been particularly well-liked and respected by the students, including Karl. He also discovered that Mr. Ulrich, the dreaded geography teacher who had been openly anti-Semitic, had been killed in a Czech prison after the war for being a Nazi sympathizer.

After several hours with his former schoolmates, Karl could feel himself becoming restless. He was anxious to get back to Prague and resume his efforts to recover the paintings. And, deep down, he was experiencing a sense of irritation with these men, and with the shallow nature of this reunion. Karl had reappeared in the lives of his schoolmates after fifty years and yet his presence was met with only superficial interest. He had expected that they would be more curious about him and his life; particularly how he had escaped in 1939 and how he and his family had survived. But conversations were awkward and felt forced. No one expressed sympathy that he had left school so abruptly without completing his matura. No one asked about his father, who had been a prominent businessman in this community. No one mentioned his home, which was now a Communist command center. The fact that his family had been forced to flee, and that his home and belongings were gone, appeared to be a non-event for these men. In fact, from Karl’s perspective, his former schoolmates seemed largely indifferent to the fate of the Jews during the war, and indifferent to Karl and his circumstances. The only thing they were curious about was the fact that Karl still had his real teeth!

But he realized that he had been naive to have expected more. These former acquaintances had never been his true friends. They would likely have turned him over to the Nazis years ago. Perhaps they were even amongst those who had entered his home after the Gestapo left, and ransacked it for his family’s remaining property. He wondered if he would discover a lamp, rug, or even a painting that had once belonged to his family if he were to walk into their homes today.

He knew that he was being harsh to castigate his old schoolmates in this way. Surely, at the very least, they must have felt some remorse or shame at what had happened to Jews in the war. Perhaps they were avoiding the topic for that very reason. But, in the end, Karl knew he had been right to dread this reunion, and he reminded himself again that this gathering had only ever been a means to an end.

Karl glanced at his watch and realized it was almost time for his appointment with the chargé d’affaires. He paid for his coffee and was just about to rise when a commotion broke out across the street. A black Tatra automobile came to a screeching stop in front of the embassy gates. Two men, dressed in dark suits and carrying briefcases, walked out of the embassy building, climbed into the car, and sped off, tires squealing. It was a puzzling moment, but Karl had no time to dwell on it. He left the café, rang the bell next to the iron gates, and climbed the stairs to the embassy.

“I have an appointment with Mr. McRae,” he announced to the receptionist behind the glass partition. “My name is Karl Reeser.”

The woman was instantly sympathetic. “Oh dear,” she began. “I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Reeser, but Mr. McRae has been called away for a pressing and unexpected meeting at the Castle. He’s just left with Ambassador Mawhinney.”

That must have been the car that had departed with such urgency, Karl realized with a sinking heart. Seeing the look in Karl’s eyes, the receptionist quickly continued, “Mr. McRae would be happy to see you tomorrow, or, if you wish, you could meet with the vice consul right now.”

What to do, wondered Karl. He had so little time here in the country and had serious misgivings about delaying his meeting for another day. He needed to see someone immediately if he had any hope of putting plans together for the discreet export of the paintings. But it was McRae who had been sent a copy of Pekárek’s letter explaining that he had the paintings and wanted to return them. It was McRae who had spoken with Karl from Zurich and had agreed to this appointment. What would this new man know of his situation? Karl stood in the vestibule of the embassy building, shifting from one foot to the other, and looking distressed and hesitant. Once again the receptionist spoke up.

“I assure you, the vice consul is familiar with the reason you are here,” she said, reassuringly. “He and Mr. McRae have discussed your situation. The vice consul’s name is Richard VandenBosch. I think it would be worth your while to meet with him.”

Karl knew he had to act quickly. He nodded to the receptionist and followed her down a long corridor.

Richard VandenBosch was a tall, energetic man in his early thirties with an engaging smile and charming demeanor. He jumped from his chair as soon as Karl entered his office, and came around his large wooden desk to greet him. “Hello, Mr. Reeser,” he exclaimed warmly, pumping Karl’s hand. “So sorry for the mix-up with the meetings. Robert expressed his regrets that he couldn’t be here to talk to you. It couldn’t be helped. But I’m pleased to fill in for him. Come, sit down.”

Karl felt instantly at ease in the presence of this likeable young man. He seated himself in a comfortable armchair next to Richard VandenBosch and waited expectantly.

The two exchanged pleasantries: Karl’s early impressions of Prague, the hotel in which he was staying, his high school reunion. Then VandenBosch got down to business. “My wife and I have a great interest in art, and I’m most curious to hear the story of your paintings.” He stared attentively at Karl through large, dark-rimmed glasses.

“I know you must be a busy man,” Karl began. He sensed that he should be brief or he would lose the opportunity to present his case. And yet, Karl believed that he would have to take Richard VandenBosch back to March 15, 1939, and Hitler’s invasion of Prague in order to do his story justice. To Karl’s surprise, the vice consul was relaxed and in no hurry. He seemed to want to engage in a long conversation.

“I’m somewhat of a history buff,” he interjected. “Especially personal history. So please take your time and start at the beginning. How did your family escape from this country back in thirty-nine?”

Karl let out a deep breath and settled into the armchair as he unfolded the details of his family’s history. Each time that Karl tried to abbreviate parts of his story, or gloss over details, Richard interrupted him, insisting that he go back and fill in the missing information. He was particularly fascinated with the story of how Marie had bribed the Gestapo officer in order to obtain their exit visas when they were first trying to leave Prague. “You mean she actually walked into one of the Gestapo headquarters in another city, by herself, and offered money to an official?” he asked, shaking his head in disbelief. “What incredible guts she must have had.” The meeting that Karl imagined would last no more than ten minutes stretched to over two hours.

“My parents were from the Netherlands,” Richard said as Karl was wrapping up his story. “My father was the first in his family to go to Canada in the 1940s. And while he had it relatively easy during the war, he also had to leave everything behind when he left his homeland.”

Richard VandenBosch tilted back in his chair and stared intently at Karl. He had been stationed here in Prague for almost two years, after a string of postings in cities around the world starting in 1978. This was a career that he had fallen into quite by accident. As a child growing up in Ottawa, he had never been a particularly strong student, and had been on the verge of being kicked out of school many times. At the age of seventeen, he left school to join the RCMP as a civilian, doing shift work in their office while attending night school to complete his studies. It was while he was working with the RCMP that a friend offered him a position in external affairs. Since he already had police clearance, a requirement of his job, he thought he might give this new opportunity a try. He was interviewed and hired.

As a consular officer in Prague, VandenBosch was responsible for looking after the visa and immigration concerns of Canadians who were visiting or working in Czechoslovakia. The issues that he dealt with were varied and often extremely compelling. Most recently he had helped a Canadian who had been hit by a car while in the country. Helping solve the predicaments and crises facing fellow Canadians was something that gave Richard VandenBosch a great sense of satisfaction. Karl’s story moved him instantly and deeply. He was in awe of Marie, who had so boldly protected her family in the face of great odds. He was impressed with Karl, who was determined to fulfill his mother’s dream of restitution. And he was captivated by the story of these family treasures that had resurfaced after so many years.

For his part, Karl felt an immediate kinship with this inquisitive, interested young man. He didn’t know why he should trust him so completely. But he sensed that this man was honest. How ironic, Karl thought, that he had hesitated in agreeing to a meeting with VandenBosch. This was proving to be a lucky outcome. It was a relief for Karl to be able to tell his story, and gratifying to find someone so keenly interested and stirred by it. In spite of the previous nights of sleeplessness, Karl had never felt more awake as his mind struggled to find a solution to his predicament, and a way for this man to help him.

And then an idea came to him. Karl composed himself, faced Richard VandenBosch, and looked him straight in the eyes. “It seems to me that it will be useless for me to apply to have the paintings legally exported from this country. There is no question in my mind that they would be seized by the Czech authorities, and then they would be as good as lost to me.”

Richard nodded thoughtfully in agreement. He too knew that if the authorities got hold of the paintings, Karl would be in a battle with the government to extort money from him. There would be no victory in this for Karl, no happy ending, and no return of family property.

“I need to make sure that the Czechs do not get their hands on the paintings,” continued Karl. “I would like the Canadian embassy to take possession of them.” It was the only alternative. If he could get the artwork into a Canadian shelter, he reasoned, the Czech government would then no longer have access to them. “The embassy could provide a kind of asylum or sanctuary for the paintings until I figure out what I’m going to do.” Karl leaned forward in his chair, suddenly quite animated. “I need to do all of this in the next few days,” he added. “I’m due to fly back to Canada on May thirtieth, and I don’t want to leave this country without securing a safe place for the paintings. I don’t know when I can return, and I don’t know how I’m actually going to get the paintings out of the country. But for now, and with your help, I’d like to deliver them here to the embassy. I want you to hide them and protect them until I can find a way to get them out of here.”

The bold request hung in the air between the two men. And then Richard VandenBosch responded, and with the words that Karl had hoped to hear. “I have no problem with that,” he said.

The meeting concluded shortly after that. Richard agreed to personally accompany Karl to Jan Pekárek’s flat where they would take possession of the paintings and transport them to the embassy. VandenBosch would provide the automobile and the two of them, along with Pekárek, would do the lifting and carrying. Richard told Karl to call him two days later. “I need to check out some details with my colleagues,” he said.

Karl agreed, noting that he also needed to confirm the arrangements with Jan Pekárek. “This man thinks that I’m working with the Czech authorities to export the paintings from the country. I don’t want to compromise his personal safety in any way with this change of plans.”

Richard nodded. “We’re going to have to try to get the paintings here to the embassy on Saturday,” he added. “You may have noticed the renovations that are currently underway here.” Karl had seen the scaffolding outside the building and the workers in the hallway. “Most of the construction workers do not have security clearance.” In other words, surmised Karl, these people might be spies working on behalf of State Security. It was an effective and simple way for the government to keep watch on the embassy’s business – simply plant party people, in the guise of construction workers, within the building. “We don’t want anyone noticing that you and I are transporting goods into the building,” continued Richard. “On Saturday, the embassy is empty except for a Canadian Forces security officer. And he can be trusted. We can safely move the paintings then.”

The meeting was over. Karl stood and shook hands with Richard VandenBosch, once again giving silent thanks for having had the good fortune to meet with this man. 'Ihc future of the paintings now rested with him and with the Canadian embassy. One more step in this complex operation had fallen into place.

Karl’s former family homo in Rakovnìk — now the district headquarters of the Communist Part).