Toronto, March 21, 1990
ALL TO AWARE of the date, Karl’s brain awoke early that morning even before his body began to stir. In fact, Theo’s imminent arrival had haunted Karl for days now, interrupting his conversations, his meals, and his sleep. He had no idea what time he might hear from Theo, so he arose, trying not to wake Phyllis, and went into the bathroom. Quinta was scratching at the door, whining for Karl to let her out. But first Karl splashed cold water on his face and looked up to stare at his reflection. The stark light above the mirror exaggerated the lines deeply etched around his eyes and mouth. He ran his fingers through his hair. What was left of his once bright red hair was now replaced with a more dignified gray. At close to seventy years of age, Karl was still strong and agile. But he felt as if he had aged years in the days since Theo had left for Prague.
Quinta scratched again, Phyllis stirred, and Karl dressed hurriedly and went downstairs and into the family room, sinking into a large armchair to gaze out the back window. This chair was a favorite place to sit. It faced the enclosed backyard with its changing landscape of multicolored gardens in summer, and white, barren snow in winter. Colorful photographs lined the wood-paneled walls of the room, all of them taken and developed by Phyllis and himself on their many tours abroad. Interspersed were pictures of his children and grandchildren at various stages of their lives – this one in infancy, a birthday, a school graduation. Books were stacked in a neat pile next to the chair, reflecting Karl’s deep interest in history and politics. He would often sit here with a book in his hands, looking up periodically to gaze out the back, listening to Quinta snoring gently on the couch and feeling the peacefulness of his life. But today there was nothing tranquil in his bearing. He felt jittery and uncertain. All he could think about were the paintings and the possibility, the fervent hope that he might be reunited with them.
What if Theo didn’t call today? That thought had competed for space in Karl’s mind along with the anticipation of hearing Theo’s voice on the telephone. No word from Theo might mean that his trip was delayed and he was still in the process of retrieving the paintings, or that something had gone horribly wrong and he was stuck in Prague. Then there was the possibility that Theo had absconded with the artwork. Karl could not even bear to consider this thought, or the notion that Hana and Paul had been right all along and that Theo was indeed a thief, a con artist who had duped them out of thirty-five hundred dollars and, worse, had run off with the family’s treasures. No! That simply could not be. In his heart, Karl believed he had read Theo correctly. He simply had to be patient and the telephone would eventually ring.
What would it feel like to be reunited with the paintings? Karl had barely allowed himself the luxury of imagining that possibility. He had been so consumed with trying to get the paintings back that he had not stopped to fully consider the outcome. But here, in the stillness of this March morning, he pictured the first moment of seeing the paintings in his home in Toronto, and he immediately remembered the day his parents had acquired them from Mr. Schmahl. Fifty years filled with war, family turmoil, uncertainty, loss, and dispossession had passed. There was nothing left from the old days, nothing to remind him of his previous life – no home, no country, few family members. The paintings were the only evidence of what his family had once had.
“Are you going to sit here like this all day?” Phyllis’s voice broke the stillness of Karl’s morning deliberation. He shook his head, unable to respond. “Come and have some breakfast, and then I want you to go for a walk,” she commanded. “I’ll stay home in case the telephone rings. But you’ve got to get out of here and do something.”
Karl smiled gratefully. A walk was probably the best thing for him. Besides, there was still one task he needed to complete in anticipation of Theo’s call. He ate a quick breakfast, put on his jacket, and headed out the door. The cool and damp March wind swirled around him and he pulled the collar of his jacket up around his ears, thankful that Phyllis had insisted on wrapping a wool scarf around his neck at the last minute despite his protests. It was funny how a day like this immediately reminded him of Prague in early spring, with its comparable bone-chilling dampness. He had been there about a year earlier to meet with Jan Pekárek and Richard VandenBosch, walking the streets of that city a continent away. He reminded himself that, while he and his family had lost so much in their flight from Prague on the eve of the war so many years earlier, he had also acquired so much in Canada: a new life, happiness with a loving partner, children, grandchildren, prosperity, and stability. His life was complete here, with or without the paintings.
There were no customers at the bank when Karl entered. He greeted the manager, who knew him by name, and approached the first teller. “I’d like to withdraw three thousand, five hundred dollars in cash,” he said. “Hundred dollar bills would be fine.” The teller nodded, unfazed, and began to count out the money for Karl. With thirty-five crisp new bills safely tucked into his jacket pocket, Karl left the bank and returned home to wait once more.
The telephone was ringing as he entered his house and he sprang for the receiver to answer it on the second ring. But it was only Hana, calling to see if there was any word from Theo.
“Nothing yet, Hana,” Karl said, trying to catch his breath and slow the pounding of his heart in his chest.
“He didn’t say when he would call, did he? Only that he would be back on the twenty-first.”
“It may not even happen today,” Karl replied, though he didn’t want to think of that possibility, either. “I’ve got the rest of the money here. I went to the bank to withdraw it this morning.”
There was a long pause on the other end. “That’s being rather optimistic, isn’t it?” she finally said.
At that, Karl had to chuckle. His sister had difficulty hiding her ongoing doubt that Theo was going to deliver on his promise. “I’m trying to stay positive, here, Hana. I’ll call you when I hear something.” He emphasized the word when, and listened for her quiet snicker in reply. After he hung up the telephone, and for the rest of the day, Karl tried to go about his business as usual. He answered the mail, paid the bills that were due, lunched with Phyllis, took Quinta for a long walk, napped, and desperately fought to put all thoughts of the paintings out of his mind, futile as that was.
It was evening before the telephone rang again. By then, Karl was a nervous wreck, pacing in the family room, unable to calm himself. Phyllis was out for the evening, attending a lecture at their local library. She had begged him to come. “It will take your mind off of all of this,” she had said. But Karl had refused. “No one will be at home to answer the telephone,” he had replied. Even Phyllis, always supportive, was beginning to voice her fear that Theo might not call. “Karl, you may have to prepare yourself for the possibility that this isn’t going to happen,” she had said before leaving for her meeting.
Karl lurched for the telephone and caught it on the first ring. His hand trembled as he brought the receiver to his ear. “Hello,” he said.
The voice on the other end was clear and succinct. “Mission accomplished,” said Theo. “You can come and get your paintings tomorrow.”
By the time Phyllis returned from her library lecture, Karl had opened a bottle of wine and was waiting for her with a huge smile on his face and outstretched arms. “We did it,” he exclaimed, as he wrapped his wife in a warm embrace.
“You did it,” she replied. “This is your accomplishment.”
They toasted one another and the arrival of the paintings in Toronto. As Karl sipped his wine, he experienced a sense of freedom that he had not felt in some time. The burden of having fought to regain the paintings was suddenly gone, lifted from his shoulders like a ten-ton weight. Tonight he could breathe more deeply and perhaps sleep more soundly, knowing that his family treasures had come home to him and were now firmly on Canadian soil. He called Hana to report the news. She was also delighted and relieved that all had gone according to plan.
Early the next morning, Karl and Phyllis walked over to Theo’s apartment and knocked on the door. He answered immediately and ushered them into a back room. There on the floor were the paintings, now off their stretchers and stacked one on top of the other. They were dusty, slightly wrinkled from having been rolled around the container for the trip to Canada, but undamaged. Karl stood in muted disbelief. As much as he had prepared, dreamed, obsessed about this moment, he was simply overcome. As he stood in Theo’s home staring down at the paintings, he understood it all: his mother’s determination to retrieve something of their family’s past, her resolve not to separate them or leave one behind. Everything had finally come full circle. Karl had fulfilled his mother’s dream and he could be at peace.
He turned to face Theo and grabbed his hand, pumping it furiously. “Words can’t express,” he began. “I simply don’t know how…”
Theo stopped him. “It was my pleasure to help you,” he replied, with genuine sincerity. He truly felt the enjoyment of this moment along with Karl.
“You know,” Karl continued, “Some members of my family were not as convinced as I was of your honesty.”
Theo smiled. “We can all learn something in this, I suppose,” he replied.
Karl reached into his pocket and withdrew the envelope containing the remaining payment. “It’s the best money I’ve ever spent,” he said, extending it to Theo.
Theo accepted the envelope, reminding himself once again that he had fulfilled the conditions of a contract here. Tomorrow he would go about his business as usual. He had fifty paintings that would soon arrive in a shipment, ready to be restored and sold. There was a lot of money to be made from this trip and he was eager to begin to reap the rewards. No time to be distracted by useless sentiment. He would likely never see Karl Reeser again, and that was as it should be. Theo cleared his throat. “You’ll need to get the paintings cleaned, remounted on their stretchers, and framed,” he said.
Karl nodded again. “I know someone who can do that. The paintings need to be brought back to their former splendor.”
In the following week, Karl met with Joseph Cach, an art restorer who had mounted and framed several other paintings that Karl had collected over the years. When Joseph came to look at the paintings and Karl explained their situation, Joseph was surprised and delighted. The canvases were in remarkable condition, though dusty from years of having sat unprotected in coal-heated homes in Czechoslovakia, where soot layered the furniture, clothing, and paintings. Varnish had been applied decades earlier to try to protect them from dirt, dust, and pollution in the environment. But through the years, it had yellowed the paintings considerably. Several pieces of the stretchers were warped and decayed. They would have to be rebuilt. Both the Swoboda and the Geoffroy were cracked in several places. But other than that, there was minimal damage.
“Can you fix them up?” asked Karl.
Joseph was an exuberant, burly man, with a full head of curly hair. He scratched thoughtfully at his beard and replied excitedly, “They’re marvelous, Karl! From what you had told me on the phone, I thought they would be in disastrous condition. All four of them will need to be cleaned and the varnish removed. There is some decay and cracking here, which is normal over time. I’ll need to fill in and retouch these two.” Joseph scrutinized the paintings like a doctor triaging a group of patients, pronouncing his diagnosis and then stating the necessary remedy. “They’ll need new linings on the back. And I’ll apply a non-yellowing varnish.” His foot kicked the pile of wooden stretchers. “These are pretty bad. This one’s practically disintegrated. I’ll need to construct new stretchers in some cases.” He spoke as much to himself as to Karl. Finally, he turned. “But this will not be a difficult job at all. Once I’m done, they’ll be as good as new.”
In the third week of May 1990, Joseph completed the restoration and framing of the pieces and called Karl to pick them up. Fifty-one years after his family had acquired the canvases in Rakovník, and one year after Karl had carried them to the Canadian embassy in Prague, the paintings were finally home.