July 18, 2015
With an acquiescent sigh, Konrad Heider turned on his computer, pushing the power button firmly in with one of his long, manicured fingers. Leaning back into his wingback chair, he wondered – like most nights – why he still bothered after all of these years. Yet his evening search had become part of his bedtime routine, like a glass of warm milk or hot lemon tea to help soothe his soul and lull him to sleep. Without going through the motions of looking for his family’s stolen paintings, he would never be able to drift off no matter how hard he tried.
So much of his uncle’s artwork had disappeared during the war. The precious few paintings and sketches he’d managed to save now hung above his own desk as a source of inspiration, a constant reminder of why he had to keep searching. Where were the rest? Could they really still be tucked away in someone’s attic or basement, just waiting to be found? Intellectually he knew that was unlikely, given the sheer number and high quality of the lost works. Yet caches of missing art were still being found all over Europe. One never knew. One had to have hope.
In the last ten years, research into the provenance of artwork acquired in the 1930s and 1940s had become routine at most major art museums. No one wanted to be accused of hanging stolen works on their walls. He knew he should be thrilled so much more information was now available, but the prospect of scouring through all of those catalogues, publications and collection databases was sometimes overwhelming.
He clicked open a web browser and entered his username and password. Moments later, the latest search results from his many Google alerts appeared on the screen. After scanning the list he closed the browser, almost relieved there was nothing new to sift through.
As he shifted in his chair a sharp pain shot up his leg, taking his breath away. His joints ached; his bones were becoming increasingly sensitive to the changing seasons. And the winters seem to be getting harsher, longer, colder. Or am I just getting older, he mused, massaging his knee, then thigh.
If only there was someone else he could share his secrets with. A younger someone who could take on the hunt, as he did for his uncle all those years ago. But no, he’d never married or fathered a child, at least not that he knew of. He’d never fancied long-term relationships; too many questions, prying eyes that wanted to know him intimately, to be privy to all of his secrets. He’d never wanted anyone that close to him. But now, alone in this big house, he understood the need for offspring, for an heir, someone he could trust his secrets to.
Regret would get him nowhere, he told himself, shaking his head as if to force the thought out of his mind. No matter. He would carry on to the bitter end, as his uncle did, if he had to.