29     

Rosa Lavillard started to prepare the afternoon tea early. Far too early, she knew that, but she was anxious and excited, and so she couldn’t help herself.

After plugging in the electric kettle, she took the damp cloth off the metal tray of honey cakes and glanced down at them. They looked tempting; she knew Laura would enjoy them. Laura also liked macaroons, and there was a plate of these as well, freshly baked that morning.

Laura had telephoned yesterday and had invited herself to tea today, explaining that she had some exciting news for Rosa, news she preferred to impart in person. Rosa had no idea what it could be … news of her and Philippe? Was Natasha right about them? Perhaps.

Rosa sighed and began to take the best china out of the kitchen cupboard. Philippe and Laura had been thrown together a lot over the past ten months, ever since Claire’s tragic death. Their common bond had been, and was, Natasha. She herself had observed them together, and like Natasha, she had noticed them circling each other. In fact, she had often wondered if her son would make some move toward Laura. But it seemed to her that he never had. At least, that was her impression of late. And Natasha had confirmed this only the other evening.

Humming under her breath, Rosa put two rose-patterned cups and saucers and two small plates on her best silver tray. She told herself there was no use speculating. In a short while she would know why Laura had asked to see her.

When the intercom rang a few seconds later and Laura was announced from the lobby, Rosa sallied forth, a broad, welcoming smile affixed to her face as she headed for the front door. She opened it just as Laura stepped out of the elevator, raised her hand in greeting, and came down the hallway.

“Hello, Laura, hello!” Rosa exclaimed, taking her hand, embracing her warmly. “Come in, come in.”

“Hello, Rosa,” Laura answered, hugging the older woman, then closing the door behind her.

“It’s such a treat to see you,” Rosa went on, and standing away, she gave Laura an appraising glance, taking in the smart navy suit and accessories. “And you look lovely, very lovely indeed.”

“Thank you, Rosa. You’re looking well yourself.”

Rosa smiled and murmured her thanks, and the two women went into the living room. “Sit down, do, Laura,” Rosa said. “The tea is ready. I’ll go and get it, I won’t be a moment.”

Laura glanced around and sat down on one of the comfortable chairs. She smiled to herself, wondering how Rosa was going to react when she heard her news. She’ll be surprised but deliriously happy, Laura decided, and sat back, the small smile continuing to play around her mouth. She herself was pleased about the turn of events, and could hardly contain herself, so eager was she to confide in Rosa.

Hurrying back into the room with the tea tray, Rosa put it down on the coffee table and took a seat opposite Laura. “I know you like it with lemon, don’t you?”

“Yes, please, and a sweetener.”

Rosa nodded as she dropped in a slice of lemon. “I made honey cakes and macaroons,” she told her. “Your favorites.”

“You’re so nice to me,” Laura said with a light laugh. “Always spoiling me, Rosa.”

Rosa said nothing, merely smiled at Laura as she handed her the cup of tea.

“Thanks,” Laura murmured, and took a macaroon, bit into it. “Delicious. I love coconut. You’ll have to teach Natasha to make these.”

“I certainly will, and she’s a good little cook, she’ll have no problem with the recipe.” Rosa took a sip of tea, put the cup down, and sat back in the chair. Looking intently at Laura, she said, “Yesterday you told me you had some exciting news for me. I can hardly wait to hear it.”

Placing her own cup on the table, Laura said, “It’s wonderful news. Thrilling.”

Rosa leaned forward expectantly, her face beaming. “Tell me.”

“I’ve found one of your paintings.”

“Oh.” Rosa pulled back slightly, gaping at Laura. “You’ve found a painting,” she repeated.

Laura, returning Rosa’s startled gaze, said swiftly, “You understand, don’t you? Understand that I’ve managed to trace a painting that belonged to your father? A painting that was looted by the Nazis. It’s a Matisse, Rosa. Imagine, a Matisse.”

Rosa cried, “Oh, my God, one of Papa’s paintings! I can’t believe it. How did you find it, Laura? What happened?”

“About five months ago, when I was in London working on Sir Maximilian West’s art collection, I came across a catalogue from a small museum in Vienna. As you well know, art seized by the Nazis hangs in museums all over the world. Anyway, in the catalogue there was a photograph of a Matisse. It caught my immediate attention because it bore the same name as one of the paintings in the record book of your father’s, which you lent me some time ago. I’m sure you’ll recognize the name too … Moroccan Girl in a Red Caftan Holding a Mandolin.”

“Oh, yes, Laura, yes!” Rosa cried, her hands flying to her mouth. Sudden emotion and memories of long ago brought a rush of tears to her eyes. Blinking them back, she said, “I remember the name very well. And the painting. It’s fabulous, extremely colorful, with a lot of red and violet, deep blue, and a brilliant yellow. A typical Matisse.”

“That’s correct. Once I had seen the photograph in the catalogue, I flew to Vienna from London. I went to the museum to view the painting and talk to the curator. I tried to convince him it was your painting. Obviously I had to present clear title to him, the provenance. And so once I got back to New York, I sent him a copy of the page in the record book, which listed the Matisse and all details about it. A week later he telephoned me and said he needed more proof. Naturally, I was stumped.”

Rosa nodded. “There is no other proof, not anymore. So what did you do?”

“As I said, I was at a loss, and then an amazing coincidence occurred. I mentioned my experience in Vienna to a client of mine, Sandra Newsam. She instantly recognized the name of the Matisse and said she had recently seen a photograph of it in an old art catalogue. She became very excited when she realized she had come across this at the home of a friend in Switzerland. She phoned her friend, a Mrs. Gilda Sacher, and discovered that she had seen the photograph, not in a catalogue, but in an art magazine that had run a story about the Sacher Collection. The Matisse had once been part of that collection.” Laura sat back, pausing for a moment.

Rosa said, “Oh, don’t stop, please, this is so exciting.”

“Obviously I went to Switzerland. To Montreaux, actually, where Mrs. Sacher lives. She’s a woman in her late sixties, English by birth, and she inherited the Sacher Collection from her late husband, Leon Sacher, a Swiss businessman. During his lifetime Leon Sacher had amassed an amazing collection of art. Naturally, every painting in the collection had its provenance, and listed on the one for the Matisse was the name M. Duval, Paris, France.”

“Oh, my God! I can’t believe it!” Rosa’s eyes had widened and she could hardly sit still. “And so you were able to convince the curator in Vienna finally?” she asked.

“Not exactly. There was a bit more to it than that,” Laura responded. “Let me tell you the rest of the story. I asked Mrs. Sacher how the Matisse had come to be in the museum, and she told me she had sold it along with a couple of other paintings, to a dealer in Geneva, who in turn had sold it to a client in Vienna. Later it was sold to the museum. She gave me all of the names, just in case I needed them. I asked her if there were any markings on the back of the canvas, and she said there were the letters DU, then a slash and the number 3958. I explained to Mrs. Sacher that this was the way the Nazis had catalogued the paintings they had stolen. They used the first two letters of the owner’s surname and added a number. She hadn’t known this. In any case, she then produced a copy of the provenance. It proved to be quite a remarkable document. According to the provenance, before Mr. Sacher bought it, the Matisse had passed from M. Duval of Paris to a Madame Wacker-Bondy of Paris, and from her to an H. Wendland. Now, those two names jumped out at me, meant a lot to me, although not to Mrs. Sacher.”

“What did they mean to you, Laura?” Rosa asked.

“I will tell you. As I am now very familiar with the fate of Jewish-owned art stolen during the Second World War, those names rang bells immediately. Hans Wendland was notorious. He worked for the Nazis, and he spent most of the war years in Switzerland, where he helped Goring and Hitler exchange “degenerate” art, such as the Impressionists and Post-Impressionists, for the rather pallid old masters the two Nazi leaders preferred. Now, it just so happened that almost immediately after my meeting with Mrs. Sacher, yet another document came into my hands, almost by chance. It was a British Ministry of Economic Warfare paper, which I got via Sir Maximilian West, and it said that in 1942 one Hans Wendland, working for, the Nazis, took delivery in Switzerland of a railway van of art from Paris. And this came from the transport firm of Wacker-Bondy.” Laura stopped and stared hard at Rosa. “You do see the connection?”

“Yes, I do.”

“What is even more extraordinary, around this time, when I was doing research on your Matisse, Sir Maximilian was given a copy of a memo that had been written in June 1966 by a woman called Marguerite Gressy, who had been a wartime Resistance heroine in France. She was a curator and she had somehow managed to keep track of many of the paintings that were looted in Paris by the Nazis. Her memo confirms that a painting by Henri Matisse entitled Moroccan Girl in a Red Caftan Holding a Mandolin was stored by Maurice Duval of Duval et Fils ‘chez Madame Wacker-Bondy.’ Meaning stored in the warehouse belonging to their company.”

Rosa sat looking at Laura, speechless, trying to absorb everything.

“Mme. Gressy’s memo had been sent to Sir Maxim by an old friend in the French art world, a noted dealer, because several Renoirs were listed. However, they were not from the Westheim Collection, as it turned out. But Sir Maxim, very much aware that I was looking for information about the Matisse, passed it on to me.”

“Surely you didn’t need more than this?”

“Not really. At least, that’s what I thought. Armed with a copy of the provenance in Mrs. Sacher’s possession, a copy of the British government paper, and a copy of the Gressy memo, I returned to the museum in Vienna and met once again with the curator. This time he was a little less contentious, especially when I showed him the documentation. In fact, I gave him his own set of copies. I also informed him that I would soon start litigation against the museum for the return of the Matisse to you if we couldn’t come to an agreement. I also mentioned that I was planning a press conference to announce my findings and my plans on your behalf to the media. He seemed to be quite obdurate, said nothing had changed, and so I left. But I must have scared him, because he telephoned me at the hotel that evening. He asked me not to do anything until he had spoken to the board of the museum. After a couple of days, when I didn’t get a positive reaction from him or the museum, I left. I flew back to London, then on to New York. Once I was home, I started to prepare all of the documentation I knew I would need, and then suddenly three days ago I received a call from the curator. The museum is going to recognize your claim, Rosa. Although they say they bought the painting in good faith, knowing none of its history, they are going to give the painting to you.”

Rosa shook her head. “Since they bought it legally, why are they giving it to me? Just like that? I don’t understand.”

“They’re frightened, Rosa. They don’t want bad publicity, the kind that Switzerland’s had about dormant bank accounts and stolen Jewish gold, and cheating Holocaust victims. All of that’s been a world-class scandal. They’re trying to avoid this occurring with the museum, and, also, I like to think they might see that it’s your moral right to have the Matisse in your hands after all these years.”

Rosa didn’t speak. She couldn’t, she was so touched. Again she shook her head wonderingly, and then she began to weep, totally overcome by the news.

Laura went and sat next to her on the sofa, took hold of her hand. “A little bit of justice for you at last, Rosa,” she murmured.

Rosa looked at Laura through her tears. “I can’t believe it … that you did all this for me … thank you, thank you. You’ve restored a piece of my soul, Laura, a little piece of my family’s soul. I will be forever grateful, forever in your debt.”