Many years earlier, Giovanni had seen the name Kreitel but had long
since forgotten the incident. After all, he was only a child, and
he had made an innocent assumption, which remained plausible into
his adult years. His father never explained otherwise, so Giovanni
clung to his youthful conclusion and never probed further.
It was shortly after Giovanni’s tenth birthday when his father took him to the family studio, the first of many visits during which Federico would pass on the craft of art restoration to his son. As a young boy, Giovanni had much to learn and his curiosity was boundless. To him it was only a wooden box, but years later he would realize that it was a humidor, likely containing fine cigars. However, whether it contained cigars or other secrets, he would never learn. It all began when he came across the wooden box and noticed the brass plaque affixed to the lid, engraved with the name Kreitel.
When Giovanni asked what was in the box, his father became secretive and hid the box in a cabinet. “I’ll explain it to you when you’re older,” he had said. Giovanni thought little of the event until he became a teenager and realized the reason for his father’s odd reaction—he was simply shielding a child from a parent’s addiction to tobacco. Or so Giovanni had thought.
It was nothing of the sort, Giovanni realized after the Count’s story of Paris. There was more. There was something his father didn’t want Giovanni to know. He had to find out who Kreitel was, and he had to know if it were true—the individual had helped the Nazis steal Jewish art.
* * *
Giovanni went home and logged on to his computer. He opened an
Internet browser and prepared to search. For a moment he stared at
the screen, uncertain of the words he wanted to enter. After his
conversation with the Count, he was disturbed and couldn’t think
straight.
He entered stolen Jewish art Nazis and came upon a number of websites that looked official, in England, the United States, Germany, France, and elsewhere. Several sites had information about European looting during World War II. After studying countless pages, Giovanni learned that twenty percent of all European art had been seized by the Nazis, and over 100,000 works of art had never been recovered.
Giovanni focused his research on Paris, where the Meyersteins had lived when their art was taken. The Nazi unit responsible for confiscating artwork had a description that sounded innocent enough, the Special Staff for Pictorial Art. The group had been established in October of 1940 in Paris and was overseen by an organization known as the Einsatzstab Reichsleiter Rosenberg, the ERR. The Jewish possessions, taken from galleries, warehouses, and private homes, were stored and cataloged at an art museum in the Tuileries Gardens, called the Jeu de Paume, which oddly had once been an indoor tennis court.
The more Giovanni read, the more it astounded him. The appropriated artwork went from the Jeu de Paume to the Louvre, where it was stored, if not shipped to the personal collections of Adolf Hitler or Reichsmarschall Hermann Göring, or sold to raise cash for the Reich.
But the Count had said the Meyersteins’ art was also sold via Bruno Lothar. Next Giovanni searched for Kreitel but could not find anything linking the name with any individual connected to the Reich.
Giovanni discovered there was a major research center at the National Archives in America, in College Park, Maryland, containing twenty million pages of materials. He found another center in Washington, D.C., operated by the National Holocaust Museum. Closer to him was the Bundesarchiv, the German Federal Archives, as well as the French Diplomatie, the Diplomatic Archive Center of the Ministry of Foreign and European Affairs.
Giovanni had obviously known of Nazi looting during World War II, but prior to that moment, he had no specific knowledge of it, nor any idea of how far-reaching their activities had been. Countless works of art were involved. It was nearly impossible to imagine anyone discovering more details about the Meyersteins, Kreitel, or the Count. If the painting had been by a specific artist, with a specific title, and within a certain time period, it might have been easier.
Giovanni leaned back from the computer screen and stretched his arms. He had spent three solid hours researching without rest. He wasn’t tired, though, nor hungry. He was strangely energized, on a mission to learn the truth. If only he had similar zeal for restoring the Brueghel in his studio, which he hadn’t touched in over a week.
He went to the kitchen and made a pot of tea. He poured a cup and sipped it, but the tea was too hot to drink, so he took it with him back to the computer and set his cup on the desk. As the tea cooled, he resumed his search, this time entering stolen Jewish art largest research center.
A website appeared for the International Tracing Service, or ITS, in Bad Arolsen, Germany. The facility housed fifty million pages in thousands of cabinets of information spread across six buildings, contributed by eleven countries. When the Allies entered the concentration camps during the final days of the war, they found meticulous details about the transportation and extermination of Jews as well as gypsies, homosexuals, mentally ill, and political radicals. The materials were taken by US forces and stored in Bad Arolsen prior to the International Red Cross forming the ITS. Giovanni concluded the ITS was his best chance to learn more.
But he also felt an urge to visit the Jeu de Paume in Paris. Also, his father had lived in Paris before moving to London, and he had spoken of friends and clients there. Giovanni could not remember their names, but he knew where to find them.
The tea had cooled enough and Giovanni took a sip. In a drawer of his desk, he had stored some of his father’s belongings. There were letters he had sent to Giovanni, some pen and ink sketches from his father’s art school days, and most importantly, a battered red leather address book.
Giovanni flipped through the pages, each in his father’s handwriting. Some of the names were recognizable but most were not. He scanned the pages for addresses in Paris.
He jotted down two entries from Paris although they were unfamiliar to him. He had nearly reached the last pages when he found the Paris address and phone number for Jean and Mathilde Touissant. He could not recall their faces, but Giovanni had the faintest memory of his father mentioning Jean before. He had been a client who had paintings restored from time to time by the Fabrizzis.
Giovanni wondered if, after so much time had passed, the Touissants could still be at the address and phone number listed. More than likely they were dead. If not, they would have to be in their late eighties, at least.
He reached for the telephone and dialed the number, fully expecting to get a disconnected message or a person who had never heard of the Touissants.
On the fourth ring, a man with a gravelly voice answered. Giovanni responded in his serviceable, although English-accented French, and politely asked if the person who answered was Jean Touissant. When the person confirmed that he was, Giovanni was truly surprised, but also thrilled.
“Monsieur Touissant,” Giovanni said, “I am calling from London. My name is Giovanni Fabrizzi. My father, Federico, was an art restorer in Paris for a short time before he moved to London. I believe you knew him. I found your name in his address book.”
“Fabrizzi?” Jean asked. There was a long pause, then a gasp. “Mon dieu! Federico. Yes, yes. How is he?”
“I’m sorry to say that he is no longer with us. But I am planning to visit Paris in the near future, and I was hoping to meet you and perhaps share some pictures I have of my father with you. It would mean a lot to me.”
“Of course,” Jean said. “I am sorry about your father. We are not so young ourselves, Mathilde and I.”
Giovanni confirmed the Touissants’ address and promised to call them the following week when he would be in Paris. He hung up the phone, exhilarated by the good fortune of actually finding one of his father’s past contacts. He had not told Jean the true intent of his visit.
* * *
Energized by his new quest, Giovanni’s hands trembled as he
unlocked the door to his studio. He stepped back and chided
himself, “Take it easy. What are you so excited about?”
He opened the door, deactivated the alarms, and went directly to the second strong room. Not only the portrait, he also brought out the crate in which it was shipped, then pulled out the portrait and set it on the easel. It was a bright day, not warm but sunny outside, and plenty of light streamed in through the windows. Nevertheless, Giovanni turned on every light in his work area.
The Count groaned. “Is there a reason for the excessive light? It is so bright.”
Giovanni opened a drawer of his desk and pulled out his trusty Nikon 35 millimeter SLR, which had served him for decades. The new-fangled digital camera that Arabella had bought him a few months earlier was perhaps handy at social events, as it would fit in his shirt pocket, but the task at hand required the utmost quality. He pulled up the winding knob to open the Nikon and dropped in a canister of color film. Once lining up the sprockets and feeding the end into the spool, he shut the camera back and advanced the roll to the first frame.
“May I ask what you are doing?” The Count was becoming concerned.
Giovanni stepped back and adjusted his stance until the Count’s portrait filled the viewfinder nicely and appeared square. Then he took shots from various angles.
“I consider it rude that you are ignoring me,” the Count said. Then with a chord of fear, he asked, “You are hearing me, yes?”
“I’m taking photographs of you,” Giovanni said. “Like the image you saw on my desk, of Serafina and Mau.” He continued to snap the shutter.
After modeling for a few more shots, the Count sighed. “Spare me the details of your world’s glorious progress. It is all so complicated and only bores me.”
“Good.” Giovanni knelt down and captured images of the crate as well, up close. “Saves me the trouble of having to explain it all.”
The Count remained silent as more pictures were taken, then he proposed, “You are planning to show these images to people who will prove I am painted by Botticelli, yes?”
“No. I will take you to a laboratory as I promised, where they will make an analysis, and then, if necessary, others will examine you to confirm your creator’s identity.”
“Then what is the reason for the images, these photographs as you call them, if you would be good enough to explain?”
Giovanni smiled secretively. “I’m going to show them to some friends of my father’s. I want to see if they recognize you.”
“Why not simply invite them here?”
“Because they live in Paris,” Giovanni replied. “To tell you the truth, Count, I am going to do some research about you. In France and in Germany.”
“What about my laboratory authentication as a work of Botticelli?”
“I’ll get to that after I come back,” Giovanni said. “I told you—I am a man of my word. I most certainly will be in this case.”
“I should very much hope so.”
Giovanni finished rewinding the film and opened the camera. “One last thing before I go, Count. Have you told me everything you know about Bruno Lothar and the other man, Kreitel?”
“Of course.”
“You haven’t left out any details?” Giovanni waited for an answer but the Count did not reply. “I mean,” Giovanni continued, “any little detail that will be helpful in tracing your background.”
“I don’t understand,” the Count said. “You should send me to the laboratory this instant. Furthermore, I am perplexed by your reaction to my last story. You became very upset, and I have no idea why.”
Giovanni wasn’t ready to tell the Count, or anyone else, the reason for his upset. First he had to confirm a few details. “Let’s just say the behavior of the Nazis, in general, and specifically toward the Meyersteins, angered me greatly. In any event, I must get going.” He lifted the painting off the easel.
“Just a moment,” the Count said. “When are you coming back?”
“It won’t be more than a week, I imagine.” Giovanni slipped the painting into the crate. “But I must dash. I’m leaving tomorrow and I still have to pack.”
“Wait.” From inside the crate, the Count’s voice was muffled. “Why are you so eager to know about the Meyersteins and Lothar?”
“Sorry.” Giovanni smirked. “Can’t hear you, Count. See you in a week!”
Giovanni returned the crate to the second strong room, set the alarms, and locked his studio. With the roll of film in hand, he headed for the nearest one-hour photo developer.
* * *
While the photographs were being developed, Giovanni sat in a
coffee shop and went over a checklist of things to pack. When he
collected the prints and looked them over, he was pleased with the
resolution of his camera and the crispness of the colors. The
address on the crate was clearly readable. Next he needed someone
who could analyze the handwriting, and to know if they could do it
from a photograph. By his own visual inspection, he was fairly
confident the handwriting would match, but to prove his hunch, he
had to be absolutely certain.
Back at his flat, Giovanni searched the Internet and found a forensic services agency in London that could do the handwriting analysis. Upon calling them, he was pleased to learn that comparing a photograph to a Xerox copy was not a problem. He would not have to surrender the original letter, although doing so, they explained, would greatly improve the accuracy of their results. He assured them it would be good enough for his purpose and agreed to drop off the samples later that afternoon. Next he sorted through a box of family photos and picked out a few of his father and one blurry shot of his uncle Max. He added them to the envelope containing the prints of the Count and the crate in which he was shipped.
Then Giovanni dialed his son in Florence.
Flavio answered. He was apologetic, saying that he was working as fast as possible with Maurizio and that he would return to London soon.
Giovanni told him not to rush, and that he had called because he had some information to share with Maurizio.
“I’m looking forward to helping you when I get back,” Flavio said.
“I’m sure, Flavio.”
“How is it going with the Brueghel?”
The subject of the Brueghel was quickly becoming Giovanni’s least favorite. “It’s coming along fine,” he replied. “But I really need to speak with Mau. Can you get him for me?”
“Hold on.”
As Giovanni waited, he looked at his watch, then reviewed his checklist again.
“Papa, how are you?” Maurizio said. “I was going to call you later this evening. Really. You just beat me to it.”
“That’s all right, Mau. I have some good news. I’m taking a little time off. I’m going on a trip to Paris and also to Germany.”
“What about the Brueghel?”
“I’ll get to that,” Giovanni said. “Don’t worry.”
“But, Papa,” Maurizio said. “Do you really think traveling is a good idea right now?”
Giovanni knew what his son really wanted to say. He questioned his father’s sanity, and it was the only reason travel might not be a good idea. He needed to convince Maurizio so he would not doubt his father, not hound him, and not tell him he was in no condition to travel. And he didn’t need everyone nagging him about the Brueghel, either.
“It’s just for one week,” Giovanni said. “Maybe less. I’m sure you’d agree, I need some time to relax.”
“Of course,” Maurizio said. “But… well, I guess I’m curious why you’ve chosen Paris and Germany.”
Giovanni had already mentally rehearsed his excuses. “I want to see some exhibitions. I also contacted an art dealer in Paris who knew your grandpa. Did I ever mention Jean Touissant to you?”
“No, I’ve never heard you mention the name.”
“The separation from Arabella has led me to think a lot about the past,” Giovanni said. He felt good to say that because it was true. “I need to get away, see some great art, and visit some people from my past. Then I’ll come back and finish the Brueghel. It will be a fresh start.”
“Maybe some time away would help,” Maurizio said. “But I should join you, don’t you think?”
“Mau, enough. I’m a grown man. I don’t need you to babysit me.” For Giovanni, it wasn’t a matter of getting his way. It was a matter of convincing Maurizio not to fight him. His son’s resistance only made Giovanni feel worse about what he had to do, as if he were misbehaving. “I will come to Firenze as soon as I can, Mau. How about that?”
“That would be good,” Maurizio said. “The sooner the better.”
Maurizio made his father promise to call while traveling, to let him know that he was all right. He agreed and they said their good-byes.
Giovanni had done it. He was going on a trip to determine whether his worst suspicions were true. If they were, he didn’t know how he would live with knowing it. But at the same time, he couldn’t live with the question forever unanswered. No matter how it might affect him, he had to uncover the truth.