The Case of the Missing Botticelli, page 9
“A math teacher.”
Hadley laughed. “About as far away from art history as possible.”
“But I love art. Paintings were prized in my family.”
“Can you tell me the story?” Hadley prompted, “If you’re ready?”
The server placed a large order of fritto misto and two Caprese salads at the table and then refilled their water glasses. Apparently, the two women had more in common than art. They had the same taste in food. If they had met under different circumstances, quite by chance, Hadley thought they could be good friends.
“If you tell me what’s going on between you and that hot cop of yours.” The tension in the air was as thick as molasses.
“He’s not mine, not anymore. We were dating, and then along came Isabella, and it was love at first sight.”
“He wasn’t looking at her the way he was looking at you,” Ingrid observed.
“Well, then I think you need to have your eyes checked.”
“I can see what’s right in front of me. I’m quite sure he’s yours, if you want him.”
Hadley was eager to change the subject. “I’d rather not talk about it.”
As they ate their lunch, which was delicious, Ingrid told her story despite the fact that thousands of tourists swarmed the square around them.
“My grandfather came from a long line of wealthy bankers. They lived in a big house in Berlin, and he was an avid art collector. Unfortunately, he used the same Swiss art dealer as Hermann Göring, and that’s where the trouble started.
“It was way before they enacted the racist and antisemitic Nuremberg laws, and before Kristallnacht. They had just opened Dachau, the first Nazi concentration camp, in 1933 in southern Germany. At the beginning, it was a camp for political prisoners, Communists and Marxists, before it became a death camp. Ostensibly, the inmates would be implementing land cultivation projects. But it was really a forced labor camp and a place where Jews as well as German and Austrian criminals were imprisoned, and eventually foreign nationals from occupied countries were added. No visitors were allowed.
“When Göring learned that my grandfather had acquired Amore, he had the gallery owner intercede, but my grandfather would not give up his treasure for anything, so they sent him to Dachau for several months to persuade him to see things their way.
“My grandmother, who by then had a young son, my father, was frantic. Her husband was taken away in the middle of the night, and she didn’t know if she’d ever see him again. Prisoners at Dachau were terrorized and brutalized. My grandfather was a gentle man, with no political leanings, certainly not a Communist or a Marxist. He didn’t fit any of the categories. But then, the Nazis didn’t play by the rules. He had something they wanted, so they made an example of him.
“My grandmother was terrified. She wanted to leave Germany right away, leave everything behind, but she wouldn’t leave without my grandfather. And his whole family was there—parents, brothers, aunts, uncles, cousins. One night, without advance notice, my grandfather walked in the door, and he and my grandmother embraced. My father remembers that my grandmother was in tears, so happy to have him back, and that she nearly didn’t let him go. He was emaciated. He’d been worked to near death and starvation.
“ ‘We must leave,’ said my grandmother. ‘I’m already packed.’ But my grandfather, despite what he’d just been through, refused. He didn’t want to part with Amore, but he was warned if he didn’t give up the painting, his life and the lives of his family couldn’t be guaranteed.
“ ‘I’ll give them what they want and they’ll leave us alone. We are first and foremost Germans. We belong here. This is our home.’ Despite what they’d put him through, he was still proud to be a German citizen.
“My grandfather sold Amore back to the gallery owner at a fraction of its value, and they continued to live in Berlin until 1940. Each year, restrictions on Jews got tighter and tighter, until the stranglehold and isolation was complete. My grandfather had to trade more paintings for his family’s safety.
“My grandmother begged him to reconsider and leave Germany, but by the time my grandfather saw the handwriting on the wall, it was too late. My grandfather contacted the gallery owner to negotiate. His goal was to attain safe passage out of Berlin for himself and his family. But he paid a heavy price. He arranged to sell his property, his fine home in Berlin, his business holdings, for a fraction of their worth. At the time, property rights of Jews were rarely respected. He unloaded the remainder of his paintings, even his vacation villa in Venice. He still thought of himself as a German, even though the Germans didn’t want him.
“Finally, he received the proper documentation to leave Germany. He insisted my grandmother and my father go to the ship, and he would be close behind with the last of their luggage. My grandmother took dozens of family pictures from their home, of my grandfather dressed in his suit and a tallit, his prayer shawl, their wedding photograph, pictures of my father growing up, and her silver candlesticks. I still have them.
“So the family emigrated to America?” Hadley asked, as she munched on her fried calamari.
“My grandfather was able to get only two travel visas. He didn’t have the heart to tell my grandmother. My grandmother and father waited and waited on the top deck of the ship they were to sail on, and when the ship pulled away, she thought he had somehow boarded without her notice. When she reviewed the documents on the ship, she realized there were only two names on the paperwork. Hers and my father’s. My grandfather was never coming. The extra luggage did make it onto the ship. But my grandfather didn’t. I imagine he brought the rest of the luggage and saw them searching frantically for him and kept them in sight until the vessel pulled away. She never saw her husband again.
“When they arrived safely in America, they contacted dozens of government agencies, the Red Cross, and Jewish immigration organizations but didn’t find out until the end of the war that my grandfather had been rounded up just days after the ship departed and that he had perished in Auschwitz along with his entire family.”
“How horrible,” Hadley whispered. “The Germans broke their promise.”
“It’s what they do.”
“Why didn’t all the Jews just leave?”
“Ah. That is the first question many people ask. But you must understand, they didn’t know what was coming. It didn’t happen all at once. It was gradual. The rules, the restrictions, the ridicule, the roundups, the beatings, the burning of books and shops and synagogues and eventually the mass murder. Like my grandfather, the Jews all thought they were German first. That something like this could never happen in their country.”
“Well, couldn’t you go back to Berlin now and reclaim your house, your grandfather’s business?”
Ingrid shook her head. “It sounds so easy, but we would be tied up in courts for years, and there are no guarantees. There was nothing to go home to. All our family’s assets, including the paintings, had been appropriated along with the property and given to others by the state, so we were no longer the legal owners. Someone else is living in that house now, and they won’t readily give it up. Most of the families like mine never survived to make a claim.
“Our paintings have been auctioned and bought and sold privately, changing hands for the past eight decades, assets that rightly belonged to our branch of the family that managed to make it to the United States. The provenance of the artwork has become murky, and we have been unsuccessfully seeking justice, restitution, and the recovery of our property and priceless paintings since the end of the war.
“Now I am the only one left. Second generation. The Claims Conference dispenses minimal funds for all those who went underground, were on the run or in hiding, or who lost their lives in a ghetto, a labor camp, or a death camp, or had their lives disrupted from 1933-1945. Those who escaped are considered survivors, and we have to bear witness. I have dedicated my whole life to getting restitution for my grandfather. My grandmother and my father are no longer alive to see this day, but I will fight till my dying breath for them.
“I don’t do it for the money,” Ingrid explained. “I do it because they were living, breathing people with real hopes and dreams. They didn’t deserve the treatment they got. My grandmother never remarried. She and my father felt guilty that they were spared and my grandfather wasn’t, that he gave up everything so they could live. I’ve spent my life trying to make sense of it. I’m a mathematician, and still, it doesn’t add up.”
By this time Ingrid was crying openly, so Hadley reached across the table and held Ingrid’s hand in hers. “Eat your calamari before it gets cold,” was all she could manage, but she vowed she would help Ingrid in her crusade to right the wrongs of the past, to do her small part in restoring balance to the world.
Chapter Fifteen
Hadley reached her apartment at twilight. She hadn’t been able to sleep on the train. The stars in the evening sky were beginning to brighten in the inky darkness. Florence was magical at any time of day. Her stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten since she and Ingrid had shared a light snack in the café.
There hadn’t been time for a proper meal with all the recovery work to be done at the villa. They’d gotten word that Matteo would need surgery but that his outlook was positive. She hadn’t heard from Luca, so she supposed he was still with Isabella. No news about whether she would file charges against her brother, or whether she’d be charged for attempted murder, or what would become of the siblings now that Ingrid had made clear her intention to seek restitution for the property in Venice. Isabella was only defending herself. She was sure Luca would make it right.
When she arrived, she found a sleeping figure slouched against the door. King Charles was snoring deeply. She studied him in repose. He was as good-looking as she remembered him, not as handsome or as tall as Luca but still well-built. It had been a year since they’d seen each other. She felt… She didn’t know how she felt, not ambivalent, but her heart was not racing.
Hadley shook him gently awake.
“Charles, I’m home,” she said softly.
Still in a daze, Charles smiled at her through hooded eyes. When he tried to get up, he was stiff and wobbly, but once he got his bearings he jumped up.
“Hadley,” he exclaimed. “Boy, I’ve missed you. I should have come sooner.”
Then he hugged her and kissed her long and hard.
It was a warm, comfortable, familiar kiss, not on the level of heat that Luca could generate. But not unwelcome either. When he hugged her it seemed somehow insubstantial, like something was missing, not like the memory of being wrapped in Luca’s bear hug.
“We have a lot to make up for,” Charles said.
“How long have you been waiting here?”
“I got here this morning, went to your office and you weren’t there, so I left my luggage with Gerda and did all the touristy stuff. This is a great city.”
“I’ve been trying to tell you that. But before we catch up, I need to eat. I’m starving.”
Hadley unlocked the door, and Charles followed her into her apartment. She turned on the lights and led him out to the balcony.
“What a view.”
“Yes, I got lucky with this apartment. It overlooks the Arno River.”
“Look, the bridge is all lit up. Cool.”
“Yes, you can see the Ponte Vecchio from here.”
“Where should I put my bags?”
“Well, there’s only one bedroom. You’ll be sleeping out here in the living room, so drop it anywhere.”
“The couch?” Charles frowned.
“Charles, I haven’t seen you in a year. A lot has changed.”
“Your mom told me about your Italian fling.”
“Luca is more than a fling.”
“I can understand how you’d feel that way after I refused to come over. But I was waiting for you to realize you’d made a mistake and come home.”
Hadley rolled her eyes. “I didn’t make a mistake, and I wasn’t planning to come home, but—”
“You missed me.”
“I miss home.”
Charles stashed his suitcases behind the couch. “I’ll be right out here if you change your mind.”
“Let’s get dinner,” Hadley suggested. “There’s a great little trattoria around the corner.”
“Do they have steak here?”
“Yes, they have a Bistecca alla Fiorentina, a large T-bone served blood rare.”
“My kind of food.”
“But you’re in Italy, so I would suggest the pasta.”
“I’ll try some of yours. You always like to share. Lead the way.” Was he being petty, implying that he was sharing her with another man?
He followed her out the door. As she locked up, Charles grabbed her hand, and they walked in tandem down the quiet cobblestone street. Hadley looked around nostalgically, imagining all the things she would miss about Florence if she left now.
They got to the restaurant, and the woman at the door led them to the back to a private table with a spectacular view of the river. She handed them each a menu.
Hadley ordered a bottle of Moscato and some appetizers. Fresh bread and a plate of olive oil was delivered to the table.
“This is one of our, I mean, one of my favorites. Why don’t you let me order for you. I’ll get you the steak, and I’ll get some seafood and pasta.”
“I’m in your hands.”
Hadley felt comfortable ordering in Italian since Charles had no idea how she was butchering the language. Typically, she let Luca do the ordering.
The food was delicious.
“I could get used to this,” Charles raved. “I can see why you like it here.”
“Could you really see yourself living here?”
“What kind of job could I get?”
“Riding a bus, counting passengers?” Hadley suggested. That was mean. But she had been trying to get her boyfriend to visit, practically begging him for the past year, until she had finally given up, and then she’d met Luca.
“You heard about that?”
“Yes, how do you think it made me feel to find out from my best friend that my boyfriend, who I thought was in law school, was counting passengers on the campus bus?”
“Are you disappointed?”
“Charles, I don’t care what you do, I just want you to be happy. But I wish you had been honest with me.”
“I thought you’d leave me. I didn’t like law school. I missed you, and I couldn’t focus.”
“I hope you’re not blaming me.”
“If you had been there, I wouldn’t have dropped out.”
“So what have you decided to do?’
“I’m getting a master’s degree in economics.”
“That sounds promising.”
“Yes, I’m enjoying it.”
As the server brought out the meal, Charles started the inquisition.
“So tell me about your Italian lover.”
Hadley groaned. This was not a conversation she relished having in public.
“He’s a member of the Carabinieri, the Italian paramilitary police.”
“So you fell for a guy in uniform.”
Hadley had to admit Luca looked sexy in his uniform. That was indeed part of the allure.
“And is he?”
“Is he what?”
“Your lover?”
Hadley inhaled. “Can you honestly tell me you haven’t slept with anyone since I left?” And don’t lie, I have eyes and ears all over that campus. And she had her suspicions about her “best friend,” whom she imagined was being very accommodating.
Charles looked sheepish.
“That’s what I thought.”
“I asked you not to go, and you left me anyway.”
“I wanted to experience living in another country.”
“Well, I let you go for six months, and then you didn’t come home.”
“You let me go? I decided to go, and I got a job in my major. Those jobs are hard to come by. I was very fortunate.”
“Were you ever coming home?”
It had been an Italian standoff. She didn’t want to leave Italy, and he refused to visit her. When she left, they’d argued and agreed that they were each free to date others, but she hadn’t been serious about anyone until the accident, which was when she met Luca.
“I was lonely for a long time, but when you wouldn’t even come over summer break, not even for two weeks, I moved on.”
“With Luca.”
“With Luca. And besides, he’s not even in the picture anymore.”
“Since when?”
“Since our trip to Venice.”
“You went to Venice with him?”
“It was business.”
“And you just broke up?”
“Maybe, I don’t know. But why did you come here after all this time?”
“Because your mother was worried about you. And when she told me you had an Italian boyfriend…”
“You got jealous.”
“We’ve been dating since we were freshmen. I thought…”
“That’s what I thought too, but you never made a commitment, so I felt free to go to Italy.”
Then Charles did something unexpected. He got down on one knee and presented her with a small velvet box.
“What is this?”
“Open it and see.”
Hadley frowned. She opened the box and was greeted with a sizeable diamond in an antique setting that twinkled under the lights.
“It-it’s beautiful,” she had to admit. “Really beautiful.”
“So will you marry me?”
The other restaurant patrons suddenly turned toward them expectantly.
“Charles, this is out of the blue. I can’t give you an answer now. I have to think about it. What does this mean? Are you ready to move to Florence?”
“Not if we get married. You’ll move back to the States.”
“And what will I do there?”
“They have museums in America, don’t they?”
“You sound like my mother. Do you even love me?”
“Of course.” Charles removed the ring from its box and held it out for her inspection. “Don’t shut me down.”
