Tomorrow's Vengeance Read online

  ‘“Hegemony” does it for me,’ Naddie confessed. ‘Best to let the works speak for themselves, I always say.’

  At the head of the stairs, a huge banner hung from the ceiling – identical to the cover of the brochure – which indicated where the exhibit began. Sixty artists were represented, according to the banner, comprising painting, sculpture, photography, architecture, film, fashion and the decorative arts, on loan from museums all over the world.

  ‘I don’t think much of de Chirico’s paintings,’ I commented to my friends as we browsed through the first gallery. ‘He seems to be a one-trick pony.’ De Chirico’s work featured oversized classical heads and weird classical buildings with an oddly distorted perspective that made me tilt my head and say, ‘Huh?’ The foregrounds were often decorated, Dali-esque, with rubber gloves or bananas.

  There were the stark, monochromatic still lifes of Morandi, who was fixated on bottles and vases; the abstracts of Balla; the cartoons of Sironi.

  ‘Now, this is more like it,’ I said as we came to some vibrant, realistic portraits by Federico Andreotti, who posed his models in aristocratic scenes, often wearing eighteenth-century dress.

  ‘Airs and graces,’ muttered Izzy. ‘My father couldn’t stand Andreotti. Wouldn’t have him in the gallery.’ She dismissed the artist with a wave of her hand, and moved on to a series of paintings by Cagnaccio di San Pietro – a woman applying makeup at a mirror; another of a woman wearing a red dress; an old fisherman; and the little boy with the bubble, the painting that had been featured on the flyer.

  ‘I’d buy this in a minute,’ I said, indicating La Bolla di Sapone. I couldn’t take my eyes off it.

  ‘Got twelve thousand dollars?’ Naddie wanted to know. ‘That’s what the di San Pietros are going for these days. I looked it up.’

  ‘Maybe if I’m good, Santa will tuck the painting into my stocking for Christmas,’ I joked.

  Izzy and Naddie moved on. The paintings were growing progressively more abstract and, to my way of thinking, less interesting, so Safa and I took a detour to explore the section on decorative arts.

  We were leaning over a display case of exquisite porcelain drinking cups by Gio Ponte, one decorated with circus acts and the other with airplanes, when I heard somebody wail. Safa and I exchanged worried glances.

  ‘That sounds like Izzy,’ I said.

  We raced back to the gallery where we’d left Izzy with Naddie. As I turned the corner, barging into a gallery that Safa and I had skipped, I saw Izzy holding onto the doorframe with one hand, pressing the other to her breast. ‘I can’t breathe!’

  I guided her to a nearby bench and forced her to sit down on it. ‘Is it your heart?’

  ‘No, no. My heart’s fine.’

  ‘You’re hyperventilating, Izzy. Put your head between your knees … that’s right. Now breathe in. Breathe out. That’s it.’

  ‘I’ll go find some water,’ Safa said, and she disappeared around the corner of the gallery.

  I sat down next to my friend, reached out and began stroking her back. ‘Where’s Naddie?’ I asked.

  ‘Restroom,’ she gasped.

  ‘In and out,’ I repeated. ‘In and out. Better?’

  She nodded, and several silver strands that escaped from her bun trembled around her face.

  ‘What is it? What happened?’

  ‘I, I …’ Izzy began.

  Safa returned just then, carrying a Styrofoam coffee cup of water. She knelt on the tiles in front of Izzy, her skirt puddling around her. ‘Here, drink this.’

  Izzy took the cup in both hands and took a sip, then another, then handed the cup back.

  ‘Better?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. It’s just … that painting,’ she said, pointing to a wall of portraits, one of them featuring a young boy kneeling with his arms wrapped around a dog. The animal had thick, curly brown and white fur. His large brown eyes stared out at the viewer, just like those of its pint-sized master.

  ‘The one of the boy and the Portuguese water dog?’ I asked, just to be certain.

  Izzy nodded vigorously, dislodging even more hair from the confines of her bun. ‘It’s not a water dog, Hannah. It’s a Lagotto Romagnolo named Pecorino, and that little boy is my brother.’

  Needless to say, lunch at Sofi Crepes was forgotten as we sat in the gallery’s cafeteria over pre-made sandwiches and bottles of designer water in pastel colors, discussing what to do.

  While Izzy was a study in anxious indecision, Safa had donned full battle gear, prepared to march up to the gallery’s office and put them on notice that they were in possession of stolen property.

  ‘That’s no good,’ Izzy complained. ‘They’re not going to say, ‘Oh, we’re soooo sorry, we didn’t know,’ take the portrait off the wall, tape it up in bubblewrap and hand it back to me, are they?’

  Safa looked crestfallen but reluctantly agreed. ‘I guess you’re right. We don’t want to give them a head’s up or the painting might disappear.’

  Naddie and I concurred, urging caution. ‘You need an attorney,’ I said.

  Izzy stared back at me blankly.

  ‘Do you have a lawyer?’ Naddie asked.

  Izzy thought for a moment then shook her head. ‘Only in Pennsylvania, and his specialty was real estate and probate.’

  I patted Izzy’s hand. ‘I have a brother-in-law who’s an attorney in Annapolis. He rejoices in the name Malcolm Gaylord Hutchinson, but everyone simply calls him Hutch. Would you like me to call him? If he can’t take the case he will certainly know someone who can.’

  Izzy looked up at me with red-rimmed eyes. Until then she’d been able to hold her tears in check but suddenly the floodgates opened. ‘Yes, please,’ she sobbed.

  Safa grabbed a wad of napkins from a dispenser and tucked them into Izzy’s clenched fist.

  Ragazzo con Cane, I thought. Boy with dog. An unassuming title, a modest painting, yet tangible proof of Izzy’s life before the Nazis. It had hit her like a blow to the stomach. Simple oil pigments dabbed onto a rectangle of canvas, yet representative of everything Izzy had lost: her father and mother, her brother, even her country.

  Izzy cried until the tears would no longer come, and like good friends we sat there handing her napkins, making comforting noises, and let her.

  TWELVE

  ‘Jews, Free Masons and those opponents of National Socialism who are affiliated with them … are the authors of the present war against the Reich. The systematic spiritual battle against these forces is a task made necessary by the war effort.

  I have therefore directed Reichsleiter Alfred Rosenberg to carry out this task … His staff for the occupied territories is authorized to search libraries, archives, lodges and other … cultural establishments for relevant material and to have this material requisitioned for the ‘Weltanschauung’ tasks of the NSDAP, and for future scientific research by higher educational institutions. The same regulation applies to cultural treasures which are the property or in the possession of Jews, which are ownerless, or the origin of which cannot be clearly established.’

  Adolf Hitler, Decree of the Führer, 1 March, 1942.

  Well before nine the following morning Izzy and I waited in my brother-in-law’s Annapolis conference room while he arranged for his receptionist to bring us coffee. I’d rushed out of the house wearing slim jeans, a tank top and open-toed sandals, without applying makeup or blow-drying my hair, but compared to Izzy I looked like a cover model. She’d dressed in tennis shoes and a lime-green jogging outfit. She’d drawn her hair into an untidy ponytail at the nape of her neck and her eyes were nearly swollen shut from crying.

  I knew Izzy’s painting wouldn’t be going anywhere soon; the exhibit would be running through January, according to the brochure, so there was no particular need to rush. Izzy had been so agitated, however, that I felt we had to get the ball rolling. When I called him at home the previous evening, Hutch’s calendar, by some miracle, was free, so I’d made the appointment for Izzy and me
to come in.

  ‘The painting is by Clotilde Padovano,’ Izzy explained when Hutch returned to the room and sat down at the conference table opposite us. ‘It’s one of a pair, and the other is hanging in my town home.’

  I watched as Hutch scrawled ‘Padovano’ on the yellow legal pad in front of him. ‘You said your father was an art dealer?’

  ‘Yes. He owned the Galleria Rossi in Rome. When the Nazis came he was forced to sell. The paintings went for a fraction of their actual value but my father had absolutely no choice. If he hadn’t sold they would have been stolen outright.’

  ‘Who bought the paintings from your father, Mrs Milanesi?’

  ‘I don’t know. There were several buyers, maybe a half dozen or so. Because we lived over the gallery I saw these people come and go but I never knew their names. I was very young at the time,’ she added.

  ‘Is the picture owned by the Baltimore Art Gallery, or is it on loan from another museum?’ Hutch asked.

  ‘It’s owned by the gallery; at least, there was no label on it to indicate otherwise.’ She sat back in her chair and sighed. ‘I wonder where it’s been all these years and how it got from our home in Rome into a gallery in Baltimore.’

  ‘The provenance will tell us that,’ Hutch said. He scribbled something down on his pad then added: ‘I’m sure the gallery believes it was purchased legally. As you probably know they’re very careful about establishing provenance. Galleries have researchers to handle that sort of thing. The Baltimore Art Gallery is thoroughly reputable. They will have bills of sale.’

  ‘A bill of sale is meaningless, Mr Hutchinson, if it’s filled out while the seller has a gun pointed at his head.’

  ‘True,’ Hutch agreed. ‘I’ve done a bit of research and there are a number of jurisdictions that have accepted that fact. The American Association of Museums recently issued guidelines that require extra scrutiny on all acquisitions that changed ownership between 1932 and 1945, especially if the work in question was previously owned by Jews.’

  I felt a sudden chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioner kicking in. ‘What’s the next step, Hutch? Do you contact the gallery, let them know that a claim is being made and find out who sold them the painting?’

  ‘Let me make a few calls, Hannah.’ He turned to Izzy. ‘It could be simple, Mrs Milanesi, or it could be complicated. Most likely it will take someone with more expertise than I.’

  A tear rolled down Izzy’s cheek. ‘I don’t want any money, Mr Hutchinson. Except for the single painting I have at home, I have nothing, nothing that once belonged to my family. That painting …’ She paused, then took a deep, steadying breath. ‘That painting may legally belong to the gallery, but not morally. It was as good as stolen.’

  Izzy wrapped both hands around the mug of coffee on the table in front of her, raised it to her lips and took a sip. ‘And I just thought of another thing, Mr Hutchinson. We didn’t get to see all the pictures in the gallery. There could be more of my father’s paintings there, maybe on display, or maybe even in storage.’

  Hutch clicked the retractor on his ballpoint and said, ‘Hmmm.’

  Hmmm is not the response one wants to hear from one’s doctor or lawyer.

  We waited him out.

  After a thoughtful silence, he said, ‘I need to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘Please, anything you need to know, Mr Hutchinson. Go ahead.’

  ‘These confiscated paintings were hanging in your father’s gallery, right?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Do you know if they were your father’s property or were they simply hung there, on consignment from various artists, waiting to be sold?’

  ‘I don’t know the answer to that. But the portrait of my brother – that particular painting hung on the wall in our dining room, and it’s the companion piece to mine.’

  ‘You told me you secreted your painting in your suitcase?’

  ‘My parents did, yes.’

  ‘Why didn’t your parents do the same thing for your brother?’

  ‘They did but he was too young to appreciate it, Mr Hutchinson. Before we left home Abba asked Umberto which painting he wanted and my brother picked a charcoal drawing of a horse.’ She smiled sadly. ‘Umberto loved horses. When we were on the farm, he had a favorite. Albina.’

  ‘Do you still have that drawing?’ I asked my friend.

  ‘Umberto slept with Albina at his side, Hannah. You understand?’

  I did. My niece, Julie, still had her ‘lovie,’ a bedraggled, threadbare rabbit named Abby. Julie was fourteen, but her mother still tucked Abby’s pitiful remains into the toe of her sleeping bag whenever my niece went on an overnight. There was no chance the fragile drawing had survived Umberto’s loving.

  Hutch swiped at his cheek, visibly moved. ‘Mrs Milanesi, I’m no expert in art law. It’s an amalgam of personal property law, contract law, estate law, tax law and intellectual property law relating to the acquisition, retention and disposition of fine art.’ After getting that sentence out he had to take a deep breath. ‘The first thing that occurs to me, and this is basic, is to ask do you have proof that your family once owned these particular works of art? Is there anything – a sale catalog, perhaps?’

  I bounced in my chair. ‘I seem to remember that the Smithsonian keeps a collection of art auction catalogs, maybe even on microfilm. We could check there.’

  Izzy raised a hand to cut me off. ‘I don’t think we’ll need to do that, Hannah. When our children were in their teens Bruno and I took them to Italy so they could see where, where … well, back to their roots.’ She paused for a moment, swallowed hard, then continued. ‘One of the places we visited was the farmhouse where my brother and I were sheltered by the DeLucas. The DeLucas had long since passed away, but amazingly the farm was still there, being managed by their son. He invited us in and after a short visit he gave me a scrapbook that my mother, Letizia Rossi, had made. He told us that he found it under the floorboards in the bedroom, in the same space where my brother and I had hidden from the Nazis. Mother had taken photographs of all the paintings, you see, room by room by room, and pasted them on the pages of the scrapbook, writing by hand under each photograph what it was in white ink. I have the scrapbook packed away somewhere at home.’

  ‘Ah, that’s excellent.’ Hutch relaxed into the cushions of the chair and tapped the point of his pen absent-mindedly against the table. ‘I think you should bring the scrapbook in as soon as possible. We’ll make several copies then store the original in the safe. How does that sound?’

  Izzy nodded. ‘Very good.’

  Hutch stood. ‘Until later, then. I have several hearings to attend in the next couple of days, but if I’m not here simply leave your mother’s scrapbook with my paralegal. I’ll tell her to expect it and she’ll know just what to do. In the meantime,’ he said as he walked us to the door of the conference room, ‘I’ll check with a colleague in D.C. to see what the best plan of action may be.’

  Izzy shook Hutch’s hand. ‘Thank you, Mr Hutchinson.’

  ‘You’re very welcome. And Mrs Milanesi, don’t even think about contacting the gallery yourself.’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘We don’t want the painting to suddenly, say, disappear.’

  As we headed down the hall, Hutch called out after me, ‘Hannah! Will you stop by Mother Earth and tell Ruth I’ll be bringing pizza home for dinner?’

  I tipped an imaginary hat.

  Izzy and I ambled down Main Street and tried the door of Mother Earth, the New Age store owned by my sister, but she wasn’t in. A sign taped to the glass read, ‘Back in Five Minutes,’ so we waited for ten, admiring some wind chimes in the window, but when Ruth didn’t show we left.

  We returned to the parking garage where I’d left my car, saying very little. After we’d climbed into the vehicle and closed the doors, Izzy turned to me and asked, ‘Do you think there’ll be a big fight over this?’

  ‘I honestly don’t
know, Izzy. My opinion? No matter what the museum might have paid for that painting of your brother, it belongs with you. They’ll need to do the right thing. And if they don’t …’ I patted her knee. ‘Then maybe Hutch will make them.’

  THIRTEEN

  ‘Depression is not a normal part of aging. Studies show that most seniors feel satisfied with their lives, despite having more illnesses or physical problems. However, when older adults do have depression, it may be overlooked because seniors may show different, less obvious symptoms. They may be less likely to experience or admit to feelings of sadness or grief.’

  National Institute of Mental Health: www.nimh.nih.gov

  A couple of days went by before I was able to return to the memory unit.

  I found Nancy Harper in bed with the covers drawn up to her chin, her fingers braided neatly across her breast which was rising and falling with every slow, even breath. At first I thought she was napping, but when I tiptoed closer I noticed that her eyes were open and she was staring at the ceiling. Gone were the carefully enhanced eyebrows and the blusher on her cheeks. Her hair was a tangle of unruly curls, white at the roots, and the lovely, decorative combs she favored were nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Nancy? It’s Hannah. How are you doing today?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Hannah Ives. I’ve come to read to you if you feel up to it.’

  ‘Go away.’

  ‘Are you hungry? Can I bring you a snack?’

  ‘I said go away.’

  As I was considering whether to take her summary dismissal seriously or not, she turned on her side and inched up the sheets until she was in a sitting position. After grabbing her pillow and savagely punching it into submission, she settled back against the flowered pillowcase and said, ‘I don’t want you. I want Frank.’

  Was she having a lucid moment? Did she mean ‘Frank’ as in ‘Frank the man I married,’ or did she mean, ‘Frank, the guy across the hall whose real name is Jerry’?