فصل 31

31

Henry meets her at the rear gate of the courts. He is speaking through a cloud of pain au chocolat crumbs. His face is pink, and he is almost incomprehensible. She wont give it to anyone else.

What? Who wont?

Shes at the front entrance. Come. Come.

Before she can ask any more, Henry is propelling her through the back of the courts, through a network of corridors and flights of stone stairs, out to the security area at the top of the main entrance. Marianne Andrews is waiting by the barriers, dressed in a purple coat and a wide tartan hairband. She sees Liv and lets out a theatrical sigh of relief. Lord, youre a hard woman to get hold of, she scolds, as she holds out a musty-smelling satchel. Ive been calling and calling you.

Im sorry, Liv says, blinking. I dont answer my phone any more.

Its in there. Marianne points to the journal. Everything you need. April 1945.

Liv stares at the old books in her hand. And looks up in disbelief. Everything I need?

The painting, the older woman says, exasperated. For goodness sakes, child. Its not a recipe for prawn gumbo.

Events move at some speed. Henry runs to the judges chambers and requests a brief adjournment. The journals are photocopied, highlighted, their contents sent to the Lefèvres lawyers under the rule of disclosure. Liv and Henry sit in a corner of the office, scanning the bookmarked pages, while Marianne talks non-stop with some pride of how she had always known her mom was not a thief and how that darned Mr Jenks could go boil his head.

A junior lawyer brings coffee and sandwiches. Livs stomach is too taut to eat. They sit untouched in their cardboard packet. She keeps staring at the journal, unable to believe that this dog-eared book might hold the answer to her problems.

What do you think? she says, when Angela Silver and Henry have finished talking.

I think it could be good news, he says. His smile belies his cautious words.

It seems fairly straightforward, Angela says. If we can prove that the last two exchanges were innocent, and there is inconclusive evidence for the first exchange, then we are, as they say, back in the game.

Thank you so much, Liv says, not daring to believe this turn of events. Thank you, Ms Andrews.

Oh, I could not be more delighted, Marianne says, waving a cigarette in the air. Nobody has bothered to tell her not to smoke. She leans forward, places a bony hand on Livs knee. And he found my favourite handbag.

Im sorry?

The old womans smile falters. She busies herself with refixing a brooch. Oh, nothing. Take no notice of me.

Liv keeps staring at her, as the faint flush of colour dies down. Dont you want these sandwiches? Marianne says briskly.

The phone rings. Right, says Henry, when he puts down the receiver. Is everyone okay? Ms Andrews – are you ready to read some of this evidence to the court?

I have my best reading glasses in my bag.

Right. Henry takes a deep breath. Then its time to go in.

30 April 1945

Well, today sure didnt turn out like I expected. Four days ago, Lt Col Danes had told me I could go into Konzentrationslager Dachau with them. Hes not a bad guy, Danes. A little sniffy at first about hacks, as most of them are, but since I came ashore with the Screaming Eagles at Omaha Beach, and hes worked out Im not some green housewife whos going to press him for cookie recipes, hes backed off a little. The 102nd Airborne call me an honorary fellow now, say that when I have my armband on, Im just one of them. So, the deal was, I was going to follow them into the camp, write my piece about the folks inside, maybe get a few interviews with some of the prisoners about the conditions, and then file. WRGS radio wanted a short piece too, so I had my tape all wound up and ready.

Well, there I was, ready at 6 a.m., armband on and almost shipshape, and darned if he didnt knock on my door. Why, Lieutenant, I joked. I was still fixing my hair. You never told me you cared. Its a running joke with us. He says hes got pairs of marching boots older than I am.

Change of plan, Toots, he says. He was smoking, which was unlike him. I cant take you.

My hands stilled on my head. You are kidding me, right? The Registers editor was all lined up for this piece. Theyd cleared me two pages and no ads.

Louanne, its — its beyond what we thought wed find. Im under orders to let nobody through till tomorrow.

Oh, come on.

Seriously. He lowered his voice. You know Id have you in there with me. But, well, you wouldnt believe what we saw in there yesterday — Ive been up all night, me and the boys. There are old ladies, kids walking round in there, like — I mean, little kids — He shook his head and looked away from me. Hes a big man, Danes, and I swear he was about to sob like a baby. There was a train outside, and the bodies were just — thousands of them — It aint human. Thats for sure.

Louanne, nobody but the military and the Red Cross is going in or coming out today. I need every man I have to help out.

Help out with what?

Taking the Nazis into custody. Helping the prisoners. Stopping our men killing those SS bastards for what they seen. Young Maslowicz, when he saw what they done to the Poles, he was like a madman, crying, going crazy. I had to put a non-com on his gun. So I gotta have an airtight guard. And – he gulped – we gotta work out what to do with the bodies.

Bodies?

He shook his head. Yeah, bodies. Thousands of them. They made bonfires. Bonfires! You wouldnt believe — He blew out his cheeks. Anyway, Toots. This is where I need to ask you a favour.

You need to ask me a favour?

I need to leave you in charge of the storage facility.

I stared at him.

Theres a warehouse, out on the edge of Berchtesgaden. We opened it up last night and its pretty much stacked to the gills with works of art. The Nazis, Goering, have looted stuff like you wouldnt believe. The top brass reckons theres a hundred million dollars worth of stuff in there, most of it stolen.

What has this got to do with me?

I need someone I can trust to watch over it, just for today. Youll have a fire crew at your disposal, and two marines. Its chaos in the town, and I need to make sure nobody goes in there and nobody goes out. Theres some serious haul in there, Toots. I dont know much about art, but its like – I dont know – the Mona Lisa or something.

Do you know how disappointment tastes? Like iron filings in cold coffee. Thats what I tasted when old Danes drove me down to the facility. And that was before I found out that Marguerite Higgins had got into the camps the previous day, with Brigadier General Linden.

It wasnt a warehouse as such, more a huge grey slab of a municipal building, like a huge school or town hall. He pointed me towards his two marines, who saluted me, and then the office near the main door where I was to sit. I have to say, I couldnt say no to him, but I took it all with bad grace. It was so obvious to me that the real story was going on down the road. The boys, normally cheerful and full of life, were in huddles, smoking and whey-faced. Their superiors talked quietly with shocked, serious expressions. I wanted to know what theyd found there, horrific as it might be. I needed to be in there, bringing the story out. And I was afraid every day that slipped by made it easier for the top brass to decline my request. Every day that passed gave my competitors a chance.

I sat there for two hours, watching through the office window. Military vehicles whined up and down the main street, packed with soldiers. German soldiers, their hands on their heads, were marched in the opposite direction. Small huddles of German women and children stood stock still on street corners, apparently wondering what was to become of them. Later I heard they were called in to help bury the dead. And all the while, in the distance, the shrill siren of ambulances told of unseen horrors. Horrors I was missing.

Come on then, Krabowski, I said, finally. Show me around this joint.

It didnt look like much at first. Just rows and rows of wooden stacking systems, a load of grey, military-issue blankets slung over the contents. But then I began to pull things out at random medieval icons, Impressionist works, huge Renaissance canvases, the frames delicate, in some cases supported by specially built crates. I ran my fingers over a Picasso, astonished at my own freedom to physically touch art I had previously seen only in magazines or on the walls of galleries.

Oh, my God, Krabowski. You seen this?

He looked at it. Um — yes, maam.

You know what it is? Its a Picasso.

He was completely blank.

A Picasso? The famous artist?

I dont really know much about art, maam.

And you reckon your kid sister could have done better, right?

He shot me a relieved smile. Yes, maam.

Are all the rooms here like this?

There are two rooms upstairs with statues and models and stuff instead of paintings. But, basically, yes. Thirteen rooms of paintings, maam. This is one of the smallest.

Oh, my good Lord. I gazed around me at the dusty shelves, stacked in neat lines back into the distance, and then down at the portrait in my hands. The little girl stared solemnly back at me. You know, it only really hit me then that every one of these paintings had belonged to someone. Every one had hung on someones wall, been admired by someone. A real live person had sat for it, or saved money for it, or painted it, or hoped to hand it down to their children. Then I thought of what Danes had said about disposing of the bodies a few miles away. I thought of his haunted, craggy face, and I shuddered.

The morning stretched across lunch and then into the afternoon. The temperature rose, and the air around the warehouse grew still. I wrote a feature for the Register on the warehouse, and I interviewed Krabowski and Rogerson for a little Womans Home Companion piece on young soldiers hopes for their return home. Then I stepped outside to stretch my legs and smoke a cigarette. I climbed up on the bonnet of the army Jeep and sat there, the metal warm beneath my cotton slacks. The roads were almost completely silent. There were no birds, no voices. Even the sirens seemed to have stopped. And then I looked up and squinted against the sun as a woman came walking up the road towards me.

She moved like it required some effort, with a pronounced limp, even though she couldnt have been more than sixty. She wore a headscarf, despite the warm day, and had a bundle under her arm. When she saw me she stopped and glanced around. She saw my armband, which I had forgotten to take off when my trip out got cancelled.

Englische?

American.

She nodded, as if this were acceptable to her. Hier ist where the paintings are stored, ja?

I said nothing. She didnt look like a spy, but I wasnt sure how much information I should give out. Strange times, and all.

She pulled the bundle from under her arm. Please. Take this.

I stepped back.

She stared at me for a moment, then removed the coverings. It was a painting, a portrait of a woman from the brief glimpse I got.

Please. Take this. Put in there.

Lady, why would you want to put your painting in there?

She glanced behind her, as if she were embarrassed to be there.

Please. Just take it. I dont want it in my house.

I took the painting from her. It was a girl, about my age, with long reddish hair. She wasnt the most beautiful, but there was something about her that meant you couldnt tear your darned eyes away.

Is this yours?

It was my husbands. I saw then she should have had one of those powder-puff grandmother faces, all cushions and kindness, but when she looked at the painting her mouth just set in this thin old line, like she was full of bitterness.

But this is beautiful. Why do you want to give such a pretty thing away?

My husband and I were once happy, but she destroyed him. And I have had to endure that face haunting me every single day of our marriage. Now he is dead I dont have to have her staring at me. She can finally go back to wherever she belongs.

As I looked, she wiped at her eyes with the back of a hand. If you dont want to take it, she spat. Then burn it.

I took it. What else could I have done?

I dont know why I didnt tell him about the painting. I suppose I should have done, but it didnt belong in the darn warehouse, after all. That old German woman couldnt give two hoots what happened to it as long as it wasnt looking at her any more.

Because you know what? I secretly like the idea that you could have a painting so powerful it could shake up a whole marriage. I cant stop looking at her. Given everything else that seems to be going on around here, its nice to have something beautiful to look at.

The courtroom is in complete silence as Marianne Andrews closes the journal in front of her. Liv has been concentrating so hard that she feels almost faint. She steals a look sideways down the bench and sees Paul, his elbows on his knees, his head tipped forward. Beside him Janey Dickinson is scribbling furiously into a notepad.

A handbag.

Angela Silver is on her feet. So let us get this straight, Ms Andrews. The painting you know as The Girl You Left Behind was not inside, and never had been inside, the storage facility when your mother was given it.

No, maam.

And just to reiterate, while the storage facility was full of looted works of art, stolen works of art, this particular painting was given to your mother, not even within the facility.

Yes, maam. By a German lady. Like her journal says.

Your Honour, this journal, in Louanne Bakers own hand, proves beyond doubt that this painting was never in the Collection Point. The painting was simply given away by a woman who had never wanted it. Given away. For whatever reason – a bizarre sexual jealousy, an historic resentment, we will never know. The salient point here, however, is that this painting, which, as we hear, was almost destroyed, was a gift.

Your Honour, it has become very clear these last two weeks that the provenance of this painting is incomplete, as it is for many paintings that have existed for the best part of a turbulent century. What can now be proven beyond doubt, however, is that the paintings last two transfers were untainted. David Halston bought it legitimately for his wife in 1997, and she has the receipt to prove it. Louanne Baker, who owned it before him, was given it in 1945, and we have her written word, the word of a woman renowned for honesty and accuracy, to prove it. For this reason, we contend that The Girl You Left Behind must remain with its current owner.

Angela Silver sits. Paul looks up at her. In the brief moment that he catches her eye, Liv is sure she can detect a faint smile.

Christopher Jenks stands. Ms Andrews. A simple question. Did your mother ask this astonishingly generous old woman her name?

Marianne Andrews blinks. I have no idea.

Liv cannot take her eyes off Paul. You did this for me? she asks him silently. Oddly, he no longer meets her gaze. He sits beside Janey Dickinson looking uncomfortable, checking his watch, and glancing towards the door. She cannot think what she will say to him.

Its an extraordinary gift to accept without knowing who you are getting it from.

Well, crazy gift, crazy times. I guess you had to be there.

There is a low ripple of laughter in the courtroom. Marianne Andrews shimmies slightly. Liv detects unfulfilled stage ambitions.

Indeed. Have you read all your mothers journals?

Oh, good God, no, she says. Theres thirty years worth of stuff in there. We – I – only found them last night. Her gaze briefly flickers towards the bench. But we found the important bit. The bit where Mom was given the painting. Thats what I brought in here. She places great emphasis on the word given, glancing sideways at Liv, and nodding to herself as she says it.

Then you havent yet read Louanne Bakers 1948 journal?

There is a short silence. Liv is aware of Henry reaching for his own files.

Jenks holds out his hand and the solicitor hands him a piece of paper. My lord, may I ask you to turn to the journal entry for the eleventh of May 1948, entitled House Moves?

What are they doing? Livs attention is finally drawn back to the case. She leans in towards Henry, who is scanning the pages.

Im looking, he whispers.

In it Louanne Baker discusses her household move from Newark, in Essex County, to Saddle River.

Thats right, says Marianne. Saddle River. Thats where I grew up.

Yes — Youll see here that she discusses the move in some detail. She talks of trying to find her saucepans, the nightmare of being surrounded by unpacked boxes. I think we can all identify with that. But, perhaps most pertinently, she walks around the new house trying — he pauses, as if ensuring he reads the words verbatim — trying to find the perfect spot to hang Liesls painting.

Liesl.

Liv watches the journalists rifle through their notes. But she realizes with a sickening feeling that she already knows the name.

Bollocks, says Henry.

Jenks knows the name too. Sean Flahertys people are way ahead of them. They must have had a whole team reading the journals through lunchtime.

I would now like to draw Your Honours attention to records kept by the German Army during the First World War. The Kommandant who was stationed at St Péronne from 1916, the man who brought his troops in to Le Coq Rouge, was a man called Friedrich Hencken. He pauses to let that sink in. The records state that the Kommandant stationed there at the time, the Kommandant who so admired the painting of Édouard Lefèvres wife, was one Friedrich Hencken.

And now I would like to show to the court the 1945 census records of the area around Berchtesgaden. Former Kommandant Friedrich Hencken and his wife, Liesl, settled there after his retirement. Just streets away from the Collection Point storage facility. She was also recorded as walking with a pronounced limp, given a childhood bout of polio.

Their QC is on her feet. Again, this is circumstantial.

Mr and Mrs Friedrich Hencken. My Lord, it is our contention that Kommandant Friedrich Hencken took the painting from Le Coq Rouge in 1917. He removed it to his home, seemingly against the will of his wife, who might reasonably have objected to such a – a potent image of another woman. It stayed there until his death, upon which Mrs Hencken was so keen to dispose of it that she took it a few streets away to the place she knew held a million pieces of artwork, a place where it would be swallowed up and never be seen again.

Angela Silver sits down.

Jenks continues – there is a new energy about him now Ms Andrews. Lets go back to your mothers memories of this time. Could you read the following paragraph, please? This, for the record, comes from the same journal entry. In it, Louanne Baker apparently finds what she believes is the perfect spot for The Girl, as she calls the painting.

As soon as I put her in that front parlour, she looked comfortable. Shes not in direct sunlight there, but the south-facing window, with its warm light, makes her colours glow. She seems happy enough, anyhow!

Marianne reads slowly now, unfamiliar with these words of her mothers. She glances up at Liv, and her eyes hold an apology, as if she can already see where this is going.

I banged the nails in myself – Howard always does knock out a fist-sized chunk of plaster when he does it – but as I was about to hang her, something made me turn the painting over and take another look at the back of it. And it made me think of that poor woman, and her sad, embittered old face. And I remembered something Id forgotten since the war.

I always assumed it was something out of nothing. But as Liesl handed over the painting, she briefly snatched it back, as if shed changed her mind. Then she rubbed at something on the back, like she was trying to rub something off. She rubbed it and rubbed it, like a crazy woman. She rubbed so hard I thought she actually hurt her fingers.

The courtroom is still, listening.

Well, I looked at the back of it just now, just as I looked at it then. And it was the one thing that really made me wonder whether that poor woman had been in her right mind when she handed it over. Because it doesnt matter how long you stare at the back of that painting – aside from the title – there is truly nothing there, just a smudge of chalk.

Is it wrong to take something from someone not in their right mind? I still havent worked it out. Truthfully, the world seemed so insane back then – with what was going on in the camps, and grown men weeping, and me in charge of a billion dollars worth of other peoples things – that old Liesl and her bleeding knuckles scrubbing away at nothing seemed actually pretty normal.

Your Honour, we would suggest that this – and Liesls failure to give her last name – is pretty clear evidence of somebody trying to disguise or even destroy any sign of where the painting had come from. Well, she certainly succeeded.

As he pauses, a member of his legal team crosses the court and hands him a piece of paper. He reads it and takes a breath. His eyes scan the courtroom.

German census records we have just obtained show that Sophie Lefèvre contracted Spanish influenza shortly after she arrived at the camps at Ströhen. She died there shortly afterwards.

Liv hears his words through a buzzing in her ears. They vibrate within her, like the aftershock of a physical blow.

Your Honour, as we have heard in this court, a great injustice was done to Sophie. And a great injustice has been done to her descendants. Her husband, her dignity, her freedom and ultimately her life were taken from her. Stolen. What remained – her image – was, according to all the evidence, taken from her family by the very man who had done her the greatest wrong.

There is only one way to redress this wrong, belated as it might be – the painting must be returned to the Lefèvre family.

She barely takes in the rest of his words. Paul sits with his forehead in his palms. She looks over at Janey Dickinson, and when the woman meets her eye, she realizes with a faint shock that for some other participants, too, this case is no longer just about a painting.

Even Henry is downcast when they leave the court. Liv feels as if they have all been run over by a juggernaut.

Sophie died in the camps. Sick and alone. Never seeing her husband again.

She looks at the smiling Lefèvres across the court, wanting to feel generous towards them. Wanting to feel as if some great wrong is about to be righted. But she recalls Philippe Bessettes words, the fact that the family had banned even the mention of her name. She feels as if, for a second time, Sophie is about to be handed over to the enemy. She feels, weirdly, bereaved.

Look, who knows what the judge will decide, Henry says, as he sees her to the rear security area. Try not to dwell on it too much over the weekend. Theres nothing more we can do now.

She tries to smile at him. Thanks, Henry, she says. Ill – call you.

It feels strange out here, in the wintry sunlight, as if they have spent much longer than an afternoon in the confines of the court. She feels as if she has come here straight from 1945. Henry hails a taxi for her, then leaves, nodding farewell. It is then that she sees him, standing at the security gate. He looks as if he has been waiting there for her, and walks straight over.

Im sorry, he says, his face grim.

Paul, dont –

I really thought – Im sorry for everything.

His eyes meet hers, one final time, and he walks away, blind to the customers exiting the Seven Stars pub, the legal assistants dragging their trolleys of files. She sees the stoop to his shoulders, the uncharacteristic dip of his head and it is this, on top of everything else that has happened today, that finally settles something for her.

Paul! She has to yell twice to be heard over the sound of the traffic. Paul!

He turns. She can see the points of his irises even from here.

I know. He stands very still for a minute, a tall man, a little broken, in a good suit. I know. Thank you — for trying.

Sometimes life is a series of obstacles, a matter of putting one foot in front of the other. Sometimes, she realizes suddenly, it is simply a matter of blind faith. Would you — would you like to go for that drink some time? She swallows. Now, even?

He glances at his shoes, thinking, then up at her again. Would you give me one minute?

He walks back up the steps of the court. She sees Janey Dickinson deep in conversation with her lawyer. Paul touches her elbow, and there is a brief exchange of words. She feels anxious – a little voice nagging What is he telling her now? – and she turns away, climbing into the taxi, trying to quell it. When she looks up again through the window, he is walking briskly back down the steps, winding a scarf around his neck. Janey Dickinson is staring at the taxi, her files limp in her arms.

He opens the door, and climbs in, slamming it shut. I quit, he says. He lets out a breath, reaches over for her hand. Right. Where are we going?