The Forgotten Painting by Gabriel Farago (readnow .TXT) 📕

Krakowski told him that he was thinking of giving his Monet to the Germans to avoid transportation, Herzl offered to copy it for him.

Krakowski walked into Herzl’s ‘studio’ hidden in the back of a damp cellar. ‘How’s it going?’ he asked.

‘See for yourself. ’Herzl pointed to his easel.

‘Incredible’, said Krakowski. The painting was finished, but still drying. ‘I can’t tell them apart. I don’t know how you do it, David; it’s perfect.’

Herzl smiled. ‘I can’t create, but I can copy’, said Herzl, slapping his friend on the back.

‘Mandel came around again today. He wants to arrange something for tomorrow if possible. About the painting, I mean.’

‘What?’

‘A sale.’

‘A sale? What do you mean?’

‘Apparently, the SS want to bring someone over, some big-shot from Berlin who wants to buy original paintings here in the ghetto. He’s especially interested in impressionists.’

‘Buy, you say? How weird.’

‘That’s what I thought. But who are we to question the Germans, eh? They are all mad, right?’

‘You can collect the painting in the morning,’ said Herzl, ‘a couple of finishing touches and I’m finished. I’ll keep the copy for you here until you’re ready. I’ll even frame it for you.’

‘Thank you, my friend. Perhaps one day I can do something for you in return. I’ll let Mandel know.’

Herzl worked through the night to make sure the painting was dry. He had perfected his own technique in that regard, and knew all the little tricks and shortcuts. Finally satisfied, he stood back and smiled. It was one of the best copies he had ever made. Exhausted, he lay down on his bunk next to the easel to get some sleep. He closed his eyes, but the much needed sleep wouldn’t come. Instead, Monet’s Little Sparrow in the Garden began to whisper to him, seductively suggesting something daring. Covered in sweat, Herzl tossed and turned restlessly in his bunk and tried to put the crazy idea out of his mind, but it wouldn’t go away because he knew how much the painting meant to his friend. Finally, he sat up and lit a candle. Why not? he thought. It’s good enough. They’ll never notice the difference, those barbarians!

Feeling better for having made a decision, Herzl walked over to the copy on the easel and touched the edge of the painting with the tip of his finger. Dry; perfect, he thought it’s ready to go. Then he took the original painting off the wall and began to carefully pull the frame apart.

Warsaw Ghetto: the ‘sale’

The convertible Mercedes pulled up in front of Krakowski’s dilapidated apartment block at precisely noon the next day. The driver jumped out of the car and opened the back door for the SS major and his young guest.

‘Here we are, Herr Fuchs’, said the major, and got out of the car.

Mandel was waiting nervously at the entrance, cap in hand, and watched the major come strutting towards him. ‘Is everything ready?’ demanded the major.

‘Jawohl, Herr Sturmbannfuehrer’, said Mandel, standing to attention. ‘First floor.’

‘Show us the way.’

‘Jawohlu, Herr Sturmbannfuehrer.’

Wearing his best—and only—suit, Krakowski was waiting in his tiny, sparsely furnished apartment. He had sent his wife and children to stay with neighbours to avoid any embarrassment or, God forbid, unintended offence. SS Officers were totally unpredictable; anything could happen.

The painting was hanging in its usual place above the sideboard. Krakowski had been painstakingly briefed by Mandel earlier that day. He had been told what to say and how to say it, how much to ask for the painting, and how to explain why he wanted to sell it. He had also been told that the buyer would ask for a receipt. Krakowski had pen and paper ready as instructed, and was waiting for his visitors to arrive.

Mandel opened the door and let the major and his guest enter. Ignoring Krakowski completely, the major walked over to the sideboard and pointed to the painting. ‘This is it, Herr Fuchs’, he said, I hope this is what you are looking for.’

Krakowski watched the tall young man follow the major across to the painting. Impeccably dressed in a grey double-breasted suit, white shirt, silk tie and black shoes so shiny they almost sparkled, the young man pulled a silver cigarette case out of his pocket. Turning to the major, he offered him a cigarette and they both lit up.

‘This is a truly remarkable painting’, said the young man. He bent down to look at the signature at the bottom of the painting. ‘A Monet; no doubt about it. And you wish to sell it, Herr—’

‘Krakowski’, interjected Mandel.

‘Krakowski’, repeated the young visitor. Krakowski then went through the prearranged charade and said all the things he had been instructed to say. After that, it only took a few minutes to complete the transaction. The major and his satisfied guest then swept out of the room followed by the driver, carrying the painting under his arm.

Slowly, Krakowski closed the door and then stared at the empty space above the sideboard. He felt as if part of his life had been torn away from him, never to return.

For the next hour, Krakowski wandered aimlessly through the ghetto until he found himself in front of Herzl’s studio.

‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost’, said Herzl, looking at his friend. ‘Come in.’

Herzl reached behind his bunk and pulled out a half-empty bottle of schnapps; a precious commodity obtained on the thriving black market. Krakowski took a swig, making the back of his throat burn with welcome pain. ‘Cheer up, not all is lost, my friend’, said Herzl. ‘You still have this—remember?’ He pointed to the painting on the easel. ‘I framed it for you this morning.’

Feeling better, Krakowski walked over to the painting and looked at it. 'My God, David, I could swear it’s the real thing; thank you.’

Herzl smiled. ‘Take it home, my friend’, he said. ‘It will make you feel better. Also, for your family’s sake …’

‘You’re right; I’ll do that.’

Herzl took the painting off the easel and handed it to his friend.

‘I can’t tell you what this means to me’, said Krakowski. He reached into his pocket, took out two small gold bars and placed them on the easel. ‘Take this, it’s for you. This is what they gave me for the painting. I can’t keep it. The painting was never for sale.’

‘I understand’, said Herzl, and gulped down the last of the schnapps in the bottle. ‘We’ll buy some more of this.’

What Krakowski couldn’t have known was that the gold given to him in payment for the painting by the impeccably dressed young man was dental gold. Gold that had been harvested from the bodies of dead Jews in the concentration camps. Gold fillings mainly, and bridgework, broken out of the jaws of the corpses by other Jews, doing the unthinkable to stay alive. This gold was then melted down, and often mixed with gold from other sources—mainly gold looted from other victims’ possessions on their way to the gas chambers—to disguise its true origin. It was then stamped with the German eagle insignia, the Reichsadler, and given a new, ‘respectable’ identity acceptable to the Swiss bankers before being transferred to ‘neutral’ Switzerland to finance the war.

What Krakowski didn’t know either was that Herzl had exchanged the painting in the original frame with his copy, and that the painting a very dejected Krakowski was carrying home was in fact his original Monet, given to him by the famous artist himself on that sunny afternoon in the master’s garden many years ago.

The Verdict

Moreau instructed the cameraman to take some more close-ups and reached for his notebook. ‘There is one final task left’, he said, and pulled a large magnifying glass out of his kitbag. ‘If I’m right, we should have the decisive answer shortly.’ Moreau adjusted the spotlight and began to methodically inspect the painting with the magnifying glass. He began at the top left-hand corner and then moved slowly to the right, and then back to the left again, covering every square inch of the painting.

‘What is he doing?’ asked Fuchs, leaning forward to see better.

‘Looking for something, I’d say’, replied Jack. ‘He’s certainly very thorough.’

‘Your book created quite a storm’, said Fuchs, changing direction. ‘You pressed all the right buttons, even after all these years.’

‘It took on a momentum of its own,’ said Jack, ‘and became unstoppable. I was perhaps more surprised than most by its unexpected success.’

‘It’s always difficult to interpret history after such a long time. Much becomes distorted, memories play tricks on people, and looking at the past through the lens of the present will always rewrite history.’

‘There’s a lot of truth in that’, conceded Jack. ‘However, facts are facts, whichever way we look at them.’

‘Quite, provided they are the right facts. A bit like what Monsieur Moreau is doing right now, I suppose. Uncovering facts.’

‘You seem very certain,’ said Jack, ‘about your painting, I mean.’

‘I am’, Fuchs said calmly.

‘Just as you were about the origin of the gold shipments your bank received from the Nazis during the war?’

Fuchs shot Jack a withering look that would have sent an attacking tiger running for cover. ‘I didn’t know about the dental gold’, snapped Fuchs. ‘None of us did. Our bank always acted in good faith. We were neutral. It was all strictly business.’

Jack realised he had almost overstepped the mark and decided to change his approach to placate Fuchs. ‘I understand’, he said. 'It was a long time ago. Would you perhaps be interested in an interview to set the record straight?’ he asked, dangling a carrot in front of Fuchs’ ego he knew would be quite irresistible.

‘Could be’, replied Fuchs, surprised. ‘An addendum to your book, perhaps?’

‘It would depend—’

‘On what?’ Fuchs interrupted.

‘On what you tell me, of course.’

‘Here it is!’ Moreau cried out. ‘Just as I thought. Hidden in the lily pond; how ingenious!’

‘What exactly?’ asked Fuchs. He wheeled his chair over to the painting.

‘Here, have a look’, said Moreau. He handed Fuchs his magnifying glass, and pointed to a certain spot in the lily pond.

‘What am I looking for?’

‘Something that doesn’t belong in a lily pond.’

Fuchs raised the magnifying glass, bent forward and, for what seemed an eternity, kept staring at the painting. Looking suddenly quite pale and shaken, he let the magnifying glass fall into his lap and turned around to face Moreau. ‘Is, is this a p-prank?’ he stammered.

‘Far from it. It’s a signature.’

‘Are you telling me that what looks like a tiny Star of David and a small heart under this rock here is a signature?’

‘It is’, Moreau replied, elated. ‘And not just any signature, but the signature of David Herzl.’

‘Who is David Herzl?’ demanded Fuchs, becoming angry.

‘David Herzl was one of Europe’s most accomplished forgers during the war. He always signed his work in ingenious ways, with a Star of David, obviously for David, and a small heart for Herzl, which as we know means heart in German. He lived in the Warsaw Ghetto and was killed during the uprising in 1943.If it’s any consolation, this is without doubt one of the best forgeries of a Monet I’ve come across. In its own way, it’s a masterpiece.’

The Fallout

Jack admired the way Fuchs appeared to recover from the humiliating blow. Fuchs invited everyone, the crew included, to join him for lunch in the elegant dining room on the ground floor. This had obviously been planned earlier, because everything was ready by the time they went downstairs.

Fuchs seemed calm and controlled, but inside he was seething. Something that was supposed to have propelled him into the limelight had unexpectedly