Marcia Talley - Tomorrow's Vengeance

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.’