A Sudden Change of Heart (15 page)

15
     

H
ercule had insisted that Maximilian West be his guest for lunch on Sunday, and now Hercule sat with Laura in the dining room of the Carlyle hotel, waiting for him to arrive.

As they waited, Hercule told her a few things about Maxim, wanting her to have an inkling of the kind of man she was about to meet, and for whom she might possibly do some work. “He was knighted by the Queen a few years ago for his contribution to British industry,” Hercule explained. “It was well deserved. But he wears this honor lightly, almost casually, and like most other truly great people, he has humility and compassion. And he is also down to earth, unpretentious.”

“You told me the other day he had remarried his first wife. He had several others in between, didn’t he?” Laura said.

“Several. Camilla Galland, the English actress, who died tragically in an accident. Later Maxim married Adriana Macklin, the well-known American businesswoman, but they were subsequently divorced. I always believed that Anastasia was the love of his life. Everyone was stunned when she left him, and he was sick at heart about it, very distressed. None of us understood her behavior at
the time, but then, we do not know what goes on between two people in their private lives.” Hercule took a sip of champagne and continued. “When Anastasia and Maxim remarried in 1990, we were all relieved, especially their children Alix and Michael. Anyway, my dear, you will find Maxim relaxed, pleasant to be with. He has a knack of putting everyone at their ease, making them feel comfortable. Ah, here he is now.”

As Maximilian West walked toward their table, Laura could not help thinking what a handsome and distinguished-looking man he was. She had seen photographs of him in newspapers and magazines, but they hardly did him justice. He was tall, lean, with black hair touched by silver at his temples, and his black eyes were brilliant in his tanned face. He wore an impeccably tailored brown-and-beige houndstooth-check sports jacket, pale blue shirt, darker blue tie, and gray slacks. She thought: My God, he’s gorgeous, no wonder women fall all over him.

After greetings had been exchanged and introductions made, Maxim turned to Laura and started talking about art, and just as Hercule had predicted, she was instantly comfortable with him. Within minutes she was chatting to him as if he were an old friend. Between the first and second courses they covered quite a lot of ground, mostly talking about his art collection in London.

At one moment, after glancing at the dessert menu and then putting it down, Hercule turned to Maxim and said, “When you told me you had stumbled on new information regarding the Gauguin, you never explained it further, Maxim. You merely said it was old documentation.” Hercule raised a snowy brow quizzically as he finished. “I must admit, I am very curious to know more.”

“I’ll be happy to tell you about it,” Maxim replied. “I didn’t actually stumble on it myself though, to be honest, Hercule. Rather, Aunt Irina did.”

Maxim paused, glanced at Laura, and as though he felt it was necessary to explain, said, “She’s not really my aunt. Irina and my parents were inseparable for many years, and I’ve known her since I was a small child. Her name is Princess Irina Troubetzkoy.”

Laura, intrigued by this fascinating man, nodded, but before she could say anything, Hercule exclaimed, “I have met Irina. A most unusual woman. We became acquainted through the Derevenkos,
naturellement,
years ago. She is well, I hope, in good health?”

“Yes, thank you, she is, Hercule. Still amazingly fit at eighty-five, and quite a wonder. And I remember now, you met her quite a few times, if I’m not mistaken.”

“That is correct. But please continue with your story, Maxim. I’m afraid I interrupted you.”

Maxim nodded. “All right. As you know, Irina lives in Berlin, but several months ago she came to stay with me in Paris for a week. One afternoon, wanting to buy a gift for me, she took herself off to the Left Bank. There are, as you’re well aware, Hercule, many wonderful bookshops in that area. She spent most of her time browsing in one of them on the Quai Saint-Michel, mostly because the shop has a rather grand collection of art books, art catalogues, and French classics beautifully bound in leather and hand-tooled in gold. She knows I collect old first editions and other rarities as well as art books, and it was whilst she was browsing among the art books and art catalogues that she noticed the name Westheim on the spine of a particular book. The gold lettering was somewhat worn and she
couldn’t make out what else it said, but because the name was so meaningful to her, she naturally pulled it out. And she was stunned when she saw the cover. Inscribed in gold across the front was the title
The Westheim Collection.
The author was my grandfather, Ernst Westheim. When she opened it and turned to the frontpiece, her heart leapt, she told me later. The book had been updated by my father, Sigmund, but what really took her breath away was the following page. Written on it was my mother’s name Ursula Westheim, and even more remarkably, the signature was in my mother’s own handwriting. Irina recognized it immediately, although the ink was a little, faded. She was thrilled, excited, as you can imagine. She bought the book and returned at once to my apartment, in fact she could hardly wait to give it to me. Aunt Irina was in tears. ‘Such a treasure, Maxim. Ursula’s own book,’ she said as I leafed through it. ‘Who would have thought I would come across this in Paris,
her personal
copy of a book about your family’s great art collection.’ I couldn’t believe it myself, that it had turned up in Paris in this way.”

“What a marvelous find indeed, and how fortuitous for you,” Hercule exclaimed.

“Wasn’t it just,” Maxim responded, his eyes lighting up. “Extraordinary when you think about it. Anyway, the book had been privately printed and given only to friends, and, incidentally, the signature
is
my mother’s. I’ve compared it with letters I have from her.”

“And when was it printed?” Hercule asked.

“In the mid-1920s originally, and seemingly my father had it reprinted in 1936, and then there was a new edition in 1938. That is the edition in my possession now.”

Laura was amazed at this story. The chances of finding
the book were one in a million. Leaning forward, she asked, “Did you recognize it, Sir Maxim?”

“No, I didn’t,” he answered. “I’d never seen it before. At least, I don’t recall seeing it when I was little. I was only four when my father had the book reprinted. However, Aunt Irina began to recollect a few things later that same evening. Vague memories came back to her … mostly about my father working on papers to do with the art collection, in 1935 or thereabouts. It was around this same period of time that he told her he had almost finished writing about the art collection.”

“And that’s all she could remember?” Laura asked.

“Unfortunately. Those were very bad times, Laura,” Maxim explained. “Germany was in the hands of the greatest criminals the world has ever known, and death, upheaval, and fear permeated everyone’s lives. My father was endeavoring to get us out of Nazi Germany to safety. That was his priority, his main concern in those days, and Irina was helping him with the aid of the German underground, the resistance movement, of which she was a member.”

“I understand,” Laura replied. “And it sounds as if your grandfather and father created a
catalogue raisonné
about the collection.”

“They did. But it’s also a picture book, in a sense, since it has hundreds of photographs of paintings and sculpture from the collection.”

“And
Tahitian Dreams
by Paul Gauguin is one of those photographs,” Hercule asserted, a pleased smile suddenly tugging at the corner of his mouth. “How wonderful, Maxim.”

“It is, yes. And since that painting and the entire Westheim
Collection disappeared not long after the book was reprinted, I think it proves beyond a shadow of a doubt that the Gauguin hadn’t been sold, that it was still in the possession of the Westheim family.”

“What a pity the book wasn’t discovered before,” Laura murmured. “But never mind, now you have proof of the provenance of the entire collection should any of it suddenly turn up on the art market.”

“That’s true.” Maxim shook his head. “It’s amazing when you think about it … that this book survived. It’s probably the only one in existence today. I’m quite sure there were a number of them at my parents’ home, but they couldn’t have escaped destruction. Our house on the Tiergartenstrasse was heavily bombed. Then when Marshal Zhukov marched into Berlin at the end of the war, he turned twenty-two thousand guns on a Berlin already battered by the Allies, reduced what was left standing to rubble and dust. The city was flattened. Nobody’s possessions could have withstood that kind of bombardment.”

“I wonder how the book found its way to Paris?” Hercule mused. “That in itself must be an interesting story.”

“Perhaps your mother gave it to someone as a gift, Sir Maxim,” Laura suggested. “Do you think that’s the answer?”

“It’s possible, of course. Personally, I think she took it with her when we went to Paris in 1939.” Maxim paused, his dark eyes suddenly intense and reflective. After a moment he explained. “My mother had brought Teddy with us, a family friend who acted as my nanny, and in March of 1939 my mother sent us both to England, to safety. And, most fatefully, she returned to Berlin.”

Laura nodded and glanced across at Hercule.

He signaled her with his eyes to be careful, to be still. Laura understood that this was dangerous emotional ground they were suddenly treading on, and so she did not speak. Maximilian West had sounded extremely tense, and there was a sudden tautness in him.

Abruptly, he sat back in his chair and looked off into the distance, his jaw clenched. But eventually he continued quietly. “I have my own theory, and Irina is in agreement with me. I believe my father planned to bring some of our paintings out.
Somehow.
He had remained in Berlin after we left, waiting for visas. He finally received, them and was about to leave with my grandmother, aunts, and uncle, when my mother went back to help him with my grandmother, who was frail and ailing. But I just can’t believe that he wouldn’t have tried to smuggle a few of the canvases out. He was apparently very resourceful. Rolled-up canvases are not too difficult to transport, and he would have certainly had the assistance of Admiral Canaris. The admiral was head of the Abwehr, German military intelligence, but by birth, upbringing, tradition, and conviction he detested Hitler and all that he stood for, as did many of the men under him. Canaris and his men were working against Hitler from within, and one of the things the admiral was doing was helping to save people who were in danger from the Nazis by getting them out of Germany. He helped Teddy and me escape. Subsequently, he paid with his life for his beliefs. He was hanged at the Flossenburg concentration camp in 1944,” Maxim finished, and sat back; he fell silent once more.

Laura made no comment, and neither did Hercule. Both of them were aware that strong memories were assailing
Maximilian West, and they wanted to give him a moment to recoup himself.

Then, suddenly, in a brisker tone, Maxim resumed. “I am positive my mother took the book to Paris to show it to art dealers. What better way to present the Westheim Collection to them, just in case my father managed to bring out a canvas or two. She must have left it with an art gallery.”

“That is a perfectly acceptable theory, Maxim,” Hercule agreed. “Very viable.”

Maxim nodded, lifted his glass, and took a sip of Montrachet. “It seems to be the most probable explanation of how the book got to Paris, although we’ll never really know. And it’s perfectly amazing to me that it survived at all. The Nazis were looting art owned by Jews not only in Germany, but in France and other European countries as well. They also stole
catalogues raisonné,
records, and other forms of documentation. Much of the art and its documentation was shipped to Göring and Hitler in Germany. However, from what I understand, a great deal of the documentation was destroyed by the Nazis on the spot in France, and in Germany in the same way. And so the provenance of much of the art became blurred.”

“How terrible that such an awful thing happened, that so much art has been lost, has disappeared into oblivion as a consequence. And if only
you
knew where your paintings are, whose hands they are in today, you could make moves to get them back, since you now have this book,” Laura said.

“That’s true, but I doubt that I’d ever be able to track them all down. That’s a mammoth task, and I would think virtually impossible. The only reason I found out that
Norman Grant owned
Tahitian Dreams
was because he put it up for sale. When it came onto the market, my daughter knew at once.”

“Is she an art dealer?” Laura asked.

Maxim shook his head. “Not exactly. She’s an art and antiques broker working primarily with English and European dealers, and she lives here in New York. So she knows what’s going on, in the same way, I’m sure, that you do. Naturally, she was aware that we were the real owners of the Gauguin, that it was once part of the Westheim Collection, because I had told her about it. And these days we do know quite a lot more about the collection. I myself don’t remember anything, I was so young when I left Germany. However, Aunt Irina and Teddy have recalled many things, and they’ve been making notes for years now. They both knew my parents’ houses in Berlin and Wannsee, and my grandmother’s house in the Grunewald, and they’ve helped to spark each other’s memory. But obviously there was no way I could claim
Tahitian Dreams
even though I suddenly knew who had it, because I had no proof that I owned it. At least, not until Irina came upon the book by chance.”