Offerings (21 page)

“You were seven or eight? My God, I have a son that age. I can’t imagine...”

“Even the young learn to survive. Even little children do what they must. What is your son’s name?”

“Mack.” Kate thought about the trembling night when he thought he’d lose his home, how confused he was about why Peter was leaving. How trivial that all seemed now.

“Is he your only child?”

“We have a girl. Sarah. She’s twelve. She’s a very accomplished musician.” Kate defined her daughter so clearly. So easily.

Hirsch smiled. “You’re quite fortunate.” He looked toward Marta. “Bibi and I were able only to have one child.”

Marta tapped her watch. “Father, please. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but we really do need to get to the reason these people traveled all this way.”

“Two more minutes, Marta. Two minutes. And then we will discuss the painting. Let your father babble on a little bit longer.” Chastened, Marta placed her hands on the window sill.

“My father wouldn’t let us cry. He said my brother and I needed to be brave for our mother,” he continued.

“May I ask you one more question, Mr. Hirsch? How did you end up here?” Perhaps it was because she was thinking of Mack, but the curiosity in Chris’s voice reminded her of Mack’s sense of discovery.

“We were told the ship encountered mechanical difficulties along the way. I always believed the crew didn’t want to be shot for carrying around a load of Jewish cargo and forced the captain to throw us off. He was an old weapons smuggler and indifferent about the cargo he carried. But he was facing a mutiny by his crew.”

He shook his head. “They let us off near Barcelona. We slept in railroad cars for the longest time, ate whatever we could scavenge from garbage cans or the city dump or from what people left on their plates at restaurants when we could get close enough to steal the scraps. My brother and I prowled the streets for pieces of wood or scraps of coal to build a small fire to cook.”

Hirsch moved his right hand slightly.

“My father knew how to operate machinery from the time he spent in our family’s factory, but he spoke only German, so work was out of the question even if he could let his presence be known. He died not long after we arrived here. Typhoid, I imagine. I remember stealing a shovel from a garage near the university so my brother and I could dig a hole to bury him.”

Hirsch showed Kate a photograph of a woman. She resembled Marta, but her face was filled out, her skin fairer. “My mother was an excellent cook. After some time she found work with a local family. The head of the family was a baker, so she could help him. They let us sleep in their basement where they milled their flour. They were so kind. Times weren’t very pleasant in Spain either, but we were out of resources to trade. So, we put our heads down and tried to stay out of everyone’s way.”

Kate shook her head in awe of Hirsch’s story. “I am amazed you survived at all.”

He smiled. “My mother always used to tell us our faith would see us through. When we had nothing else, she reminded us of that. She appears to have been right.”

“Was there anyone there you could turn to for help?” Chris asked.

“Other than God? Not really. We had no relations outside Austria if that’s what you mean. But while there was no one to help us there weren’t people looking to harm us. Germany didn’t pay a lot of attention to what was happening south of France. But there still were many very dark days during the war and then after the war while Franco was alive.”

Kate sipped her coffee although it had gone cold. Hirsch asked if she wanted something else to drink. She declined.

“We still celebrate the night Franco died. Every November twentieth, most people in Barcelona have a glass of cava and toast to the hope he won’t come back.”

Marta cleared her throat. “Father, we are running short on time.”

“We will get to the painting, Marta.”

Perhaps it was the passage of time, but it seemed more than that. It seemed while Hirsch was firmly grounded in everything that shaped his life to this point, he wasn’t mired in it or unable to move forward. Ed and Steve and Clive and even Peter were so caught up in their own fear of failure they saw nothing but trap doors and black cats. This was a man who could teach her lessons she needed to learn.

Kate looked toward Marta. “You’re correct. We do need to discuss the painting. But if I might, allow me one last question.” She turned toward Hirsch. “Earlier you said you felt safe in Barcelona. What did you mean by that? How could that be?” She genuinely wanted to know the man.

“In a way, it is ironic I could say that about a city known for its expulsion of the Jews. But remember, I had to flee the place of my birth. Although the most horrible time of my life was on that ship I still like the idea of living near the sea, of having an escape hatch should the need arise again. I’ve grown to the point where I’m uncomfortable if I can’t smell the sea.” He walked to the window and pointed across the street. “Besides, I have my friend St. George to protect me. We’ve made a life here.”

Kate smiled, nodded, thanked him for the answer. She wished she had her own guardian angel.

“If I might,” Marta said, directly to her father. “If I might, father, I’d like to ask a question regarding the value of the painting. They suggest it’s worth eleven million US dollars and we’ve been told it would fetch not less than sixteen to eighteen million Euros at auction. I don’t know how we bridge that gap even if we choose as a family to consider their proposal.”

Marta’s reference to the family vote caused Kate to wonder both about the dynamics of the Hirsch family and who else might have a say. She thought when Hirsch invited her to Barcelona she’d be talking to the patriarch.

But she found comfort when Hirsch turned to Marta and said, “Now I am the one confused, Marta.

“Confused? You’ve seen the letter from the expert we retained after we received their contract.”

“I’m confused whether you are unwilling to consider their proposal out of principle, or simply want more than they are prepared to offer.”

Kate smiled at the pure logic of the man. By offering resistance and a rebuke to Marta, he had shown his neutrality. By balancing both sides of the equation with such facility and graceful elegance, he captured control of the playing field, for he had both the moral standing and the integrity to name the price of the endgame. She had to put herself in his hands.

Marta stared directly at Kate. “You deliberately brought that rubbing to get my father into this mood so you could take advantage of him in this negotiation.”

Kate could not let Marta’s comment go unchallenged. “I did no such thing. It’s wrong of you to suggest I had any impure motive. I made that rubbing long before I had any idea I might even meet your father, not out of some calculation on my part. And I certainly had no idea the tile on the floor was part of his past. Is it possible to stay focused on the painting without introducing spurious allegations that only foster ill will?”

“Marta. Kate. Please. This bickering is unnecessary.”

“My father is a sentimental old man. I will not let you exploit him. I will not let him be a victim still one more time.”

Hirsch walked to where his daughter was standing. He took her hands in his. They spoke in rapid whispers, although neither Kate nor Chris spoke their language.

Ignoring both Kate and Chris, Marta kissed her father on both cheeks. Her gesture was abrupt, seemingly designed to show her displeasure with his moderation. She turned abruptly and left. The door was open behind her.

Hirsch turned to Kate and smiled. “I simply told her I will admit to being sentimental, but not old.”

THIRTY-FIVE

Hirsch sighed, as if it were his turn to apologize. “Marta views the world in black and white. In a sense, after what our family has been through, and after all the time and energy she’s devoted to trying to right the wrongs, that may be the proper perspective. But I tend to think of matters more broadly.”

He turned to Chris. “I see the decency in what you are trying to do both for our family and for the people who are dependent upon you in the United States. It is a difficult balance, but I am certain some resolution is possible.”

“Let me assure you that if price is the object, I can.....”

Hirsch interrupted Chris by putting his hand in the air. “Chris.” He turned to Kate. “And Kate. Let us not negotiate. You are about to return something to our family that has been missing for seventy years. This is a time to celebrate.” His voice darkened. “And perhaps even to sit in silent prayer for those who are not here. Come to our home this evening.”

Hirsch scribbled an address and telephone number on a pad of paper and gave the note to Kate. “Now that I am comfortable with both your proposal and your personal integrity, I will ask my brother and our wives and children to meet you both.”

As disappointed as she was with the way this meeting was ending, Kate was refreshed by Hirsch’s kind words. She said they’d be delighted to meet the entire family.

“We shall see if my family feels it is the right thing to do,” he said.

The hesitation in his voice reminded Kate of how close to the edge the possibility of an agreement was.

Hirsch looked at his watch. He turned to Kate, who was still standing. “I’m afraid I too must get to an appointment. With one of my doctors. I have so many now I sometimes forget which one I’m supposed to see. I must leave in no more than ten minutes. This has been most remarkable.” He was shaking his head, slowly. “You have no idea what the rubbing means to me and what it will mean to my brother. The knowledge my grandfather’s factory is still there....”

The sentence trailed off, as if a young Michael Hirsch were under the desk of the entrance to his grandfather’s factory, wanting to keep quiet so no one would stop him from making another rubbing. He began shuffling through papers on his desk, putting the rubbing, the receipt, and the picture in a folder.

Hirsch put the folder into his briefcase. “Wait until I show my brother the rubbing you gave me. It’s really quite amazing. My mother always said the only thing stronger than a Jew’s resilience is his patience. She might have been referring to moments like this. Please, come to our home this evening.”

He walked to the window and pointed across the street. “St. George. My friend, you won’t believe the story I can tell you about today. We must find the time.”

Chris spoke. “I feel as though I owe you an apology for what my father did to your family.”

He took Chris by the elbow. “Nonsense. He knew nothing of my family.”

“But...”

Hirsch interrupted. “The only thing that matters is that I was born into a Jewish family in Hitler’s birthplace and I expect to die an old man in my own bed because of the painting. When my wife was pregnant with Marta I watched her belly grow because of that painting. Whatever his motivation, your father’s act preserved the painting so I might see it once again and thank it for all it brought me. Think about it in those terms and not only with the disappointment you feel about what your father did when he was a very young man under extremely trying circumstances.”

Kate would not allow herself to believe that whatever purpose brought her to this place only had been about an inch of space on a balance sheet. She would not allow herself to believe she would return from Kennedy Airport, touch her sleeping children on their heads and crawl into bed as if this had been nothing more than one more trip for one more deal.

Hirsch walked to where Kate was standing. “You are quite quiet, my child.”

“I am thinking about how you weathered such frightening times. I wish I had even a small portion of your tenacity. Or your fortitude.”

“We had far more than just tenacity, my child. As I said, we had our faith. We never lost that. We had our family.”

Kate felt chastened. She lived her life to this point worrying about numbers and budgets, both corporate and personal, bits of data and points on a graph. But Michael Hirsch lived his life with an abiding sense of something larger than himself.

Hirsch looked at his watch. “Oh my. Look at the time. We will have to continue this discussion in my home tonight.”

“I hope your family shares your views and not Marta’s. I have no doubt you will try to convince them to do the right thing, but I must confess I remain concerned,” Kate said. Chris nodded. The expression on his face judged this trip as much of a failure as Kate’s first visit. He’d come to accept the possibility of losing the painting at some point. But losing the offering after coming so close was crushing.

“You have given us an amazing gift in offering to return this painting. As far as your idea that we share it for a short time is concerned, my own view is we have been waiting seventy years to be reunited with Mr. Courbet, so another month or two won’t matter. I am but one voice, but there is no need to fear our discussion. Believe in the power of your hopes, my dear, for light always follows darkness, like spring follows winter.”

Hirsch laughed at the sound of his voice. “Listen to me prattle away. Marta is right. I am a sentimental old man. I suppose I have become an armchair philosopher in my old age.” He began buttoning his suit jacket.

“It’s such a pity you have to run. I could listen to you all day,” Kate said. Hirsch smiled at the comment. “I can’t think of another time in my life when I’ve felt this way. My own father died when I was nine.” Hirsch put his arm around Kate’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Mr. Hirsch. I shouldn’t have brought my own feelings into this conversation. It was just that.” She paused.

“It was just what, my child?” He called her his child and remarkably enough, she felt as though he meant it. And how she wanted him to mean it.

“I really haven’t had anyone to talk to the way we’re talking since my mother died a few months ago. I’m just feeling very emotional. Forgive me. We’ve only known each other for less than an hour. I have no right to talk to you like this.” She wriggled away from his arm, but Hirsch took both of her hands.

“We are not blood, Kate, but you are not alone in feeling that we have a kinship. Look at the gifts you’ve given me. The painting. The rubbing. The generosity of your offer. It’s as though you’ve returned my history to me. I’m not a man who hides my emotions on my sleeve so you can see as well as I what this morning has meant to me as well. I too want to build on this morning. You are not alone in that, my dear.”