Pictures of the Past (29 page)
T
aylor Woodmere, with his granddaughter, Sylvie, by his side, read the article that appeared in the newspaper that morning.
The Woodmere Foundation from Status to Scandal
Chicago Tribune,
February 17, 2005
The article surrounded their photograph at the previous day’s news conference, with the picture of
Jeune Fille à la Plage
interposed.
A scandal has emerged involving the well-known industrialist, philanthropist, and lifelong Francophile Taylor Woodmere, ninety, of suburban Kenilworth. Pieces of a puzzle have been coming together in an onerous way for Woodmere, who supposedly developed his lifelong attraction to France during a visit to Paris before continuing on to Berlin in 1937. It is alleged that Woodmere was in possession of and then eventually donated a painting to the Art Institute of Chicago, which has now been challenged as a Nazi theft from a Jewish family. The painting is
Jeune Fille à la Plage,
by French Impressionist Henri Lebasque.
According to eighty-two-year-old Gerta Rosen, the painting had been the property of her neighbors, the Emanuel Berger family in Berlin, just prior to World War II. Taylor Woodmere, accompanied by his granddaughter, Dr. Sylvie Woodmere Hunt, held a news conference yesterday explaining that the painting that has stirred this controversy as a Holocaust theft and that had hung in that Berlin home in the late 1930s was actually Taylor Woodmere’s property. It had been sent to him from the Berger residence prior to the war.
In truth, Taylor was not ready to reveal the full story of how he left the painting with his love, even if the story would have exonerated him.
When Woodmere was asked why he did not donate the painting sooner and in the Bergers’ name, he responded that he had spent years and resources trying to see if the family survived, but that he had always been the owner nevertheless.
The controversy brought Taylor back, once again, to his memories of the summer of 1937, when he had left the painting as a surprise for Sarah. In his first note to her when he arrived back in the States, he had written, “Someday it will hang in the home we will have together.” But he could not say this to the press while his wife, Emily, was still alive. Although Emily knew of his desperate search for Sarah Berger, and in her heart she must have known the truth that he had fallen in love with Sarah, he had always kept the charade that he was following a humanitarian effort of friendship in trying (desperately) to locate her. He had explained to her that he and his father had been business acquaintances of the Bergers. But Emily was no fool. She must have understood that Taylor did not reconnect with her, did not present her with a ring, until he had exhausted all efforts in locating Sarah, until he understood that she had fallen into Nazi hands when the
St. Louis
was rebuffed from an American landing.
Even after his eventual reunion with Emily and their subsequent marriage, a certain cloud of sadness and longing continued to envelope him. He never fully gave himself emotionally to his wife. And so, in a news conference so many decades later, Taylor Woodmere held to his brief account, although the full truth would have better cleared his name and truly turned a scandal into an intriguing human interest story. He owed that, at least, to Emily.
After generations of accolades attached to Woodmere Industries and the Woodmere family name, it is shocking that it should now be clouded with rumors and actually accusations of anti-Semitism. In the past, the only negative publicity associated with the name involved Taylor Woodmere’s son, Courtland (Court) Woodmere, who was charged with driving under the influence of drugs in the accidental death of his young wife, Lilly, in 1973. It is reported that Court spent many of the following years in drug rehabilitation facilities, never fully emotionally recovering from the tragedy, and that he died in 1985. Dr. Sylvie Woodmere Hunt, the daughter of Lilly and Court and the only surviving heir to the Woodmere fortune, was present with her grandfather at the news conference.
Solomon Garber, a spokesman for the Jewish community, expressed great surprise and skepticism at the charges. “Taylor Woodmere, although not Jewish, has been a strong supporter of the Jewish Federation and Israel Bonds for decades. My inclination is that there is more to this story and I would withhold further comment and continue my support for Mr. Woodmere until a time when these reports would be proven reliable.”
A spokesman for the family of Gerta Rosen, the Holocaust survivor who had originally recognized the painting in the Art Institute of Chicago and questioned how Woodmere was associated with its provenance, suggested that “perhaps his lifelong support of the Jewish community might be further acknowledgement of guilt feelings.”
S
o many evenings throughout the early winter, the waves can have a thunderous effect along Chicago’s lakefront, as strong, cold winds set them pounding against concrete barriers. This sight and sound of the relentless presence of nature in its most glorious form always seemed to give Jason Stone a renewed energy. But by February, a thick coating of white ice will often blanket the waters, offering a quieter, though equally ominous view, and Jason would be drawn to the peace and tranquility of that scene. It helped him to put in perspective the demands of his own schedule. Depositions and documents, the essence of his day as a lawyer, seemed as ephemeral as the imprint of the cars also in his sight, dashing and disappearing along Lake Shore Drive in the rush hour. Within minutes it gave Jason the feeling of contentment that he sought, proud to live in this fascinating location on the city’s Gold Coast.
Inside the residence, Lara Stone had finally found a moment to glance at the paper, as she slowly stirred the fresh pasta marinade she was preparing on the stove. She actually set the
Tribune
so close to the burner that she had to wipe the spattering red sauce from the front page section. It was then that she saw it. It was the article on the Woodmere Foundation and the picture of Sylvie Hunt that caught her eye. Lara took a minute to process what she was reading. Then she called to her husband— “Jason,” she said once, and then louder a second time, so he could hear her across the rooms. When he was nearer, she began. “Remember the woman on the first day of school?—You’ve got to see this article.”
Jason looked over her shoulder, as she continued. “Remember, I told you about Sylvie Hunt—mother of Jessica Hunt—the mother who was a little too interested in Marcus, who offered some incomprehensible apology the next week.” She looked back at him and saw she had more than captured his attention. “Well, this is her—here. Dr. Sylvie Woodmere Hunt—there’s a whole story about her family.”
Jason, responding immediately to the repetition of that familiar name, moved closer to his wife to better view the article, while she read it to him.
Again—the names—and now the painting itself in the paper—with controversy. He was done with niceties. He would digest all of this overnight, but tomorrow he would be determined—he needed to meet with his mother, and, if need be, he would confront her about this. Whatever memories they may stir for her—he needed to know what all this meant to him.
Jason’s assistant was surprised at his unusual late arrival, and later, when all things were revealed, would remember his uncharacteristic frenetic manner, request to get his mother on the line and then to arrange a lunch reservation for three people at a nearby restaurant. She overheard him almost demand that his mother meet him there and then witnessed a similar, but less hostile, call to his wife.
And in a booth, in a corner of La Fontaine Restaurant in Chicago’s Loop, Rachel finally told him her story (his story)—the whole story, with its love and disappointment and then its happy ending—her son, Jason. “Oh, sweetheart, your memories are valid,” she began. “I had no idea the strong specific images you held of that brief visit to the Woodmere Estate. You have to understand, that I had never been there myself until that day, and then I found it so unnerving and disappointing that I refused to think further about Court as your father and proceeded with marrying Richard and having him adopt you. You may remember that after that day, I never called you Rusty again; you were only Jason. Even I had no idea of the roots of your birth father until that day. And until you just showed me this article, I never knew the story of his decline.”
When Jason responded, he turned to his wife Lara to speak, his back symbolically to his mother. “My mother would never talk about my father. She always told me that I was special, ‘the child of a beautiful love.’ And I accepted that—remember that at six or seven, I was adopted by Richard Stone, and I had a wonderful life, feeling safe, secure, and loved. By the time I was old enough to perhaps want to search for my father, I was old enough to understand the social history during the 1960s and I thought maybe she was involved in ‘free love’ or a commune and maybe she just didn’t know who he was.”
Now he turned back to his mother and tried to put tenderness in his words, although there was a palpable edge to his tone. “I was old enough to know that my strong mom did not deserve to be denigrated by my researching my birth father. And my true father, Richard, who raised me with such devotion, deserved my faithfulness. In truth, he was such a distinguished man that I was afraid he might not know about my mother’s past, that he might love her less if I disturbed whatever story she had told him.”
He was almost crying and both women ached to see him in such pain. His mother could barely offer her words through her own choked emotions. “Jason, darling, I am so sorry that you held your questions in, and especially that you did it to protect my privacy. Your maturity has always amazed me.”
And although he hated to see her anguished, he knew he had to continue. “But, my God, how naïve I was. Don’t you understand what this means—forget the provenance of the painting—it is not a living thing— what about me? What about my provenance? My real father was what—anti-Semitic. He came from Nazi sympathizers. This is my heritage—this is my provenance? No thank you—give me ignorance—knowledge isn’t power; it is devastation.”
And now, he did finally look directly at his mother as he spoke. “You raised me with a proud Jewish identity. But here is the truth now—here is my true provenance. I am the son and grandson of anti-Semites and I should have known sooner.
“My memories were kept alive for a purpose—that one day, in my complacency for my good and privileged life, one day when I would return home from my good job to my beautiful wife and healthy, handsome son— just as I reveled in my contentment—that I would be knocked down to the lowest level of existence. I don’t come from a proud heritage—I come from filth.
“That woman, Sylvie, from what you told me, now everything is clear—names and places and events. She was living at the Woodmere Estate with her father and my father, Court. Sylvie, my afternoon playmate, who would recognize my son, my young double, years later, actually is my half sister.”
S
arah Dressner was enjoying her morning cup of coffee before her busy day would begin. Thankful for her good health, she wanted to treasure every moment and breath and help others when she could. And so she was finishing her daily routine before taking the bus to the nursing home where she was a volunteer. There, she would read portions of the newspaper to her eager following, knowing that maybe soon she would be a listener herself.
And so it was her custom to sip her coffee and peruse the paper for the most interesting articles to share with the residents of the home. And then she saw it. It was common that stories involving the provenance of Holocaust-era paintings not only appeared in local papers, but also circulated in the Jewish press around the world, and especially in Israel. In her hand was a photograph of the painting he had left with her almost seventy years ago.
Jeune Fille à la Plage,
by Henri Lebasque, was back in her life once more.
She became excited, almost frantic. Her eyes were tearing and she could barely read—but there was no one to turn to for help. Her husband, Gabriel, was gone for many years now, and her children and grandchildren lived in Tel Aviv. She wiped her eyes; she had not been overcome like this for a long time.
This was the painting that her first true love, Taylor Woodmere, had given her to hold on to until they could be reunited. And once again, as so often in the intervening decades, she relived the timeline. She had met Taylor in Paris in 1937, when she was only seventeen and proud to accompany her father on a business trip. She and Taylor had made an instant connection and he followed her to Berlin. He was honest when they first met that he had actually bought the painting for Emily Kendall, his girlfriend back home. But soon after they met, he knew it was meant for her, just as he was meant for her. He had left the painting for her, until both she and the painting made their way home, back to him in Chicago. In the time they spent together, she returned those same wondrous emotions. And she would carry the memory of the passion of a first true love throughout her life.
After their brief, whirlwind romance, he returned to America, and they both planned that she would be joining him in the near future. But circumstances of history and war intervened. And so it was that the painting hung in the Berger house for a year until it accompanied her aboard the ill-fated ship to America, the
St. Louis.
How ironic, she thought now, that this painting made it back to him and she did not.
For when they docked in Cuba, only certain passengers and some cargo with American tags were allowed to reach their destinations. The great majority of passengers were returned to Europe. Later, even she would learn from statistics the Holocaust Museum would reveal that 908 passengers were returned to Europe on the
St. Louis
and over 250 died in the Holocaust.
In truth, while Sarah never knew if the painting had made it back to America, she did know that Taylor had eventually married Emily. It was years before Sarah could finally resurface following her experiences in the war. After being sent back on the
St. Louis,
she spent the remainder of the war years maintaining the identity of Liesel Schultz. Just as the leader on the ship had foreseen, with Gentile looks and her affinity for children, she was a strong asset to the Resistance Movement. Eventually, she made her way to Palestine, helping to establish the new State of Israel. Although she was happy and settled in the routines of her new reality, she made inquiries about Taylor. She was so changed then, no longer the innocent, young girl with whom he had fallen in love. She could understand that after so much time had passed Taylor had probably thought he had lost her and so he had returned to his life. She did not blame him at all. She thanked him silently for her wonderful memories, for adding to her will to survive. She became devoted to building the new land, accepting and returning the love of a fellow Resistance leader, but never forgetting the flames of passion and desire that Taylor had first ignited in her.
Sarah smiled to herself as these wonderful, strong memories were allowed to return to her. It had been years since she had focused on that period in her life, but now she knew she could not read this and sit idly in her reverie—she had a responsibility to set the record straight. Taylor Woodmere did not deserve this treatment. He was a good, compassionate man, and she needed to clear up any misunderstanding and to clear his name.
Within hours after a phone call, her daughter and son-in-law rushed to Haifa, to her side. Parts of this story were not unfamiliar to them; Sarah had been generally open about her personal history and the Holocaust. Even the name Taylor Woodmere was not new to them, as she had told them of his efforts to bring her to America before the war. But she was always vague regarding their romantic involvement.
The following day, her son-in-law was able to connect with the appropriate authorities so that Sarah could detail over the phone and eventually by certified letter that this painting was indeed the property of Taylor Woodmere. She explained that she knew Gerta as a neighbor and appreciated her concern in the matter, but that Gerta did not know the whole story.
But most importantly, she felt she needed to contact Taylor Woodmere directly.
