Restitution (23 page)

On and on he went, turning the cards over, reflecting on their meaning, and then moving on to the next. By the time he had finished the reading, he felt at peace with the process and with his upcoming trip. There would be some excitement brewing ahead, as evidenced by some of the cards. But the reading had suggested that this was a journey that was important for him, and one for which he was prepared. Skill, creativity, intuition, and passion: those were the qualities that would see him through.

Lennon's voice was still singing from the radio.
The station must be playing a retrospective of his work
, Theo thought. Knowing that John Lennon also had an interest in mysticism – dreams and nightmares – had further endeared him to Theo, along with the fact that Lennon had also expressed an affinity for Hieronymus Bosch. Lennon had once said, “I dream in color and it's always very surreal. My dream world is complete Hieronymus Bosch and Dali. I love it. I look forward to it every night.”
¹⁰
When Theo had first read that quote in a book of Lennon sayings, he had been dumbfounded. He saw this as another association that drew the two of them together. Lennon would be with him on this journey, an additional spiritual guide.

As Theo prepared for bed on the eve of his departure to Prague, he felt confident that his mission would be successful. He was Theo Král – the king – in this case, the king of smugglers. And while others might see that proclamation as tremendously arrogant, for Theo it was simply the truth.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Zurich–Prague, May 22, 1989

KARL ADJUSTED his airline seat into a reclining position and closed his eyes, trying to take advantage of the only solitude he might have for some time. He was on a Swissair flight from Istanbul to Zurich, a two-hour journey. He would spend one day in Zurich and then board a plane for Prague. But it was difficult to relax. His mind beckoned him back and forth in time, a siren call to the events of the preceding weeks, and those that lay ahead.

He had been fully engaged in the tour of Turkey, immersing himself in history and photography as he always loved doing, and enjoying this fascinating country. He had explored archeological sites, museums, mosques, and scenic countryside in a jam-packed tour from Ankara to Istanbul. But as captivating as Phyllis's itinerary had been, Karl had often felt his mind turning to the pending trip to Prague and his meeting with the grandson of Alois Jirák. At the thought of Jan Pekárek, Karl felt a fresh stirring of anxiety and uncertainty. Pekárek had never responded to Karl's reply letter in which he had indicated that he was coming for this visit.

So many things could have gone wrong already, Karl thought. Perhaps his letter had never arrived in Prague. It was entirely possible that it had been opened and confiscated by the secret police who regularly tampered with the mail. In that case, who knew what might have already happened to Mr. Pekárek? He might have been interrogated or arrested for trying to conceal valuable goods from the government. In another scenario, Karl imagined that perhaps Pekárek had received the letter but was too anxious to go any further. One letter confessing to the fate of the paintings might have been enough and now, in response to Karl's eager reply, perhaps Mr. Pekárek wanted to withdraw his offer to finally reunite Karl with his family's property, and regretted that he had even initiated the process.

But, more than anything else, Karl feared that by now the paintings had already found their way into the hands of the Communists. If Pekárek had indeed begun to inquire as to how to get the paintings out of the country, then the authorities may well have become suspicious. It was unlikely that anyone would put forward such a request if they didn't have property of value to inquire about. Could he come this close to fulfilling Marie's dream only to have it dissolve into thin air once more?

On top of that, Karl was feeling skeptical of Jan Pekárek's offer to return the paintings. What motive would he have for contacting Karl after so many years? Was he after a reward? Karl wanted to believe that Pekárek's intentions were genuine. But with Alois Jirák's history, Karl worried that his grandson might be similarly deceptive. It was entirely possible that Karl was traveling all this way, possibly risking his own safety, only to discover that Jan Pekárek had some kind of an ulterior motive.

If that were not enough to consume his thoughts, Karl was also wondering what Prague would be like upon his arrival. The Prague of his memory reflected its rich history dating back more than a thousand years: buildings with gilded archways, concert halls where world-famous musicians had once performed, baroque statues, and tree-lined parks. That memory was interrupted with a vision of how Prague had been transformed by goose-stepping Nazi soldiers marching along banner-lined streets in a terrifying display of propaganda and pageantry. Karl had visited Czechoslovakia once briefly, when Phyllis had arranged a photo tour there in 1985. Despite the beauty that was still in evidence throughout the country, there were also noticeable signs of the oppression the country was enduring under Communist rule. Buildings were neglected and in disrepair. Goods of any kind were in short supply. The people looked solemn and disconsolate.

Phyllis had been encouraging and supportive when Karl had said good-bye to her in Istanbul earlier that morning. “You're doing something wonderful for your family,” she had reminded him. “Your mother would be so proud,” she added, watching Karl pack his things at their hotel. At the same time, she couldn't help but voice some concerns. “I'm worried about you being in Prague and doing something illegal.” At that, her eyes penetrated Karl's, searching for reassurance, answers, anything to allay her fears. Karl returned her stare calmly.

“I won't do anything foolish,” he had replied, though he wasn't even certain what he
would
be doing. There was absolutely no blueprint for this trip, just a series of ideas and possibilities. He couldn't confess this uncertainty to his wife. She was worried enough already. “And I will try to call you as often as I can, just to let you know I'm all right,” he had added reassuringly. He knew he wouldn't be able to discuss much with Phyllis over the telephone. Everyone knew that phones in Prague were wiretapped, and anyone and everyone could be watched.

Phyllis tried to smile. “If it were up to me, I would never have tried to go after the paintings. I would have abandoned this plan from the start. But you were always the brave one – and persistent! You can't let things go. I guess you have more of your mother in you than you think.”

Those words echoed in Karl's ears as his plane touched down in Zurich and he disembarked and headed for his hotel. A fax from his son, Ted, was waiting for him when he checked in. The reply letter from Jan Pekárek had arrived in Toronto after Karl and Phyllis had already left for Turkey. That was good news. It meant that Pekárek was still engaged in the process of trying to return the paintings. However, the letter did not contain the news that Karl had hoped to receive. In it, Mr. Pekárek acknowledged that he had begun to inquire about the procedures necessary to receive permission to export the paintings. He explained that it would have to be determined that Karl was the legal heir of Victor and Marie Reiser. Karl would have to produce death certificates for his parents along with birth certificates for himself and his sister. Documents were also required to prove that Victor and Marie were Czech citizens at the time of their death. That, in and of itself, could be enough to bring Karl's efforts to retrieve the paintings to a grinding halt.

As soon as the legal ownership of the paintings was determined, a “judicial adjuster” would have to be appointed by the government to assess the value of the paintings. They would then impose a tax – a percentage of their assessed value – that Karl would have to pay. The National Gallery would then have to grant permission for the paintings to be exported. Finally, export permits would have to be issued by the customs department. The entire process was onerous and did not at all guarantee that, at the end of the day, Karl would receive authorization to have the paintings leave the country, even if he did meet the requirements and pay the tariff. Recognizing that the situation was complicated, Jan Pekárek stated that he had contacted a solicitor who was an expert on the “affairs of the property of foreigners.” This person had confirmed all of the stated requirements and had expressed his willingness to meet with Karl during his stay in Prague. He also warned that the process of settling the matter would be a long one – not something that was going to be completed in the short time that Karl was in Czechoslovakia.

As Karl read the fax, his heart began to sink. The conditions were overwhelming and daunting – simply impossible! Even if he were able to produce the required documentation, he knew that once this matter was in the hands of the Czech authorities there was little chance that they would actually release the paintings, particularly if the National Gallery assessed their value to be substantial. And Karl knew that the paintings were indeed valuable. He read the fax again, realizing that the prospect of reclaiming the paintings was slipping away. Given that Jan Pekárek had already begun a process of investigating the procedures necessary to export the artwork, Karl was more convinced than ever that the Czech authorities had already taken possession of them. It was even more disheartening that this news was reaching Karl on the eve of his departure from Zurich to Prague. Had he traveled all this way only to discover that his goal was unattainable?

As soon as he settled into his room, Karl picked up the telephone and called Ted in Toronto. Karl's voice was tired and resigned as he voiced his concerns and apprehensions to his son. “I'm troubled by the whole matter,” Karl said. “There are at least a dozen obstacles facing me right now, and each one of them is complicated.”

“I agree,” said Ted. “But I've already contacted someone I know at the Department of External Affairs in Ottawa, a man named Lynch. He's with the legal advisory division there.” Ted was typically practical and matter-of-fact, traits that Karl needed at this time. Doubts and misgivings would not service this project.

“I don't trust the lawyer that Pekárek has contacted in Prague, notwithstanding his supposed expertise in foreign property affairs,” said Karl. For that matter, he did not trust anyone in Prague. Most people there had ties to the government, or, if they didn't actively support the Communists, then they were likely under suspicion from them. Either way, this contact was unreliable. Both Ted and Karl agreed that the only way in which this plan had any possibility of succeeding was to seek legal advice from someone with the Canadian government.

“Mr. Lynch has suggested someone in his department who is an expert in dealing with estate matters in Eastern Europe,” Ted continued. “He's willing to forward Pekárek's letter to the Canadian embassy in Prague and see if the ambassador there can advise you in some way. After all, the embassy is there to look after the welfare of Canadians. Perhaps they would be willing to assist you in retrieving the paintings – without all the Communist nonsense and red tape.”

As Ted and Karl continued strategizing, Karl experienced a resurgence of hope. It was good to talk to his son, and energizing to brainstorm some ideas to move the plan forward. At the end of their conversation, Karl decided that he would personally contact the embassy and seek the counsel of the ambassador. “I'm going to try to make an appointment with him for when I'm there,” Karl said. “I need to meet with someone face-to-face and see if there is anyone who can really help me with this.”

“Your grandson is over eleven pounds,” Ted said as he and his father concluded their conversation. “That's more than double his birth weight!”

Karl laughed. “Send him and Elizabeth my love,” he said, referring to Ted's wife. “I'll keep you posted on my progress here.”

As soon as he hung up, Karl dialed information to get the telephone number of the embassy in Prague. He was soon connected with the office of Chargé d'affaires Robert G. McRae. Keeping details to a minimum, Karl explained that he would be in Prague for a few days, and was requesting an appointment. A meeting was scheduled for May twenty-fourth at two o'clock.

Karl's plane touched down in Prague and he collected his belongings and joined the line moving through passport control. It was long, and many ahead of him were being stopped and interrogated by the police. Karl checked and rechecked his papers; he could not afford for anything to go wrong at this point. When it was his turn, he handed over his documents and politely answered the questions about where he was from, and the purpose of his visit, silently giving thanks once more that the organizers of his high school reunion had inadvertently but conveniently planned the event for this time – a perfect reason to be entering the country. The border official scrutinized his passport and visa, and then scrupulously rummaged through his suitcase. Finally, he stamped Karl's documents and waved him through the line.

During the taxi ride to his hotel Karl observed the city. Prague had suffered considerably less damage during the war than most other European cities in the region. But things had changed. The splendor of this city now lay hidden under a cloud of neglect. When the Communists had descended, Prague had plunged into disrepair. The once stately buildings that had been its landmarks, majestically towering over the streets and waterways, were now gray and aged, almost sagging under the layers of soot and dirt that had settled on them over the years. In place of fine architectural apartment buildings, the Communists had built tall, box-like concrete structures to house the people of the city, each one identical and uniformly drab. The citizens of Prague looked as worn down and dull as their surroundings. They walked quickly on overcrowded sidewalks, robotic, heads down, minding their own business. Broken-down motorbikes crawled along the congested streets, and were chased by dilapidated Å koda and Lada automobiles that spewed black exhaust from engines sputtering like rapid gunfire at every turn. There were no military officers, not uniformed ones at any rate, but Karl knew that the members of State Security were everywhere, spying on the movements of their citizens and their visitors. Karl's frame of reference for the past fifty years had been the freedom of Toronto, and it was unsettling at first to think that he might be watched.