‘Ah, hell. Look. I just want you to
think about it. I – I just don’t want you to lose everything on a matter of
principle.’
‘Oh. So all this is about looking out
for me. Right.’
He rubs his forehead, as if he’s
trying to keep his temper. And then he shakes his head. ‘You know what? I
don’t think this is about the painting at all. I think this is about your
inability to move on. Giving up the painting means leaving David in the past. And you
can’t do that.’
‘I’ve moved on! You know I moved
on! What the hell do you think last night was about?’
He stares at her. ‘You know what? I
don’t know. I really don’t know.’
When she pushes past him to leave he
doesn’t try to stop her.
Two hours later, Liv sits in the taxi
watching Henry demolish a coffee and a Danish pastry, her stomach in knots. ‘Got
to get the kids to school,’ he says, spraying crumbs through his legs.
‘Never have time for breakfast.’
She is in a dark grey tailored jacket, a
flash of bright blue shirt underneath it. She wears these clothes like armour. She wants
to say something but her jaw appears to have wired itself shut. She no longer has
nerves: she is one giant nerve. If someone touched her she might twang.
‘Guaranteed that just as you sit down
with a mug of coffee one of them will come in demanding toast or porridge or
whatnot.’
She nods mutely. She keeps hearing
Paul’s voice.
These works were all stolen.
‘I think for about a year I ate
whatever I could grab from the bread bin on the way out. Got quite fond of raw crumpets,
actually.’
There are people outside the court. A small
crowd is milling in front of the main steps. At first she thinks it must be a group of
sightseers – but Henry reaches for her arm as she steps out of the taxi. ‘Oh,
Christ. Keep your head down,’ he says.
‘What?’
As her foot meets the pavement, the air is
filled with blinding flashes. She is briefly paralysed. Then Henry’s
arm is propelling her forward, past the jostling men’s elbows,
her own name shouted in her ear. Someone thrusts a piece of paper into her free hand and
she can hear Henry’s voice, the faint tone of panic as the crowd seems to close
around her. She is surrounded by a jumble of jackets, and the dark, fathomless
reflection of huge lenses. ‘Stand back, everybody, please. Stand back.’ She
glimpses the flash of brass on a policeman’s uniform, shuts her eyes and feels
herself shoved sideways, Henry’s grip tightening on her arm.
Then they are in the silent courts, heading
through Security, and she is on the other side, blinking at him in shock.
‘What the hell was that?’ She is
breathing hard.
Henry smoothes his hair, and turns to peer
out through the doors. ‘The newspapers. I’m afraid the case seems to have
attracted an awful lot of attention.’
She straightens her jacket, then looks
round, just in time to see Paul striding in through the Security. He is wearing a pale
blue shirt and dark trousers and looks utterly unruffled. Nobody has bothered him. As
their eyes meet she gives him a look of mute fury. His stride slows, just a fraction,
but his expression does not alter. He glances behind him, his papers tucked under his
arm, and continues in the direction of Court Two.
It is then that she sees the piece of paper
in her hand. She unfolds it carefully.
The possession of that which the Germans took is a CRIME. End the suffering of
the Jewish people. Return what is rightfully theirs. Bring justice before it is
TOO LATE.
‘What’s that?’ Henry peers
over her shoulder.
‘Why did they give me this? The
claimants aren’t even Jewish!’ she exclaims.
‘I did warn you that wartime looting
is a very inflammatory subject. I’m afraid you may find all sorts of interest
groups latching on to it, whether they’re directly affected or not.’
‘But this is ridiculous. We
didn’t steal the damn painting. It’s been ours for over a decade!’
‘Come on, Liv. Let’s head over
to Court Two. I’ll get someone to fetch you some water.’
The press area is packed. She sees the
reporters, wedged in beside each other, muttering and joking, flipping through the
day’s newspapers before the judge arrives; a herd of predators, relaxed but
intent, watching for their prey. She scans the benches for anybody she recognizes from
the scrum. She wants to stand up and shout at them.
This is a game to you,
isn’t it? Just tomorrow’s fish-and-chip paper.
Her heart is
racing.
The judge, Henry says, settling into his
seat, has experience in such cases and is scrupulously fair. He is uncharacteristically
vague when she asks him how many times he has ruled in favour of the current owners.
Each side is weighed down with fat files of
documentation, lists of expert witnesses, statements on obscure legal points of French
law. Henry, jokingly, has said that Liv now knows so much about specialist litigation
that he might offer her a job afterwards. ‘I may need it,’ she says
grimly.
‘All rise.’
‘Here we go.’ Henry touches her
elbow, gives her a reassuring smile.
The Lefèvres, two elderly men, are
already seated along the bench with Sean Flaherty, watching the proceedings in silence
as their barrister, Christopher Jenks, outlines their case. She stares at them, taking
in their dour expressions, the way they cross their arms over their chests, as if
predisposed to dissatisfaction. Maurice and André Lefèvre are the trustees of
the remaining works and legacy of Édouard Lefèvre, he explains to the court.
Their interest, he says, is in safeguarding his work, and protecting his legacy for the
future.
‘And lining their pockets,’ she
mutters. Henry shakes his head.
Jenks strolls up and down the courtroom,
only occasionally referring to notes, his comments directed at the judge. As
Lefèvre’s popularity had increased in recent years, his descendants had
conducted an audit of his remaining works, which uncovered references to a portrait
entitled
The Girl You Left Behind
, which had once been in the possession of the
artist’s wife, Sophie Lefèvre.
A photograph and some written journals have
turned up the fact that the painting hung in full view in the hotel known as Le Coq
Rouge in St Péronne, a town occupied by the Germans during the First World War.
The
Kommandant
in charge of the
town, one Friedrich Hencken, is recorded as having admired the work on several
occasions. Le Coq Rouge was requisitioned by the Germans for their personal use. Sophie
Lefèvre had been vocal in her resistance to their occupation.
Sophie Lefèvre had been arrested and
removed from St
Péronne in early 1917. At around the same time,
the painting had disappeared.
These, Jenks claims, are suggestive enough
of coercion, of a ‘tainted’ acquisition of a much-loved painting. But this,
he says emphatically, is not the only suggestion that the painting was obtained
illegally.
Evidence just obtained records its
appearance during the Second World War in Germany, at Berchtesgaden, at a storage
facility known as the Collection Point, used for stolen and looted works of art that had
fallen into German possession. He says the words ‘stolen and looted works of
art’ twice, as if to emphasize his point. Here, Jenks says, the painting
mysteriously arrived in the possession of an American journalist, Louanne Baker, who
spent a day at the Collection Point and wrote about it for an American newspaper. Her
reports of the time mention that she received a ‘gift’ or
‘memento’ from the event. She kept the painting at her home, a fact
confirmed by her family, until it was sold ten years ago to David Halston, who, in turn,
gave it as a wedding present to his wife.
This is not new to Liv, who has seen all of
the evidence under full disclosure. But she listens to the history of her painting read
aloud in court and finds it hard to associate her portrait, the little painting that has
hung serenely on her bedroom wall, with such trauma, such globally significant
events.
She glances at the press bench. The
reporters appear rapt, as does the judge. She thinks, absently, that if her whole future
did not depend on this, she would probably be rapt too. Along the bench, Paul is leaning
back, his arms crossed combatively.
Liv lets her gaze travel sideways, and he
looks straight back at her. She flushes slightly, turns away. She wonders if he will be
here for every day of the case, and if it is possible to kill a man in a packed
courtroom.
Christopher Jenks is standing before them.
‘Your Honour, it is deeply unfortunate that Mrs Halston has unwittingly been drawn
into a series of historic wrongs, but wrongs they are. It is our contention that this
painting has been stolen twice: once from the home of Sophie Lefèvre, and then,
during the Second World War, from her descendants by its illegal gifting from the
Collection Point, during a period in Europe so chaotic that the misdemeanour went
unrecorded, and, until now, undiscovered.
‘But the law, both under the Geneva
Convention and current restitution legislation, says that these wrongs must be put
right. It is our case that this painting should be restored to its rightful owners, the
Lefèvre family. Thank you.’
Henry’s face, beside her, is
expressionless.
Liv gazes towards the corner of the room
where a printed image of
The Girl You Left Behind
, reproduced to actual size,
sits on a small stand. Flaherty had asked for the painting to be placed in protective
holding while its fate was decided, but Henry had told her that she was under no
obligation to agree to that.
Still, it is unnerving to see
The
Girl
here, out of place, her gaze somehow seeming to mock the proceedings
before her. At home, Liv finds herself walking into the bedroom simply to look at her,
the intensity of her gaze heightened by the possibility that soon she will never be able
to look at her again.
The afternoon stretches. The air in the
courtroom slows and expands with the central heating. Christopher Jenks takes apart
their attempt to time-bar the claim with the forensic efficiency of a bored surgeon
dissecting a frog. Occasionally she looks up to hear phrases like ‘transfer of
title’ and ‘incomplete provenance’. The judge coughs and examines his
notes. Paul murmurs to the woman director from his company. Whenever he does, she
smiles, showing perfect, tiny white teeth.
Now Christopher Jenks begins to read:
‘15 January 1917
Today they took Sophie
Lefèvre. Such a sight you never saw. She was minding her own business down
in the cellars of Le Coq Rouge when two Germans came across the square and
dragged her up the steps and hauled her out, as if she were a criminal. Her
sister begged and cried, as did the orphaned
child of Liliane
Béthune, a whole crowd rose up and protested, but they simply brushed them
aside like flies. Two elderly people were actually knocked to the floor in the
commotion. I swear,
mon Dieu,
if there are to be just rewards in our
next life the Germans will pay dearly.They carted the girl off in a cattle truck. The mayor tried to stop them, but he
is a feeble character, these days, weakened by the death of his daughter, and
too prone to lying down with the Boche. They fail to take him seriously. When
the vehicle finally disappeared he walked into the bar of Le Coq Rouge and
announced with great pomposity that he would take it up at the highest possible
level. None of us listened. Her poor sister, Hélène, wept, her head on
the counter, her brother Aurélien ran off, like a scalded dog, and the
child that Sophie had seen fit to take in – the child of Liliane Béthune –
stood in the corner like a little pale ghost.‘Eh, Hélène will look after you,’ I told her. I bent down
and pressed a coin into her hand, but she looked at it as if she didn’t
know what it was. When she stared at me her eyes were like saucers. ‘You
must not fear, child. Hélène is a good woman. She will take care of
you.’I know there was some commotion with Sophie Lefèvre’s brother before
she left, but my ears are not good, and in the noise and chaos I missed the
heart of it. Still, I fear she has been ill-used by the Germans. I knew that
once they decided to take over Le Coq Rouge the girl was done for, but she never
would listen to me. She must have offended them in some way; she always was the
more impetuous one. I cannot condemn her for it: I suspect if the Germans were
in my house I would offend them too.Yes, I had my differences with Sophie Lefèvre, but my heart is heavy
tonight. To see her shoved on to that cattle truck as if she were already a
carcass, to imagine her future … These are dark days. To think I
should have lived to see such sights. Some nights it is hard not to believe our
little town is become a place of madness.’
In his low, sonorous voice, Christopher
Jenks ends his reading. The courtroom is still, only the sound of the stenographer
audible in the silence. Overhead a fan whirs lazily, failing to displace the air.
‘“I knew that once they decided
to take over Le Coq Rouge the girl was done for.”’ Ladies and gentlemen, I
think this diary entry tells us pretty conclusively that any relationship Sophie
Lefèvre had with the Germans in St Péronne was not a particularly happy
one.’
He strolls through the courtroom like someone
taking the air on a beachfront, casually studying the photocopied pages.
‘But this is not the only reference.
The same local resident, Vivienne Louvier, has proven to be a remarkable documenter of
life in the little town. And if we go back several months, she writes the following:
‘The Germans are taking their meals at Le Coq Rouge. They have the
Bessette sisters cooking them food so rich that the smell drifts around the
square and drives us all half mad with longing. I told Sophie Bessette – or
Lefèvre as she now is – in the boulangerie that her father would not have
stood for it, but she says there is nothing she can do.’