Portrait of a Woman in White by Susan Winkler

Author:Susan Winkler
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: She Writes Press
Published: 2014-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

• 14 •

France, August, 1940

Claude Bessett stood at the window of his art gallery on the rue La Boétie, pretending to examine his manicured hands. In reality, he was having a conversation with himself about whether to check up on Henri Rosenswig’s gallery, as his friend had requested before he’d locked up and left Paris in the chaos of the June exodus. Henri had given Claude a key, which Claude had used the next day to remove the best of Henri’s works to his own gallery for safekeeping. Then the Nazis had arrived and he’d dared not use the key again. That had been two months earlier.

The rue La Boétie has not been the same since, Claude thought wistfully as he looked down the empty, cheerless street. Since thousands of Parisians had fled the city, it felt almost lonely. Those who had remained preferred to stay indoors, now that the Germans were running things, and why not? It was altogether less interesting with so many galleries closed. Every day it seemed another one was declared abandoned and requisitioned by the Reich. So far, the Nazis had seized only Jewish art collections. Thank God my own Galerie Bessett is free to carry on, at least for the moment; to be on good terms with the Nazis is essential for my survival.

Claude’s indecision made him wince. Henri was depending on him, would do the same for Claude if it were necessary. But should Claude risk everything to help an unfortunate colleague?

Claude pulled open the drawer to his desk where the key to Henri’s gallery lay. He took it out and began flipping it from side to side in his palm, studying it. Then he sighed and put the key in his back pocket. He prayed that all would go well.

It was dusk; if he delayed any longer, it would be too dark to see indoors. He stepped outside as though preparing to lock up for the night. His eyes darted left, then right. With no one in sight, he strode boldly across La Boétie and down the block, slowing at the picture windows of the Galerie H. Rosenswig. Fortunately for Henri, the building was not boarded up; it had not been requisitioned. If it had been, Claude would have had every excuse to give up and go home.

He knew he could tell nothing more from outside; Henri had emptied the front gallery of artwork before his departure, to give the impression that his entire inventory had been removed. The paintings Claude was to check on would be stored in the far back stacks, along with Henri’s gallery furniture. He pushed himself right up to the gallery entrance, hoping the wide door frame would partially conceal him from any eyes on the street. As he reached back for the key in his pocket, he had only one thought: What I am doing is madness!

He hesitated just long enough to feel a strong grip on his right upper arm twist his elbow back all the way to his shoulder, which was being wrenched, excruciatingly, from its socket.

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