This Is How It Begins by Joan Dempsey

Author:Joan Dempsey
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: She Writes Press
Published: 2017-10-19T04:00:00+00:00

In the study, holding the phone in a tremulous hand, Ludka stood staring at Gela Seksztajn’s sullen boy, so perfectly rendered—so grim—and for the first time, she began to understand Izaac’s impulse to replace the Lebenstein with Stanislawsky’s Irises.

“So this is it,” she said. “All of that about taking gallery in a new direction and worrying for your grandfather was excuse to scope out house.”

“That about sums it up. Listen, I can give you some time. Say about two weeks? I’m not wholly unreasonable.”

Ludka gripped the receiver. Her chest felt tight.

“You think I have this money? Under mattress, perhaps?”

“Of course not. That’s what insurance is for. Report it stolen, get the money, give it to me, get your painting back. Simple.”

They did have insurance, an excellent policy, but only for the paintings they legally owned. Provenance papers and qualified appraisals had been required.

“If I was museum, maybe, but I am person only. Nothing is this simple.”

“Sure it is. Get me the money or I tell the authorities. I know it’s not yours. The FBI thinks some Nazi has this painting. So do your friends over at the Commission for Art Recovery.”

Ludka had to sit down. She sat poised on the edge of the love seat, as if she might have to hurriedly stand. Of course she had thought about the possibility of prosecution, but not for many years, and always it had been easy to trick herself into believing she was safe—only one other person knew about the Chopin, after all. She’d always assumed she could choose to unveil the painting in whatever manner she wished, the story hers to tell, perhaps even after she died, a codicil she imagined attaching to her will at the last possible moment. But Oskar had apparently grown careless. She laid a hand over her throat and closed her eyes. She lowered her voice to a near whisper.

“And if I don’t care about reputation, or prosecution?”

The hair on her arms rose. She hadn’t known she was going to say this. Stanley said nothing. From the dining room, laughter. Could it be as easy as this, then? After seventy years, could she simply surrender? When Stanley still didn’t speak after a long moment, Ludka began to wonder if she might be gaining the upper hand; he clearly hadn’t considered the possibility that she might just let him have it.

“Do whatever you have to do,” Oskar had said to her before they’d all scattered, when it was finally clear that further hope was absurd. “Please. Just save yourself. Promise me. We’ll find each other.”

She had promised, but it bothered her that she couldn’t remember if this was all she had said. There was just a vague memory of his rough cheek dashed against her own, the smell of char and oily hair and damp wool. And then he was gone. Two days later the Nazis imprisoned him at Pawiak.

“Tell me the truth, Stanley,” said Ludka now. “Where is your grandfather?”

“I don’t know where he is: Poland, New York, San Francisco? Like I said, he couldn’t be bothered to tell us.

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