Precious Gifts (26 page)

“And now this one has appeared. Somehow, it found its way back to Venice and you bought it. We can only believe that it was taken with the rest of the Berger-Cohens' collection by the Nazis when they sent them away. Clearly, the dealer who sold it to you so many years ago had no idea what a treasure he had in his possession, given how little you paid for it. And now, my dear,” he said, looking at Véronique, “you have a great, great treasure in your collection. You must cherish it and take good care of it. It truly belongs in a museum.” The three of them stood looking at it in respectful silence for a long moment, and then Véronique turned to Brother Tommaso.

“But what about the Berger-Cohens? They all died in the camps?”

“I believe so. The painting obviously fell into German hands when they were taken. Sometimes it is easier to trace a work of art than a person. But from what I read, they all disappeared.” He looked respectful as he said it, and Véronique was pensive. It was such a sad story, and she felt guilty now owning a painting that had come to them in such an unhappy way. She thanked Brother Tommaso profusely for his research, and wrote a very handsome check to the monastery, and another to his private intention, for him and not the charity, and he kissed her on both cheeks. She asked him if he would keep the painting until she could arrange for shipment back to New York, and they left the monastery with the documents he had given her. She didn't say anything to Aidan as they walked back to the hotel. They were staying at the Danieli in the city this time.

“What are you thinking?” Aidan asked her, as they walked away from San Gregorio. He had expected her to be overjoyed and she wasn't. She was strangely silent, and he sensed something heavy on her mind.

“I was thinking about the Berger-Cohens, and what happened to them.” The painting made the Holocaust even more real than the museum in Berlin. Aidan nodded, and he could see how upset she was. “Maybe we could see if there is a member of the family still alive in Paris.”

“That was seventy-five years ago,” Aidan said gently. “Even if one of them did survive and returned from the camps, they'd be dead by now.” She nodded, and they walked back to the hotel in somber silence. And she was very quiet that night. They went to their favorite trattoria, but it was less lively at this time of year and Véronique looked distracted and sad.

And she was still strangely silent when they left Venice the next day. The painting had turned out to be worth a fortune, but she didn't seem to care. She felt no better than one of the Nazis who had taken it. And she told Aidan that she felt as though, owning it, there was blood on her hands.

“They're all gone now,” he told her reasonably. “You might as well enjoy it. It's a beautiful painting, like the ones your grandfather left you. And your ex-husband wanted you to have it, as a gift to you.”

“None of my grandfather's paintings were stolen from people who went to labor camps,” she said sadly, and he didn't argue with her. He could see there was no point. And she quietly went to work on her computer when they got back to her apartment in Paris. She sat there all afternoon and all night, and came to bed long after he was asleep.

And she went back to work on it the next morning and for several days. Four days later, she had culled three names from the lists she'd pored over. There were thousands of Cohens in Paris, and just as many Bergers. She had found three Berger-Cohens in Paris. She showed the list to Aidan, and called them that afternoon.

The first one was a young woman who said her family was from Alsace and had never lived in Paris. The second one was a young man who said he was a student, and he explained that his parents were Paxed by French law and were never married. His mother was named Berger and his father Cohen, and they had combined the name for him. And at the third number, a young woman answered. She said that her name was Henriette Villier, that François Berger-Cohen was actually her grandfather, and they lived with him in his home, to take care of him, and the phone was listed in his name. She answered the questions as though she thought Véronique was a telemarketer, and seemed surprised when Véronique asked if she might come to see them, as soon as possible.

“Is something wrong?” the young woman asked, sounding scared.

“No. I believe that I may have something that belonged to your grandfather, or his family, a long time ago, and I would like to discuss it with him.”

“That's not possible,” the young woman said firmly. “His entire family died during the war. He was the only survivor, and all of their possessions were taken—their home and everything they had.”

“I know,” Véronique said softly. “Will he talk to me?”

“He is eighty-eight years old, and he's not well. He was a boy then. His mind is clear, but he may not remember the item you believe you've found,” his granddaughter explained.

“I'll bring him a photograph,” Véronique said. She had one on her computer, and could have Aidan print it for her. “May I come tomorrow?” she asked doggedly.

“I have to pick my little boy up from school,” Henriette said with a sigh. “Come at five o'clock. But please don't upset him. That was a very sad time for him. He doesn't like to talk about it.”

“I promise, I'll do my best not to upset him. I think he will want this, if it belonged to his family, to his parents.” They hung up, and she turned to Aidan with a look of wonder in her eyes. “I think I've found him, one of them. He's eighty-eight years old. So he would have been thirteen then.”

“What are you going to do?” Aidan looked worried. She had acted as though she were possessed for the past four days, since they'd been to Venice, and she had heard the story of the provenance from Brother Tommaso.

“I'm going to see him tomorrow. Will you come with me?” He nodded. He couldn't have done anything else. And he knew he had to go with her. Destiny was beckoning again.

V
éronique was anxious all day, waiting for five o'clock to come. They left her apartment at four-thirty and drove to the address in the fifteenth arrondissement, and parked the car across the street. When they got there, they saw that it was a small battered house. It looked as though it had been dignified once, but it had a beaten-down quality to it, and it needed paint and repairs. And the street was not a handsome one.

Aidan stood next to Véronique as she rang the bell. A woman in her early thirties answered the door, wearing a navy skirt and heavy sweater with a little boy standing next to her. There were cooking smells from within, and an aura of genteel poverty as they walked in. There was chipped yellowed linoleum in the front hall, with an old, worn rug over it, and a wheelchair next to the stairs.

Véronique introduced herself and Aidan as they entered. The woman put the little boy in front of the television and turned it on, and with a hesitant look, she took them both upstairs, as though she were afraid this was some kind of scam. Véronique had been so insistent that she had given in—she hoped she wasn't wrong. Some instinct had led her to allow Véronique to come and she sounded sincere and determined on the phone.

Véronique was carrying the photograph of the Bellini in a manila envelope. Her hands were cold, and she was shaking as she followed the woman up the stairs with Aidan right behind her. And Véronique had spoken to Henriette in French.

They walked down a long hall with threadbare carpeting, and the woman opened the door into a small bedroom, where an old man was sitting in a chair with a walker beside him. He was reading, and he looked up as they came in. He was wearing an old outdated suit that had seen better days. But he was clean and neat, and his eyes were clear as he looked at them.

“Pappy, these people have come to see you. They want to talk to you,” his granddaughter said, as Véronique smiled at him. He looked at her as though she might be familiar to him, and then imperceptibly he shook his head.

“I don't know you,” he said clearly.

“No, monsieur, you don't,” Véronique said quietly. “I would like to tell you a story about something I own, and ask you about it.” He nodded. He rarely had visitors and welcomed the interruption. He glanced at Aidan, and then nodded at his granddaughter. He was willing. The woman pulled up two narrow chairs for Véronique and Aidan, and she sat down on the bed. There were several small ordinary paintings on the walls, and he had a view of the garden.

Véronique told him of buying a painting in Venice on her honeymoon many years ago. “I gave it away, to my husband in a divorce, and recently the painting came back into my possession. And I have always had questions about it as to its authenticity. It appeared to be a Bellini, or might have been a good copy.” He looked at her intently as she explained. “I took it several months ago to a monastery in Venice, wanting to know more about it, and its provenance, and whether it's really a Bellini. If it was, I wanted to leave it to my children. We visited the monastery again last week, and they have traced the painting.

“It belonged to a family in Paris from around 1900, a family by the name of Berger-Cohen. In 1918 it passed to the eldest son of the original owner. And in 1940, the painting disappeared, at the same time the family…” She couldn't go on for a minute, and tears filled the old man's eyes. “The family disappeared as well,” she said in a choked voice. “The monks believed that none of the family survived, but they didn't know that for sure. I found you via the Internet. I came here to find out if you are part of that family.” The old man couldn't speak for a moment as he looked at her and tears ran down his cheeks.

“I was thirteen years old, and after school I went home with one of my friends. I came home late, and my whole family was gone. All of them, four sisters, my parents, my older brother. My sisters were younger than I. They took everyone. Neighbors hid me for a time, but the Nazis found me anyway. I had to go out at night to forage for food, the people who hid me didn't have enough food for me, too. I was sent to a different camp than my parents. None of them survived. I discovered it after the war, the Red Cross helped me.

“I was liberated from the camp I was in by the Americans when I was eighteen. I met my wife there. She was only seventeen then. And we were married a short time later. We came back to Paris. We worked very hard. She had lost all of her family, too. We waited a long time to have children. And this is my granddaughter Henriette. She takes care of me. Her father, my son, lives in Lyon. Our house, that my family was taken from, was in the sixteenth arrondissement. We have never found any of our possessions. I became a teacher, and my wife was a nurse, a very fine woman. She died three years ago.”

He pulled his sleeve up as he said it, and showed Véronique and Aidan the faded number tattooed on his arm. It brought it all alive for her, and she nearly felt sick. She could imagine him being sent to the death camp as a boy, and meeting a young girl there, and somehow surviving and finding their way together afterward.

She took the photograph out of the envelope then, and handed it to him. He was silent for a long time, lost in another world.

“It belonged to my grandfather. He left it to my father. It was in our dining room. My mother loved it.” He smiled then. “I always thought it was silly, with all those angels.” He looked at Véronique, and then at Aidan. “Yes, I remember the painting.” His eyes were two limpid pools of grief.

“I was hoping you would, although boys of thirteen don't always notice paintings. All I wanted to know is if it is indeed your family who owned it. I would like to return the painting to you. It belongs with your family, not mine. You are the rightful owner, it was stolen from you. I won't steal it from you again. It is worth a great deal of money now, many million euros. You may want to sell it, for the benefit to you and your family now. If you like, I can introduce you to people who can sell it for you, or you can sell it at auction. It will cause a great deal of excitement in the art world, particularly as it has been authenticated now by a reliable source. I will have it shipped to you if you like, or sent to a dealer directly. You and your family should talk about it and decide what you want to do.”

“You want to give it to me?” For a moment he looked confused. It had been an emotional meeting for him, and his granddaughter was sitting on the bed looking stunned. As she realized it wasn't a scam, she wondered if they were angels fallen from heaven. She was crying, too. And so was Véronique, and Aidan's eyes were damp as she touched the old man's hand.

“It belongs to you. Just as it did to your father and grandfather. You are the rightful owner of this painting, with the ‘silly angels.' ” She smiled through her tears, and so did he.

“Why are you doing this for me?” His voice was shaking.

“Because it's right. It is justice, finally, just a tiny little bit of it, after all these years.” It was going to change their lives, although he didn't know it yet. Véronique guessed that it would fetch at least five million dollars or more on the art market, from some extraordinary collector, just like the Giovanni Bellini that had sold at Sotheby's in 2010, as Brother Tommaso had said. It was a very, very rare painting with a fascinating history. “You can have your granddaughter call me, whenever you're ready, and tell me where to send it. It is in Venice with the monks now. They will ship it to you for me.”

“My mother would be happy,” he said in a quavering voice, and then he kissed Véronique on the cheek. “Thank you. Thank you for giving us back something that belonged to us. All these years, all we had, my wife, and I, were memories.”

“And now you have dreams. You can do whatever you like.” She smiled at him, and she and Aidan stood up. They had worn him out, and he had a lot to think about. He pressed Aidan's hand, and she could see that there were tears in his eyes, too. Véronique leaned down and kissed the old man's cheek then. “Goodbye, Mr. Berger-Cohen. Take good care of yourself.”

“Goodbye,” he said, sounding weak now, “and thank you. My family will be very happy.” Happier than he knew or could imagine. That kind of money was hard to visualize, in the context of the life he'd lived since he was a boy, got deported, and lost everything, his family as well. Véronique smiled and left the room, and they followed his granddaughter down the stairs to the front door. Véronique gave her all her contact information on a piece of paper.

“Let me know when you decide what you want to do. It should be sold very prestigiously. I'll be happy to help you do that.” The woman looked at her in astonishment.

“I don't know how to thank you,” she said in a shaking voice.

“You don't have to. It belongs to him,” Véronique said softly, and she and Aidan walked out into the cool air and across the street to the car. Neither of them said anything for a few minutes, and then he stopped her and looked at her.

“I can't believe you just did that.” He was thunderstruck by what had just happened.

“It was the right thing to do,” she said simply. “It belongs to him, not to me.”

“Do you realize what it's worth?” She nodded, and smiled at him. She felt light as air and happier than she'd ever been. “You know, for a rich girl, you are a very, very good person,” he said, smiling at her, as he slipped behind the wheel of the car. He pulled Véronique close to him. He had never loved anyone more in his life.

She stood looking out the window at the moonlit Seine that night, thinking of François Berger-Cohen, and of Paul, who had started it with his odd will. He had done more for all of them after his death than he had for anyone in his lifetime. He had given Timmie her homeless shelter. Juliette had the château to turn into a hotel. Joy was on her way with her acting career, with a solid manager and good parts to look forward to. Sophie had been recognized and united with her sisters, and she and her mother had a small nest egg. Bertie had finally been called to order and stopped. François Berger-Cohen had his painting back, and a fortune for his remaining years and his family, as some small compensation for what they'd been through. She was painting again. And each of them had met the person they were meant to, as a result of his gifts. She had met Aidan while pursuing the provenance of the painting he had always insisted was real, and he'd been right. Timmie had Brian, and they were perfectly suited to each other. He was a match for her feisty ways. Juliette had met Jean-Pierre while rebuilding the château, and Joy had a manager who was a good man and loved her. Paul had given each of them what they needed and wanted, and all of their dreams. He had known exactly what each of them needed. His final gifts to them were greater than anything he could have given them while alive. He had created miracles from wherever he landed in heaven, not only for his children, but for her as well.

Aidan had come up behind her while she was looking out the window, and put his arms around her.

“What are you thinking?” he asked her, but he could guess.

“About everything. How well it all turned out.” She leaned against him, and felt safe in his arms.

“You did a good day's work today,” he said, and then kissed the top of her head. “Come to bed,” he whispered, and when they climbed into her comfortable bed, he held her in his arms. He knew he would never forget the look in the old man's eyes when she told him she was giving him the painting, or in hers when she did. It had been an extraordinary gift, just like Paul's precious gifts to all of them.