Page 45 of The Girl You Left Behind
“It was Mr. Dreschler. He told them. I always knew he told them. And he called my father his friend!” His hands tremble on his knees.
“Yes, well, we’ve looked into Mr. Dreschler’s records, and there are a number of unexplained trades with the Germans—one that refers simply to a Degas. But the dates and the fact that there can’t have been many in your area at the time does add weight to your argument.”
He turns slowly to face his son.You see?his expression says.
“Well, Mr. Nowicki, last night I had a response from the gallery. Do you want me to read it?”
“Yes.”
Dear Mr. McCafferty,
In light of the new evidence provided, and our own gaps in provenance, as well as our discovery of the extent of the suffering endured by Mr. Nowicki’s family, we have decided not to contest the claim forFemme, dansantby Degas. The trustees of the gallery have instructed their lawyers not to proceed further, and we await your instructions with regards to the transfer of the physical item.
Paul waits.
The old man seems lost in thought. Finally he looks up. “They are giving it back?”
He nods. Paul cannot keep the smile from his face. It has been a long and testing case, and its resolution has been gratifyingly swift.
“They are really giving it back to us?”
“You have only to let them know where you want it sent.”
There is a long silence. Jason Nowicki lifts the heels of his hands and wipes tears from his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t know why...”
“It’s not unusual.” Paul pulls a box of tissues from under his desk and hands it to him. “These cases are always emotional. It’s never just a painting.”
“It’s been such a long time coming. The loss of that Degas has been like a constant reminder of what my father, my grandparents suffered in the war. And I wasn’t sure you...” He blows out his cheeks. “It’s amazing. Tracking down that man’s family. They said you were good, but—”
He and Jason look at the old man, who is still staring at the image of the painting. He seems to have diminished in size, as if the weight of the events of several decades ago have come crushing down on him. The same thought seems to cross both their minds at once.
“Are you okay, Dad?”
“Mr. Nowicki?”
He straightens a little, as if only just remembering that they are there. His hand is resting on the photograph.
Paul sits back in his chair, his pen a bridge between his hands. “So. Returning the painting. I can recommend a specialist art-transport company. And I would also suggest you insure it before it comes to you. I don’t need to tell you that a painting such as this is—”
“Do you have contacts at the auction house?”
“I’m sorry?”
Mr. Nowicki has regained his color. “Do you have contacts at any auction houses? I spoke to one a while back, but they wanted too much money. Twenty percent, I think it was. Plus tax. It’s too much.”
“You... want to get it valued for insurance?”
“No. I want to sell it.” He opens his battered leather wallet without looking up and slides the photograph inside. “Apparently this is a very good time to sell. Foreigners are buying everything....” He waves a hand dismissively.
Jason is staring at him. “But, Dad...”
“This has all been expensive. We have bills to pay.”
“But you said—”
Mr. Nowicki turns away from his son. “Can you look into it for me? I’m assuming you will invoice me your fee.”
