Trophies of War Read online

  “Not necessarily. That’s the story I’m working on now. The art world hasn’t taken the trophy art nationalization lying down. There are people within the Russian museum community that want to do the right thing, but their government is standing in the way. They’re working, sometimes in secret, to let the public know exactly what the Russians have and where it is.”

  “I take it you’re in contact with these people?” Lyon asked.

  Beth nodded.

  Lyon was now feeling the effects of the beer which, combined with his indignation at Beth’s story, caused his mind to race. There had to be something he could do—not lawsuits and claims processes—some real action he could take.

  “Let’s go to Russia,” he blurted out.

  Beth’s fork clattered on her plate.

  “You want to go to Russia,” she said, eyebrows raised.

  “Yeah,” Lyon replied, thinking aloud. “Let’s go there. Look, in my experience it’s very easy for people to ignore you in a letter or an email … even over the phone. When they’re looking you in the eye, it’s harder for them to say no.”

  “You’re nuts,” Beth said.

  “Maybe, but I’ll pay.”

  “You’ll pay.”

  “Yeah. First class tickets and everything.”

  Beth stared without saying a word.

  “Do you read the news?” she asked, breaking the silence. “Ever heard of the murdered Russian journalists? Booby-trapped briefcases? Polonium poisoning?”

  “Yes, I’ve heard about that,” Lyon replied. “But you’re not Russian. What do they care about you? This is art we’re talking about, not state secrets. Come on, you can’t tell me it won’t help with the story you’re writing.”

  Beth took another bite of curry and chewed, looking at Lyon for a long time.

  “Any … uh, boyfriend to object?” he asked. “Other plans?”

  “No,” she replied. “What about you? Don’t you have a job to go to? Family?”

  “Nope, just sold my company. Family … is not an issue.”

  She looked at the fading tan line on Lyon’s ring finger. “Married?” she asked.

  “Separated,” he said. “It’s complicated.”

  “I’ll bet it is.”

  Lyon could tell he had her sold, so he stopped selling and waited.

  Beth shrugged.

  “Okay, let’s go to Russia.”

  13

  St. Petersburg, Russia

  Through the train window, David Lyon watched the scenery of a pine and white birch forest speed by at over 150 miles per hour as the Sapsan train flew through the Russian countryside on its four hour trip from Moscow to St. Petersburg. Every so often, there would be a break in the trees where a small village of old wooden houses clustered near the tracks. The train’s name—Peregrine Falcon—seemed apt to Lyon whose experience with train travel was the slow and unreliable Amtrak service that he used to ride when traveling to Boston or New York. He checked his watch. They had left Moscow at 6:45 a.m. and would be arriving at 10:35—thirty minutes from now.

  Lyon popped some more ibuprofen, hoping to banish his headache. After striking out at the Pushkin Museum the day before, he had treated himself and Beth to the best authentic Russian restaurant the hotel concierge had recommended. After countless zakuski plates and shots of vodka, they had stumbled back to the hotel only to get up four hours later to catch the early Sapsan to St. Petersburg. Whether it was the alcohol or the jet lag, Lyon had slept a dreamless sleep. Maybe the recurring dream was finally behind him.

  Beth had done a good job of preparing Lyon for their failure at the Pushkin. She had told him that she hadn’t had any luck finding a source inside the museum that was willing to talk to her. It was too soon to tell whether the museum staff shared the nationalism of the Russian Duma or were just nervous about talking to a journalist about a sensitive subject.

  After asking to speak with the museum director and being told it wasn’t possible, then asking for an assistant director and being given the same answer, they asked to speak to a curator. The young docent they had cornered seemed desperate to end the conversation, so she said she would check. They waited three hours before giving up. Lyon wondered how much truth there was to Beth’s story about museum people trying to help people find lost art. Telling his mother’s story to the docent seemed to have no effect. No museum official ever appeared.

  Lyon looked over at Beth, sleeping in the seat across the aisle. Had she told him the truth or had she embellished a little, hoping that her story would turn out to be more than it was? Were there really people inside Russian museums that were willing to help?

  Too late to be second-guessing, he thought. Eleven hours in the air on two flights, a full day in Moscow and now on to St. Petersburg—I’m committed.

  The public address system chimed overhead. A woman’s voice came over the speaker and announced in Russian and English that the train would soon be arriving at Moskovsky Station in St. Petersburg.

  As the train gradually slowed, Lyon could see the trees and fields outside turn into the industrial outskirts typical of every major city. He reached across the aisle and gave Beth’s shoulder a shake. She awoke with a start and let out a groan, rubbing her eyes. Lyon guessed she was feeling at least as hungover as he was.

  “Wake up, sunshine,” he said. “We’re almost there.”

  Beth groaned again. “Just leave me on the train. I don’t care where it’s going.”

  “Not a chance,” he replied. “We have a big day today.”

  The train came to a stop at a long platform and they grabbed their luggage and stepped outside. As they entered one of the main halls of the station, Beth elbowed Lyon and pointed up. The ceiling was covered in a mosaic left over from the days of the Soviet Union. Like a Communist version of the Sistine Chapel, it showed workers and kerchiefed peasant women against a brilliant blue sky, hoisting an enormous red flag with Vladimir Lenin’s face. Lyon spent a moment taking in the irony that, below this paean to the workers’ and peasants’ state, morning commuters stared into phones, clutched designer handbags and hurried to work in their calfskin loafers.

  They moved with the crowd and passed through the main entrance hall with its statue of Peter the Great. Beth had a St. Petersburg guidebook open and was looking at a city map as she walked.

  “Let’s get a taxi,” she said. “It’s too far to walk, especially dragging our luggage with us.”

  Once outside, Lyon flagged down a cab and helped the driver get their luggage into the trunk.

  “Americans?” the man asked. Lyon smiled and nodded, wondering again how it was that Russians were able to pick Americans out so easily.

  Maybe that was their problem—the Russian museums didn’t want Americans asking questions. If that was the case, this trip to St. Petersburg was going to be a waste. Once again, they were showing up unannounced at a major Russian museum, hoping that someone there would be willing to thwart their government and help Lyon find his mother’s painting, or at least point him in the right direction. They were about to visit the place that Beth said was their best bet—the museum that had received the bulk of the art collected by the Trophy Brigades.

  They got into the car and Lyon gave the taxi driver their destination. After stopping by the hotel to drop off their luggage, they were going to the crown jewel of Russian art museums: the Hermitage.

  “Let’s try a different approach this time,” Lyon said as they walked across Palace Square toward the museum. “You say you’re a reporter doing a story about the Hermitage, but don’t say any more. Hopefully, that will be enough to draw them into a conversation, then we can tell them why we’re really here.”

  “Okay,” Beth replied. She seemed to be half paying attention and was looking at the workmen that were all over the large, open square. “But … I just realized that our timing couldn’t be worse.”

  She pointed at the men, who were busy hanging Russian flags and white, blue and red bunting from ev
ery lamppost while tourists milled about. She checked the date on her phone.

  “The day after tomorrow is Victory Day. I doubt the Russians are going to be in the mood to talk about giving up their war trophies.”

  “Victory Day?” Lyon asked.

  “Yeah … Victory Day, as in victory in World War II—the day Germany surrendered,” Beth explained. “It’s a national holiday with big parades and such.”

  “Are you serious?” Lyon exclaimed. “In the US, you’d be lucky to find anyone who even knows when the Nazis surrendered and you’re telling me the Russians are still celebrating?”

  Beth nodded. “I told you, they have long memories here.”

  “Super. They’re going to be all charged up over their Army’s glorious victory and we’re going to ask them where all the stolen art is.”

  Formerly the Tsar’s private home, the Winter Palace had long been Russia’s most significant art museum. Its green and white exterior stretched along the Palace square on one side and the Neva River on the other, with gilded woodcarvings on every window, door and cornice. Lyon and Beth joined the throng of tourists who made their way into the main entrance.

  Once inside, the tourists were looking up at the high, painted ceilings and the massive marble Jordan staircase. The walls were white and covered with more gilded woodcarvings. Beth ignored the spectacle and headed straight for the information desk. Following Lyon’s plan, she introduced herself as an American reporter doing a story on the Hermitage and asked to speak to someone from the museum staff. The matronly woman behind the desk picked up the phone and spoke a few words of Russian.

  “Wait here,” she said to Beth.

  Beth gave Lyon a look as if to say, Here we go again. Lyon returned it with a grimace. He was not going to sit around for three hours like they did at the Pushkin. When the trail went cold at the Naitonal Archives and after he learned about the Soviet Trophy Brigades, Lyon was confident that if there was a way to find his mother’s painting, it would be here in Russia. Now, after striking out at the Pushkin, he was putting all his hopes in the Hermitage, where most of the trophy art ended up after the war. If they couldn’t get help here, Beth’s underground contacts would be all that’s left.

  A slender reed, Lyon thought. Hopefully this isn’t the end.

  Soon a tall man appeared and introduced himself as Andrei Kovalenko, assistant museum director. He was bald and wore big red glasses that looked odd with his drab gray suit. Beth looked surprised for a moment that someone had actually agreed to speak to her.

  “Oh, hi,” she said, extending her hand. “Beth Krasner. Sorry—do you speak English?”

  “Of course,” Kovalenko replied. He had an open, friendly face that soon turned to stone as Beth explained her true purpose for speaking with him.

  “We have completed a full inventory which you may visit on the lostart.ru web page. There’s nothing more I can do. I’m sorry.”

  “We’d just like to talk to one of your curators,” Beth pleaded. “Perhaps one that knows your French collection. Maybe they’ve seen the Manet we’re looking for, maybe they’ve seen a record from the Trophy Brigades …”

  “We have over two million items in our collection,” Kovalenko replied. “No one can possibly remember them all. Such a conversation would serve no purpose. Good luck to you.”

  He turned and walked off.

  Lyon shook his head.

  “Okay, well … that was, what five minutes?” he said. “I take it he’s not one of the people you were talking about? The museum people working behind the scenes to help heirs find their family’s property?”

  “Nope,” Beth replied, looking deflated.

  “So … we’ve tried going through the front door twice, now I think it’s time we go in the back door. Time to meet with your secret sources?” Lyon asked. “Otherwise, that’s it, we should just go home.”

  “Yes,” Beth answered. “But, we’re here … we might as well look at some art.”

  She grabbed an English visitor’s guide from the information desk and opened it up.

  “Come on,” she said, pulling on Lyon’s sleeve. “There’s something I want to show you.”

  They made their way up to the third floor, where the ornate decorations disappeared and the plain white walls looked more like a normal art museum and less like a palace. Beth consulted the visitors guide and took them to a room full of French Impressionist paintings.

  As crowded as the main entrance was downstairs, the Hermitage was so big that there were only a few people in the room. Security was also very light—after a few minutes, Lyon and Beth were alone. Beth scanned the walls.

  “There,” she said. “See that painting? It’s one of his lesser works and his style is not so obvious, but see if you can guess the artist.”

  Lyon looked at the painting, a portrait of a woman in a fur-trimmed coat, but drew a blank. He shrugged and moved closer to read the plaque.

  “Ha!” he exclaimed. “Édouard Manet, Portrait of Mademoiselle Isabelle Lemonnier.”

  “Formerly in a private German collection,” Beth said. “Taken by the Russians.”

  “Now look over here,” she said, leading Lyon to the other end of the room. They were in front of a painting hanging on the wall that was roughly three feet by four feet. “Degas. Place de la Concorde.”

  Lyon took a closer look. The painting’s subject was explained by the alternate title on its plaque: ‘Viscount Lepic and his Daughters Crossing the Place de la Concorde’. A bearded man in a black top-hat was captured mid-stride as he crossed the great Parisian square, his two daughters and their dog with him, though they appeared to be going nowhere in particular. The open space of the Place de la Concorde was painted in gold as if the stones were reflecting a sunset. It looked to Lyon like it was a photograph that had been painted instead of captured on film—a candid painting if there was such a thing.

  “Nice,” Lyon said.

  “Yes, but the story behind it is why I wanted to show it to you,” Beth said. “For years, this painting was believed lost—possibly destroyed during World War Two. Then, with all the publicity surrounding trophy art after the fall of the Soviet Union, it re-appeared—here, in the collection of the Hermitage. It had been hidden for decades and even the scholars at the museum didn’t know it was here. It was once part of a private German collection, then the Russians took it. Now they’ve nationalized it and it’s part of the permanent collection here.”

  “Unbelievable,” Lyon replied. “It’s just hanging on the wall like it has every reason to be here.”

  “See that stone wall in the background, behind Lepic and his daughters?” Beth said. “Beyond that is the Tuileries Garden. You can’t see it through the trees that Degas has painted, but the Jeu de Paume museum is back there.”

  Lyon shook his head and chuckled.

  “So, here’s a painting from a German collection … that was taken during the war by the Russians … that’s a picture of the spot where the Nazis stole art from the French?” Lyon asked.

  “Pretty much,” Beth replied.

  “Crazy,” Lyon replied. “It’s like everything is connected.”

  After spending a few hours in the museum as tourists, Lyon and Beth walked down Nevsky Prospekt, St. Petersburg’s main thoroughfare off of Palace Square. Tourists, shoppers, street performers and merchants lined the wide avenue, many of them making preparations for Victory Day. As they came to the Green Bridge crossing the Moyka River, Beth stopped and pulled out her phone.

  “One sec, let me send a text to my source,” she said, tapping at the screen. “He’s here in St. Petersburg—I’ll see if he can meet us tonight.”

  While he waited, Lyon looked down at the river, which curved around central St. Petersburg on either side of Nevsky Prospekt, making an island of that part of the city. Long boats full of tourists slipped under the bridge, their cameras pointed up at the green cast iron railing and street lamps that gave the bridge its name.

  Beth put
her phone back in her purse and they walked on.

  “You know, I wasn’t so sure about this trip, but I think it’s turning out okay,” she said.

  Lyon shot her a quizzical look.

  “How do you figure?” he asked. “We got shot down in the two museums that we know have trophy art. Unless your source can pull a rabbit out of a hat, I think we’re toast.”

  “Oh, that … yeah,” she replied. “But I was talking about me traveling halfway around the world with a man I just met. I had to lie to my parents and my friends about traveling to Russia. I told them all I was coming alone for my story. No way any of them would have been okay with me coming here with you. No offense.”

  “Uh … none taken, I guess.”

  “Other than you drowning me in vodka last night, you’ve been a perfect gentlemen,” Beth said.

  Lyon said nothing, pretending to be interested in a kvass vendor hawking his yellowish drink on the side of the road.

  Beth gave him a little shove, just enough to knock him off balance.

  “So, what’s wrong with you?” she asked.

  “What’s wrong with me?” Lyon asked with an incredulous look. “Real nice.”

  “Oh, settle down,” she replied. “Don’t act so indignant. Last night I could have sworn you were trying to get me drunk … well, you did get me drunk … and then when we get back to the hotel, you just go off to your room without a word. Let’s just say that was not what I was expecting of a guy who’s recently divorced. I’ve been to enough bars in DC to know how recently divorced guys act.”

  “Not divorced—separated,” Lyon corrected her. “It’s complicated.”

  “I know. You said that once before. What’s complicated about it?”

  “It’s only been a few months,” he replied “I don’t know what’s going to happen. She’s living in the house, I’m not. We haven’t really spoken since I moved out.”

  “Yeah, well, kind of hard to know what’s going to happen if you’re not talking. You have kids?”