New York, New York
September 1959
“You know he’s a Nazi, don’t you?” Allen Westerly said to Max Bradley. At the same time, he turned away from the Picasso that he sensed had eavesdropped on their earlier conversation. “Do you not understand what he symbolizes? A German, and from Brazil? I’m in a quandary, Max. I don’t know what to do.” Although they had both immigrated to the United States, Bradley had come from England before the war and had not experienced Hitler’s atrocities firsthand.
Bradley blinked and glanced away, his gaze darting about the museum walls. “You will make a copy of the painting, as he requested.” He kept his voice low. “You are the best art forger in the business. There is no reason for us to pass up this money.”
“It isn’t the same. Forging a painting to fool some rich collector who doesn’t ask too many questions is one thing. This is different. Working for a Nazi? Don’t you understand?”
“I’ll tell you what I understand. This man will pay double what we’ve gotten before. And you will do what must be done.”
“Max! I thought we were friends. Are you threatening me?”
“No. We’ve known each other too long for that.” Bradley’s expression turned to a smile. “Still, since we are such good friends, how can you refuse to make me a richer man? To make us both better-off?” He turned and left the museum.
Westerly glanced about. Picasso, Chagall, Miro, Dali—works by all the newer masters hung proudly. None that he couldn’t imitate, of course. But for obvious reasons, he preferred to create a copy—or even an “original”—by an older, long-dead master, a work that even the master himself might not recognize but would agree he might have painted. But, sadly, it was a work that could not stand the scrutiny of the learned art community.
Once Westerly did his job, Bradley did the rest. For a price, there were dealers who would authenticate a painting’s originality and provide an appropriate historical record, including documentation concerning its theft. Afterward, there were wealthy clients who, once told that this priceless work of art had been stolen and thus must be displayed under the utmost secrecy, would accept such a stipulation of sale.
Westerly asked himself whether he, in good conscience, could complete this assignment? Would he not be damned forever?
* * *
The job they discussed at the museum had presented itself the previous Thursday evening. Although Westerly usually had no interaction with the client (Bradley handled that part), Bradley insisted that Westerly be present this time.
He was a Brazilian with an accent, Bradley had reported. The name, Hans Gruber, confirmed his German ancestry, although Westerly suspected that the ink on his birth certificate might prove far younger than the man. The year was 1959, and it was common knowledge that many Nazi fugitives had escaped to South America following the war.
Westerly accepted the irony that his own name was a lost artifact of history. And after considerable practice, he had erased any trace of accent from his speech, as well. His name had been Albert Weingarten before the Germans captured him in 1944 and after his release in 1945. But prior to arriving at Ellis Island, while journeying across the Atlantic, he had decided that Allen Westerly had a fresher, untarnished appeal to it. As he pondered this new job, he wondered whether Mr. Gruber’s initials had likewise stood the test of time.
Westerly and Bradley shared a common viewpoint, one that positioned itself to the left of the center of the law. Their philosophy was profitable to both, with minimal risk. Bradley’s contacts ran deep in the underworld of New York. But as specialists, art forgers, and distributors, they had very discerning clients. It wasn’t just anyone who’d approach them for their services. The name, Hans Gruber, did have the ring of propriety.
The Haven, a seedy-looking bar, had the requisite atmosphere for clandestine business. It was a dark, smoke-filled, back-alley sort of establishment where everyone spoke in hushed tones. Handshakes were the usual mode of exchange for smaller bills. Larger amounts came by way of a business envelope. On rare occasions, one would see the larger manila variety.
Westerly arrived early and chose a corner booth to the rear, one that he and Bradley had used previously. It offered two benefits, one of which was a discreet location away from curious eyes. The second, somewhat more important to his cultivated nature, was its position as far as possible from the grubby bathroom, the slightly less grubby counter of the bar and, grubbiest of all, the small closet-size space called the kitchen. It was safe to order liquor in this establishment, but nothing else.
It took less than a second for Bradley’s eyes to signal Westerly’s as he and another man turned the corner toward the booth. Westerly had always admired Bradley’s ability to take in everything at once. Others might interpret his look as shifty. Westerly reflected to himself that it didn’t hurt that one of them had such keen awareness.
“Mr. Gruber, my associate, Mr. Westerly.” Bradley motioned Gruber into the stall across from Westerly but didn’t react or object when Gruber indicated he preferred to sit on the outside. Bradley slid into the booth first.
Gruber was a short, bald, fat man, with a mustache-accentuated face highlighted by beady eyes behind tiny spectacles. Westerly’s first Rorschach impression was of a walrus with glasses. He appeared nervous. His accent corroborated Westerly’s judgment of Gruber’s past.
“Mr. Bradley tells me you come with impeccable credentials, that you have the talent to reproduce a painting so precisely it cannot be distinguished from the original. Is that correct?” Gruber turned to look backward toward the door; simultaneously, he removed a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed away beads of sweat from his forehead.
“I have such a capability. You no doubt know this, or you wouldn’t be here.”
“Yes, of course.” Gruber reached into his left inside coat pocket, removed what looked like a photograph, and handed it across to Westerly.
Westerly stared at the black-and-white picture. “This is the work of Rubens. Résurrection de Lazare, the Resurrection of Lazarus, if memory serves.” He slid it back across the table.
Gruber smiled ever so slightly. “Mr. Westerly, I am indeed impressed with your knowledge of the art world.”
“A photographic memory has its advantages.” Westerly recalled more than the name of the painting. He also remembered that it had been one of 333 paintings that were part of the Adolphe Schloss collection, a major ensemble of Dutch art assembled in France during the nineteenth century, nearly all of which was lost during the war. It was widely believed that the Germans had taken most of the pieces to Munich in 1943.
Under the circumstances, Westerly considered it appropriate to shade the truth. “I assumed it had been destroyed during the Allied bombing.”
“It was not. Friends of mine made sure it was safely stowed. For protection from the war, you understand.”
“I do understand. Do you wish for me to make you a copy?”
Westerly took note that Bradley was weighing this give-and-take, especially the subtle reactions from their potential new client.
The walrus pushed himself into the back of the seat, hands tightly gripping the table’s edge. “I have been authorized to give you five thousand dollars, to be matched when you deliver the finished product.” Gruber reached into his coat pocket, this time on the right side, to remove the envelope. “Is this sum sufficient for your services?”
Westerly paused, for effect. The thick business envelope lay untouched. “I’m sure you understand that to create the quality of product you expect, I need access to the original.”
The walrus frowned. “That does present something of a problem. In the interest of security, my client, who wishes to remain anonymous, agrees you can have access, but on his terms. You can understand my client’s concern, with a work of this magnitude.”
Is there no honor among thieves? Westerly glanced at Bradley and wondered if he had known of this added wrinkle. The subtle movement of his eyes in concert with a slight cock of his head told Westerly he had not. Westerly duplicated the walrus’s earlier motion and pushed himself back in the seat. The client’s condition posed an additional complication. For previous clients, when he had actually produced a copy, as opposed to an original, he had always had access to the real McCoy.
“And what might those terms be?” Westerly asked.
“You cannot have access on a continuous basis, nor can you paint in the presence of the original. I will arrange for you to see the Rubens on a weekly basis. Your reputation for powers of observation has preceded you, Mr. Westerly. You will have an escort to the painting. Do you agree to those terms?”
Westerly contemplated the stipulations. It was true he could paint a picture from memory, with far better detail than from even a high-quality photograph. But to produce a perfect copy, he would have to memorize and paint small sections at a time.
“Your conditions are unacceptable, Mr. Gruber.” Westerly pushed back the envelope and slid out from the booth.
“Bitte, wait!” the walrus whispered urgently. “What is not acceptable? Is it not true that you can reproduce a painting from memory? Have I been misinformed?”
“I can, in pieces, as you suggest. But to ensure perfection, which is what I’m sure you want, I would need one final session when the original and copy sit side by side, so that I can remove any minute inconsistencies. And by the way, for this kind of effort, your offer of payment is too small, by about half.” Westerly caught Bradley’s attention and sensed no objection.
Without pause, a second envelope joined the first, and both were pushed across to Westerly. “Although I need to check with my client, I am confident that the final session you request can be arranged.”
It was clear to all that there was nothing more to say. Bradley took possession of the cash.
Gruber left first, followed a minute later by Bradley. It wasn’t long before Westerly downed his remaining whiskey and exited into the warm night air. Memories of imprisonment in Germany saturated his brain, and he couldn’t get out fast enough.
* * *
Five days had passed when Bradley called to inform Westerly that Gruber’s client had agreed to his terms. All the while, Westerly agonized. Why shouldn’t he exploit this opportunity and take advantage of the scum who had annihilated his own people? But he had standards and morals, didn’t he? Still, who was he to talk? The authors of the Old Testament would hardly condone the unorthodox line of work he had learned and perfected in prewar Germany.
No! There was a difference. He cheated people, but in such a way that several benefited. You couldn’t compare a minor infraction of the law with a historical disaster as monumental as the Holocaust.
Beyond the ethical dilemma and Westerly’s hatred of Gruber and what he represented, Westerly had questions—questions he had wanted to ask back at the Haven but could not. If the Rubens painting had been salvaged, perhaps stolen by Gruber’s client, what purpose was there in a duplicate? The crime had been committed more than a decade earlier. What more was there to gain?
Westerly and Bradley debated the motivation. Only one scenario made sense: Gruber’s client needed money. In the same way that their other customers knew that Westerly’s paintings would have to be sold to a discreet buyer who knew the work could not be publicly displayed, Gruber’s employer planned to do the same. But he wanted to have his cake and eat it too. He wanted to keep the original!
Westerly knew that the easiest and most moral course of action was to return the money, to declare the deal null and void. Such action would allay his dread of sleepless nights. He was about to give Bradley his decision, a nonnegotiable declaration, a savior for his soul. But before Westerly could compose the words, Bradley interceded.
“Allen, I know this is difficult for you. If I were in your shoes, I would feel the same. But I have a suggestion that might satisfy both our points of view.”
“What compromise could there possibly be?” Westerly stared back.
“What would you say to painting two copies of the Rubens? Under the circumstances, I think it is only fair that you keep the original.”
Westerly stiffened in his chair and gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling. A smile came to his lips, and it mirrored the one he saw across the table.
* * *
The working arrangements for the next months proved strange. Each weekend, Gruber’s driver took the blindfolded Westerly to a new location. The room was different each time. The driver and the subsequent escort were always the same. Although he had no proof, Westerly suspected the rooms were all in the same building.
The Rubens was as stunning as Westerly had expected. During each visit, he studied and memorized one of the nine segments he had blocked out during his initial visit. He had an equivalent mapping for the rear of the painting. He memorized the attachment of the canvas to the wood, the discoloration of the unmarked canvas, and the degree to which the colors had dried and cracked. Westerly had clever methods to reproduce these signs of age.
The only security measure Westerly could detect during his work was the escort. Usually, he sat off to the side reading a newspaper.
Nine segments meant nine weeks—plenty of time to produce two copies. Under normal circumstances, he would have worked more quickly, but he had not been the one to set the schedule.
The ninth week came, and all had gone well. The duplicates were nearly complete. The final session was about to arrive, when the original would sit next to the copy, the copy would be handed over, and payment would be accepted. Westerly had constructed a large dual-compartment carrying case in which the hidden partition appeared to be a repository for brushes and oils but in fact housed the duplicate artwork. Given that his escort rarely paid him much attention, Westerly was confident he could make the switch.
Then, it happened! Change of plans, according to Gruber, directly from the client. He was coming to the United States and would bring the original to Westerly’s studio himself. He wanted to inspect the copy personally before he made final payment. How could there be time to make the substitution with someone hovering over his every move?
Westerly began to question the deceit he and Bradley had fabricated, a deception that compounded his intended crime in the first place.
* * *
The more Westerly and Bradley discussed the client’s change of plans, the more they realized that the new scenario could be worked to their advantage. A few seconds were all that would be needed to make the exchange.
The critical day arrived. Westerly had rehearsed at length, under Bradley’s watchful eye, the switch of the Rubens original with the second copy, now hidden among numerous canvases leaning against the wall in the purposely-cluttered studio. Although he had insisted upon this session as a chance to eliminate any remaining inconsistencies, Westerly took extra care to ensure that few changes would be necessary.
Gruber and his client arrived at nine o’clock that night. They carried the Rubens inside a wooden crate. Gruber introduced Westerly and Bradley to his employer but offered no name in return. He acted as translator, as the buyer spoke no English.
Following the introductions, the client placed the Rubens on the easel next to the copy. He examined both at length—from the front, back, and sides. It wasn’t long before a smile came to his face.
While Bradley and their customer settled the finances, Westerly busied himself with innocuous adjustments to one of his copies, which now sat, for the first time, beside the original. With a miniscule brush stroke here, a careful glance from the side there, he looked like the concerned parent of a newborn.
The switch was executed effortlessly. As planned earlier, Bradley offered fresh coffee, gesturing toward the kitchen. As he followed their guests and turned the corner, Bradley glanced back and caught Westerly’s eye. Westerly quickly grabbed the Rubens, pivoted to the wall, angled back the stack of canvases, placed the original down, pulled out the copy, pushed the stack against the wall, rotated back, and placed the copy on the easel. The substitution was complete.
Westerly finished the last of his adjustments. The client packed both pieces in his crate. Everyone shook hands. The guests were gone by nine forty-five.
Westerly and Bradley stared at each other. Neither wanted to be the first to speak.
Bradley said it first. “Why was our patron speaking French?”
* * *
The following days evolved into weeks and then months. Had their supposition regarding the origin of the Rubens been wrong? No. Gruber himself said the painting had been taken during the war.
In late April, during a shared breakfast, Westerly shoved the New York Times into Bradley’s face, his fingers shaking. “Look at this!” Bradley read the tiny article on page eleven:
Lost Rubens Returned
PARIS, FRANCE. Pierre Chandin, thought by many to be in line to become Prime Minister, has uncovered a rare painting: Rubens’s seventeenth-century Résurrection de Lazare, a piece thought forever lost. Once part of the famous Schloss collection stolen by the Nazis during World War II, this artwork will be returned to the descendants of Adolphe and Lucie Schloss.
Chandin, a French citizen detained throughout the war in Hitler’s Germany, reports the work was discovered in a barn the previous week.
“We misjudged the motive, Max!” The motive was power, to be attained through public office, with election enhanced through public ingratiation. Whether Chandin clandestinely purchased the Rubens or whether he was a German collaborator who had secreted away the work during the war was irrelevant. He meant, knowingly, to achieve personal gain from Nazi atrocities. Moreover, he wanted to keep a copy for himself, most likely to remind himself of his own considerable hubris.
Westerly slumped in his chair and felt dizzy from his recurring dreams. Although the war had been over for fifteen years, he and Bradley had just contributed to its legacy.
* * *
Westerly knew that if either copy of the Rubens went directly into the hands of the Schloss descendants, there was a good chance they would have it inspected by experts. Chandin’s deception would be exposed. Unfortunately, Chandin could then say he had been duped, that he thought the artwork was real. Worse, there was a slim chance the Schloss family would not authenticate the painting.
There was only one thing to do, and Bradley offered no resistance. Westerly insisted that the obligation and any repercussions from Gruber were his, that he alone had moral responsibility.
Westerly made sure the crate and packing were more than adequate to survive the overseas journey. Although he had acted cowardly all these years in renouncing his ethnicity, he felt it was not too late to redeem himself. There was still honor and respect to be had in this lifetime—and justice to be served.
Westerly chose the Louvre as the painting’s destination because it had the integrity that was important just now—and it would certainly authenticate the painting. The accompanying letter to the French museum gave all the necessary details to expose Chandin and was signed simply. It read, “Albert Weingarten. Last known residence, Auschwitz, Germany.”