فصل 83

florian

I sat inside near the back door of the movie house. Had I pegged the sailor correctly or had I judged too quickly? Was there really a desperate hero inside of him or just a nervous skin condition? My mistake in trusting Dr. Lange plagued me; perhaps my judgment was unreliable.

From the very first day, Father saw Dr. Lange for the manipulative and evil human being he was. I made excuses for him, desperate to validate the reasons he chose to work with me. I wanted to believe his motivation was to save and preserve the treasures of the art world.

One stormy night last July, a large painting arrived via truck with armed guards. Dr. Lange was dining with colleagues and I accepted the arrival from the soldiers. I unpacked the piece to display for Dr. Lange, inspecting it to see if restoration or repair would be necessary. I recognized the winter hunting scene immediately. The artist was Julian Falat, a Polish painter. Falat’s art was featured in books at the institute.

The painting was treasured by the Poles. It was the property of Poland.

The Nazis, under the greedy direction of Erich Koch, had stolen it.

A few days later, I found my letters unopened in Dr. Lange’s drawer. I felt ill. He had claimed we were a team, yet never bothered to open my letters, didn’t care what I had to say. I sat on my bed for a full day, sick with dread that Father was right about Lange. I replayed every interaction in my head, analyzing them from all angles. The pieces of art cloaked under tarps, the whispers, the handshakes, the deliveries late at night. I wanted to be wrong, but I always came to the same conclusion: Koch and Lange weren’t saving the treasures of Europe.

They were stealing them.

And, unknowingly, I had been helping.

The following day I left my small apartment near the museum and took a train to Tilsit. My father would know what to do. Together we would figure something out. I arrived home to find our front door hanging by one hinge. The house was ransacked. Our neighbor quickly emerged and whisked me into her cottage.

“I’m so sorry, Florian,” she said, crying. “Your father . . . you’re too late.”