Restitution by Kathy Kacer Read Free Book Online Page B

downward, revealing a stack of paintings. With the help of his assistant, Mr. Schmahl lined the paintings up across the salon for everyone to see. They were heavy, even for two men. Karl and his parents leaned forward to inspect the artwork.
    There were four canvases – large, wall-sized oil paintings, mounted in ornately sculpted gold frames. The first and perhaps most imposing of the paintings was entitled Forest Fire . “You may be interested to know that this is nothing like the artist’s other works,” Schmahl said. Karl squinted to see the artist’s name: Rudolf Swoboda. “The painter was a well-known Orientalist,” Schmahl continued. “In 1886, Queen Victoria commissioned him to paint a portrait of a group of Indian artisans who had come to Windsor to celebrate her Golden Jubilee. She was so impressed with his work that she paid his way to India so that he could produce more paintings of her subjects. Many of his paintings of the ‘ordinary people of India’ are hung in what was once Queen Victoria’s residence, Osborne House on the Isle of Wight.”
    Karl looked closely at the canvas. He had taken enough photographs of the countryside around his home to appreciate the artistic details of the painting in front of him. It depicted a darkly lit forest engulfed in deep red and orange flames, creeping upward and choking the life out of the forest trees. The gray smoke appeared to almost lift off the oil; the foliage all but disappeared behind the advancing fire. Karl was mesmerized by how lifelike the fire appeared.
    Mr. Schmahl was talking again. “Take a look at these two vertical paintings,” he said. “This one is called Die Hausfrau .” Karl glanced over at the artist’s signature: Hugo Vogel, a German name. This painting was of a young woman standing in front of a draped harpsichord, her head tilted slightly to one side, absently flipping through pages of sheet music with one hand. Her other hand held a feather duster and rested carelessly on her hip. Light poured in from the window beside her, illuminating her face and the music in front of her.
    Karl’s mother joined him next to the painting. “Look at how the light falls here on the manuscript pages and how her hair glows through the cap she is wearing,” she said. “She appears to be daydreaming.”
    â€œPerhaps she wishes to abandon the tediousness of everyday chores for a musical interlude,” Mr. Schmahl replied. He may have been gaudy in his manner and dress, but he certainly did know art. Sensing that he had captured the attention of at least two people in the room, Schmahl continued. “Note how whimsical the painting is. It’s the portrait of a woman longing for something more, something beyond the life that she has been leading.”
    The other vertical painting told a different story of a young woman. This one was called Ready for the Ball. The woman depicted here was dressed for a party, in a deep red and green Spanish-style gown and an ornamental black mantilla. Her sleeves were adorned with fine lace, and she held a closed fan up against her face. Her eyes gazed longingly to one side, as if she were dreaming of a night of music and merriment.
    â€œThe artist is Antonio Ermolao Paoletti, an Italian,” said Mr. Schmahl. “He was known for painting the ceiling of one of the finest gothic churches of Europe, the Madonna dell’Orto. Mrs. Reiser, I can see that you recognize that the artist has painted a woman of aristocracy. She is attractive, alluring, and perhaps a bit mysterious.” Mr. Schmahl was now in his element, expounding on the virtues of the art that he had brought, gesturing in the air like a conductor leading a large orchestra. Karl’s father remained silent, though even he had approached the paintings to examine them more closely.
    â€œTake a look at this one.” Marie gasped as she paused in front of the last of the