The Girl You Left Behind

were good neighbours. I
     know he had seen the painting in our house. He visited us many times. I played ball with
     his daughter … but he died. I told you he died.’
    ‘Well, I managed to track down his
     surviving family, in Des Moines. And his granddaughter, Anne-Marie, went through the
     family albums and tucked away in one of them she found this.’ Paul pulls a sheet
     of paper from his folder and slides it across the desk to Mr Nowicki.
    It is not a perfect copy, but the
     black-and-white image is clearly visible. A family sits in the stiff embrace of a
     tightly upholstered sofa. A woman smiles cautiously, holding a button-eyed baby firmly
     on her lap. A man with a vast moustache reclines, his arm running along the back. A boy
     grins broadly, a missing tooth clearly visible.Behind them, on the
     wall, hangs a painting of a young girl dancing.
    ‘That’s it,’ Mr Nowicki
     says quietly, an arthritic hand rising to his mouth. ‘The Degas.’
    ‘I checked it against the image bank,
     then with the Edgar Degas Foundation. I sent this picture to their lawyers, along with a
     statement from Artur Bohmann’s daughter, saying that she, too, remembered seeing
     this painting in your parents’ house, and hearing your father discuss how he
     bought it.’
    He pauses. ‘But that’s not all
     Anne-Marie remembers. She says that after your parents fled, Artur Bohmann had gone one
     night to the apartment to try to collect your family’s remaining valuables. He
     told his wife, Anne-Marie’s grandmother, that when he arrived he believed
     he’d got there in time as the apartment seemed undisturbed. It was only as he was
     leaving that he saw the painting was missing.
    ‘She says that because nothing else
     was disturbed he had always assumed your family had taken it with them. And then, of
     course, because you only corresponded with each other some years later, the matter never
     arose.’
    ‘No,’ the old man says, staring
     at the image. ‘No. We had nothing. Just my mother’s wedding and engagement
     rings.’ His eyes fill with tears.
    ‘It is possible that the Nazis had
     earmarked the painting. There is evidence of systematic removal of important works of
     art during the Nazi period.’
    ‘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. It is not an unusual response, despitethe more than
     sixty years that have elapsed. Many of the claimants Paul sees can recall images and
     events from the 1940s far more clearly than they can remember how they arrived at his
     office.
    ‘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. It’s not clear which 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 for “Femme,
     dansant” by Degas. The trustees of the gallery have instructed their
     lawyers not to proceed further, and we await your instructions with regards 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. He 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?
     They agree that it was stolen from us?’
    ‘You have only to let them know where
     you want it sent.’
    There is a long silence. Jason Nowicki tears
     his gaze from his father. He 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