“He had Les Bijoux Jolis picked up from my hotel earlier. We’ll see what he has to say.”
After receiving special passes at the front desk, a docent led them to the Sherman Fairchild Paintings Conservation Center, an eighteen-thousand-square foot space where Dr. Harkin and his team worked to research, repair, and restore the paintings of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The docent led them straight to Dr. Harkin’s desk, where they found Les Bijoux Jolis propped up on a wooden easel, with Dr. Harkin sitting on a stool before it.
“J.C., ma boy!” he greeted his former student, his slight British accent welcome in J.C.’s ears.
“Professor Harkin,” he said, shaking the older man’s hand. “It’s good to see you, sir. This is Libitz Feingold. She owns a gallery on Fifth.”
“Miss Feingold,” said Dr. Harkin, taking her hand. “Charmed.” He narrowed his eyes at her, pulling his glasses from his forehead onto the bridge of his nose and looking at her face closely. “You bear an uncanny resemblance to the model in the portrait.”
She smiled. “Yes, I know. We’re hoping you can tell us more about her.”
Dr. Harkin dropped her hand and turned back to the portrait, sighing deeply. “I can tell you a little, though Pierre Montferrat wasn’t, I’m afraid, very well known, so there isn’t much documentation about his works or models.”
“What about the signature, Professor?” asked J.C. as they all stepped closer to the painting.
“It’s the Hebrew word L’chaim,” said Dr. Harkin, and Libitz’s sharp elbow landed in his side.
“I thought it was pi,” mumbled J.C.
“No, no. I’m quite sure it’s L’chaim, because when I cut off this brown paper on the back…” They followed him around the canvas. “You see here? It says ‘Ayez une bonne vie.’”
“Have a good life,” translated J.C.
“L’chaim tovim,” murmured Libitz.
Professor Harkin nodded. “Yes. I don’t believe that inscription is a coincidence. ‘Have a good life’ on the back. L’chaim on the front.” He looked from the painting to the couple. “I believe the model was Jewish…as you may have already figured out.”
“Some of us have,” said Libitz, giving J.C. a look.
“She’s dark-haired and dark-eyed,” continued Professor Harkin, squinting at the painting as he gestured to her features. “Judging from the portrait, even in its state of some disrepair, her skin appears olive-toned, not pink. Plus, as you may or may not know, in 1939 when this portrait was painted, the largest community of Eastern European Jews in Western Europe was living in Marseille. Aside from the portrait markings, time and place support her being Jewish.”
“I knew it,” said Libitz looking up at J.C. in victory.
“However, history also supports the likelihood that she…” Professor Harkin cleared his throat, his voice taking on a somber tone. “A young Jewish woman living in Marseille in 1939 probably wouldn’t have…I mean to say…”
“Survived,” said Libitz quietly, taking a step back from the painting. “She wouldn’t have survived.”
J.C. put his arm around her, but her shoulders remained rigid under his touch.
Professor Harkin’s eyes were sad as he looked up at Libitz and nodded. “Over thirty thousand Marseille Jews were killed in the Holocaust. Three-quarters of their community.”
Libitz gasped, stepping away from J.C.’s touch to stand on her own, further distancing herself from the portrait. She looked back and forth from Professor Harkin to J.C., her expression horrified. “How can I find out…?”
“I suppose you could see about art schools in operation at the time. Many young models were struggling art students.” The professor sighed. “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”
Professor Harkin offered to have the painting rewrapped and sent back to J.C. at his hotel, and they shook hands, thanking him for his time, but Libitz was clearly upset as they left, and when J.C. suggested going out for a drink, she declined, asking for a rain check.
“I just…I can’t,” she said softly. “I think I’ll just go home.”
“Lib,” said J.C., “we’ll find out what happened to her. I promise.”
“I don’t know if I want to know,” she answered, her eyes brightened by tears. “She was so beautiful, so young and hopeful. To find out she was tortured and died frightened in a camp…I just…” She reached up and swiped a tear from her cheek. “I don’t know if I could bear it.”
Whether she wanted his comfort or not, J.C. couldn’t stand seeing her cry, and he pulled her into his arms, grateful when she didn’t push him away. A light rain started to fall as they stood together on the sidewalk in front of the museum, and J.C. held her tighter, whispering close to her ear. “Let me take you home, okay? To be sure you get there safely?”
She looked up at him with watery eyes and nodded.
He flagged down a cab and kept his arm around her until they reached her apartment building.