A Patriot in Berlin

  Because the telephonic communications were still poor in the eastern half of the city, the office provided for the exhibition’s organizers was also in West Berlin, in the same building on the Schöneberger Ufer used by the New German Foundation. It looked out over the canal onto the New National Gallery and, beyond the New State Library, to what remained of the Berlin Wall on the old Potsdammerplatz.

  The proximity of this office to Francesca’s flat enabled her to establish an agreeable routine. At seven every morning, she would jog in the Englischergarten under the watchful eye of the Goddess of Victory. She ate her usual breakfast of yoghurt, muesli and Lapsang Souchong tea, and then drove to the office in a leased Volkswagen Golf.

  From the start, her mood was good; indeed, she had to rein in a sense of exhilaration. Whether it was the celebrated Berlin air, or the challenge of a job that was tailor-made both for her ambitions and her qualifications, Francesca felt charged with an unusual energy and sense of liberation.

  In part, she recognized, this came from getting out of the rut of her life in Boston – a pleasant enough life, certainly, with a nice apartment, tenure at BU, and Duncan in New York but one that had changed little since her appointment five years before. Here, in contrast, was both a challenge and a change, but an undemanding change, with everyone appearing to fall over themselves to smooth her path and make things easy. Finding a place to live in a crowded city might have been difficult, but she had to spend only two nights in the Diederichs’ flat on the Wedekindstrasse before moving into the flat.

  Things were just as well arranged at the office. Günter Westarp, the director of the New German Foundation, was theoretically the co-organizer of the exhibition, but it was clear from the start that the two assistants seconded from the New National Gallery – a young man and a older woman – as well as the two secretaries, all regarded Francesca as the one in charge.

  Westarp had some knowledge of the Bauhaus in its Weimar phase: it was his attempt to speak up for modernism that had antagonized the authorities in the DDR. However, he had no academic standing, no natural authority, and Francesca feared that if the director of the Museum of Modern Art in New York or the National Gallery in Washington should ever set eyes on him, the project would be doomed. He was short, almost squat, with a docile yet dogged look on his sagging, fleshy face. His hair was thin and dirty; its greying, greasy strands reached halfway to his shoulders. He always wore jeans – not crisp denim designer jeans like Francesca’s but tawdry East-bloc imitations, creased and moulded about his crotch and precariously close to being bell-bottomed. His thick knitted cardigan seemed as greasy as his hair: the only luxuriance was in the large, drooping, Günter Grass moustache upon which, after eating, fragments of food hung like baubles on a Christmas tree.

  The other members of the permanent staff scarcely disguised their contempt for their Ossie cousin. Knowing full well that Günter only spoke German, they spoke English in their discussions with Francesca; at times Francesca found herself translating what they had said back into German for the benefit of Günter. Günter appeared quite content with his subordinate role. He sat at his desk in the offices of the New German Foundation on the floor below, signing the letters and memos that were set before him after only a cursory glance. If any question was put to him directly at a meeting of the secretariat or the exhibition committee, he always looked to Francesca to provide an answer; soon, the incoming letters and faxes were passed directly to her.

  Francesca’s only worry was Serotkin. She understood the necessity of having a Russian work on the project; she could even see some advantage in having a man with good contacts in Moscow as part of the team: they would want many paintings from the public collections in Moscow and St Petersburg, and there was archival material that she would dearly love to bring to Berlin. However, she could not discover why this particular Russian had been chosen, nor find anyone in her field who had heard of him or his work.

  Günter Westarp knew nothing about him: he said that Stefan had chosen Serotkin. And Stefan, when Francesca questioned him, said that Serotkin had been put forward by the Ministry of Culture in Moscow. Stefan could hardly say what he was like: he had only met him on two or three occasions. He was apparently dark, middle-aged, taciturn and had a beard. He spoke German well; possibly English as well. He had seemed knowledgeable about art, and enthusiastic about the exhibition.

  Francesca had formed an image of Serotkin in her mind. He would be pedantic, donnish, his beard clipped like Lenin’s; his manner cautious, occasionally evasive as it was so often in Soviet academics, bullied in their studies by the dogmas of Marx. He would probably be lazy and indecisive, happy to leave the researchers to do the work and Francesca or Günter to carry the can. Indeed, the more she thought about the bumbling professor, the less anxious she became that he would cramp her style. After a couple of weeks, she had almost ceased to think about him, distracted as she was by the momentous task of getting the exhibition off the ground.

  The first thing that Francesca and her team had to do was decide on the scope and the name of the exhibition, choose the artists to be represented and discover the whereabouts of their works. They would then have to approach the lenders, a delicate matter that was crucial to the success of the whole enterprise. Francesca knew that many in the United States would be reluctant to allow major paintings by, say, Kandinsky and Chagall to cross the Atlantic. It was therefore essential to approach them in the right way – to appeal to the idealistic impulses of the major lenders like the Museum of Modern Art in New York whose participation was essential if works from lesser collections were to follow.

  Francesca told Stefan time and again how important it was that he should seek endorsement for the exhibition at the highest level, if possible from the Federal Ministry of Culture. An approach should be made to the cultural attachés of the different embassies in Bonn and letters to the major lenders would have to be signed by Stefan himself, as the provincial minister, before Francesca made her requests for the loan of specific works of art.

  All this was agreed. The New Grouping, in coalition with the Christian Democrats in the Prussian government, could count on the support of the Federal government in Bonn. The Federal government would also provide the usual indemnity in lieu of insurance for the works of art if the arrangements for security were satisfactory.

  There was a long discussion by the exhibition committee as to what the title should be. Francesca’s thesis had been called simply ‘Russian Experimental Art’; but it was argued by the female researcher, Frau Dr Koch, that the art in question was, in retrospect, hardly experimental because the word ‘experimental’ suggested a trial that might fail. Stefan Diederich thought that the title of the exhibition should be something like: ‘The Indomitable Spirit: Russian Art in Exile’ or ‘The Russian Role in Contemporary Culture’. Other ideas were thrown up by different members of the committee. Why not simply ‘Russian Art: 1917–1993’? Francesca said that was too bald and academic. The title must surely contain the message that the exhibition was meant to convey: she therefore preferred Stefan’s original suggestion ‘The Indomitable Spirit: Russian Art in Exile’, and it was on this that the committee agreed.

  The next question to be considered was the scope of the exhibition. Was it to be huge and comprehensive? Or should it confine itself to a few fine examples of the work of the artists involved? Francesca argued forcefully for the latter: in her view, the impact would be greater if the visitor was not overwhelmed by a large number of works. There was also the danger that the artists with a relatively small output would be lost in the plethora of works by more prolific artists, or might not be seen at all by visitors who gave up from cultural satiety or sheer exhaustion.

  In this Francesca was backed by the director of the New National Gallery who also sat on the committee. Günter appeared to agree until he caught the eye of Stefan Diederich; whereupon he brought his contribution to the discussion to an indecisive end as quickly as he could. Stefan’s interv
ention was more decisive in tone but equally confused in content. He suggested that it was not a question they could decide there and then, but should be put on an agenda for the next meeting. Francesca objected that this would hold up the whole enterprise: the letters had to go out to the lenders; a decision had to be made on whether they would need a single site or multiple sites; but the most Stefan would do to meet her objections was to bring forward the date of the committee’s next meeting.

  Francesca returned from the offices of the Prussian Ministry of Culture where the meeting had been held to her own office on the Schöneberger Ufer in a mood of simmering irritation. It was a wet day. She had missed her morning jog in the Englischergarten. She had drunk regular coffee at the meeting because no decaf was on offer; and though no one had come up with any argument against it, her ‘quality over quantity’ proposal had been put on hold. It was her first setback and it triggered the release of a number of other pent-up annoyances, most of them imprecise and irrational, like her hatred of the bland antiseptic decor of her office, of Frau Dr Koch’s rubber plant, of the eager zeal of the young researcher, Julius Breitenbach, who, as she passed his office, was looking through the 1989–90 catalogue of Sotheby’s auction house in London.

  Seeing that Francesca had returned from the meeting, Julius rose and followed her into her office. ‘Do you know, by any chance,’ he asked, ‘who bought Kandinsky’s Fugue in …’

  ‘No I don’t,’ Francesca snapped at him, throwing her folder down on her desk.

  Julius blushed and backed away. ‘I’m sorry …’

  ‘No. Wait.’ Francesca frowned. ‘Wasn’t that in the Guggenheim?’

  ‘Yes. They sold it at auction last year, but I don’t know who bought it.’

  ‘You’d better call Sotheby’s. It’s an important work. We have to have it.’

  Julius retreated again, closing her door. Francesca kicked off her damp shoes under the desk. There was a knock on her door. ‘Yes?’ she said, unable to suppress a note of exasperation. Frau Dr Koch, the older researcher, looked through. ‘Dr Serotkin is here,’ she said.

  ‘Here?’

  The Russian stood behind her. Frau Dr Koch stepped aside to let him pass into Francesca’s office. Francesca stood to greet him but, feeling the carpet beneath her stockinged feet, realized that she was not wearing her shoes. ‘Shit,’ she muttered and, before taking more than a glimpse at Serotkin, she crouched down behind her desk to recover them.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled as she stood up again. ‘I lost my shoes.’

  The man who stood before her was so unlike the man she had imagined that at first she thought that he could not be Serotkin. Later, when she came to describe him to Sophie Diederich, she used the word ‘dashing’. She said it was because he reminded her of the Bulgarian patriot, Insarov, in Turgenev’s On the Eve. When she mentioned Serotkin to Duncan over the telephone to New York, she avoided using the word ‘dashing’, only because he might take this to mean attractive, which it did not. To start with, Serotkin had a beard – a black beard matching the thick black hair on his head – and Francesca hated beards. Then his eyes were a murky colour, his face was too long, his cheekbones were too high, his nose was too straight. He was also formal and solemn as he shook hands with her, and she liked men to be friendly and smile.

  Francesca realized, of course, that this first encounter could be something of an ordeal for the Russian art historian who, whatever his professional abilities, might be a little intimidated by a more sophisticated colleague from the West. She therefore asked him to sit down and did her best to put him at his ease. She buzzed the secretary to bring some coffee and, rather than sit like a boss at her desk, crossed to the sofa next to the chair chosen by Serotkin.

  ‘Have you come from Moscow?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ he replied shortly.

  Francesca waited for him to say something further, but he did not. ‘I guess we all assumed you were in Moscow or St Petersburg …’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you are from Moscow, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Francesca did not want to give the impression that she was interviewing Serotkin, but she was keen to know the extent of his knowledge and the value of his qualifications. ‘Do you teach there,’ she asked, ‘or are you at a gallery or a museum?’

  ‘I was at the ministry,’ he said simply.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Our system was different to yours. We had experts in different fields working in the ministry.’

  ‘Of course. And you were an expert on this field … experimental Russian art?’

  ‘Of course.’ His voice was deep, his English flawless. There was no trace of a Russian intonation.

  ‘But you have travelled abroad?’ Serotkin was wearing grey flannel trousers and a dark grey herringbone sports jacket, a blue shirt and spotted tie – elegant Western clothes which he carried with a certain ease.

  ‘Yes, I know your country a little. London also. And Germany, of course.’ There was a touch of mockery in his eyes as if he was thinking things he was not prepared to say.

  ‘I understand that you speak German?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The secretary brought in the coffee. Francesca baulked at more caffeine, but felt that she must drink with Serotkin, as though smoking a pipe of peace. ‘While you’ve been away,’ she said, ‘we’ve got off to a fairly smooth start. The only difference, I think, is over the scope of the exhibition.’

  ‘Yes. And the title, I believe.’

  ‘We settled on that. “The Indomitable Spirit: Russian Art in Exile”.’

  ‘It is imprecise.’

  She frowned. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, this art we are considering was not all created in exile. Some was in Russia.’

  ‘But most of the artists went abroad.’

  ‘Some remained. Malevich. El Lissitzky.’

  ‘Sure. But they were censored and suppressed.’

  His eyes flashed. ‘Certainly.’

  ‘So even if the painters remained in the Soviet Union, the spirit was forced into exile.’

  ‘Nevertheless, it is imprecise.’

  Francesca frowned. She disliked being crossed, particularly on something that had been decided, and she was also irritated that Serotkin was not responding to her friendliness as he should. ‘And the scope?’ she asked, somewhat sharply.

  ‘It must be … comprehensive.’

  ‘I took the view …’ she began.

  ‘I know. Diederich told me. But I feel that only a comprehensive collection will do justice to the theme.’

  ‘You mean all the Kandinskys, all the Chagalls?’

  ‘As many as possible.’

  ‘I just don’t know if we’ll get people to lend, and the transport costs will be enormous …’

  ‘Diederich has money for that.’

  ‘And the insurance … Some of these paintings are now worth very large sums of money.’

  Serotkin paused. ‘I realize that.’

  ‘We’re talking millions of dollars.’

  ‘Of course.’

  She stood, went to her desk and picked up her phone. ‘Julius, what did that painting by Kandinsky sell for at Sotheby’s last year?’ She listened. ‘Uh-uh … uh-uh.’ She put down the phone and turned back to Serotkin. ‘Kandinsky’s Fugue went for over twenty million dollars.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Serotkin. ‘And I believe Chagall’s America, also from the Guggenheim, was sold for 14,850,000 dollars at the same sale.’

  Francesca frowned as she sat down again. Serotkin was clearly better informed than she had supposed. ‘So we’re talking of hundreds of millions of dollars.’

  Serotkin appeared unimpressed. ‘I understand that in exhibitions of this kind insurance is not a direct expense because the government provides an indemnity.’

  ‘Sure. And it’s highly unlikely that the paintings will be burned or stolen. But all the same …’

  ‘I think it’s f
or Diederich to worry about things like that,’ said Serotkin.

  ‘I agree. But we have to know the scope to draw up our lists …’

  ‘Of course. I have, to some extent, with the aid of colleagues, drawn up a list of works in my country.’

  ‘That’s fantastic because really we don’t know what you have in your collections.’

  ‘No. They were not … advertised.’ He smiled, and since this was the first smile to have appeared on his face, it lifted Francesca’s spirits which, starting low because of the damp day, raised briefly at the first appearance of the ‘dashing’ Serotkin, had begun to sink again under the impact of his obtuseness on the question of the title and scope of the exhibition.

  She took the smile as an invitation to venture a more personal approach. ‘It must have been difficult,’ she said in a compassionate tone, ‘to study experimental and abstract art in the Soviet Union.’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘I guess you weren’t encouraged.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You couldn’t teach?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or publish?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Which is why no one has heard of you …’ It came out baldly; she did not quite mean it that way.

  But Serotkin smiled. ‘No. Such a field of study was not so very much … esteemed under Communism. However, if you have doubts about my abilities …’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘I could give you the name of colleagues and officials …’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Would Stefi have invited you if he didn’t know you?’

  ‘I trust not.’

  ‘All I meant was how shameful it was that for ideological reasons your studies were suppressed.’

  He smiled again. ‘Yes. There were suppressed. But now this exhibition gives me an opportunity to realize my life’s ambition.’

  ‘Mine too.’

  It is often awkward, in an office, to draw lines between professional cooperation and personal involvement. When it came to lunch, for example, which most of them ate in the staff restaurant of the New German Foundation, the two researchers, Frau Dr Koch and Julius Breitenbach, who already kept their distance from Francesca by calling her Dr McDermott, clearly did not consider it appropriate to join her at a table. Her only colleague of the same rank was Günter Westarp who, in the first few weeks, had often accompanied Francesca to the staff restaurant, boring her to death with anecdotes about his days as a dissident in Leipzig, or with obscure items of information to establish his encyclopaedic knowledge of the Bauhaus – encyclopaedic but also indiscriminate: he had gathered facts like a train-spotter who knows the number and type of the locomotives passing through a station but has no interest whatsoever in their destination.