Brandes's Decision

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“You decide,” he told me. At that point I hardly knew anything about him. All I knew was that his name was Hofer, Walter Andreas Hofer, that he went around Paris looking for art for Göring’s private collection and that, when he put his mind to it, he could be quite persuasive. “You decide.” His was a confident voice, used to setting the terms; used to wielding fear and shattering people’s ability to choose.“If you want your paintings back, all you have to do is give me the Cranach.” The Cranach. I know it like the back of my hand. I close my eyes and I see it. Without shadows. With the clarity of dreams: the three figures, the steeply sloping landscape, the threatening clouds.“You decide. But don’t think it over too long, I haven’t got all the time in the world.” Words that smother the last slits that allowed in breathable air, words that weigh like a slab of slate. Then he closed the door carefully, as if he didn’t need to employ noise to intimidate me yet. Not when his glance was enough to send chills down my spine. Even now, twenty-two years later, when I come across a photograph of Hofer, I feel his gaze wandering around my studio and piercing my eyes. Incisive. Angular as an idol sculpted by hatchet blows.

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