Rembrandt and my Family's Feud

Yes, my family had a Rembrandt. But no one knew about it—not my grandfather who bought it, nor my aunt who had it in her house, nor her children, nor my cousins who put it up for auction, nor the auctioneer who assessed it at “maybe $800” (see https://www.nj.com/bergen/2018/01/how_an_old_painting_turned_out_to_be_a_11_million.html). The presentations of the tale of the lost Rembrandt on TV and online are almost jolly. What lucky people. To me the story is laced with bits of avarice, deception and aggression, topped by a large scoop of dark humor.

My grandfather, a destitute immigrant from Lodz, Poland, ended up owning silk mills in Paterson, NJ. His wealth came and went. He and my grandmother both enjoyed money and spent it on substantial houses, maids, chauffeurs, impressive cars, fancy clothes, furniture and the best private schools for the kids. Everyone in my family still assesses value and loves bargains: “This ring is worth X, but I got it for half that.” In the search for great bargains no space provided as much potential as the auction house. My grandfather, who always believed that items from Europe were more valuable and classier than items from the US, bid often on European shipments.

The Rappoport’s house, as I remember it, hosted walls filled with paintings, most in baroque gold frames. There was also a silver service for 48 or more, silver finger bowls and candlesticks, bright green plates trimmed in gold. Huge tapestries featuring frilly Frenchmen bowing to shy ladies in long dresses graced the stairways. There were shelves of leather-bound books that no one read, and silk sheets and silk pajamas. Silk was always plentiful in Paterson.

My grandfather died when I was about 17. In all those years I knew him, I never saw my grandparents interact; they never exchanged a single word. He slept in a small bedroom in the back of the house and she turned away if he passed by. In his later years, he was basically penniless. She, on the other hand, had developed a somewhat lucrative business as a slum landlord. When he died, of course, all of the items in the house were formally hers.

In the early 1970’s, my grandmother had a stroke. She lay freezing on the bathroom floor, curled in a fetal position, until my mother convinced my uncle to go check on her. While she was in the rehabilitation facility, her three children decided to take some of the most valuable items from her house, for “safe keeping.” As I understand things, it was sort of like a land grab—so much stuff to carry out and little conversation about who got what. Everyone ended up with a lot of silver, a lot of art, and a lot of jewelry. None of it was ever assessed and taxed.

Back to the Rembrandt . . . this small painting in a baroque frame was barely noticed. It ended up in my Aunt Lila’s batch and apparently caused only passing, sometimes negative, attention from her family. Disputes between my mother and her siblings finally ended up in court, but no one ever mentioned this small, dark image as having any value or interest. I recall the painting hanging behind a ping pong table in the basement. The story of what happened next is fairly reported in the article above. The painting goes up for auction, two Europeans recognize it as the missing Rembrandt and a bidding war ensues. The winning bidder has it shipped back to Europe. Once cleaned, the picture brightens and Rembrandt’s signature appears. You can read about all this on Wikipedia among other places.

My uncle’s son hears about the sale and decides to sue. He claimed that the cousins who sold the painting were in cahoots with the auctioneers and the buyer. Furthermore he claimed that all of the grandchildren were heirs to the painting. So, I got named in the suit and had to pay for a lawyer to say that I didn’t want any part of this mess. The plaintiff cousin called for the sale to be “undone” and the fraud exposed. The court ruled against him. I thought we were done with the matter.

But Rappoport energy and animus die hard. When a few months later my husband walked into the kitchen holding a lawyer’s envelope, almost giggling, I knew I was in trouble. This time cousin Jay, many years my junior, claimed that he knew all along that the painting was a Rembrandt, that my grandfather was a fine art connoisseur and that through his father, (also an art connoisseur) he was the rightful heir. Jay said that as a child he remembered seeing Rembrandt’s signature and knew that the painting was held in high esteem by the Rappoport family. It was a valued heirloom stolen from under Jay’s proverbial nose. Then, to show his magnanimity, he said that he was suing so that the painting, once returned to him, could be donated to a museum. NB: By then, the now named “Unconscious Patient” was on exhibit at the Getty.

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Mother’s Day is around the corner, and I am thinking about my mother and grandmother. At about the same time that my grandmother had her stroke and moved in with my mother, I left for college. There I fell in love—deep love—with people outside my family. My love was exuberant. I loved the smell of my boyfriend. I loved spending hours talking and laughing with friends; we had no secrets. I loved learning from people who would dig deep into text, taking me with them. A new kind of self-respect came from inside. I was the same daughter and granddaughter, but I was also completely different. I was bolstered by love. Money and status and trophies diminished in value. I came to understand luck in an entirely new way.

Years later, when I had children of my own, I fell in love all over again. I am still in love. It somehow feels solid, indestructible. This Mother’s Day I think about how we change—as daughters and granddaughters and mothers. Love made me solid.

Once, shortly before my mother died, just as I was leaving for my 6-hour drive home, she paused: “I hope that your children are as good to you as you have been to me,” she said.

Perhaps, near the end, my mother learned to understand love the way I do.