More paintings were shown and ridiculed: works by Kisling, Chagall, some I did not know, but several I recognized. In fact, many had once belonged to Leopold Zborowski; I had seen them stacked about his dining room. How had they come into these Germans’ hands? And what had happened to Zbo?
In the back row, near the door, I noticed a woman with a hat slanted low across her forehead, scribbling notes throughout the lecture. Hers was a face I thought I had seen before, someone from my past, but I couldn’t quite place her. I went to stand over her chair to see what she was writing, which turned out to be a list of the names of the pictures exhibited and of the artists who had done them. My eyes were drawn to a blue and green flicker around her wrist, half hidden by her jacket sleeve as her p
