And Thereby Hangs a Tale Read online

  Herr Grebenar fulfilled the Maker’s contract of three score years and ten. As he approached death, he had only one interest left in life: to ensure that his protégé’s works would remain on permanent display in the town museum, so that in time everyone would acknowledge Friedrich Bloch’s genius, and he himself would at least be guaranteed a footnote in history.

  Two hundred and ninety-eight years later . . .

  It all began when a drop of rain fell on the chief sidesman’s forehead during Monsignor Grebenar’s Sunday morning sermon. Several members of the congregation looked up at the roof and one of the choirboys pointed to a small crack.

  Once Monsignor Grebenar had delivered his final blessing and the congregation began to depart, he approached an elder of the church to seek his advice. The master builder promised the priest he would climb up onto the roof and inspect the timbers the following morning.

  A preliminary opinion and a rough estimate as to the costs of repair were delivered to the Grebenars’ family home on the Wednesday afternoon, along with a warning that if the church council did not act quickly, the roof might well collapse. Monsignor Grebenar received confirmation of the master builder’s opinion from above when, during Vespers on the following Sunday, a steady trickle of rain began to fall on the front row of the choir as they chanted the “Nunc Dimittis.”

  Monsignor Grebenar fell on his knees in front of the altar, looked up at Friedrich Bloch’s Last Supper, and prayed for guidance.

  The collection that followed raised the princely sum of 412 euros, which wasn’t going to make much of an impression on the master builder’s estimate of the 700,000 euros needed to repair the roof.

  If Monsignor Grebenar had been a more worldly man, he might not have considered what happened next to be divine intervention. When he had finished praying, he crossed himself, rose from his knees, bowed to the altar, and turned to find someone he had never seen before seated in the front pew.

  “I understand you have a problem, Father,” the man said, looking up at the roof. “And I think I may be able to help you solve it.”

  Monsignor Grebenar looked more closely at the stranger. “What did you have in mind, my son?” he asked.

  “I would be willing to pay you seven hundred thousand euros for that painting,” he said, glancing up at The Last Supper.

  “But it’s been in my family for over three hundred years,” replied Monsignor Grebenar, turning to look at the painting.

  “I’ll leave you to think it over,” said the stranger. When the priest turned round, he was gone.

  Monsignor Grebenar once again fell to his knees and sought God’s guidance, but his prayer had not been answered by the time he rose to his feet an hour later. In fact, if anything, he was in even more of a dilemma. Had the stranger really existed, or had he imagined the whole thing?

  During the following week Monsignor Grebenar canvassed opinion among his parishioners, some of whom attended the following Sunday’s service with umbrellas. Once the service was over, he sought advice from a lawyer, another elder of the church.

  “Your father left the painting to you in his will, as did his father before him,” said the lawyer. “Therefore it is yours to dispose of as you wish. But if I may offer you one piece of advice,” he added.

  “Yes, of course, my son,” said the priest hopefully.

  “Whatever you decide, Father, you should place the painting in the town’s museum before it’s damaged by water leaking from the roof.”

  “Do you consider seven hundred thousand a fair price?” asked the priest.

  “I have no idea, Father. I’m a lawyer, not an art dealer. You should seek advice from an expert.”

  As Monsignor Grebenar did not have an art dealer among his flock, he phoned the leading auction house in Frankfurt the following day. The head of the Renaissance department did not assist matters when he told him there was no way of accurately estimating the true value of Bloch’s masterpiece, since none of his works had ever come on the market. Every known example was hanging in one museum, with the notable exception of The Last Supper. The priest was about to thank him and put down the phone when the man added, “There is, of course, one way you could find out its true value.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “Allow the painting to come under the hammer in our next Renaissance sale.”

  “When is that?”

  “Next October, in New York. We’re preparing the catalog at the moment, and I can assure you your painting would attract considerable interest.”

  “But that’s not for another six months,” said the priest. “By then I may not have a roof, just a swimming pool.”

  When the service the following Sunday had to be moved to a church on the other side of town, Grebenar felt that Our Lord was giving him a sign, and most of his parishioners agreed with him. However, like the lawyer, when it came to selling the painting they felt it had to be his decision.

  Once again, the Monsignor prostrated himself before the masterpiece, wondering what his great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather would have done if faced with the same dilemma. His eyes settled on the thirty pieces of silver scattered round Judas’s feet. When he finally rose and crossed himself, he was still undecided. He was about to leave the church, when he found the stranger once again sitting in the front pew. The stranger smiled, but did not speak. He extracted a check for seven hundred thousand euros from an inside pocket, handed it over to the priest, then left without a word.

  When they were told about the chance meeting, several of Monsignor Grebenar’s parishioners described it as a miracle. How else could the man have known the exact sum that was needed to repair the roof ? Others looked upon the stranger as their Good Samaritan. When a part of the roof caved in the following day, the priest handed the check to the master builder.

  The stranger returned within the hour and took away the painting.

  This tale might well have ended here, but for a further twist that Monsignor Grebenar surely would have described as divine intervention, but would have caused Herr Grebenar to become suspicious.

  On the day the new roof was finally completed, Monsignor Grebenar held a service of thanksgiving. The church was packed to hear his sermon. The words “miracle,” “Good Samaritan,” and “divine intervention” could be heard on the lips of several members of the congregation.

  When Monsignor Grebenar had given the final blessing and his flock had departed, he once again thanked God for guiding him in his hour of need. He looked briefly at the blank, newly painted white wall behind the altar and sighed. He then turned his eyes to the brand new roof and smiled, thanking the Almighty a second time.

  After returning home for a simple lunch prepared by his housekeeper, the priest settled down by the fire to enjoy the Hertzendorfer Gazette, an indulgence he allowed himself once a week. He read the headline several times before he fell to his knees and thanked God once again.

  Grebenar Museum Burned to the Ground

  Police Suspect Arson

  The London Times described the loss of Friedrich Bloch’s work as devastating, and far more significant than the destruction of the museum itself. After all, the arts correspondent pointed out, Hertzendorf could always build another museum, while the portraits of Christ and his twelve disciples were works of true genius, and quite irreplaceable.

  During his closing prayers the following Sunday, Monsignor Grebenar thanked God that he had not taken the lawyer’s advice and transferred The Last Supper to the museum for safe-keeping; another miracle, he suggested.

  “Another miracle,” murmured the congregation in unison.

  ________

  Six months later, The Last Supper by Friedrich Bloch (1643–1679) came under the hammer at one of the leading auction houses in New York. In the catalog were Bloch’s Christ’s Sermon on the Mount (1662), while the portraits of the twelve disciples were displayed on separate pages. The cover of the catalog carried an image of The Last Suppe