The Selling of Joseph

By Dan Peled

This page-turning novel unfolds against the backdrop of world events that shaped the life of a prominent architect from Vienna and his family. The gathering storm of World War II extinguished the architect’s flourishing career and his budding love affair with the wife of one of Vienna’s prominent bankers when the Nazis seized power over Austria.

As the architect flees his home, he barters his and his family’s life for an old master’s painting. This stunning tale of courage, passion, and compassion weaves together a cast of unforgettable characters.

The architect’s granddaughter discovers the shocking truth about the old master’s missing painting, The Selling of Joseph, and the unforgettable life story of her mother’s tribulation and triumph. A shocking ending is looming ahead.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9781532077401

Dan Peled

Peled served in the Israeli army Special Forces. After completing his military service, he immigrated to the U.S. to complete his studies in structural engineering. He worked in the construction industry as a project manager, later becoming a senior vice president of a construction firm in New York. He moved to Southern California and continued his construction career, forming his own construction company. He has written twelve novels covering Espionage, Thrillers, Mystery and Family saga. Peled has two married children & three grandchildren.

Book preview

THE SELLING OF JOSEPH

DAN PELED

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THE SELLING OF JOSEPH

Copyright © 2019 Dan Peled.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-5320-7739-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-7740-1 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 06/18/2019

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Epilogue

For Cathie

Prologue

The artist painted in a frenzy, completely immersed in his work.Time had ceased to matter-how long has he been at this? Two days, three? Was it day, or night? He raised his eyes momentarily. It must be night. The candles blazed all around the room; a lavish extravagance. He needed the light. He could not stop so near the finish. He dipped and thrust at the canvas. It was a dance. It was a swordfight. It was his masterpiece! A life time of work and knowledge had culminated in this labor of love and artistry. He was going to title it ‘The Selling of Joseph’ after the biblical story. He had always felt drawn to this tale of betrayal and forgiveness. In a fury of envy and jealousy over the coat of many colors that their Father had given his favorite younger son. Joseph’s brothers had conspired to sell him to slavers from a foreign country. And from this familial injustice, this travesty of fraternal Love, Joseph triumphed by going on to become second in command to the Pharaoh of Egypt, and ultimately saved the lives of these same brothers.Betrayal and forgiveness-he must capture this! He was close, so close…so on he painted. Already, he had crafted the brilliant colors of the coat, trampled in the dust; the harsh beauty of the austere desert. He had depicted in the faces of the brothers, both their cupidity and their latent remorse; and the ignorant slavers displayed the horror of their cruelty and lack of civilization in their attitudes and body language. Finally, Joseph the pivotal element, the lynchpin of the composition, and the focal point of the story and the art-had to be portrayed with such tremendous force and sublety at the same time, that even a true master could only have aspired to this monumental feat.But he had done it! One could only have aspired to this monumental feat. But,he had done it! One could see the devastation in Joseph’s face wrought by his brother’s treachery, yet his eyes held both the kindness and fierceness of spirit that would, in the future, allow him to triumph over this evil deed. Beaten, but undefeated, his demeanor and powerful figure overshadowed the prince of Egypt that he was to become. All that was needed were few more highlights, some subtle darks. There, and there…yes!Yes! He was finished. It was done! This painting was truly his crowning achievement in life with artistic successes. His white hair stood on end, so many times had he run his hand trough it in the course of these final hours. But age had only slightly bowed the stocky, muscular frame needed to paint with such power and he stood, complete and satisfied. This painting would be his final legacy.He stepped back to stare at the finished work, and marveled that this glorious painting had actually come from his hand. And as he gazed at the story come alive, he knew intuitively that it would take on a life of its own- this masterwork, this symphony in oils that he had crafted. ‘The Selling of Joseph’- he could sense the legend it would generate, and knew eventually, it would be coveted by powerful collectors for generations to come……

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A cold wind blew in from the East River on Sunday afternoon and the river seemed frozen. A woman wearing a black sweater and blue jeans looked down at the river, where a merchant ship was picking its way through the ice floes.

She turned toward the fireplace, aglow after her friend added a fresh log. The log crackled and sent sparks into the dark bowels of the fireplace.

Raphael wore blue jeans, black blazer and a white turtleneck sweater and deck shoes. The outfit complemented his good looks and his thick curls, streaked with gray.

He wore rimless glasses and was reading the Sunday New York Times art Section as Jordana walked toward him, holding a glass of wine.

Raphael, have you heard any news about the art auction in Vienna? Jordana asked.

Raphael nodded and set the newspaper down. He took a cigar from the side pocket of his jacket.

Striking a match, he lit the cigar sending aromatic smoke toward the high ceiling.

Yes, there is an article in the newspaper about the upcoming auction. Do you care to read it?

Jordana nodded to him.

I hope you don’t mind the cigar.

She shrugged and cracked a smile at him.

I hope you don’t inhale, she teased him.

Her lush black curls cascading toward her shoulders, her beautiful green eyes, full lips and the curve of her bosom made her look so attractive on this gray Sunday afternoon.

She took a sip of the wine from the glass she was holding and turned toward the stereo set in a wall unit of white oak, from where the final strains of Albinoni’s ‘Adagio in G Minor’ emanated.

This Albinoni composition is so beautiful, she said, looking at Raphael.

Yes, indeed. It is a sad and emotional classical piece. Sometimes I feel it is tearing my soul, he said.

She nodded, listening to the powerful music.

Your friends are telling me that you have a Ph. D. in compassion and a masters in common sense, he joked.

She smiled at him mischievously and he noticed the dimple on her cheek.

Have you heard from Count Von- Schlossburg? She asked in a serious tone.

I haven’t heard from the count yet, although I left a message with his secretary in his Vienna office to call me as soon as he can, Raphael answered.

Then he turned toward the fireplace and stretched his hands to warm them by the fire.

It looks like it’s going to snow again, he said as he turned toward her. It seems there is no end to this harsh winter. You must hate this weather, having grown up in Israel, in the hot Middle East climate.

She sipped more wine and she heard the click of the stereo as another CD moved into place. She heard a familiar voice of a male singer and her favorite song emanating from the stereo, filling her heart with warmth and longing.

Autumn leaves.

The falling leaves drift by my window

The falling leaves of red and gold

I see your lips the summer kisses

The sunburned hands I used to hold

Since you went away the days grow long

And soon I’ll hear old winter’s song

But I miss you most of all my darling

When autumn leaves start to fall

Since you went away the days grow long

And soon I’ll hear old winter’s song

But I miss you most of all my darling

When autumn leaves start to fall

I miss you most of all my darling

When autumn leaves start to fall…..

In her mind’s eye she remembered another place, long ago and she clearly saw herself dancing with Amos, her friend and lover.

Her eyes were moist and she noticed the roaring fire in the fireplace reflecting in Raphael’s eyes.

She turned toward him and answered his question.

I don’t hate the cold weather or the snow. In fact, I wish I were in Vail now, doing a run on the ski slopes. Have you ever been to Vail, Raphael?

No, I haven’t. I am afraid that I am not much of a skier. The art world takes too much of my time, although I do enjoy some cross-country skiing occasionally.

He had a twinkle in his eyes when he spoke to her.

I like you, Jordana. The name fits you so nicely. I like it better than your Israeli name, Yardena.

He looked at her with loving eyes.

It seems as though you cast a magic spell over me. You’re a very special woman.

You’re making me blush. You do not have to impress me with your suave manner. I am sure that you can have all the women you want, whenever you want them. Your reputation has preceded you here. I have spies in New York who told me all about you, she commented wryly, and they both laughed heartily.

Then she came closer to Raphael and could smell the scent of the delicate cologne he wore as it mingled with the aroma of tobacco from his cigar.

She walked toward the full-length window, affording a nice view of the river. Raphael followed her and looked out at the merchant ship plowing its way through the ice floes.

It must be freezing down there, on the deck of that ship, he said, pointing toward the river.

Where do you think Count Von- Schlossburg is now? Jordana queried him, abruptly changing the subject.

Probably enjoying himself in some nice warm place like Aruba or the Bahamas, he replied. He noticed the dimple on Jordana’s cheek deepen, as she cracked a smiled at him.

Where are the rest of the art pieces, the pieces that will be sold at the auction? She persisted.

They must still be in the cellars of the Mauerbach Monastery, outside Vienna, he answered.

When she turned to him, he noticed her serious eyes look at him.

I have something to tell you, Raphael. Several weeks ago, when I went home to visit my ailing mother, she told me again about a painting that disappeared from my grandfather’s house in Vienna. Her story shocked me because it didn’t just disappear, but was taken away by a high-ranking Nazi officer.

She sighed, as she looked at the fire.

Actually, she continued, my grandfather Max bartered his family’s escape from Vienna, and later, from the jaws of the Nazis. It’s really a long story, but the story about the painting is even more fascinating.

She paused, and he noticed her voice rise with excitement.

This is why I need to get my hands on that list of art objects that are to be sold at the Vienna auction. It is important for you to help me locate Count Von Schlossburg. You will help me, won’t you?

Of course I will help you. How can I not help you? A mere look at those beautiful green eyes is all that’s needed for me to accept your request, Raphael said emphatically.

She looked down at the river for a while.

You certainly have a way with words. At times, you seem and sound almost too cosmopolitan for me. Don’t get me wrong, I do like your suave manner, as any woman would, she complemented him.

"But Jordana, you are the one with a flair for words. I’ve read your articles in The New York Times and I hear you are working on a novel now. You are certainly a very gifted journalist. Is it true that you play the piano as well?" Raphael said.

Thank you for the compliments. Yes, I do play the piano, sometimes, she admitted.

Would you care to play for me? Raphael asked. It would really give me great pleasure to listen to your music.

She looked at the black polished piano that faced the window, and shrugged.

I guess I could play something. Do you like Mozart?

I love Mozart. What did you have in mind? He asked excitedly.

Why don’t you sit back and relax, and I will play some Mozart pieces for you. She walked toward the piano and lifted the cover.

Raphael watched her as she sat erect, touching the keys as if she wanted to blend her fingers into them and become one with them.

Then she began playing. The sounds of Mozart’s ‘Piano Concerto No. 20’, the solo piano parts of it filled the room casting magic over Raphael as he watched her fingers caress the keys.

A strange, erotic thought crossed his mind as he closed his eyes and listened to the powerful music.

It seemed to him that she was making love to the piano and that the instrument in response was returning that love with the wonderful music it produced. He felt an urge to rise and walk over to her and hold her to him and kiss her gently on her full lips and then to undress her slowly as their passion was rising to a crescendo.

The incessant ringing of the phone in the kitchen jolted him out of his reverie. Jordana stopped playing and watched him walk toward the kitchen. She rose and walked toward the window gazing down at the river.

She heard Raphael’s voice rising with excitement as he spoke into the phone:

…Where did you find it, Egon? Are you sure about its authenticity?

Then she heard Raphael’s voice grow lower as he finally asked:

When are you coming to New York? He paused and then, Jordana heard him say:

In two weeks? This is wonderful news, indeed. It was nice of you to call. Yes, yes, I will arrange everything here for your arrival. Of course, I will be here waiting for you. Goodbye, my dear fellow, goodbye.

Raphael came out of the kitchen and walked over to Jordana. Suddenly, he was hugging her and whispering to her:

You have magic in those fingers. Your music lifted me to heights I have never before experienced. It looked like you were making love to Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart and the piano at the same time. I really loved your playing.

She let him hold her for a while, smelling again the blend of cologne and tobacco scents, a strange, masculine mixture. Then she pushed him away gently.

You sounded very excited on the phone, Raphael. Is everything all right?

It was Egon Von Schlossburg. He received my message. He is planning to be here, in Manhattan in two weeks, Raphael replied.

Has he mentioned anything about the auction? She queried anxiously.

Yes, he told her. They have located many of the old art works. He confirmed that some of them are in the cellars of the fourteenth- century monastery in Mauerbach, near Vienna.

Turning to her, he asked:

Have you ever been to Vienna?

Yes, I’ve been there several times.

She looked at him curiously. What else did the Count say?

He told me that they have also located several other very interesting paintings: nineteenth-century landscapes and portraits, and Old Masters paintings and drawings. They will be auctioned with the rest of the pieces.

He could still feel the wonderful softness of her curly hair and the magic touch of her bosom against his chest. He felt his heart racing from the excitement of having touched her.

‘She cast a magic spell over me’, Raphael thought.

Jordana’s voice brought him back from his reverie as she said excitedly,

You were telling me of some interesting paintings, Raphael. What were the titles of the paintings that Count Von- Schlossburg mentioned to you?

Raphael looked at her, watching her eyes cloud with excitement.

He mentioned several works, including some Old Masters. Among them were two paintings by the seventeenth-century French painter Abraham Mignon. He also mentioned some others, in particular a painting he was hoping to recover from a source he could not reveal to me.

She cried out excitedly:

Did the count mention the title of that painting, or the name of the artist who painted it?

Her eyes shone with excitement, and her breath was short. He could feel the excitement building inside her and thought how wonderful it could be if he could make love to her. She was so excited, he thought. She could reach the heights of passion she deserved.

Then he smiled at her as he said,

"Yes, he did mention the title of that painting. He called it, ‘THE SELLING OF JOSEPH.’ he…"

Oh, my God, Jordana shouted excitedly, interrupting Raphael. It’s the painting that I was referring to earlier, the one that my mother told me about. It belonged to my grandfather Max. I must go and see it as soon as possible.

She was almost begging as she continued,

Will you help me? Will you take me to see it, Raphael?

He stepped back, looking at her and he saw her innocent expression turn to one that made her look like a fighting tiger.

Hold it now, Jordana. Try to calm down. Now his voice rose with excitement.

Are you sure about that painting? He asked.

What was the name of the artist that the count mentioned? Jordana replied with a question of her own.

His name is Alexander Maximilian Zeitz.

It’s he, she shouted. It’s my Grandpa Max’s painting. I must make arrangements to go to Vienna and see it.

Unfortunately, I’m on a tight schedule, He told her, but I am planning to be at the auction in Vienna when it opens. I am sorry that I can’t accompany you to Vienna now. I will be bidding on several paintings at Sotheby’s tomorrow afternoon.

He saw disappointment in her eyes when he continued.

I promised a friend I would attend the opening of her work at a gallery in Soho, later in the week. But I can meet you in Vienna after Count Von- Schlossburg leaves here, in two-and-a-half weeks.

No, Jordana said. I can’t wait that long. I must find the painting as soon as possible.

Well, as I told you before, the Count is still searching for that painting. I am really sorry about all this, Raphael said as he looked at her with loving eyes.

I want you to remember, he added, "That if you need anything, anything at all,

do not hesitate to call me. Again, I must apologize for the fact that I cannot leave New York at this time."

I understand, Raphael, and I really appreciate your offer.

Have you eaten yet? I would like to invite you to dinner. I know a wonderful seafood place on 73rd Street. They have a piano player and the food is outstanding. Will you join me?

Thank you for your offer, but I’m afraid I can’t tonight. I have a previous engagement, she answered, as she watched dusk turn to evening on the streets below.

When will I see you again? Raphael asked. She noticed disappointment in his voice.

I will call you from wherever I am, Raphael. I promise to keep in touch. I may even come back and surprise you and the Count. Maybe the three of us can have dinner.

It sounds like a wonderful idea to me, he replied.

Then she walked over and extended her hand to Raphael but instead of taking it, he held her to him and kissed her forehead. As he helped her with her coat, he cautioned her:

Be careful out there, and remember to call me if you need me or even if you don’t.

She smiled at him.

I promise, Raphael. I will.

With that, she opened the door and walked out into the well-lit corridor of the posh apartment building. When she reached the elevator, she turned to look for him but he was not there.

As the elevator descended, Jordana remembered her first meeting with Raphael at a party given by an East Side friend, and she smiled to herself. She liked him, but he did not know it.

She suddenly saw in her mind’s eye the face of her grandfather Max in that old faded photo which her mother was able to save, and she sighed. She remembered her past, and the stories her mother Sophie had told her about her life’s struggles and tribulations and about her father, Max and his terrible fate.

CHAPTER 1

M ax Lautenberg was restless. He was awaiting the opening of the bids for the new bank office building. He had hardly slept the previous night, working late into the evening with his senior staff, making last-minute changes in the design they were to present.

The structure he had designed had simple clean lines; it would have long windows to let light onto the marbled floors. It was to be a major departure from the traditional Baroque design of most bank buildings.

He was taking a bold gamble in presenting this radically different design, but he had taken gambles for most of his life and had won most of them.

Bids by several architects have been submitted to the old bank office early this morning but would not be opened until afternoon, when he would learn whether his gamble had succeeded or failed.

As he sat in his leather chair and lit his pipe, Max suddenly remembered his youth and his struggle to