He looked about the room and shrugged again.
“And then, when there was no longer a united Germany of any kind, in 1945, there was also no longer a Schliemann collection. It had disappeared. However, now that it appears to have been rediscovered, I suggest quite strongly that the proper place for it is in Greece, a country it should never have left. It is the country where Sophie Engastromenos always wished it to be, the country where it belongs. Regarding the desires of Sophie Schliemann in this regard, I might mention, they are fully documented and I have the documents here for anyone who wishes to examine them. I will close with the statement that the Greek government intends to pursue this matter to the fullest. Thank you.”
He sat down. A man who had been holding up his hand almost from the beginning of Jacoubs’ statement, came to his feet slowly at Ruth’s nod. He was a tall man, almost painfully thin, with sunken swarthy cheeks, and black hair cut short and combed rigidly back. He was smoking a cigarette and he contemplated it in his twiglike fingers most of the time he spoke, as if drawing some degree of comfort from it. As Jacoubs had done, he spoke in French.
“My name is Suleiman Abbas,” he said, “and I represent the Archaeological Museums of Istanbul. But I am sure I speak for all Turkish museums, as well as for the Turkish government. Let me say at the very beginning that I am quite surprised at this meeting. All of you are aware, I am sure, that the so-called Schliemann treasure was taken from Turkey illegally. The firman — the permit issued by the Turkish government to Schliemann to dig in the Troad — was given him under certain conditions, and I can assure you those conditions did not include the right to steal from the Turkish people. It specifically indicated that all finds were to be presented for examination to a representative of the Turkish government, and that a division, based upon mutual agreement, would be made. But what actually happened? Schliemann, discovering the treasure — or his wife discovering it, if that pleases some of you — sent his workers home for the day, carried the treasure to his home by subterfuge — under his wife’s skirts, the story is — and later smuggled it from Turkey to Greece. I said before the treasure was the ‘so-called’ Schliemann treasure, because it never belonged to Heinrich Schliemann. If you wish to call it the Troy treasure, or the Troad treasure, or the Turkish treasure — or even Priam’s treasure, as some scholars think it to be — very well and good. But it is not and never was the Schliemann treasure.”
He paused to flick ash from his cigarette and resumed speaking, still staring most of the time at the smoke curling from between his thin fingers.
“I am sure that all of you are not only aware of the illegality of Schliemann disregarding his firman and smuggling the treasure to Greece, but you are also aware of the United Nations stand on art treasures, that they belong to the country of origin. Who can deny that Turkey is the country of origin? Who can deny that Schliemann broke the rules of his permit, and then compounded his crime by smuggling the fruits of his find out of the country of Turkey?” For the first time he raised his eyes from the hypnotic wreath of smoke rising from the cigarette to look about the room, almost accusingly. “Many of you have excavated in countries under permits issued by those countries. Those who have are well aware of the rules of the game. How many would have had permits renewed, or extended, had they done what Heinrich Schliemann did? Yet the man is considered a sort of genius when he was, in fact, a mere thief. Even in Greek law, I’m sure” — he looked at Jacoubs, sitting large and silent down the table from him — “a man is not permitted to gain from something he has stolen. And the goods, when recovered, must always be returned to the party from whom they were taken.”
He noticed his cigarette had burned down to the cork tip and crushed it out almost reluctantly. Without this center for his attention his dark brooding eyes moved from one listener to another, demanding their attention, their understanding, their acquiescence.
“You may ask why Turkey never made claim to the treasure before. Well, as a matter of fact, we did. Many times while Heinrich Schliemann was alive. But after his death, with the treasure firmly in the hands of the German government, the matter seemed too difficult to resolve. As Mr. Jacoubs said, quite correctly in fact, one does not go to war — particularly against a stronger power — over a collection of ancient artifacts. Now, however, the situation is completely different. The treasure, it appears, is now in the hands of a person or persons who have no legal claim to it at all.”
He looked at Ruth McVeigh, sitting at the head of the table. His voice was quiet, almost resigned.
“Dr. McVeigh, the Turkish museums will not bid in the farce of this so-called auction. We would expect that nobody would bid, but we are realistic enough to know this will not be the case. I can therefore only say we shall be most humbly and gratefully thankful to the successful bidder, whoever he may be, because he shall have to turn the treasure over to us.”
He nodded toward the head of the table, a brief, short nod, pushed his chair back, and walked slowly but with dignity from the room. There was a moment’s silence at his unexpected departure, and then everyone seemed to want to speak at once. Hands flashed in the air, waving frantically, people stood, calling out, leaning over at last to speak into the console microphones for attention, without waiting for permission to speak. It was bedlam, and the sharp rapping of Ruth McVeigh’s gavel seemed to make little difference. She waited a moment, her gavel pounding furiously but unsuccessfully, and then reached for her purse. She brought out a police whistle, used to handle any indecent approaches, and drew her microphone toward her, turning the volume dial on it to its maximum. She then blew the whistle into the microphone with all her strength. The shrill sound, blasting almost painfully from the wall speakers and echoing loudly from all corners of the confined space, was deafening. People stopped their racket and looked up, as if at an air-raid siren. A lesser blast on the whistle completed the maneuver. People began to settle back, to quiet down. The hands that were raised now were raised quietly, respectfully. Ruth chose to ignore them.
“I think we’ve had enough discussion for today, our opening session,” she said. “We will meet here again tomorrow at ten in the morning. I suggest in the meantime those wishing to speak write their names on a slip of paper. We will draw them from a bowl, lottery style, and they will be given the floor in that order. Thank you.”
She switched off the microphone and automatically looked to where Gregor Kovpak had been sitting, but to her disappointment the chair was empty. She could see the white-haired man who had been seated next to Kovpak just making his way through the door, and she could only assume that Kovpak had preceded him. She was surprised at the depths of her disappointment. It was too bad, she would have liked to meet him. Now it would have to wait until the following day, if he remained for the next session. He might go back to Leningrad, probably feeling it to be pointless listening to speeches he could not understand. She shook her head, surprised and a bit irked with herself for her concern, slid her papers into her briefcase, and turned to find herself facing a smiling Dr. Gregor Kovpak.