Franz Wolf’s firm occupied a pre-War ramshackle three story house in Peenes Street in the industrial part of Tel Aviv (adjacent to Jaffa). It took Boaz and me a brisk walk of some twenty minutes to get there. Keeping up with the speed of my army trained friend was an effort. On arrival, we had to climb up a steep external staircase leading to the office. I was relieved to drop into the comfortable armchair proffered by our host. A cup of tea made me feel better.
Mr. Franz Wolf turned out to be a heavy set man, in his late middle age. His grey hair, stump nose and short mustachio gave him an aura of distinction. Puffing away on his carved Meerschaum pipe, he described the accident. While he related the gruesome details, my eye fell on a rack of pipes complemented by a tray of tobacco pincers and a few pipe-stops. Most were plain gadgets made of metal, but one – shaped as a smiling Chinaman with his arms folded in front of his chest – caught my attention. It was less than two inches in size but its shining, polychrome, porcelain could not be mistaken. I was looking for an opportunity to ask about it when, to my shock, Herr Wolf picked it up and muttered he had better extinguish his pipe.
“Not with this masterpiece,” I exclaimed, out of control.
Boaz’s eyes opened wide. Herr Wolf, in contrast, broke into a smile. Placing the figurine back in the tray, he put his pipe out with a modern utensil.
“Didn’t take you long to spot him!” he said with satisfaction.
“He is magnificent. where did you get him?”
“Nüremberg – 1928. Herta and I spent our honeymoon there. What do you make of him?”
“Meissen between 1733 and 1740,” I asserted after I had examined the figurine. “What a treasure Herr Wolf! He is perfect!”
“Why are you so certain about the dates?”
“Before 1733 they wouldn’t have cast him like this: he’d be heavier. Also, the hands and the face: miniatures like this were not produced before then.”
“Why are you sure he was fired before 1740?” persisted Herr Wolf.
“After that date, the porcelain was whiter and the decoration was even better.”
“Won’t you let an uninitiated Sabre like me into the secret?” complained Boaz.
“Herr Berger knows his Meissen. Connoisseurs study details.”
“True,” conceded Boaz. “I used to collect Russian stamps. Now practice leaves me no time.”
“But life without a hobby is like dinner without wine,” muttered Wolf. “And you, Herr Berger, how did you discover porcelain?”
“My mother collects: mainly Vienna. Most of her pieces were smashed by the Brown Shirts: I watched them. But she managed to save a few and took them with her when we escaped. And did you get your entire collection out?”
“I used some pieces to bribe my way out of Dachau. ‘Harley’ was kept by Herta.”
Boaz, who had regained his composure, smiled indulgently. He realised the ensuing empathy between Wolf and me would advance the formation of the front needed to safeguard his client’s interest. Seeking to save time, he turned us back to the case.
I listened attentively as Franz Wolf described his correspondence with the manufacturers. Right from the start, they had invoked the clause in the Contract of Supply and Purchase excluding their liability for consequential loss. To placate their conscience, they offered to inspect the guillotine and, if necessary, change the wiring. But they insisted that the accident took place because the main switch had been left on.
An action against them was unlikely to succeed: German law was tipped against Dahlia’s claim. Herr Wolf was able to discuss the subject intelligently. Before opting for a career in printing, he had studied law in Heidelberg and obtained a practising certificate. His decision to switch careers was made after two unhappy years as an attorney. But although he did not return to the Law, his recollection of the legal principles remained clear. To reinforce his own conclusion, he had solicited a second opinion from a former classmate, who was still practising in Cologne. He, too, was pessimistic.
“Doesn’t Western Germany have consumer protection laws?” I asked.
“Of course they have. But Dahlia handled the machine as an employee of our firm. Accordingly, consumer protection laws do not apply.”
“How about a direct suit by herself against the manufacturers – based on a duty of care?”
“Unfortunately, the clauses in the Contract of Supply and Purchase will defeat such an action. The clauses can be invoked against the purchaser’s employees.”
“Can’t we shame the manufacturers into admitting liability? Surely, the publicity won’t do them any good!”
“If the accident had taken place in Germany, this could work. The German Press would not take kindly to a technical defence where a young woman lost her hands. But Tel Aviv is far away. And the manufacturers have no local market.”
“How many clients would they have in Israel?” I asked.
“Probably, just us. I ordered their guillotine because we dealt with them in Leipzig.”
“So, an action against them is out,” I concluded.
“I am afraid so,” agreed Boaz. “Our only hope is to twist Rotem’s arm!”
“So, the facts respecting the insurance policy are crucial,” I observed.
“Precisely,” agreed Boaz. “You better cover the ground, Mr. Wolf.”
The circumstances, it soon appeared, were typical. Since its very foundation some fifteen years before the accident, the firm’s third-party and accident policy had been maintained with Rotem. Some four weeks before the annual expiry date Rotem sent a renewal slip, the duplicate of which was returned with a cheque for the premium. Unfortunately, when the last renewal slip had been sent, Rotem’s clerical staff overlooked a change of address notice they had received. In consequence, the envelope was dispatched to the firm’s old address and the new occupants had failed to forward it.
“But didn’t you realise the policy was about to expire?” I asked.
“Well, the office was run by Herta. If she had still been around, she would have notices. She ran the office meticulously. I’m sure she had a reminder in her diary.”
Adroitly Boaz took over and explained that Herr Wolf had suffered his own tragedy. A few months before the accident, the couple’s only son, Uri, had been killed in a skirmish between his unit in the army and a group of saboteurs. Franz Wolf managed to carry on, but Herta was not up to it. She had a break down followed by a spell in a ‘sanatorium’. Shortly after her release she took an overdose of sleeping pills.
“Running both the office and the firm was too much for me,” confided Franz Wolf. “We were looking for an administrator when the accident took place.”
“But didn’t Rotem send a second reminder. They must have known the operations were in this house.”
“They knew because – once in every few years – they inspected the building for our house-owner policy. But they did not send a second reminder. If they had, I would have sent a cheque instantly. Actually, at about the same time, they sent me a renewal notice for our personal householder policy. It went to our home address and the cheque went out the next day.”
Franz Wolf’s explanation required consideration. My eye fell on ‘Harley’. His benign expression and soothing ambience were balsam to my agitated nerves. For a few minutes I meditated on the facts and on the ensuing problem. At the end of the spell, I spotted a glimmer of light: an unformed argument to be developed in the seclusion of my office. All I could hope for at this stage was to clarify a few, as yet veiled, points.
“The firm’s policy, you say, was renewed regularly for at least ten years?”
“Fifteen, I think.”
“Did you at any time consider a change of insurers? Surely, some company might have offered more favourable terms: a lower premium or a reduction of the excess?”
“Coming to think of it,” he responded readily, “we were approached by a French company. They offered us better all-round terms. I mentioned this to Rotem and they gave me a lecture. Israeli firms had to support each other and, they insisted, our long-term relationship was of a lasting nature. This, they said, had stopped them from raising the premium after a year in which we had several accidents.”
“What did you do?”
“We stuck to them.” Having halted for a few seconds, he added: “In many Continental systems this would lead to the formation of a binding renewal arrangement!”
“Not in our English based system, I fear,” observed Boaz.
“Let me think this over. In our system the point is perhaps debatable,” I told him.
To complete his task, Franz Wolf took us for a tour of the factory. Despite its ramshackle premises, the firm appeared well equipped. Modern instruments were in abundance. The accident-prone guillotine, which was no longer in operation, had been disconnected from the network and moved to a remote spot, like a naughty school boy told to ‘stand in the corner’.
When we took our leave, after completing the tour, Franz Wolf asked: “Did Harley sort of talk to you, Herr Berger?”
“He did rather and on legal points. I can’t explain it.”
“I, too, hear him from to time. I don’t understand how this happens. An inanimate object can’t talk or inspire.”
“Perhaps something inherent in Harley’s makeup triggers an internal channel of communications?”
“Perhaps. Or does he stimulate our thoughts by assisting us to concentrate?”
“My stamps did this to me,” volunteered Boaz. “When I got immersed in my album, the rest of the world ceased to exist and some of the heroes portrayed in Russian stamps appeared in front of my eyes.”
Franz Wolf and I grinned. When Boaz and I took our leave, the alliance was in place. My next task was to communicate the information I had gleaned to Jacob Keren and Rachel Zeitlin.