by Daniel Silva
14
AMSTERDAM
In the cutthroat world of the art trade, there was one principle that was supposed to be sacrosanct. Provenance, the written record of a painting’s chain of ownership, was everything. Theoretically, dealers did not sell paintings without a proper provenance, collectors did not buy them, and no decent restorer would ever lay hands on a picture without knowing where it had been and under what conditions it had hung. But after many years of conducting provenance research, Gabriel had learned never to be shocked by the secret lives led by some of the world’s most sought-after works of art. He knew that paintings, like people, sometimes lied about their pasts. And he knew that, often, those lies revealed more than the so-called truths contained in their printed pedigrees. All of which explained his interest in De Vries Fine Arts, purveyors of quality Dutch and Flemish Old Master paintings since 1882.
Occupying a stately if somewhat sullen building overlooking Amsterdam’s Herengracht canal, the gallery had always presented itself as the very picture of stability and good manners, though a brief glimpse into the darkest chambers of its past would tell a markedly different story. Regrettably, none was darker than its conduct during the Second World War. Within weeks of Holland’s capitulation, Amsterdam was inundated by a wave of Germans looking for Dutch paintings. Prices soared so quickly that ordinary citizens were soon scouring their closets for anything that might be regarded as an Old Master. The De Vries gallery welcomed the Germans with open arms. Its best customer was none other than Hermann Göring, who purchased more than a dozen paintings from the gallery between 1940 and 1942. The staff found Göring to be a shrewd negotiator and secretly enjoyed his roguish charm. For his part, Göring would tell colleagues in Berlin that no shopping spree in Amsterdam was complete without a stop at the exquisite gallery along the Herengracht.
The gallery had also played a prominent role in the history of Rembrandt’s Portrait of a Young Woman. Of the three known times that the painting changed hands in the twentieth century, two of the sales had been conducted under the auspices of De Vries Fine Arts. The first sale had occurred in 1919, the second in 1936. Both had been private, meaning that the identity of buyer and seller were known only to the gallery itself. Under the rules of the art trade, such transactions were to remain confidential for all eternity. But in some circumstances—with the passage of enough time or for the right amount of money—a dealer could be cajoled into opening his books.
Gabriel entrusted that delicate task to Julian Isherwood, who had always enjoyed a cordial professional relationship with the De Vries gallery despite its questionable past. It took several hours of heated telephone negotiations, but Isherwood finally convinced Geert de Vries, great-grandson of the founder, to surrender the records. Isherwood would never tell Gabriel the exact price he had paid for the documents, only that it had been steep. “Remember one thing about art dealers,” he said. “They are the lowest of God’s creatures. And economic times like these bring out the worst in them.”
Gabriel and Chiara monitored the final stages of the negotiations from a charming suite at the Ambassade Hotel. After receiving word that the deal had been finalized, they left the hotel a few minutes apart and made the short walk along the Herengracht to the gallery, Chiara on one side of the canal, Gabriel on the other. Geert de Vries had left photocopies of the records at the front desk in a buff envelope marked ROSSI. Gabriel slipped it into his bag and bade the receptionist a pleasant afternoon in Italian-accented English. Stepping outside, he saw Chiara leaning against a lamppost on the opposite bank of the canal. Her scarf was knotted in a way that meant she had not noticed surveillance of any sort. She followed him to a café in the Bloemenmarkt and drank hot chocolate while he worked his way laboriously through the documents.
“There’s a reason why the Dutch speak so many languages. Their own is impenetrable.”
“Can you make it out?”
“Most of it. The person who bought the painting in 1919 was a banker named Andries van Gelder. He must have been hit hard by the Great Depression. When he sold it in 1936, he did so at a considerable loss.”
“And the next owner?”
“A man named Jacob Herzfeld.”
“Are Dutch boys ever named Jacob?”
“They’re usually called Jacobus.”
“So he was Jewish?”
“Probably.”
“When was the next sale?”
“Nineteen sixty-four at the Hoffmann Gallery of Lucerne.”
“Switzerland? Why would Jacob Herzfeld sell his painting there?”
“I’m betting it wasn’t him.”
“Why?”
“Because unless Jacob Herzfeld was extremely lucky, he probably wasn’t alive in 1964. Which means it’s quite possible we’ve just discovered a very large hole in the painting’s provenance.”
“So what are we going to do now?”
Gabriel shoved the documents back into the envelope.
“Find out what happened to him.”
15
AMSTERDAM
Portrait of a Young Woman, oil on canvas, 104 by 86 centimeters, was painted in a large house just west of Amsterdam’s old center. Rembrandt purchased the property in 1639 for the price of thirteen thousand guilders, an enormous sum even for a painter of his stature and one that would eventually lead to his financial undoing. At the time, the street was known as Sint Antonisbreestraat. Later, due to a change in the neighborhood’s demographics, it would be renamed Jodenbreestraat, or Jewish Broad Street. Why Rembrandt chose to live in such a place has long been a matter of debate. Was it because he harbored a secret affinity for Judaism? Or did he choose to reside in the district because it was home to many other painters and collectors? Whatever the case, one thing is beyond dispute. The greatest painter of Holland’s Golden Age lived and worked among Amsterdam’s Jews.
Shortly after Rembrandt’s death, a number of large synagogues were constructed near the opposite end of Jodenbreestraat around the Visserplein and Meijerplein. The redbrick buildings somehow managed to survive the Nazi occupation of the Netherlands, though most of the people who prayed there did not. Nestled within a complex of four old Ashkenazi synagogues is the primary keeper of this terrible memory, the Jewish Historical Museum. After passing through the magnetometer at the front entrance, Gabriel asked for the research facility and was directed to the lowest level. It was a modern space, clean and brightly lit, with long worktables and an internal spiral staircase leading to the upper stacks. Given the lateness of the hour, it was empty except for a single archivist, a tall man in his early forties with reddish blond hair.
Without going into specifics, Gabriel said he was looking for information about a man named Jacob Herzfeld. The archivist asked for the correct spelling, then walked over to a computer terminal. A click of the mouse brought up a page for a database search engine. He entered Herzfeld’s first and last name and clicked again.
“This could be him. Jacob Herzfeld, born in Amsterdam in March 1896, died at Auschwitz in March 1943. His wife and daughter were murdered at the same time. The child was only nine years old.” The archivist glanced over his shoulder at Gabriel. “They must have been rather well-to-do. They lived at a good address on Plantage Middenlaan. It’s quite close to here, just on the other side of Wertheim Park.”
“Is there a way to tell if any members of the family survived?”
“Not using this database, but let me check our files.”
The archivist disappeared through a doorway. Chiara roamed the stacks while Gabriel sat down at the computer and scrolled through the names of the dead. Salomon Wass, born in Amsterdam, 31 May 1932, murdered at Sobibor, 14 May 1943…Alida Spier, born Rotterdam, 20 September 1915, murdered at Auschwitz, 30 September 1942…Sara da Silva Rosa, born Amsterdam, 8 April 1930, murdered at Auschwitz, 15 October 1942…They were but three of the 110,000 Dutch Jews who had been sealed into freight cars and dispatched eastward for murder and cremation. Only one-fifth of Holland’s J
ews survived the war, the lowest percentage of any Western country occupied by the Germans. Several factors contributed to the lethality of the Holocaust in Holland, not least of which was the enthusiastic support given the project by many elements of Dutch society. Indeed, from the Dutch police officers who arrested Jews to the Dutch rail workers who transported them to their deaths, Dutch citizens were active at nearly every stage of the process. Adolf Eichmann, the managing director of the Final Solution, would later say of his local helpers, “It was a pleasure to work with them.”
The archivist reappeared, holding a single sheet of paper. “I thought I recognized the name and address. There was another child who survived. But I don’t think she’ll talk.”
“Why not?” Gabriel asked.
“We have an annual conference here in Amsterdam that focuses on the children who were hidden during the Holocaust. Last year, I handled the registration.” He held up the sheet of paper. “Lena Herzfeld attended the first session but left almost immediately.”
“What happened?”
“When we asked her to write down her memories of the war for our archives, she became very agitated and angry. She said it had been a mistake to come. After that, we never saw her again.”
“A reaction like that isn’t uncommon,” Gabriel said. “It took years for some survivors to talk about their experiences. And some never have.”
“That’s true,” the archivist agreed. “But the hidden children are among the least understood victims of the Holocaust. Their experience has its own special tragedy. In most cases, they were handed over to complete strangers. Their parents were simply trying to save them, but what child can truly comprehend being left behind?”
“I understand,” said Gabriel. “But it’s important that I see her.”
The archivist searched Gabriel’s face and seemed to recognize something he had seen before. Then he smiled sadly and handed over the slip of paper.
“Don’t tell her where you got the address. And be sure to treat her gently. She’s fragile. They’re all a bit fragile.”
16
AMSTERDAM
The archivist told Gabriel and Chiara everything else he knew. Lena Herzfeld had worked as a teacher in the Dutch state school system, had never married, and, as it turned out, lived just around the corner from her old family home. It was a small street with a leafy green park on one side and a terrace of gabled houses on the other. Hers was a narrow little house with a narrow black door at street level. Gabriel reached for the bell but hesitated. She became very agitated and angry…After that, we never saw her again. Perhaps it was better to leave her undisturbed, he thought. He knew from personal experience that coaxing memory from a survivor could be a bit like crossing a frozen lake. One wrong step and the entire surface could crack with disastrous results.
“What’s wrong?” Chiara asked.
“I don’t want to put her through it. Besides, she probably doesn’t remember.”
“She was nine when the Germans came. She remembers.”
Gabriel made no movement. Chiara pressed the bell for him.
“Why did you do that?”
“She came to that conference for a reason. She wants to talk.”
“Then why did she get so upset when they asked her about the war?”
“They probably didn’t ask her the right way.”
“And you think I can?”
“I know you can.”
Chiara reached for the bell again but stopped at the sound of footfalls in the entrance hall. An exterior light came on, and the door retreated a few inches, revealing a small, spare woman dressed entirely in black. Her pewter-colored hair was carefully brushed, and her blue eyes appeared clear and alert. She regarded the two visitors curiously, then, sensing they were not Dutch, addressed them in flawless English.
“May I help you?”
“We’re looking for Lena Herzfeld,” said Gabriel.
“I’m Lena Herzfeld,” she replied calmly.
“We were wondering whether we might speak with you.”
“About?”
“Your father.” Gabriel paused, then added, “And about the war.”
She was silent for a moment. “My father has been dead for more than sixty years,” she said firmly. “As for the war, there is nothing to discuss.”
Gabriel shot a glance at Chiara, who ignored him and quietly asked, “Will you tell us about the painting, then?”
Lena Herzfeld seemed startled but quickly regained her composure. “What painting is that?”
“The Rembrandt your father owned before the war.”
“I’m afraid you have me confused with someone else. My father never owned a Rembrandt.”
“But that’s not true,” Gabriel interjected. “Your father did indeed own a Rembrandt. He purchased it from De Vries Fine Arts on the Herengracht in 1936. I have a copy of the bill of sale if you would like to see it.”
“I have no wish to see it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I—”
“Then will you at least have a look at this?”
Without waiting for an answer, Gabriel pressed a photograph of the painting into her hands. For several seconds, Lena Herzfeld’s face betrayed no emotion other than mild curiosity. Then, bit by bit, the ice began to crack, and tears spilled down both cheeks.
“Do you remember it now, Miss Herzfeld?”
“It’s been a very long time, but, yes, I remember.” She brushed a tear from her cheek. “Where did you get this?”
“Perhaps it would be better if we spoke inside.”
“How did you find me?” she asked fearfully, her gaze still fixed on the photograph. “Who betrayed me?”
Gabriel felt as if a stone had been laid over his heart.
“No one betrayed you, Miss Herzfeld,” he said softly. “We’re friends. You can trust us.”
“I learned when I was a child to trust no one.” She looked up from the photograph. “What do you want from me?”
“Only your memory.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“Someone died because of this painting, Miss Herzfeld.”
“Yes,” she said. “I know.”
She returned the photograph to Gabriel’s hand. For an instant, he feared he had pushed too far. Then the door opened a few inches wider and Lena Herzfeld stepped to one side.
Treat her gently, Gabriel reminded himself. She’s fragile. They’re all a bit fragile.
17
AMSTERDAM
Gabriel knew the instant he entered Lena Herzfeld’s house that she was suffering from a kind of madness. It was neat, orderly, and sterile, but a madness nonetheless. The first evidence of her disorder was the condition of her sitting room. Like most Dutch parlors, it had the compactness of a Vermeer. Yet through her industrious arrangement of the furnishings and careful choice of color—a glaring, clinical white—she had managed to avoid the impression of clutter or claustrophobia. There were no pieces of decorative glass, no bowls of hard candy, no mementos, and not a single photograph. It was as if Lena Herzfeld had been dropped into this place alone, without parentage, without ancestry, without a past. Her home was not truly a home, thought Gabriel, but a hospital ward into which she had checked herself for a permanent stay.
She insisted on making tea. It came, not surprisingly, in a white pot and was served in white cups. She insisted, too, that Gabriel and Chiara refer to her only as Lena. She explained that she had worked as a teacher at a state school and for thirty-seven years had been called only Miss Herzfeld by students and colleagues alike. Upon retirement, she had discovered that she wanted her given name back. Gabriel acceded to her wishes, though from time to time, out of courtesy or deference, he sought refuge behind the formality of her family name. When it came to identifying himself and the attractive young woman at his side, he decided it was not possible to reciprocate Lena Herzfeld’s intimacy. And so he plucked an old alias from his pocket and concocted a hasty cover to go with it. Tonight he was Gideon Argov, employee
of a small, privately funded organization that carried out investigations of financial and other property-related questions arising from the Holocaust. Given the sensitive nature of these investigations, and the security problems arising from them, it was not possible to go into greater detail.
“You’re from Israel, Mr. Argov?”
“I was born there. I live mainly in Europe now.”
“Where in Europe, Mr. Argov?”
“Given the nature of my work, my home is a suitcase.”
“And your assistant?”
“We spend so much time together her husband is convinced we’re lovers.”
“Are you?”
“Lovers? No such luck, Miss Herzfeld.”
“It’s Lena, Mr. Argov. Please call me Lena.”
The secrets of survivors are not easily surrendered. They are locked away behind barricaded doors and accessed at great risk to those who possess them. It meant the evening’s proceedings would be an interrogation of sorts. Gabriel knew from experience that the surest route to failure was the application of too much pressure. He began with what appeared to be an offhand remark about how much the city had changed since his last visit. Lena Herzfeld responded by telling him about Amsterdam before the war.
Her ancestors had come to the Netherlands in the middle of the seventeenth century to escape the murderous pogroms being carried out by Cossacks in eastern Poland. While it was true that Holland was generally tolerant of the new arrivals, Jews were excluded from most segments of the Dutch economy and forced to become traders and merchants. The majority of Amsterdam’s Jews were lower middle class and quite poor. The Herzfelds worked as peddlers and shopkeepers until the late nineteenth century, when Abraham Herzfeld entered the diamond trade. He passed the business on to his son, Jacob, who undertook a rapid and highly successful expansion. Jacob married a woman named Susannah Arons in 1927 and moved from a cramped apartment off the Jodenbreestraat to the grand house on Plantage Middenlaan. Four years later, Susannah gave birth to the couple’s first child, Lena. Two years after that came another daughter, Rachel.
