“We had to leave Amsterdam because of what happened to Lex at the Stedelijk Museum. So my mama and us girls spent the last three years of the war on my aunt’s farm in Venlo.”
“What exactly happened at the Stedelijk Museum?” Huub asked.
“In May 1942, Lex got asked to be part of a group exposition at the museum, the most important place for working artists to show their work back then. After Hitler’s troops invaded Poland in 1939 he had the good sense to start using his mother’s maiden name – Welsh – as his own. He even re-signed most of his old canvases so he could get them displayed in galleries. It made Lex so mad he couldn’t use his real name, but he understood it was too big a risk. I guess that’s why he signed Irises with ‘Wederstein.’ That portrait was never meant to be sold.”
“Do you mean to say Lex Wederstein pretended not to be Jewish?” Huub asked, clearly dumbfounded.
“The Nazis considered him Jewish. He considered himself to be Episcopalian, like his mama. But his daddy was a full-blooded Jew and that meant Lex was too, according to the Nazi regime. Even though Lex wasn’t even Jewish according to the Jewish religion! It’s one of those matriarchal religions; if your mama’s not Jewish then you’re not either.” Rita paused for a moment to collect her thoughts, giving Zelda a chance to catch up. Taking notes was much more difficult than she thought it was going to be.
“When Lex’s daddy got fired from his job in 1940 because of his religious persuasion, he was worried he would get shipped off to one of them work camps in Germany. He wanted to take the whole family into hiding and wait out the war. Back then no one could have known Amsterdam would be occupied for so many years; most people figured it would all be over in a few months. But Lex refused to go with them. He was finally starting to get exhibitions in galleries; there was even a review in an important art magazine about his first solo show, saying he was an artist to watch. My sister Iris was real proud of that. Being able to make his living as an artist had always been his dream and he’d be damned if the Nazis would take that away from him, too.”
“That seems particularly brave, or incredibly stupid,” Huub interjected.
“It wouldn’t have surprised you if you’d known him,” Rita maintained. “It helped that Lex didn’t look Jewish. He was tall, blond and blue-eyed – just like his mother. That’s probably why he got away with it for so long, hiding out in plain sight. He was a beautiful boy, so full of life. He survived two years, living the way he wanted, out in the open, right under their noses. If only he could of controlled that temper of his…” her voice faltered. She gazed at the painting of her sister before adding softly, “He never stood a chance.”
Zelda used the momentary silence to gauge the museum professionals’ reactions. Bernice showed no obvious sign of being moved by the older lady’s narrative. Two chairs down, Huub stared out the window at the courtyard below, seemingly lost in thought. Had he even been listening to Rita? she wondered. Before she could catch his eye, Bernice spoke up. “What happened to Lex Wederstein, Mrs. Brouwer?”
“Lex betrayed himself at the exhibition,” Rita said, a deep sigh escaping her lips. Her eyes clouded over and she fell silent again.
“Would you like more coffee, Mrs. Brouwer? Or perhaps to go back to your hotel? We can always meet again, once you’ve gotten better adjusted to being in a different time zone,” Bernice asked, concern evident in her voice.
Rita looked up at the three people sitting around the table as if she was seeing them for the first time. The old lady had clearly transported her thoughts back to the 1940s. She shook her head slightly and was in the present again. “No, thank you. I’m fine. It’s just, well, I haven’t really talked about any of this for a very, very long time. Frankly, I feel like I’m describing someone else’s life to you all.”
She slapped her palms on the table before breaking into a forced laugh. “Listen to me dithering on! Where was I? Oh yes, the exhibition at the Stedelijk Museum. Hours before the opening, Lex got word his family had been arrested by the Gestapo. They’d been hiding in a neighbor’s attic, a few doors down from where they lived. Lex and his brothers used to play with their children and his mother was always going over to their house to help make jam, bake pies or chit-chat over coffee. Lex’s parents had every reason to trust them. Unfortunately, in those days the Nazis were offering good money for information on the whereabouts of any Jewish persons still in the city, and for those hiding them, as well. Can you imagine that? Paying people to snitch on their neighbors and friends? But there was no work, and people were starving and freezing to death because they couldn’t afford to buy food, clothes or oil for heating – when there was any to be had. Those were very desperate times. Apparently the friends hiding Lex’s family got worried that they were going to get arrested, so they turned his family in to the police themselves. To beat their neighbors to the punch, so to speak.” Rita shook her head in disgust.
“Lex came to our house as soon as he found out. I was only ten years old at the time, but I remember how angry he was. Nothing Iris or my daddy said or did seemed to console him. A while after he arrived, he stormed out without even saying goodbye. Iris wanted to go after him, but daddy wouldn’t let her. Lex needed some time to cool off, he’d be back when he was good and ready, he said. Of course we didn’t know where Lex would go or what he might do. None of us thought he’d go to the opening, not in the state he was in. After he left, Iris was inconsolable. It was as if she knew she’d never see Lex again.”
Rita wiped away a tear. Zelda blinked away one herself, imagining the overwhelming sense of helplessness and accompanying rage Lex certainly must have felt. His entire family arrested and deported, despite having done everything they could to hide their existence from the Nazis, even living like mice in a dark attic for two long years.
“The next day some of Lex’s friends came to our frame shop. He had gone to the opening after all. They said at first Lex appeared normal; laughing and carrying on like nothing was wrong. It was only after he started to get drunk that they noticed something was eating at him. He made sarcastic remarks about a group of SS officers in the gallery and even tried goose-stepping across the hall. Before his friends could get him out of the museum, Lex saw a SS general admiring one of his paintings. He ran over and shook the man’s hand before screaming at the top of his lungs that he was the artist – and a Jew. Apparently everyone thought he was joking at first, but Lex kept insisting he was Jewish, even screaming his real name over and over again: ‘Wederstein, Wederstein, Wederstein!’ When that general finally realized Lex wasn’t joking, he ripped the painting from the wall and put his boot through it. Lex flipped out. He jumped on the general’s back and tried to choke him.”
“Lex was immediately arrested for attacking an officer, not wearing his star, sneaking into the museum, and participating in the exhibition under false pretenses. That night there was a raid on his street and everyone was arrested, even the supposed friends who’d ratted his parents out to the Gestapo. A few days later, Lex, his entire family and several of his neighbors were shipped off to Auschwitz. None of them came back.” Rita sounded so bitter. “He didn’t just commit suicide the night of the opening. He murdered almost everyone he’d ever known and, in a way, my daddy. He was such a naïve boy.”
“What happened to Lex’s family and neighbors is atrocious, but I still do not understand why his actions forced your family to leave Amsterdam?” Huub asked, his arms folded firmly across his chest.
Is he made of ice? Zelda wondered. How could Huub react so indifferently to such a heart-wrenching story?
Rita sat up straighter in her chair before answering, her tone defiant. “My daddy heard that the general had torn Lex’s studio apart and found photos of him and Iris together. He’d been asking around the art academy, trying to find out who the girl in the photograph was. My daddy knew most of the artists and teachers at the Rijksacademie and trusted them but, like I said before, the Nazis were paying for information and money w
as hard to come by. It was probably only a matter of time before someone talked. Even though that general didn’t have a legitimate reason to arrest Iris or harass our family, my daddy was so shaken by what he’d done to Lex he shipped us off to stay with my mother’s sister the very next day. June 14, 1942 to be exact. We could stay on her farm in Venlo until the war was over. We would all be safer there, my father thought.”
“If it was so dangerous, why did your father not go to Venlo with you?” Huub asked.
“He stayed behind to sell what possessions he could, and store the rest with friends who were determined to stay. It wasn’t our furniture or clothes he was worried about, but his art collection and the tools and supplies in his frame shop. He couldn’t bear to leave it all behind for the Germans to take. The Gestapo wasn’t even looking for him – only Iris – so he had nothing to worry about, he said.”
Rita paused to take a long sip of coffee before resuming her story. “After we got to the farm, we hardly noticed there was a war going on. My aunt had five boys a few years younger than us girls, so we had a hoot chasing them around. There was plenty of meat, eggs and vegetables, even with so many mouths to feed. It was almost idyllic, except for the fact that my daddy never arrived.”
“What do you mean?” Bernice asked.
Rita gazed at her sister’s portrait. In a soft voice, almost a whisper, she said, “A week after we got to the farm, he sent a letter saying he’d sold his equipment and supplies to a fellow frame maker and that he’d paid the rent on our house for another five years. Hopefully we’d all be home by then, he wrote,” she smiled at the memory, before her forehead creased up.
“Mama always found that strange because she said they’d decided to leave Amsterdam for good and immigrate to America as soon as it was safe to cross the Atlantic.”
“So, he wrote to your mother that he’d sold his art collection to a fellow frame maker, yet you are here submitting a claim on it?” Huub asked, incredulity apparent in his voice.
“No, only his frame making tools and the inventory in his shop. At the end of the letter he wrote that he’d found the perfect place to store his art collection and his paintings would be safe there until this bloody war ended. I don’t know if he left them with that frame maker or someone else. But he did not sell them to anyone, I’m sure of it!”
“And where did he go after he stored his most precious possessions with these unknown friends?”
“I don’t know. He ended his letter by saying he hoped to be leaving Amsterdam in a few days and he couldn’t wait to see us.” She wiped away another tear before adding in a resigned tone, “That was the last time we ever heard from my daddy again.”
TEN
Bernice Dijkstra bowed her head silently. Zelda wasn’t sure if she was praying for Rita Brouwer’s father, or needed time to process everything the older woman had shared with the group. A few moments later she cleared her throat and began to speak, her tone formal once again. “Thank you so much for flying over to talk with us. You have provided important new information about this painting, a piece we knew very little about.”
She paused again, almost as if she was unsure whether to ask a question that was plainly still weighing on her mind. “Mrs. Brouwer, I realize you were a little girl when you last saw this painting, but do you remember seeing any identifying marks on the back or frame?” she asked.
Rita looked over at her quizzically and slowly shook her head. “I can’t say that I do.”
“Does ‘F. Halsst 14’ mean anything to you?” Bernice asked, writing the text onto her notepad before holding it up for Rita to see. “It is written on the exposed wooden bars the canvas is stretched over, in a black ink commonly used in fountain pens. It is the only legible marking on the painting or frame.”
Rita seemed momentarily puzzled before her face lit up in recognition. “Why sure, that was the address of our house, Frans Halsstraat 14. Wait, did you say it was written on the back?”
“The text is quite faint, but still visible with the naked eye.”
“That doesn’t make sense. Daddy used to glue a little label onto the back of each of his new paintings as soon as he got them. But it had the address of his frame shop on it, not our home, I’m sure of that,” Rita’s brow furrowed in concentration.
“Maybe the label fell off,” Huub offered.
“Then why did he write our home address on the back, instead of the shop’s?” Rita wondered out loud.
“How should I know? He was your father,” the curator retorted.
“Mrs. Brouwer,” Bernice broke in again, attempting to salvage the mood, “did you bring any official documents which state that your father was the last legal owner of this painting?”
“Excuse me?” Rita huffed, crossing her arms over her ample bosom, “my daddy was the only legal owner.”
“How can you be so certain he didn’t sell it? You said yourself no one in your family knows what happened to his collection after you left for Venlo,” Huub interjected.
“He never would have sold that painting, not in a million years. It was a gift from his future son-in-law and a portrait of his own daughter. And as far as who he might have left his collection with, well, I’m as baffled as you are. Where did you find Irises anyway? Whoever had it must have the rest of my daddy’s collection,” Rita stated, obviously fed up with the curator’s attitude.
“Irises and several other paintings were found in a house on the Vermeerstraat, close to the Museumplein, in which a high-ranking German officer resided for at least part of the war. Most Nazis didn’t see the capitulation coming and had to flee Holland quickly, often leaving their possessions – and those they’d stolen from Dutch citizens – behind. In the summer of 1945, homes and offices used by the German army were cleared out and any salvageable artwork, furniture or antiques found were turned over to the Dutch government so they could be returned to their rightful owners,” Bernice explained in a soothing voice. “But we don’t know how Irises ended up in that house. We were hoping you might know why it was found there.”
“I’m as confused as you are. Maybe that crazy Nazi general did find my daddy and steal his artwork. Lord, how I wish I knew his name. Iris is so forgetful these days, I doubt if she’ll remember it, but I’ll be sure and ask her,” Rita pulled a handkerchief out of her bag and blew her nose. “Were the rest of daddy’s paintings there, too?”
“If you can provide us with a list of his artwork, we can check our database for you.”
Rita rustled through her purse again, this time pulling out a thin manila folder. “In November 1945 we immigrated to Boston to live with my mama’s brother and his wife. Some friends of theirs told her about how people whose artwork had been stolen during the war could file a claim to try and get it back. She wrote a letter to the Dutch government right away, explaining what had happened. She also included a list of all the pieces she could remember. Daddy never wrote up an inventory list, so far as we know. When he got a new piece, he’d stick his label on it, find a place to hang it up and that was that.”
She opened up the folder and began shuffling through the documents inside, most yellowed with age. “I have the list mama sent to the Dutch government here somewhere…” she said, humming as she searched. “Aha.” She pulled out a single piece of paper and laid it on the table.
Huub grabbed it and scanned the list of missing paintings. “No, this is impossible. There should be some mention of these pieces in the artists’ biographies. I already told you I found no mention of missing Carel Willink paintings. Yet there are three titles on your list attributed to him that I have never heard of.” The curator was quiet for a beat before asking, “Do you have any of your father’s notarized titles of ownership? Or his business ledgers, which would prove he actually made frames for these artists?”
“I know he had been collecting art for as long as he had his frame shop, more than thirty years. So far as I know, Daddy didn’t have an official contract or title declaring him the
owner, just the record of supplies he’d traded with the artist as proof of his purchase. I have no idea what happened to his business records after we left Amsterdam. Mama didn’t take any paperwork with us to the farm, only her photo albums and some clothes.”
“So, you have no proof that these pieces were really painted by the artists you say they were?” Huub said smugly, his unspoken accusation hanging heavily in the room.
Zelda was stunned to hear disbelief in the curator’s voice.
“Why would my mama lie?” Rita asked.
“My research staff will investigate this list further, after the summer vacation is over,” his body language and tone made it clear he didn’t believe a word the old lady had said.
“Well, what I’d like investigated is how Irises ended up in this Stolen Objects exhibition when the Dutch government told my mama back in 1946 that they didn’t have any of our paintings. It’s the tenth one on that list right there,” Rita shot back, though her trembling voice betrayed how shaken she was by Huub’s comments.
“What do you mean?” the project manager asked.
Rita reopened the folder and thumbed through the documents. “None of my daddy’s works got returned to the Dutch government after the war. At least that’s what I think this piece of paper says. Though I do admit, my Dutch is pretty rusty.”
“May I?” Bernice asked.
Rita slid the letter towards her.
After reading it through, the project manager nodded in confirmation. “Indeed. This does state that there was no record of any of these paintings having been returned to the government. Your Dutch must not be as rusty as you thought.” She smiled as she pushed the sheet of paper back across the table.
“I do admit it’s puzzling,” Bernice said, lightly tapping her pen against her notebook, reflecting on the situation. “After the war, our government received thousands of works of art from the Allied forces. And that was in addition to the hundreds of pieces found in Dutch homes and offices used by the German army during the occupation. I’m afraid it took years to catalogue everything. There’s a very good chance that Irises had already been returned to the Dutch government, but had not yet been registered, and thus the employee who wrote to your mother could not have known it was there. Perhaps if she had tried again a few years later she would have had better luck. I am sorry to have to tell you this.”
The Lover's Portrait Page 6
