Rita nodded her head thoughtfully. “I was afraid of that. So, my mama gave up too soon. Well, it doesn’t matter now. And anyway, we got Irises back. I’m pleased as punch that anything from my daddy’s collection has resurfaced. That gives me hope the rest are still out there, somewhere.” She shot an evil glare in Huub’s direction. He rolled his eyes but remained silent. “What a miracle, that out of all his pieces of art, Irises turned up first. My sister has been so ill for so long, it sure will be wonderful for her to see it again.”
“Tell me Mrs. Brouwer, do you still have the letters your father wrote to your mother while you were at your aunt’s farm in Venlo?” Huub asked.
“If any of us girls have his letters to our mama it would be Iris,” Rita said through gritted teeth, obviously done with the curator and his steadfast disbelief.
“Is she looking for these documents?” Bernice asked, clearly relieved Rita had more proof to support her claim.
“Well no, not exactly. To be honest, I haven’t told her I’m here yet. I didn’t want to get her hopes up if there was nothing to get excited about in the first place. She broke her hip last year and it won’t seem to heal up. And with the arthritis, well, let’s just say she’s having trouble getting around these days.”
“Do you think it will be possible for her to search through her attic if she is so ill?”
“Heavens, no!” Rita laughed. “She can’t go to the toilet by herself anymore. But her son Joe lives real close by. I’m sure he’d go take a look for me if I asked him to. Heck, now that I know this painting really is Irises, I’ll fly on out to Phoenix and take a look myself. Iris will want to know everything that’s happened, every last detail. She won’t believe it when I tell her!”
“If you do find any more documents, photographs or letters that support your claim, please let us know,” Bernice said.
“Any more photographs? What do you mean?” Rita asked, exasperation seeping through her voice. “I really don’t know how many more pictures we have of Irises hanging in our old house. Besides, haven’t I shown you enough to prove this painting is a portrait of my sister? And that it hung in our house until we left Amsterdam on June 14, 1942?”
“I understand your frustration,” the project manager replied, her tone pacifying. “If the name of the man your father entrusted his collection to is in those letters, it may help our research staff discover what happened to the painting after your family left for Venlo. Do you have a lawyer?”
“Lawyer? Never had any use for one.”
“You may want to retain legal counsel to assist you with the claims process, but the choice is yours.”
“How long will this whole thing take anyway?” Rita demanded.
“After you’ve filed all of your documentation with the Restitution Committee, two researchers will follow up any new leads generated by the information you provide. They will revisit national and local archives to see if they can find out more about what happened to Irises between June 1942 and August 1945, when it was turned over to the Dutch government. Due to your sister’s age and ill health, we will do our best to prioritize this case, but it will take several months to round out the investigation. On the basis of the researchers’ report, the Restitution Committee will then rule on the validity of the claim. If they determine your father was indeed the last legal owner, they will then advise the Secretary of State for Culture to return the painting to his heirs. If he chooses to adopt their advice – which he’s done in the last twenty-two claims – then the painting will be returned to you and your sisters. It is a long process, yet once completed, you can be sure no one will be able to contest your ownership. I hope you understand.”
“Yeah, alright. You’ll have to show me all the paperwork I need to fill out before I fly back to the States,” Rita replied curtly.
“I would be happy to. But first, I would like to inform the museum director and board of trustees that we have a claimant. I’m sure they will want you to join them at the exhibition’s official opening this Saturday as their honored guest.”
“That’s mighty nice of you. I’d be tickled pink to attend.” Rita glowed.
Huub was obviously surprised by Bernice’s invitation, yet remained silent.
“Give us a day to absorb all of this new information and discuss it with the Restitution Committee,” Bernice said. “Perhaps we can make an appointment for this Friday, in two days’ time? We can fill out the first batch of paperwork then. I’m afraid there is a lot to go through.”
“Friday sounds fine. I’m booked in at a little hotel close to the Museumplein for a whole week so I’m yours when you need me.”
“Wonderful. Perhaps Zelda can show you around tomorrow, assuming she has time? It sounds like you haven’t been back to Amsterdam for quite a while.”
Zelda’s pen ran across the page as her head jerked up. What did Bernice just say?
“Wouldn’t that be nice? I sure am looking forward to seeing the old neighborhood again. Do you know where the Pijp district is, Zelda? You’re right Bernice, I was just a little girl when we left Amsterdam. I don’t remember the layout of the city anymore. To be frank, I never really wanted to come back, too many painful memories. It’ll be good to face my demons with a little company.”
Zelda tried to wipe the panicked expression off her face as she found her voice. “Sure, I’m free. I’d be happy to show you around. Unless you’d rather catch up on your sleep, after such a long flight?” she smiled diplomatically, not really relishing the thought of playing tour guide.
“I’ve got all night to rest up. I can’t wait to see my old neighborhood again. We’re going to have such a hoot tomorrow, just you wait and see!” Rita howled, as she slapped Zelda’s knee.
Zelda kept her grin plastered on and tried not to wince.
ELEVEN
Huub Konijn excused himself from the conference room as soon as Rita left and ran to the nearest bathroom. After he’d thrown up his breakfast, he wiped his mouth off with toilet paper and leaned back on his haunches. He couldn’t get the image of his sister – gaunt and pale after years of mental and physical anguish, pleading for the return of their family’s home and possessions – out of his mind. How she’d described every object in that house, even the frames which once held their family photographs, now long gone, replaced with the memories of another. Just as their home had been.
The current owners showed no understanding, remorse or shame. More embarrassment that Margo had dared to knock on their door, reminding them of the horrors of the war. Their family home and its antique furnishings had become one of the unintended spoils. All she got for her efforts was to be kicked out of the house, thrown onto the curb as if she was a bag of garbage. His sister, always so resilient, reduced to a pitiful heap, sobbing helpless on the sidewalk. It was one of his earliest memories, one he couldn’t repress or rid himself of, no matter how hard he tried.
According to the current owner’s mortgage contract, the house had been purchased only six months after Huub’s family went into hiding. As his father hadn’t thought to pre-pay his property taxes, the bank sold it to cover their ‘losses’ – furniture and all. Only their family’s extensive collection of artwork was missing, stolen by neighbors or the Nazis before the bank had seized it. If only his father had given Margo a few paintings or sculptures to take with them to the farm. They wouldn’t have had to suffer so.
Margo was such a strong girl; she had to be to survive as long as she did. Ten years older, she had been more of a mother to him than a sister. He had no memories or photographs of his parents; he was a baby when the war started and they sent him and their oldest daughter to a distant cousin’s farm, believing it would be safer there than in a cramped attic.
The cousin took them in, grudgingly, making them sleep in a dilapidated shed in a field far from his farmhouse and fend almost entirely for themselves. The unwavering belief that their family’s extensive wealth and high social standing would be restored once Holland was f
ree again, was the only thing which kept Margo alive.
That horrible afternoon in June 1945 destroyed her completely. After that, she was destined to die in poverty, leaving Huub behind to fend for himself in that overcrowded orphanage.
Huub loved and hated his sister with the same intensity; the emotions were so intertwined he could hardly tell the difference between them. Rita’s threadbare clothes and badly-cut hair reminded him of what his once proud sister had been reduced to at the end of her short life – a lowly maid in a dingy hotel forced to prostitute herself for food.
It wasn’t until he reached high school that Huub learned his family was not the only one whose homes and possessions had been sold or stolen while they were in hiding or after they’d been shipped off to concentration camps. It was then he’d decided to dedicate his life to reclaiming what was rightfully his.
Huub wiped the spittle off his chin and rose. He wasn’t weak. He’d done what was necessary to take back what was his – not through pleading or begging – but calculated action. As his sister should have done.
TWELVE
When the early morning sun broke over the mansions lining the Museumplein, Rita Brouwer was already sipping tea in her hotel’s breakfast room. A pile of empty cupcake wrappings filled her plate. Rita hadn’t slept a wink. Instead, she’d spent her first night in Amsterdam tossing and turning as she tried to figure out how she could convince Bernice Dijkstra and Huub Konijn to give her Irises before she flew back to the States. If the opening was as big a deal as they claimed it would be, there should be plenty of reporters present, she reckoned. She’d have to have a condensed version of her family’s history and sister’s illness ready, just in case. Maybe if she got the media on her side from the get-go, those museum folks would be more inclined to return the painting to her sooner rather than later.
Why weren’t the photographs proof enough? Why did she have to go through this bureaucratic nightmare simply to get back what was rightfully hers? If only mama had fought harder, she could have provided us with a better life. Instead, all of us girls had to work our fingers to the bone to survive, as she’d had to, Rita thought, bitter tears streaming down her cheeks. “No, don’t you dare think like that,” she reprimanded herself, using a cloth napkin to dab her face dry. It wasn’t her fault she had to raise us alone. If only daddy had come to the farm, like he promised.
Well, now it was her chance to change their family’s fortune and recoup at least one of their paintings, if not all of them. Today she would pump Zelda for information; as an intern she was privy to Huub and Bernice’s expectations as to proof of ownership. Rita knew the curator was the one she needed to convince. He’d made it plain as day he didn’t believe a word she’d said. If more proof was what he wanted, that’s precisely what he’d get, she thought, a devilish grin spreading across her face.
If sappy news articles about Iris’s poor health or their daddy’s mysterious disappearance didn’t pressure the museum into giving her Irises right away, her daddy’s letter might. With a little practice she’d be able to write like him, at least enough to fool the museum’s researchers. If Huub wanted a name, by golly he’d get one. There was no way she’d let a little thing like the truth get in her way, not when she was so close to getting Irises back.
THIRTEEN
“I get it already, I’m done with computers!” Zelda screamed as ceiling tiles crashed down all around her. She dove under her boss’s desk seconds before another seismic wave rolled through the plush carpet floor, tossing her body around like a bean bag. Office supplies and CDs hurled through the air as a computer slid off the bureau above her and crashed into a potted palm tree. Broken pottery shards and wet soil spilt onto the floor, burying the employment contract her boss handed her to sign, mere seconds before the earth started to shake.
She could almost feel the tectonic plates pulling apart under her feet as the Puget Sound widened. Was this Seattle’s predicted ‘Big One’ finally breaking loose? Could one earthquake really decimate the Pacific Northwest, as experts loved to theorize it would? Gripping the thick metal legs of her boss’s desk with all of her might, she rode the bucking earth, screaming her vow to make a change – as long as she survived.
Zelda jolted awake, sweaty sheets twisted around her legs, her heart pounding. Her eyes rapidly scanned her bedroom; nothing appeared to be swaying. The incessant beeping was just her alarm clock. And the earthquake was only a memory, she reminded herself. A memory of a real event still sketched too vividly onto her psyche. It had been almost a year since Seattle’s one and only recorded major earthquake struck, changing her life forever. She hadn’t dreamt about that day for almost a week. How many more months would it be before that fateful morning stopped invading her dreams?
She picked up the glass of water on her nightstand, sloshing it onto her bare skin as she brought it to her lips. Her body was still trembling – the terror she’d felt during the earthquake rushing back through her like an unwanted adrenaline kick. For Zelda, that awful morning had been a wake-up call: life was too short to spend your time doing something you despised.
Four years before the earthquake she’d tried to leave the computer industry behind for good, without success. After working eighty-hour weeks for months on end to meet impossible deadlines imposed by her employers, she’d suffered a massive burn-out. The remedy had been to quit her job and fly to Kathmandu to volunteer as an English teacher for two months. It was her way of breaking free from her demanding work routine and materialistic shackles to try and figure out what would really make her happy in life.
After a turbulent time in Nepal, she’d backpacked around Vietnam and Thailand, only returning to Seattle when her travel funds had run out. She’d seen and done so much on that amazing journey she felt like a different person, one who was more adaptable and resilient than her former self. All she wanted to do when she’d gotten back was throw her old life aside and begin anew.
At first she’d refused to go back to her old profession, certain she could apply her vast array of computer and project management skills to another vocation. Yet everything that interested her required extensive formal training or long, unpaid internships she couldn’t combine with a full-time job.
After her fifth rent payment brought her savings account to an all-time low, she’d sent her resume off to a placement agency and had a job as a website developer within a week. Less than a month later, she was experiencing the same levels of boredom and stress she’d felt before she’d left for Nepal in the first place. But she’d stuck with it, saving as much as she could, telling herself she could always take another long vacation if work got to be too much again.
Three years later, she was skimming an online brochure for a month-long kayaking trip around Belize when her boss popped into her cubicle to see if she’d be interested in a full-time contract.
If Seattle hadn’t gotten its rumbling of the Big One, she probably would never have dared to quit her well-paid job to study art history in Amsterdam. It was a decision that changed her life in more ways than she could ever have imagined, so far only for the better.
Zelda closed her eyes and took three deep breaths, ordering herself to relax. As the tension dissipated, she looked around her small apartment again, taking in the tiny sink, two-person table and one-person bed squeezed into the attic of an old canal house, and smiled in satisfaction. Sure, her entire studio was roughly the size of her old bedroom, but she didn’t mind. Right now this cramped box represented a new-found freedom and endless possibilities.
Even after living in Amsterdam for nine months, she was still enamored with her new hometown. How the early morning sunlight shimmered off the canals’ rippling surface as she biked to the university, a cool wind often twisting through her long brown hair. The simple pleasure of eating a chocolate-filled croissant underneath the Westerkerk as its Carillion bells chimed out modern melodies most afternoons. Or the intense joy she felt wandering through the city’s plethora of museums and galleri
es. She was definitely not ready to leave yet.
Kicking the covers off her bed, she turned off her alarm clock and stood up. Through her postage stamp window, she could see two broad wooden boats chugging up the Singelgracht as they passed by the Heineken Brewery’s headquarters. She watched until the boats glided out of sight before slipping into her bathrobe and heading off to the communal shower, two stories below.
“Well, good morning to you, young lady!”
Despite Zelda’s early arrival, Rita Brouwer was already downstairs waiting for her in the hotel lobby. The older woman’s scuffed shoes were highly polished and her threadbare clothes perfectly ironed. She obviously took pride in her possessions, though she had little money to spend on them.
“Come on, I’ll sneak you into the breakfast room. For the prices they charge, the hotel staff can’t really complain,” Rita’s hearty laugh and warm smile melted Zelda’s reservations about the day almost immediately. There was something so likeable about the old lady. Her quick sense of humor and no nonsense way of looking at the world reminded Zelda of her own grandmother, or at least what she could remember of her. That similarity made it so much harder to spy on the old lady. Well, spying was probably too big a word to use. But she had promised Bernice Dijkstra she would keep her ears open for any new information Rita provided that could help the museum prove – or disprove – her claim.
The Lover's Portrait Page 7
