“How could I not have known about it? Thanks to that woman’s sappy story, that photograph has been reprinted in every art magazine and newspaper I read. Though the title is different, the dimensions, materials used, and description matches the Lex Wederstein painting described in my grandfather’s inventory ledgers perfectly.”
“And what is the name of this piece, according to your grandfather’s ledgers?” Bernice asked as Zelda held her breath.
“Irises.”
Huub glanced over at Bernice, a twinkle in his eye, and smiled sweetly.
“According to his ledger, Irises was purchased directly from Philip Verbeet on June 16, 1942,” the lawyer chimed in.
“June 16, 1942,” Bernice repeated, locking eyes with Huub. Two days after Rita and her family went to Venlo, Zelda realized. She glanced at the museum professionals before her and sensed they were thinking the same thing. Was Arjan van Heemsvliet the mysterious friend Rita’s father mentioned in his last letter? But if Arjan was only meant to store the art for Philip Verbeet, why did he include it in his gallery’s inventory list?
Ms. O’Neil picked up where her lawyer left off. “There’s no gallery stamp on the back of the Wederstein painting, but then my grandfather must have only had it in his possession for a few days before he was killed. No matter,” Karen signaled her legal aide, “this proof of sale was also found amongst my grandfather’s papers, proving he paid good money for Philip Verbeet’s entire collection.”
The lawyer dug through his case, quickly finding what he sought, before handing his client two sheets of paper, who in turn passed them on to the curator. Bernice had to lean over the table to read along. After they both examined the pages, Huub looked up smugly at Bernice, saying, “This receipt states that Rita’s father received ten thousand guldens for his entire collection.”
Zelda glanced up in shock, momentarily losing her place on the page. Ten thousand guldens – why didn’t Rita mention this before? Did she even know her father had sold his artwork?
“Do you have these ledgers with you?” Huub asked.
Karen glanced over at her lawyer, who immediately removed a stack of paisley-colored books from his satchel and laid them on the table before his client. Karen drummed her fingers on the pile as she spoke. “These ledgers comprise my grandfather’s inventory list, detailing the paintings he bought or sold in his gallery since its opening in 1932. Each book contains roughly five years of transactions. He listed everything he knew about the canvases and their provenance. He also noted the price he sold each piece for, as well as the name of the new owner, until 1940. After that, the details of both the buyer and seller become sketchier.”
“This last ledger,” she said while handing a paisley book to the curator, “begins in 1939 and ends in June 1942.”
As the curator flipped it open and began to read, she added, “He specialized in modern and contemporary artwork, predominately impressionists, fauvists and cubists.”
Huub gazed down in wonder at the inventory list before him. He responded slowly, clearly still absorbing the list of paintings bought and sold by Arjan van Heemsvliet as he spoke, “Cezanne, Kirchner, Renoir, Chagall, Braque, Leger, Van Gogh, Matisse, Picasso; your grandfather certainly had an impressive selection of paintings in his possession when he died. Most of the artists listed in this book were the crème de la crème of modern European painters working in the early 1900s. He must have been successful and well-connected to have bought and sold so many high quality pieces. Any one of these paintings would be worth a fortune on today’s market.” He spoke the last sentence so softly Zelda wasn’t sure if he meant to say it out loud.
Karen nodded in satisfaction. “As you can see, most of the pieces in this last ledger were never sold, thus were still in my grandfather’s possession when he died. All of these paintings are now mine, of course,” she stated, her tone leaving no room for doubt.
Huub’s expression grew more intense as he scanned the list, flipping through the pages at an ever-slower pace. When he’d reached the middle of the thick book, his hand stopped in mid-air and his face grew pale. Bernice noticed the change in his demeanor as well, quietly asking, “What did you find?”
“What did you say?” he asked.
“Do you see any indication that the pieces listed in that book were sold, or to whom?” Bernice asked.
“I told you already –” Ms. O’Neil interjected with a huff.
“What are these numbers, written here next to some of the titles?” Huub asked, tapping at the page with his finger.
“We don’t know for certain, though our investigators believe they may have indicated where the painting was stored. We have determined that Arjan van Heemsvliet could not have had all of these canvases hanging in his gallery at one time, there were simply too many.”
Huub was silent a moment, taking in Konrad Heider’s explanation. He continued to flip through the rest of the inventory book, quickly reviewing the information Van Heemsvliet had recorded before finally answering Bernice’s question. “Most of these paintings appear to be part of his unsold stock, at least there is no indication they were sold or to whom. However, after May 1940 very few details are listed about either the buyers or sellers; in most cases he’s only recorded the titles, dimensions and materials used. Many of the artists’ names are missing, as well.”
The lawyer opened his mouth to speak but Huub continued nonetheless. “I can think of two reasons why he may have done this. The styles of art that Galerie Van Heemsvliet dealt in were considered to be ‘entartete’ or ‘degenerate’ by the Nazi regime. Dutch museums and art galleries were forbidden from displaying – or selling – these sorts of works after the war started. By leaving certain information out of this ledger, he may have been trying to protect his inventory from being confiscated and destroyed.”
“Or your grandfather was purchasing artwork from Jews forced to flee Amsterdam and he was trying to protect himself and any potential buyers by not including the seller’s names in his inventory books. If this proves to be the case, your claim would become far more complex. Any transactions between 1938 and 1945 which involved the purchase or seizure of artwork owned by Jewish citizens are now considered a ‘forced sale;’ rendered null and void after the war by way of royal decree.”
“But in case of the Wederstein painting, Rita Brouwer cannot claim her father was forced to sell anything,” Karen’s lawyer countered. “According to several of the newspaper articles about the exhibition’s opening last Saturday night, her father – Philip Verbeet – was Episcopalian, not Jewish.”
“Are you certain Arjan van Heemsvliet actually purchased all of the pieces listed here?” Huub asked. “He must have had over three-hundred works in his possession when he died, and most of them painted by renowned artists. It was common for galleries to take in artwork on commission, meaning they were never really the property of the gallery, but technically on loan from its owner – the potential seller – until the work was sold,” the curator explained as he glanced over the inventory list before him. “That way the gallery owner would profit from the sale without having to spend a large amount acquiring the piece first. In return, the potential seller would receive a higher percentage of the selling price.”
Karen erupted, “Why else would he have listed these paintings in his inventory ledger if they didn’t belong to his gallery? Was it common for gallery owners to do that?” she sneered.
“The Verbeet collection was the last entry in that ledger,” Karen’s lawyer calmly stated. “May I?” he asked, gesturing to the book in Huub’s hands.
Konrad Heider flipped through the ledger until he’d reached the middle. “Here, the Verbeet collection of thirty-six paintings begins on this page. As you can see, Irises is part of it; the artist, dimensions and description of the canvas all match. Considering no documentation was found with the painting after the war, it is not surprising it was catalogued as Girl with Vase. See this date? That means Arjan van Heemsvliet purchased
the collection from Philip Verbeet on June 16, 1942. For a small fortune, I might add, ten thousand guldens was quite a large sum of money back then, especially for ‘degenerate’ art in war-time Amsterdam.”
“If you had all of this documentation at your disposal, why didn’t your family file a claim with the Dutch government in 1945?” Bernice asked doggedly.
“I didn’t even know my grandfather’s collection existed until quite recently. Before my mother, Isabelle Kershaw, died a few months ago, she told me about a box of paperwork stored up in her attic; most of its contents I have with me today. In addition to some personal letters, I found my grandfather’s business documents inside.”
“Why had your mother never mentioned him to you earlier?” Bernice asked.
“She’d always been ashamed of her past and it wasn’t until she’d been diagnosed with terminal cancer that she decided to tell me the truth. When my grandfather was killed in a bombing raid in June 1942, my grandmother was four months pregnant. The Nazis cleaned out his gallery the next day, taking all of the paintings and documents inside. As soon as she found out what had happened, my grandmother packed all of the paperwork and artwork still in Arjan’s study and fled to her family’s home outside of the city. After the war, she moved to New York and married an American business acquaintance of her father’s. Her new husband raised my mother as his own child. He was an extremely successful businessman and the son of a prominent steel magnate. Neither my grandmother nor mother wanted anyone to know that he wasn’t her biological father.”
“It’s taken me months to sort through all of his paperwork, but I now have a good idea of the type of business he was running and a list of the paintings he had in his possession when his gallery was ransacked. A few weeks ago, I hired a team of private investigators to locate all of the missing works. My mother may have been ashamed of her past, but I am not. Once you read through his inventory list and ledgers, you will see that my grandfather was a successful businessman with a wonderful eye for art. I want his name resurrected and his paintings reunited so everyone can see that for themselves.”
“We will have to verify all of the documents included in your claim, but the ledger and bill of sale do seem to prove your grandfather was the owner – albeit briefly – of Irises before he died,” Huub stated self-assuredly, his tone implying further research was unnecessary.
Zelda could hardly believe her ears. Huub is loving this, she thought. He had taken an obvious dislike to Rita Brouwer the first moment he laid eyes on her, even though the painting clearly had enormous sentimental value for both her and her family. To Karen O’Neil it was nothing but a piece on a list, and not even one of the more valuable ones. It just didn’t seem fair.
“I have bills of sale for several other collections listed in my grandfather’s 1939-1942 inventory ledger, though not all of them. Obviously my grandmother wasn’t able to take all of his business papers with her when she fled, only those stored in his study,” Karen said.
How convenient that the Verbeet collection was one of the bills of sale Karen’s grandmother did manage to grab, Zelda thought, scribbling furiously.
Her lawyer jumped in, “Ms. O’Neil’s investigators are currently searching for the rest of the unsold paintings listed in Galerie Van Heemsvliet’s inventory, but if your museum has information about any of these canvases, we expect to be informed right away.”
Bernice looked at him as if he was crazy. “Without having read through the entire list myself, I could not possibly tell you right away if any other works belonging to Arjan van Heemsvliet were entrusted to the Dutch government after the war,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Your investigators are welcome to search through the database of unclaimed works on our website, though I can tell you most of the paintings are eighteenth- and nineteenth-century pastorals and portraits, not modern pieces.”
Seemingly unfazed by Bernice’s tone, Karen’s lawyer nodded in acknowledgement before clearing his throat. As if addressing the court with his closing argument, he gestured towards the books and documents laid out on the table before them as he spoke, “As you can see, we have sufficient evidence to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that my client’s grandfather was the last legal owner of Lex Wederstein’s Irises. This afternoon I am going to ask your director to expedite this process by signing an official letter to the Secretary of State recommending Karen O’Neil be granted title to the painting, effective immediately.”
Bernice shook her head resolutely. “That is not possible, especially in light of the claim being submitted by Rita Brouwer. And frankly, her story raises many questions as to the circumstances under which this painting came into Van Heemsvliet’s possession. Both your client and Mrs. Brouwer will need to go through the official claims process so we can verify all of the documentation provided by both parties.”
“Please,” Karen snorted. “I’ve shown you my grandfather’s inventory ledgers and bill of sale. What more can I do to prove that Irises is mine?”
Heider interrupted his client’s outburst, continuing more smoothly, “Ah yes. Rita Brouwer. We’ve read about her tragic story in the newspapers. It’s unfortunate for her – and this museum – that she chose to leave out the fact that the painting had been sold to an art dealer by her father. Apparently you did not need to verify her claim before presenting her as the owner of Irises during the exhibition opening last week.”
Bernice ignored him. “I agree with Huub that the inventory list and bill of sale appear to solidify your claim, Ms. O’Neil. However, you will still need to formally submit your documentation for review before we can proceed officially. Only after the entire process is complete will Irises be returned to either you or Mrs. Brouwer.”
“After the embarrassment you caused my client, we will have no choice but to explain our side of the story to the media, unless your museum’s director signs that recommendation.”
“Though we may have been mistakenly premature in presenting Rita Brouwer as the rightful owner during the exhibition’s opening, in point of fact she has not been given the painting. Nor shall she – or your client – be allowed to take Irises out of this museum until ownership has been officially awarded to one party. And as far as expediting your client’s claim, both Huub Konijn and I would also need to sign this recommendation, even if our director is willing to draft such a letter. And at this time I am not inclined to do so without first having done more research into this painting’s provenance,” the project manager eyed him defiantly.
The lawyer stared back at Bernice, his steel-blue eyes glistening. “We will be staying at the Amstel Hotel for the next two weeks and expect to be kept abreast of your findings,” he stated dismissively before gathering up his client’s documents and ledgers.
It was Bernice’s turn to snort. “As our director will soon tell you, it takes months – sometimes years – to go through the claims process, even when there is but one claimant. In light of the fact there are two, I expect no one will be granted title to this painting for many years to come.”
“We’ll see about that,” the lawyer responded coolly. For him the matter was clearly closed. Nodding to his client, they both rose from the table and walked out without saying another word.
“Can you believe the nerve of that woman?” Bernice exploded as soon as the door fell into place. “Threatening us like that. Trying to blackmail us with bad publicity if we don’t give her the Wederstein.”
“I knew there was something about Rita Brouwer’s story that didn’t ring true,” Huub retorted with the same ferocity. “She probably knew her father sold his art collection all along, but tried to dance around that fact by using her sick sister to make us feel sorry for her. I knew it was a mistake inviting her to the opening before we verified her story! The media are going to crucify us when they find out about this. Years of hard work wasted because the board of directors couldn’t pass up a single PR moment. Worse of all, we’ve shamed the whole idea behind the exhibition: of reunit
ing paintings with their rightful owners, not just any owner.”
“Huub, you know we had no reason to doubt her. I still believe her father was the original owner of Irises. Besides, who would have thought out of all the unclaimed paintings in our depot, the Wederstein would be subject to two claims in one week’s time? I was as flabbergasted as you when that lawyer produced those inventory books and bill of sale, but it doesn’t mean Rita knew her father sold his collection to Arjan van Heemsvliet. The transaction was dated two days after her mother took them to Venlo. And she wasn’t lying about the rest of her father’s collection. Did you see the list of paintings her father supposedly sold Van Heemsvliet? It’s almost identical to the one she provided us with,” Bernice said.
“Rita Brouwer doesn’t really matter anymore; all of the pieces listed in that inventory book are clearly the property of Karen O’Neil,” Huub responded, with the same level of conviction. “It’s unfortunate for Mrs. Brouwer, but her father selling the paintings to help his family flee the Netherlands, or at least to get through the war, makes the most sense. Don’t forget he paid the rent on their house for five years and Mrs. Brouwer can’t explain where he found the money to do so. Philip Verbeet could have used part of the ten thousand guldens Arjan van Heemsvliet gave him. The rest of the money must have been with him when he died. If he died – his own daughter doesn’t know what happened to him,” Huub was on a roll, clearly convincing himself of the old lady’s treachery as he spoke.
As she thought back to Rita’s cramped old home and the five children sleeping in one room, all Zelda could think was, why? Why would her dad pay rent on a tiny apartment he wasn’t living in and claimed he didn’t want to go back to, instead of using the money to help his family start over somewhere else, after the war?
“Why do you suppose Karen O’Neil is demanding immediate possession of the painting?” Bernice wondered out loud, clearly uninterested in Huub’s unsubstantiated theories. “Are we certain this Wederstein is only worth a few hundred dollars? Maybe she knows something we don’t?”
The Lover's Portrait Page 10
