The Lover's Portrait

by Jennifer S. Alderson

  “I already asked Sonja at the Stedelijk Museum about Irises and Lex Wederstein. The painting itself is worthless – however, she thinks its status as a recently reclaimed piece once stolen by the Nazis will help drive the price up into the low thousands,” Huub said.

  “Then I really don’t understand why that lawyer is pushing so hard to expedite her claim; he must know it can take years before such complicated cases are resolved. And Karen O’Neil only found out about her grandfather and his gallery a few months ago. Why are they putting so much pressure on us to resolve this claim so quickly?” Bernice mused.

  “To ensure her claim is expedited. Considering how badly we embarrassed his client, she has every right to be angry,” Huub quickly answered, as if Bernice was refusing to accept the obvious. Noting the look of outrage on her face, he swiftly added, “Bernice, twelve of the most prominent museums and Jewish organizations in the Netherlands worked together to create this exhibition. We’ve got all our reputations to think of. I’m going to recommend to Leo de Boer that we give Karen O’Neil her letter. Once his recommendation has been sent to the Secretary of State, Ms. O’Neil would have no reason to go to the media.”

  “No, Huub. We have to treat both claims as equally valid until we get to the bottom of this mess. And before we go making recommendations to the director we need to talk with Rita Brouwer again. Perhaps she remembers Arjan van Heemsvliet. If he was a family friend then that would support her assertion that her father gave his collection to Arjan to store, not sell. The ten thousand guldens might have been a loan to help tide over his friend’s family during their time in Venlo.”

  Bernice turned to Zelda for the first time since Karen O’Neil had stepped into the conference room. “Do you know when Rita Brouwer is flying back to America?”

  “Tomorrow night,” she said.

  “You’re wasting our time, Bernice,” the curator growled.

  “I will call her hotel and see if she can meet with us again later today. Huub, we need to hear what she has to say about this bill of sale and her father’s relationship with Arjan van Heemsvliet. It’s worth a few hours of our time, especially if it helps us discover the truth,” Bernice gazed intently at the curator as she spoke, making it clear she left no room for disagreement.

  Huub nodded in confirmation, but Zelda could see he was still smoldering.

  The project manager turned to her former intern once again. “Could you come back and take notes for us later? Until Rita Brouwer arrives you can use a computer in the museum’s library to type up the notes of this meeting. If you get hungry, ask my secretary for a pass to the employee lounge.”

  “Sure, yeah, that’s a good idea, to do it while the conversation is still fresh in my mind,” Zelda agreed.

  “Fine. I’ll send for you once Rita Brouwer arrives,” Bernice said, before refocusing her attention on the angry curator seated across from her.

  Zelda rose and exited the conference room as quickly as she could, desperate to disappear before Bernice and Huub tore each other apart.

  SIXTEEN

  Huub Konijn slammed his office door shut, startling the only IT guy not on vacation. “Excuses,” he muttered reflexively, though he did not feel sorry for his actions. On the contrary, throwing the door closed released some of the anger pent up inside. After his verbal battle with Bernice, all he really wanted to do was throw his chair through the room’s floor-to-ceiling window.

  “How could Bernice and Leo de Boer be so foolish?” he asked the chair instead. How could they invite Rita Brouwer to the opening and let her talk to the press, before verifying her claim?

  He knew better than most how important family photos were to such an investigation; as a starting point, not as definitive proof. If photographs alone had been enough to reclaim his family’s artwork, he wouldn’t have had to spend seven years of his life in stuffy archives and depots, crisscrossing Europe in search of official documentation.

  He’d found his family’s artwork by scouring four decades of newspapers and magazines, searching for any mention of his wealthy family. Their collection had never been lent to museums or open to the general public, which meant there were no published records or catalogues indicating his family’s ownership.

  Once he’d assembled a short list of titles and artists’ names from a handful of photographs and articles, he’d set out to retrace the history of those works. Through years of archival research, he was able to ascertain the complete provenance of several paintings, ending with verifiable purchases made by his father and grandfather before him.

  But not all of them. Huub knew better than Bernice or Leo how faulty memories of a happier time could become warped by unimaginable traumas. Three of the canvases he’d found mentioned in society columns, he’d remembered Margo describing during those long, winter nights in the shed when it was too cold to sleep. One of them even hung above his crib when he was a baby, according to his sister. Yet his own research proved all three had been sold by his grandfather for a handsome profit – via a respectable art dealer – in 1938, two years before he was born.

  Why couldn’t Rita accept her family’s paintings had suffered a similar fate? Instead, she was going to destroy their reputations for naught.

  He respected Philip Verbeet for being pro-active enough to sell his collection in order to help his family. His own father could have done so much more. If only he’d had the foresight to give his titles of ownership and inventory ledgers to one of his many trusted, gentile friends, Margo wouldn’t have died penniless and he wouldn’t have ended up in an orphanage. Proof of ownership, that was all that mattered.

  He’d dedicated the last ten years of his life to helping others who had suffered as he did, to reclaim what they’d lost. Karen O’Neil had presented more than enough evidence to prove Irises and the rest of Arjan van Heemsvliet’s collection belonged to her. She even resembled what Margo should have become, had their family’s collection of paintings and sculptures survived the war intact, Huub thought, momentarily visualizing his sister as a gracious and sophisticated socialite, moving in the same circles as Karen.

  Seeing Karen O’Neil get Irises back would almost make up for what happened to Margo, Huub realized, silently vowing to do everything in his power to see she did.

  SEVENTEEN

  February 13, 1942

  Arjan van Heemsvliet wrung out the silk handkerchief a third time, wanting to get every drop of blood out. His eyes fluttered shut as he squeezed. He knew he should sleep, if only to prevent himself from contracting the same horrible sickness as his patient. Yet he hadn’t allowed himself a full night’s rest since Gijs’s first bout of chest pain and vomiting began four days ago.

  If only he had been able to find the right kind of antibiotics. Even his extensive wealth and social network couldn’t help him procure the correct cure. Without it, Gijs would have little chance at beating this bout of pneumonia. It had been in his chest too long, the blood-laced mucus he continually coughed up attested to that.

  Arjan’s hands tightened around the silk cloth until his knuckles began to ache. Rose colored water streamed out of his fist. Damn this war! Six months ago he might have gotten lucky; infections like these were rare in the warmer months. Since winter had settled over the Netherlands, too many medicines had disappeared entirely, unlikely to be seen again until peace was a fact.

  How many more months would it be before the Allies could free the Netherlands from its Nazi captors? Arjan looked down at the red-tinted water filling the basin; a tear rolled off his cheek and rippled its surface. Gijs didn’t have months, he realized. Perhaps a few days, if his lover was lucky.

  EIGHTEEN

  “I missed my boat trip to Marken for this? Unfounded lies and senseless accusations! There is no way on God’s green earth my daddy sold his collection to anyone, for any amount of money. I don’t care what this Karen O’Neil says. There must be some sort of mix up. Or she’s just plain lying,” Rita Brouwer slammed her fist on Bernice Dijkstra�
��s desk so hard her cup of tea rattled in its saucer.

  Rita was clearly on the edge of tears but Huub Konijn kept up his assault, unaffected by her emotional state. “We have seen the bill of sale. Ten thousand guldens in 1942 is equivalent to nearly eighty-four thousand dollars today. Considering most of the artists in your father’s collection were still unknown when he acquired pieces from them, and the majority of his artwork was modern and therefore considered ‘degenerate’, he would have been lucky to have received half that amount from any other art dealer.”

  “My daddy was no fool. He knew his paintings would be worth more money the longer he held onto them. He followed the artists whose work he had, and kept tabs on the ones who were getting gallery exhibitions and selling works to museums. He told my mama repeatedly that his art collection was going to pay for our educations; ten thousand gulden would not have gotten all five of us girls through college. And besides which, where did all that money go? He certainly never sent it to us, or deposited it in any bank account my mama knew about.”

  “You said yourself you don’t know how he paid the rent on your family’s apartment in Amsterdam,” the curator pointed out.

  “I also told you he’d sold his frame making supplies. He never deposited that money either. Besides, five years rent for our tiny apartment couldn’t have cost ten thousand guldens. Where did the rest of the money go?” Rita protested.

  “Perhaps your father took it with him?” Huub paused before adding, “Are you certain he died during the war?”

  “Are you suggesting my daddy took the money and ran? That he intentionally left us girls and our mama to fend for ourselves? If you really think that, then you didn’t hear a word I said last week. He would have never left us behind; he loved us too much.” Her voice quivered as she spoke and tears trickled down her plump cheeks.

  Finally Bernice joined the conversation, gently continuing where Huub had left off. “I am sorry to have to put you through this Mrs. Brouwer, but the documents Ms. O’Neil provided are quite convincing. It does appear your father sold his collection of paintings to a dealer named Arjan van Heemsvliet two days after you and your sisters left Amsterdam for your aunt’s farm in Venlo. Are you sure his name means nothing to you?”

  Rita took off her coke-bottle glasses and wiped at her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief. “No, it really doesn’t. But I was just a little girl. My sister Rose might remember him; she used to have a memory like an elephant. Though she is getting up there in years. Iris should have all the letters daddy sent us before he died; mama saved everything. He might have mentioned this Arjan fellow in one of them.” Rita thought a moment before exclaiming, “Wait a minute, you said this Van Heemsvliet was an art dealer; maybe my daddy made some frames for him?”

  “That could very well be, but without your father’s ledgers it will be difficult to verify. If they did have a business relationship, it could explain why your father turned to Mr. Van Heemsvliet when he wanted to sell his collection. And if they were friends, that would clarify the large sum paid,” the project manager said.

  “I’m telling you straight, my daddy would have cut the paintings out of their frames and stuffed them into a suitcase if he couldn’t find a friend to hold onto them, but he never would have sold them or left them behind for the Nazis to take. They were far too important to him. Besides, he said in his last letter he’d found someone to store them for him – not buy them. Why would he write that if it wasn’t true?”

  “Are you sure that’s what he wrote? It’s been so many years; perhaps you’ve forgotten his exact words?” Bernice asked delicately.

  “My mother read and re-read his last letter to us girls so many times every word of it is ingrained in my memory,” the old lady shook her head resolutely. “No, there is nothing you can say that would convince me to withdraw my claim. Irises was a gift to my daddy from the artist. It’s a picture of my sister, for goodness sakes! What does this Karen O’Neil person want with it anyway?”

  “She’s submitted a claim because she is the legal heir to Arjan van Heemsvliet’s entire collection which, according to the documents she’s provided, includes all of your father’s artwork,” Huub stated.

  Rita began to sniffle again. “I only phoned my sister last night to tell her the wonderful news, we were finally getting Irises back after all these years. What am I supposed to tell her now? That a woman we’ve never met claims to be the rightful owner? It’ll break her heart. It should be returned to us, and I bet the Restitution Committee will agree with me,” she sobbed.

  Unmoved by her tears, Huub retorted, “As it stands right now, Karen O’Neil’s claim – from a legal standpoint – is quite convincing. As painful as it may be, you must accept that your sister may never see Irises again. Perhaps you can purchase it from Ms. O’Neil, but that is entirely up to her.”

  “Buy back a painting we never sold? Ridiculous! I’m flying to Iris’s house in Phoenix tomorrow. Once I find those letters you’ll be able to see for yourself my father didn’t sell anything to anybody.”

  Despite Bernice’s attempts to calm the old lady down, Rita stormed out of the office, cursing as she went.

  “I told you this meeting was a waste of time.”

  “Huub, what if Rita’s father did give his artwork to Arjan van Heemsvliet to hold, not sell?”

  “Then why did he write up a bill of sale for the collection and record all thirty-six pieces in his gallery’s inventory ledger?”

  “I don’t know. But I have a feeling we are missing an important piece of this puzzle,” Bernice stared off in the distance, speaking slowly as she turned her thoughts into words. “We know almost nothing about this art dealer or frame maker. Until we do, I suspect we won’t be able to resolve this matter expeditiously.”

  “What more do we need to know? Karen O’Neil still has the bill of sale and inventory books. Bernice, you know I believe in the claims process; without it I wouldn’t have any of my father’s paintings back. If my sister had had the same documents Ms. O’Neil does, I wouldn’t have had to spend years tracking down records in archives all over Europe. We must trust the facts, not give in to our emotions. Frankly, I don’t care what Rita’s father wrote to her mother or why he chose to sell his paintings to Van Heemsvliet. I suspect we will never know. Personally, I think he did the right thing putting his family above his possessions. Things can always be replaced. Perhaps if my father had tried…” Huub stopped mid-sentence and stared off into the distance. The bitterness seeping through his voice confused Zelda as much as the references to his family’s artwork.

  “I, for one, would rather resolve this mess as quickly as possible so we can avoid any bad publicity,” the curator continued moments later, in a stronger voice. “There is no reason to destroy our reputations for the sake of one painting.”

  “What happened to giving the painting back to the rightful owner, not just any owner?” Bernice chastised. “What if Van Heemsvliet was working with the Germans? Or if Philip Verbeet was forced to sell his artwork? Either scenario would impact this claims process significantly. Thanks to the information provided by Ms. O’Neil and Mrs. Brouwer, our research staff finally has a starting point for investigating Irises’ provenance. Until we have a better idea of the types of persons Van Heemsvliet and Verbeet were, and the businesses they were running, I will not sign any formal recommendation – even if our director stands behind Ms. O’Neil’s claim. And to say that you can and will, Huub, is unprofessional in my opinion.”

  Bernice saw the daggers shooting from his eyes but rushed on anyway, “If Karen and her lawyer really do demand resolution within two weeks then we had better prepare ourselves for bad publicity, regardless. We can’t even begin the research phase that quickly; our entire scientific staff is still on vacation. Well-deserved, I might add, after all the hard work and extra time they’ve put in these last ten years getting the exhibition and website ready. I cannot possibly put my job on hold to do the necessary legwork. Or are you go
ing to hunt through all of those archives yourself, Huub?”

  “Of course not, I have other projects too, you know,” the curator pouted.

  The project manager put her head in her hands, moaning, “This is our worst nightmare. I cannot, with a clear conscience, officially recommend Ms. O’Neil be granted ownership before we do at least a semblance of research. Yet, we can’t just sit back and wait for them to go to Het Parool either. If the media gets a hold of this story we’ll be the laughing stock of the museum world. We’ve worked so hard, we can’t let her destroy that.”

  Suddenly she looked up and locked eyes with Zelda, a strange smile spreading over her face.

  Huub, sensing what she was about to say, cried out, “No, no, no!”

  “What other choice do we have?” Bernice snapped at the curator. “Zelda, we could really use your assistance again.”

  With those eight little words Bernice Dijkstra made Zelda Richardson the happiest girl on the planet. “Anything you need, I would be thrilled to help.”

  Bernice winced at her enthusiastic reaction but carried on anyway, “We need you to visit a few archives and search for information pertaining to Arjan van Heemsvliet, Philip Verbeet and their businesses.”

  “Okay,” Zelda responded cautiously. “What exactly should I be looking for?”

  “Huub and I will compile a list of local and national archives you will need to visit, as well as a list of keywords to search for. I’ll email it to you later today. Perhaps you can start tomorrow?”

  “Bernice, I must object! Letting a foreigner carry out such an important task is unthinkable. She can’t even speak Dutch properly.”