The Lover's Portrait

by Jennifer S. Alderson

“Then there’s Gijs Mansveld; we still have no idea who he was or what he was doing living in Arjan’s home all those years. Was he a manservant? Or a silent business partner? That would throw a wrench in Karen O’Neil’s claim if he was.” she was on a roll, thinking up more and more conspiracy theories as she went along. “And if Arjan was working for the Nazis then her claim would be rejected completely. Maybe Gerard remembers something useful. Bernice will be proud of me for showing so much initiative.”

  “From what you’ve told me, that curator she works with won’t. How many times did Huub Konijn remind you that you were only to photocopy relevant files and pass them along?”

  Zelda ignored him, choosing instead to stare out the window at a passing wind farm. She could play it safe, turn in her pile of photocopies and leave it at that. If the museum’s professional researchers wanted to interview Gerard later, they could easily do so. But she couldn’t bear to show up at tomorrow’s meeting empty-handed. And so far, she was no closer to helping the museum verify one claim or the other than when she began four days ago. The more she’d learned about Arjan van Heemsvliet, the more confused she’d become about the type of man he was. He seemed to be a generous philanthropist with a thriving art gallery, but she couldn’t help but wonder if his charity work wasn’t a ploy to find discreet buyers and sellers for ill-gotten goods. If Gerard could provide any new information, it would give her a chance to shine. And if Bernice saw how hard she was working on this research project, she might ask Zelda to continue helping them with the investigation. If that didn’t impress the master program’s selection committee, she didn’t know what would.

  Zelda prayed fervently that Gerard let them into his home tonight. According to the route planner, they should be there by 7:15 pm. Hopefully he’d still be awake when they arrived. Gerard was almost ninety years old and she had no idea what sort of physical or mental state he was in. Maybe she should have called first, as Friedrich had repeatedly suggested, but she was afraid her Dutch would sound so jumbled on the phone he wouldn’t understand what she was trying to ask. As long as he could understand basic English, she should be able to explain herself properly. Most Dutch people could, but not all, and especially not the older generation. Before World War Two, French and German were the languages Dutch children learned at school, not English. Zelda looked over at her speed-demon friend, glad he was willing to drive her to Urk at the last minute. Not only did he have a car, he spoke perfect Dutch and could always translate if necessary.

  “What exactly do you think this old man is going to tell you?”

  “If I knew for certain, I wouldn’t have asked you to drive me to Urk, would I?” she snapped, suddenly worried they were wasting their time. She really had no idea what to expect. Surely something Gerard could remember about his brother would help her figure out the sort of man Arjan van Heemsvliet had been. She still wanted the painting to be Rita Brouwer’s, one way or the other. If Arjan was on the up-and-up and Gerard had never heard of Philip Verbeet, then Irises – along with the rest of her father’s collection – would undoubtedly go to Karen O’Neil. But if Arjan had been working with the Germans, or was good friends with Rita’s dad, then the old lady still had a fighting chance. Zelda knew she shouldn’t get her hopes up; Gerard was a teenager when his brother died. Would he really remember much about his brother’s business or personal life?

  The car’s diminishing speed snapped her back to the here and now. They were entering the horseshoe-shaped village of Urk, its houses and shops built around the harbor which formed the heart of the small fishing community. She watched silently as Friedrich followed the GPS’s directions, driving past the marina and onto a narrow street leading away from the water’s edge. A few minutes later he turned onto a cobblestoned street and parked.

  “Gerard’s house should be around the corner,” he said, before stepping out to feed the parking meter.

  Zelda remained seated, wondering how this was going to play out. What was she doing here, intruding on this old man’s life like this? His brother’s death was probably a painful subject and here she was dropping in and asking about it like a neighbor asking for a cup of sugar. Not to mention she was about to tell him he had a rich American niece. Did he even know Arjan had fathered a child? Or was that going to be a surprise, too?

  Friedrich tapped on the passenger’s window, “Hey Zelda, are you going to get out of the car or are we just taking a tour of the Dutch countryside?”

  Throwing open the door, she climbed out, mumbling, “Let’s do this” under her breath. She examined the first two house numbers they passed before pointing down the street. “His is number 29; it should be a bit further up on the left.”

  They walked slowly, searching for Gerard’s address in the early summer twilight. Night fell late during the short Dutch summer, affording them plenty of light. Two-story houses on tiny plots of land butted up against each other, most with well-groomed flower patches in front and small gardens around back. Through the manicured trees, Zelda could see couples drinking wine in the evening sun, and behind them, boats rocking gently in the village harbor. Bursts of laughter and catchy folk music rang out from open windows and clouds of barbeque smoke scented the air.

  Halfway down the street she saw the number 29 partially hidden by a thick carpet of ivy climbing up the front wall of a small whitewashed house. She strode up the short walkway and rang the bell, Friedrich in tow. “Here goes nothing,” she muttered, still unsure of what she was going to say or do when Gerard answered his door.

  As a series of chimes rang throughout the house, Friedrich moaned, “Why did I let you drag me into this?”

  “Because you love me, that’s why,” she teased.

  Friedrich’s face reddened instantly and he refused to meet her gaze. Zelda could feel herself going crimson as well. I meant like a brother; why did I say that? She’d never met anyone so open and honest as Friedrich before and really enjoyed his company. She didn’t want to lose him as a friend, but wished he would accept they would never be romantically involved. Before she could think up a witty comeback to lighten the mood, footsteps became audible behind Gerard van Heemsvliet’s front door.

  “Yes? Who’s there?” An older man’s voice yelled out in Dutch as the porch light came on, momentarily blinding them. Through a small opening, the home’s owner peered out at the strangers on his doorstep. After one look at the pair he yelled again, “Aan de deur wordt niet gekocht!” and slammed the peephole shut.

  Zelda looked at her partner in crime, confused by the unexpected turn of events. “What did he say?”

  Friedrich shrugged, saying, “He thinks we’re trying to sell him something,” as he knocked on the door again.

  “Excuse me, sir,” he called out in his most formal Dutch, “we aren’t salespeople. We are here in connection with your brother, Arjan. We have a few questions about his art gallery and family.”

  “Arjan is dead. Since the war,” came the reply through the door, this time in English.

  “Sir please, I know this is a strange request, but we came all the way from Amsterdam to ask about your brother’s wife and child. Can you spare a few moments of your time to listen to what we have to say? We promise not to stay long,” Friedrich pleaded.

  Gerard opened the peephole and took another long, hard look at the two strangers on his doorstep. A few seconds later the lock turned and he opened the door. “My hearing is not so good anymore. You’d better come inside,” he said in slightly accented English.

  Gerard van Heemsvliet had once been a tall man and perhaps even good looking, but time had not been on his side. His back was so curved he could barely tilt his head up high enough to look them in the eye. He leaned heavily on a thick wooden cane, his thin legs shaking under the weight of his large belly. Yet under a shock of white unkempt hair, his baby blue eyes were still clear and his voice was strong.

  Despite his poor physical condition, Zelda’s heart skipped a beat. They were being let inside! “Thank you s
o much sir. We just need a few minutes of your time. And might I say, your English is fantastic,” she babbled as she and Friedrich followed the old man inside.

  “Two decades of missionary work,” he said dismissively. “Shall we sit here?” he asked, gesturing towards his living room. Friedrich and Zelda sat next to each other on the well-worn couch as their host slowly lowered himself into an easy chair.

  The old man switched on a table lamp and examined his guests once more before asking, “What is this you say about my brother’s wife and child? Is there something the matter with Ana or Abraham?”

  “Ana or Abraham?” Zelda asked.

  “My brother Jacob’s wife and son. That is who you were asking about, correct?”

  It took her a second to place the names. Jacob was the middle brother and had died of a stroke several years ago, leaving behind his wife and young child. “No, we mean your oldest brother, Arjan. He ran an art gallery in Amsterdam.”

  Gerard shook his head. “There must be some mistake. He had no wife and certainly no child.”

  “How can you be so sure?” she asked.

  The old man simply chuckled. “Tell me, why do you think these things?”

  Zelda told him everything she knew about Karen O’Neil’s grandmother and mother; how Annette Schuppe immigrated to New York City with their daughter Isabelle soon after the war ended, and how Karen came to know about Arjan van Heemsvliet’s existence only a few months ago.

  Gerard stared vacantly at the family photographs above his fireplace as she spoke. After she’d finished he remained silent for a full minute before finally clearing his throat. “I have not yet offered you tea or coffee.”

  “A cup of coffee would be lovely, thanks,” Zelda said, as her friend nodded.

  As Gerard shuffled off to the kitchen, Friedrich whispered to her, “He really seems shocked to hear about Karen.”

  “Yeah, like he didn’t even know Arjan’s wife or child existed. But if his brother was expecting a baby, wouldn’t he tell someone in his family about it?” she asked, just as the old man made his way back into the room, pushing a small trolley filled with cups, saucers, cookies, sugar and milk.

  “Take whatever you want,” Gerard said as he sat back in his chair, watching his visitors fill their cups. After Friedrich and Zelda had both taken a sip, he asked, “This American claiming to be Arjan’s grandchild; what proof does she have of her parentage?”

  Zelda squirmed in her chair uncomfortably – she hadn’t expected Karen’s lineage to be an issue. “She told us your brother and her grandmother Annette were married on March 4, 1942, a few months before their daughter, her mother Isabelle, was born. Are you certain no one in your family was invited to the wedding?”

  “No, we were most certainly not. And that is what surprises me. If my brother was to marry a woman – especially if this woman was pregnant by him – I should think he would have told my father straight away. It would have meant he was welcome back into the family, something my brother longed for,” Gerard shook his head. “That is why I am so surprised to hear someone is claiming to be his offspring. My parents would have forgiven all of Arjan’s sins if this were true. But what is her proof that my brother was her biological grandfather?”

  “She has a number of your brother’s business documents and ledgers, which she inherited from her mother Isabelle, Arjan’s daughter.”

  “This makes no sense to me. She has documents that belonged to my brother? How did that woman got a hold of Arjan’s things?” Gerard asked, clearly upset by all he was hearing.

  “She said his wife, her grandmother Annette, took all the business documents she found in Arjan’s study with her when she fled Amsterdam after he’d died. That’s how it ended up in Karen O’Neil’s hands,” Zelda patiently explained. Why was Gerard having so much trouble accepting that his brother had a wife and daughter? she wondered.

  “What was her name again?” he finally asked.

  “Karen O’Neil is your niece.”

  “No, the woman my brother supposedly married.”

  “Oh, Annette Schuppe.”

  “That name means nothing to me.”

  “What about Philip Verbeet? Does that name ring any bells?” she asked, figuring it wouldn’t, yet still hoping desperately that it would.

  Gerard’s forehead creased in concentration. “I don’t think so. Who was he?”

  “He was a frame maker, and perhaps a business acquaintance or friend of your brother’s. We’re still not sure how they knew each other, or even if they knew each other.”

  “Oh, if it was someone Arjan knew through his gallery then I wouldn’t know anything about it. I was never interested in art and Arjan knew that. He didn’t talk about his business or clients much in his letters.”

  Zelda’s face fell. If Gerard didn’t know anything about his brother’s gallery or business dealings, then this was a wasted trip. Even the news he had an American niece seemed to have backfired, the old man seemed determined not to accept her as his own flesh and blood. She wondered what Arjan had done to make their father mad enough to disown him, but she didn’t dare ask Gerard straight out, afraid to offend her guest even more. She tried to think of a question which might shed the tiniest bit of light on the type of businessman Arjan was. Instead, she blurted out, “Maybe your brother never said anything because he was afraid your father wouldn’t approve of the bride? Or the fact she was pregnant? Perhaps if Arjan had lived longer he would have introduced you to them?”

  Gerard slowly shook his head. “The sin of premarital sex was much less offensive than what my brother had done to shame our family name. Our father would have gladly forgiven Arjan for getting a woman pregnant, especially if they were to be wed. Tell me, what does this woman want exactly? Just the one painting you’d mentioned earlier, Irises?”

  “Well no, she’s claiming a long list of artwork, all of it much more valuable than this one piece. The Wederstein is the first painting she’s found, though she does have a team of private investigators searching for the rest. Your brother possessed a valuable art collection when he died in that bombing raid.”

  “Bombing raid? That’s the first I’ve heard of that,” Gerard’s face clouded over. “We never knew how he died, only that he had been on the missing persons’ list since August 1, 1942. A few months after the war ended, my father had him declared legally dead so he could close Galerie Van Heemsvliet and settle the business’s outstanding debts. I’m not sure how much money our father had to pay, but I do remember him complaining about how many debtors Arjan had. When we went to Amsterdam in the fall of 1945 to collect my brother’s things, his gallery had been turned into a café and his house stripped clean. The furniture, banisters, paneling, even the parquet floors had been torn out. If Arjan had left any artwork or other possessions behind, it had all been taken long before we got there.”

  “Karen’s mother told her Arjan was killed in a bombing raid a few months before her mother Isabelle was born.”

  Gerard looked off into the distance, shaking his head softly. “I do not understand why she is saying these things. Perhaps they are true, but it seems so unlikely given my brother’s past. We all change, I suppose.” With a loud grunt, Gerard pushed himself forward so he could reach the coffee pot and poured himself a cup. Once he’d gotten comfortable again, he said, “After Arjan moved to Amsterdam in 1932, I never saw him again. Other than the occasional letter, we had almost no contact. He never came back to Urk; it was too painful for him, the thought of running into our father or family friends on the street.”

  Zelda’s curiosity finally over won her politeness, “What did your brother do to offend your parents so deeply?”

  Gerard stared at his wedding photograph as he took a long sip of coffee. Only after he set the cup back down, did he respond. “My father was a priest in our village. His church is only a few miles from here. I attended seminary school then worked in missions around the world until I met my wife. After we married, we moved ba
ck to Urk, to this house. When my father retired, I took over his church.”

  The old man paused again, choosing his words carefully. “I am very surprised to hear about this Karen O’Neil because of why my brother was banished from our family. Arjan was my oldest brother, fifteen years older in fact. When he was twenty-one, he was arrested for having sex with a man in a park close to our house. It was a known cruising spot for homosexuals and the police raided it one night, arresting everyone they found.”

  “When one of the officers told my father what had happened, he went to the jailhouse and confronted my brother. I suppose he expected Arjan to deny it as lies. But my brother said it was true, he was attracted to men, not women. My father told Arjan that he was dead to him, and the rest of our family. He stormed out of the jail and had my brother’s things boxed up and sent to the police station that same night. It broke my mother’s heart, but there was nothing she could say or do to change his mind. Back then, homosexuality – or at least sodomy – wasn’t only illegal, it was socially unacceptable, especially in religious circles. Because my father was a respected religious leader in our community, he couldn’t have anything to do with his homosexual son, at least not without offending most of his parishioners. And without the church, my father’s life would have been meaningless.”

  Zelda couldn’t believe her ears. Arjan was gay! Karen O’Neil couldn’t be his granddaughter, which meant Rita’s claim was still in play. Her exuberance rapidly dissipated as new questions formed in her mind. If Arjan was homosexual, would Gerard have a claim on his gallery’s artwork, as next of kin? Who is Karen O’Neil really and why was she trying to get her hands on the Wederstein? Zelda was so lost in her own thoughts she barely noticed Gerard had started speaking again.

  “After Arjan paid a fine, he was released from jail. Two days later he moved to Amsterdam. He’d always had an eye for art and a knack for selling things. Opening a gallery was perfect for him.”

  “But Holland is so progressive,” she murmured, knowing full well that despite the country’s open attitude towards homosexuals, even in liberal Amsterdam some people had difficulty being tolerant and accepting of any lifestyle other than a conservatively traditional one.