“DNA testing? Are you serious? What is this, CSI: Amsterdam?” Karen laughed.
Her lawyer interjected, “Her mother’s passport application is a good starting point; I will have our New York office look into this matter immediately. Finding documents to substantiate Ms. O’Neil’s ancestry should not pose a problem, but it will require more time. We had not expected her mother’s birth certificate to be necessary, in light of the substantial documentation we have already provided,” he chastised.
Zelda couldn’t believe the gall of this woman or her hired legal hand. Silence filled the room as it became obvious everyone was waiting on her to either continue or wrap up her presentation. “There was one more thing…” she said hesitantly.
Karen let out a sigh of frustration, muttering, “For the love of God…”
Words sputtered out of Zelda’s mouth as she tried to figure out where to begin. “I, um, didn’t make copies of all of the documents I found this week. Last night, when I met with Gerard van Heemsvliet, he showed me a box of – ”
Huub held up a finger. “Excuse me, you met with Gerard van Heemsvliet? Who is he exactly?”
Zelda held up Arjan van Heemsvliet’s personal record card. “He is Arjan’s youngest brother. I found his name and address at the Amsterdam city archives yesterday and thought he might know more about Galerie Van Heemsvliet.” She rushed to get her words out, hoping Huub wouldn’t explode before she could tell the group about her discoveries.
The curator’s eyes glowed in anger as he growled, “We’ll discuss you’re specific assignment later. What did he have to say?”
“He didn’t tell me anything new about the gallery or his brother’s business practices, but he does have a shoebox full of letters Arjan sent him during the war.”
All four looked up at Zelda with intense interest.
“I didn’t have time to read them last night, but Gerard remembered quite a bit about what Arjan had written to him about his, um, personal life.”
Now that it was on the tip of her tongue, she almost didn’t dare tell them what Gerard had revealed to her last night, it was almost too absurd for words. Maybe it was better if Bernice and Huub read the letters themselves and found out that way. On the other hand, Zelda couldn’t wait to see how Karen would try and squirm her way out of this one. So far she and her lawyer had an answer for everything. Without knowing exactly how to phrase it, she blurted out, “Gerard said Arjan was gay, one hundred percent homosexual, and the letters prove it.”
“Gay, please! You’re little research trip has turned into a witch hunt, hasn’t it?” Karen yelled. “I’ve had enough of this farce and your absurd accusations.” The New Yorker directed her fury at Huub and Bernice. “I come to you in good faith with conclusive documents proving I am the legitimate owner of a piece of artwork stolen from my grandfather by the Nazis, and yet you treat me as if I’m on trial! Your intern has got a lot of nerve, insulting me and my family like this,” Karen hissed in Zelda’s direction. “And why is she investigating me, anyway? I thought she was supposed to be reconstructing Irises provenance, not researching my family history.”
“I assure you, this was not our intention. We had given Zelda a specific list of names and keywords to search for, and none were related to your ancestry,” Huub said while glaring at the intern.
“Maybe we should have,” Bernice mumbled under her breath.
Karen waved her off. “Birth certificates, marriage licenses, you’re just wasting my time. My mother told me on her deathbed that my grandmother had taken these ledgers,” Karen said, as she held one of Arjan van Heemsvliet’s inventory books up high, “from her husband’s study after being told he had been killed in a bombing raid. How dare you or your intern suggest otherwise!”
“If I may,” Konrad Heider interjected. “Just because someone was engaging in homosexual activities does not mean he did not also have a wife and child. In the early 1900s it was quite common for homosexual men to marry and have families as a way of conforming to societal pressure and hiding their true identity. And once Adolf Hitler came to power, it became a matter of life or death – homosexuality was not tolerated by the Third Reich. I must again stress that my client and her ancestors are not on trial here. She has substantial, well-documented proof of her family’s claim on this painting and the rest of the Van Heemsvliet’s collection.”
“Gerard was quite adamant his brother was gay – Arjan made no secret that he’d lived with his male lover for the last few years of his life. Besides, if he wasn’t a homosexual, why was a Nazi colonel blackmailing him for artwork?” Zelda replied.
“What are you talking about?” Bernice snapped.
“Gerard said Arjan wrote to him seeking guidance. A colonel in the SS found out he was gay and threatened to turn him over to the Gestapo unless he gave him several oil paintings hanging in Galerie Van Heemsvliet. Arjan didn’t know what to do and had no one else to turn to for advice.”
“Are you absolutely certain?” Bernice asked.
“That’s what Gerard said. It’s all in the letters…”
“Which you have not read,” Huub finished her sentence for her.
“True, but why would he lie?”
“To get his hands on what’s rightfully mine, that’s why!” Karen screeched. “If Arjan had no offspring then he would inherit all of my grandfather’s paintings. The nerve of that man! And to think, I actually wanted to meet him, seeing as he’s my great-uncle and all.”
“Where are these letters now?” Karen’s lawyer quietly asked.
“Gerard still has them, a whole shoebox full. I told him a researcher from the museum would be coming around to collect them later,” Zelda quickly lied, not wanting to get into more hot water with Bernice and Huub. In actuality the letters were in her backpack, now resting against her leg. Considering Huub’s reaction, it might be better to return them to Gerard and let the researchers pick them up in Urk. If she gave them to Bernice now, she wouldn’t be surprised if Huub accused her of tampering with them. Besides, she doubted he would let her near them again. Keeping them an extra day would allow her time to photocopy them all. Who knew, perhaps Arjan wrote about Rita’s dad or other information helpful to the older lady’s claim.
After she’d copied them, she would have to beg Friedrich to drive her back up to Gerard’s as soon as possible. He’d probably be able to find time to take her to Urk if she promised to give him some gas money and buy him a nice lunch.
“Well, Zelda, you have exceeded our expectations,” Bernice said, rather grimly.
Zelda wanted to weep. She’d envisioned a short round of applause or at least murmurs of approval once her findings were revealed, yet Bernice was acting as if she’d only caused them more headaches. Nothing about this meeting had gone as she’d expected.
“Your results have proven to me that we must investigate both claims fully. Ms. O’Neil, neither Huub, myself, nor the director can recommend you be awarded the title to Irises before our research team has first had a chance to do their jobs. From what Zelda has told us today, I would not be surprised if Gerard van Heemsvliet also wants to submit a claim on his brother’s paintings.”
Huub groaned as Karen sprung out of her chair. “This is absurd! Despite all her unfounded accusations, I’ve heard nothing in Zelda’s report that contradicts my claim.”
“At the very least, our researchers will need to read Arjan’s letters. Who knows what kind of information we’ll find? He may have mentioned your grandmother or mother in them, which would help verify your parentage and claim. But we have to insist the investigation be done properly.”
“Preposterous! You’re only wasting time – yours and ours. Irises and the rest of my grandfather’s collection are my property. We’ll see what your newspaper and television reporters think of how you’re treating the rightful heir to artwork stolen by Hitler’s goons.” Karen grabbed her purse and stormed out of the room.
Her lawyer jumped up to follow, pausing in the doorf
rame to add, “We will be taking this matter up with your director.”
Bernice sighed as he slammed the door shut. “Let them go running to Leo. He won’t want to give the Wederstein to anyone either, not before we’ve had the chance to sort this mess out.”
“Why are you doing this Bernice? What about the media’s reaction to Karen’s story? All of our reputations will be tarnished beyond repair once the newspapers get a hold of it.”
“I don’t think so Huub. Until Karen has found clear proof of her lineage, I don’t think she would dare contact the press. And at least now we can tell the board of directors we have valid reasons for wanting to see the claims process through to the end. This unknown blackmailer, Gerard’s possible claim on the paintings, Karen’s ancestry, there are too many unknowns to make a definitive decision.”
“What if she does go to the media? First we present Rita Brouwer as the legal owner of Irises without verifying her story. Then we treat Karen O’Neil like a pariah, despite her having provided documents which clearly state the work was purchased by her grandfather. There could be a major backlash for all the museums and institutions involved if our ineptitude becomes public knowledge. Funding could be stopped, future exhibitions could become uncertain, people could lose their jobs. And for what? So you can have more time to prove what we already know, that the paintings in that inventory book belong to Karen O’Neil? She was right you know – whatever Zelda may have found out about Arjan van Heemsvliet’s sexuality, it does not change the fact she has his inventory books and a bill of sale. That’s all that really matters to the Restitution Committee.”
“Is it? Let’s pretend for a moment that he was gay and being blackmailed for artwork because of it. If he’d married or fathered a child, surely the blackmail would have stopped?”
“But why would Karen’s mother lie to her? She has Arjan’s inventory books, Bernice. How else would she have gotten ahold of them, if not from her grandmother?”
“I don’t know, but I would like to try and find out before we give the painting to the wrong claimant. If Arjan did not father a child, then his brother Gerard is most likely the rightful owner. Don’t you think we should talk with him first, and read the letters his brother sent him, before making another rash decision?”
He nodded begrudgingly. “Okay. Our researchers can make Gerard their first priority. We don’t know what kind of person he is or what Arjan actually wrote. For all we know, they didn’t get along and he’s made up this story about Arjan being gay as a sort of revenge.”
“Then why would he tell Zelda about the letters in the first place? Until we can talk with him at length, there’s no point in continuing this conversation.”
The project manager suddenly turned to her intern, as if she’d just remembered she was still sitting at the table. “Thank you for helping us out of a bind, Zelda. You really have dug up some interesting information, albeit unexpected, and in only a few days.”
“I would be happy to keep investigating Arjan van Heemsvliet’s background if you want. I know the professional researchers are still on vacation for another week.”
“You’ve done enough already,” the curator barked. “Bernice and I were very clear in our instructions. Your task was to look up the information we asked you to and make photocopies of every document you found, nothing more. Why did you go to Gerard’s home? He should have been interviewed by professionals who know what kinds of questions to ask and have the equipment to record it properly. Because you didn’t videotape your interview, we have no way of knowing if your questions were leading or what he actually said; only what you say he told you.”
Zelda’s lower lip began to quiver. Bernice attempted to soothe her, “What Huub is trying to say is that it would have been better if you had brought Gerard’s existence to our attention and left it at that. Aside from that mistake, you have done a great job this week. I will be sure and tell your mentor Marianne that you’ve got a knack for doing this kind of research.”
“Thanks.” Zelda moped, before hastily adding, “That would be great,” when she realized the research she’d done this past week would impress the university’s selection committee far more than her copyediting skills.
The curator looked as if he wanted to say something nasty, but Bernice cut in first. “Now, if you don’t mind, Huub and I have much to discuss before we meet with the director. Again, we all appreciate your hard work. Good luck with the selection committee, I’m sure you’ll do fine.” The project manager smiled warmly at her as she pushed her chair back from the table.
There was so much more Zelda wanted to say and do. Instead, she bit her lip and silently followed Bernice to the door.
TWENTY-FIVE
It should have been so simple, claiming an insignificant painting created by an artist no one had ever heard of. But what a nightmare this was turning out to be. He should have stolen Irises straight away and not bothered trying to claim it legally. And now that stupid intern was accusing Karen of all sorts of things. How much longer before the project manager or her researchers figured out the truth: that Karen O’Neil was most definitely not the granddaughter of Arjan van Heemsvliet?
Today’s meetings proved that all of his efforts were for naught. Considering the intense scrutiny Karen’s claim would be receiving from specialists and researchers, it was extremely unlikely his fake documents would pass their scrutiny. He had no other choice but to steal Irises, yet in a way that couldn’t be linked back to either Karen or himself. Once Bernice presented Leo de Boer with the documents and information Zelda had found, Karen would certainly lose her preferential status at the museum and with it her instant access to the Wederstein. Irises would be back in the museum’s long-term storage facilities by the end of the week. The furrow in Konrad Heider’s brow deepened as he wondered if any thief he knew could get the job done on such short notice, and how exorbitant their fee would be.
Unfortunately, that nosy intern had created another, more pressing problem, one he would have to deal with personally. After picking up his notes from their meeting with Bernice Dijkstra and Huub Konijn, he re-read the passages he’d highlighted only moments ago. Gerard van Heemsvliet. Had his brother Arjan really written to him about being blackmailed? Worse yet, did he name his Nazi blackmailer?
It was of the utmost importance Gerard be silenced and the letters destroyed. Without them, the museum would never find out the truth. It would be the intern’s word against Karen’s. That girl Zelda wasn’t even a native Dutch speaker; it would be easy enough to argue she had misunderstood Gerard or the content of Arjan’s letters. He was not proud of what he had to do. But after all these years of searching, in light of all he and his uncle had sacrificed, causing the death of an elderly man was easy enough to live with.
TWENTY-SIX
“Look out!”
Zelda, lost in thought, registered the warning only seconds before a tiny winged thing buzzed alongside her head, practically scratching her cheek with its miniscule blades. “Damn it, Friedrich! You know I hate it when you do that,” she shouted, swatting at her friend’s latest acquisition with her backpack.
“Hey, stop that!” he yelled, landing his plane before she could knock it out of the sky. “I really didn’t mean to get that close to your head. I guess I still haven’t gotten the controls synced up right,” Friedrich admitted sheepishly while cradling his remote-controlled craft like a newborn. Zelda scowled at him before doing a double-take. His new toy was definitely not like any of his other planes. Its six-inch-long hull was shaped like a helicopter, but instead of having one rotor on top, thin blades were mounted on four arms extending out from its base, forming a deadly square when airborne.
“What is that?” she asked incredulously.
“An AR.Drone 2.0 quadrocopter,” Friedrich responded proudly. “I finally splurged and bought one. They maneuver better than any of my other helicopters, or should once I get the hang of it.”
“Cool.” She stretched out on the lush g
rass, happy he was willing to meet in Vondelpark today instead of Museumplein. He’d already set himself up towards the back of a small open field, his backpack resting against Pablo Picasso’s Figure découpée l’Oiseau. To Zelda the six-foot tall concrete statue – donated to the city by the great artist himself in 1965 and nicknamed ‘the fish’ by locals – looked like a large bird about to land on the same grass she was now sitting on, not any aquatic creature she’d ever seen.
The ground around them was littered with winged samara nuts that twirled to the earth like whirligigs when a strong wind blew through a small grove of maple trees growing a few feet behind them. From their position, Friedrich had thirty feet of open airspace to fly around in. All he had to do was watch out for the picnickers and barbeques spread out on the grass below.
She smiled as she watched tourists and locals throwing Frisbees, kicking balls and roasting meat while basking in the sunshine. Plumes of grey smoke and the smell of marinade filled the air. On sunny days like today, she could easily believe Vondelpark received ten million visitors a year, as Amsterdam’s tourist office asserted. The hundred and twenty acre park was always busy. Another reason why Friedrich preferred the relative quiet of Museumplein to fly his remote-controlled planes, less chance of hitting someone.
“How are you doing today?” he cautiously probed.
“I don’t know to be honest. I’m glad Karen’s going to have to go through the whole claims process. But I don’t think either Bernice or Huub are going to give Rita’s claim a second glance, especially with Gerard in the picture.” Zelda knew she should be satisfied knowing she’d thwarted Karen’s hopes of quickly claiming Irises, but she still couldn’t get Rita Brouwer out of her mind. She was the one who truly cared about the painting, not Karen O’Neil or Gerard van Heemsvliet. But even if Arjan’s letters proved the New Yorker was a fraud – and Zelda had to admit it was a long shot – Rita would be no closer to claiming her painting than she was a week ago; Arjan’s brother would inherit the lot.
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