“Shit! What did he just say?” she demanded.
“The birds, I don’t know what he – oh damn,” Friedrich babbled, staring up at the hotel. Karen stood by the window, wistfully gazing out at the Amstel River, filled with large vessels plowing up the strong current towards the city center. He and Zelda exchanged worried glances. If Karen looked over at the maple tree filled with feeding birds, she’d undoubtedly notice the tiny quadrocopter hovering a few feet away.
“On the plus side, she apparently can’t hear its motor over the birds squawking; otherwise she would have spotted us already. That’s good news.” she whispered, still surprised by how silent remote-controlled drones could be.
In the video monitor they could see the lawyer rising, joining Karen at the window, wrapping his arms around her and kissing her softly on the neck and cheek. She relaxed into his chest, nuzzling his chin.
Zelda nudged Friedrich in the ribs, “Would you look at that!”
“I’m so tired of Amsterdam. I want to leave this place and fly to Saint-Tropez, like you promised,” Karen murmured into her lawyer’s ear.
“I know, my darling. We’re almost finished here. Just a few more days, that’s all I ask.”
“Why don’t we let the Restitution Committee decide Irises fate? Neither Rita Brouwer nor Gerard van Heemsvliet will have a leg to stand on; you and your firm’s team of lawyers can make sure of that.”
Konrad Heider stiffened visibly, an angry expression crossing his face. “You know that’s not possible.” He turned her around, kissing her roughly on the mouth before hugging her close. “This search has dominated my life for far, far too long. Irises is the key to the rest, I’m sure of it. We can’t let it out of our sight, not now, not when we are so close. A treasure trove of priceless artwork is worth waiting a few more days for, isn’t it mein Liebling?”
“Irises is the key to finding a treasure trove of art?” Zelda repeated incredulously. “He must be talking about Arjan’s collection; it’s supposed to be worth a fortune. See, I told you there’s something fishy going on!” She looked over at her friend triumphantly, but his attention wasn’t focused on the video monitor.
“Look,” he whimpered, pointing at the tree. The wild parakeets were feasting, tearing the samara nuts out of their spikey shells before letting the husks fall to the ground. Friedrich pointed to a bird feeding on the branch directly above his quadrocopter.
“I’ve got to get her out of there,” he cried as he unlocked his controls to maneuver his aircraft away, two seconds too late. Zelda could see a flicker of movement as the nutshell fell, milliseconds before it was vaporized by one of the drone’s rotors. The little quadrocopter couldn’t handle the unexpected intrusion; the assaulted motor stopped turning, throwing the drone off balance and into a tailspin. It crashed into the steel fence with a loud bang before exploding into a shower of tiny parts.
“No!” Friedrich screamed, dropping the tablet as he ran to his drone. He ripped off his t-shirt, using it to gather up the bits of metal and plastic scattered across the sidewalk.
“What’s that noise?” Zelda could hear Karen O’Neil say. She looked up to see both the New Yorker and her lawyer leaning out of the hotel room window, trying to see what was happening.
Zelda held her backpack over her head and raced over to her friend, sure the hotel’s security guards were only seconds away.
“Come on Friedrich, leave the rest. We’ve got to get out of here!” She tore the bundle of parts out of his hands and sprinted up the sidewalk. Friedrich grabbed two more pieces before running after her, tears streaming down his cheeks.
TWENTY-EIGHT
May 6, 1942
Arjan gently brushed his feather duster along the elaborately carved and gilded frame encasing Jan van Goyen’s Boy with Harp, careful not to touch the painted canvas. A real-life boy rode slowly by his gallery window, his bicycle’s tiny front wheel forcing him to bend over the steering wheel at an awkward angle as he worked the pedals. The few bikes still riding around the city were all silly-looking contraptions; one or both wheels having been replaced by that of a wheelbarrow or child’s buggy to prevent it being confiscated by the Gestapo, ever on the lookout for new modes of transportation.
Only a handful of pedestrians dressed in ill-fitting suits and poorly-cobbled shoes meandered down the once lively Spiegelgracht, gawking at anything and everything still on display. The cosmetics, stockings and luxurious fabrics once worn by the patrons of the exclusive galleries lining his street were as scarce as his clientele these days. The grey and green uniforms of the German army passed by far more often, going to or coming from the nearby Museumplein, around which the occupying forces had set up their headquarters.
Arjan wasn’t sure how much longer he could take it here. The silence was oppressive. As trams were forbidden to ride and most churches bells had been melted down and molded into cannons, the occasional clomping of hooves from horse-drawn carriages and taps from walking canes were often the only sounds penetrating his window. Before the war, those more subtle noises had been drowned out by the many cars, bicycles and pedestrians jostling for position on the narrow street. It had been months since he’d seen a private car driving by; the only engines he heard on the streets of Amsterdam anymore were those of German tanks, jeeps and transport trucks.
Lost in his thoughts, it took his mind a moment to register that his gallery’s door had opened, jingling the chimes attached to its back. Arjan’s standard polite yet inquisitive smile disappeared as soon as he stepped away from the window and saw the familiar black SS-uniform of his blackmailer already standing inside.
Oswald Drechsler was quickly becoming his most frequent customer, he ruminated, realizing this was his second visit this week. The Nazi’s mere presence set him on edge. First my father disowns me, and now this monster wants to take away everything I worked so hard to build up, simply because I am attracted to men, Arjan thought, a helpless rage building up inside of him. When would it end? Was he to be persecuted because of his sexual preference for the rest of his life?
He rushed past Drechsler and twisted the lock shut. He didn’t expect much business today, but wanted to make certain no one could unexpectedly enter and overhear their conversation. The repercussions were too horrible to consider.
Drechsler stuck out his hand in greeting. Arjan ignored it, choosing to walk around him and sit behind his desk. His blackmailer laughed before joining him, the many medallions lining his chest jangling softly as he crossed the room.
“What do you want today?” Arjan asked as gruffly as he could, his voice still sounding shrill despite his best efforts.
“Now, now. Is that the correct tone to use with me?” The colonel smiled easily, showing no sign of being perturbed.
“This is your tenth visit since our unfortunate acquaintance. Won’t your superiors be surprised to see so many modern paintings hanging in your quarters?” Arjan knew Hitler had forbidden his troops from profiting off their Dutch ‘brothers,’ because he saw them as sharing a cultural and linguistic bond. Yet most of the SS’s higher ranks viewed the war as an easy way to expand their personal collections at substantial discounts.
“Don’t worry about what my superiors think. Most have no idea what is acceptable and what is degenerate. And those who do will never see the paintings you’ve so graciously given me.”
“Given you? Surely you mean the paintings you’ve blackmailed me into parting with.”
Drechsler’s expression grew grim. “My silence guarantees your freedom. If the Gestapo learns you escaped their raid of Grote Geerts in February, they will certainly arrest you, then confiscate your home, gallery and everything inside before sending you to a re-education camp. My price is quite small in comparison. If you are not satisfied with our arrangement, you can always volunteer for castration. I hear they are sometimes more lenient.”
Oswald’s wide grin turned Arjan’s stomach. He knew too many homosexual acquaintances who’d been detained, beaten
, raped and even forcibly castrated before being sent to work camps in Germany, never to return. “What will you be taking with you today?” he asked through gritted teeth, doing his utmost to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.
“The five paintings in the window will suffice,” Drechsler gazed evenly over at the art dealer, obviously expecting some opposition.
Arjan’s face drained of color. Those were the five most expensive paintings left in his gallery. His stock had dwindled to a mere thirty pieces. At this rate, his gallery would be empty within a few weeks. It had been months since a Dutch citizen had brought him a painting to sell. His clientele consisted almost entirely of Germans and others sympathetic to the National Socialist ideals, only on the lookout for sales.
Once Drechsler cleaned out his gallery, how long would it be before the Nazi turned up on his doorstep and demanded the plethora of masterpieces filling his regal residence? The mere thought consumed Arjan with panic. It wasn’t his own paintings or furnishings he was concerned about. Once inside his home, how long would it take Drechsler to find his private storeroom and discover his friends’ artwork inside? He’d had the door re-worked to look as if it was part of a bookcase, but nothing was foolproof. Arjan knew he had no choice but to give the colonel what he wanted, if only to get him out of the gallery so he could start looking for a new location to hide everything. But where?
In the back of his mind, Arjan always knew he might have to flee Amsterdam one day and leave his artwork and that of his friends’ behind, a course of action he never realistically prepared for. His summer home in Marseille was located in one of the few areas in Europe yet to be occupied by Hitler’s troops. But to get there, he would have to cross through occupied Belgium and Northern France. That was almost impossible considering the number of checkpoints he’d have to cross. As soon as Drechsler discovered he’d fled, the colonel would certainly send word to his commanders to have him detained and brought back to Amsterdam.
He would have to buy a falsified passport before he could even attempt to leave the Netherlands; Drechsler would never let him obtain a visa to travel abroad legally. He’d heard rumors of a resistance group on the Prinsengracht that had set-up an escape route to Switzerland. If the rumors were true, they could surely help him obtain the documents needed to travel through the Occupied Zone safely.
Yet even if he managed to slip out of the country without Drechsler noticing, what of the paintings? He might be able to fit a few pieces into his suitcases, but not enough. And a transport truck full of priceless artwork would never make it all the way to Marseille without someone confiscating them along the way.
He had no choice but to find a suitable hiding space somewhere in the vicinity of Amsterdam. But where could he possibly hide the two-hundred and fifty-odd paintings he was storing for his friends, not to mention his own collection of seventy canvases?
Arjan could feel tears forming as the hopelessness of his situation sunk in. “Fine, I’ll pack them up for you now.” He rose and walked absently to the front window. Oswald Drechsler’s surprise was evident, yet he said nothing, choosing to let the art dealer pack up his latest acquisitions in silence.
TWENTY-NINE
“Aren’t they beautiful?” Zelda gushed as she and Friedrich maneuvered through the throngs of visitors slowly moving from one vibrant painting to the next. Thanks to the strange color combinations, thick streaks of paint and funky perspectives Vincent Van Gogh favored, he was one of her favorite artists. It was sheer luck that she now lived within walking distance from the world’s most comprehensive collection of his work. For the millionth time since she’d moved to Amsterdam she had to pinch herself, sure she was dreaming that she lived in such a wonderful city.
“Looks like he needed lessons in painting perspective,” Friedrich frowned. He turned his head this way and that, trying to understand the canvas hanging before him.
“He was self-taught, but only because no academies would have him. He didn’t paint traditionally enough.”
“There you have it.”
“He was ahead of his time, that’s all,” she sniffed, reminding herself not to get riled up by his remarks. Friedrich had kept their date, even after everything that happened at the Amstel Hotel yesterday; she had to give him kudos for that.
“So, where’s this mysterious exhibition; the one you say explains why Karen O’Neil wants Irises so badly?” he asked, sarcasm dripping from his voice.
“I am sorry – so very, very sorry – about your quadrocopter. How many more times do I have to say it before you believe me?”
Friedrich gazed at her sternly for a moment before holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. I believe you.”
“Are you sure I can’t buy you a new one?”
“I told you before, a new one costs around five hundred euros. I’ll let you know how much the replacement parts are once I’ve sorted through all the pieces I managed to salvage. At least the camera still works, that would have really cost you. The video we shot looks good. Oh yeah,” he said, fumbling through his shoulder bag, “here’s your copy.”
“Thanks. It went better than I expected – well, except for crashing your drone at the end,” she said, flushing slightly as she clutched the DVD tight. “I can’t wait to show this to Bernice Dijkstra. Let’s see Karen and her lawyer try and wriggle their way out of this mess.”
“Okay, so which way do we go?”
Zelda had purposefully taken him through the museum’s permanent collection on their way to the temporary exhibition she actually wanted him to see. As this was his first time inside the Van Gogh Museum, she figured he should see it all. She opened her mouth to tell him that but quickly bit her tongue. He was doing her a big favor by even coming here today; the least she could do was accept he might not love Vincent van Gogh’s artwork as much as she did.
“This way.” She guided him through the many visitors jostling for the best viewing positions, towards the nearest stairwell. As they trudged upwards, she said, “We’re headed to the Print Room. Usually a selection of the Japanese prints Vincent Van Gogh collected are displayed there, hence the name.”
“Oh yeah?” Friedrich perked up for the first time since they’d set foot inside the museum. “I like Japanese prints a lot better than the paintings we just saw,” he said, referring to the many priceless masterpieces they had walked past.
“They also organize smaller, temporary exhibitions up there, like the one we’re going to today,” she quickly added.
“Oh,” he said, clearly disappointed.
At the top of the staircase was a small windowless room, softly lit by carefully placed spotlights. Large metal workbenches were set up in three corners, each covered with a variety of microscopes, test tubes, Petri dishes and small metal tools that belonged more in a medical laboratory than a museum’s restoration department. Spread about the room were several reproductions of Van Gogh paintings displayed on large wooden easels.
Friedrich stopped inside the entrance. He turned to Zelda without even bothering to look around first. “Well?”
“Remember how Karen’s lawyer said Irises was the key to finding the rest? This exhibition shows how several Van Gogh’s have been painted over in an effort to temporarily disguise them as another painting.” She gestured towards the easels. “Those are reproductions of all of the Van Gogh paintings the museum is certain were once covered up for one reason or another. Some were painted over by smugglers, thieves and tax evaders for the more obvious reasons. But others were saved from being destroyed by the Nazis because their owners hid them under a type of painting more suited to Hitler’s tastes.”
Zelda stepped over to a wall of text and small photographs, which explained the purpose of the exhibition in more detail. When Friedrich sidled up alongside her, she pointed to a paragraph in the middle. “See those photos? At least three Van Gogh’s were saved during the Second World War because they had been painted over.”
“Interesting, but why exactly
am I here?”
“This exhibition illustrates some of the techniques conservators and art restorers use to examine paintings. With the right tools and machinery they can find traces of paint that have faded or even come loose from the canvas, as well as drawings or other paintings hidden underneath the visible composition.”
“Okay,” Friedrich said, clearly still not getting her point.
“We haven’t been able to figure out why Karen O’Neil wanted Irises so badly, right? What if it’s not Irises by Lex Wederstein she wants, but a map hidden somewhere on the canvas or frame? Someone could have added a diagram or text to the back, but now it’s too faint to see or the paint has rubbed off since. Whatever clue is hidden on Irises, it must not be visible to the naked eye, at least not anymore. Otherwise Karen O’Neil would have already seen it when she manhandled the painting during her first meeting with the exhibition’s project team. And she’s been pushing hard to have her own conservator examine it under the guise of wanting to have it taxed.”
Friedrich stared at her as if she was crazy. Her cheeks began to burn. “It’s the key to finding a treasure trove of artwork.” she reminded him.
“This is your big revelation, the reason I had to come to the Van Gogh Museum with you?”
“Well, yeah. I figured if you saw for yourself how easy it would be for a conservator to find any text or diagrams hidden on Irises or the frame, then you might take me seriously.”
Friedrich started to say something nasty, but instead pursed his lips together when it finally sunk in that she wasn’t joking. Exhaling loudly through his nose, he calmly replied, “Okay, show me.”
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