FORTY-TWO
“Yoo-hoo, Zelda. Wake up already. I’ve got something interesting to show you.” Friedrich's voice rang through her head as a hand shook her shoulder. “Trust me, you’re going to want to hear this.” He spoke in a sing-song rhythm, his tone cheery and bright. Friedrich always talked like that when he was pleased with himself.
“Ten more minutes,” she mumbled, eyes still closed.
“You’ve been asleep for two hours.”
“Oh, man!” Zelda snapped to attention, wiping the drool off her hand and chin. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep, and certainly not for so long. After running her tongue over her lips, she smirked in disgust. Her mouth felt like it was covered in a thick layer of sugar and cream. No more coffee today, she promised herself.
“What if Arjan managed to hide all of his friends’ artwork from his blackmailer?” Friedrich asked.
“What do you mean?” she said, struggling to sit up straight. The catnap had definitely taken the edge off her sleep deprivation and coffee overindulgence, but she still felt like crap.
“What I mean is, I translated the rest of the letters. I don’t think the thieves are looking for a name, but a place.”
“Wait, I’m not awake enough yet to follow you. Can you start where we left off, with finding out Drechsler was blackmailing Arjan for artwork?” she asked, stretching her arms out above her head.
“Arjan wrote to Gerard that he wants to leave Amsterdam but has to find a hiding place for his artwork first.”
“You can’t stash three-hundred and twenty-six framed canvases up in your attic and expect them to be safe, especially if you’re not going to be around to check on them,” she chimed in, sure she was following the story now.
“It’s not what you think. Let me explain everything first. He’s afraid to leave Amsterdam because of a moral dilemma. He confesses to Gerard that he had several collections in his possession, artwork he promised to hold onto for friends who’d fled the country or gone into hiding.”
“That’s where I’ve seen those names before,” she said, her sleepy brain slowly connecting some of the dots. “The friends he mentions in his letters, I made a list of their names before I fell asleep. Several of them are the owners of paintings listed in Arjan’s inventory book. That’s why he had so many unsold, high quality pieces listed in it – they were never meant to be sold. That inventory book must have been Arjan’s way of remembering which paintings he’d stored and for whom – including Rita Brouwer’s father!” she exclaimed. “But if Arjan did leave Amsterdam, what did he do with it all?”
“Let me finish telling you what he wrote,” Friedrich responded gruffly, clearly fed up with her interruptions.
Zelda folded her arms behind her head and leaned back in her chair. “Please continue.”
“After Arjan was seen running out of Grote Geerts, he felt incredibly guilty about letting his friends down. Up until then, no one had suspected he was gay, not even his closest acquaintances. His boyfriend, Gijs Mansveld, was just as concerned that no one find out about their relationship. Yes, boyfriend,” Friedrich repeated, as he looked her in the eye, bringing an instant smile to her face. “He’d never had to fear being exposed. But Drechsler changed all that. Arjan wrote to Gerard that he knew the colonel would never be satisfied, he would demand more and more artwork until Arjan had nothing left to give him. And as soon as that happened, Drechsler would gladly turn him over to the Gestapo. He has no choice but to flee.”
“On May 27th, Arjan writes that his friends’ pieces were currently stored in his house and gallery, but he was trying to secure a better hiding place for them, he owes his friends that much. So far he’s not found any one location where he can store them all without raising suspicion. Based on his word choice and the tone of the letter, Arjan is obviously frantic. Several times he asks Gerard if it is morally wrong to leave Amsterdam without hiding the artwork first, or does his pledge to his friends outweigh his own personal safety? Arjan clearly doesn’t see a way out of his dilemma and is hoping his brother will tell him it’s okay to up and leave.”
“Then two weeks later, Arjan sends Gerard his last letter,” he said, holding up two sheets of yellowed paper, “writing that his prayers have been answered. He’s met someone who can provide him access to a space large enough to hold all the artwork for the duration of the war.”
“When did Arjan send it?”
“June 18, 1942.”
“That’s only four days after Rita and her family went to Venlo,” Zelda stated somberly. “Does he mention his friend’s name?”
“Yes, he does. It’s Philip Verbeet.”
“My God, Rita’s father really did know Arjan van Heemsvliet.” She was silent a moment as she absorbed this shocking, yet wonderful news. “What else does the letter say?”
“Verbeet came to his gallery on June 16th. He knew Arjan was holding artwork for some mutual friends of theirs and hoped he could help him out too. Philip’s family had already left for Venlo and he wanted to join them as soon as possible, but couldn’t bear to leave his collection behind for the Nazis to take. The fact that Verbeet, a mere acquaintance, knew what he was doing sent him into a panic. In Arjan’s mind it was only a matter of time before Drechsler found out about the artwork he was storing. He broke down and told Philip everything.”
“That means Philip Verbeet didn’t sell it to Arjan after all. Rita is going to get Irises back! We’ve got to get these letters to the Restitution Committee straight away,” Zelda said, momentarily rejoicing before her friend cut her off again.
“There’s more. Philip knew of a place they could hide the artwork, but needed Arjan’s help readying the space for long-term storage. They visited it the morning Arjan sent the letter. He writes that it’s almost perfect; his only complaint is that it will cost him a large sum of money to secure the space for five years. But he’ll pay it gladly, if it means the artwork will be safe.”
“And? Where’s this place Rita’s father told Arjan about?”
“I don’t know, he never states specifically where it is. Only that it was solid enough and secret enough to remain hidden throughout the war. Arjan finishes by writing that Gerard should find Rita’s father if anything happens to him. Philip Verbeet will know who you are and what to do.”
Zelda wondered if Gerard ever tried.
FORTY-THREE
June 26, 1942
Just two more crates, then our work is finally done, Arjan reminded himself as he bent down to grasp the thick twine handles, his back muscles already yelping in protest. Drops of sweat were burning his eyes, blurring his vision. “You can do this,” he said softly, heaving the heavy oak box upwards with an audible grunt.
Philip nodded once then did the same. Together they lugged their loads across the moonlit room, down the metal stairs and into the cool subterranean space below. After hoisting the last two crates onto a stack close to the ladder, Arjan smiled in satisfaction, slapping Philip on the back as he regarded their work. One hundred and fifty-two crates holding his most treasured objects, and those of so many of his friends, were finally safe. Relief briefly overcame the panic and dread he’d been feeling for longer than he could remember. Preparing the space and artwork had taken more time than he’d hoped it would, but they’d done it. Now he could leave Amsterdam knowing he’d stayed true to his word. Arjan glanced over at Philip, glad he’d trusted him. He stretched out a hand towards the older man, “They fit perfectly.”
Philip answered with a hasty handshake and a tight smile before nodding towards the ladder, “Shall we?”
He was right, Arjan thought, there was still so much to do. They climbed back up into the small shed and closed the heavy metal lid, careful to cushion its fall. They didn’t want to give the neighbors an excuse to call the Gestapo. Not when they were so close to being finished.
Philip picked up a shovel and scooped sand onto the floor, letting Arjan rake it out evenly before adding more. When the sand was an inch thick, the
y shifted the first layer of heavy cement tiles into place, careful to fit them snug up against each other.
As they heaved and pushed, Arjan allowed himself to think about the future for the first time in weeks. Hiding the artwork was only the first step; he still had a long road to go before he could stop looking over his shoulder. First, back to his place to collect their suitcases. Then a short walk to Central Station where second-class train tickets to Venlo were waiting. Finally, a taxi ride to the Belgian border where his contact would provide him with falsified travel documents and a chauffeur-driven Mercedes-Benz. The five Rembrandt etchings in his suitcase would guarantee safe passage to Switzerland. From Genève he should be able to make his way through the Demilitarized Zone to Lyon, then down to Marseille. All he had to do was keep a few steps ahead of Oswald Drechsler.
Just thinking about the hawk-nosed Nazi made him work faster. So far he’d been able to clear out his house and storage spaces without Drechsler noticing. Their last load, the canvases stowed in his gallery, was the riskiest, but he’d had no choice. His friends trusted him – no, counted on him – to keep their treasures safe. He couldn’t let them down now. Not after all he’d done wrong.
FORTY-FOUR
“But that’s the last letter Arjan sent to Gerard. What happened next?” Zelda demanded, perturbed the gallery owner hadn’t been more specific in describing the location of his costly stash.
Friedrich simply shrugged his shoulders.
Her head rapidly filled with unanswered questions. She grabbed their empty cups and made her way over to the refrigerator, pondering all they had learned. As she poured the last of the orange juice into her glass, she said, “Okay, let’s assume for a moment that Arjan van Heemsvliet and Philip Verbeet did manage to move all the artwork into the secret storage space. Why didn’t Rita’s dad go to Venlo after they were finished?” She threw away the empty carton and returned to the table, choosing to stand as she drank.
“They must have stashed everything, but were killed soon after, or at least before they could tell anyone where the artwork was hidden. It stands to reason that if either one of them had lived, Rita would know what had happened to both her father and his collection.” Friedrich spoke unhurriedly, as if he was thinking aloud.
Rita Brouwer. Just hearing her name conjured up a mixture of emotions. On the one hand, Zelda couldn’t wait to tell her about the letters. Not only did they prove her father knew Arjan van Heemsvliet, they also made clear he had not sold his collection to the art dealer, but only asked him to hold onto it for the duration of the war. Zelda wished she could also tell the old lady where the rest of her father’s artwork was hidden.
Wait a second, she thought, if I told Rita about the clues in the letters, she might know where Arjan was referring to. After all, it was her father who had suggested the space they ended up using. Zelda glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall and frowned. It was well past midnight in Missouri. It would be better to wait until Rita was rested and awake before she tried to explain everything over the phone, at least if she expected to get a coherent answer.
“Wherever this secret hiding place is, it can’t be too private if they had to pay rent on it,” she put her glass down and raised her hands high up over her head, stretching out her back until she felt it crack.
“I’m still not sure how Irises fits into all of this,” Friedrich admitted.
“It’s the only piece in Arjan’s inventory ledger that’s surfaced since the war. If someone is still searching for his paintings, Irises would be the logical place to start,” she said, before pausing to contemplate another aspect. “But that means whoever is trying to steal these letters doesn’t know where the art is either. They must think the exact location would be revealed in them, just like we did.”
They both stared at the letters and translations piled up on the kitchen table between them. If only Arjan or Philip had dared to tell their families where they’d hidden the artwork, then this whole nightmare would be behind us, Zelda thought bitterly.
“Damn it!” she pounded her fists on the table, causing the stacks of papers to shimmy and shake. This secret space could be anywhere in the vicinity of Amsterdam, she realized. They were no closer to finding Arjan van Heemsvliet’s artwork now than they were ten hours ago. Zelda plopped down into her chair feeling more despondent than ever.
“What if Oswald Drechsler had children?” Friedrich mused, breaking her train of thought. “If he wasn’t able to find Arjan’s artwork during the war, it could very well be that one of his relatives is still looking for it all. It probably won’t help us find the hiding place,” he conceded, “but it might tell us who’s after these letters and behind the robberies.”
“That would be great,” she replied wearily, “But how would we do that? Drechsler was a Nazi officer who presumably went back to Germany after the war, if he even survived that long. We can’t make a road trip to Berlin or wherever those kinds of archival documents are stored, can we?”
“We shouldn’t have to,” Friedrich said with a grin as he pulled his laptop close and typed in a search query. “The German National Archives are online.” He clicked on the Frequently Asked Questions link and scrolled quickly through the German text. “Okay, provided Drechsler is already deceased, we should be able to access his biographical information in their database.”
“Really?” Zelda perked up again. She wouldn’t be surprised if Karen O’Neil was related to the Nazi colonel somehow or the other. If Drechsler was blackmailing Arjan for artwork, he could have taken his gallery’s inventory ledgers as well. That would explain how Karen knew about his vast collection of unsold canvases. Zelda moved her chair next to Friedrich’s and silently watched as he went to work.
A few moments later he nudged her shoulder with his own, “Check it out. This record contains his family history.” He skimmed the official-looking document before translating the German text for her. “Oswald Drechsler was born in Düsseldorf in 1910, the third of seven children. This was his parent’s address and these are the names of his siblings. It looks like three of them died young; Oswald was the only boy to reach manhood.”
Friedrich clicked on another link and a different document filled the screen. “This record shows us where he lived in Germany. In June of 1945, Drechsler moved back to his parent’s house in Düsseldorf and stayed there until his death in 1987. On November 5, 1947, his older sister, Frieda Drechsler, and her son officially registered themselves as living there as well. But I don’t see any indication that Oswald Drechsler ever married or fathered any children.”
“What? But he has to have!” Zelda was certain Karen O’Neil was his daughter or granddaughter. What else could justify her aggressive behavior or explain how she had gotten a hold of Galerie Van Heemsvliet’s paperwork? “What about his sister or her boy; can we find out more about them?”
“Let’s take a look.” Friedrich typed the sister’s name into the archive’s search engine. “Good, she’s dead; her records are available to the public.” He was silent for a moment as he read the document. “His sister Frieda Drechsler married Gotthard Heider in 1935, but was widowed in 1947. Gotthard died in an auto accident in Cologne. Three months later she moved back to Düsseldorf. They had one son, Konrad, born in 1938. The boy would have turned nine years old the year his father died and he moved in with his uncle. Frieda remained at the house until her death in June of 2002. There’s no indication on this record that her son ever moved out.”
Zelda sat back, thinking. “Nine years old is an impressionable age. So this Konrad could have easily been influenced by his uncle. And he kept his father’s last name, what is it again?”
“Konrad Oswald Gotthard Heider is his name,” he said, adding, “Heider is a fairly common German surname. At least in the region of Switzerland where I’m from.”
“Konrad Heider,” she screeched. “That’s Karen O’Neil’s lawyer!” Zelda dug a notebook out of her backpack and shook it violently until a business card fell o
nto the floor. She grabbed it and shoved it under Friedrich’s nose, “See?”
“Konrad Heider, founding Partner of Heider, Schmidt & Weber Law Firm,” he read aloud.
“That can’t be a coincidence, can it?” Zelda sputtered.
“Unlikely,” he replied, completely flabbergasted.
“But why this charade? Why involve Karen? Is he even a lawyer or is that a lie, too?”
“I don’t understand either.” After a moment’s pause, Friedrich turned to his computer and ticked the lawyer’s name into his browser’s search engine. “He appears to be legit. He’s worked on some pretty high profile cases,” he said, as he scanned the list of German and English language newspaper articles associated with Konrad Heider. A few moments later he whistled softly. “You’re going to love this. Here’s an article about large donations he’s made to American museums: the Museum of Modern Art in New York, the Smithsonian Institute in Washington D.C., the Chicago Art Institute, the Getty Museum in Los Angeles… the list goes on and on.”
He began clicking on random links, skimming the newspaper articles for interesting information while Zelda studied the photographs. “No references to his Nazi uncle,” Friedrich noted, “but that’s not strange considering he had a different last name and was a toddler when the war started.”
“That’s not exactly the type of information a prominent lawyer would want to get around,” she agreed.
Her friend switched back to the German National Archives’ homepage and typed Heider’s name into the site’s search engine. “Damn, of course. He’s still alive so none of his personal information is available to the public. The only link is to a record in his mother’s file, but it’s the same one we just looked at.” He looked over at Zelda, clearly troubled and confused. “What does this all mean? The lawyer is Drechsler’s nephew? Then why is Karen O’Neil pretending to be Van Heemsvliet’s granddaughter?”
The Lover's Portrait Page 25
