by Noah Charney
Their camouflage complete, they opened the courtyard gate and drove the loaded cart through town. Had anyone observed them, they would simply have thought that the bishop’s housekeepers had made an evening purchase from the local junkman. The horse clopped along cobbles past the rail station, making two stops at private homes nearby. At each stop, two of the cases were carefully pulled out from under the junk heap and hidden inside the houses, secreted between walls and beneath floorboards.
The Lamb was safe, for the time being. It would not be safe for long.
The canon and bishop expected to be questioned as to the whereabouts of The Lamb. Their plan to claim that it had been shipped abroad would require proof, if it were to be believed. The cabinet minister provided the necessary documentation. He mailed a letter to Canon van den Gheyn on stationery of the Belgian Ministry of Science and Fine Arts, signed by the minister. It contained no text, and the canon could add what he felt was necessary to the situation. The canon typed a letter to the effect that the clergy of Saint Bavo had been ordered to deliver Jan van Eyck’s Adoration of the Mystic Lamb to the minister’s deputy, who would then ship the painting to England for safekeeping during the war.
This seemed plausible, as other Belgian treasures had already been sent to England. Many significant artworks elsewhere in Europe were moved from their traditional locations to places considered further from the line of fire. Austrian air raids prompted the removal in 1918 to Rome of many of northern Italy’s greatest works. The equestrian statues of Bartolomeo Colleoni by Verrocchio in Venice and Donatello’s Gattamelata in Padua made the trip south, as did the Quadriga, the four bronze horses that decorated the balcony of Basilica San Marco in Venice. Their history of displacement by war plunder rivals that of The Ghent Altarpiece. So the Canon’s story was plausible. He backdated the letter. A sanctioned forgery was complete.
When the German army arrived in Ghent, polite inquiries began immediately regarding the location of The Lamb. Initial interviews with Canon van den Gheyn were couched in terms of concern for the welfare of the altarpiece. The devastation at Louvain was, perhaps impoliticly, cited as a rationale for Germany to be informed of the relocation of The Lamb. The Germans claimed to want to ensure its safety—if they didn’t know its location, the altarpiece might be bombed inadvertently.
The canon produced the forged ministry letter on the first occasion that he was interviewed. When they read it, his inquisitors laughed aloud. Of all the stupid plans to safeguard artwork, what could be worse than sending it to the English, who would certainly never give it back? The Germans had a point. England, through a variety of methods ranging from legitimate to underhanded, had gathered and retained a significant quantity of art not their own. The 1816 purchase of the Parthenon Marbles by Lord Elgin from the hostile Turks occupying Athens was still a fresh memory. When Greece regained sovereignty of its capital city and first politely, and then not so politely, requested the return of their national treasures, England refused. The sculptures had been purchased legitimately, albeit from the government of a conquering foreign power. The Parthenon Marbles remain in the British Museum to this day and will almost certainly never be returned.
Once the laughter subsided, the German interviewers remained unsatisfied. They first asked, and then demanded, to know the name of the ministerial deputy who took The Lamb and how it had been transported. And hadn’t the deputy provided a written receipt? Canon van den Gheyn consistently replied that he wasn’t permitted to say.
The canon, the bishop, the burgomaster, and the cathedral staff were questioned on multiple occasions. The staff knew only what the canon had told them—that The Lamb had been moved to England. The burgomaster knew nothing beyond that initial, preemptory conversation with the bishop and canon, which had ended with the conclusion that nothing should be done. The bishop had intentionally remained uninformed of particulars, so he did not need to lie. The canon remained silent.
In January 1915 orders came from Berlin, demanding a certificate from the bishop stating that the Germans had not stolen The Adoration of the Mystic Lamb. Word had reached the outside world that the altarpiece was no longer in Ghent. The assumption was that the Germans had taken it, to reunite it with its long-lost wings in the Kaiser Friedrich Museum in Berlin. An Italian magazine had published a report to that effect in December 1914. Europe was indignant. Germany had no wish to be accused of art confiscation—especially when, in this case, it happened to be innocent.
Not for lack of trying, however. Based on the enthusiasm with which they interviewed the canon and cathedral staff, the Germans certainly would have taken The Lamb had it been waiting in Saint Bavo Cathedral when they arrived. Yet the Adam and Eve panels were never seized from Brussels. Perhaps if the main central portion of The Ghent Altarpiece could not be found, the Germans would not waste time and negative publicity in taking its lateral portions.
This set the stage for the publication of an article that scandalized international scholars. In early 1915, in the journal Die Kunst, art historian Emil Schäffer posed the question: “Shall we take pictures from Belgium for display in German galleries?” The article suggested that the time was ripe to reassemble the disparate portions of The Ghent Altarpiece. Not mincing words, Schäffer wrote, “The best pictures captured as booty in Belgium should be handed over to German galleries.” The wing panels were already in Berlin. Belgium was occupied. Why not remove the remaining sections from Brussels and Ghent and unite the masterpiece once again, in Berlin?
Scholars from all sides responded, condemning the article and the very idea of robbing a conquered country of its national treasure. The Napoleonic plunder was most frequently cited as a horror never to be repeated. German published responses expressed universal outrage at the idea. Imperious, bespectacled, and brilliant Wilhelm von Bode, his sloped moustache a mirror to his jawline, was, at the time, the best-known figure in the international art world and the figurehead for German artistic theory and policy. He published his response: “My conviction is that all civilized countries should have their own artistic creations, and all their lawful artistic possessions, left them intact; and that the same principles of protection should be exercised in enemy territory as at home.” But it was not clear that actual operations matched the publicly articulated virtuous sentiment. In Ghent, in the heat of war, the interest shown by Germans in the location of The Lamb suggested that its seizure was a strong probability.
The Italians made further accusations, particularly against Bode, who was director-general of the royal museums of Prussia from 1905 to 1920, including the Kaiser Friedrich Museum. Bode felt compelled to denounce the attacks; his response was published in a Turin newspaper: “The assertion that I have drawn up a list of works of art as plunder is ridiculous to the point of being farcical.” Were these accusations simply paranoid fear that millennia-old habits of plunder would inevitably repeat themselves despite the current climate of change? Or was the scholarly discourse a veil of wishful thinking?
In the summer of 1915 the German commissioner of art in Belgium, Dr. Otto von Falke, made a public declaration in the name of the German imperial government that not a single work of art had been removed from Belgium, nor would it be. German military orders for the protection of art and historic monuments were strict and clear.
Yet art had already been taken from Malines. Was Falke lying, or had circuits been crossed?
In the wake of these accusations and defenses, Canon van den Gheyn had a brief respite from interviews about The Lamb. The period of quiet ended with the arrival in Ghent of two German art historians. They played up the good-cop angle, pleading for the safety of the altarpiece. If the German army did not know its location, they might accidentally destroy it. The art historians would not say, but they seemed certain that The Lamb was still in or around Ghent. Had someone informed? Who could have?
The art historians were replaced by a less friendly German officer. He was blunt. The Germans had heard about the junk cart smuggli
ng. Had someone seen them? Or could one of the canon’s friends have talked? That couldn’t be, or the Germans would have the panels already. What had happened?
The officer showed his cards, admitting that three theories existed about the fate of The Lamb: (1) It was hidden in Ghent. (2) It had been sent to England. (3) It was stashed on board a ship at Le Havre, where the Belgian government had retreated to safety. The canon shrugged his shoulders. Only the Belgian minister of culture knew the exact location of the altarpiece. Why didn’t the officer ask him? Of course the canon knew that the minister was safely in Le Havre, out of the interrogators’ reach. Canon van den Gheyn must have smiled to himself. What the officer did not know was that The Adoration of the Mystic Lamb was hidden only a few hundred meters from where they sat.
The Germans were losing patience. On 18 October 1915 the bishop of Ghent received a forceful letter from the German inspector general of cavalry. Threatening severe repercussions, he demanded to know the hiding place of The Lamb. The bishop replied in all honesty. He had no idea.
Then another period of quiet. The war stole attention away from the location of the hidden Lamb, and Canon van den Gheyn began to think that the trouble had blown over. A year and a half passed without incident.
In May 1917 came a knock at the door to the bishop’s residence. Two German civilians requested permission to photograph several important paintings in the cathedral collection, including the altarpiece. They acted as if they had no idea that the altarpiece was not simply sitting in the cathedral, a few meters away—as though they were unaware of all the inquiries by German officials as to its whereabouts. The bishop referred them to the canon or the Belgian ministry. It became clear that it had been some sort of test, to see if passed time had softened resolve. Their bluff called, the German civilians revealed that they knew that The Lamb was hidden nearby.
Ten days later they returned with an armed escort and searched the Episcopal Palace. They tapped walls to look for hollows. They checked for loose floorboards. They found nothing. The Lamb had been moved nearly three years earlier. Why search the palace, when other German officers had stated that they knew the altarpiece had been moved by junk cart? The searchers seemed disorganized.
But a new danger rose. The Germans began to commandeer private residences for use as barracks. This process escalated. More and more homes were being taken over in a path that was encroaching on the first of the two homes in which The Lamb was hidden. If one of the houses should be occupied by German troops, they would almost certainly find the panels secreted inside.
On 4 February 1918 the canon and the same four citizens moved the panels to a new location north of the city center: the Augustinian church of Saint Stephen. Whether they tried their luck with the junk cart or came up with a new transport strategy remains unknown. As a church, Saint Stephen’s was unlikely to be appropriated, and an ideal hiding place was selected inside it. A confessional was pulled away from the wall inside the church, the panels were slid vertically into place behind it, and the confessional was replaced.
This was the last move they would make. There would be no more inquiries. The war was nearing its end, the outcome in little doubt. The Germans lost the luxury of searching for buried treasure.
But with their impending defeat went any ethical pretence about the protection of art and historic buildings. Weeks before the Armistice, the Germans announced publicly that they would blow up the entire city of Ghent as they withdrew.
Now Canon van den Gheyn was torn. Should he finally reveal the location of The Lamb? Better it fall to retreating German hands than be destroyed forever. Or should he risk his life by attempting to move it out of Ghent altogether, when the war’s end was so near? After many sleepless nights, he could not decide.
Then history made a decision for him. The Germans withdrew, leaving the city intact. The Lamb was safe. On 11 November 1918 the war ended.
Thanks to the bravery and guile of Canon van den Gheyn, Belgium’s national treasure remained in its birthplace throughout a long and terrible war, through countless interrogations, through near-misses, through midnight maneuvers, through secret caches. Nine days after the Armistice, the panels were brought out of hiding and displayed once again in Saint Bavo Cathedral.
In the weeks leading up to the Armistice, there was German concern that the peace terms would include not only financial reparations but also the surrender of German artworks. The precedent for such exactions had been formalized by Napoleon, whose price for cease-fire always included a further payoff in artworks. Adding to the German fears, an article published in the Parisian newspaper Lectures pour Tous in August 1918 listed works of art in German museums that the defeated empire would have to pay to France, by way of indemnity for a “wantonly inflicted war.”
This list was divided into two categories. The first group comprised works to be surrendered on historic grounds, including everything that had been stolen by Napoleon and repatriated after his defeat in 1815, as well as trophies stolen by the French during the Franco-Prussian War. For the French author of this article, anything that a Frenchman had stolen was to be considered the rightful property of France.
The second group of artworks was simply an art historian’s wish list of the most important and beautiful pieces in German collections. No rationale, however porous, was given. Cologne should offer up its extensive wealth in medieval art. Dresden had some lovely paintings by Poussin, Rubens, and Claude Lorrain. Berlin and Munich had far too many works by French masters and should surrender them all. While they were at it, they should send over their Italian collections and the choicest German masterpieces. This article could only have been designed to twist the knife, to inspire fear in once-fearsome Germany.
The Ghent Altarpiece, which had been so brazenly demanded in that ill-received 1915 article in Die Kunst, was once more in a position to be reunited—but this time Berlin would have to give up its portion. The unification would be in The Lamb’s birthplace.
It was coming home.
The truce terms came shortly before the peace treaty in 1918. Article 19 of the Treaty of Versailles made concrete the fears fueled by the article in Lectures pour Tous. The French wanted to recover all of the art that had been in France, even if it had been there only because the French had stolen it. At one sitting of the truce commission, the French representative warned that Germany would be required to auction off artworks. Germany would pay twofold: It would pay financial reparations, but this money would come through forced sales of its cultural heritage. The commission excused this decision on the basis that they had heard a rumor that the ex-kaiser had accepted an offer from a group of art dealers that included the sale of art that had been rightfully stolen by the French before the war. That sale would run against Article 19, and the Germans would be punished for it.
Another French article, this time published in early 1919 in Revue des Deux Mondes, demanded additional forfeits of art. This time it was the Bamberg Rider, the first equestrian statue of the Middle Ages, and effigies from Naumberg and Magdeburg cathedrals. No rationale was given. Perhaps the author felt that none was necessary. Or perhaps it was a test: How far could the victors go to exploit the situation and enrich their national holdings?
The French were not the only opportunists. The Italians seized pictures and manuscripts from Vienna at the time of the truce. As they had encountered little opposition in doing so, they made another demand in early 1919, just before the signing of the peace treaty that would codify all reparations and limit such exploitation. This demand included manuscripts, armor from the Austrian Army Museum, and twenty-seven of the finest paintings from the Vienna Gallery, most of them by Italian artists. In response, the Vienna Gallery director, Dr. E. Leisching, wrote:It is hard to keep a cool head and yet give this affair its right name. A glance at the long list is enough to make the heart contract. . . . What is at stake now is nothing less than the loss of works which are the spiritual possession of all those untold thousands who lay
claim to a sense of beauty, to education, to culture, and to a feeling for spiritual greatness and human dignity transcending all national boundaries. They are almost exclusively works of native origin, the loss of which would be deeply felt throughout the whole population, works which have found their way to the hearts and mind of the people. . . . In a word, [the Italians] want to take from us with a refinement of cruelty what would hurt us most, possessions imbued with the personality and spirit of our city in the highest degree and which express to all the world the fame, the charm, the very soul of Vienna.
Melodramatic though it may sound, the sentiment expressed by Dr. Leisching was genuine and heartfelt.
The 1919 Treaty of Versailles laid out the final terms and brought an end to speculation and wish lists. Articles 245-247 dealt extensively with art and reparations for art. A look at each article reveals the fate of the Berlin wings of The Adoration of the Mystic Lamb.
France was taking the opportunity to undo its losses from not only this war but a previous war. Article 245 dealt with reparations to France of looted objects from the Franco-Prussian war, as well:Within six months of the coming into force of the present Treaty, the German Government must restore to the French Government the trophies, archives, historical souvenirs, or works of art carried away from France by the German authorities in the course of the [Franco-Prussian] war of 1870-71 and during this last war, in accordance with a list which will be communicated to it by the French Government; particularly the French flags taken in the course of the war of 1870-71 and all the political papers taken by the German authorities on 10 October 1870 at the chateau of Cerçay, near Brunoy (Seine-et-Oise) belonging at the time to Mr. Routher, formerly Minister of State.
