“Michael, I’ll change plans and go next week. Is that fair?”
“Tasoula, life is passing us by,” he says, increasing my anxiety. “There will never be anyone good enough, in your eyes, to take over your icon hunting.”
Andreas looks at my hands, which are clenched into tight fists at this point. If only Michael could realize the full extent of what I do. I am juggling the responsibilities of three people, and his home runs without a glitch. Yet it never seems to be enough.
“Mommy,” Andreas says in his sweet child’s voice, which startles me, as I didn’t realize he was present.
“Yes, my darling,” I reply. As I take a seat next to him at the kitchen table, he brings his tiny fists up to my face and makes an angry face.
“Stop.”
It literally takes my breath away as I realize that he is imitating me. My young child teaches me a valuable lesson. Michael continues to be angry, so I tiptoe around him in preparation for my trip to Cyprus. His dissatisfaction forces me to do everything out of earshot as he now looks for evidence to prove his point. I’m actually looking forward to getting away to Cyprus to escape the pressure, and I compensate by filling the house with his favorite English sweets, biscuits, and cakes from Marks & Spencer.
CYPRUS
The month of February marks the end of the rainy season for the country of my birth, and we are just three weeks away from the start of the Great Lent. Throughout the Mediterranean island of Cyprus, Greek Cypriots will soon begin their five-week cleanse in preparation for the Orthodox Easter celebration. Knowing that my stay in Cyprus is booked solid with appointments, I arrive the day before my meetings begin to visit my beloved parents, whom I find in the process of cleaning the house.
“I will hire someone to do this for you,” I say, not wanting them to work so hard.
“We are preparing for Easter; this is not work, it’s our duty as Christians,” my mother says. Every Greek household, in addition to fasting, cleans out their home to create a pure environment in which their recommitted souls can dwell. The celebration of Easter is a time of tradition and rituals, reflection and recommitment to our faith.
“Please, bring the children to Cyprus for Easter,” my father says.
“They must learn our traditions,” my mother adds while my father whispers to me, “It will be good for your mother.” His comment lets me know that her spirit needs lifting.
In truth, my children have been raised in the Netherlands with other traditions and rituals, quite different from their Greek Cypriot ancestors. As much as I would like to return with my family so that they may experience Orthodox Easter, it is not feasible to do so this year. The Dutch school holiday schedule extends through the Greek Orthodox Easter, which makes it very complicated for us to celebrate it in Cyprus.
I long to be able to walk my children through neighborhoods of my childhood so that they may know the rich traditions of my own upbringing. The border is closed to the occupied area. We can’t return to the Saint Barnabas Monastery near Salamis or drive to the village of Mandres nestled in the foothills near Mount Pentadaktylos where my extended family lived and where we spent many weekends and held Easter celebrations.
The Saint Barnabas Monastery was taken over by the Turks during the war and turned into a museum in 1992 that remains off-limits to Greek Cypriots. I have heard from Turkish Cypriot friends that the monastery of Panagia Tochniou in Mandres has been completely desecrated and turned into a stable for animals by the Turkish military.
My children are unable to walk in the footsteps of their mother’s memories. They will never experience the unity of a small village like Mandres celebrating the resurrection of Christ, or be able to witness the locations where I practiced the traditions I was raised to follow throughout Holy Week. War and continued occupation prevent me from sharing with the new generation all that molded me into who I am.
Watching my parents prepare the house for Easter reminds me that what we have lost will never come again. I can tell my mother is troubled, so I lure my father into the yard under false pretenses.
“Is everything okay with Mom?”
“Every Greek is talking about the icons now. We are very proud but we also fear for you.”
“You know how everything is politicized in Cyprus. There is nothing to worry about. The archbishop stands with me.”
“Tasoula,” my father says in a concerned fatherly tone, “be careful.”
I dial the archbishop’s number.
“Your Beatitude, good evening to you. May I bring my parents along to our lunch? It would mean the world to them to meet you.” The archbishop graciously agrees and invites us to come to the palace. This is a lifelong dream for my mother, who is devoutly religious. To be able to dine with the leader of the Church, whom they normally see only on television, is a great honor for my parents.
As the archbishop welcomes us into the palace and my parents enter his world, they are drawn away from the past and into the present. The archbishop invites them to join him at services on Holy Saturday, the Day of Resurrection. To watch my parents find joy in this moment is a gift to me.
Back in Nicosia, meetings with Kyprianou, Papageorgiou, and Polak are long but very productive working hours.
“The records document the four icons before they are restored,” says Polak.
“We need to find who restored the icons so that we can explain to the court why the four icons look different than they did before the war,” says Papageorgiou. He shows photographs of the icons, front and back, to establish that they are signed and also to show what the natural wood pigment looks like.
Part of the information I must gather involves UNESCO between 1974 and 1978 having to do with Jacques Dalibard, the Canadian scholar who was sent to investigate claims by the Greek Cypriot government that cultural properties in the Turkish-controlled areas were being systematically destroyed. These documents establish the conditions of the island at the time, so the Dutch court can have a clear picture of the circumstances the Cypriot government was facing.
THE HAGUE
On a tip from Van Rijn, I telephone a restorer in London. Van Rijn had sent the four icons from the church of Antiphonitis to be restored before Dergazarian sold them to the Lans couple in 1978, which is where they were cleaned. I reinforce to the restorer that any information he can provide me will help us in gaining possession of the icons and that my government is not interested in prosecuting anyone. The Lanses argue that there is a difference in the condition of the icons in the photographs presented by the Church from their current status. Their attorney argues that the icons in the photographs are not identical to the ones in their possession.3 Once Brown confirms the condition in which he received them, it will be clear that they are indeed the same artifacts. Our witness hearing is postponed until the beginning of May.
Moving back and forth between two cases from two different countries has my head spinning. I ask a Japanese friend to speak to the college in lieu of an attorney in the hope of steering the situation away from the courts. For a moment there is a ray of hope when, through the facilitator, the college conveys their willingness to return the Royal Doors without compensation if they receive a direct request from the archbishop. I send a letter from the archbishop along with one from the president of Cyprus, but the university goes back on its word.
I then reach out to Asahi Broadcasting, which is in the process of producing a television special on the Royal Doors, to see if they are willing to help me find a sponsor, a company or individual who might be interested in receiving good publicity in return for funding the college’s return of the doors.4 If these events are not enough to liken this situation to a three-ring circus, the “Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus,” which is only recognized by Turkey that continues to occupy Cyprus, has the audacity to put a claim on the Royal Doors as their property just as they did with the Kanakaria mosaics. However, the onset of spring fills me with hope that these legal setbacks will be temporary.5
The Church’s case, in summary, is that the Hague Protocol says that any cultural property illegally removed from an occupied area and found in a territory that is party to the convention must be returned to the country of origin. If the court does not accept this argument, the Church will invoke the laws of Cyprus, which require that a registered dealer be involved in the sale and that an export license be issued for the artifact in question. The fact that neither requirement has been satisfied plays into our claim that the Lanses made a bad-faith purchase of the icons. If the court does not accept this, then Mr. Polak will call upon Dutch law, which states that the Church has twenty years to claim the icons if they were purchased in bad faith. The Lanses receive an extension until mid September to respond to the “nadere conclusie” (further claim), which, thankfully, helps relieve some pressure on me at home.6
In the interim, we consider initiating a lawsuit against Dutch dealer Robert Roozemond; selling the doors to the Kanazawa College of Arts in Japan interferes in the Church’s ability to reclaim their ownership. Mr. Papageorgiou informed Roozemond way back in 1990 that the Royal Doors in his possession were stolen from the church of Ayios Anastasios in Cyprus. Roozemond, according to our records, ignored that information.7
June roses are in bloom, a reminder that summer is approaching. I sip my morning coffee flipping through the pages of the De Volkskrant newspaper and come across an article written about Van Rijn calling himself “Robin Hood.” The writer phoned me a few days ago asking for a comment.8
“If Mr. Van Rijn is a real Robin Hood, he would just tell the Church of Cyprus where our cultural treasures are, particularly the mosaic of Apostolos Andreas,” I say.
In the photograph of Van Rijn, he is dressed to the nines, wearing a Panama hat. He reminds me of a proud peacock in the act of displaying its feathers. Minutes later he makes a surprise appearance at my office. This is highly unusual and probably means he wants something. Van Rijn is wearing the same Panama hat he wore when he was photographed for the article.
“You won! I will lead you to Andreas and the rest of the Cypriot treasures.”
“You are so full of it,” I say.
“Seriously,” he replies as he invites himself to sit down in a chair facing my desk. “Your treasures are hidden in Germany and they’re going to be sold any minute now. If I don’t step in, someone else will. I need a million and a half dollars to purchase them.”
“Is Dikmen the supplier?” I ask.
“He might be one of them.” As I eye him closely to see if he is lying or not, he adds, “I can’t say.”
“I need to know if you are planning to buy from Dikmen,” I say, shaking my head adamantly. All I know about him is what Van Rijn tells me. I dream of the day when I can sit face-to-face with Dikmen and ask him why he did what he did. I respect his culture and I want him to respect mine.
“Listen, Tazulaah, Dikmen has a piece of practically everything that came out of Cyprus but, as you now know, multiple dealers could also own percentages of it. There is a rumor that a large inventory of artifacts is about to be moved from Munich to Turkey.9 If this is true, someone may be looking to unload what they have quickly.”
“I’m not interested in buying anything from Dikmen.”
“I don’t know who is selling what! This is your last chance to get the Andreas and to score a large quantity of your stolen artifacts.” His tone softens suddenly. “I need this just as much as you do. I don’t want to be portrayed as a suspected criminal. I want to do something good in the eyes of my father,” he says. “Get back to me quickly,” he says as he makes his exit.
“Nice hat,” I comment, holding a slight smile. “I think its more Indiana Jones than Robin Hood, though.”10
Van Rijn’s proposal might be the perfect way to get off the repatriation treadmill I find myself on, trying to recover one sacred artifact at a time. It could be an opportunity to turn the tables on the dealers and have Andreas within my grasp. All of these possibilities call me to view Van Rijn’s proposal seriously. The problem is that, in order for me to act upon this information, a deal must be struck with a devil.
Eighteen
NOT SO FUNNY BUSINESS
The Greek philosopher Aristotle said, “There is only one way to avoid criticism: do nothing, say nothing, and be nothing.”
Neither the Church nor the government can embark on buying looted art because it will compromise our existing cases and fuel the trade. There are many situations in which we know that artifacts are of Cypriot origin but we cannot prove which church they were removed from, as our records are inadequate and these items are traded daily around the world. How do I get them back? I ask Polak if the Church is allowed to buy the artifacts back legally, and his answer is yes. However, it would be a public relations disaster.
Thinking about an alternative solution, I envision a telethon to raise funds to recover these looted artifacts that are impossible to win via legal routes. If there is any truth to Van Rijn’s offer, money raised this way could be used to finance the purchases. The telethon could be an opportunity for we the people of Cyprus to build our future on the ruins of the past.
The logistics of getting proper governmental approvals and licenses for such a telethon will be arduous, but it is an idea worth investigating. In Holland, I would need approval from the Central Bank. The process in Cyprus is unknown to me. These thoughts occur just as I lie down to sleep. Unable to turn off my mind, I rise to send a quick handwritten fax to the archbishop. Knowing that President Glafcos Clerides of Cyprus will be coming to the Netherlands, I ask for an appointment with him to present the idea and to bring him up to date on Van Rijn’s latest offer.1
I am bombarded with phone calls from diplomats and journalists trying to schedule time to see me in Amsterdam when the president of Cyprus arrives. I call Ambassador Zenon to inquire as to what my role will be as honorary consul.
“There is no role for you during the president’s visit. I have everything in order,” he says.
“Won’t I even greet him at the airport?” I ask.
“No need for that,” says Zenon.
I inform the archbishop that the ambassador will never permit me direct access to speak to the president while he is in Amsterdam. The archbishop tells me he will make the arrangements himself.
On June 20 I write to Ambassador Zenon to formally request a half hour of the president’s time in order to update him on the recovery efforts in the Netherlands and to pitch him on the telethon idea.2
“I’m afraid there is no room to accommodate your request for a meeting. What is so important that you can’t tell me?”
“Alecos, you asked me to separate my two jobs. Anything to do with the repatriation of artifacts I do as a representative of the Church. This is a Church matter, which I wish to share with the president and the archbishop. As a representative of the Church, I do not report to you. That’s what we agreed.”
“You will do nothing without me. If you cannot tell me what it is so that I present it to the president, you will not see him,” replies Ambassador Zenon.
> Michael witnesses my struggle with Zenon and my shame in having to tell my peers that my ambassador sees no need for my presence. He devises a solution and surprises me with tickets to Wimbledon in London the day after the president’s arrival. Going to Wimbledon is a great excuse to avoid the embarrassment I would face with my peers because of Zenon’s actions.
“When people ask you why are you not attending, you can tell them that you have VIP tickets to Wimbledon to watch tennis instead,” he says. “That’s a good enough reason, darling, isn’t it?”
His thoughtfulness is beyond sweet in this moment. Fate strikes. The match we are scheduled to attend is postponed due to rain. Michael and I had cleared our calendars but had not left for London yet. I receive a telephone call from one of the president’s assistants in Amsterdam.
“Madame Consul, the archbishop and the president spoke and the president would like to see you this afternoon at four. Will you be able to make the meeting?” he inquires.
“Of course. I will be there,” I say, quite surprised.
All Michael can do is shake his head and hand me the keys to his car, as mine is a mess from the kids.
In an hour I arrive at the Hotel de l’Europe, a five-star luxury palace built in the nineteenth century overlooking the Amstel River in Amsterdam. I stop at reception desk and ask the attendant to park my car and call the president’s suite.
A Greek Cypriot man standing next to reception introduces himself as one of the president’s guards.
“There has been a misunderstanding. The president cannot meet with you at this time. Come we will have a drink at the bar,” he says.
“I don’t understand. We have an appointment?”
“His schedule changed.”
“Excuse me, I am not the type of woman to hang around bars! Where are the ambassadors from Brussels and The Hague?”
The Icon Hunter Page 24
