The Lover's Portrait

by Jennifer S. Alderson

  He had Karen keeping up the pressure on the museum’s staff, demanding the right to drop in to see Irises at a moment’s notice and nagging them to allow her own experts access to it. They wouldn’t be able to put the Wederstein back in long-term storage anytime soon. Those climate-controlled bunkers were far too secure. So long as Karen was in Amsterdam, Irises would remain stored in the restoration department, housed in a crumbling old building across the street from the museum itself. Easy access.

  While contemplating his short-term options, Konrad rose from his wingback chair and poured himself a bourbon from one of five crystal decanters lining the hotel’s version of a mini-bar. Going to the media posed its own risks. It only took one nosy journalist to find out the truth about Karen and her claim was doomed. Until he could organize a break-in, the threat of scandal was still the most effective pressure point. With a little luck, the museum’s director would get sick of Karen’s constant meddling and give in to her demands before the two weeks were up. It’s not as if that intern Zelda Richardson would be able to find any damaging evidence; she was just a student, and an American one at that. And while she was bumbling around looking for clues in far-flung archives, the museum was losing precious time.

  No, it was better to give Bernice Dijkstra and her team their two weeks, let them come up with nothing and then humiliate their director into turning the painting over to Karen. After a lifetime of searching for any sign of his uncle’s treasures, waiting another ten days hardly mattered.

  If Leo de Boer still refused to give in, he should have everything in place by then. An underpaid security guard or two might get injured during the robbery, but that was a risk he was more than willing to take.

  He was so close to finding his masterpieces, he could feel it in his bones. The Wederstein was the key, the missing link, it must be. And once he finally had it in his hands, he would find the rest, museum be damned.

  TWENTY-ONE

  “Wim, you mean to tell me you can’t find any more records or documents linked to Galerie Van Heemsvliet, either here or in Den Haag?” Despite her increasing frustration, Zelda couldn’t believe how helpful the archivist at the Amsterdam City Archives was being. Obviously motivated by his passion for his profession, Wim Boxtel seemed as interested and eager to find out more about Arjan van Heemsvliet as she was. But in spite of his best efforts, there was almost nothing in the city or national archives pertaining to Arjan’s gallery or business transactions.

  “A copy of his business license and the application form is all I’ve been able to find. No records indicating which paintings he had in his inventory or who his clientele were,” Wim murmured, gesturing towards the search results displayed on the screen before them. They were sitting at one of thirty computers with direct access to the city’s vast digital archives, set up in front of the two-story high windows lining the back of the building. On either side, other researchers were discussing their findings in equally hushed voices. Behind them were a marble-covered information desk and the entrance to the building.

  Zelda didn’t know what to expect when she’d entered the city’s archives for the first time. The massive, block-long building on the Vijzelstraat, easily recognizable by the dizzying red and grey patterns woven into the ten-story tall brick and granite façade, was so imposing she was almost afraid to enter. Yet inside, the publically accessible resource center situated on the ground floor felt surprisingly light and airy thanks to the high ceilings, many windows and large skylights running down the center of the rectangular structure.

  “The fact that almost none of Arjan van Heemsvliet’s business documentation can be found in our vast archives is not really unusual,” Wim continued quietly. “If he died during the war and had no business partner – as we suspect – then there was probably no one left to donate his business records to either our city archives or the national art history archives stored in Den Haag. And from what you said earlier, it sounds like his wife, Annette Schuppe, may have taken much of it to New York with her after the war.”

  Zelda was getting pretty flustered. She had pinned her hopes on this appointment with the Amsterdam city archives’ World War Two specialist, but after searching through a wide variety of records and databases, Arjan van Heemsvliet was still a mystery. Having exhausted most of the keywords and names on Bernice and Huub’s list, she was running out of ideas. She stared out the windows, gazing blankly out at the long grass and wildflowers growing in the gardens of the homes opposite the archives, wondering what she should do next.

  “At least we know he was not a known profiteer, otherwise his name would have been flagged. Several Dutch art dealers and gallery owners suspected of working with the Nazis were investigated after the war and the research results were coupled to their personal record card. Of course, our list is probably incomplete. Art dealers were usually only investigated if there was a compelling reason. As far as Galerie Van Heemsvliet is concerned, we have hit a dead end. Let’s see what his personal record card says,” Wim said, typing as he softly spoke.

  A scan of an old yellow note card with several type-written names and dates on it filled the screen. In the top left-hand corner was Arjan van Heemsvliet’s name.

  “Every adult who has lived in Amsterdam has a ‘personal record card’. Recorded on it are their full name, birth place, and religious persuasion, as well as the names of their parents, wife and any children. All of the addresses they have ever lived at should also be listed here, though if an individual moved often, it might not be complete.”

  Wim translated the document for her, using his finger to point out the Dutch text he was reading aloud. “He lived in a single family residence, Johannes Vermeerstraat number 76, from August 1932 until September 1942. That’s quite an affluent neighborhood. Hmm, that’s odd. The names of his wife and child are not listed.”

  “Maybe we’re looking at the wrong file. Did we spell his name correctly?” Zelda asked as she compared her notes with their search query.

  “I believe so,” he said, typing in the name again.

  The same card appeared on the screen, confusing her even more. “They were married in 1942. Perhaps it didn’t get recorded, because of all the transportation and personnel problems brought about by the war?”

  “It is true many of those working for the city were deported to German work camps or went into hiding in 1940. And in combination with all of the diseases, lack of heating and food so prevalent then, most government offices would not have been fully staffed during the war. But in 1942 all of the city’s courthouses and archives were still open. If they got married in Amsterdam’s city hall, a record of it should be in our files.” Wim thought for a moment before adding, “However if they got married in another city, it is possible the information was not recorded on this personal record card. Even though it should have been.”

  “And if the baby was born in another city?”

  “Again, it should have been noted here, especially if they all lived on the Vermeerstraat in Amsterdam. But the war did cause all sorts of delays, and sometimes mail got lost or destroyed. It is irregular, but not unheard of,” the archivist grudgingly conceded. “Let me search the national archives and see what I can find out about his wife, Annette Schuppe.”

  A few moments later, Wim stared at the screen in bewilderment. “According to her personal record card, Annette Schuppe was born in Alphen aan den Rijn in 1921 but never married nor had children while living in the Netherlands. She immigrated to New York City in August 1945. I recognize her father’s name, Geert Schuppe; he was a successful businessman.”

  Zelda was more baffled than enlightened by this new piece of information. “This doesn’t make any sense.” She put her fingertips to her temple, willing herself to slow down and think through all the facts. “Okay, so Arjan van Heemsvliet was killed in a bombing raid in June of 1942. If he had gotten married a few weeks before he died, would that have messed up the registration of his marriage license? Would the birth of his daughter
have been added to his personal record card at the city’s archives if he was already dead?”

  “A bombing raid in June 1942; are you sure?”

  “Yes, well, that’s what his granddaughter said happened.”

  “Strange, wait here a moment please.” Wim sprung out of his seat and disappeared into the inner offices of the archives, returning quickly with a single document. “This is a map of occupied Amsterdam. The locations of the bombing raids and airplane crashes which took place in the city – those caused by the Allies and Germans – are listed here, by address and date. So far as I can see, there were no bombing raids recorded in June of 1942. In fact, according to this map none took place in 1942, at least not in Amsterdam.”

  Zelda was lost for words. Was Arjan van Heemsvliet even killed during the war? Is that why the paintings disappeared, because he fled the country with them? But why would his granddaughter think he died in 1942? Could it have been a simple white lie told to comfort a child; Annette Schuppe letting her daughter believe her biological father was dead, instead of having to hear she was unwanted?

  “Perhaps she has the wrong year,” the archivist offered.

  “Maybe.” So many possibilities were running through Zelda’s mind.

  “See this? There were two Allied bombing raids in July 1943, at Hagedoornplein and the Fokker airplane factory.” The archivist pointed first to the map’s complicated legend before searching for exact locations of the air attacks, finally laying his finger on a spit of land across the River IJ, behind Central Station.

  “Although Amsterdam North is almost ten kilometers from the city center, where Van Heemsvliet’s gallery and house were located. It’s quite unlikely he would have been killed in either of those raids.” Wim fell silent, contemplating their options.

  Seconds later he snapped his fingers together. “I know, let’s see if there’s a death certificate in our archives. That may clarify things. Yes, here’s a link to it.” Wim quickly read through the document before translating it for her. “It was applied for by his father, the Reverend Johannes van Heemsvliet, in October 1945. And no cause of death is listed.”

  “His father? I don’t understand. Why would he have to apply for a death certificate for Arjan?”

  “If his son was killed during the war but his body was not – or could not – be identified, then there would be no death certificate. Unfortunately, after the war ended, many parents and children had to file paperwork with the government to have their missing loved ones officially declared ‘deceased’, if only to stop bills from coming in, to close businesses or pay off debts, that sort of thing. Otherwise no one else has the right to act on the missing person’s behalf.”

  “How incredibly sad.”

  “This was truly a dire period for the Netherlands, and all of Europe really. I could tell you so many heartbreaking stories –” Wim stopped mid-sentence and snapped his fingers. “That gives me an idea.”

  Wim typed in Arjan’s last known address and another card appeared. “This is an ‘address card’. It lists all of the known occupants of a single address. According to this, a man named Gijs Mansveld also lived at Johannes Vermeerstraat 76 between March 1936 and February 1942.”

  “Gijs Mansveld, who could that be?” Zelda wondered out loud.

  “Well, he’s not Arjan’s business partner. At least, there wasn’t one listed on Van Heemsvliet’s business application. If he’d added one later, his business license would have been amended automatically.” The archivist leaned back in his chair, thinking. “Gijs Mansveld could have been his manservant or butler; a single man with a large residence would need several servants to keep his house clean and cook his meals. Having live-in staff was common in the 1930s.”

  Wim typed Gijs’ name into the search engine and brought up his death certificate. “He died on February 24, 1942 of a bronchial infection.”

  The archivist switched back to the address card. “See that star? That means the house was occupied by a German officer, starting in September 1942. That was pretty common during the war. Mansions and other large homes were snatched up first, mostly by those holding a higher rank. Especially those in the Museumplein area, seeing as they were close to the German Embassy. And Vermeerstraat is just around the corner from it.” Wim turned to Zelda, a twinkle in his eye. “Did you know that the old mansion housing your country’s consulate was the German Embassy during the war?”

  “Someone else told me that same fact a few days ago. It’s hard to believe.”

  “Yes, well, it is true,” the archivist picked up where he’d left off, clearly annoyed he hadn’t been the first to share the building’s dark history with her. “German officers were known for frequently switching residences. They would trade up anytime a house became ‘unoccupied’, mostly due to their Jewish owners being shipped off to concentration camps. Sometimes they didn’t even wait until one was available. We’ve found instances of generals, colonels and even majors in the SS ordering homes to be ‘emptied’ of their legal occupants simply because they wanted to live there.”

  “That’s insane!” she exclaimed.

  “That sort of abuse of power happened more often than you think,” he replied grimly before tapping the screen once again. “Let’s look up Arjan’s parents. Before moving to Amsterdam in 1932, Arjan van Heemsvliet lived in Urk, the same town he was born in. The Urk city archives should have scanned in all of their family cards by now.”

  Wim opened a new browser window and began typing away. A few seconds later he called out, “Found it.”

  Again he translated the Van Heemsvliet family card for Zelda, keeping his voice low to avoid disturbing the other researchers. “He was indeed born in Urk in 1910, the oldest of three children, all boys. His parents were the reverend Johannes van Heemsvliet and Meike Goes. Both deceased, in 1953 and 1948 respectively. Jacob, the middle brother, died in 1988. But the youngest brother, Gerard, is still alive and lives in Urk.”

  “That’s good to know,” she replied half-heartedly. “I guess we’re finished with Arjan van Heemsvliet. There’s still Philip Verbeet. I know you couldn’t find out much about his business, but could you show me his personal record card?”

  “Coming up.” Wim helped her translate the bits of information available, but after a few minutes of reading, it was clear there was nothing new to learn about Philip Verbeet in these archives. At least Zelda now knew that Rita’s memory was perfectly fine; the names and dates she had given Bernice Dijkstra all matched up with the city’s archival records.

  “Well, Zelda, I guess that’s it for now. If you come up with more search terms you want help looking up, give me a call.”

  “Okay, thanks. Could I get two copies of all the documents we’ve been looking at?”

  “Of course. Ten cents a copy, the printouts will be waiting for you by the information desk in a few minutes.” He turned to the screen and began printing off the records they’d viewed.

  Zelda racked her brain, trying to figure out what she should do next. They’d gone through all of the names and keywords on Bernice and Huub’s list, yet she still had no real leads to follow. And her research results seemed to raise more questions than provide answers. Why was there no record of Arjan’s marriage to Annette Schuppe or the birth of their daughter? Who was Gijs Mansveld and why was he living in Arjan van Heemsvliet’s house?

  If only she could talk to someone who knew Arjan, then she might gain some insight into the type of person and businessman he was. Fat chance, she thought, everyone he knew or worked with is certainly dead or demented by now. She frowned, before a glance at Van Heemsvliet’s family card – still open on the computer screen – offered a ray of hope. Gerard van Heemsvliet, Arjan’s youngest brother, was alive and in his late eighties. He might be able to remember something relevant about his brother, his gallery or even Annette Schuppe. Right now he was her only real lead. If she was going to impress Bernice tomorrow, she had no choice but to track Gerard down tonight. She glanced at the nam
e of the town again.

  “Excuse me Wim, do you know how far Urk is from Amsterdam?”

  TWENTY-TWO

  “Tell me again why this is so important it couldn’t wait until Saturday?” Friedrich asked, as he deftly maneuvered through the thick evening traffic at full-speed. The normal drive time from Amsterdam to Urk was an hour, but with her friend behind the wheel, Zelda figured they would make it in forty-five minutes. They were on the A6 freeway cutting across the reclaimed land of the Flevoland polder as it circled Lake IJssel. The countryside was dominated by cornfields, roaming livestock and a smattering of young trees. The only two towns they passed through, Almere and Lelystad, were comprised of ultra-modern architecture rising out of the middle of nowhere.

  She dug her nails deeper into the passenger seat and tried to ignore her friend’s Indy-style driving by focusing on the landscape flying by her window. “I have that appointment with Bernice tomorrow afternoon. It’s important I talk with Gerard beforehand, in case he has any information relevant to the museum’s investigation. Even if Gerard was fifteen years younger than Arjan, I’m sure he’ll be able to tell us something about his brother’s wife, Annette, and their daughter Isabelle.”

  “I thought you weren’t supposed to do any investigating yourself?” Friedrich reminded her.

  Zelda shrugged her shoulders. “If I’d found more records in the archives this week, then this trip wouldn’t be necessary. It’s still not clear what kind of business Arjan was running, when or if he married Annette Schuppe, why his daughter’s birth wasn’t recorded, or how he knew Philip Verbeet. Why did Rita’s father sell all his paintings to Arjan, instead of any of the hundreds of other art dealers in Amsterdam? Especially after repeatedly telling his family he would never sell them, but was going to give them to a friend to store during the war.”