Gerard snorted, “It was the 1930s, homosexuality was something to be ashamed of, at least in the smaller towns and communities like the one we grew up in. I am not asking you to agree, just accept that is how it was.”
Zelda dared only to nod in agreement.
“If Arjan did take a wife and have a child, he would not have been the first gay man to do so, especially back then. There was so much social pressure to conform,” he speculated. “But I cannot believe he would have gotten engaged and not told our mother, even if it was a ruse. We still did get an occasional letter from him. But he never mentioned a woman in his life, of that I am certain. On the contrary, Arjan was quite open about the fact his male lover lived with him for the last several years of his life. I’m sure his name is in the letters.”
“Is it Gijs Mansveld?” she asked.
“I am sorry, I really don’t remember. It’s been too many years since I’ve read them,” Gerard used his cane to push himself out of his easy chair once again. “If you’ll excuse me, there are some documents I would like you to give to your museum’s director. They were Arjan’s.” Gerard gradually made his way upstairs, his body creaking almost as much as the staircase.
Friedrich and Zelda sat in stunned silence for a moment before she blurted out, “Gay! I told you there was something fishy about Karen O’Neil. If the art dealer was a homosexual, then she’s a fake.”
“Don’t get too excited yet. Maybe Arjan had a fling with Karen’s grandmother to get back in the good graces of his family, but died before he could spread the news,” he replied.
“Come on, she’s a fake. I’ve felt it since day one.”
“Then why does she have Arjan’s inventory ledgers and other documents? Gerard was just a boy when the war started. Maybe something else happened between Arjan and his father, something his parents didn’t want Gerard finding out about, so they made up a story about him being homosexual?”
Before Zelda could respond, the old man came lumbering back down the stairs with a dusty shoebox in his hands. After sitting down, he balanced the box on his knees. “There is another reason I do not believe my brother married or fathered a child. A few months before he disappeared, Arjan started writing to me at the seminary I was living at, much more often than he ever had before. He was scared and didn’t know who else to turn to, but felt someone needed to know what was going on, in case something happened to him. We’d been close when he’d lived at home, closer than he was to Jacob in any case.”
Gerard drew in his breath as if he was trying to suck up enough energy to carry on. “Arjan was being blackmailed by a colonel in the SS who’d recognized him leaving a nightclub for homosexuals. The Nazi knew Arjan was an art dealer and wanted paintings – lots of them – in return for his silence. Otherwise he would turn my brother over to the Gestapo. Who knows what would have happened to Arjan if he’d been arrested – forced castration, hard labor, concentration camp?”
Zelda could feel her jaw dropping. If Arjan was being blackmailed because he was gay, then Karen’s lawyer didn’t have a leg to stand on.
“My brother didn’t see any other way out but to give the Nazi what he wanted. I counselled him to flee, leave all of his things behind and use his connections to get to Southern France. There he could get passage on a ship sailing to America. The blackmailer would never be satisfied, he would always want more than my brother could give him. But Arjan refused. He wanted to stay in Amsterdam for as long as possible. He’d worked hard to build up his gallery and had seen firsthand how other shops had been gutted as soon as their owners fled. Besides, no one thought the war would last as long as it did.”
“In one of his last letters, he seemed to realize he had to leave the Netherlands, only he was having difficulty taking the first steps. He didn’t know what to do with his gallery or artwork, there was no one left in Amsterdam he could entrust it to. Maybe marrying this Karen O’Neil’s grandmother was part of his plan to stay in the city, I honestly do not know. If Arjan was married and about to become a father, that would deny the Nazi his leverage over my brother, forcing him to stop the blackmail. So far as I can remember, Arjan never mentioned such a scheme, but it’s been many years since I’ve read through all of his letters.” Gerard patted the box gently. “It’s possible there’s something in here that will help you discover the truth.”
Zelda couldn’t believe her eyes or ears – Gerard was giving them their first real lead and documentation to support it, exactly what she’d yearned for. Bernice Dijkstra was going to be so proud of her.
“If this Karen O’Neil really is his granddaughter, I should like to meet her,” he added shyly.
Confronted with the old man’s genuine emotion, Zelda felt ashamed for hoping the New Yorker was a fraud. She took Gerard’s hand, “I will tell her about you. Thank you for everything. I will make sure these letters are read and you’re kept informed.”
TWENTY-THREE
March 22, 1942
Arjan downed his double vodka in one gulp. Not accustomed to drinking hard liquor, the booze burned his esophagus and stung his stomach. Somehow it felt right, he deserved to feel pain. He’d always been so careful, ever since his arrest in Urk all those years ago. How could I be so weak, he wondered for the thousandth time. All of those friends who’d entrusted their most precious possessions to him, and he let them down for one night of companionship.
I thought I was being clever, sneaking out of Grote Geerts through the back door while the Nazis were breaking down the front, Arjan thought. Until I tripped over that stupid dog’s leash as it was relieving itself against a tree stump at the end of the alleyway. If only I’d left a few seconds sooner – or that little bitch had urinated a block earlier – how different my life would be, he howled silently, forcing himself to relive the events of the previous night.
He looked to the mantelpiece and gazed lovingly at the largest photograph he had of Gijs, already gone a month. How he missed his lover’s perfect chin, gentle manners, soft caresses and listening ear. They had been together a decade and without him Arjan felt helpless and off-kilter.
If only their real friends – those few he and Gijs could be their true selves with, who knew about and accepted their relationship – were still in Amsterdam, he never would have ended up in this predicament. Those trusted few had already left the city, fleeing when the Nazis began raiding gay bars and arresting anyone who was on the Amsterdam police books as a ‘known homosexual’. Especially once it became clear that even the rumor someone was gay was enough reason for the Gestapo to come knocking on their door.
He and Gijs had kept their relationship secret since their courtship began eleven years ago, knowing most of Dutch society didn’t approve and would avoid his gallery if they were open about it. Gijs only moved in to his mansion after Arjan had gone through the charade of advertising for, and then interviewing several potential live-in manservants, before officially offering his boyfriend the position.
“Oh Gijs,” Arjan cried, no longer able to look the framed photograph in the eye, “if only you were still here, I never would have been so foolish. I just wanted to talk to someone without having to worry if every gesture or choice of words gave my sexual preference away.”
Arjan sunk deeper into the wingback chair and stared at the hearth, his only reliable source of heating. The fire was already in need of more fuel. He’d soon have to start burning the old frames and broken furniture stored up in his attic. Hopefully it would be enough to get him through this savagely cold winter, true firewood was almost impossible to come by these days. Most of the trees lining the city’s canals and parks had been chopped down branch by branch before the snow began. He briefly contemplated what he should throw on the fire first, before giving up and pouring himself another shot. As the booze rolled down his throat, he closed his eyes and began to speak aloud. Sitting like this, it felt as if he was telling Gijs about his day, the day the blackmail began.
“With trepidation I unlocked the galle
ry door this morning, still unsure if it was better to flee or act normally. Of course I couldn’t leave all the artwork behind; too many people were relying on me to be cautious and survive the war. What other choice did I have than to open up shop? The minutes dragged into hours, but no one came crashing through my windowsill. No police sirens disturbed the drone of the shoppers shuffling up and down my street. Only as I turned the sign from ‘open’ to ‘closed’, did I notice a man across the street, watching me. A fedora and scarf covered up most of his face, but that hawk nose was unmistakable.”
“Gijs, I knew in an instant it was the man with the dog. I’ve seen him in the newspapers, photographed while speaking at those horrid National-Socialist rallies held throughout the city. He’d even been inside my shop a few months earlier, insulting me with demands he be given an exorbitant discount on a Van Rusydael because he was a high-ranking SS Officer within Hitler’s Ministry of Culture – Colonel Oswald Drechsler.”
TWENTY-FOUR
“Ms. O’Neil asked to be kept up-to-date on the research we are doing into her claim,” Bernice Dijkstra said, as a way of explaining to Zelda why her progress report was being witnessed by Karen and her legal team of one. “And I promised the director she would be, at least for the time being,” the project manager added gruffly, glaring at the claimant as she spoke. New York’s richest widow smiled sweetly back.
Zelda was sure Ms. O’Neil hadn’t asked but demanded to be included in this meeting. Why hadn’t Bernice warned her first? She was nervous enough about presenting her more controversial findings to her and Huub, let alone Karen and her nitpicky lawyer. Her original plan was to tell them about Arjan van Heemsvliet being gay first, but she hesitated in light of these unexpected guests. Besides, her initial excitement was tempered by the fact she’d grossly overstepped her bounds. By going to Gerard’s house and talking with him, she acted in direct subordination of the curator’s specific orders. She only hoped Bernice would understand that she did it for the museum, to save them time and possibly their honor, no matter what Huub’s – or Karen’s – reaction might be.
Before she could begin, Bernice’s secretary walked into the conference room and handed her boss a large stack of photocopies.
“Thank you, Susan.” Always the consummate project manager, Bernice immediately handed Huub, Karen and Konrad Heider a thick packet of paper.
“Here are copies of all the documents Zelda has found this week. Before we read through them, perhaps she could share with us some of the highlights of her research?” She nodded in her intern’s direction, encouraging her to speak.
Zelda cleared her throat, stalling for time. She could choose to say nothing about Arjan’s personal record card or her visit to Gerard’s house, and let everyone read through the photocopies and summarizing report she’d quickly typed up this morning. However, she was dying to see how Karen reacted when she told them that Arjan van Heemsvliet had not married her grandmother and was probably homosexual.
Deciding to keep her surprises for the end, Zelda began with her search through the national newspaper archives, recounting what she had found out about the growing success of Galerie Van Heemsvliet, the many charities Arjan supported and the gala events he attended.
“Though I could not find any concrete information about the types of buyers and sellers he worked with before or during the war in Amsterdam’s city archives, the archivist did confirm that Arjan van Heemsvliet is not considered a war profiteer, meaning there has been no documentation found which proves he traded or sold illegally acquired artwork to the Nazis or their sympathizers. They have a whole list of art dealers who were known profiteers; it’s kind of scary how many did try and –”
“I knew it,” Karen O’Neil squealed with glee. “My grandfather was a respectable, successful art dealer.”
“The archivist did add that since Arjan van Heemsvliet was listed as missing in 1942, he and his business practices have never been fully investigated, as many of his colleagues’ were. So his name not being on the city’s list of known profiteers does not necessarily mean he didn’t buy from, or sell artwork to, the Nazis,” Zelda swiftly added.
Karen’s eyes narrowed as she pursed her lips. Before she could retort, Bernice asked brusquely, “And further, Zelda? Did you find any possible connection between Arjan van Heemsvliet and Philip Verbeet?”
“No, unfortunately not. None of their business records have been donated to any Dutch archives – ”
“That’s because whatever documents my grandmother didn’t take with her were most certainly stolen by the SS, along with all of my grandfather’s artwork when they looted his gallery,” Karen butted in.
“So no, I couldn’t find anything linking them privately or professionally. Maybe when Rita finds her father’s letters – ”
“Yes, yes, let’s see if she can even find them first before we speculate further. Anything else?” Bernice cut in abruptly. She was acting as if she wanted to adjourn the meeting already.
Zelda took a deep breath, it was now or never. They’d eventually find out what she wanted to tell them anyway, after they’d read through the documents she’d provided Bernice with.
“The archivist in the Amsterdam city archives was quite helpful, as you said he would be. He found a few interesting records in other provincial and national archives, ones you didn’t specifically ask for but are related to your keywords. I thought they might be relevant to this investigation so I printed off copies of them as well.” Zelda tried to make it seem as if these documents were the results of the archivist’s initiative and not her own, hoping to justify her disobedience.
Huub looked up at her quizzically. “And what exactly did this archivist find?”
“Well, for starters, he found Arjan van Heemsvliet’s death certificate,” Zelda’s eyes automatically flickered over to Karen, still more interested in her mauve nail polish than what she was saying. Konrad Heider, however, did sit up a bit straighter in his chair.
“According to the official death certificate, Arjan was reported as missing on August 1, 1942, but only declared legally deceased in October of 1945 at the request of his father, the Reverend Johannes van Heemsvliet.”
“Not by his wife?” Bernice asked, surprise in her voice.
“No, it was definitely his father,” Zelda said, while rummaging through the photocopies before her. She stopped half way through the pile. “It’s this one, see the signature?”
“My grandmother was fleeing for her life! She’d have had no time for paperwork. Besides, it was the Dutch police who told her Arjan was killed in a bombing raid and his gallery had been plundered by the Nazis.”
“Until Arjan had been officially declared deceased, she would not have had the right to take care of his business affairs,” Bernice commented, clearly baffled by Zelda’s findings and Karen’s reaction.
“But why would she want to? She married Robert Kershaw a few months after landing in America. He was a good friend of her father’s and one of the richest men in New York City, why would she have wanted to bother with an art gallery in Amsterdam? Especially as she’d told no one that Arjan van Heemsvliet was my mother’s biological father. Kershaw couldn’t have children. He raised my mother Isabelle as his own flesh and blood. I told you already, I didn’t even know Arjan van Heemsvliet existed until a few months ago. If my grandmother had taken over his gallery after the war I would have surely heard about him long before that.”
“But she took his business papers with her,” Bernice hounded.
“She took a lot of paperwork with her when she fled Amsterdam. You’ve seen some of it – that which is relevant to our claim,” Karen retorted, clearly bored with this line of questioning. “The rest have nothing to do with this painting.”
“Wait a moment, there’s no cause of death listed on this certificate,” Huub said, tapping his pen against one of the documents now spread out before him on the conference room table.
“That’s right,” Zelda replied, watc
hing Karen as she spoke. “According to the city’s archives, no bombing raids took place in 1942, at least not in Amsterdam or the direct vicinity.”
“I never said he was killed in Amsterdam. All my mother said was ‘a bombing raid’ – it could have been anywhere in the Netherlands. She was dying when she told me, I didn’t really have the opportunity to ask her lots of questions. My grandfather was an art dealer, I’m sure he would have traveled all over the country to meet potential buyers and sellers,” Karen protested.
“What else have you found out, Zelda?” Bernice asked, while intently studying the New Yorker.
“More like what I couldn’t find. There’s no record of Arjan van Heemsvliet being married or having fathered a child, not in Amsterdam’s city archives or any other Dutch archive for that matter.”
“We tried to obtain notarized copies of these documents before coming to meet with you,” Konrad Heider said, smoothly jumping into the conversation. “Their marriage and the birth of their daughter, Isabelle, took place in Alphen aan den Rijn, at Annette Schuppe’s family home. Unfortunately, their city’s archives burned down in 1980, long before digitalizing archival records was in fashion.” Turning to Zelda he added, “You should have asked us first, it would have saved you some time.”
“It was no trouble,” she smiled back serenely.
“And no, there were no copies of either document in amongst my grandmother’s paperwork,” Karen said.
The project manager frowned. “That is troubling. It would have been the quickest way of verifying your parentage. The Restitution Committee will certainly require that,” she said, locking eyes with Huub, daring him to contradict her. “Perhaps Arjan van Heemsvliet’s name is listed on your mother’s application for her American passport? Otherwise family photographs, personal letters, anything that clearly connects your grandmother and mother to him will be necessary. Or we can try DNA testing.”
The Lover's Portrait Page 15