“Around a million apiece. It will have to wait until I return to Holland.”
There is something about Van Rijn’s newly cooperative attitude that arouses my suspicions. I inform the archbishop of our meeting, but I secretly feel that Van Rijn is up to something and that he likely will not sign the agreement.8 Generosity of spirit is not a natural quality to him. He always has an ulterior motive, and what he is after has yet to present itself.
Reading the statement draft prepared by Kyprianou, I write to Kyprianou fearing that the document’s legal jargon may prevent Van Rijn from signing. I know Van Rijn and what triggers him.9 I suggest that Kyprianou give Van Rijn an amended statement and a guarantee that he will not be prosecuted in writing, to eliminate his fears.10, 11
In mid-September, I send a letter to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs to inform them about my meeting with the archbishop.12 I summarize what we discussed and inform them that Mr. Kyprianou requests that I deal directly with him and the archbishop due to the sensitivity of the information being gathered and investigated.
By the end of October, I receive Toorenaar’s findings regarding the artifacts held at Schiphol airport.13 I cannot trust what Van Rijn says. There is always some truth to his story, but the picture he paints is highly exaggerated, and one must always decipher the facts from the fiction. Van Rijn claimed to have sold fake Cypriot icons to the Japanese for millions but did not. And what he had to gain out of making such a claim to me of all people is a mystery.
The real story is that Van Rijn asked Stoop several years ago to lend him 90,000 DFL ($52,000) so that he could clear a debt that he had with customs regarding the storage of the artifacts. Mr. Stoop did not grant him a loan. Customs then brought the icons to the Gerlach firm’s warehouse at Schiphol. Van Rijn could not meet his customs obligations in addition to other debts he had accrued with the state, so the artifacts were auctioned off by the tax service for a mere 13,000 DFL ($7500). Van Rijn is cunning, and I realize that I can never take his word at face value.
The Cyprus newspaper shows a photograph of the archbishop, Kyprianou, and Yannis Petsopoulos, who deliver the Saint John the Baptist icon to the Church of Cyprus to great fanfare.
I feel an enormous sense of accomplishment that the artifact is back in its rightful home and take it as a positive sign that perhaps the tide of action (or inaction, as the case may be) has finally turned in our favor.
Nevertheless, there is no denying the fact that Van Rijn still withholds the whereabouts of the Saint Andreas mosaic as well as other Cypriot treasures from me, and and he continues to dangle this knowledge of their whereabouts in front of me. The fact that he can’t buy me makes him want to conquer me. The last few years have helped to develop my knowledge base about how to maneuver through the art trafficking world.
Eight weeks after our meeting on October 12, the archbishop of Cyprus nominates Kyprianou, Papageorgiou, and me to become members of a committee responsible for dealing with all stolen artifacts from Cyprus.14
Fourteen
ON MY OWN
1993–1995
Van Rijn’s book makes a splash in Holland when it is released in 1993. There is no way of knowing what is fact and what is fiction, but as I read the book, I still file names and bits of information away, details that may help me to connect with other pieces of information that Van Rijn has given me throughout the years. His views of Dikmen, Roozemond, and Petsopoulos are revealed in his book for the world to see. He even mentions me in his book: “Tasoula Georgiou . . . is a passionate young woman, utterly devoted to the cause of the suffering people of her country and to the fight for saving their cultural heritage. What she brought home to me was not the ordeal of a nation, but the agony of flesh and blood people.”
Is Van Rijn in the process of transformation, or is his aim to flatter and then disarm me, to exploit the Church and the government of Cyprus? If he wants to make amends for trafficking my country’s religious and historical symbols, he will have to make a sacrifice to prove his credibility. As a sign that I can trust him, I want him to tell me the whereabouts of at least one artifact without asking for compensation.
I do believe that he has heard enough to come to some understanding about the nonmonetary value that these artifacts hold for people. Whether it is enough to change his ways is questionable. His knowledge of the beauty and magnificence of the art, how it is made, and what historical significance it holds, is impressive.
Trading in illicit artifacts, on the other hand, places the identity of the Cypriot people up for sale. The impact is devastating, especially because loopholes in the law make it almost impossible to recover these looted pieces of our cultural heritage. I cannot return home to Famagusta, now a “ghost city” wrapped in barbed wire and frozen in time since 1974 because it is still under Turkish military control. I identify with each looted artifact as a kindred refugee, and every piece that I can return to Cyprus is a win against the Turkish government.
Approaching Leiden University Medical Center is always a trying experience since my daughter’s birth. Today, Sophia’s scheduled checkup includes a brain scan. Ines, her pediatrician, greets us wearing a smile of uncertainty.
“During the final weeks that a fetus is in the womb, the brain is building connections at an accelerated rate. Sophia was in the neonatal care unit during this critical period when the brain growth took place. I see neurodevelopmental disability and signs of her cognitive functions being affected.”
“Will she be able to walk and talk?” asks Michael.
“Possibly, possibly not. It’s too early to say at this point. There are issues with muscle control. Her IQ is affected. It is likely she will be dependent on caregivers.”
With each piece of information I hold my breath just a little bit more. Sophia is undersized for her age, and a part of me still looks at her development in relation to her size, supporting my continued denial.
“I hesitate to say or predict more, as every child is different. I think we should continue to observe Sophia closely and take it a day at a time,” says Ines.
My Sophia’s head tilts to one side, and it pains me to see her struggle to hold it up. Her left hand moves differently than her right, and these symptoms all make sense now that I have been given this information.
“Hire a physiotherapist to come to your home. I will give you recommendations,” she says.
Because premature babies lack the development skills to hold their limbs close to their bodies as full-term babies do, the physiotherapist uses positioning tools to help guide Sophia’s muscles. I watch the physiotherapist work with Sophia so that I may exercise her when he is gone. In my mind, the more work I do, the more she may progress. Michael will often appear in her room while I’m exercising Sophia. He will place his hand on the small of my back and speak to me tenderly.
“You must not be too hard on yourself, my darling, if things don’t change for Sophia.”
I don’t answer him. Surrendering is not an option for me. It must be even harder for Michael to deal with what we are going through because he carries the weight of knowing that Sophia will never be a normal child, while I still have my hopes, however thin. His concern escalates as he watches me work tirelessly to change things.
As a mother, I cannot give up the hopes and dreams I have for Sophia, the only girl in my extended family. Something inside me persists in finding the best experts to help her learn how to walk, talk, and maximize the abilities she does have. I spend an inordinate amount of time and energy researching practitioners with advanced techniques and teachers who have a track record of making strides with children living with mental disabilities. I search for the right schools, leaving no stone unturned.
Michael and I arrive in Scotland to spend the Christmas 1994 holiday with his twin brother Andrew and his family. Rachel, our niece, and Sophia were born just days apart from each other. Rachel is a typical, normal child, and as I watch her and Sophia being posed for a photograph under the Christmas tree, I
am hit by the differences between the two girls. Rachel is playing with her Christmas toys, understanding that what she holds in her hand is a doll. Sophia is fascinated by the wrapping paper and is oblivious to everything around her. The inequality is striking, forcing me to recognize the truth at last. Instead of running from my feelings, I finally sit with the pain and the sensations of loss and disappointment.
As the festive Christmas lights blink on and off in the background, I accept that I will never be able to walk my Sophia down the aisle or experience any of the treasured moments mothers dream about having with their daughters. I refuse to turn away or divert my attention until the depth of my sadness chokes me. Just when I can’t bear a moment more, I surrender.
I let go of holding myself responsible for Anastasia’s death and for Sophia’s disabilities and let the river of tears I finally shed cleanse me. Sophia is perfect just as she is; I am the one who must change and acknowledge that.
Looking around, I see everyone else is engaged and enjoying the holiday, unaware of the major shakeup that is happening within me. I leave the room to compose myself. Michael follows me to hold me until there are no more tears to shed.
“I understand, Michael.”
“I knew you would come around, my darling. It just took some time, that’s all.”
From this day forward, I lower my expectations and my desire to control the unknown. Sophia may never walk, talk, or be independent. I will no longer see her as the cloud over our family’s sky. She is a star, just like Andreas, and as big of a blessing.
Sophia became my greatest teacher about acceptance, which came in the guise of an unwrapped present under the tree this Christmas.
My reputation in business and as honorary consul to Cyprus in the Netherlands is growing, putting my company in a league of its own. Most of the diplomats coming to The Hague refer their partners and children to Octagon in search of employment.
My employees all have security clearance, and because of our location, Octagon is able to secure high-profile clients seeking to open up offices in the International City of Peace and Justice. Any European organization that requires security and confidentiality on their IT systems comes to me. All of our business is derived from reviews and referrals. Octagon secures business with NATO, the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia, as well as many other prestigious institutions and firms. This gives me access to lawyers, judges, international law enforcement professionals, who in turn become resources I can turn to as my search for the icons and mosaics takes me across three continents.
These individuals become my friends and take an active interest in my mission, giving me unlimited access to vital resources and reinforcing to me that I am fulfilling what destiny has planned. Everyone who comes into my life seems to serve some kind of purpose in helping me repatriate the artifacts.
In the remote mountainous region of northern Cyprus, some time after the invasion in 1974, the sixteenth-century icons of the apostles Peter, Paul, John, and Mark were looted from a wooden iconostasis in the monastery of Antiphonitis. Set atop a rugged mountainside, the church looks as if God himself reached down from heaven to place it. The original church was built in the village of Kalograia in the seventh century, surrounded by wild forest. It was rebuilt in the twelfth century in the Byzantine architectural style. Additional sections, more Gothic in design, were added in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries.
Some of the artwork that adorned the interior walls and ceilings was Byzantine in style, dating from the twelfth century. Unique fifteenth-century frescoes were also present, which made the monastery a perfect example of the varied cultural heritage of Orthodox Christianity that existed in Cyprus. The monastery was heavily looted, and sheep were kept in it once all the icons were pillaged. The iconostasis was destroyed and the frescoes stolen. There has been no information about the whereabouts of the icons until the summer of 1995.
The consul general of Greece, a lovely man and career diplomat, calls.
“My elderly Dutch neighbors own four icons, which they have attempted to sell to Christie’s. Christie’s informed them that the icons might be filched, and they ask me to check whether they are listed in Interpol’s database of stolen artworks. I write to my government in Greece and ask them to check with Interpol in Nicosia. The answer comes back that they are not listed. Can you help me?”
“Of course,” I say.
“Shall I arrange an appointment for you to meet with the Lans family at their home in Rotterdam?”1
“Saturday will work best.”
Michael joins me on my outing to meet the Lans couple, as it is the weekend and we are looking forward to spending leisure time together following the appointment. When we enter the Lanses’ home, the first thing we notice is that the house is heavily decorated with expensive antiques. The Lanses, in their late sixties, appear to be serious collectors.
“The china is spectacular,” says Michael, admiring a bowl in a glass-fronted cabinet. Mrs. Lans, a tall, stocky woman, opens the cabinet to give Michael a closer look.
“Beautiful. It’s almost transparent,” I say.
We are invited to take a seat on the sofa in the living room. The Lanses sit directly across from us in two chairs.
“Where are the icons?” I ask, curious that they are not on display with the rest of their collection.
Mrs. Lans hands us four photographs of the icons.
“I keep them in a bank vault. The Cypriot embassy told our neighbor that they are not on the Interpol list. I want to know if they are stolen or not,” she says. Mr. Lans remains silent and appears to be nervous.
“When did you buy them? Before or after the war?” I ask.
Mrs. Lans responds, “It was in early 1971.”
“From whom did you buy them?”
“An Armenian dealer, who was referred by a friend.”
“May I ask who?”
“I’m not willing to comment on that just yet,” she says.
“If you purchased them before the war in 1974, they are most likely fakes,” I say. “These types of icons, over two feet high and wide, originate from the sacred iconostasis and would never be for sale. If they are original, it is almost certain that they are looted from a church, but that is something only an expert can confirm.” Mr. Lans is rubbing his hands nervously. Whether they are fakes or stolen, neither possibility is pleasant for the Lanses to hear.
“May I take these photographs?” I ask.
Mrs. Lans nods in agreement.
“If the icons were looted, the Church will expect you to return them,” I say.
“I paid two hundred thousand Dutch guilders [roughly $125,000] for these icons, and I will not give them back without recompense,” says Mrs. Lans.
“What if the Church will not agree to reimburse you?” I ask.
“Then I will hide them and the Church will never see them again!”
I compose myself before leaving.
“How sure are you that you purchased them in 1971?”
Mrs. Lans says, “Absolutely sure.” Mr. Lans’s face turns red as he nods in agreement.
“Give me a few days to check into this,” I say.
Standing to shake their hands, I convey as much warmth as I possibly can to put them at ease. It is clear to me that the Lanses are collectors and educated and most likely familiar with the laws governing stolen works of art, which makes me question whether they are trying to mislead me by giving me the year of 1971, because the twenty-year statute of limitations under Dutch law becomes applicable.
Once outside, I ask Michael what he thinks.
“It’s difficult to say,” he replies.
Arriving home, I immediately send Mr. and Mrs. Lans a letter documenting my visit with them and request permission to bring an expert to their home to authenticate the icons.2, 3 I then fax Mr. Papageorgiou, the Byzantinologist, the photographs for authentication to schedule an appointment.
Mr. Papageorgiou sounds more jovial than
usual when he calls.
“I can’t be sure until I see them, of course, but I believe they could be from the church of Antiphonitis, which you know is one of the most historically significant monasteries in Cyprus.”
“I remember visiting it as a child,” I say. “The setting of the church in the mountainside was magical.”
“Yes, I agree,” he says. “Here is the irony. In June 1974, just weeks prior to the war, I visited the church and actually,” he says, laughing, “I marked the icons with cotton bits as I saw areas that needed repair. What you have in Rotterdam could be quite rare.”
“Mr. Papageorgiou, I’m no expert. How can I tell if these are the real icons?” I ask, not forgetting the other possibility—that they are forgeries.
“Look at the backs of the icons. It is extremely rare to find signatures. The authentic icons of Antiphonitis were, unusually, signed by the artist,” he says.
“Mr. Papageorgiou, We have one chance with these people, and if the icons are original, then I will have to have them confiscated. When can you come to the Netherlands? Our timing is critical here.”
“I will have to secure approval from my ministry before I come over,” he says.
“While you are doing that, I’ll look for a Dutch lawyer to obtain a writ of confiscation in case we need it.”
Feeling that time is of the essence, I fly to Cyprus and meet with the minister of foreign affairs.
“If it is a civil case, you must go to the archbishop for approval. Let me call him and get you an appointment,” he says.
Led into the archbishop’s office at the palace, I am reminded of the powerful company I am keeping by the high-backed red velvet chairs that decorate his office.
“Mr. Papageorgiou should come to Holland to authenticate the icons, Your Beatitude. If he confirms that the four icons are from the church of Antiphonitis, we will have to confiscate them, as Mrs. Lans has threatened to hide the icons if she is not reimbursed. We will need a Dutch lawyer to confiscate them. Can you give a power of attorney to someone in the government to lead this should it turn into a legal case?” I ask.
The Icon Hunter Page 18