“Welcome home to Cyprus, Tasoula,” says the bishop to me.
“Thank you,” I say.
“You don’t remember me, do you? I am Bishop Vasilios. The archbishop selected me to meet you here today because he thought it would make you comfortable to see a familiar face.”
“My apologies. I have been living abroad since the invasion.”
“I am from Mandres,” he says.
“Mandres?” I ask.
“I am the son of Karayiannis.”
I am stunned. The bishop standing before me is actually the young cousin with whom we would stop and visit at the Saint Barnabas Monastery on our way to the village of Mandres.
“I was a child when we saw each other last.”
I take his hand to express the joy I feel in seeing him and knowing that he survived the war. My eyes, well up with tears. I see the recognition in the bishop’s eyes as well and, for a moment, the two of us see each other through the eyes of the youngsters we once were, remembering the times before the war when Cyprus was a paradise.
“The archbishop wanted this moment to be special for you,” he says.
The Monastery of Saint Barnabas is where I visited Bishop Vasilios, when he was a young monk. I remember receiving communion on Holy Thursday. I recall him giving us bottles of holy water along with some to bring to his mother in Mandres. It was the last time I saw Vasilios and Mandres before the invasion.
Arriving on this solemn anniversary, the day marking the second invasion of Cyprus, is a time of sadness and reflection. Surprising me with Bishop Vasilios as our escort says so much about the archbishop’s sensitive and thoughtful nature. The gesture takes my mind off what I lost in Cyprus and emphasizes the treasures that remain.
Hundreds of people have gathered outside the archbishop’s palace waiting to welcome the icon. The church bells ring as we approach the entrance of Saint Paul’s chapel by car. The archbishop waits to welcome us. As we step out of the car, two clerics take the icon and begin to chant. Hundreds of people join in the chanting; others drop to their knees as the icon passes them. People gently kiss it while making the sign of the cross. The intensity of the moment is reflected in their faces. It is as if Jesus himself had risen from the dead before them. We walk into the chapel of Saint John where the icon has been strategically placed so that the crowd of people can come in one door and leave through the other. People place flowers and basil on the icon. Turning to look at Jan Fred van Wijnen, I notice that both he and his wife are visibly moved. Inside the chapel Jan Fred gets a glimpse of how a non-looted interior of a house of worship normally looks.
Seeing the Cypriot women, children, and men filled with hope on the anniversary of the second invasion makes it all worthwhile. This is the first icon I’ve personally taken home to Cyprus.
“Now you understand why I do it, Michael.”
My husband smiles and places his arm around my shoulder, his way of letting me know that he agrees. What is most important now is that Jan Fred understands how much these icons matter to my people. Turning to the journalist, I say, “I’m counting on you, to share this experience with the world so they understand the impact that losing one’s cultural heritage has on people.”
Cyprus and the repatriation efforts of the Church have become big news in the Netherlands thanks to Jan Fred. My work on the Lans case and on the recovery of the icon of archangel Michael draws dozens of interview requests from media outlets from around the world. The favorable publicity places the issue of art trafficking and the importance of protecting Cypriot cultural heritage center stage. I forward copies of these articles from around the world to the MFA, in the hope that they will be pleased to see how the icons have become ambassadors for Cyprus. The archbishop and Polak advise me what to say and not say when discussing open cases. Having access to someone of Polak’s legal caliber is a godsend. He coaches me on the legal side of repatriation, which enables me to advocate the issues to the politicians and media with confidence and ease.
On August 4, Polak forwards correspondence from the attorney representing the Lans couple. I can feel the blood drain from my face as I read that the four apostle icons that we just confiscated from the Lanses had been exhibited from December 1976 to January 1977 at the Museum Prinsenhof in Delft. The exhibit was organized by none other than Michel Van Rijn and Edouard Dergazarian.16
Here we go again! I am drawn into another one of Van Rijn’s mind games, there is always an ulterior motive with him. First, he took advantage of the doctor, taking money by using his association with the Cypriot government to scare the family. Now he has withheld valuable information regarding his involvement in the Lans case and his partnership with Dergazarian.
Every move that Van Rijn makes must be scrutinized. There is too much at stake to make the slightest error.
According to Polak, the challenges we face in the Lans civil case have to do with the twenty-year statute of limitations. Since the icons were confiscated in 1995 and twenty-one years have passed since the 1974 invasion, we are at a critical point in determining if the statute of limitations is applicable. The burden of proof is on the Church, which must demonstrate that the Lanses purchased the icons less than twenty years ago and that they purchased them suspecting that they were stolen, in order to prove bad faith.
Polak brings up the possibility of invoking “The Convention for the Protection of Cultural Property in the Event of Armed Conflict” in order to spare the Church having to go through the uncertainty of a civil case. The Hague Convention, as it is known, was adopted in 1954 in response to the enormous destruction of cultural heritage that occurred during the Second World War. It is the first international treaty to attempt to secure worldwide cooperation for the protection of cultural heritage in the case of armed conflict and has been ratified by 127 countries. This international treaty and its protocols have never before been invoked.
“In times of war,” Polak says, “there is an obligation to uphold the protection of cultural heritage, and Turkey, Cyprus, and Holland are all required to do so because they are parties to the treaty and all three have ratified it. Holland has an obligation to take the icons from the Lanses and return them to Cyprus, and the Lanses have the right to request compensation from Turkey for not protecting the artifacts during the invasion and occupation of Cyprus, but only if they acted in good faith when acquiring them.”
“I just faxed you the statement of reply that I received from Mr. Lans. I think we should discuss it.”
Grabbing the fax, I quickly read through the statement and find myself feeling ill.
“I don’t believe this.”
“Which point?” he asks.
“All of it! Nonsense! Paragraph B says, ‘The icons were purchased from a Greek art dealer, according to Mr. Lans,’” I say.
“. . . who shall remain nameless,” adds Polak.
Van Rijn knows every move these dealers make because he is either actively a part of the deal or he is watching it happen from a front-row seat. As I read through the reply, the knot in my stomach gets tighter and tighter.
“Look at Paragraph C. They sent the icons out for repair, which confirms Papageorgiou’s statement that the icons were in need of repair due to the regular wear and tear of people constantly touching and kissing them,” I say.
“Let’s meet and discuss how to respond,” says Polak.
Fifteen
NO JUSTICE
1996
Giving up is not part of my DNA. If I can’t change the circumstances along the way, I change the way I view them.
Recovery efforts place me deeper inside a web of deceit woven by art traffickers to protect their escalating multibillion-dollar underworld. My financial resources are being stretched as more and more of my energy is drained by my pursuit to unravel this complex network of thieves, and yet my determination to disempower them escalates.
When Polak informs me that we have an extension until March to file a statement of reply in the Lans case, I am reliev
ed.1 There is much to prepare for, and the extra time is a lifesaver, as this trial is coming at a juncture when every other facet of my life is demanding my full attention.
Michael wants to have another child, but my sights are firmly set on exposing the art traffickers and tracking down the whereabouts of the Saint Andreas mosaic of Kanakaria, one of the oldest and most treasured artifacts of the Orthodox people. It has survived the wrath of earthquakes and the brutality of conquerors for centuries, only to be cut out of the sacred walls of an ancient church by the hands of those who worship greed instead of God.
My attempt to be all things to all people causes great anxiety for the ones I love. Michael prepares to leave for the airport on a planned business trip and unleashes some of his frustration.
“We made a deal; one of us will always be with the children when the other is out of town,” Michael says in a tone that is a mixture of anger and hurt.
“I’m sorry, love. I did try to change the date. It’s one day. I must brief the archbishop on the Lans case. I’ve taken care of every detail and the nannies are here. There is nothing for you to do.” He is not impressed. His tall frame bends in half to kiss Andreas good-bye, who is sitting at the breakfast nook.
“No kiss for me?” I ask.
“Stop taking us for granted,” he replies.
The kitchen door swings shut behind Michael as he leaves. I continue to feel the heat of his words throughout the morning as I prepare the nanny to take over the care of the children during my upcoming absence. This is no way to begin the new year.
Octagon is in full swing when I arrive, which gives me a false sense of security that the company is running smoothly. Sometimes we see what we want to see in life, and right now I need to see that things are going well, because I have minimal time to allocate to it. Reaching for my ringing phone, I wonder where my assistant is.
“Happy New Year, Tazulaah,” the voice of Van Rijn says cheerily. “Are you having a good new year so far?” he asks in a sleepy voice.
“It sounds as if the celebration may continue for you,” I say.
“Have breakfast with me,” says Van Rijn.
“Those of us who work for a living actually have a schedule to keep. So, unless there is something important, I really can’t spare the time,” I say.
“Is recovering the Royal Doors a good enough reason? You know, the ones that once hung in Roozemond’s gallery window.”
“Don’t play games, Van Rijn.”
“I’m trying to help you,” he says.
“Come to my office.”
Van Rijn appears shortly thereafter, dressed in a long navy blue coat with the collar turned up and wearing a brown felt fedora.
“Do you have any idea how full my day is?” I say to him.
“You should never be too busy for the icons,” he says.
Holding a bit of anger from my morning fallout with my husband, I take my frustration out on Van Rijn, whom I believe is the cause of my issues to begin with.
“You and your games. Where is the Andreas mosaic you promised me? Now you want to tease me with the Royal Doors. You’re all talk and no action.”
“This is how you treat me? What other dealer gives you tips and helps you recover stolen artifacts?” he says with annoyance.
“What are you angling for, Van Rijn?”
“I can bring you the Royal Doors, but there are conditions.”
“Of course. What is it this time?”
“I have to negotiate on your behalf. You need to get me a power of attorney on consulate stationery, and I’ll deliver the doors within the week.”
“Never,” I say. “Tell me where they are and I’ll move in with the police or the embassy.”
“They’re my clients. I want to keep them that way. If you move in with your big boots and stomp around like you usually do, you will make me look bad.”
“This is going nowhere,” I say, ready to throw him out.
“Tazulaah, these are nothing terms! You give me a hard time for the sake of it.”
“I’m not going to lie about who you are, and secondly, the Church or government will never approve of you acting on their behalf.”
“I am acting on your behalf!”
“Van Rijn, if you are serious, let’s get on with it; otherwise go. I have had enough of you and your deals for one day. Where are they?” I ask him again.
He leans back in the chair and lights one of his Gauloise cigarettes.
“There will be travel involved. I expect the Church to pay my expenses.”
“Location, Van Rijn!” I say, really annoyed now.
“Japan,” he says, which spurs my curiosity.
“A collector?” I ask.
“Institution,” he says “That’s all for now!”
“Tokyo?”
He puts out his cigarette and faces me from across the table.
“When will you start believing that I am your man?” he says.
“When will you give me information without demanding something in return? Is Roozemond involved?”
“It’s more complicated than that. I want answers or I don’t continue.”
Raising my voice, I say, “Damn it, Van Rijn, give me the whole story for once. I’m searching for the contents of five hundred looted churches, and you give me a crumb of information at a time.”
“Calm down. You know about Dikmen and how the artifacts traveled out of Cyprus into Turkey and then to Europe and America. I know what you want: you want to see me behind bars, and I’m the one dealer who’s trying to help you!”
“Roozemond?” I say.
“If you give me power of attorney, I’ll get the doors. Roozemond sold them to the Japanese. That’s my deal.”
I shake my head back and forth.
“Not interested, then,” I say.
Van Rijn slips a piece of paper across the table. It’s a photograph of the Royal Doors.
“You’re making a mistake, Tazulaah. I’ll have my lawyer inform you of my whereabouts in case you change your mind.”
“I don’t know why I waste my time with you,” I say.
“I don’t know why I put up with your insults. You should be much nicer to me if you ever want to see your beloved Saint Andreas again,” he says before he and his damaged ego disappear out of my office.
The rest of my day is filled with issuing passports and meeting with the new manager of Octagon. Michael’s words hang over my day like a cloud that stands in the way of the sun shining through. After faxing the photograph of the Royal Doors to Mr. Papageorgiou for verification, I surprise my son, Andreas, by picking him up after school.
“Mommy!”
“You are happy to see me, aren’t you, my precious?” I say.
“Can we go for Nu niet please?” Nu niet is the Dutch word for “not now,” which is what the nanny tells Andreas, every time he points to the cupboard in the house where the sweets are stored.
“Of course, but first I must smother you with kisses, as I have missed you terribly today,” I say to my young giggling boy.
We arrive at a small café located not far from our home. The waiter delivers a hot chocolate with a towering scoop of whipped cream along with a slice of apple pie. Since the waiter knows us, he also brings a bowl of Andreas’s favorite sweets. We spend time talking about football, his toy cars, and his friends at school. My little man is growing up fast. He pushes the dish of sweet delights across the table to offer me a taste.
“Mommy, why is Sophia not normal like my friends’ sisters?”
Andreas will turn six in a few months, but he is a child with an old soul.
“Sophia is a special care baby, Andreas. You’re right to notice that she is different.” His expression reveals the fact that he has more to say but is not sure whether to say it.
“My friends make fun of her.”
“Then they are not good friends,” I say. “It’s not nice to laugh at people who are different. Sophia is a girl with special needs. Why does
that bother you?”
“They make fun of me because she is my sister. Will she have to come to my birthday party this year?”
Knowing how loving and sweet Andreas is with Sophia, I am surprised by his question, but then, looking at him, I realize he is just a child, and his questions are normal.
“How would it be if you have two parties: one with your friends and then we have a separate party with Sophia and our family?”
“Deal,” he says and puts his hand up to slap me five.
I think about how lonely it must be for him not to be able to bond with his sister in the way that his friends do with their siblings. I feel so guilty at letting down Michael and Andreas. Andreas reaches for the hot chocolate, taking a big spoonful of whipped cream in his mouth.
“Ah, you have a big smile now. Any other worries I can take away?”
“Mommy, you’re the best,” he says.
“There is a solution to every problem, Andreas. Remember that,” I say as I watch him ponder the advice he’s just been given. Because he is such a sweet child, I take for granted how little he asks of me. That goes for Michael as well. I feel the struggle of being pulled in multiple directions. The guilt of spending less time with my family weighs heavily on me, but living a life that is fully expressed is a part of who I am. If I stop, I will be depriving my family in another way.
A light rainy mist is falling as the airplane touches down at Larnaca Airport. More than a thousand protesters are expected to demonstrate in Nicosia, demanding the enforcement of a 1929 law in Cyprus criminalizing homosexuality.
I am ushered into the archbishop’s quarters, where I find him signing documents. The icon of Jesus Christ whose eyes have been scratched out stationed behind his desk is still mesmerizing.
“Your Beatitude, why do you choose to have the defaced icon in your office?”
“It empowers me,” he says as he places a document in his out box and stands to greet me formally. “When you drive here, you see the Turkish flag the army painted into the Kyrenia mountainside after the invasion. It forces us to confront our occupation from every vantage point on the island—a thorn in the side of every Greek Cypriot.”
The Icon Hunter Page 20