Bernice Dijkstra bowed her head silently. Zelda wasn’t sure if she was praying for Rita Brouwer’s father, or needed time to process everything the older woman had shared with the group. A few moments later she cleared her throat and began to speak, her tone formal once again. “Thank you so much for flying over to talk with us. You have provided important new information about this painting, a piece we knew very little about.”
She paused again, almost as if she was unsure whether to ask a question that was plainly still weighing on her mind. “Mrs. Brouwer, I realize you were a little girl when you last saw this painting, but do you remember seeing any identifying marks on the back or frame?” she asked.
Rita looked over at her quizzically and slowly shook her head. “I can’t say that I do.”
“Does ‘F. Halsst 14’ mean anything to you?” Bernice asked, writing the text onto her notepad before holding it up for Rita to see. “It is written on the exposed wooden bars the canvas is stretched over, in a black ink commonly used in fountain pens. It is the only legible marking on the painting or frame.”
Rita seemed momentarily puzzled before her face lit up in recognition. “Why sure, that was the address of our house, Frans Halsstraat 14. Wait, did you say it was written on the back?”
“The text is quite faint, but still visible with the naked eye.”
“That doesn’t make sense. Daddy used to glue a little label onto the back of each of his new paintings as soon as he got them. But it had the address of his frame shop on it, not our home, I’m sure of that,” Rita’s brow furrowed in concentration.
“Maybe the label fell off,” Huub offered.
“Then why did he write our home address on the back, instead of the shop’s?” Rita wondered out loud.
“How should I know? He was your father,” the curator retorted.
“Mrs. Brouwer,” Bernice broke in again, attempting to salvage the mood, “did you bring any official documents which state that your father was the last legal owner of this painting?”
“Excuse me?” Rita huffed, crossing her arms over her ample bosom, “my daddy was the only legal owner.”
“How can you be so certain he didn’t sell it? You said yourself no one in your family knows what happened to his collection after you left for Venlo,” Huub interjected.
“He never would have sold that painting, not in a million years. It was a gift from his future son-in-law and a portrait of his own daughter. And as far as who he might have left his collection with, well, I’m as baffled as you are. Where did you find Irises anyway? Whoever had it must have the rest of my daddy’s collection,” Rita stated, obviously fed up with the curator’s attitude.
“Irises and several other paintings were found in a house on the Vermeerstraat, close to the Museumplein, in which a high-ranking German officer resided for at least part of the war. Most Nazis didn’t see the capitulation coming and had to flee Holland quickly, often leaving their possessions – and those they’d stolen from Dutch citizens – behind. In the summer of 1945, homes and offices used by the German army were cleared out and any salvageable artwork, furniture or antiques found were turned over to the Dutch government so they could be returned to their rightful owners,” Bernice explained in a soothing voice. “But we don’t know how Irises ended up in that house. We were hoping you might know why it was found there.”
“I’m as confused as you are. Maybe that crazy Nazi general did find my daddy and steal his artwork. Lord, how I wish I knew his name. Iris is so forgetful these days, I doubt if she’ll remember it, but I’ll be sure and ask her,” Rita pulled a handkerchief out of her bag and blew her nose. “Were the rest of daddy’s paintings there, too?”
“If you can provide us with a list of his artwork, we can check our database for you.”
Rita rustled through her purse again, this time pulling out a thin manila folder. “In November 1945 we immigrated to Boston to live with my mama’s brother and his wife. Some friends of theirs told her about how people whose artwork had been stolen during the war could file a claim to try and get it back. She wrote a letter to the Dutch government right away, explaining what had happened. She also included a list of all the pieces she could remember. Daddy never wrote up an inventory list, so far as we know. When he got a new piece, he’d stick his label on it, find a place to hang it up and that was that.”
She opened up the folder and began shuffling through the documents inside, most yellowed with age. “I have the list mama sent to the Dutch government here somewhere…” she said, humming as she searched. “Aha.” She pulled out a single piece of paper and laid it on the table.
Huub grabbed it and scanned the list of missing paintings. “No, this is impossible. There should be some mention of these pieces in the artists’ biographies. I already told you I found no mention of missing Carel Willink paintings. Yet there are three titles on your list attributed to him that I have never heard of.” The curator was quiet for a beat before asking, “Do you have any of your father’s notarized titles of ownership? Or his business ledgers, which would prove he actually made frames for these artists?”
“I know he had been collecting art for as long as he had his frame shop, more than thirty years. So far as I know, Daddy didn’t have an official contract or title declaring him the owner, just the record of supplies he’d traded with the artist as proof of his purchase. I have no idea what happened to his business records after we left Amsterdam. Mama didn’t take any paperwork with us to the farm, only her photo albums and some clothes.”
“So, you have no proof that these pieces were really painted by the artists you say they were?” Huub said smugly, his unspoken accusation hanging heavily in the room.
Zelda was stunned to hear disbelief in the curator’s voice.
“Why would my mama lie?” Rita asked.
“My research staff will investigate this list further, after the summer vacation is over,” his body language and tone made it clear he didn’t believe a word the old lady had said.
“Well, what I’d like investigated is how Irises ended up in this Stolen Objects exhibition when the Dutch government told my mama back in 1946 that they didn’t have any of our paintings. It’s the tenth one on that list right there,” Rita shot back, though her trembling voice betrayed how shaken she was by Huub’s comments.
“What do you mean?” the project manager asked.
Rita reopened the folder and thumbed through the documents. “None of my daddy’s works got returned to the Dutch government after the war. At least that’s what I think this piece of paper says. Though I do admit, my Dutch is pretty rusty.”
“May I?” Bernice asked.
Rita slid the letter towards her.
After reading it through, the project manager nodded in confirmation. “Indeed. This does state that there was no record of any of these paintings having been returned to the government. Your Dutch must not be as rusty as you thought.” She smiled as she pushed the sheet of paper back across the table.
“I do admit it’s puzzling,” Bernice said, lightly tapping her pen against her notebook, reflecting on the situation. “After the war, our government received thousands of works of art from the Allied forces. And that was in addition to the hundreds of pieces found in Dutch homes and offices used by the German army during the occupation. I’m afraid it took years to catalogue everything. There’s a very good chance that Irises had already been returned to the Dutch government, but had not yet been registered, and thus the employee who wrote to your mother could not have known it was there. Perhaps if she had tried again a few years later she would have had better luck. I am sorry to have to tell you this.”
Rita nodded her head thoughtfully. “I was afraid of that. So, my mama gave up too soon. Well, it doesn’t matter now. And anyway, we got Irises back. I’m pleased as punch that anything from my daddy’s collection has resurfaced. That gives me hope the rest are still out there, somewhere.” She shot an evil glare in Huub’s direction. He rolled his eyes but remained silent. “What a miracle, that out of all his pieces of art, Irises turned up first. My sister has been so ill for so long, it sure will be wonderful for her to see it again.”
“Tell me Mrs. Brouwer, do you still have the letters your father wrote to your mother while you were at your aunt’s farm in Venlo?” Huub asked.
“If any of us girls have his letters to our mama it would be Iris,” Rita said through gritted teeth, obviously done with the curator and his steadfast disbelief.
“Is she looking for these documents?” Bernice asked, clearly relieved Rita had more proof to support her claim.
“Well no, not exactly. To be honest, I haven’t told her I’m here yet. I didn’t want to get her hopes up if there was nothing to get excited about in the first place. She broke her hip last year and it won’t seem to heal up. And with the arthritis, well, let’s just say she’s having trouble getting around these days.”
“Do you think it will be possible for her to search through her attic if she is so ill?”
“Heavens, no!” Rita laughed. “She can’t go to the toilet by herself anymore. But her son Joe lives real close by. I’m sure he’d go take a look for me if I asked him to. Heck, now that I know this painting really is Irises, I’ll fly on out to Phoenix and take a look myself. Iris will want to know everything that’s happened, every last detail. She won’t believe it when I tell her!”
“If you do find any more documents, photographs or letters that support your claim, please let us know,” Bernice said.
“Any more photographs? What do you mean?” Rita asked, exasperation seeping through her voice. “I really don’t know how many more pictures we have of Irises hanging in our old house. Besides, haven’t I shown you enough to prove this painting is a portrait of my sister? And that it hung in our house until we left Amsterdam on June 14, 1942?”
“I understand your frustration,” the project manager replied, her tone pacifying. “If the name of the man your father entrusted his collection to is in those letters, it may help our research staff discover what happened to the painting after your family left for Venlo. Do you have a lawyer?”
“Lawyer? Never had any use for one.”
“You may want to retain legal counsel to assist you with the claims process, but the choice is yours.”
“How long will this whole thing take anyway?” Rita demanded.
“After you’ve filed all of your documentation with the Restitution Committee, two researchers will follow up any new leads generated by the information you provide. They will revisit national and local archives to see if they can find out more about what happened to Irises between June 1942 and August 1945, when it was turned over to the Dutch government. Due to your sister’s age and ill health, we will do our best to prioritize this case, but it will take several months to round out the investigation. On the basis of the researchers’ report, the Restitution Committee will then rule on the validity of the claim. If they determine your father was indeed the last legal owner, they will then advise the Secretary of State for Culture to return the painting to his heirs. If he chooses to adopt their advice – which he’s done in the last twenty-two claims – then the painting will be returned to you and your sisters. It is a long process, yet once completed, you can be sure no one will be able to contest your ownership. I hope you understand.”
“Yeah, alright. You’ll have to show me all the paperwork I need to fill out before I fly back to the States,” Rita replied curtly.
“I would be happy to. But first, I would like to inform the museum director and board of trustees that we have a claimant. I’m sure they will want you to join them at the exhibition’s official opening this Saturday as their honored guest.”
“That’s mighty nice of you. I’d be tickled pink to attend.” Rita glowed.
Huub was obviously surprised by Bernice’s invitation, yet remained silent.
“Give us a day to absorb all of this new information and discuss it with the Restitution Committee,” Bernice said. “Perhaps we can make an appointment for this Friday, in two days’ time? We can fill out the first batch of paperwork then. I’m afraid there is a lot to go through.”
“Friday sounds fine. I’m booked in at a little hotel close to the Museumplein for a whole week so I’m yours when you need me.”
“Wonderful. Perhaps Zelda can show you around tomorrow, assuming she has time? It sounds like you haven’t been back to Amsterdam for quite a while.”
Zelda’s pen ran across the page as her head jerked up. What did Bernice just say?
“Wouldn’t that be nice? I sure am looking forward to seeing the old neighborhood again. Do you know where the Pijp district is, Zelda? You’re right Bernice, I was just a little girl when we left Amsterdam. I don’t remember the layout of the city anymore. To be frank, I never really wanted to come back, too many painful memories. It’ll be good to face my demons with a little company.”
Zelda tried to wipe the panicked expression off her face as she found her voice. “Sure, I’m free. I’d be happy to show you around. Unless you’d rather catch up on your sleep, after such a long flight?” she smiled diplomatically, not really relishing the thought of playing tour guide.
“I’ve got all night to rest up. I can’t wait to see my old neighborhood again. We’re going to have such a hoot tomorrow, just you wait and see!” Rita howled, as she slapped Zelda’s knee.
Zelda kept her grin plastered on and tried not to wince.