“I missed my boat trip to Marken for this? Unfounded lies and senseless accusations! There is no way on God’s green earth my daddy sold his collection to anyone, for any amount of money. I don’t care what this Karen O’Neil says. There must be some sort of mix up. Or she’s just plain lying,” Rita Brouwer slammed her fist on Bernice Dijkstra’s desk so hard her cup of tea rattled in its saucer.
Rita was clearly on the edge of tears but Huub Konijn kept up his assault, unaffected by her emotional state. “We have seen the bill of sale. Ten thousand guldens in 1942 is equivalent to nearly eighty-four thousand dollars today. Considering most of the artists in your father’s collection were still unknown when he acquired pieces from them, and the majority of his artwork was modern and therefore considered ‘degenerate’, he would have been lucky to have received half that amount from any other art dealer.”
“My daddy was no fool. He knew his paintings would be worth more money the longer he held onto them. He followed the artists whose work he had, and kept tabs on the ones who were getting gallery exhibitions and selling works to museums. He told my mama repeatedly that his art collection was going to pay for our educations; ten thousand gulden would not have gotten all five of us girls through college. And besides which, where did all that money go? He certainly never sent it to us, or deposited it in any bank account my mama knew about.”
“You said yourself you don’t know how he paid the rent on your family’s apartment in Amsterdam,” the curator pointed out.
“I also told you he’d sold his frame making supplies. He never deposited that money either. Besides, five years rent for our tiny apartment couldn’t have cost ten thousand guldens. Where did the rest of the money go?” Rita protested.
“Perhaps your father took it with him?” Huub paused before adding, “Are you certain he died during the war?”
“Are you suggesting my daddy took the money and ran? That he intentionally left us girls and our mama to fend for ourselves? If you really think that, then you didn’t hear a word I said last week. He would have never left us behind; he loved us too much.” Her voice quivered as she spoke and tears trickled down her plump cheeks.
Finally Bernice joined the conversation, gently continuing where Huub had left off. “I am sorry to have to put you through this Mrs. Brouwer, but the documents Ms. O’Neil provided are quite convincing. It does appear your father sold his collection of paintings to a dealer named Arjan van Heemsvliet two days after you and your sisters left Amsterdam for your aunt’s farm in Venlo. Are you sure his name means nothing to you?”
Rita took off her coke-bottle glasses and wiped at her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief. “No, it really doesn’t. But I was just a little girl. My sister Rose might remember him; she used to have a memory like an elephant. Though she is getting up there in years. Iris should have all the letters daddy sent us before he died; mama saved everything. He might have mentioned this Arjan fellow in one of them.” Rita thought a moment before exclaiming, “Wait a minute, you said this Van Heemsvliet was an art dealer; maybe my daddy made some frames for him?”
“That could very well be, but without your father’s ledgers it will be difficult to verify. If they did have a business relationship, it could explain why your father turned to Mr. Van Heemsvliet when he wanted to sell his collection. And if they were friends, that would clarify the large sum paid,” the project manager said.
“I’m telling you straight, my daddy would have cut the paintings out of their frames and stuffed them into a suitcase if he couldn’t find a friend to hold onto them, but he never would have sold them or left them behind for the Nazis to take. They were far too important to him. Besides, he said in his last letter he’d found someone to store them for him – not buy them. Why would he write that if it wasn’t true?”
“Are you sure that’s what he wrote? It’s been so many years; perhaps you’ve forgotten his exact words?” Bernice asked delicately.
“My mother read and re-read his last letter to us girls so many times every word of it is ingrained in my memory,” the old lady shook her head resolutely. “No, there is nothing you can say that would convince me to withdraw my claim. Irises was a gift to my daddy from the artist. It’s a picture of my sister, for goodness sakes! What does this Karen O’Neil person want with it anyway?”
“She’s submitted a claim because she is the legal heir to Arjan van Heemsvliet’s entire collection which, according to the documents she’s provided, includes all of your father’s artwork,” Huub stated.
Rita began to sniffle again. “I only phoned my sister last night to tell her the wonderful news, we were finally getting Irises back after all these years. What am I supposed to tell her now? That a woman we’ve never met claims to be the rightful owner? It’ll break her heart. It should be returned to us, and I bet the Restitution Committee will agree with me,” she sobbed.
Unmoved by her tears, Huub retorted, “As it stands right now, Karen O’Neil’s claim – from a legal standpoint – is quite convincing. As painful as it may be, you must accept that your sister may never see Irises again. Perhaps you can purchase it from Ms. O’Neil, but that is entirely up to her.”
“Buy back a painting we never sold? Ridiculous! I’m flying to Iris’s house in Phoenix tomorrow. Once I find those letters you’ll be able to see for yourself my father didn’t sell anything to anybody.”
Despite Bernice’s attempts to calm the old lady down, Rita stormed out of the office, cursing as she went.
“I told you this meeting was a waste of time.”
“Huub, what if Rita’s father did give his artwork to Arjan van Heemsvliet to hold, not sell?”
“Then why did he write up a bill of sale for the collection and record all thirty-six pieces in his gallery’s inventory ledger?”
“I don’t know. But I have a feeling we are missing an important piece of this puzzle,” Bernice stared off in the distance, speaking slowly as she turned her thoughts into words. “We know almost nothing about this art dealer or frame maker. Until we do, I suspect we won’t be able to resolve this matter expeditiously.”
“What more do we need to know? Karen O’Neil still has the bill of sale and inventory books. Bernice, you know I believe in the claims process; without it I wouldn’t have any of my father’s paintings back. If my sister had had the same documents Ms. O’Neil does, I wouldn’t have had to spend years tracking down records in archives all over Europe. We must trust the facts, not give in to our emotions. Frankly, I don’t care what Rita’s father wrote to her mother or why he chose to sell his paintings to Van Heemsvliet. I suspect we will never know. Personally, I think he did the right thing putting his family above his possessions. Things can always be replaced. Perhaps if my father had tried…” Huub stopped mid-sentence and stared off into the distance. The bitterness seeping through his voice confused Zelda as much as the references to his family’s artwork.
“I, for one, would rather resolve this mess as quickly as possible so we can avoid any bad publicity,” the curator continued moments later, in a stronger voice. “There is no reason to destroy our reputations for the sake of one painting.”
“What happened to giving the painting back to the rightful owner, not just any owner?” Bernice chastised. “What if Van Heemsvliet was working with the Germans? Or if Philip Verbeet was forced to sell his artwork? Either scenario would impact this claims process significantly. Thanks to the information provided by Ms. O’Neil and Mrs. Brouwer, our research staff finally has a starting point for investigating Irises’ provenance. Until we have a better idea of the types of persons Van Heemsvliet and Verbeet were, and the businesses they were running, I will not sign any formal recommendation – even if our director stands behind Ms. O’Neil’s claim. And to say that you can and will, Huub, is unprofessional in my opinion.”
Bernice saw the daggers shooting from his eyes but rushed on anyway, “If Karen and her lawyer really do demand resolution within two weeks then we had better prepare ourselves for bad publicity, regardless. We can’t even begin the research phase that quickly; our entire scientific staff is still on vacation. Well-deserved, I might add, after all the hard work and extra time they’ve put in these last ten years getting the exhibition and website ready. I cannot possibly put my job on hold to do the necessary legwork. Or are you going to hunt through all of those archives yourself, Huub?”
“Of course not, I have other projects too, you know,” the curator pouted.
The project manager put her head in her hands, moaning, “This is our worst nightmare. I cannot, with a clear conscience, officially recommend Ms. O’Neil be granted ownership before we do at least a semblance of research. Yet, we can’t just sit back and wait for them to go to Het Parool either. If the media gets a hold of this story we’ll be the laughing stock of the museum world. We’ve worked so hard, we can’t let her destroy that.”
Suddenly she looked up and locked eyes with Zelda, a strange smile spreading over her face.
Huub, sensing what she was about to say, cried out, “No, no, no!”
“What other choice do we have?” Bernice snapped at the curator. “Zelda, we could really use your assistance again.”
With those eight little words Bernice Dijkstra made Zelda Richardson the happiest girl on the planet. “Anything you need, I would be thrilled to help.”
Bernice winced at her enthusiastic reaction but carried on anyway, “We need you to visit a few archives and search for information pertaining to Arjan van Heemsvliet, Philip Verbeet and their businesses.”
“Okay,” Zelda responded cautiously. “What exactly should I be looking for?”
“Huub and I will compile a list of local and national archives you will need to visit, as well as a list of keywords to search for. I’ll email it to you later today. Perhaps you can start tomorrow?”
“Bernice, I must object! Letting a foreigner carry out such an important task is unthinkable. She can’t even speak Dutch properly.”
“It’s not as if she has to read the documents, just look up the keywords we give her and make photocopies of any records she finds. It will be our task to sift through the documents she collects and see what we can find out about Galerie Van Heemsvliet and the circumstances which led Philip Verbeet to sell his collection, before Karen O’Neil’s lawyer goes to the media,” Bernice snapped back.
“I still think we are wasting our time. The inventory list and bill of sale are enough proof for me. We should recommend Karen O’Neil be awarded the title and be done with this, before it turns into a publicity nightmare for all the institutions involved.”
Bernice exploded, “I am not going to hand Irises over to that woman simply because her lawyer is an arrogant pit bull. We have two weeks before they do anything. I say we investigate these claims as fully as possible within the time remaining and then make our own decision as to what happens next, based on the documents Zelda finds for us.” She inhaled deeply, exhaling noisily before glancing over at her intern apologetically, “You’ll have to excuse us, this sort of situation – two strong claimants for one painting – has never happened before.”
Zelda nodded as she stared back wide-eyed, suddenly aware of the gravity of the task at hand. She’d never done archival research before, at least not on this scale, and definitely not in another language. And to top it off, there was the pressure to find something – anything – that might show them who the real owner of Irises was so all twelve institutions and the Dutch government could protect their reputations. Suddenly unsure of herself, Zelda gulped loudly, wondering if she shouldn’t just say she agreed with Huub, that this was a bad idea.
Sensing her hesitation, Bernice added in a reassuring tone, “We aren’t asking you to draw any conclusions, simply make photocopies of any information you find and bring them to us. Archivists are usually very knowledgeable as well as helpful; if you show them our list of keywords and names, they should be able to locate any relevant documentation in their archive for you, or direct you to another institution that does have the information we’re looking for. If anything else, your photocopies will give our research staff a head start once they return from their vacations. Shall we make an appointment for this Friday at three o’clock? You can hand in whatever information you have found this week to Huub and me then. That way we can go through it all next week.”
“Let me emphasize again what Bernice just said,” the curator cut in brusquely. “You are not to investigate anything, simply look up the records we ask you to and copy them. That is all; understood?” He looked to Zelda for confirmation.
“Understood,” she agreed, fully aware she was not planning on keeping her word.