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 gallery 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.”