May 6, 1942
Arjan gently brushed his feather duster along the elaborately carved and gilded frame encasing Jan van Goyen’s Boy with Harp, careful not to touch the painted canvas. A real-life boy rode slowly by his gallery window, his bicycle’s tiny front wheel forcing him to bend over the steering wheel at an awkward angle as he worked the pedals. The few bikes still riding around the city were all silly-looking contraptions; one or both wheels having been replaced by that of a wheelbarrow or child’s buggy to prevent it being confiscated by the Gestapo, ever on the lookout for new modes of transportation.
Only a handful of pedestrians dressed in ill-fitting suits and poorly-cobbled shoes meandered down the once lively Spiegelgracht, gawking at anything and everything still on display. The cosmetics, stockings and luxurious fabrics once worn by the patrons of the exclusive galleries lining his street were as scarce as his clientele these days. The grey and green uniforms of the German army passed by far more often, going to or coming from the nearby Museumplein, around which the occupying forces had set up their headquarters.
Arjan wasn’t sure how much longer he could take it here. The silence was oppressive. As trams were forbidden to ride and most churches bells had been melted down and molded into cannons, the occasional clomping of hooves from horse-drawn carriages and taps from walking canes were often the only sounds penetrating his window. Before the war, those more subtle noises had been drowned out by the many cars, bicycles and pedestrians jostling for position on the narrow street. It had been months since he’d seen a private car driving by; the only engines he heard on the streets of Amsterdam anymore were those of German tanks, jeeps and transport trucks.
Lost in his thoughts, it took his mind a moment to register that his gallery’s door had opened, jingling the chimes attached to its back. Arjan’s standard polite yet inquisitive smile disappeared as soon as he stepped away from the window and saw the familiar black SS-uniform of his blackmailer already standing inside.
Oswald Drechsler was quickly becoming his most frequent customer, he ruminated, realizing this was his second visit this week. The Nazi’s mere presence set him on edge. First my father disowns me, and now this monster wants to take away everything I worked so hard to build up, simply because I am attracted to men, Arjan thought, a helpless rage building up inside of him. When would it end? Was he to be persecuted because of his sexual preference for the rest of his life?
He rushed past Drechsler and twisted the lock shut. He didn’t expect much business today, but wanted to make certain no one could unexpectedly enter and overhear their conversation. The repercussions were too horrible to consider.
Drechsler stuck out his hand in greeting. Arjan ignored it, choosing to walk around him and sit behind his desk. His blackmailer laughed before joining him, the many medallions lining his chest jangling softly as he crossed the room.
“What do you want today?” Arjan asked as gruffly as he could, his voice still sounding shrill despite his best efforts.
“Now, now. Is that the correct tone to use with me?” The colonel smiled easily, showing no sign of being perturbed.
“This is your tenth visit since our unfortunate acquaintance. Won’t your superiors be surprised to see so many modern paintings hanging in your quarters?” Arjan knew Hitler had forbidden his troops from profiting off their Dutch ‘brothers,’ because he saw them as sharing a cultural and linguistic bond. Yet most of the SS’s higher ranks viewed the war as an easy way to expand their personal collections at substantial discounts.
“Don’t worry about what my superiors think. Most have no idea what is acceptable and what is degenerate. And those who do will never see the paintings you’ve so graciously given me.”
“Given you? Surely you mean the paintings you’ve blackmailed me into parting with.”
Drechsler’s expression grew grim. “My silence guarantees your freedom. If the Gestapo learns you escaped their raid of Grote Geerts in February, they will certainly arrest you, then confiscate your home, gallery and everything inside before sending you to a re-education camp. My price is quite small in comparison. If you are not satisfied with our arrangement, you can always volunteer for castration. I hear they are sometimes more lenient.”
Oswald’s wide grin turned Arjan’s stomach. He knew too many homosexual acquaintances who’d been detained, beaten, raped and even forcibly castrated before being sent to work camps in Germany, never to return. “What will you be taking with you today?” he asked through gritted teeth, doing his utmost to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.
“The five paintings in the window will suffice,” Drechsler gazed evenly over at the art dealer, obviously expecting some opposition.
Arjan’s face drained of color. Those were the five most expensive paintings left in his gallery. His stock had dwindled to a mere thirty pieces. At this rate, his gallery would be empty within a few weeks. It had been months since a Dutch citizen had brought him a painting to sell. His clientele consisted almost entirely of Germans and others sympathetic to the National Socialist ideals, only on the lookout for sales.
Once Drechsler cleaned out his gallery, how long would it be before the Nazi turned up on his doorstep and demanded the plethora of masterpieces filling his regal residence? The mere thought consumed Arjan with panic. It wasn’t his own paintings or furnishings he was concerned about. Once inside his home, how long would it take Drechsler to find his private storeroom and discover his friends’ artwork inside? He’d had the door re-worked to look as if it was part of a bookcase, but nothing was foolproof. Arjan knew he had no choice but to give the colonel what he wanted, if only to get him out of the gallery so he could start looking for a new location to hide everything. But where?
In the back of his mind, Arjan always knew he might have to flee Amsterdam one day and leave his artwork and that of his friends’ behind, a course of action he never realistically prepared for. His summer home in Marseille was located in one of the few areas in Europe yet to be occupied by Hitler’s troops. But to get there, he would have to cross through occupied Belgium and Northern France. That was almost impossible considering the number of checkpoints he’d have to cross. As soon as Drechsler discovered he’d fled, the colonel would certainly send word to his commanders to have him detained and brought back to Amsterdam.
He would have to buy a falsified passport before he could even attempt to leave the Netherlands; Drechsler would never let him obtain a visa to travel abroad legally. He’d heard rumors of a resistance group on the Prinsengracht that had set-up an escape route to Switzerland. If the rumors were true, they could surely help him obtain the documents needed to travel through the Occupied Zone safely.
Yet even if he managed to slip out of the country without Drechsler noticing, what of the paintings? He might be able to fit a few pieces into his suitcases, but not enough. And a transport truck full of priceless artwork would never make it all the way to Marseille without someone confiscating them along the way.
He had no choice but to find a suitable hiding space somewhere in the vicinity of Amsterdam. But where could he possibly hide the two-hundred and fifty-odd paintings he was storing for his friends, not to mention his own collection of seventy canvases?
Arjan could feel tears forming as the hopelessness of his situation sunk in. “Fine, I’ll pack them up for you now.” He rose and walked absently to the front window. Oswald Drechsler’s surprise was evident, yet he said nothing, choosing to let the art dealer pack up his latest acquisitions in silence.