June 16, 1942
Arjan van Heemsvliet flipped slowly through the pages of his inventory ledger, marking the paintings he needed to find a new hiding place for as he went. He’d never assembled a separate list, instead choosing to include his friend’s canvases in his business records so that, to the casual observer, the entries would appear to be part of his unsold stock. Because he’d never intended on leaving Amsterdam, he hadn’t kept track of the exact count. Now as he numbered the paintings in his ledger, currently totaling 215 with more than twenty pages left, he could feel his sense of hopelessness growing.
A long shadow darkened his gallery window, startling him. Certain it was Drechsler returning for more paintings, he rushed to hide the inventory ledger inside the top drawer of his mahogany desk, quickly shoving it under an unfinished letter to his family before the door’s chimes began to ring. When they did, Arjan was already standing a foot away from his desk, casually examining his only remaining portrait by Gérard Dou.
A stranger with a handlebar mustache entered Galerie Van Heemsvliet. The older man was unfamiliar to him, yet Arjan felt as though they had met before. His guard went up instantly.
The stranger removed his bowler hat and began fidgeting with its brim. His eyes remained downcast.
Arjan asked warily, “How can I be of assistance?”
“Are you Arjan van Heemsvliet?” the stranger asked, his expression serious.
“Yes, this is my gallery. Are you interested in purchasing a painting or sculpture?” he asked rather brusquely, certain this man was not here to buy anything.
“No, not exactly.” The stranger glanced around as if to ensure they were truly alone.
Arjan felt a bit dizzy. He leaned against his desk, worried what might come next. Had Drechsler told others about their arrangement? This man wasn’t from the Gestapo otherwise he would have burst inside with twenty armed officers on his heels. Or was this a trap, an attempt to first confirm what Drechsler told his superiors about Arjan’s sexual preference, and a platoon of officers were waiting around the corner for their commander’s signal?
“A friend told me about you,” the stranger began.
Arjan felt his knees give way then his head crack against something sharp as he fell to the ground and slipped into unconsciousness.
Arjan gasped slightly as his eyes shot open. Certain he was in a jail cell, he glanced around in confusion, calming only slightly when he grasped that he was stretched out on a chaise sedan in the back of his own gallery.
“Oh good, you’ve come around. You hit your head on your desk when you fainted. You’re going to have quite a large bump on your forehead, I’m afraid.” The stranger was sitting on a chair beside him, sipping tea from one of his cups. The porcelain beaker seemed positively dainty in the man’s large hands. The dim light emitting from an oil lamp placed on the floor between them created menacing shadows on his gallery’s walls. Through the front window, he could see it was already dark outside.
“What do you want?” Arjan asked, his voice hoarse from fear.
“Siegfried and Jiske once told me I should turn to you if I ever needed help.”
“Siegfried and Jiske?” Arjan tried sitting up but his head throbbed so painfully he lay back down, silently trying to work out how this man knew his good friends and long-time clients.
“We were introduced at Max’s bar mitzvah.”
Arjan studied the stranger’s face intently in the weak light, trying to remember. Siegfried had invited hundreds of people to his only son’s thirteenth birthday party. He’d shaken hands with so many that night, what was it now, four years ago? He hadn’t seen his friends since December 3, 1940, when Siegfried brought his exquisite collection of paintings to his home. They’d become friends while organizing a fundraiser for a Salvation Army soup kitchen and recognized they shared a mutual interest in French impressionism. A few weeks later, Siegfried purchased the first of five paintings from him. Those canvases, along with another seventeen, were now his responsibility.
“You ordered two frames from my shop on the Stadhouderskade the following week. I always appreciated you doing that,” the stranger added, genuine warmth in his voice.
Of course! Now he remembered, the frame maker, “Philip Verbeet,” he said aloud.
“Yes, Philip Verbeet,” the man appeared relieved the art dealer finally recalled his name.
“But why are you here?”
“Siegfried told me what you did for him before he and his family went into hiding. His daughter Rachel and my Fleur were best friends at grade school. They’re still safe – at least they were the last time I brought them supplies, about a month ago,” Philip said, uncertainty creeping into his voice.
“What I’d done?” Arjan felt the darkness returning, dreading what the older man would say next. When Siegfried came to his house that stormy night and told him he’d decided to take his family into hiding, Arjan immediately offered to store his art collection for him until the war was over. He’d never intended to help anyone else. Yet, he sat on the boards of so many charities, museums and cultural institutions that he knew too many influential people who’d been forced to disappear because of their ethnicity, religion, or sexual preference. One had snowballed into thirty-seven. Thirty-seven desperate friends who had to flee Amsterdam or go into hiding, taking nothing more than the clothes on their backs and whatever they could fit into a small travel case.
“A German general arrested my oldest daughter’s boyfriend last week and has been asking questions about her. I don’t know exactly what he wants with Iris, but I put my family on a train to Venlo two days ago, for their own safety. I have thirty-six paintings, sketches and watercolors I don’t want the Nazis getting ahold of. I’ve already been to every acquaintance and friend I trust, but no one who can help me, not like you can.”
“Please no,” Arjan whispered. He’d cautioned those he’d aided to never mention his name to another living soul; their silence was his only condition for taking such an enormous risk.
“Could you possibly hold onto them for me, at least for a few months?”
If Siegfried told Philip what I’d done for him, how many others knew? Arjan wondered. Siegfried had built up one of the most important collections of French impressionists in the Benelux. If the wrong person discovered Arjan had his masterpieces, he would be robbed and killed the very same day, he was certain of it. And his other friends’ collections were just as unique. With Drechsler in the picture, even a rumor he had them would be reason enough for the SS officer to break down his door and tear his house apart. It would only be a matter of hours before he’d found the hundreds of masterpieces stashed in his storeroom.
As reality sunk in, Arjan’s mind shut down from fear and willingly slipped back into the darkness.