June 17, 1942
“No, that closet is much too small, especially after we crate them up. That’s the best way to protect them from insects and light. It may be months, or even years, before it will be safe to move any of these paintings again,” Arjan explained. He’d had the foresight to begin collecting suitable wooden boxes as soon as the war started, figuring he may one day need them to store his most delicate pieces. Because of the current fuel shortage, they were impossible to come by nowadays. He had one-hundred and fifty-two crates stacked up in his formal dining room, the space he and Philip Verbeet were now standing in, unused since Gijs’s death. He’d hoped they could squeeze all three hundred and twenty-seven framed canvases into them.
Even if they did fit, neither he nor Philip knew of a space large enough to hold them all. When the bombing raids and skirmishes within the city limits intensified a few months before, Arjan had sketched up plans for a storage room disguised as an emergency shelter to be constructed in his backyard. When Gijs fell ill, he’d stopped searching for discrete workmen suitable for the job. And now with Drechsler looking over his shoulder, he would never be able to build something like that on the sly.
“And the bomb shelter on Stadhouderskade?” Philip offered, scouring the map of Amsterdam he’d spread out on Arjan’s dining room table. “Or the shelter in the Leidsebosje? We might be able to store them there amongst the rations.”
“As soon as there’s a bombing raid or fire anywhere in the vicinity, the shelter will fill up. Someone’s bound to notice those crates don’t belong. If the locals don’t look inside and take the paintings, the Nazis will,” Arjan said dismissively. They’d been at this for hours and neither of them could think of a single worthy location. He pushed back his chair and rose. “I could use a drink. Is red wine alright? Or do you prefer something stronger?”
“Red is fine,” Philip said, perking up. “The only liquor I drink is the schnapps I brew myself. Raspberry is my specialty.”
Arjan looked at the older man with interest. “I’ve never heard of a raspberry variation before. Can you still taste the fruit after it’s been fermented?”
“It’s quite subtle. I’m going back to check on our house tomorrow morning. I’ll get a bottle of schnapps out of our root cellar while I’m there.” Philip said.
“Root cellar?”
Philip smiled. “That’s what the Americans call it. My brother-in-law lives in Boston and has an unfinished cellar under his house. The earthen walls keep the room damp and cool, no matter what season it is. I dug one out under our garden shed so we can store my wife’s preserves and my liquors down there without having to worry about them spoiling. It’s not large, but big enough to stand up in.” he said.
“How large is it exactly?” Arjan asked, urgency in his voice.
“Ten by twenty meters square?”
“How many crates do you think we could we fit inside?”
Philip began to scoff, surprised by the question, but Arjan’s serious expression stopped him cold. He studied the oak boxes stacked up around the room. “Seventy, if we’re lucky.”
“Perhaps if we enlarged it, we could fit them all in?”
“It would take a few days of hard labor, but it is possible. I dug out the current cellar myself in less than a week,” Philip said with pride. “The entrance is in the floor of the shed, the neighbors won’t notice us working as long as the door is shut tight. We can dump the dirt we dig up in the flower beds along the fence after nightfall.”
“If the entrance is inside the shed, than anyone could find the paintings, couldn’t they?” Arjan said, his enthusiasm waning.
“Not if we cover the door up with cement tiles. No one would think to look for a room hidden underneath a floor,” Philip countered, becoming more convinced of the plan’s feasibility.
Arjan’s mind swirled with possibilities. He’d been searching for a suitable location for weeks, without success. What other choice did they have? Philip’s root cellar wasn’t the best option, but it was probably their only option. “We’ll need to buy a pick-axe and wheelbarrow,” he said.
“I already have both in the shed. Working together, we should be able to expand the cellar in three or four days. I would rather not get anyone else involved.”
“I agree, we need to keep this between us,” Arjan said. If the space was suitable, he would write to his brother Gerard and tell him to contact Philip if anything happened to him. But he couldn’t tell Gerard where the artwork was hidden; simply knowing the location would mean risking his life.
Was a week enough to get everything done, Arjan wondered. He would have to close up shop, write a note on his gallery door claiming he was ill and pray Colonel Drechsler didn’t come to his home to check up on him in the meantime.
“Wait a moment; you said a Nazi was looking for your daughter. Won’t he have someone watching your house?” Arjan knew he should not have gotten excited quite yet, there was still a snake in the grass.
“If he was desperate enough to lay in wait for Iris, he would be staking out my frame shop. That’s where she worked and where she socialized with most of the art students who knew she and Lex were in a relationship,” Philip responded calmly, until he noticed Arjan’s nervous expression. “Honestly, I’m not even certain he’s still looking for her or how badly he wanted to find her in the first place. I couldn’t have lived with myself if my family had stayed and he did come knocking, that’s why I sent them all to Venlo straight away. However, I haven’t seen anyone show the slightest interest in our house or my shop in the four days since my girls left Amsterdam. The only way to get to the shed is through our apartment. Once we’re inside, no one will be able to tell that we’re there.”
“Alright, why don’t we go take a look at your root cellar together?” Arjan said, mustering up his enthusiasm, knowing there were no other realistic options to consider.