June 27, 1942
The streets were dark and empty thanks to the evening curfew, already in force when Philip Verbeet pulled the door to his apartment shut. Together he and Arjan set off on their short walk over the cobblestone streets and metal footbridges connecting his home in the Pijp district to Van Heemsvliet’s mansion across from the Museumplein. There were no street lights to guide them. No lamp light spilt out of the many homes and offices they passed, not since blackout regulations went into effect, requiring windows to be covered with thick paper or curtains after sunset, so as to devoid the Allies bombs of any visible targets from the air. White chalk lines marking the sides of the canals, glowing in the moonlight, assisted them along the blackened waterways connecting the two neighborhoods.
Arjan unlocked his front door and waved Philip inside, automatically glancing around to see if any of his neighbors were watching him return so late at night with a disheveled stranger. No matter, he thought, they wouldn’t be here for long.
After following the older man inside, he stepped around their packed suitcases and switched on the hallway lamp. He looked into his sitting room, comforted that nothing seemed out of place. Because his gallery had been closed all week, Arjan half-expected to see his house torn to shreds when they returned from their last thirty-hour stint in the shed.
“I’ll show you to the guest room,” he said, relief in his voice as he began climbing the wide marble staircase leading to the bedrooms on the third floor. How he wished he could take a long hot bath and soak the grime and weariness out of his bones. There was no time to heat the water, he realized, their train to Venlo left in two hours. Not that he’d be able to relax and enjoy a bath anyway. Now that the artwork was safely hidden away, all he wanted to do was get as far away from Amsterdam and Drechsler as he could. There would be plenty of time for rejuvenating dips in the sea once he’d reached his summer home in Marseille.
When Arjan reached the third floor landing, he reached out his hand and felt along the wall for the light switch. A jovial voice called out from the darkness, “There you are.”
Arjan froze in his tracks. He could sense Philip Verbeet, a few steps behind him, doing the same.
Oswald Drechsler switched on the lamp, illuminating his wide grin and the Luger in his right hand. “I stopped by your gallery twice this week; a sign on the door said you are ill. I must say, you don’t appear sick to me. But then, I am not a medical doctor. What is ailing you?”
Arjan’s eyes blinked in protest, unwilling to accept what they saw. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out.
His blackmailer plowed on. “When I went by your gallery this morning and saw all of the walls were empty, I thought it prudent to see if you were still ill. Lo and behold, you seem to have recovered nicely.”
I should have known better then to close the gallery for so long, Arjan thought. But what other choice did I have?
The SS officer stepped towards him, glaring down at him over his long nose. “Where are my paintings?”
Arjan gulped audibly. The ten pieces his blackmailer sought were crated up with those of his friends. He’d packed them up last, figuring they would serve as the foundation for a new gallery in Marseille. How stupid of him! He should have known his blackmailer would notice their absence immediately.
Drechsler sensed his hesitation. He waved for Philip Verbeet – motionless since the Nazi made his presence known – to climb the last three steps up to the small landing. Arjan’s acquaintance did so reluctantly, moving as if he knew he was walking towards a death squad. When he was close enough, Drechsler grabbed Philip’s arm and shoved the Luger’s barrel against his temple. “Where are my paintings?” he asked again, his voice calm and unwavering.
Arjan remained speechless as he rapidly considered his options, unsure of what to do.
Drechsler cocked his pistol.
“I can get them for you!” Arjan screamed.
“You will take me to them.”
“No,” escaped his lips as a whisper. How could he? If he did, Drechsler would find the rest and then all of their work was for naught.
Drechsler pulled the trigger. A cloud of red mist exploded out of Philip Verbeet’s forehead seconds before his body crumbled to the floor.
“Yes, you will.” The colonel whipped his pistol across Arjan’s face.
The art dealer dropped to his knees, blood streaming out of a gash in his cheek. Drechsler kicked his boot into his victim’s stomach, lifting him off the ground. When he landed, Arjan coughed up dark red mucus and instinctively tried to rise again.
“Where are my paintings?” Drechsler kicked out the backs of Arjan’s knees, dropping him onto Philip Verbeet’s torso. He squealed instinctively, the warmth of his friend’s lifeless body rattled him completely. He thrashed around, struggling to stand when Drechsler kicked him in the back, throwing him off balance. He could feel himself teetering towards the staircase and began flailing his arms, searching helplessly for a holdfast.
His blackmailer screamed, “My paintings!” and grabbed ahold of his shirt, momentarily halting his fall until Arjan’s body weight pulled him forward, tumbling down the darkened stairwell.
What have I done, went through Arjan’s mind as his ankle cracked on a marble tread and his shoulder popped out of its socket, only moments before he fell further, his neck snapping on the first floor landing, killing him instantly.