Weeks of exhausting, repetitive scheduling makes one day bleed into the next. It starts with caring for Andreas before heading off to the office to manage Octagon and perform my duties as consul. Late morning, I then go to Leiden Hospital where I meet with Ines to review Sophia’s condition before I head over to the neonatal section to care for her. In the midst of all this, I prepare for our looming relocation to Egypt.
The sight of tubes coming out of Sophia’s tiny body after weeks of hospitalization wears on my heart. She is too small to fit into infant clothing, so I rummage through doll shops in search of a fitting wardrobe, discarding the dolls after purchase so as not to be reminded of Sophia’s vulnerability. Separated by a glass cocoon with only one small opening to reach in and touch her with my finger, I pine to do more, yet she is so delicate that I am sometimes afraid to even bathe her. The one-snap closures on the back of the doll garments make it easy to dress her, and the nurses oblige my need for an appearance of normalcy.
The neonatal nurses require me to set a schedule in advance in order to coordinate Sophia’s feedings and bathing times with the hospital staff. It is difficult for me to be on time because of the responsibilities I have, and conflict with the nursing staff occurs whenever I am late. I am judged as a woman more interested in my career than in the survival of and bonding with my child. This could not be further from the truth. I am scared stiff that I will do something wrong and hurt her while she is in my arms. What if a tube comes out? What if my touch is not as tender as it should be? These thoughts interfere with my ability to bond and mother her. There is also the constant pressure of having the eyes of the staff judging my every move. And the whole time I’m torn with guilt over having to abandon my son, Andreas, in order to care for Sophia. I wonder how it will impact him. I’ve yet to properly mourn my daughter Anastasia, whom I buried a few weeks ago, and I live in a constant state of terror wondering if Sophia will even survive.
What people see on the surface is me in survival mode. I wear the composed façade of a businesswoman who appears as if she has it all together, but in reality I know that if I shed one tear I will be unable to stop.
Despite my personal woes, the world keeps moving. Word that a John the Baptist icon is about to be auctioned off at Sotheby’s draws me away from my grief and places me back on track to recover the stolen artifacts. Being back at work brings me a needed reprieve from the world of doctors, nurses, and hospitals. I inform Kyprianou about the forthcoming auction, and he immediately sends a letter to Linda Jotham, the solicitor director of Sotheby’s, informing her that the icon belongs to the Church of Cyprus, was stolen during the Turkish invasion in 1974, and should be pulled from auction.1
Sotheby’s responds that the icon was previously up for sale in 1980, 1985, and 1987, and neither the Church of Cyprus nor the government made any claims then.2 Jotham intimates that Cypriot monks and painters from Cyprus traveled and left their creations in other parts of the world throughout history. Famagusta was the center of trade between the East and West during the thirteenth century, so the possibility that traders could have also moved the icons out of Cyprus exists, but in this case we have evidence to the contrary. There was no legal trade of sacred antiquities in Cyprus before or after the invasion of 1974.
Kyprianou enlists attorney Nick Kounoupias in the United Kingdom to represent Cyprus in preparation of a possible court battle. In 1985 when the John the Baptist icon was last for sale in the Christie’s catalogue, it was identified as being from the Cretan school of icon painting. The correct geographic provenance (Cyprus) was not cited. In the trade this type of misinformation can mislead both buyer and original owner as to an artifact’s true provenance.
My mind avails itself of the effort to uncover how the trade operates. Working in parallel to lawyers Kyprianou and Kounoupias in search of evidence to support their efforts to stop the Sotheby’s sale becomes my oasis. Unlike the rest of my life, my actions here can actually impact the outcome. After more digging, a copy of a catalogue from the 1987 London exhibition of East Christian Art displaying the John the Baptist icon for sale is discovered. Yannis Petsopoulos is the man behind the exhibition.3
Petsopoulos is the Greek dealer whom Van Rijn insists is being given leniency by the Cypriot government, so it will be interesting to see how this scenario plays out. Setting my sights on providing evidence to show how the John the Baptist icon got from Cyprus into the hands of Sotheby’s, I throw myself into the search.
Kyprianou replies to Sotheby’s that the church is not disputing their assertion that the Cypriot icon was exhibited previously, it is claiming that the exhibition was not brought to the attention of the Church of Cyprus due to the false statement of provenance. This should not affect the basis for the Church’s claim that the icon was illegally removed from the Church of Agia Paraskevi situated in the village of Palaesophos in the district of Kyrenia. Kyprianou further says that if the icon does go to auction, the buyer will be purchasing it at his own risk, as it is stolen Cypriot property.4
The burden of proof in most European countries is on the original owner, who must validate that the artifact was purchased in bad faith. Institutions, museums, dealers, and auction houses wearing a banner of legitimacy sometimes turn a blind eye as questionable artifacts supported by falsified papers present themselves for purchase on the market. It is clear that the depth of due diligence in investigating provenance is dependent upon the intent of the buyer. Roozemond and Petsopoulos are both linked to the John the Baptist icon. I believe Van Rijn’s name will also surface, and when it does, I will have evidence of who the major dealers are. Untangling how the icon is purchased and sold will no doubt reveal how these dealers structure their transactions.
Amazingly, Kyprianou manages to secure affidavits from three elders who lived in the village of Palaesophos and who worshiped in the church of Agia Paraskevi prior to the invasion. They confirm that the John the Baptist icon in the Sotheby’s catalogue is the same one they prayed before, with one exception. They remember the icon darkened by the charcoal residue from candlewax, though the photograph from the Sotheby’s catalogue does not appear darkened. The icons could have been restsored prior to sale or cleaned by illicit dealers to confuse proper identification. Kyprianou forwards these statements to Sotheby’s and demands the icon’s removal from the sale.5
Sotheby’s responds that the John the Baptist icon was bought and sold in the Netherlands three times in 1979, and that according to Dutch law it has acquired good title, intimating that the Church of Cyprus has no further claim on the icon.6 The statement of ownership was provided by none other than Robert J. Roozemond. According to Roozemond, his company Kunsthandel De Wijenburgh (Wijenburgh Art Trade) purchased the icon from Mrs. M. Stoop (whom we learn is the daughter of the financier to Mr. Michel Van Rijn) in October of 1979.
In November of 1979, Kunsthandel De Wijenburgh sold it to a Mr. A. E. Mulié. In October 1985, Mulié sold it to Christie’s.7 Although there are records of sales, confidentiality laws prevent us from learning who their client is. I continue to search for the missing puzzle piece.
Sotheby’s, through their client, offers the Church of Cyprus a chance to buy back the icon at a price to be agreed upon as a goodwill gesture. We finally have the attention of Sotheby’s, but we still don’t know who the possessor of the icon is. Now it is up to us to close the deal with conclusive evidence and a legal argument that will, we hope, encourage whoever the owner is to give the icon back freely.
As I grieve for my stolen cultural heritage, I experience a painful truth. The looted sacred artifacts that rightfully belong to the Church of Cyprus are being sold to wealthy individuals, auction houses, and art dealers who apparently care nothing of the impact it has on a refugee like myself to see her identity traded. I feel betrayed again, and doubly upset as this is no doubt happening not just with Cypriot artifacts, but to countless other cultural treasures around the world.
Months ago I expressed to all related ministries in the Cypriot government, their legal advisers and the Orthodox Church the need to develop a plan for how to go about recovering the stolen artifacts. The minister of antiquities, Mr. Savvides, spoke of establishing a joint committee, but to date nothing has transpired. Fearing the lack of coordination within the government and how it may impact our investigation into De Wijenburgh, I’m faced with needing more experienced hands than my own. I hire a private detective named Gerard J. Toorenaar, the founder of Toorenaar Commercial Crime Bureau in Amsterdam, at my own expense. Mr. Toorenaar is in his late fifties, a former detective commissioner and chief of the Serious Crime Squad of the Amsterdam metropolitan police. He is a no-nonsense former cop who knows how to catch the bad guys.
Handing the tall, silver-haired gentleman a copy of Roozemond’s ownership summary, I say, “Mr. Toorenaar, I’d like you to find any information to do with the De Wijenburgh bankruptcy, such as exhibition sale lists and catalogues. I need to know how the company was structured, see accounting records, anything to shed light on how the trade works.”
The man of few words jots a few notes into his black book, carefully folds Roozemond’s letter, and places it in his briefcase.
“I’ll get back to you next week,” he says as he exits my office.
Shell recommends that it might be best for Michael to take his senior post in Egypt alone until Sophia is released from the hospital.
“You will never be able to manage without me, Tasoula,” Michael says with deep concern because he knows well enough that my emotional reserves are exhausted. I don’t want Michael to feel any more pressure than he already does. If he declines the post for personal reasons, it will derail his career. If he chooses to go to Cairo and I remain behind in the Netherlands, it will place immense pressure on our relationship.
“We managed our relationship when you lived in Oman. Plus we have a live-in nanny to help now,” I say, trying to comfort his worry.
“The Shell physician should speak with Sophia’s doctors at Leiden. Knowing approximately when Sophia will be released from the hospital will help us evaluate how long a separation we will have to endure.”
Ines is not only an excellent pediatrician; she is also a skillful communicator. She reveals the facts about Sophia’s current medical status while presenting her strong reservations about separating the family and impresses upon the Shell physicians that the trauma we are going through as a young couple is harrowing. We lost one child, and have a toddler we are raising. If Sophia will survive, she will be faced with both cognitive and physical disabilities requiring intensive medical follow-up and day-to-day care. In Ines’s opinion, a separation, even of a temporary nature, will not be good for the family dynamic. This added level of pressure on a family could break a marriage.
To our great relief, after being briefed by Ines, Shell cancels Michael’s transfer to Egypt. The pressure that Michael and I have endured could have destroyed the strongest of marriages. Luckily, ours has been strengthened. I consider myself fortunate to be married to such a remarkable man who, without fail, places me and the children above all else. Michael makes it clear to me that I am not alone in this journey.
Christmas is my favorite time of the year. Normally, we celebrate it with the extended Hadjitofi family in the United Kingdom and then spend Easter with my family in Cyprus. This Christmas is different. We can’t travel to Scotland or to London and we are in no condition to host Christmas in our home. Michael and I do not feel like celebrating, but we must for the sake of Andreas. I decorate a tree and, in addition to the regular decorations, hang chocolates on the branches as a surprise for Michael and Andreas. I even place a small tree in Andreas’s room so that when he opens his eyes it’s the first thing he sees.
After breakfast on Christmas morning, I take over the role of my mother-in-law, who normally calls the name of the person written on each tag and hands the present to its recipient. Andreas receives a mountain of gifts this year. When I open the two small boxes for Sophia, I find they hold diamond and pearl earrings sent by my sisters, Yiola and Miriam. I weep.
I cook a traditional Christmas dinner of turkey that day and bring the leftovers to the hospital, where we spend the rest of the afternoon caring for Sophia. We place the teddy bear we purchased on top of the incubator so it will be the first thing she sees when she opens her eyes on her first Christmas.
Michael Kyprianou gets an extra Christmas gift this year when he is elected to Parliament in Cyprus. He leaves his government position in the office of the attorney general to start his own law firm in Nicosia. His first client is the Church of Cyprus. I am happy for his well-deserved success but selfishly wonder how Mr. Kyprianou’s absence will impact our efforts to repatriate stolen artifacts. His position in the government helped us to navigate through the bureaucracy with some efficiency. Without his efforts I fear the worst.
New Year’s Eve is an opportunity to reflect and, in truth, I am relieved to put this year behind me and wish to do it in a ceremonial way. We received many invitations to attend various parties and events, but we declined them all. Michael, Andreas, and I dress in our best evening clothes and depart for the neonatal section of Leiden Hospital with four chilled bottles of champagne and oliebollen and appelflappen, traditional Dutch pastries always served on New Year’s Eve, for the hospital staff.
Andreas puts his little face close to the glass trying to figure a way to get the teddy bear inside the incubator.
“Love, Sophia’s Teddy must remain here,” I say. I guide his little finger inside the opening of the incubator, but it is too short to reach Sophia. Magically, she looks directly at Andreas, almost as if she is acknowledging his presence, which makes him smile. Wrapping my arms around Andreas, I run my fingers through his gorgeous black curls and reassure him that he is the perfect older brother for her.
“We must always watch over our little Sophia,” I tell him.
He nods his head in agreement, too young to understand what he is committing to.
At the stroke of midnight we are the only parents in the neonatal center. We raise our glasses to the sound of fireworks exploding, watch the sky burst into magical colors and toast to love.
1992
Paraphrasing the Greek philosopher Heraclitus, there is an underlying order in the way that the universe unfolds itself, and there is an inherent wisdom in all human beings to understand it.
Events align themselves to convince me more and more that I’m right about my destiny being somehow tied to recovering the looted artifacts of my country. It seems that the elements have conspired to keep me in the Netherlands. Despite the obstacles we face raising Sophia, Michael and I are committed to designing what will now be our “new normal” as a family. What frustrates me is that I can’t change Sophia’s health. I wonder what lesson God is trying to teach me now.
Mr. Papageorgiou finally gets an opportunity to view the slides that curator Victoria van Aalst had acquired from the bankruptcy of Kunsthandel De Wijenburgh, and he identifies a number of additional icons belonging to Cyprus.8 I call Kyprianou.
“Why are we not pressing charges against Roozemond?”
“Can you prove that he is the owner or the possessor? When you have that evidence then we can talk,” says, Kyprianou.
“We have a judgment in the Kanakaria-Goldberg case that says Dikmen and Van Rijn sold stolen art to Peg Goldberg.”
“Yes, we could have chosen to extradite both men, but chose to focus on the return of the artifacts.”
Kyprianou continues with a request. “Write a memo to His Beatitude summarizing your involvement over the past few years in tracing stolen artifacts for Cyprus.”9
“Why, may I ask?”
“I plan to propose to the archbishop that you, myself, and Papageorgiou work as a team to recover illicit artifacts for the Church.”
“What about the government?” I ask.
“The Church is technically the legal owner of the artifacts. The archbishop drives the legal cases, and the government raises awareness, through its diplomatic missions, about the various repatriation cases. The Church pays the costs associated with the recovery efforts so attorney general involvement isn’t necessary unless a criminal prosecution is impending. As long as the proper governmental channels are briefed with what we are doing, they will be relieved. I know their thinking—the icons are not their priority.” But they are the Church’s. This new angle intrigues me.
“And what of Roozemond, Van Rijn, and Dikmen?” I ask.
“It’s up to my successor at the attorney general’s office to decide on the merits of extraditing Van Rijn and/or Dikmen to Cyprus. Remember, it’s not our job to prosecute. You keep gathering evidence just as you are doing,” he responds.
“I’ll get the memo to you today,” I say, thrilled about the possibilities that this new arrangement might provide.10
Mr. Toorenaar and I drive through the complex of modern high-rise buildings till we reach the Amsterdam World Trade Center, which lies in the center of the Zuid business district. Mr. Stoop is a refined man in his sixties.
“You are Mr. Van Rijn’s financier?” I ask.
“I did finance purchases made by Mr. Van Rijn of certain icons and a Byzantine cross in September of 1979, which to this day I regret.”
“Did you finance this one?” I ask as I place a photograph of the John the Baptist icon in front of him.
He examines it closely.
“Neither my daughter nor I were ever in possession of the icons. We were the owners only on paper. Van Rijn came to me with a proposition, which allowed me to legally pass tax-free equity to my daughter.”
“What did he propose?” I ask.
“He asked me for a loan of two hundred forty thousand Dutch guilders ($120,000) and he promised to sell the cross and the icons the same day to another party for three hundred seventy-five thousand DFL ($188,255). We split the profit.”
“So you are not being taxed on capital gains by placing the icons in your daughter’s name.”
“Van Rijn came to wealthy people like me who were looking for opportunities to make tax-free gains.”
Mr. Stoop hands me a telex from Sotheby’s confirming that the items were undervalued.
“This convinced me to do the deal.”
“How did you pay for the artifacts?” I ask.
“I paid by check via B.V., which is a legal entity owned by me.”
“To whom did Van Rijn sell the items?”
“Kunsthandel De Wijenburgh,” he says.
“Were you returned the money plus the profit Van Rijn promised you?” I ask.
“No, unfortunately. I was paid with a check from Roozemond, and it bounced. De Wijenburgh went bankrupt, so I lost my investment.”
Mr. Stoop presents me with legal documents from November 26, 1981, showing a dispute between his daughter and De Wijenburgh in relation to two icons purchased on the twenty-second of September 1979 from Art Trade Michel Van Rijn: “Theotokos” (Cyprus, twelfth century) and “Koimesis” (Movgorod, fifteenth century).11
“Just reading the file gives me a headache,” I say.
“I gave Van Rijn a loan to purchase icons. He promised to sell them the same day for a profit we would split.”
Stoop shows us another document dated January 1980 in which Van Rijn confirms receiving the money from Mrs. M. Stoop, and the description asserts that the funds are to pay for a common purchase of a “lot” of icons. Reference is made to a telex from Sotheby’s dated September 1979.12
“I lay claim to the icons, and have a bailiff attach them in my daughter’s name in the hope of getting my money back. The icons turn out to be owned by third parties,” he says.
Also in the memorandum dated January 1980, it states that three hundred seventy five Dutch guilders ($197,622) was to be repaid to Mrs. Stoop no later than April 1989. The document goes on to state that the other artifacts offered by Sotheby’s will remain in Van Rijn’s possession. The second part of the document is believed to be a confirmation from De Wijenburgh that says the John the Baptist icon was purchased from Mrs. Stoop through the intermediary of Van Rijn for twenty-five thousand Dutch guilders ($13,200). The third part is confirmation that Mrs. Stoop purchased two icons, one being “Theotokos,” which originated in Cyprus. What is not clear is if De Wijenburgh ever claimed to have purchased the John the Baptist icon, and if so from whom. Stoop’s company, “Starlift B.V. acquired shares in Art Trade Van Rijn, Kunsthandel Van Rijn and Trade and Shape, B.V.”
These icons were actually traveling around the world in exhibitions, and were sold and resold again numerous times to various parties who were actually buying shares in the icons and not the icons themselves. The profits would be split among the investors within De Wijenburgh.
“Not only did I never see any profits, I never got the icons that I paid for,” says Mr. Stoop. “Thirty-six other people also believed they held ownership in the icons and then De Wijenburgh went bankrupt.”13
“Complicated structure,” I add.
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” he answers.
I wonder if there is sufficient evidence against Van Rijn and Roozemond.
The thick web these dealers weave! Regarding the John the Baptist icon,14 I wonder if it is possible that it was part of the nonspecific “lot” of icons that is mentioned in these documents.
We leave Stoop’s office with more questions than answers.
“De Wijenburgh never owned the icons,” says Toorenaar.15
“Mrs. Stoop was merely buying an option in the sale of the entire exhibition,” I say.
“We still don’t have a clear idea of who bought John the Baptist from De Wijenburgh,” says Toorenaar.
“Make this your priority, please,” I say to Toorenaar. “I want a name.” The private investigator and I go our separate ways.
Meanwhile, I send Toorenaar’s statement to our attorneys outlining the information we retrieved from Stoop. I ask if it is possible to get access to De Wijenburgh’s receipts of sale through the court case to see if we can find a name in those records.
The Dutch lawyers acting for Cyprus in the Netherlands confirm that Mrs. Stoop invested in the exhibition, not in ownership of an individual icon, and never actually acquired the property rights to the John the Baptist icon, nor did De Wijenburgh, whose position was to obtain the icons for third parties. Victoria van Aalst, who supplied us with the documentation from De Wijenburgh, informs us that the papers pertaining to John the Baptist are missing.
Toorenaar phones me within days.
“I do have a name—Mulié, he lives in Naaldwijk. No address yet.”
Now we are closer to solving the John the Baptist puzzle.
I telephone fifteen Muliés in the phone book, until I track down the right person.
“We are trying to investigate what happened with De Wijenburgh and, since you are one of the people who was cheated, I wonder if you would be interested in meeting with me?” I ask.
At Leiden University Hospital, we are told that Sophia is refusing to eat. The hospital calls in an internist who places her under observation. Shortly thereafter, Michael and I are called into a meeting to discuss the findings.
“I believe there is a bonding issue between mother and daughter here,” says the doctor.
“So you find nothing medically wrong with her?” inquires Michael.
“That’s correct.”
“What brings you to this conclusion?” he continues as if each of his words were a missile. The doctor doesn’t have a chance to respond. Michael continues, “Has it ever occurred to you that Sophia might have neurodevelopmental issues and her difficulty in taking food may lie in the fact that she may be mentally challenged?”
Michael’s words hit me like an emotional bomb. I can do something about the bonding issue, but I cannot help her if she is mentally impaired. At first I am angry with Michael, because it sounds as if he knows more than he’s telling me.
“How dare you put my wife through this!” Michael demands.
Michael is the first person to verbally state for the record that Sophia’s eating problems could be due to her mental limitations. A baby’s ability to suck, swallow, and breathe does not develop until around thirty-four to thirty-five weeks of gestation, and Sophia was born at twenty-five weeks. There can be any number of reasons why Sophia is having difficulty. The tube may be causing discomfort or she could be experiencing gastrointestinal reflux if the sphincter muscle between the esophagus and the stomach is not closing properly. Michael and I take a moment privately.
“Maybe they are right about the bonding, Michael. I’m afraid to hold Sophia, and she must sense that. You are wrong! Our daughter is just underdeveloped.”
Michael bursts into tears. I don’t ask why. I’m not strong enough to hear what he is trying to tell me.
Sophia’s exposure to this world has not been welcoming. Every time someone touched my daughter they hurt her.
As her mother, I refuse to be associated with anything that will bring her pain. Everything that is done to save her also tortures her to some degree. I want to be the person who comforts her after the needles and injections and examinations are over. Let me be a place of safety for my daughter so that she knows that once she is in my arms she is out of harm’s way and under my protection. The nursing staff views this behavior as being unloving, but what I choose to be for my daughter is all about love.
At a quiet café in close proximity to my office, I meet with Mr. Mulié, who turns out to be an intelligent, middle-aged, well dressed, articulate teacher of economics and law. I notice his body language is relaxed.
“How did you become involved in the icon business?”
“It was an investment vehicle for me,” he says. “I never thought to question the legitimacy of investing in this icon exhibition. The minimum I would be left with at the end of the exhibition was John the Baptist with a confirmation from auction houses that it was worth more than I paid for it,” he replies as he places a receipt from De Wijenburgh dated November 30, 1977, in front of me. According to his receipt he was guaranteed a share of John the Baptist before Mr. Stoop was. It states that the “Icon Gallery” will sell the icon for him. The Icon Gallery is owned by Hetty Roozemond, wife of Robert J. Roozemond.
“Hetty is my cousin,” Mulié says, to my surprise.
The icon was kept at De Wijenburgh until it was declared bankrupt. At that point, Mr. Mulié asked for it back, but was forced to petition the receivership to get it.
“Mr. Mulié, will you consider sharing your documentation with our lawyers tomorrow over lunch?” I say, not believing my good fortune.
“I’ll bring my file.”
I am excited to inform Kyprianou that we hit the jackpot with documents that show how De Wijenburgh and Roozemond structured the business. De Wijenburgh proposes to individuals usually introduced by guys like Van Rijn that they purchase an icon as an investment. They show documents that assess it at a greater value and sometimes sell it the same day for a profit, which they promise to split with their new investors. The investors must agree to allow De Wijenburgh to exhibit the icon for three years. The icon travels around the world on exhibition at other galleries, and in return the investors are given a duplicate icon (a replica) until the original is returned after the contractual period. Somewhere in the travels, these icons, which were already sold, are sold again. The structure of De Wijenburgh gave us insight into the labyrinth of the trade. Never taking possession of these stolen artifacts keeps Van Rijn and Roozemond free of culpability. Much of the evidence is considered hearsay and therefore it is difficult to initiate a court proceeding.16, 17, 18
Mr. Mulié’s relationship to Mrs. Roozemond could have contributed to his good fortune, as Mulié did have possession of the John the Baptist icon, unlike Mrs. Stoop. He managed to acquire it from the bankruptcy receivership before any other claimants surfaced. He sold it to Christie’s in October of 1985.
One question remains—who is the possessor of the John the Baptist icon now, and what is their legal position under British law? I send Mr. Toorenaar in search of information about Yannis Petsopoulos, who is listed in Hetty Roozemond’s book as the last public owner of the icon. It is also time I sit down with Van Rijn, the only one who knows where the last remaining facts are buried.
Michael was correct about Sophia’s mental disabilities impacting her ability to eat normally. Although, Sophia’s condition is unchanged she is released from the hospital into our care. The full-time nurse that we hired is waiting for us at the front door when we arrive home. Alongside Sophia’s bassinet is a stand that holds a feeding drip. Sophia’s stomach is still so tiny she has to be tube fed through her nose day and night. Sophia also suffers from apnea, which means there are times when she may stop breathing.
The alarm sounds, indicating that either Sophia has moved and disconnected the feeding tube or the bag of food is empty. It doesn’t matter why it is ringing; it always makes me panic. Michael rushes to check on her each night. Michael takes the night shift and I take the lead during the day. I’m too afraid to be alone with her should something happen; I am more comfortable caring for her when I have the nurse nearby.
The first few weeks I feel trepidation over every little sound and whimper she makes, questioning my maternal instincts and reactions, wondering if I am doing everything right. I worry how the stress is impacting Andreas. He was expecting a baby sister to play with, and he can’t touch her. I wonder how Sophia’s inability to respond to his efforts to bond will play out.
Thankfully, I become more relaxed as the weeks pass, more confident that I can care for her. Nevertheless, I can’t help but compare Sophia’s progress to Andreas’s. Sophia only moves slightly, and she doesn’t seem interested in anything. Her intestines are not functioning and need daily intervention. Andreas closes his eyes and puts his hands over his ears when she screams in pain, which brings me to tears.
Michael and I see her lack of development and speak to Ines about it. We spend countless hours researching and trying to find experts to help us support Sophia’s growth.
The way I make this work is to place myself in a total state of hope and possibility. I cannot accept that my daughter will live anything other than a normal life. I am in a state of denial, and anything I see that is out of the ordinary I refer to Ines and Michael for a solution. They understand that I am not ready for the truth.
Michael tries to gently coax me to see that Sophia will never be a normal child, but I refuse to let anything diminish my hope.
“It will take a bit longer for her to grow into being normal,” I say again and again. “I’m sure she will be absolutely fine.”
Michael takes on the responsibility to confer with Ines and the other Leiden doctors about the road that lies ahead for my Sophia. I am not ready to break free of the cocoon into which I have spun myself.
I have yet to cry. I search inside myself for what holds me back, and I am reminded of the day that my mother instructed my siblings and me to commit suicide rather than being captured by the Turkish army. She seemed stone cold and without emotion. I questioned her motives then, but I understand them now. “If I collapse, all will collapse around me” must have been her thought process on that dark day many years ago. I now adopt that same mantra. We are so quick to condemn each other when it is far more peaceful to create a respectful space to try and understand our differences.
In Anastasia’s death and Sophia’s survival there is a purpose that has not yet been revealed. Until that day comes, I will not be free.