1993–1995
Van Rijn’s book makes a splash in Holland when it is released in 1993. There is no way of knowing what is fact and what is fiction, but as I read the book, I still file names and bits of information away, details that may help me to connect with other pieces of information that Van Rijn has given me throughout the years. His views of Dikmen, Roozemond, and Petsopoulos are revealed in his book for the world to see. He even mentions me in his book: “Tasoula Georgiou . . . is a passionate young woman, utterly devoted to the cause of the suffering people of her country and to the fight for saving their cultural heritage. What she brought home to me was not the ordeal of a nation, but the agony of flesh and blood people.”
Is Van Rijn in the process of transformation, or is his aim to flatter and then disarm me, to exploit the Church and the government of Cyprus? If he wants to make amends for trafficking my country’s religious and historical symbols, he will have to make a sacrifice to prove his credibility. As a sign that I can trust him, I want him to tell me the whereabouts of at least one artifact without asking for compensation.
I do believe that he has heard enough to come to some understanding about the nonmonetary value that these artifacts hold for people. Whether it is enough to change his ways is questionable. His knowledge of the beauty and magnificence of the art, how it is made, and what historical significance it holds, is impressive.
Trading in illicit artifacts, on the other hand, places the identity of the Cypriot people up for sale. The impact is devastating, especially because loopholes in the law make it almost impossible to recover these looted pieces of our cultural heritage. I cannot return home to Famagusta, now a “ghost city” wrapped in barbed wire and frozen in time since 1974 because it is still under Turkish military control. I identify with each looted artifact as a kindred refugee, and every piece that I can return to Cyprus is a win against the Turkish government.
Approaching Leiden University Medical Center is always a trying experience since my daughter’s birth. Today, Sophia’s scheduled checkup includes a brain scan. Ines, her pediatrician, greets us wearing a smile of uncertainty.
“During the final weeks that a fetus is in the womb, the brain is building connections at an accelerated rate. Sophia was in the neonatal care unit during this critical period when the brain growth took place. I see neurodevelopmental disability and signs of her cognitive functions being affected.”
“Will she be able to walk and talk?” asks Michael.
“Possibly, possibly not. It’s too early to say at this point. There are issues with muscle control. Her IQ is affected. It is likely she will be dependent on caregivers.”
With each piece of information I hold my breath just a little bit more. Sophia is undersized for her age, and a part of me still looks at her development in relation to her size, supporting my continued denial.
“I hesitate to say or predict more, as every child is different. I think we should continue to observe Sophia closely and take it a day at a time,” says Ines.
My Sophia’s head tilts to one side, and it pains me to see her struggle to hold it up. Her left hand moves differently than her right, and these symptoms all make sense now that I have been given this information.
“Hire a physiotherapist to come to your home. I will give you recommendations,” she says.
Because premature babies lack the development skills to hold their limbs close to their bodies as full-term babies do, the physiotherapist uses positioning tools to help guide Sophia’s muscles. I watch the physiotherapist work with Sophia so that I may exercise her when he is gone. In my mind, the more work I do, the more she may progress. Michael will often appear in her room while I’m exercising Sophia. He will place his hand on the small of my back and speak to me tenderly.
“You must not be too hard on yourself, my darling, if things don’t change for Sophia.”
I don’t answer him. Surrendering is not an option for me. It must be even harder for Michael to deal with what we are going through because he carries the weight of knowing that Sophia will never be a normal child, while I still have my hopes, however thin. His concern escalates as he watches me work tirelessly to change things.
As a mother, I cannot give up the hopes and dreams I have for Sophia, the only girl in my extended family. Something inside me persists in finding the best experts to help her learn how to walk, talk, and maximize the abilities she does have. I spend an inordinate amount of time and energy researching practitioners with advanced techniques and teachers who have a track record of making strides with children living with mental disabilities. I search for the right schools, leaving no stone unturned.
Michael and I arrive in Scotland to spend the Christmas 1994 holiday with his twin brother Andrew and his family. Rachel, our niece, and Sophia were born just days apart from each other. Rachel is a typical, normal child, and as I watch her and Sophia being posed for a photograph under the Christmas tree, I am hit by the differences between the two girls. Rachel is playing with her Christmas toys, understanding that what she holds in her hand is a doll. Sophia is fascinated by the wrapping paper and is oblivious to everything around her. The inequality is striking, forcing me to recognize the truth at last. Instead of running from my feelings, I finally sit with the pain and the sensations of loss and disappointment.
As the festive Christmas lights blink on and off in the background, I accept that I will never be able to walk my Sophia down the aisle or experience any of the treasured moments mothers dream about having with their daughters. I refuse to turn away or divert my attention until the depth of my sadness chokes me. Just when I can’t bear a moment more, I surrender.
I let go of holding myself responsible for Anastasia’s death and for Sophia’s disabilities and let the river of tears I finally shed cleanse me. Sophia is perfect just as she is; I am the one who must change and acknowledge that.
Looking around, I see everyone else is engaged and enjoying the holiday, unaware of the major shakeup that is happening within me. I leave the room to compose myself. Michael follows me to hold me until there are no more tears to shed.
“I understand, Michael.”
“I knew you would come around, my darling. It just took some time, that’s all.”
From this day forward, I lower my expectations and my desire to control the unknown. Sophia may never walk, talk, or be independent. I will no longer see her as the cloud over our family’s sky. She is a star, just like Andreas, and as big of a blessing.
Sophia became my greatest teacher about acceptance, which came in the guise of an unwrapped present under the tree this Christmas.
My reputation in business and as honorary consul to Cyprus in the Netherlands is growing, putting my company in a league of its own. Most of the diplomats coming to The Hague refer their partners and children to Octagon in search of employment.
My employees all have security clearance, and because of our location, Octagon is able to secure high-profile clients seeking to open up offices in the International City of Peace and Justice. Any European organization that requires security and confidentiality on their IT systems comes to me. All of our business is derived from reviews and referrals. Octagon secures business with NATO, the International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia, as well as many other prestigious institutions and firms. This gives me access to lawyers, judges, international law enforcement professionals, who in turn become resources I can turn to as my search for the icons and mosaics takes me across three continents.
These individuals become my friends and take an active interest in my mission, giving me unlimited access to vital resources and reinforcing to me that I am fulfilling what destiny has planned. Everyone who comes into my life seems to serve some kind of purpose in helping me repatriate the artifacts.
In the remote mountainous region of northern Cyprus, some time after the invasion in 1974, the sixteenth-century icons of the apostles Peter, Paul, John, and Mark were looted from a wooden iconostasis in the monastery of Antiphonitis. Set atop a rugged mountainside, the church looks as if God himself reached down from heaven to place it. The original church was built in the village of Kalograia in the seventh century, surrounded by wild forest. It was rebuilt in the twelfth century in the Byzantine architectural style. Additional sections, more Gothic in design, were added in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries.
Some of the artwork that adorned the interior walls and ceilings was Byzantine in style, dating from the twelfth century. Unique fifteenth-century frescoes were also present, which made the monastery a perfect example of the varied cultural heritage of Orthodox Christianity that existed in Cyprus. The monastery was heavily looted, and sheep were kept in it once all the icons were pillaged. The iconostasis was destroyed and the frescoes stolen. There has been no information about the whereabouts of the icons until the summer of 1995.
The consul general of Greece, a lovely man and career diplomat, calls.
“My elderly Dutch neighbors own four icons, which they have attempted to sell to Christie’s. Christie’s informed them that the icons might be filched, and they ask me to check whether they are listed in Interpol’s database of stolen artworks. I write to my government in Greece and ask them to check with Interpol in Nicosia. The answer comes back that they are not listed. Can you help me?”
“Of course,” I say.
“Shall I arrange an appointment for you to meet with the Lans family at their home in Rotterdam?”1
“Saturday will work best.”
Michael joins me on my outing to meet the Lans couple, as it is the weekend and we are looking forward to spending leisure time together following the appointment. When we enter the Lanses’ home, the first thing we notice is that the house is heavily decorated with expensive antiques. The Lanses, in their late sixties, appear to be serious collectors.
“The china is spectacular,” says Michael, admiring a bowl in a glass-fronted cabinet. Mrs. Lans, a tall, stocky woman, opens the cabinet to give Michael a closer look.
“Beautiful. It’s almost transparent,” I say.
We are invited to take a seat on the sofa in the living room. The Lanses sit directly across from us in two chairs.
“Where are the icons?” I ask, curious that they are not on display with the rest of their collection.
Mrs. Lans hands us four photographs of the icons.
“I keep them in a bank vault. The Cypriot embassy told our neighbor that they are not on the Interpol list. I want to know if they are stolen or not,” she says. Mr. Lans remains silent and appears to be nervous.
“When did you buy them? Before or after the war?” I ask.
Mrs. Lans responds, “It was in early 1971.”
“From whom did you buy them?”
“An Armenian dealer, who was referred by a friend.”
“May I ask who?”
“I’m not willing to comment on that just yet,” she says.
“If you purchased them before the war in 1974, they are most likely fakes,” I say. “These types of icons, over two feet high and wide, originate from the sacred iconostasis and would never be for sale. If they are original, it is almost certain that they are looted from a church, but that is something only an expert can confirm.” Mr. Lans is rubbing his hands nervously. Whether they are fakes or stolen, neither possibility is pleasant for the Lanses to hear.
“May I take these photographs?” I ask.
Mrs. Lans nods in agreement.
“If the icons were looted, the Church will expect you to return them,” I say.
“I paid two hundred thousand Dutch guilders [roughly $125,000] for these icons, and I will not give them back without recompense,” says Mrs. Lans.
“What if the Church will not agree to reimburse you?” I ask.
“Then I will hide them and the Church will never see them again!”
I compose myself before leaving.
“How sure are you that you purchased them in 1971?”
Mrs. Lans says, “Absolutely sure.” Mr. Lans’s face turns red as he nods in agreement.
“Give me a few days to check into this,” I say.
Standing to shake their hands, I convey as much warmth as I possibly can to put them at ease. It is clear to me that the Lanses are collectors and educated and most likely familiar with the laws governing stolen works of art, which makes me question whether they are trying to mislead me by giving me the year of 1971, because the twenty-year statute of limitations under Dutch law becomes applicable.
Once outside, I ask Michael what he thinks.
“It’s difficult to say,” he replies.
Arriving home, I immediately send Mr. and Mrs. Lans a letter documenting my visit with them and request permission to bring an expert to their home to authenticate the icons.2, 3 I then fax Mr. Papageorgiou, the Byzantinologist, the photographs for authentication to schedule an appointment.
Mr. Papageorgiou sounds more jovial than usual when he calls.
“I can’t be sure until I see them, of course, but I believe they could be from the church of Antiphonitis, which you know is one of the most historically significant monasteries in Cyprus.”
“I remember visiting it as a child,” I say. “The setting of the church in the mountainside was magical.”
“Yes, I agree,” he says. “Here is the irony. In June 1974, just weeks prior to the war, I visited the church and actually,” he says, laughing, “I marked the icons with cotton bits as I saw areas that needed repair. What you have in Rotterdam could be quite rare.”
“Mr. Papageorgiou, I’m no expert. How can I tell if these are the real icons?” I ask, not forgetting the other possibility—that they are forgeries.
“Look at the backs of the icons. It is extremely rare to find signatures. The authentic icons of Antiphonitis were, unusually, signed by the artist,” he says.
“Mr. Papageorgiou, We have one chance with these people, and if the icons are original, then I will have to have them confiscated. When can you come to the Netherlands? Our timing is critical here.”
“I will have to secure approval from my ministry before I come over,” he says.
“While you are doing that, I’ll look for a Dutch lawyer to obtain a writ of confiscation in case we need it.”
Feeling that time is of the essence, I fly to Cyprus and meet with the minister of foreign affairs.
“If it is a civil case, you must go to the archbishop for approval. Let me call him and get you an appointment,” he says.
Led into the archbishop’s office at the palace, I am reminded of the powerful company I am keeping by the high-backed red velvet chairs that decorate his office.
“Mr. Papageorgiou should come to Holland to authenticate the icons, Your Beatitude. If he confirms that the four icons are from the church of Antiphonitis, we will have to confiscate them, as Mrs. Lans has threatened to hide the icons if she is not reimbursed. We will need a Dutch lawyer to confiscate them. Can you give a power of attorney to someone in the government to lead this should it turn into a legal case?” I ask.
The archbishop leaves his office and returns with a signed power of attorney giving full authority to me.
“What does this mean?” I ask.
“I’m placing you in charge. You select the lawyer and you supervise the case.”
I return to Holland with the Lans case now in my authority and the destiny of the Antiphonitis icons resting on my shoulders.
Robert W. Polak, who also represents Christie’s, is a young, dynamic expert in the field. He is in his mid-thirties, has dark hair, and wears round-rimmed glasses. Working at the full-service firm De Brauw Blackstone Westbroek N.V. in Amsterdam, Polak gives the impression that he is a fierce attorney in an understated way—no bravado, just expertise.4 In addition to his credentials, I would not want to ever face him as an opponent.
The archbishop trusts me to make some very critical decisions.5 He sees my potential, as does Van Rijn, ironically, which makes for a curious triangle as I delve deeper into the world of art trafficking.
Polak prepares the confiscation writ prior to Papageorgiou’s arrival, based on evidence I forwarded to him from the Ministry of Antiquities.6 The Lanses agree to let Papageorgiou examine the icons, and we set out.7
Once inside, I occupy them with questions in their living room, leaving Papageorgiou alone to examine the icons now on display in their home office.
“Are you absolutely positive you purchased the icons before 1974?”
Mrs. Lans answers again, “Yes, in 1971.”8
“From whom did you buy them?”
“An Armenian by the name of Edouard Dergazarian.”
“Is he an art dealer?”
“Yes,” replies Mrs. Lans.
“Where is his gallery?”
“He doesn’t have a gallery,” says Mrs. Lans.
“Well, how did you find him?”
“We belong to a circle of collectors. He visits us when he has something to sell.”
“He comes to your home to make the sale?”
“Yes, that’s correct,” says Mrs. Lans.
“Do you have a receipt for the icons?”
“No, we purchased them before the war, before all of the trouble started, and we paid cash,” she says.
With every question Mrs. Lans answers, Mr. Lans’s hands shake a little more. First, there was never a time when buying sacred artifacts was legal in Cyprus. Being experienced collectors, their suspicions should have been raised. It was a cash transaction with a dealer who operated door to door. I excuse myself to check on Papageorgiou.
“One hundred percent authentic,” he says in Greek.
I return to the Lanses in the living room and explain that our expert believes the icons to be authentic.
“The good news is that you did not purchase fakes,” I say, smiling. “The bad news is that they were probably looted after the war.”
“I’ve already told you,” says Mrs. Lans. “We bought the icons before 1974 for two hundred thousand guilders [approximately $125,000]. If the Church of Cyprus wants them back, they will have to reimburse us that money.”
“Mrs. Lans, it’s not the Church’s policy to buy back artifacts that were stolen from them. Doing so would only fuel the elicit trade. They can and will take legal action, if forced to.”
“Let them do that,” she says in a threatening tone.
“There are other alternatives. The Church can provide you with copies of the icons. You can return them to the people of Cyprus courtesy of the archbishop. We can look for a corporate sponsor to purchase the icons from you to donate them to Cyprus and take advantage of the positive publicity they will receive.”
“We’re not interested,” she says.
After saying our good-byes, we leave their flat and head for the hotel a block away to call the Church’s attorney, Mr. Polak.
“Confiscate them!” I say, and Polak calls the bailiff to confiscate the icons. Based on Mrs. Lans’s comments, I feel I have no choice in the matter. She will not give the icons back to the Church without compensation, and she has made it clear that the icons could disappear very easily.
By the time I return home, Mrs. Lans is calling me.
“You cheated me. You came into my home and stole my icons.”
“I’m sorry that you feel that way. These icons belong to the people of Cyprus. We can stop all of this now if you are willing to work with me. Otherwise, we will have to drag this out in court.” Before I can get take my next breath, I am disconnected.
Ironically, the Lanses telephoned Polak shortly after the confiscation, wanting him to represent them, totally unaware that Polak was the attorney who just seized their icons. Outraged by what just transpired, Mrs. Lans calls every newspaper and television news outlet to share how the honorary consul of Cyprus unjustly seized her personal property, and I am suddenly in the middle of a media frenzy.
The Lans couple speaks to the media. It is unlikely this couple could have purchased the icons before 1974. Mr. Papageorgiou saw them weeks before the invasion, and marked them for repair. The icons are original and signed by the artist.
They involved their neighbor, the Greek consul, to get confirmation that they were not on the Interpol list before their sale to the auction house. In addition, stating that they purchased the icons before the war also would place the works outside the Dutch statute of limitations for proof of provenance.
The confiscated icons, considered to be “disputed ownership” items, will be placed under the custody of an independent receiver who will hold them in a warehouse until the courts determine their fate. It’s important that the artifacts are housed in a controlled environment, usually unavailable outside a museum, in order to preserve them. Now no one will have access to these sixteenth century icons.
Court cases have been known to take years to settle, which means the icons will be out of public view for quite some time. When I look at icons or mosaics I see the story that each piece tells to humanity. At the bare minimum, I feel that there should be a museum for disputed artwork so that these “homeless treasures” are always accessible to the world.
My office is inundated with inquiries from the media when a phone call from Van Rijn slips through.
“Well done, my girl! I am proud of you,” Van Rijn’s enthusiastic voice says. “If you need anything, I am here to help you,” he says.
“Do you know Edouard Dergazarian?”
“Of course I do; he’s my Armenian friend. I can get you a sit-down with him.”
Van Rijn never gives something for nothing. I do not jump at the bait.
“We are about to begin a civil case.”
“Come to London,” says Van Rijn, “and I’ll introduce you.” The sound of a dial tone follows. It could be that he merely wants to stay relevant in the recovery effort, since this is the first case where the information about a stolen artifact came from a source other than Van Rijn. Perhaps he feels threatened about losing his value as an informant.
“Jan Fred van Wijnen from the Vrij Nederland newspaper would like to talk to you about looted Cypriot artifacts,” my assistant says.
“Schedule an appointment with him,” I say.
In preparation for my meeting with the investigative reporter, I pull a file of photographs, supplied to me by the Department of Antiquities and Mr. Papageorgiou of icons looted from the occupied area. I want the reporter to understand the importance that these sacred artifacts hold for the people of Cyprus and the role they play in the Orthodox Church.
Jan Fred van Wijnen is a young Dutch investigative reporter in his thirties. His long, dark wavy hair in combination with his penetrating blue eyes reminds me of how Jesus Christ is depicted on icons. After introductions, we sit down at the small conference table in my office to have our interview.
“Are you familiar with this icon?” he asks, as he places a picture of the archangel Michael of Platanistasa down in front of me. The icon originated in the village of Platanistasa, nestled between picturesque peaks at 3,100 feet above sea level, in the Pitsilia region, a free area of Cyprus.
Depicting archangel Michael standing between Saints Evdokia and Marina, it was transferred, on temporary loan, to the bishop’s palace in Kyrenia in the occupied area of Cyprus, where it was stolen during the invasion.
“Yes. It is the archangel Michael from Platanistasa.”
“Why isn’t your government doing something about it?” he asks in an accusatory tone. “Van Rijn told you years ago. Why delay?”
“Van Rijn told me that a doctor in The Hague was in possession of it. His name escapes me . . . what was his name . . .”9 I say out loud to myself, sounding as if I know his name—but Van Rijn never gave it to me.
Van Wijnen says the name of the doctor. I immediately open the phone book and search for his address.
“Got him,” I say. “Get your coat.”
I speed walk to my car, making it difficult for van Wijnen to keep up with me.
“What the hell is going on here?” he asks.
“Van Rijn never gave me the name of the doctor. Now that I have it, I can do something about getting the icon back,” I say, without missing a step.
“You tricked me! I didn’t come here to reveal my sources!” says the reporter.
“Please! You gave the name freely.”
“We are both being used by Van Rijn and we should be asking ourselves why.”
Pulling up to the clinic where the doctor works, I leave the motor running and the reporter in my car. I ring the bell to the clinic; a nurse answers.
“I’m the honorary consul of Cyprus. I’m looking for the doctor.”
“Sorry, Madame, he’s gone home for the day.”
“This is an urgent, confidential matter. Would you be able to give me his home address?” To my surprise, she does, and his home is actually around the corner from where I live. We arrive at the doctor’s home minutes later. I ring the bell with one hand, holding the file in the other.
“Good afternoon, sir, I am Mrs. Tasoula Hadjitofi, honorary consul of Cyprus,” I say. “Can you please tell me what you know about this icon?” I open the file and show him the photograph of archangel Michael, and van Wijnen’s card drops to the floor. He picks it up and notices the name.
“I know nothing,” the doctor says nervously. “I don’t want any part of this. Leave now!”
“Please, sir, if I may have just a moment more.”
“Look,” he says pointing to the card, “this journalist is already investigating me!”
“I am interested in working with people like you who have been taken advantage of by art traffickers,” I say. “You don’t have to fear me if you will assist me in getting the icon back. It is the dealers I’m after, not people like you. Please call me.”
Returning to the car, I inform van Wijnen of what has taken place.
The doctor didn’t admit to anything. Jan Fred van Wijnen published that when he spoke to the doctor he admitted to having the icon in his home.
That same afternoon, I return to my office and place a call to Polak, who sets the papers in motion to confiscate the icon. I see van Wijnen out.
Turning to van Wijnen, I say, “Did the Cypriot government act quickly enough for you today?”
The doctor is an elegant man of sixty and is accompanied by his son, who is a fortyish businessman and the more sociable of the two.
“How did the icon come into your possession?”
“Do you know Robert Roozemond?” the doctor asks.
“Yes,” I say.
“Roozemond did warn me that the icon might be stolen at the time we purchased it.”
“Yes,” his son interrupts, “but he also told us he checked the icon’s status with Interpol and that it was not on the list of stolen art works. Because of that, we assumed it was a legal purchase.”
“I understand,” I say, trying to show them compassion. “The proper due diligence is to check with the Cypriot government or with the Church of Cyprus. Everything that is stolen or looted doesn’t always show up on the Interpol list.”
“I curse the day this icon came into my life,” says the doctor.
“Father began getting calls from a guy named Van Rijn,” says the son.
“What did Van Rijn want?” I ask.
“He was threatening my father. Telling us that if we didn’t pay him he was going to leak our name to the Cypriot government and the press to create a scandal.”
“Did you give him money?” I ask.
“I had to protect my reputation at all costs,” he says, looking quite embarrassed.
Van Rijn leaves a trail of facts that hint at the true underbelly of his personality, the part that he hides whenever I am in his presence. I always learn of his dark side through another source.
“I don’t want the icon anymore,” says the doctor.
“My father paid fifty-six thousand guilders ($35,000) for it, so I would like to see if we can find a way to compensate him for his investment.”
“A sponsor for the return of the artifact. Do you know of a Cypriot company in Holland that might be interested?”
“No, but I’m looking to strike a deal with a business, or a businessperson, someone who can benefit from positive publicity. Can you give us a few weeks to try and achieve that?”
I find the doctor and his son to be honest, decent people and truly remorseful, which is in direct contrast to my experience dealing with the Lanses. I agree to give them two weeks more to find a suitable donor or corporation to sponsor the icon’s return to Cyprus.
In the meantime, I report to the ministry and the archbishop.10, 11 Jan Fred van Wijnen writes an article revealing the story of how the icon was secured.
The doctor and his son telephone me, terribly upset.12 “Why did you send people to confiscate the icon?” asks the son. “And if that’s not enough, there is Jan Fred’s article for us to deal with.”
“Your name is not mentioned,” I respond. “This icon has been missing for twenty-one years since the war. We can’t risk losing it again. In regard to the article, the reporter had the story before he came to either of us,” I say.
“It is an assault on my father’s integrity.”
“It has nothing to do with your father’s integrity. I promise you that the icon is safe, and that I will do everything to resolve this matter discreetly. Remember, I gave you two weeks to find a sponsor.”
Two weeks go by, and I don’t hear from the doctor or his son. I reach out to them.
“Have you found a sponsor?” I inquire.
“I haven’t found anyone. Can you give me another two weeks, please?”
Polak advises me that I can only give one two-week extension, and anything more will impede the confiscation writ.
Several weeks pass, the doctor asks to meet. His elegant wife greets me at the door.13
“We will be happy to give you a reproduction of the icon, and I would like to invite you and your wife to come to Cyprus as guests of the archbishop to return the icon personally.”
“I appreciate the offer, Consul, but I just wish to be rid of the entire experience.”
“I can’t give you another extension. My confiscation writ will expire,” I say.
The doctor nods his head to indicate he understands. I feel for these people.
“If you sign a transfer of title to the Church now, I can give you another two weeks.” The doctor agrees.
“I wish to remain anonymous,” says the doctor.
“I can guarantee you that on behalf of the Church.”
“Madame Consul, I am grateful that this nightmare is finally over.”
I am euphoric about being able to recover this icon without having to go through the process and the expense of a court case.14 I telephone the archbishop.
“My child, bring the icon home to Cyprus as close as you can to August fourteenth,” says the archbishop. Checking my schedule, I see that I am able to accommodate his request. Then I realize why he is asking for that date: it’s the anniversary of the second invasion of Cyprus and the eve of the feast of the Dormition of the Mother of God which is one of the three most important feasts of the church calendar.
“Let’s give the people something positive to remember,” says the archbishop.
Meanwhile, I extend an invitation to the reporter to join me in Cyprus.
“I promised my wife a vacation—I can’t,” he says.
“Bring your wife,” I suggest. “The archbishop invites you as his guests. It is important that someone of your caliber in the media witnesses the importance that these artifacts have for the people of Cyprus.”
I have a box specially made by professional shippers to carry the icon safely home to Cyprus.15 The night before we leave, I stand the archangel Michael next to my bed. I don’t sleep a wink because it’s in my possession, and it’s my responsibility to protect it. I feel the energy of this ancient, sacred artifact and pray before it, asking for the protection of my family and children. My children will remain in Holland with my in-laws who will care for them in our absence with the additional help of the nannies. The next morning, Michael places the icon in its box and screws the lid shut.
It is dusk when we arrive at Larnaca airport in Cyprus, but there are lights, cameras, and crowds of people. I question the stewardess.
“What are all of these people doing here?”
“They are here to greet the icon,” she replies.
I have heart palpitations.
Michael picks up the icon, which has taken up three business class seats on the Cyprus Airways flight. The crew escorts us off, and we are halfway down the stairs when a group of Cypriots, journalists, policemen, and custom officers take the box holding the icon from Michael and run with it toward the VIP room at the airport.
“Be careful!” I shout, but no one is listening; they are so excited.
A bishop escorts us to the VIP room, where the press is waiting.
“Welcome home to Cyprus, Tasoula,” says the bishop to me.
“Thank you,” I say.
“You don’t remember me, do you? I am Bishop Vasilios. The archbishop selected me to meet you here today because he thought it would make you comfortable to see a familiar face.”
“My apologies. I have been living abroad since the invasion.”
“I am from Mandres,” he says.
“Mandres?” I ask.
“I am the son of Karayiannis.”
I am stunned. The bishop standing before me is actually the young cousin with whom we would stop and visit at the Saint Barnabas Monastery on our way to the village of Mandres.
“I was a child when we saw each other last.”
I take his hand to express the joy I feel in seeing him and knowing that he survived the war. My eyes, well up with tears. I see the recognition in the bishop’s eyes as well and, for a moment, the two of us see each other through the eyes of the youngsters we once were, remembering the times before the war when Cyprus was a paradise.
“The archbishop wanted this moment to be special for you,” he says.
The Monastery of Saint Barnabas is where I visited Bishop Vasilios, when he was a young monk. I remember receiving communion on Holy Thursday. I recall him giving us bottles of holy water along with some to bring to his mother in Mandres. It was the last time I saw Vasilios and Mandres before the invasion.
Arriving on this solemn anniversary, the day marking the second invasion of Cyprus, is a time of sadness and reflection. Surprising me with Bishop Vasilios as our escort says so much about the archbishop’s sensitive and thoughtful nature. The gesture takes my mind off what I lost in Cyprus and emphasizes the treasures that remain.
Hundreds of people have gathered outside the archbishop’s palace waiting to welcome the icon. The church bells ring as we approach the entrance of Saint Paul’s chapel by car. The archbishop waits to welcome us. As we step out of the car, two clerics take the icon and begin to chant. Hundreds of people join in the chanting; others drop to their knees as the icon passes them. People gently kiss it while making the sign of the cross. The intensity of the moment is reflected in their faces. It is as if Jesus himself had risen from the dead before them. We walk into the chapel of Saint John where the icon has been strategically placed so that the crowd of people can come in one door and leave through the other. People place flowers and basil on the icon. Turning to look at Jan Fred van Wijnen, I notice that both he and his wife are visibly moved. Inside the chapel Jan Fred gets a glimpse of how a non-looted interior of a house of worship normally looks.
Seeing the Cypriot women, children, and men filled with hope on the anniversary of the second invasion makes it all worthwhile. This is the first icon I’ve personally taken home to Cyprus.
“Now you understand why I do it, Michael.”
My husband smiles and places his arm around my shoulder, his way of letting me know that he agrees. What is most important now is that Jan Fred understands how much these icons matter to my people. Turning to the journalist, I say, “I’m counting on you, to share this experience with the world so they understand the impact that losing one’s cultural heritage has on people.”
Cyprus and the repatriation efforts of the Church have become big news in the Netherlands thanks to Jan Fred. My work on the Lans case and on the recovery of the icon of archangel Michael draws dozens of interview requests from media outlets from around the world. The favorable publicity places the issue of art trafficking and the importance of protecting Cypriot cultural heritage center stage. I forward copies of these articles from around the world to the MFA, in the hope that they will be pleased to see how the icons have become ambassadors for Cyprus. The archbishop and Polak advise me what to say and not say when discussing open cases. Having access to someone of Polak’s legal caliber is a godsend. He coaches me on the legal side of repatriation, which enables me to advocate the issues to the politicians and media with confidence and ease.
On August 4, Polak forwards correspondence from the attorney representing the Lans couple. I can feel the blood drain from my face as I read that the four apostle icons that we just confiscated from the Lanses had been exhibited from December 1976 to January 1977 at the Museum Prinsenhof in Delft. The exhibit was organized by none other than Michel Van Rijn and Edouard Dergazarian.16
Here we go again! I am drawn into another one of Van Rijn’s mind games, there is always an ulterior motive with him. First, he took advantage of the doctor, taking money by using his association with the Cypriot government to scare the family. Now he has withheld valuable information regarding his involvement in the Lans case and his partnership with Dergazarian.
Every move that Van Rijn makes must be scrutinized. There is too much at stake to make the slightest error.
According to Polak, the challenges we face in the Lans civil case have to do with the twenty-year statute of limitations. Since the icons were confiscated in 1995 and twenty-one years have passed since the 1974 invasion, we are at a critical point in determining if the statute of limitations is applicable. The burden of proof is on the Church, which must demonstrate that the Lanses purchased the icons less than twenty years ago and that they purchased them suspecting that they were stolen, in order to prove bad faith.
Polak brings up the possibility of invoking “The Convention for the Protection of Cultural Property in the Event of Armed Conflict” in order to spare the Church having to go through the uncertainty of a civil case. The Hague Convention, as it is known, was adopted in 1954 in response to the enormous destruction of cultural heritage that occurred during the Second World War. It is the first international treaty to attempt to secure worldwide cooperation for the protection of cultural heritage in the case of armed conflict and has been ratified by 127 countries. This international treaty and its protocols have never before been invoked.
“In times of war,” Polak says, “there is an obligation to uphold the protection of cultural heritage, and Turkey, Cyprus, and Holland are all required to do so because they are parties to the treaty and all three have ratified it. Holland has an obligation to take the icons from the Lanses and return them to Cyprus, and the Lanses have the right to request compensation from Turkey for not protecting the artifacts during the invasion and occupation of Cyprus, but only if they acted in good faith when acquiring them.”
“I just faxed you the statement of reply that I received from Mr. Lans. I think we should discuss it.”
Grabbing the fax, I quickly read through the statement and find myself feeling ill.
“I don’t believe this.”
“Which point?” he asks.
“All of it! Nonsense! Paragraph B says, ‘The icons were purchased from a Greek art dealer, according to Mr. Lans,’” I say.
“. . . who shall remain nameless,” adds Polak.
Van Rijn knows every move these dealers make because he is either actively a part of the deal or he is watching it happen from a front-row seat. As I read through the reply, the knot in my stomach gets tighter and tighter.
“Look at Paragraph C. They sent the icons out for repair, which confirms Papageorgiou’s statement that the icons were in need of repair due to the regular wear and tear of people constantly touching and kissing them,” I say.
“Let’s meet and discuss how to respond,” says Polak.