The Rembrandt Affair

local helpers, “It was a pleasure to work with them.”
    The archivist reappeared, holding a single sheet of paper. “I thought I recognized the name and address. There was another child who survived. But I don’t think she’ll talk.”
    “Why not?” Gabriel asked.
    “We have an annual conference here in Amsterdam that focuses on the children who were hidden during the Holocaust. Last year, I handled the registration.” He held up the sheet of paper. “Lena Herzfeld attended the first session but left almost immediately.”
    “What happened?”
    “When we asked her to write down her memories of the war for our archives, she became very agitated and angry. She said it had been a mistake to come. After that, we never saw her again.”
    “A reaction like that isn’t uncommon,” Gabriel said. “It took years for some survivors to talk about their experiences. And some never have.”
    “That’s true,” the archivist agreed. “But the hidden children are among the least understood victims of the Holocaust. Their experience has its own special tragedy. In most cases, they were handed over to complete strangers. Their parents were simply trying to save them, but what child can truly comprehend being left behind?”
    “I understand,” said Gabriel. “But it’s important that I see her.”
    The archivist searched Gabriel’s face and seemed to recognize something he had seen before. Then he smiled sadly and handed over the slip of paper.
    “Don’t tell her where you got the address. And be sure to treat her gently. She’s fragile. They’re all a bit fragile.”

16
    AMSTERDAM
    T he archivist told Gabriel and Chiara everything else he knew. Lena Herzfeld had worked as a teacher in the Dutch state school system, had never married, and, as it turned out, lived just around the corner from her old family home. It was a small street with a leafy green park on one side and a terrace of gabled houses on the other. Hers was a narrow little house with a narrow black door at street level. Gabriel reached for the bell but hesitated. She became very agitated and angry…After that, we never saw her again. Perhaps it was better to leave her undisturbed, he thought. He knew from personal experience that coaxing memory from a survivor could be a bit like crossing a frozen lake. One wrong step and the entire surface could crack with disastrous results.
    “What’s wrong?” Chiara asked.
    “I don’t want to put her through it. Besides, she probably doesn’t remember.”
    “She was nine when the Germans came. She remembers.”
    Gabriel made no movement. Chiara pressed the bell for him.
    “Why did you do that?”
    “She came to that conference for a reason. She wants to talk.”
    “Then why did she get so upset when they asked her about the war?”
    “They probably didn’t ask her the right way.”
    “And you think I can?”
    “I know you can.”
    Chiara reached for the bell again but stopped at the sound of footfalls in the entrance hall. An exterior light came on, and the door retreated a few inches, revealing a small, spare woman dressed entirely in black. Her pewter-colored hair was carefully brushed, and her blue eyes appeared clear and alert. She regarded the two visitors curiously, then, sensing they were not Dutch, addressed them in flawless English.
    “May I help you?”
    “We’re looking for Lena Herzfeld,” said Gabriel.
    “I’m Lena Herzfeld,” she replied calmly.
    “We were wondering whether we might speak with you.”
    “About?”
    “Your father.” Gabriel paused, then added, “And about the war.”
    She was silent for a moment. “My father has been dead for more than sixty years,” she said firmly. “As for the war, there is nothing to discuss.”
    Gabriel shot a glance at Chiara, who ignored him and quietly asked, “Will you tell us about the painting, then?”
    Lena Herzfeld seemed startled but quickly regained her composure. “What painting is that?”
    “The Rembrandt your father owned before the war.”
    “I’m afraid you have me confused with someone else. My father never owned a Rembrandt.”
    “But that’s not true,” Gabriel interjected. “Your father did indeed own a Rembrandt. He purchased it from De Vries Fine Arts on the Herengracht in 1936. I have a copy of the bill of sale if you would like to see it.”
    “I have no wish to see it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I—”
    “Then will you at least have a look at this?”
    Without waiting for an answer,