The Fake Rembrandt

Suzan and Bob, both resistance fighters, kneeled behind the blinded window on the first floor above the haberdashery store, where Abraham Rosenbaum for more than forty years made a meagre living but a happy life for Ethel and their five children. Until the Nazi horror came too close for his liking and they left the country they loved leaving everything behind. With his left hand Bob lifted just a few inches of the bottom of the black paper blind, intended to prevent light escaping from the now dark empty room. A decree from the German occupier of Holland forced all citizens to blind their windows, in order to avoid guidance to the Allied bombers on their way to Germany. It provided just enough space for Suzan to point her binoculars to the front of the large villa across the road. Nothing yet. The room in the empty building was bone chilling cold, some windows were broken, doors smashed in, the furniture stolen and walls desecrated with Jude Schwein, Jew pig and a star of David, the place stank of stale air, dust, urine and excrements. It was a moonless night and what little light penetrated the November clouds, reflected silvery white from a thin layer of fresh snow on the cobble stone road between the apartment and the villa across from it. Trees, once lining both sides of the street had been cut down to provide a free field of fire for the two Flak towers, anti-aircraft guns, pointing in four directions leaving behind the tree stumps as remnants of what used to be lush parasols for pre-war spring time strollers. Suzan was slender and pretty in her mid-twenties, her auburn hair tucked under a wool knitted cap, dark stockings and a dark blue coat. She held a BA in languages and a black belt in karate. Bob was her senior by some 12 years, tall, not really handsome but with a charming smile from perfect white teeth, he wore a black coverall over warm Manchester trousers and a thick wool sweater. Bob was an architect and an enthusiastic sportsman, soccer player, swimmer, skier and competed skating the canals in Holland. Both wore side arms, both were shivering, both were single. “What time do you have”, asked Suzan. “5 minutes to nine, should be any time now” It was dark and quiet outside which made them talk cautiously in subdued voices. Three hours after curfew nobody was out and none of the few licensed vehicles passed by. Then suddenly the sound of engines and two narrow triangles of light from the first car as if moving snow, pushing it slowly forward in the dark, followed by a second car. The cars made a right turn and stopped in front of the entrance of the villa. “That’s them, exactly nine, just like Wednesday.” The first car, an open camouflage coloured Kubelwagen, the German equivalent of a Jeep, held four soldiers, helmets on, arms at the ready, they did not move but kept their seats as if sitting at attention. The Kubelwagen made way for the second car and kept its engine running. The second car a black Mercedes 1938 moved forward, closer to the entrance stairs of the villa. The passenger door opened and an officer jumped out, opening gallantly the backdoor from where a blond women in a cheap fur coat disembarked, door handle in hand the officer slightly bowed and clicked his heels. The sound reverberated in the quiet night. “You know her?” asked Bob. “ Don’t think so, not very easy to tell from here” she adjusted her binoculars but could only see the woman’s back. Then from the other side of the Mercedes, a second woman, resembling in hair colour and fur coat the first one, appeared, holding on to the doorknob, she quickly looked over her shoulder, then walked around the car to follow the officer. Her high heels seemed to make walking risky on the slippery pavement. With stiff legs taking small steps she took the officers arm. “They seem to be the same girls Bob, the first one a bit shorter and the second one with that same wiggly walk, as if she wears her mother’s shoes”. “I think you’re right, but for now who cares, main thing is to find out if they run the same schedule, I bet they’ll be out at 11 sharp”. The large front door of the house opened and for a moment four silhouettes became visible sharply delineated against the backlight of the entrance hall, music sounded from deep within, Wiener Waltzes played on a gramophone. Both cars disappeared in the same direction they came from, the engines could still be heard when the dimmed lights where long out of sight. “Two hours, Bob, my God I am cold” she blew in her fists and pulled her shawl closer around her neck. She sat on the dusty wooden floor, back against the wall, knees pulled up. “Here, take a swig, it’ll warm your inside” Bob handed her a flask that contained maybe half a glass of genever, the Dutch gin. He moved closer to her in an effort to provide comfort. She gulped some down, then made a face, but immediately felt the effect and smiled while handing him back the last sip which he swallowed. “No point leaving Suze, you never know what happens and as you are well aware moving around after curfew is damned dangerous, here, let me put my arm around you and cover you with this side of my coat, my sweater is very thick and warm.” Making themselves as comfortable as possible, they prepared themselves for a long 2 hour wait. In front of the villa, on the left side of the entrance stairs, hardly visible in the darkness was a guard post, a soldier walked with shouldered riffle from left to right and back again, stamping his nailed boots to keep his feet from freezing, steam clouds escaping his nose or mouth with every exhalation. The villa was built around the turn of the century by the local owner of the beer brewery, and with 12 rooms, a theatre and ball room, a large office and a second one, a dining and breakfast room as well as staff accommodations. It fell immediately in the hands of the German commander Oberst von Gruenfeld, a Prussian school colonel, who despised the SS fanatics attached to his command, but had to live with their interference and tolerate their cruelty to the population and the contempt towards his soldiers. The beer baron and his family had left for England. The colonel complained in vain a number of times to Seys Inquart the German national commander in charge of the occupied Netherlands, when excessive SS cruelty to the local population was in his opinion counter-productive to his efforts to bring Holland within the realms of the great German empire, a mission he believed in. Before the war, von Gruenfeld would enjoy summer trips with his family to the Dutch North Sea coast and its sandy beaches, he had hoped that bringing Holland under the protection of the German Reich, would meet with little resistance; after all were they not kindred souls? During the Great War so tragically ending for Germany with the draconian treaty of Versailles, Holland elected to remain neutral. Then, with the strength of the New Germany under Adolph Hitler becoming evident during the late nineteen thirties, the ‘broken gun’ movement in Holland aimed to stay out of the conflict again. As a strategist von Gruenfeld agreed with the high command that to conquer France and England, Holland was needed as a base to operate from. The mistake made at the start of the Great War, to attack France through Belgium, the so called Schlieffenplan, would not be repeated. Hitler decided to ignore Holland’s neutrality and invaded on May 10th 1940, a strategic move that von Gruenfeld understood. What surprised him and for that matter General Kurt Student, commander of the Luftlandekorps , the airborne division as much, was the fierce resistance the small nation put up and although it only lasted five days, no less than 50% of the available transport planes manned by flight instructors where shot down.