Excerpt of The Lover's Portrait by Jennifer S. Alderson

June 26, 1942

Just two more crates, then our work is finally done, Arjan reminded himself as he bent down to grasp the thick twine handles, his back muscles already yelping in protest. Drops of sweat were burning his eyes, blurring his vision. “You can do this,” he said softly, heaving the heavy oak box upwards with an audible grunt.

Philip nodded once then did the same. Together they lugged their loads across the moonlit room, down the metal stairs and into the cool subterranean space below. After hoisting the last two crates onto a stack close to the ladder, Arjan smiled in satisfaction, slapping Philip on the back as he regarded their work. One hundred and fifty-two crates holding his most treasured objects, and those of so many of his friends, were finally safe. Relief briefly overcame the panic and dread he’d been feeling for longer than he could remember. Preparing the space and artwork had taken more time than he’d hoped it would, but they’d done it. Now he could leave Amsterdam knowing he’d stayed true to his word. Arjan glanced over at Philip, glad he’d trusted him. He stretched out a hand towards the older man, “They fit perfectly.”

Philip answered with a hasty handshake and a tight smile before nodding towards the ladder, “Shall we?”

He was right, Arjan thought, there was still so much to do. They climbed back up into the small shed and closed the heavy metal lid, careful to cushion its fall. They didn’t want to give the neighbors an excuse to call the Gestapo. Not when they were so close to being finished.

Philip picked up a shovel and scooped sand onto the floor, letting Arjan rake it out evenly before adding more. When the sand was an inch thick, they shifted the first layer of heavy cement tiles into place, careful to fit them snug up against each other.

As they heaved and pushed, Arjan allowed himself to think about the future for the first time in weeks. Hiding the artwork was only the first step; he still had a long road to go before he could stop looking over his shoulder. First, back to his place to collect their suitcases. Then a short walk to Central Station where second-class train tickets to Venlo were waiting. Finally, a taxi ride to the Belgian border where his contact would provide him with falsified travel documents and a chauffeur-driven Mercedes-Benz. The five Rembrandt etchings in his suitcase would guarantee safe passage to Switzerland. From Geneva he should be able to make his way through the Demilitarized Zone to Lyon, then down to Marseilles. All he had to do was keep a few steps ahead of Oswald Drechsler.

Just thinking about the hawk-nosed Nazi made him work faster. So far he’d been able to clear out his house and storage spaces without Drechsler noticing. Their last load, the canvases stowed in his gallery, was the riskiest, but he’d had no choice. His friends trusted him—no, counted on him—to keep their treasures safe. He couldn’t let them down now. Not after all he’d done wrong.