The Omega Factor(20)
During religious troubles in 1566 and 1578 the panels had to be hidden away from Protestants attacking Ghent. In 1794, after the French invaded Flanders, the four central panels were plundered and taken to Paris. They were returned in 1816, after Waterloo, but then the panel’s two outer wings were pawned by a renegade vicar. When the church failed to redeem them, the wings were sold to an English collector who sold them for an even more outrageous sum to the king of Prussia. Until 1918 they were exhibited in Berlin. A few of the panels remaining in Ghent were damaged by fire in 1822. Others were sent to a museum in Brussels for safekeeping. In 1894, several were sawed and separated so their fronts and backs could both be displayed facing forward. During World War I, the Germans wanted more of the panels. But the cathedral’s canon smuggled them out of the country and hid them away until after the war. The Treaty of Versailles required the return of the panels sold to Prussia and, for the first time in centuries, all twelve were reunited in Belgium.
In 1940, before Germany invaded a second time, a decision was made to send the altarpiece to the Vatican. But it only made it to the French Alps. In 1942 Hitler ordered the panels seized and brought to Germany. They eventually ended up in the Altaussee salt mine where, in 1945, the US unit known as the Monuments Men saved them from being blown up before the Allies arrived, returning them to Saint Bavo’s in Ghent, where they had remained ever since.
By any measure it was one of the greatest works of art ever created. But it had been repeatedly stolen, given away, sold, sawed, hidden, falsified, censured, and nearly blown up. All totaled the altarpiece had fallen victim to thirteen separate acts of violence and seven outright thefts, bestowing upon it the distinction of being the most violated art object in the world.
Not surprisingly, considerable damage had accrued from the centuries. Many cleanings and restorations had occurred. The first were in the late sixteenth century to remove a thick layer of candle soot from the forty thousand masses that had been said around it since 1432. More cleanings happened in 1617 and 1731. Each one seemed to do more harm than good.
Unfortunately, nothing that old ever survived intact.
Over time, layers of varnish had engulfed the original paint and excessive overpainting had obliterated much of what the van Eycks had initially created. The whole thing became caked in dust and blistered, raised flakes of paint had broken off, wax had built up, warping had occurred, cracks had lengthened, and even mildew had set in. A minor effort was made in 1950 to repair the effects of war neglect but accomplished little. Finally, eight years ago, over two million euros were raised by the Royal Institute for Cultural Heritage for a major scientific restoration, utilizing all of the latest modern techniques. One at a time the panels were removed from the cathedral, taken to a workshop, and meticulously restored. The rest remained on display. Eleven had completed the process and were back in Saint Bavo’s awaiting the last.
The twelfth panel.
Bernat de Foix had provided the hundred thousand euros needed to fund its restoration. The other eleven panels had undergone filming, X-radiographs, sketchings, models, and intricate tests. Their restoration had even been broadcast online through Flemish public television, cameras recording all of the key moments. But none of that fanfare happened with the twelfth panel. No cameras. No press. Nothing. Costs were kept down by employing a Catholic nun, trained as an art restorer, rather than a more expensive professional. Over the past nine years Kelsey had worked on a cadre of important art projects. Plautilla Nelli’s Crucifixion, restored for the San Salvi Museum. The self-portrait of the Spanish artist Velázquez, damaged from flooding at the Uffizi Gallery in Florence. Violante Siriès’ Madonna. All of which had led her here, to Ghent, and the twelfth panel. She’d gained a reputation from her perception, bearing, and organizational talents. The local archbishop had specifically requested her services. But she harbored no illusions. She’d been chosen because of the panel’s peculiar provenance.
It was a copy.
The original had been stolen on April 10, 1934.
Sometime during that night the twelfth panel was removed from its oak frame. A note was left in its place, written in French. Taken from Germany by the Treaty of Versailles. A clear reference to its plunder by German forces during World War I. It was only returned to Belgium in accordance with the Treaty of Versailles. The subsequent police investigations were inept, the only serious search for its whereabouts occurring years later. Twenty days after the theft, the bishop of Ghent received a ransom demand for one million Belgian francs, which authorities refused to pay. A second note arrived in May. Negotiations ensued from then until October over the course of eleven more letters. At one point, the twelfth panel’s back side, a grisaille painting of St. John the Baptist, was returned in a supposed act of good faith. But the main panel, known as Justi Ivdices, Just Judges, was never seen again.
On November 25, 1934, a man named Arsène Goedertier—a discount broker, artist, inventor, and politician—suffered a heart attack. On his deathbed he confessed to knowing where the masterpiece had been hidden. He told his lawyer, “I alone know where the Mystic Lamb is. The information is in the drawer on the right of my writing table, in an envelope marked ‘mutualité.’” The envelope was found, along with carbon copies of the ransom notes and an unsent note that said the panel “rests in a place where neither I, nor anybody else, can take it away without arousing the attention of the public.” Goedertier died without revealing anything further.