Secret Treasure

Authors note: This story is purely fiction. There are some portions included that are based on fact, but were only included to make the tale more believable. Freidrich the painter, did exist, and the information about him is factual. The paintings mentioned are real, and the “Die Gescheiterte Hoffnung” is reported as stolen, though the date of the theft and it's previous owner are unknown.

"Das Eismeer"
(The Arctic Ocean)
Caspar David Freidrich
1823/24

Grandpa William was always such a pack rat! Since his death, last month, I “inherited” the daunting task of cleaning out the house to be sold since I lived closest to him. After Grandma passed on, he had really gotten worse with his treasure salvaging! I had spent two weeks working in the downstairs area. It was time to move on to the attic.

His house was an old style farmhouse with three stories if you counted the attic. There was an airy wrap-around porch that invited you to “stay and sit a spell”. I had spent many enjoyable hours with Grandpa rocking on that porch. The white paint on the clapboard exterior had begun to peel and would have to have a serious paint job before it could be sold. It was such a shame to sell it. Our family had lived on this land for well over two hundred years. This house had stood for almost half of that time. But, time and taxes march on. The others had moved to grander homes in larger places. I had my own house in town, and couldn’t afford the upkeep on the farm. It would be sold and the money divided among the heirs. Pity!

While several had requested pieces of furniture or memorabilia, the bulk of the estate would be auctioned. I had tagged each of Grandpa’s possessions and logged them into a ledger so there would be no confusion as to what each item brought.

Grandpa was the grandson of a German immigrant who had come to the United States around the turn of the twentieth century. His name was Ivan. He came here, or so I am told, illegally. There was some old family tale about him being in fear of his life from the government that was in power at the time in his homeland. So, he surreptitiously changed his name and found a job in this small town in the mid-west. He began cleaning the local sheriff’s office and courthouse. Eventually, he met and married my great, great grandmother, Sylvia. She was the only child of an established farming family.

Ivan worked hard. He soon branched out into his own cleaning business. When Sylvia inherited the family farm, he began to work the land as well, and was very successful at it. They built this old house and began their family here. Ivan earned quite a reputation for himself as an honest and up-right citizen of the community. Life was good! He adapted to his new surroundings, and no one was the wiser about his younger days in Germany.

The family had remained in the “old-home place” since that time, each generation inheriting the land and continuing to farm. It was only my father’s generation that had broken tradition. By then, farming was not as lucrative a profession as it had once been. Dad had gone to college, gotten his education, and, moved to the city. I think Grandpa was a bit disappointed that he had chosen not to stay closer. But, any disappointment was far outweighed by the pride he had in his only son.

I was deep in thoughts over my Grandpa William as I climbed the attic stairs. I loved him dearly. Mustiness assailed my nostrils as I opened the door of the attic. It was a large storage area, and covered the entire floor of the house. It was even divided into rooms, as if the builders had intended to use this floor for additional living-space if the family grew to need it. I began the job of exploring and sorting one room at a time.

“I think Grandpa must have saved every newspaper and magazine that he had ever gotten! There were stacks and stacks. There must be a market for these old issues. I think I’ll list them on the internet,“ by now, I had resorted to talking to myself. I found newspapers that told of the assassination of a president, and the first lunar landing. There were older ones that announced the bombing of Pearl Harbor. I set aside the ones that I considered most valuable for myself. I was thinking of framing them and making a collage on my den wall.

Another week had come and gone before I was able to move on to the next room. It appeared that the items stored in it were older than Grandpa. There were relics dating back earlier than his birth. From the glut of cobwebs and dust, I would say no one had entered this portal in many years. The room was large, and lit by the sunlight filtering from several dormers. A spinning wheel graced one shadowed corner. In another was a gramophone . I could see that “The Antiques Road Show” from TV fame would be ecstatic to get into this trove. Grandpa had certainly inherited his “pack rat” tendencies from someone further back in his lineage! Stacked near a steamer trunk in the darkest section of the attic, were what appeared to be framed pictures. I couldn’t wait to get to them! However, wait was what I would have to do. I was losing daylight, and there was no electricity on this level.

The next morning I drove to the house armed with a flashlight, extra batteries, a spotlight and several extension cords. I planned to introduce artificial light into the dim attic. It was raining and overcast. Even if the sun had been shining brightly, there were places that would be still be silhouetted. It was like an expedition into a cave.

I went straight for the pictures. I had expected to see the faces of relatives long dead. And, I wasn’t disappointed. There were women in high collars and long sleeves with cheerless expressions on their otherwise lovely faces. The men bore much the same dreary looks. The artist who had captured these images must have advised them that posterity would only remember them if they appeared solemn. “Smiles for the camera” was obviously a term that did not exist in the vocabulary of these formidable family members. Even the children in family portraits appeared grim. The one redeeming factor that I found , was that someone had painstakingly written a brief note and pasted it to the rear of the frame that included a history of the person depicted, along with dates. This was priceless! The vellum itself was fragile, but still legible. Somewhat of a history buff, I often found that the people in old portraits were anonymous, their names lost forever in the annals of time. Great-great grandpa Ivan stood rigid in a tight fitting vest and ascot. His wife, Sylvia, was a lovely woman and would have been called beautiful if not for the dour look on her face.

As I mused over the long gone family, I found a small painting nestled among them. It was carefully wrapped in heavy canvas layers. The wood of its elaborate frame shone with a patina that spoke of its age. Curious, I wondered why this had been left here among these portraits. It should have been an item of importance and displayed proudly. It must be a reproduction, but it was meticulously stored by someone who regarded its value. It was lunchtime, and I was hungry. I decided to take the painting downstairs so that I could better look at it.

Once downstairs, I searched for the same type of note that had accompanied the other pictures. There was none. I gazed at a painting that showed an icy arctic landscape. Among shattered ice floes a frigate rested, wrecked and ruined. A small brass plaque labeled it as “Die Gescheiterte Hoffnung” (translation: The Failure of Hope). Impressive, I thought, to label a copy. Perhaps, it had been purchased in a gallery that specialized in reproductions. The artist’s signature read “Caspar David Friedrich, 1820”.

That evening, back at home, I decided to research the artist. He was not one with which I was readily familiar. I found that he was born on September 5, 1774 and died May 7, 1840. Friedrich was a 19th-century German Romantic landscape painter, generally considered to be the most important of his movement. He was best known for his mid-period symbolic landscapes. His primary interest was nature setting the human perspective in diminished perspective amid expansive landscapes, seeking to convey a subjective emotional response. Born in Greifswald, Friedrich studied art in Copenhagen. He became renowned early in his career. However, he died in obscurity. Later, around the turn of the century, his works had a revival in appreciation and were held in esteem by the political regime.

Further research provided me with this information about Friedrich’s painting. It seems that he was asked in 1820 to paint a picture of the Extreme North, similar in nature to a later painting called “Das Eismeer” (translation: The Arctic Ocean) which was painted in 1823/24. The article went on to say that the painting was missing. It had been stolen from its private owner, who at the time was Wilhelm II, Emperor of Germany. Although a large price had been posted for its return, and great speculation abounded as to the thief or thieves, the painting remained lost. Kaiser Wilhelm had put his goon squad in charge of catching the robber, and had told them that he was to be punished by death for his thievery.

It was the last bit of information that caught my attention. I remembered the story of Ivan, who had come to America from Germany, changed his name and settled in this obscure nook of the mid-west. Surely, it couldn’t be true! This painting could not be authentic! It was stuck away in the attic of an old farmhouse in the U.S. It must not be! I had an overactive imagination to even think that this was even remotely connected.

Had Ivan been Kaiser Bill’s burglar? Impossible! Or, was it? How could I find out if this painting was real without divulging too much information? I had a friend who worked at the University’s Art Department. I felt that she was trustworthy enough to help me with this issue. I called her and broached the “hypothetical” problem. She took the bait, and immediately started asking questions. Taking her into confidence, I arranged to take the painting to her office, and she would attempt to authenticate it.

Several long hours of waiting in her office, verified my suspicions. The painting was real! I held in my hands a missing piece of history; a piece of time that was directly linked to my family. The question was, what did I intend to do with it?



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