Ode to Betty Lehmann-von Hunteln | The mansion is not called Villa Betty for no reason

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Dear Betty, dear Queen of the Overtoom,

Overtoom 241, that was your domain. I may have driven along this busy thoroughfare a thousand times before they suddenly caught my eye: the two large green gates, pressed between a hairdresser and a catering company. Behind them, at the end of a 100-metre driveway, we find your former ho(me)use. Although the term 'house' does not do justice to the insane patch of land leaning against the Vondelpark in the middle of the city. You left your mark permanently on this iconic spot: the mansion is not called Villa Betty for no reason.

I wasn't the only one curious about your story. Quite a few articles can be found about you and the residents who were allowed to move into Villa Betty before and after you have also been much discussed. A podcast was made about 'the most expensive house in Amsterdam', in which I got to know you even better. Because Betty, you have been through a lot in your long life. You died in 1980 on your hundred-and-one bit, having lived in this villa from the age of 20. Edward, a rich tobacco merchant, bought and converted this place for you, infatuated that he was with you. You became his queen, and that's how you were known in the neighbourhood: as the Queen of the Overtoom.

You were there when the Overtoomsevaart was filled in and the Heiligeweg turned into the Overtoom. Eduard had already bought the properties adjacent to your house and he had a gate, a stable and a coach house built for you. Villa Betty officially became Overtoom 241, where you left your mark once more: you can still see an inscription on the street side that reads: 'The foundation stone was laid by Betty Lehmann-von Hunteln 7 June 1900'. So: your kingdom was built. 
 

What was it like for you when Edward died? All I know is that you remarried a few years later, to your childhood friend Cornelius. He sounds like a lovely man: the director of the Netherlands Central Institute for Brain Research. But his actions during World War II especially stuck with me: He forged Aryan declarations, preventing the deportation of some 200 Jews. I think it says something about you too, that you loved such a man. But you couldn't enjoy liberation for long; Cornelius died in 1946.

Your life got a lot smaller from then on, didn't it? Whereas before you loved being outside, shopping and being part of the community, now you were mostly to be found behind closed gates. According to the marriage certificate, you were allowed to live in your villa until the age of 100. Just before you were allowed to blow out all these candles, there they were; your Edward's family, ready to bonjour you and all your belongings from the villa. I can only imagine what it must have been like when all your personal items, which surrounded you all those years, were sold at auction. And it wasn't just tables and chairs; even your 1900 wedding bible and an album titled 'Our journey to Egypt and Sudan' were allowed to go with the highest bidder. The neighbourhood loved it; finally they could 'look inside' your life, but it must have felt very different to you.

Is it true that you had a large portrait of yourself burned in the garden before you left for the care home in Driebergen where you spent your last days? Going out with a bang, we would now call that.

I do wonder if you realised how privileged you were. Or did you only feel that in your last months, when everything was taken away from you again? Were you involved with the city and all its people, or mostly concerned with high society and your own position in it? Did you feel you made something of your life, or would you have arranged it completely differently if you had been given the chance?

I will never get the answers to these questions from you. But I will think of you forever, whenever I pass your green gates on the Overtoom.

Love,

Marlotte