The three of them toasted the end of the war, and being in each other’s company, absent friends of course, and anything else they could think of until their glasses were empty and their plates cleared too. Not a scrap was left anywhere by any of them, a testament to how grateful they all were for the bounty that they’d just enjoyed.
‘You said we had work to do?’ Fen asked Rose as the waiter piled their empty plates up his arm and placed a small coffee and dessert menu in front of them.
‘Yes,’ Rose answered Fen but was looking more interested in the list of puddings in front of her. ‘Garçon!’ she called across to the waiter who had returned to the bar. ‘Three tarte Tatin please!’ She waved the small menu at him and he came and picked it up, not bothered in the slightest by Rose’s eccentric ways. ‘You’ll thank me, believe me,’ she said to Fen and James as they sat back in their chairs, already feeling more full than they had in a while.
‘We’ll need a kip after this,’ James rubbed his stomach and leaned back in his chair.
‘No time for idling, chickadees,’ Rose straightened out the place mat in front of her. ‘We do indeed have work to do. Fenella, I have a wonderful surprise for you.’
Fen couldn’t help herself and, before Rose could announce her surprise, took the opportunity to ask her about the Dutch floral still-life painting that had intrigued both her and the woman with the fox fur.
‘Ah, you spotted that,’ Rose said, a glint in her eye.
‘Yes, and, bravo really, as it’s incredibly good. I mean, I don’t think there’s chance we could ever compare them side by side, but from what I can remember from both, it’s a near-identical match.’
‘Indeed. Down to the little creepiest of crawlies…’ Rose inched the fingers of one hand across the table as if they were an insect. Then she laughed. ‘Of course, I had them side by side before the war and, if I say so myself, my copies are rather fine.’
‘Copies… that makes sense. But how did you…?’ Fen was flabbergasted. It couldn’t be that… No, Rose would never have swapped them over, would she?
‘That Bosschaert would have been right up Herr Göring’s street, it had to be rescued along with the others.’ Rose looked at Fen, and smiled coquettishly. ‘And no, dear girl, I was never left alone with the original, if that’s what you’re asking.’
‘Why do you do it?’ James asked, rescuing Fen from her blushes.
‘Why? Well, it’s a discipline, isn’t it? Anyone can daub some paint on a canvas and call it art. But looking at something, examining it from all angles so you can be absolutely sure that you can copy it, tiny piece by tiny piece, well, that is an achievement.’
‘I think I understand,’ Fen sucked in her cheek as she thought of what to say, then carried on. ‘It’s like the crossword puzzles that I love solving. Arthur taught me how to do the cryptic ones and he always said, “if you can’t solve your five down, check your six across,” or suchlike. What he meant was that sometimes you can’t work something out just on its own, you have to really look around and find something else that fits in with it.’
‘Exactly,’ Rose waved her hands around and emphatically agreed. ‘To copy something, you have to really look at it, really understand it. Decode it, if you will. Now, do you want to know what this surprise is, or not?’
‘Oh yes! Sorry, please do tell.’
‘Well, guess who is coming to see me, us, this afternoon?’ Fen barely had time to think of a name before Rose continued. ‘You’ll never guess, stupid game that one really. Anyway, it’s the Bernheims. Joseph and Magda.’
Fen rocked back in her chair, and the tears that had only recently subsided after her memories of Arthur threatened to reappear, but this time in joy. ‘Magda! And Joseph. Oh my word, they’re safe? They’re here?’
Rose nodded. ‘Recently back from New York, if you can believe such a miraculous thing.’
‘Oh Rose, this is super news. James,’ she turned to explain her evident joy to him, ‘Magda and Joseph Bernheim were some of our dearest friends when we lived here. Ma and Pa knew Joseph’s parents and went to their apartment for dinners and dances. Rose, what happened to them?’
‘Magda and Joseph made it out in 1940 when it became obvious what was happening. Well, I don’t need to spell it out for you, I’m sure.’
‘And the Bernheims senior?’
‘Not so lucky.’ The three of them sat silently and Rose pulled a packet of cigarettes out of her bag by her chair and inserted one of the Gauloises into its long holder. ‘You don’t mind, do you? Eh bien.’ She lit it and inhaled deeply before Fen or James had had a chance to reply. ‘Do you remember their apartment in the eighth, Fenella?’ She was referring to the number of the arrondissement, or neighbourhood, in which Joseph’s parents’ apartment had been. It was one of the smartest districts in Paris, encompassing the Champs-Élysées and Place de la Concorde.
‘Yes, very well. They kindly invited us to the wedding party, it must have been just before we left Paris in 1935. I remember it so well, having never been to a Jewish wedding before.’
‘That’s right, yes. What a party that was, I think it went on for most of the night, didn’t it?’ Rose inhaled and blew her smoke out in near-perfect rings. ‘And that apartment, oh it was a marvellous place, magnifique! The light! It would stream in through the windows… and the Bernheims were such astute collectors. Old masters, yes, but some more contemporary art, too. After their wedding, Magda, on old Mrs Bernheim’s insistence, came to me for lessons, much like you used to, Fenella, dear.’ Rose seemed lost in her reminiscences.
She took another deep drag on her cigarette and then stubbed it out in a small glass ashtray as the waiter brought over three small plates, each with a slice of deeply caramelised brown tarte Tatin on it. There was even, to Fen’s absolute delight and astonishment, a small scoop of the softest whipped Chantilly cream on top.
‘Ooh la la,’ Fen couldn’t help herself admiring the pudding.
‘Dig in, I say,’ James was the first to take a fork to the glossy apple tart.
‘I’m sorry,’ Fen blew on her forkful of warm pie before putting it to her lips, ‘do carry on about the poor Bernheims, Rose.’
‘Well, that was the thing. They weren’t poor then. They were incredibly wealthy, with not just art but furniture from the time of the revolution, great ormolu clocks, and Madame Bernheim senior’s jewels were exquisite. She had a sapphire from Ceylon that was a big as a gull’s egg, I swear.’
‘Dare I ask?’ Fen knew she didn’t really want to know what the fate had been of the Bernheims senior, the human tragedy of this war already being too much to really take on board, and knowing the family in question so well made hearing of their suffering so much worse.
‘The Germans arrested them and deported them, only days after we’d got Joseph and Magda out. They were due out on the next boat.’ Rose took a deep breath, her anger over their arrest still burning strong. She sucked in her lips and smacked them out again, then continued. ‘Their apartment was stripped of all of its furniture, its Persian carpets, and of course their clothes, her furs, her jewels…’
‘The sapphire?’
‘Probably adorning some Nazi hausfrau in Munich.’ Rose prodded her apple tart, her appetite seemingly vanished. ‘And their art… oh, it was the most terrible of days when Henri and I were summoned to their apartment to catalogue the sequestration of their collection. I could barely bring myself to do it.’
‘And now Joseph wants it back?’ James asked, putting two and two together.
‘Wouldn’t you?’ Rose glared at him. ‘Of course he wants it back. He’d like the apartment back too, but the deeds have mysteriously disappeared deep into the depths of the Vichy filing cabinets, and though he has tried and tried, he can’t claim it. Damn weak government. He can’t find the furniture, the carpets, the furs, the jewels… but the art! There at least we can help!’ She took another cigarette out of its packet and lit it up.
‘And he’s coming to your apartment this a
fternoon?’ Fen gently probed.
‘Yes,’ Rose seemed deflated after her outburst. ‘Yes, they both are. Here, garçon!’ She beckoned the waiter over again. ‘Give this young man the bill, we’re leaving soon.’
‘Bien sûr, madame,’ the waiter demurred and slipped a paper stub onto the table next to James’s resting arm.
To Fen’s amusement, James mouthed the words ‘how rude’ back to her as he pulled his wallet from his pocket and thumbed out several notes. Rose hadn’t noticed as she had busied herself packing her cigarettes back into her bag. She did at least deign to thank James for lunch and, moments later, the three of them were back out into the fresh autumn air.
Fen gave an involuntary yawn; she was unused to such a heavy meal in the middle of the day and James noticed.
‘Good idea, Fen. Ladies, I shall take my leave and go and have a little nap back at the hotel. I better stay fresh for young Simone later.’
‘Come then, Fenella, it seems it is just us women who have the appetite for work, as much as for other things.’ Rose looked at James curtly and then chivvied Fen back down the road towards her apartment.
‘Cheerio, James,’ Fen waved to him. ‘Thank you for lunch!’
Unlike James, her mind wasn’t on their evening plans at all, and instead she was excited about seeing Magda and Joseph again, albeit in such tragic circumstances.
As they walked at pace back towards the apartment, Fen took in the sight of Rose, her coat flapping behind her in the wind, her turban wrapped tightly around her wayward hair, and she realised what a truly remarkable woman she was and what a very good job it would be to help the young Bernheims to regain even a fraction of their former property. A jolly good job indeed.
Eleven
The genuine joy that Fen felt as she hugged Magda Bernheim was like something she hadn’t experienced since she had been carefree and mucking around with Kitty in the fields of West Sussex. Seeing the woman who had been such a role model to her when she was a teenager, with her eye for fashion and elegant wardrobe, and who had suffered so much in the time since they last met, was almost overwhelming.
Fen’s family had moved away from Paris a few years before the rise of the Nazi party in Germany and the outbreak of the war. Back in the early 1930s, the Bernheims senior had been some of the wealthiest patrons in Paris, commissioning modern artists and collecting old masters, while curating their own collection and hosting artistic and literary salons in their beautiful apartment.
When Magda, a student at the École des Beaux-Arts, had been introduced to the Bernheims’ son Joseph at the synagogue, it had been love at first sight, much to the joy of their parents, who had orchestrated the match, and within months they were engaged and soon after married. Fen had been lucky enough to have been invited to their wedding, which had been the most joyous and sophisticated party that she, as a slightly gauche seventeen-year-old, had ever been invited to.
In the Bernheims’ apartment in the eighth arrondissement, she had first tasted champagne and, excepting the happy marriage between her own dear parents, had first witnessed true love between a newly-wed man and wife.
Pressing her cheek against Magda’s now as they held onto each other brought back all of those memories, and Fen did her best to keep her tears in check.
‘Oh Magda, how are you?’ Fen looked at her old friend and saw that time, and the war’s worries, had taken their toll on her. She had always been willowy but now she looked brittle in a way that suggested her life over the last few years had not been easy at all. Her hair was prematurely thinning, no doubt through stress and grief, but she wore it with élan and neatly swept back into a chignon at the nape of her neck. Her cardigan could have been that of a child’s in size and still it amply covered her. It was cashmere, though, and her skirt looked to be of good quality too, if a little dated and worn.
‘Much, much happier to see you, dear Fenella.’ Magda hugged her again. ‘You remember Joseph of course?’ She ushered Fen over to where Joseph was talking to Rose, who was pouring her special mint tea out into dainty little teacups.
Joseph Bernheim looked every inch the American, in his natty pinstripe suit and Homburg hat, though he too looked thin and strained. He put down his teacup and stretched out his hand to shake Fen’s.
‘So super to see you both again,’ Fen reiterated, stumped for anything more to say that could possibly bridge the gap that ten years, and one atrocity-filled war, had created.
Magda smiled at her and changed the subject. ‘I see you still have the Delance, Rose?’
‘Yes, my little Impressionist.’ Rose kept pouring the mint tea from the same silver teapot she’d used yesterday, until all four cups were full.
‘You had me copying it for weeks, do you remember?’ Magda said softly. ‘So much so, I think I managed a near-perfect replica when I was in New York.’
‘Some people say that copying something isn’t real art.’ Rose winked at Fen and handed her a steaming teacup.
Before Fen could answer, Magda got in there first. ‘Oh no, madame, I quite disagree. You only realise how intricately something’s been put together when you try and replicate it yourself.’
‘A bit like a crossword in a way,’ Fen mused. ‘Really looking at something does make you see it from different angles.’
‘The Impressionists were the finest puzzlers of them all,’ Rose, who was looking rather satisfied with herself, declared. ‘What’s this, a pink splodge, look again, it’s a face.’
The women all laughed, but Joseph looked more serious.
‘We had a Cezanne, you know?’ he asserted, before taking a sip from his cup.
Magda came to sit down next to him on the chaise longue and gently laid a hand on one of his knees. Rose sat herself down in the less saggy of the two armchairs.
‘I know, dear boy, I know.’ She took a sip of her tea and swallowed. ‘And I know exactly how much Henri valued it for and I think I finally know who has it now.’
‘Who?’ Joseph suddenly looked more animated.
‘I just have a few more enquiries that I need to make, Joseph dear. And I swear to you, we will get the art back to you.’
‘It’s all gone, you see,’ Joseph explained to Fen.
‘Yes, I’m so sorry. Rose told me. I can’t imagine… I mean, I’m just so very sorry for your loss.’ Fen never felt she was very good at comforting people. Practical help she could do, but she was often lost for words when it came to trying to offer some sort of solace to those grieving. ‘Your parents, I mean, I remember them very well. Has there been any news?’
Joseph looked across to Fen, who was rather hoping at this moment that the saggy old armchair would eat her up, but there wasn’t any anger in his voice, just sadness. ‘No. No good news at any rate.’
‘It was all planned, Joseph…’ Rose leaned over and touched his leg too. ‘They should have been on that train to Le Havre…’
‘I know, I know.’ He rubbed his eyes and ran his hand through his oiled hair. Then he looked up at Rose and across to Fen. ‘The Chameleon.’
‘Do you think?’ Rose asked him.
‘I’m sure of it. Who else could have betrayed them at the last minute.’
Fen looked from Joseph to Rose and then back to Joseph as they spoke. Her curiosity was piqued. ‘Who, or what, was the chameleon?’
‘The Chameleon,’ said Magda, speaking up for the first time since they sat down, ‘was a double agent. We think. He must have worked within our networks, but for the Gestapo too. No one ever found out who he was. He just faded into the background, unseen until he struck, hence the name.’
‘And he struck out at my parents,’ Joseph continued. ‘And Magda’s. They were hours away from leaving the city when the officers raided the apartments we’d moved them to just days before. They were all arrested and sent to one of the camps. I still don’t know which one, but I have a meeting with the Red Cross tomorrow. Hopefully they’ll know more.’
‘Let’s hope indeed,’
Rose reassured him. ‘Now, however, dear boy, we have art to trace. You know my list, the one the Germans thought I was making for them? I wrote to you about it in New York?’
‘Yes,’ Joseph looked more hopeful.
‘Well, I have it back from Henri Renaud today.’
‘Oh, Henri Renaud,’ Magda shook her head, the name obviously meaning something to her.
‘He used to come to Mama and Papa’s parties,’ Joseph nudged her.
‘Of course, of course. He loved that Degas your parents had.’
‘And said the Gainsborough was the peak of British civility.’ He laughed, but it caught in his throat. ‘Still, Rose, please continue…’
‘I need to find my cipher, I know I stashed it around here somewhere… Anyway, once I have decoded the “transport serial codes”, we will have proof that those paintings belonged to you. And I remember that cabbage-breath Müller said something as the paintings were being pulled off the walls.’
Fen saw Magda blanch at the expression and grip the top of her blouse close to her neck.
‘So that Degas, I can tell you without deciphering it, as I remember,’ Rose said with some pride, ‘was destined for the Führermuseum itself, but with that monstrosity never built, it was likely stored at Schlosskirche in Bavaria. I’ve recently spoken to the Art Looting Investigation Unit – they’re the nice American chaps who discovered all the plunder in that church – and asked for an inventory and to see if my codes are still chalked on the back of the paintings. When I finish decoding the list, together with their stocktake, I’m sure we will find your painting, and maybe some of the others, and have the proof that it was stolen from you!’
Both Rose and Joseph seemed to fall back into their seats with relief. Even Magda loosened her grip on her collar slightly and seemed to relax.
‘Thank you, Rose,’ she said, almost in a whisper. ‘I can’t tell you what this means to us. To me and Joseph.’
‘Well, it’s not a done deal yet. But we have the proof. Once deciphered, my list will show the world who had their paintings stolen, and where their artworks are now.’ She straightened her back in her chair. ‘More tea, anyone?’
[Fen Churche 02] - Night Train to Paris Page 6
