by Jane Thynne
‘Oh. It’s you. What do you want?’
‘I wondered if you’d heard anything from Sonja?’
‘Sorry. No.’
Bettina closed the door a fraction, as though to forestall any further conversation.
‘I’m afraid I don’t have much time. I’ve got a dentist’s appointment.’
If Katerina had been older she might have wondered what kind of dentist worked at eight o’clock at night, but instead she said, ‘Could I come in? Just for a few minutes. You said to call if there was anything I need.’
‘What do you need?’
‘Just a chat. You could get dressed while we talk.’
Bettina said nothing, but moved her body fractionally to one side, allowing Katerina to squeeze past, then came and threw herself with disgruntlement on a chair and crossed her legs. She didn’t seem inclined to get dressed but took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one.
‘You’ll have to be quick.’
‘I suppose you haven’t heard from her?’
‘Not a thing. Sorry.’ Bettina traced a finger over one eyebrow, which was thin and plucked into a high arch.
‘So you’ve no idea where she could be?’
‘How could I if I haven’t heard from her?’
‘Do you think she’s still abroad?’
‘What am I? A mind reader?’
‘But there are ways you could find out,’ persisted Katerina.
‘Oh? Like what?’
‘How many clothes did she take? Did she pack for hot weather or cold? Did she take all her jewellery? Her perfume?’
‘For God’s sake, Katerina! If I wanted the Berlin police department I’d have called them.’
Immediately regretting her sharpness Bettina looked at her pensively, then seemed to make a decision.
‘I didn’t want to tell you this, sweetheart. It won’t help you. But there’s nothing to lose now and I don’t like to see you like this. Fact is, your sister had a boyfriend.’
‘A boyfriend?’ Katerina repeated stupidly.
‘She’s been seeing him for some time. But she kept it quiet, especially from you. There’s no telling what a kid might blab.’
‘Why would I blab? She’s allowed a boyfriend, isn’t she?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Bettina, springing up and going over to the mirror, which was propped against the mantelpiece. ‘But not if he’s a Jew.’
Katerina blanched. Romantic liaisons between Jews and Gentiles were forbidden – against the law, as far as she knew, and besides, why would anyone want to have a liaison with a Jew? Her BDM group had been taken to see an exhibition called The Eternal Jew the previous year and Katerina still flinched as she recalled the images of rats scurrying through cellars and sewers intercut with scenes of Jews emigrating from Palestine and spreading throughout the world. Where rats turn up, they spread diseases and carry extermination into the land. They are cunning, cowardly and cruel, they travel in large packs, exactly the way the Jews infect the races of the world.
‘Sonja didn’t want your father to know,’ said Bettina, sliding a cherry red lipstick from its tube and outlining her mouth with the focused concentration of a Renaissance artist painting a titled lady.
‘But Papi’s dead. She could have told me.’
Bettina rubbed her lips together and pursed them provocatively at her own reflection.
‘Yeah. I suppose she might have got round to telling you, but then this guy went and disappeared. Just after Christmas. Sonja said some men came to his house at six o’clock in the morning.’
Even Katerina knew that no one good ever came to a house at six o’clock in the morning. The Gestapo always called at dawn.
‘They said they just wanted to ask some questions and they’d bring him back in a few hours.’
This was a standard tactic to avoid panic. Berliners were given to obedience, in everything from stepping on the grass to crossing the road, and if someone in official clothes with a piece of paper in his hand told them something, they were liable to believe it.
‘Sonja said he left out the back and gave them the slip, but she hadn’t seen him since. I think she might have gone looking for him.’
‘But you said she went abroad for a singing engagement.’
‘I’m sure she did, darling. Sonja sings everywhere she goes.’
‘Where abroad?’
‘Sweetie, if I knew that, I’d tell you, wouldn’t I?’
The doorbell sounded and Bettina swivelled round, smoothing down the shift that even at its fullest extent reached only to the top of her thighs.
‘Is that the dentist?’
‘That’s right. He’s making a home visit. So you’ll need to leave.’
The dentist was a plump man of around forty in army uniform with a sweating, meaty face. He seemed put out to see Katerina.
‘It’s all right, Liebling. She’s leaving.’
He grunted and helped himself to a bottle of beer on the table. Then he sat on the sofa, legs spread, fingering his belt and eyeing Katerina with a curiosity that made her feel uneasy.
‘I’ll just see her out.’
Bettina squeezed round the door and closed it, detaining Katerina in the dark hallway with an arm on her shoulder.
‘I’ve got something for you.’
She brought out a wallet – an old thing of garish orange leather with a broken zip that Katerina recognized immediately. Sonja’s wallet. Her heart leapt.
‘You have seen her!’
‘Of course I haven’t. I’d have told you straight off, wouldn’t I? I just found this in the apartment and I thought you should have it. Just until your sister gets back. There’s money in it.’
As Katerina seized the wallet and held it tightly against her chest, Bettina looked at her gravely.
‘It’s best you stop asking questions, sweetheart.’
‘I only want to find my sister.’
‘It doesn’t matter what you want. You’re a kid. There’s nothing you can do. No one’s going to tell you anything.’
‘Doesn’t stop me asking.’
‘Questions won’t help. Poking around and trying to find things out will only cause more trouble. Just keep quiet and if I hear anything I’ll let you know.’
‘Will you?’
‘Course I will, sweetie. Now let me get back to my guest.’
Katerina went down in the lift, left the block and limped back up Fischerstrasse, but she knew that if she did nothing, there was little chance that anyone else would. Certainly not Bettina. Sonja was all she had left in the world and whatever trouble her questions might cause was nothing to the trouble Sonja must be in.
Chapter Nine
The Rue de la Paix was a chic street of luxury jewellery and fashion boutiques leading from the Opéra to the Place Vendôme, lined with shiny Citroëns and Renaults that due to the petrol rationing were going nowhere. Number 13 had a striking façade of dark marble, studded with elaborate gilding that gleamed in the moonlight. The long frontage was set with ebony window frames, faced in gold like some sumptuous treasure chest, and royal crests flanked the arched entrance beneath a snow-white awning.
Cartier. The most famous jeweller in Paris. Patronized by royalty and celebrity.
Clara had never owned anything made by Cartier, though Angela had a watch from there as a wedding present from her husband and several of the more senior Nazi wives were walking showcases for the French jeweller’s work.
She knocked on the door and after a short wait heard the sound of locks being unfastened and a lozenge of light fell onto the pavement, revealing a slender woman in a rose pink turban, with a long rope of pearls round her neck. She stood aside with a frown, scanned the street, then ushered Clara into a cavernous showroom. A chandelier dripping crystal teardrops revealed a place of hushed magnificence, like a glittering temple to some savage oriental god.
Hans Reuber was already there. He must have come straight from the show.
‘Is this the lady you were
talking about?’
The woman was subjecting Clara to a cold, appraising stare.
‘Clara, I would like you to meet Mademoiselle Toussaint. Jeanne, meet Clara Vine.’
Jeanne Toussaint was small and birdlike, with startling blue eyes like shards of coloured glass. She must have been in her fifties, yet her complexion was smooth and white as an egg. Despite the hour, she was dressed as if about to leave for some grand event, in a vivid jacket of so many colours she was like a piece of jewellery herself.
‘Jeanne’s a legend,’ continued Reuber, with his habitual grandiose flourish. ‘Director of Fine Jewellery. A great artist and the soul of Cartier.’
‘Enchantée.’
Jeanne Toussaint allowed her slender hand to rest in Clara’s for a moment, then the froideur melted slightly and she said, ‘Perhaps you’ll join me in a glass of champagne? It’s only Lanson, I’m afraid.’
As she opened the bottle, Clara stared at the opulence around her. The showroom was walled in blond wood, the floor was chequered marble and the surfaces furnished with lavish displays of roses. Against the walls stood cabinets of silverware, cutlery and candlesticks and, most of all, jewellery, shimmeringly multiplied by mirrors. Diamond-studded necklaces, multicoloured jewels, sapphires, amethysts and garnets, wrought into brooches, clusters, earrings and filigree chains. Some with large stones and others set with gems so tiny they resembled a type of pointillism. Objects that if you needed to ask their price, you almost certainly could not afford.
Above the display cases the walls were hung with a series of sketches portraying birds and animals. Parrots, flamingos and birds of paradise, fantastical creatures with exuberant, iridescent feathers. Leopards, tigers, and coiled panthers. As Jeanne busied herself with glasses and a tray, Reuber pointed to one of the panthers and whispered, ‘Jeanne adores big cats. They call her La Panthère.’
‘Who does?’
‘Everyone. And she’s known everybody. Proust, Cocteau, Hemingway, Scott Fitzgerald. She and Coco Chanel are inseparable.’
Jeanne handed around the glasses and raised hers in a toast.
‘To better times.’
‘Clara Vine is half English, Jeanne.’
The cool eyes turned on Clara curiously.
‘I knew there was something about you I liked. Apart from that dress. It’s Alix Grès, isn’t it?’
Clara glanced down at the fluid blue gown she had worn for her performance.
‘I’m impressed you can tell. It’s the only one of its kind.’
‘I have a good eye.’
‘On the subject of good eyes,’ said Reuber, ‘Jeanne was just telling me about an excitement. The best stone she has ever seen.’
For a moment, it was as if he had spoken out of turn. A shaft of fury crossed the jeweller’s face and then it dissolved as fast as it appeared. Plainly Reuber was underlining the fact that Clara could be trusted. No matter what.
‘It’s true.’ A nonchalant flutter of the hands. ‘I haven’t decided what to make of it yet. All I know is, it is the most precious diamond I have ever worked with.’
‘Would you show us?’
Jeanne pulled open a drawer, produced a tube of crimson velvet wrap and unrolled it on the table in front of them. In the middle was a stone the size of a damson, exuding from its depths a hard, cold fire.
She placed it in Clara’s palm where it rested trembling, like the trace of a kiss.
‘It’s blue!’
‘It’s called the Blue Heart. Diamonds can be any colour – yellow, orange, pink, even black – but blue diamonds are the most sought-after. There are so few of them. This is one of the loveliest in the world. It was owned by Louis XIV.’
‘What makes it . . . the way it is?’ asked Clara, mesmerized.
Reuber leaned in. ‘The diamond is crystallized deep in the earth’s mantel under intense heat and pressure. In some cases, a minute trace of boron gets trapped in the crystal lattice when the gem is forming. This then absorbs red light and . . . well, it turns the diamond blue.’
Jeanne plucked it back and balanced it between her fingers and thumb.
‘But this one is not only blue, it’s special. It’s the highest grade of colour and its clarity is almost perfect. If it belonged to anyone else I would use it as a solitaire.’
‘A solitaire? For a stone that size?’ objected Reuber.
‘Sure. It deserves to be seen and appreciated without the distraction of other stones. Nothing else can touch it. But . . .’ Jeanne sighed. ‘Sadly, simplicity is not what my client likes.’
‘Who is your client?’ asked Clara.
‘Ah. That I can’t tell you. Only that it’s a special diamond for a very special client. Someone I’m not at liberty to discuss. Unfortunately, though, I’m worried. My client was unable to collect it before they had to leave. It might be that this stone will never be set. Perhaps it’s destined to remain in a safe for ever.’ Jeanne wrapped the stone up and replaced it in the drawer with resolution. ‘Still. There is a silver lining. It’s given me the opportunity to concentrate on another design. It may not seem much, but it’s the work of which I am most proud. Perhaps the one by which I will be remembered. My legacy.’
Feeling in another drawer beneath the display case she brought out the piece.
It was unassumingly small to be anyone’s legacy, no more than an inch across, a tiny brooch glinting on a satin bed. It was in the shape of a golden cage, enclosing a minute bird fashioned in coral, with lapis lazuli wings and a diamond-set head. Red, white and blue, the colours of France.
Jeanne Toussaint looked on it lovingly.
‘My songbird. La belle France in her cage. She has sad eyes, does she not? And even though she’s a songbird, her beak is closed. She no longer knows how to sing. What do you think? She will go on display in our front window from tomorrow.’
‘Jeanne!’ Reuber’s voice was hushed with horror. ‘You can’t mean it. They’ll arrest you. You know what their interrogations are like.’
‘I’ll say I had the idea long before they arrived. And it’s true. I made one of these little birds some years ago for a very wealthy lady who was unhappy in her marriage. The husband paid for it but he never got the hint.’
‘The Nazis will get the hint, though, Jeanne. They’re no fools. They’ll take your imprisoned bird as a sign of resistance and treat you accordingly. They make no special favours, not even for legends.’
For a moment it seemed Jeanne Toussaint’s icy composure might falter, then she switched on a smile as brilliant as her diamonds and said, ‘We’ll just have to see. Perhaps one day I’ll make another one with the cage door open. Anyway, to business. Wait here while I fetch what you came for.’
She returned with a brown leather pouch and, reaching for the jeweller’s tray, tipped out a small rubble of stones – irregular lumps of grey and yellow from which even the desk lamp could only coax a stubborn gleam.
Reuber poked at them.
‘Do you know what these are?’ he asked Clara.
She squinted at the dull nuggets.
‘You might find it hard to believe. They’re weapons.’
Clara shook her head uncomprehendingly.
‘The most important weapons of war. More valuable than Panzers or guns or twenty thousand troops on the march. These are what will make the difference between Hitler winning everything he dreams of, or failing utterly.’
Clara looked down at the litter of stones on the tray. She could not begin to imagine what Reuber was talking about.
‘I don’t understand. They look like ordinary stones.’
‘There’s nothing ordinary about these. They’re diamonds.’
His fingers curled protectively, as if mere observation could injure them.
‘Industrial diamonds. The kind of diamonds you’re familiar with, my dear, come in the shape of necklaces or earrings given to you by besotted admirers’ – he waved a hand at her objections – ‘forgive me for presuming. The kind you see in
Cartier’s window. Diamonds that have already been cut and sawn and polished. But these stones, though they have no physical beauty, are far more important. In wartime, they have a vital strategic function. They control the production of every bullet and battleship.’
Clara was aware of Jeanne Toussaint regarding them intently.
‘How can that be possible?’
‘Because diamond is the hardest substance known to man. Only diamonds are hard enough to stamp out the precision parts for mass-producing aeroplane engines, torpedoes, tanks, artillery – any other weapon of war you care to think of. Only diamonds can provide the jewelled bearings for guidance systems in submarines and planes. It’s safe to say that without industrial diamonds no war can be won. And Germany has no access to diamond mines.’
Clara’s mind was racing ahead, trying to take in the implications of Reuber’s revelation.
‘So you’re saying without these gems Hitler could not win the war?’
‘I’m saying that obtaining diamonds is his paramount objective. Without them his war machine will rapidly slow to a halt. For at least a year, Germany has been offering far in excess of normal market prices to tempt Continental dealers. A river of diamonds has flooded into Germany, but a steady stream has also been flowing in the opposite direction. A number of German jewellers have been smuggling their diamonds into France, desperate that the Nazis should not get their hands on their stocks. Those in Paris assumed their own diamonds were safe – they have at least twenty thousand carats stowed away in private vaults and offices – but now they’re not so sure.’
Reuber cast a sober glance at Jeanne, who said, ‘When the Nazis arrived in Holland their first action was to check on the diamond stocks. Fortunately the British had sent a destroyer and managed to evacuate the stocks just hours before the city fell. There is no chance of that here. The Germans are searching the city. It’s only a matter of time before they uncover most of our stones. We’re doing everything we can to get the diamonds out of the city, but we need people brave enough to transport them. The penalties are, if you’re caught, severe.’
