Chapter 10

The café was an utter delight. Fen tucked into an entrec?te steak, glistening with a herbed butter, while Rose lived up to her promise – or threat – of being exceptionally hungry and dug into a coq au vin that looked so rich and hearty, unlike anything Fen had seen in the days of deprivation throughout the war. James had joined her in having the steak, but she could see he was also wolfishly eyeing up the steaming pot of stew in front of the older woman.

‘You think I didn’t know the best thing on the menu?’ Rose looked at them both with a definite twinkle in her eye. ‘I had to spend my ill-gotten gains from painting all those German officers on something.’

‘I’ll trust your recommendation next time,’ James said, and Fen nodded, though she couldn’t fault the juicy steak that was on the rarer side of medium. She remembered this style of cooking from her schooldays and her initial horror at seeing the bloodied juices seep out of a lightly cooked piece of red meat. She’d become not only accustomed to it, however, but realised now how much she’d missed it once they were back in England where the haut-est of cuisine had been boiled beef and cabbage in her college refectory. And then, with the outbreak of war and the years of rationing, this sort of luxury had been hard to come by at all, however it was cooked.

‘This is delicious,’ she murmured, in between mouthfuls, and wiped a piece of pan-fried potato around the garlicky juices on her plate. ‘Ma and Pa would be so jealous. Real French cooking!’

‘The best!’ Rose raised her wine glass – she had insisted on a carafe of the vin de table too – and clinked it with the others. ‘There was a silver lining to being occupied,’ Rose continued, ‘with the German army in town, they made sure that the restaurants had enough food. But it takes a local to know which cafés have true artists in the kitchen.’

‘I thought it had all been rather hard-going?’ Fen asked, before popping another piece of the succulent steak into her mouth.

‘Oh, it was and it wasn’t,’ Rose sighed and then took another sip. ‘Don’t get me wrong, the war was terrible and it destroyed many, many lives and businesses. But Paris was a bubbling crucible of opportunity, for some at least. I sold more paintings during the occupation than ever before. We,’ she gestured around the room and Fen took it to mean the whole of Paris, ‘were still the centre of the world’s art market and there were fortunes to be made. Still, thank the heavens, it’s over now.’

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. ‘Gar?on!’ 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 G?ring’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 afternoon?’ Fen gently probed.

‘Yes,’ Rose seemed deflated after her outburst. ‘Yes, they both are. Here, gar?on!’ She beckoned the waiter over again. ‘Give this young man the bill, we’re leaving soon.’

‘Bien s?r, 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.