Chapter 11

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?’