Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen

Eve

Paris, June 1946

As Georges and I made our way to Saint-Germain-des-Pres, we laughed at the terrible coffee and bread we’d shared together.

‘Well, I hope that is the last time you are going to cause me indigestion, Eve.’

‘I warned you not to order anything.’

But our mirth was cut short when we reached Serge’s gallery. The closed sign hung on the door and when we peered inside, we saw that all the paintings were gone. For one wildly optimistic moment, I thought perhaps Serge had sold them all to an enthusiastic buyer. But the scraps of packing paper scattered across the floor and the upturned drawers of his desk told a more foreboding story.

‘Mademoiselle Archer!’

We turned to see Madame Bonne hurrying towards us. Her face was drawn.

‘What’s happened?’ I asked her.

Her lips pursed and she looked away, hesitant to tell me.

‘Is Serge all right?’

She looked back to me, her eyes glistening with tears. ‘He has been arrested.’

‘Arrested?’

Madame Bonne trembled as if something terrible inside of her was bursting to get out. ‘Yes, but on charges that couldn’t possibly be true. Charges I know can’t possibly be true. National disgrace .’

I knew ‘national disgrace’ was a crime that had been specially legislated for those who collaborated with the Germans.

‘What exactly is he accused of?’ Georges asked Madame Bonne.

‘Selling an important artwork to the Nazis.’

Georges grimaced. ‘Well, that’s a fine of one million francs and being banned from running a business for ten years.’

‘It will break Serge if that happens!’ I cried.

‘Now don’t panic, Eve,’ Georges said. ‘Nearly all the dealers in France had their fingers in the Nazi pie during the war and I’m not aware of any of them losing their business or spending time in jail. I’ll see if I can sort the matter out this afternoon.’

Madame Bonne’s face contorted into a grim expression. There was something she wasn’t saying.

‘What is it?’ I asked. ‘Is it worse than collaboration?’

She drew a breath. ‘It wasn’t just any Nazi that he is accused of selling the painting to. It was Hitler.’

*

The sight of Fresnes prison gave me the chills. Its dark walls and narrow barred windows were Dickensian. Although the day was sunny, the buildings that comprised the complex seemed to be encased in a halo of mist, as if they were emitting the misery of the souls trapped inside. In a twist of fate, the prison that had been used to incarcerate members of the Resistance during the war was now the place for detaining collaborators.

Georges was waiting for me at the entrance. After Madame Bonne had given us the terrible news, he’d asked me to meet him there at two o’clock. In the meantime, he would make some telephone calls to investigate the matter. I had never seen him look so grim. If it wasn’t for his height and perfectly tailored suit, I may not have recognised him at all.

‘The charges are far graver than I thought,’ he said.

I felt myself pale. ‘So Serge will lose all his property and be banned from practising his profession?’

‘He will be executed as a war criminal if found guilty.’

His words hit me like a shockwave. ‘War criminal? Surely that is an overstated charge. He didn’t kill anybody.’

‘That’s precisely it. He has been charged with murder.’

This time the ground really did roll under my feet. I’d barely come to terms with Serge being arrested and now Georges was speaking of murder!

‘Of who?’ I asked.

‘édouard and Beatrice Fould. The original owners of the painting.’

‘He couldn’t have,’ I said, a tremble in my voice. ‘I don’t believe it.’

‘Don’t or won’t, Eve?’ asked Georges. ‘They are not the same thing. How well do you know Serge Lavertu? You’ve been in France less than a year.’

I bowed my head. It was true that I hardly knew him. ‘He doesn’t seem the type to commit such a heinous crime.’

‘Good god, Eve, that is the case with half the criminals that are sent here,’ said Georges, his mouth narrowing to a thin line. ‘People can always surprise you when money is involved. We are talking about a painting worth a fortune.’

‘Not Serge,’ I said with conviction. ‘Oh god, this is terrible. We must help him.’

‘All right,’ said Georges, looking towards the entrance. ‘I’ll go inside. You wait for me here. Fresnes is no place for you.’

While going into a prison was the last thing I wanted to do, I willed myself to be strong.

‘I’m coming with you. I have food, soap and fresh clothes.’ I held up the package Madame Bonne had given me. I didn’t add that I needed to see Serge for myself. I couldn’t help my mother now, but I could help my father.

‘The place is infested with fleas and rats. You may see things you’d rather forget.’

‘I’m coming with you,’ I insisted.

Georges shrugged and indicated towards the direction of the gate. ‘Then I will make no other attempt to dissuade you.’

He produced a document from his jacket pocket and showed it to the guard, who then opened the gate and ushered us to proceed. We were met by another guard who took us to an anteroom and opened the parcel Madame Bonne had given me. He took out the shaving mirror and razor, before handing it back. Then he directed us to follow him through an iron gate that creaked when he opened it and onwards through a narrow corridor, at the end of which was a room with nothing in it but a table and four chairs that were all chained to the floor. My eye followed a cockroach as it made its way across the peeling paint on the walls.

The guard left and we remained for what seemed like an interminable time before he returned with a dishevelled and demoralised-looking Serge. His suit was crumpled, and a grey two-day growth had sprouted on his normally clean-shaven face. But it was the chains around his ankles and wrists that caused me to gasp.

‘Eve!’ he cried out, looking both relieved and confused.

Relieved, no doubt, that he had not been deserted but confused as to why I should show up to see him.

‘Hello, Serge,’ I said. ‘This is a friend of mine, Georges Camadeau. He’s a lawyer. We’re here to help you.’

A look of recognition and a slight smile came to Serge’s face. ‘I remember you, Monsieur Camadeau. I was a witness at the inquiry into that butchered Degas.’

‘Indeed. I’m sorry that we meet again in these circumstances.’ Georges turned to the guard and indicated the chairs. ‘May we?’

The guard gave a nod and allowed Serge to take a chair while Georges and I sat down on the other side of the table.

‘Let’s start with the details, Monsieur Lavertu,’ said Georges, taking a notebook and pen from his pocket. ‘You are aware of the charges against you?’

‘A distressing claim that I murdered édouard and Beatrice Fould,’ replied Serge, ‘but no details beyond that.’

Georges read from his notes: ‘According to the Foulds’ gardener, Fran?ois Gattolin, on the tenth of September 1943, you and a Madame Kristina Bergeret arrived at the Fould residence in Nice around midday and, along with Monsieur Gattolin and two maids, commenced packing away the Foulds’ art collection with the expectation of the couple leaving Nice that night to avoid deportation by the Germans. Sometime in the afternoon, Madame Bergeret left by bicycle to attend to domestic matters at her home, but you remained behind. Monsieur Gattolin says he spent several hours with you building a false wall to hide the most important artworks behind. When you finished, you suggested that Monsieur Gattolin and the maids go to their respective quarters and sleep for the next few hours as a storm was brewing and Monsieur Gattolin would need his wits about him to drive the couple along the back roads to Saint-Martin. But when Monsieur Gattolin re-entered the house at three o’clock in the morning, he found the maids fast asleep and the Foulds gone. He concluded you must have decided to drive the couple yourself.’

Serge paused before responding. ‘I left édouard and Beatrice about one o’clock in the morning and returned to the villa where I was staying as a guest of Kristina... Madame Bergeret. The plan we had decided upon was for the gardener to drive them to Saint-Martin from where they would make their way to Italy, and I assumed that was what had happened.’

‘Did you make any attempt to find them after the war?’ asked Georges, writing down what Serge was telling him.

‘Yes, through the Red Cross. But they had disappeared without a trace. I thought perhaps they had been caught and deported, but there were no records of them in the camps. In the end, I could only assume they met some bad end on their way out of France.’

‘And their artwork?’ Georges asked. ‘What happened to the art you hid?’

‘I reported it to the Artistic Recovery Commission soon after the liberation. But it had been stolen, as was the art at Madame Bergeret’s villa. Both houses were occupied by the Germans towards the end of the war and were looted. Madame Bergeret was sent to a camp and I joined the Maquis.’

Georges leaned back in his chair and regarded Serge carefully. ‘The Foulds never left their villa. Their decomposed bodies were found two days ago in a disused well on their estate.’

The room seemed suddenly airless. A palpable sense of foreboding came over me and I thought I might pass out.

Serge’s face was a study in anguish and it took him a few moments to compose himself enough to speak. ‘Someone must have informed the Germans that the Foulds were leaving.’

‘The Germans wouldn’t have killed them and hidden their bodies in a well,’ said Georges. ‘They would have deported them along with all the other Jews they were sending east.’ Georges glanced at me before turning back to Serge. ‘You may not like what I’m about to say, but I have to inform you that if you are guilty, Monsieur Lavertu, this is going to be a lot easier if you admit it.’

It wrung my heart to hear Serge’s innocence questioned but he remained steadfast.

‘édouard and Beatrice were my friends,’ he said, lifting his chin. ‘I never betrayed them and I certainly did not kill them.’

Georges softened his manner. ‘It’s not a matter of whether I believe you. I’m asking questions that the examining judge will want answered. There is also the painting from the Foulds’ collection that was sold to Hitler’s art dealer – Hedy von Rittberg. A rare Botticelli that Monsieur Gattolin said édouard Fould was so attached to, it was the one artwork he intended to take with him as he fled for his life.’

Serge was quiet as if he were remembering the events of the night. Then he sighed deeply. ‘In the end he saw the wisdom in entrusting it to me. It would have been stolen or damaged if he tried to take it over the rugged mountains on foot.’

‘And yet you sold it to Hedy von Rittberg?’

‘Not quite. I never sold the original. That was stolen. I sold von Rittberg a copy of the painting.’

‘A fake?’ I asked. ‘You sold Hitler’s art dealer a forgery?’

Serge nodded.

‘Well then,’ said Georges, putting aside his pen and leaning back in his chair. ‘You’d better start by explaining how you ended up selling a forgery of a rare and beautiful masterpiece to Hitler’s dealer – and how on earth she fell for it.’