Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-One

Kristina

Nice, August 1943

Kristina answered the telephone to find Moira on the line. ‘Come straightaway. A new supply of coffee is here,’ she said, sounding unusually breathless. ‘I don’t know how long it will last.’

‘Coffee’ was their codename for Angelo Donati’s Resistance contact from the Town Hall. They never used real names over the telephone line, well aware that operators were in the employ of the enemy to listen in on calls.

‘I’ll be right there,’ Kristina told her. ‘I don’t want you to run out.’

Vittorio Melato was a kind-looking man who before the war had been a popular city official. But from the haggardness of his face, it was clear that this was not a meeting for pleasure.

‘I don’t need to tell you, Madame Bergeret, that the situation in Nice is now grave,’ he said, when Kristina entered Moira’s kitchen. ‘The Gestapo are already here, preparing the way for the Germans to occupy us, and when they do there will be round-ups. With the Germans losing the war, the raids have grown even more vicious. We have heard stories of them bashing babies to death in front of their mothers.’

‘Will they never give up?’ Kristina exclaimed, anger burning in her blood. ‘They have no chance of winning the war now. Why not surrender and spare millions of lives, including their own?’

‘Hitler is insane and will not surrender,’ said Vittorio. ‘He will fight to the very last German. But I do have some good news. Signor Donati has pulled off an incredible feat. The Italians have agreed to allow Jews safe passage through Italy and then on to Africa. We have secured four transport ships. The British and Americans have promised naval and aerial protection. Instead of saving handfuls of people at a time, the escape line will now be able to undertake a mass evacuation.’

‘That is a miracle!’ Kristina cried. ‘Signor Donati should be made a living saint.’

Vittorio laughed. ‘He has been a light for us all. He is in Rome now, making the final arrangements. Until then we must get everyone ready. We have five thousand passports printed so far and the mayor’s office is burning the Jewish registration papers the Vichy government forced people to submit at the start of the war.’

‘I know you have your hands full, Kristina,’ Moira said, ‘but can you squeeze in some more people at the villa? We are bringing in refugees from the countryside to have them ready to leave from Nice.’

‘How many?’

‘Five adults.’

Kristina’s resources were stretched to the limit, and each extra person added to the risk of discovery for everybody. But how could she refuse at such a crucial time?

‘Yes, I can manage that for a short time,’ she said.

Vittorio sighed. ‘And I must burden your generosity with another request too, Madame Bergeret, this one from French intelligence in London. The Maquis has picked up two of de Gaulle’s agents. One has been sent back to Britain but the other is too badly injured to be moved. He was shot escaping from Italian custody. A Resistance doctor performed surgery on his wounds, but he can’t be left at the hospital where the Gestapo would be sure to find him. He needs somewhere to convalesce.’

A tiny glimmer of hope flared in Kristina’s heart. ‘One of de Gaulle’s agents, did you say? What is his name?’

‘Philippe Delphy.’

So not Max then. She turned away to hide her disappointment. ‘Of course we will help. You’ve done so much to help us.’

*

At one o’clock in the morning a car arrived with its headlights off. Two men in dark suits got out. Kristina and Serge watched, hidden in the garden, as the men helped a third man out of the back seat. He couldn’t stand on his own and they had to hold him upright. They got him only as far as the gate before he collapsed in a faint. Kristina stood up, intending to go and help. Serge pulled her down again.

‘Wait,’ he whispered. ‘The pass phrase.’

He was right. The men could be from the Gestapo and this could be a trap. They couldn’t trust anybody.

Serge approached the men and Kristina heard the pass phrase: ‘We’ve taken a wrong turn. Can we stay here for the night?’ When the men lifted the agent, he gave out a muffled cry of pain. One of the men went back to the car and got a blanket. They lay the injured man on it and they all carried him into the house. When Kristina went inside, they were lifting him upstairs to the bedroom she’d prepared – the room she had once shared with Max but couldn’t bear to be alone in now. The journey was difficult and slow. When the men turned the corner of the first landing, the injured man gave another stifled cry. Kristina began to wonder whether she was up to taking care of someone so badly injured. Dealing with her mother’s last few weeks had been difficult. But what choice was there? This man had sacrificed so much, they had to help him.

Upstairs, the men laid the agent on the bed. He murmured something incomprehensible.

‘Do you have something for his pain?’ Kristina asked.

One of the men reached into his pocket and took out a handful of vials, which he pressed into her palm. ‘He’s had surgery, but only give him the morphine if the pain is unbearable,’ he said. ‘The other medicine is penicillin. It’s as hard to come by as hen’s teeth but infection is a greater danger to him than pain. If anything goes wrong, call this number. You need to memorise it. We don’t write anything down.’

As she committed the number to memory, the seriousness of the situation weighed on her. To be caught hiding one of de Gaulle’s agents would most certainly result in torture and a gruesome death.

‘ Bonne chance ,’ the men said to their colleague, and then without another word they left. Serge went to see them out.

The injured agent groaned again. Examining him in the dim lamplight, Kristina could see he’d been beaten badly. His eyes were no more than slits in his black and blue face. She thought of Max and prayed that if someone discovered him in a similar condition, that they, too, would risk everything to help him.

‘We won’t let anything bad happen to you,’ Kristina whispered. ‘We are here to help.’

He reached out a trembling hand and squeezed her fingers. ‘ Merci ,’ he said, in a faint, almost imperceptible, voice.

Kristina dipped a cloth into the water bowl beside his bed and squeezed some drops into his mouth. Her eyelids started to droop from exhaustion.

Serge returned. ‘We can’t do anything more right now for him than let him rest,’ he said. ‘You’d best go to bed, Kristina, and we will see how things are in the morning.’

*

When Kristina opened her eyes at dawn, her first thoughts were about the injured agent. She hadn’t been able to see the true extent of the man’s injuries by lamplight. She had an ominous feeling that he may have perished overnight and she would find him stiff and cold in the bed. She went to the room where the agent was and gingerly pushed open the door. To her surprise, the man was sitting up and looking around the room.

‘What miracle is this?’ he was mumbling to himself. ‘I’m home.’

Kristina’s pulse quickened. She flushed hot then cold.

‘Max?’

He turned to look at her. Although his bruised face was still unrecognisable, even in daylight, his smile was unmistakable. ‘Last night I thought I was dreaming,’ he said. ‘But it’s true. I’m home.’

Her heart exploded with a joy that had no words. She knelt down beside him and took his hand, staring at him in wonder. It was as if she had been sitting in the dark and someone had flicked on the light and startled her. When her voice returned, she managed to stutter, ‘But they told me your name was Philippe Delphy.’

‘That’s my codename.’

Yes, of course, she should have known that. She was so overcome by the miraculous way he had been restored to her, she could only say, ‘I knew you would come back. I always knew it.’

She looked down and saw what had been done to him. The skin of his hand was covered in burn scars: purple craters that curled inwards at the edges. The nails of his index and middle fingers were missing. But she didn’t want to ask him about the injuries just yet, sure that her rage at the answer would spoil the moment. Instead, she let her heart swell with how much she loved him and gratitude for whatever divine grace had brought him back.

Serge walked into the room with a towel and a bowl of water. He stopped when he saw Kristina kneeling next to Max. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘It’s Max. He is back.’

A frown rippled Serge’s forehead, as if he was wondering if Kristina had gone mad, driven too far by her fantasies about Max returning.

‘Serge?’ Max said. ‘Is that you?’

Serge froze to the spot, his eyes filling with tears. At that moment the sun rose above the sea and filled the room with light. It reminded Kristina of the day at the station four years earlier, when they had said goodbye to Max, and the sun had come up as he was getting on the train. It had made everyone look as though they had caught fire. But now Max was back, that very same sun seemed to shine more brilliantly for Kristina than it ever had before.

*

It was painful to watch Max eat. His jaw had been broken and reset and he’d had stomach surgery because of the bullet wounds. Adding to his poor condition was the fact that he’d been starved for several weeks. He could only take tiny teaspoons of gruel, and he winced with each mouthful. Kristina had to keep reminding herself to simply be grateful he was alive, and that he was doing his best to recover.

Serge looked on, offering a serviette when Max dribbled food down his chin. ‘It seems you are a master at escaping, my friend,’ he said. ‘First from a German prisoner-of-war camp and then from the Italians. Five shots are a lot of bullets to take and to keep running.’

‘I had you both to come back to,’ he said. ‘And Nadia and Ginette.’

‘The girls prayed for you every day,’ Kristina said. ‘I’ll call them in after you’ve finished eating.’

‘No!’ said Max. Then realising he may have spoken too harshly, added, ‘When I’m better. I don’t want them to see me this way.’

‘They won’t care, Max,’ she assured him. ‘We have been a safe house for Jews on their way out of France for some time now. They have seen a lot, and aren’t babies anymore.’

Kristina was proud of her daughters’ maturity, but it saddened her too. The war had made them grow up too quickly.

Max nodded. ‘I’ve missed a lot.’ Then he turned to Serge. ‘Thank you. I asked you to look after my wife and children and you did.’

*

Although Kristina didn’t say it to Max, she was concerned about how Ginette might react when she saw her father. Nadia, she knew, would be brave. But when the girls came into the room, Ginette sat next to Max and looked at him with nothing but adoration. She produced a painting she had made of Tulipe, who was now a geriatric rabbit who stayed in an enclosure in Ginette’s room for fear that somebody would try to eat her.

‘This is a beautiful piece of art,’ Max told her. ‘You have your mother’s talent. When you grow up, you will no doubt become a famous artist.’

Ginette beamed brightly at the compliment.

Kristina noticed Serge slip from the room. She found him, sitting in the garden and staring out at the sea. She sat quietly beside him.

‘I should have married Madeleine,’ he said. ‘I should have tried to have a normal life and a family.’

Kristina put her hand on his shoulder. ‘You were prepared to do all that. Madeleine was the one who ran away.’

‘I often wonder what happened to the child. Did Madeleine keep her, or did she give her away?’

She wasn’t sure what to say to Serge. They’d had this conversation many years before but now it seemed to have a particular urgency for him again. She put it down to the high emotions of Max’s return, and the fact they were both out of their minds with exhaustion and hunger. For while she believed that Madeleine was a good person in her heart, she was too troubled to be able to take care of a child. It was most likely the child had been given up to an institution long ago. And as for Madeleine, if she had wanted to be found, she would have written to them.

‘You’ll always be part of our family, Serge,’ Kristina said. ‘Even with Max back, nothing changes between you and me. You’ve been my protector and support.’

He looked into her eyes, and she hoped he understood. Their love for each other may not have been romantic or sanctified by marriage but it was very real.

*

Moira was all smiles when Kristina told her the news about Max.

‘It’s incredible! I have never heard of such a thing!’

Kristina remembered the candle she’d lit in the Russian Orthodox church and the peace she had felt afterwards. ‘It was divine intervention.’

A mischievous smile came to Moira’s face. ‘Well, let’s drink to the divine,’ she said. ‘I have a bottle of Italian grappa I was saving for after the war, but why not celebrate now?’

As the two women drank the ‘firewater’, it felt to Kristina like a breath between sprints – a moment of light-heartedness in a life of terror. Of course it didn’t last. No sooner had they put down their glasses than Vittorio from the Town Hall arrived, dishevelled and feverish.

‘It’s off,’ he said. ‘The evacuation is off. The Italians have signed an armistice with the Allies.’

For Kristina, the news was a terrible blow to their already precarious existence.

‘Signor Donati has had to go into hiding,’ Vittorio continued. ‘The Germans tried to assassinate him.’

‘But many of the Italian soldiers are still here,’ Kristina said. ‘Won’t they fight for the Allies now?’

Vittorio shook his head. ‘They outnumber the Germans, but they are surrendering in droves. They want to go home.’

‘Surely there is time to get the people we’re hiding out?’ said Moira. ‘We have everything prepared. We can put them on trains and get them out to Italy tonight. The Allies can work out what to do with them from there.’

Vittorio was on the verge of tears. ‘The Germans have taken over the railways already.’

All Kristina could think about were the children and adults hiding at the villa. They had been living in uncomfortable, cramped conditions, bearing it all because they believed ships were coming soon to take them somewhere safe. There was no choice now, Kristina realised, but to hunker down and hope that the storm would pass over them.

*

‘Where are édouard and Beatrice?’ Max asked Kristina, when she told him about the armistice.

‘They are still in their home here in Nice.’

Max shifted himself to sit upright, a move that caused him to wince in pain. ‘Please tell me that’s not true. Why didn’t they leave months ago?’

‘When the Italians came, life went back to normal for Jewish people. They believed Donati would protect them.’

Max shook his head. ‘They have to get out now . They are a target.’

‘All Jews are targets,’ said Serge, bringing in a clean pair of pyjamas for Max.

‘They are on a list,’ Max said. ‘French intelligence in London have known for some time that the Nazis have been sending trainloads of art to Germany. They already have their hands on the Rothschild and Schloss collections. They will certainly be after the Foulds’ art. Hitler has plans for a Führermuseum, a super art museum in Linz. They know about Botticelli’s Flora and it’s on Hitler’s prize list – if G?ring doesn’t get his greedy hands on it first.’

Kristina and Serge listened with shock as Max described the extent of the art that was being looted from German occupied territories, from museums and art galleries but particularly from Jews. In Paris, the stolen artworks were assessed by a team of Nazi art historians before being sent on to Germany.

‘We’ve lost everything we stored at Wacker-Bondy’s,’ he told Serge. ‘Martin La Farge led the Gestapo straight to it for a generous ten per cent commission of artworks that he wanted.’ Serge looked beaten, as if he had just been told that his best friend had died.

‘He got our art gallery as well,’ he said.

Kristina didn’t want to ask Max how he knew about the extent of the looting. It was clear he was privy to de Gaulle’s intelligence, and she sensed it was better to know as little about Max’s mission as possible.

*

The Foulds’ mansion was not shut up like other mansions along the C?te d’Azur. The shutters were wide open revealing sparkling windows. A gardener was on his knees weeding a flowerbed while two maids were beating a mattress as if they were expecting overnight guests. One of them stopped when she saw Kristina and Serge approaching and showed them inside, where they found édouard smoking a cigarette and reading a newspaper in the drawing room. Beatrice was beside him, working on a tapestry of the Notre-Dame cathedral. Kristina and Serge stood speechless when they saw what was hanging on the walls. Some of the most priceless artworks from the Foulds’ collection, ones that they had helped pack away so carefully the year before, were on display again in the room. A portrait by Cranach – a favourite artist of Hitler’s – hung above a bureau. It was as if it had been placed there as a taunt.

‘It was lonely without them,’ said édouard, indicating the paintings. ‘We like to have them around like old friends. Speaking of which, we haven’t seen you two for a while. Let’s have some champagne, shall we? The cellar is full of the stuff, and we may as well enjoy it before the Krauts get here.’

Kristina glanced at Beatrice, who shuddered. She looked pale and worn, a woman defeated.

‘You’re both in grave danger,’ said Serge. ‘We can’t tell you exactly our source, but it comes from someone in contact with French intelligence in London. You are on a list for deportation.’

‘Words, rumours, talk,’ said édouard, signalling to one of the maids. ‘I’ve probably been on that list a long time.’ The maid approached and édouard told her to bring two bottles of Veuve Clicquot.

Beatrice looked on the verge of tears. The image came to Kristina of those women who decided to go down with their husbands on the Titanic when they could have got in a lifeboat. Maybe they did it for love, or fear they couldn’t survive without their husbands, but it would have been a terrifying choice just the same.

‘They want your art,’ Serge told édouard. ‘It doesn’t matter about all your international connections. They won’t protect you here. They’ve already plundered the other Jewish collections and arrested two of the Schloss family in Nice. They will be coming for you too soon, no doubt.’

édouard sat back and grinned. ‘For all his vitriol against us, it seems that Hitler thinks the Jews have excellent taste.’

Was his obstinacy the result of a distressed mind? Kristina wondered. But it wasn’t just his life that was on the line, but his wife’s too.

‘You and Beatrice still have a life ahead of you,’ said Serge. ‘I don’t think your son would have wanted you to just sit here and wait to be murdered.’

Beatrice let out a muffled sob. Kristina sidled up to her and whispered, ‘Go and pack two bags. Just clothes, food and whatever money you have to hand.’

After Beatrice left to carry out her task, Kristina sat down next to édouard and placed her hand on his back. ‘Everything has been very hard. We have all suffered constant shocks. But you must pull yourself together. You won’t get a second chance. You must leave now.’

Kristina inwardly lamented that the Foulds had not left the previous August when they had the chance. They could have gone through Italy and crossed into Switzerland by car. Now the only way to get them out was with a passeur , a guide, who would pick them up at Saint-Martin and take them across the high peaks of the Mercantour alps and into Italy, where hopefully the Red Cross would be able to help them get out of Europe. The trip would be arduous, and she wasn’t entirely sure the Foulds were up for it. But they had no choice now. To stay was far more dangerous.

édouard looked around him. ‘What would they do with all this beauty? Those Nazis and their black hearts.’

He let out a heart-rending sob and leaned on Kristina in a way that broke her heart. But she was relieved he was giving voice to his pain. Once it was expelled, she hoped he’d find the strength to leave.

Serge took a breath, as if determined to keep his mind on practicalities. ‘Your maids and your gardener can help me crate your artworks. We can hide them in various places around the property. I can take some back to the Villa des Cygnes. I may even be able to build a false wall for you here as I’ve got rather good at constructing them. But give Botticelli’s Flora to me now. That’s the painting Hitler and G?ring are competing over and will stop at nothing to get.’

Kristina was surprised. Taking the Botticelli was not something she and Serge had discussed beforehand.

édouard straightened. ‘ Flora must come with me. It’s the only thing I have left of my son.’

‘The guide who will be taking you through the mountains is paid, not a member of the Resistance, so he won’t want any trouble,’ Serge told him. ‘You’ll have to travel through the alps on narrow trails. The lighter you pack the better.’

édouard covered his face with his hands and said nothing.

Then to Kristina’s surprise, Serge changed his stance. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Take it.’

Everyone helped with carting crates from the garage into the house. But after a couple of hours, it was clear the Foulds, along with their maids and gardener as well as Kristina and Serge, were not enough hands for the job. They ended up performing a triage on the artworks, sorting them by their value and counting as losses what they would have to leave to be taken by the Germans.

Serge regarded two run-of-the-mill pastoral scenes. ‘They might distract the Nazi looters from the real treasures,’ he said hopefully.

édouard took Flora down himself, rolled it and embraced the painting like a child before putting it in a cylindrical case. Serge pulled Kristina aside. ‘That priceless Botticelli is going to end up at the bottom of a ravine when the guide gets sick of édouard struggling to keep up. Or worse, some mountain bandit will assume it’s an expensive artwork and slit édouard’s and Beatrice’s throats for it.’

‘I’d leave the subject alone, Serge,’ she said. ‘We’ve tried already. If you push it, he might refuse to go again. And right now, people are more important than paintings.’

*

It was getting late and Kristina had to get back to the villa to prepare food for Max and the others.

‘Take Beatrice’s bicycle,’ Serge told her. ‘I’ll come later and bring what artworks I can in the car and hide them at the villa.’ When Kristina embraced Beatrice before leaving, she thought it was like holding a frail, frightened bird.

‘We’ll meet again in better times,’ Kristina told her.

She sincerely hoped they would, but her stomach was in knots as she climbed on the bicycle and sped away from the villa.

*

It rarely rained in Nice but the downpour that evening was torrential. The wind rattled the windows and the house seemed to shudder with each blast. Serge hadn’t returned for dinner. Kristina hoped it was only because he’d decided to continue hiding the Foulds’ artworks until the morning. She rolled over several times, finding herself annoyed with édouard for putting everyone in danger, even though part of her sympathised. Why should he and Beatrice flee their home and live in fear when the Germans were losing the war anyway? She heard a car approach and peered out the window to see Serge pulling into the driveway. She was surprised he’d driven through the blinding rain like that, but perhaps it had been safer to do so rather than when the Germans were out on patrol. She went downstairs and waited for him to come into the house. He was carrying something under his arm when he stepped through the door. It was the cylinder in which édouard had packed the Botticelli.

‘I didn’t expect you to be awake,’ he said, his shoes squishing on the tiles before he took them off.

‘The painting?’ Kristina queried. ‘You brought it?’

He nodded. ‘In the end, Beatrice convinced édouard it was foolish to take it. I built a false wall, but it was a rush job and, although we moved cupboards in front of it, I’m not convinced it will fool the Germans enough to save the artworks behind it. So, he finally agreed to let me bring Flora and some other works here and gave me a letter as proof that he entrusted part of his collection to me.’

‘Come to the kitchen,’ Kristina said. ‘You must be freezing.’

She took a towel from the cupboard and put it over his shoulders. ‘édouard was so adamant that he was going to take the painting, I can’t quite believe even Beatrice managed to change his mind.’

He shot her a look. ‘Well, she did. So let’s drop the subject. I’m exhausted. édouard was so slow, moving about the house and forgetting things. It was as if he was getting ready to go on summer holidays rather than fleeing for his life.’

‘The war has done something to his mind,’ Kristina said, putting the kettle on the stove to make tea. ‘He wasn’t himself when I saw him today. None of us are.’ A fierce gust of wind blew against the house, making the walls shudder and the windows vibrate. ‘I hope the Foulds will make it,’ she said. ‘I don’t know if this is a good night or a bad one to set out.’

Serge looked away. ‘We can’t think about that now. We did our best.’

*

‘Fear and hunger. Fear and hunger, that’s all the Germans have brought us,’ said Moira as Kristina worked beside her in her kitchen, slicing the tops off the withered carrots they had managed to buy on the black market and cutting up a cabbage that had long lost its crispness.

The garden at the Villa des Cygnes was full of planted carrot tops that would eventually sprout leaves from which seeds could be harvested to grow more carrots. It was a process that Kristina’s father might have enjoyed in peace time, but it was painfully slow when everyone was hungry.

‘The Swedish Red Cross brought preserves and gingerbread into Nice yesterday,’ Kristina said, ‘but the only one who qualifies for food packages is Ginette.’

There were fourteen of them at the villa now, all trying to survive on the barely adequate ration cards of four. If it wasn’t for what Kristina could scrounge on the black market, they would all have perished from starvation long ago.

‘I have to tell the children to stay away from the windows and to play quietly, lest someone come unnoticed to the house,’ Kristina said. ‘And yet, I find myself feeling sorry for the German soldiers who have been sent to Nice. Some of them are almost children themselves. They look bewildered and lost. Like na?ve farm boys.’

‘They are boys who do what they are told,’ Moira said, with a note of warning in her voice in case the youthfulness of the soldiers caused Kristina to drop her guard. ‘That makes them especially dangerous. You wouldn’t feel sorry for them if they were about to shoot you.’

Moira put the vegetables in the boiling water and shook her head. ‘My mother would turn in her grave if she saw me putting cabbage in a pot-au-feu, but desperate times mean we can’t be fussy now.’

‘It looks more appetising than the potato peel soup and stale bread we ate yesterday.’

Moira took a cloth and wiped down the table. ‘Hunger can turn us into monsters. The Germans are offering people extra ration tickets for denouncing Jews and their helpers.’

Although Kristina was sad that Tulipe had died from old age the previous week, she was relieved too. She had been turning a blind eye to Ginette taking a precious carrot or turnip to feed her pet. One of the refugees, thankfully moved further down the escape line before the last intake, had discovered Tulipe one day and made everyone take a vote on whether they should kill the poor old bony rabbit to make a stew. Luckily, no one supported her.

Kristina looked out the window and her mind wandered to that morning when Ginette had found Tulipe stiff and cold. To comfort Ginette, Kristina had suggested they have a funeral to remember the sweet and affectionate rabbit. Afterwards, she and Serge had moved a large square of cement over the burial site and placed an urn on top, not so much as a memorial but because they feared someone would dig up the rabbit’s corpse and eat it.

*

Kristina drove home with a portion of the stew Moira had made hidden under a blanket on the front passenger seat. She’d had to take a long detour because the Germans weren’t only starving the population of Nice, they were turning the beautiful natural coastline into a defence line. They had blown up lighthouses to stop them being used as reference points for enemy aircraft, and had cut down ancient trees to make way for blockhouses, trenches and tunnels. Ugly concrete walls curved around the coast. Even the beach was mined. Max believed they were seeding the explosives at a hundred devices per acre. Rumour had it that the Germans had plans to blow up the whole city when they retreated from it.

Out of nowhere, a black Citro?n closed in behind Kristina. The driver beeped the horn aggressively. She glanced in the rear-view mirror to see the surly faces of men who could only have been Gestapo agents. She had no choice but to pull over. Her thoughts scattered and it was difficult for her to think clearly. They would take the stew, no doubt. But it was a loss she could bear. It was the discovery of the false papers stashed under her seat that was terrifying. She prepared herself for the worst, but the Gestapo didn’t stop. The Citro?n roared onwards. She drew a breath to calm herself and whispered a quick prayer of gratitude. But then the sound of vehicles approaching made her look up again. Three army trucks driven by German soldiers and crowded with people of all ages – dejected, frightened, battered – passed by. They were Jews from a round-up. After they passed, Kristina beat her fists against the dashboard.

‘ You are monsters! ’ she shouted after the Germans. ‘ Monsters! ’

*

When Kristina pulled up at the villa, she gave the stew to Nadia to take to the kitchen and went straight upstairs where she found Max struggling to get out of bed.

‘Darling, don’t do that,’ she told him. ‘One of us will bring you something if you want it.’

‘What I want is to help you, Kristina. You are practically skin and bones.’

‘You’ll help me by getting better. Now lie down.’

She took off her shoes and curled up on the bed next to him. His swelling was finally starting to come down and he was yellow instead of purple. But it was still painful for him to be touched. She lay close enough to feel the warmth of his skin but not to make contact. They looked into each other’s faces, and Kristina was moved to see that even though they had been separated for over four years, he still looked at her with love in his eyes.

‘Max,’ she said softly, as if saying his name would keep him with her forever.

He lifted his hand and stroked her cheek with his finger. ‘At least tell me what your worries are, Kristina. Don’t carry your burdens all by yourself.’

She waved the question away. She didn’t want to say that her main worry was him. She had drilled everyone to vanish to their hiding places should the Gestapo appear at the gate. But what would they do with Max? He could barely move. Moira was trying to get false papers to say that he had been in an accident at a factory. But they were taking forever to get done.

‘It’s money,’ she said, naming her second greatest worry. ‘When there is some food it’s exorbitantly expensive. I could sell the piano, but it would probably only buy me a bunch of grapes. Besides, the second-hand stores are full of Steinways and playing it is one of the few pleasures Nadia has left. Then there are the passeurs . The people on the safe-house chain do everything they can out of their sense of compassion, but the passeurs smell our desperation and take everything we’ve got. And they won’t take children. Our escape line doesn’t have the money, so we hide Jews and try to keep everyone fed. Every day I wake up thinking I can’t do it anymore. Only God gives me the strength.’

Max stretched his arm out slowly so that it circled her head. ‘I’ve been looking at that painting of Serge you have hanging over the dresser.’

At first Kristina was hurt. Why was he talking about a painting when she had just poured out her heart to him. But her eyes followed his gaze to the painting Serge had finally agreed to sit for, only with Tulipe instead of Leo. They did it not long after Max went missing and Kristina was distraught. Serge had suggested it as a distraction. Together they had absorbed themselves in studying everything they could about Leonardo da Vinci’s technique so that Kristina could use it perfectly to imitate the master himself.

‘It’s not your usual style,’ Max said.

‘I painted it in homage to da Vinci’s Lady with an Ermine . It was a little joke I was making with Serge.’

‘Tell me how you did it?’

‘I wrote to a friend from the Louvre to see if they could tell me what size the original was and I learned it had been painted on a walnut wood panel. Serge helped me with the chemical composition of the paints. I spent hours studying the peculiarities of da Vinci’s style and learning about the techniques of the period. After much practice imitating da Vinci’s brushstrokes, I was confident enough to attempt the painting.’

‘Despite the fact it’s Serge with Tulipe, it could be a da Vinci,’ said Max. Then struggling to push himself up higher on the cushions, he said, ‘Go get Serge. I know a way that we can make money. A lot of money. ’

*

Serge rubbed his chin and leaned back against the windowsill. ‘It’s one hell of a risk to take, Max. It would be dangerous enough to draw attention to ourselves by selling the originals.’ ‘The way things are going, we have nothing to lose,’ Max replied. ‘And if any artist can pull it off, it’s Kristina. She studied the masters as a student and she’s a perfectionist.’

‘You can’t be serious!’ Kristina said.

‘I am serious,’ said Max. ‘Why should we be starving here while other dealers are making millions of dollars in Paris?’

‘They are making it from stolen art, Max,’ she reminded him.

A sly grin came to his face. He looked more like himself again than ever. ‘But we will make it from forgeries – it’s not the same thing. We will be the Robin Hood, Little John and Maid Marian of the French art world. We will be cheating the Nazis to save the very people they are persecuting.’

Kristina could see Max’s point. They had already broken so many rules, they would be executed if they were discovered. What difference would it make if it were for hiding Jews or forging art? The punishment would be the same. But Serge would have to agree to the scheme.

‘What do you think?’ she asked him.

A smile crept across his face. ‘What do I think?’ he asked. ‘I think, my dear friends, that it will not only bring us an income but it will be a delicious form of revenge.’