Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Five

Kristina

Paris, November 1943

Paris that November was not the city Kristina had known and loved. All its happiness and gaiety had been destroyed – at least it appeared to have been from the careworn look of the people on the streets. They moved about slowly, without the vivacity she had always associated with the City of Lights. The beautiful parks were now vegetable gardens, and rose vines no longer twisted themselves through balcony railings. In their place were scraggly tomato vines. Paris’s cats, that had always delighted Kristina when she would spot one sunning itself on a windowsill or doorstep, had disappeared. They had gone into cooking pots along with the thousands of pigeons that used to grace the pavements. When she reached 21 Rue la Boétie, she clutched her precious package of the forged portrait of Rembrandt’s wife and almost cried. Gone was the plaque Max had so proudly screwed next to the door announcing the arrival of ‘Bergeret going to art school; meeting Max and Serge; joining the Resistance. They were moments that if she had not taken certain turns, her life would have been completely different. She sensed that she was facing one of those defining moments now. When Donati had organised the ships to get the Jewish people out of Nice, she’d felt elated, as though good things could actually happen. Then fate turned against him. But what about her? If she sold a Botticelli to the Germans for its current market value, she may not change the course of the war, but she would change the course of hundreds of people’s lives. Her heart pounded and blood surged through her veins as she thought about Moira and the Jewish woman who had jumped from the hotel window during the raid. She felt keenly every bit of rage and sorrow that she had endured through the last three years of Nazi terror.

She turned back to Max and Serge, not timid, but full of fire. ‘I’ll do it,’ she said.

*

Although Kristina had made her decision and stuck by it, it didn’t stop her from sometimes being paralysed by fear that she would fail everybody. Her courage and cowardice ran alongside each other, like two ponies pulling a cart. But the more she stared at Botticelli’s Flora , the more she came to believe that his painting had a life of its own. It filled her with beauty and light and a sense of spring coming. The colours were vivid and the lines ravishingly sensual. The whole work glimmered. It took some practice to bring Flora’s slightly flattened figure to life, to outline her and then paint her in the perfect pastel colours that were Botticelli’s signature. But after several nervous attempts, her own masterful technique began to flow and she found herself believing in her talent again. Despite the high stakes, Botticelli’s playfulness was contagious, and Kristina painted in her ‘time bomb’ with a cheeky confidence and a conviction that Botticelli would have approved of the practical joke.

When she was finished, Max and Serge went over the painting with a fine-tooth comb.

‘It’s perfect,’ said Max, hugging Kristina to him and kissing her cheek. ‘And neither Serge nor I can find the clue you have planted.’ Then with a broad grin, he added: ‘Serge has come up with a forgery of his own.’

‘I’m coming with you to see von Rittberg,’ said Serge, looking mildly embarrassed. ‘Should any Nazi make me pull down my pants, I have a letter from a Resistance doctor to say I was recently circumcised due to venereal disease.’

*

Kristina and Serge stood before the doors of the hotel room in Cannes where Frau von Rittberg had agreed to meet them. They gave each other one final reassuring glance before Serge knocked on the door. Kristina quickly crossed herself and silently prayed for all to go well.

A moment later the door was opened by a maid. ‘Madame von Rittberg is expecting you,’ she said. ‘Please come inside.’

She ushered them into a salon where a woman of about sixty was waiting. She had immaculately dyed black hair and not a skerrick of make-up except for a slash of lipstick.

‘Please, have a seat,’ she said, indicating a sofa.

Kristina and Serge settled themselves among the cushions while Frau von Rittberg took an armchair upholstered in blood-red velvet.

‘Cigarette?’ she asked, holding out a gold shell filled with Swiss cigarettes.

They declined, and Frau von Rittberg took one for herself and lit it. ‘A rare Botticelli,’ she said. ‘I’m trembling with excitement.’

Kristina’s fingers were numb although the room was adequately heated. Her throat felt scratchy, and her mouth was dry. It was lucky it was Serge who would do the talking, for she was sure she would have stuttered if she had tried.

‘You won’t be disappointed,’ Serge said. ‘It’s on par with the Birth of Venus and Primavera .’

The telephone rang but Frau von Rittberg chose to ignore it. ‘May I ask how you acquired it?’

‘From someone who needed to leave the country, in a hurry . I have the bill of sale here as well as the painting’s provenance.’

For a brief moment, Kristina drew strength from the thought of édouard and Beatrice safe somewhere out of France. One day they would all meet again and wonder at how their Botticelli painting had saved so many lives. That is, provided all went well now.

Serge reached into his jacket pocket and took out the fake bill of sale as well as a cooked-up history of ownership. They had been printed by the same forger who made the false papers for the Jewish refugees. Frau von Rittberg perused it briefly, clearly not too concerned if it had been stolen or if the seller had been given a fair price.

‘And how much are you asking for it?’

‘Three million francs,’ said Serge, with remarkable composure.

Kristina couldn’t have swallowed if she had tried but Frau von Rittberg didn’t even flinch. ‘Then show it to me,’ she said.

Carefully and with great reverence, Kristina and Serge undid the wrapping and lifted the painting from it, placing it on the stand Frau von Rittberg indicated.

Her eyes widened then softened again, like the flame of a fire. She stood up and looked over the painting.

‘Every element is beautiful, don’t you agree?’ asked Serge. ‘From Flora’s lovely face to the exquisite detail of the flowers and plants.’

‘Bring it closer to the light, please,’ she said, pointing to a window.

Serge obliged by moving the stand and painting to the place Frau von Rittberg suggested.

She took a magnifying glass from her pocket and examined the painting, square by square. She was more thorough than Martin La Farge had been, which made Kristina think she was no run-of-the-mill interior designer. Her observation was confirmed when she noticed the pink marble Venus on the mantelpiece and the Indian Buddha holding a lotus leaf next to it. Everywhere she looked there was some sort of marvel – an Egyptian mask, enamel boxes, Lipchitz fire dogs. Frau von Rittberg was an experienced collector.

‘The gentleman you are buying for,’ Serge asked, ‘is he an art connoisseur?’

A mysterious smile came to her lips. ‘He trusts my judgement entirely. I am a good friend of his fiancée. We are almost family. Now explain to me again how this painting came from Italy to France.’

As Serge began a fictional tale about a grand tour, Frau von Rittberg went to a desk and took from the drawer a small bottle of alcohol and a cloth. ‘May I?’ she asked looking at Kristina.

Max and Serge had assured her that the ageing process they had perfected meant the paint would pass the alcohol test, but they had never demonstrated it for her. She knew everything depended on what would take place in the next few minutes and how well she played her part.

‘Of course,’ she said.

Frau von Rittberg poured some alcohol onto the cloth and dabbed at a corner of the painting. The cloth came away clean. Whatever that foul-smelling process Max and Serge had come up with was, it had worked. Then she stood back and regarded the painting for a long time.

‘This is not the work of a student or a follower of Botticelli,’ she said with both awe and conviction. ‘This has a presence that only Botticelli could convey. Looking at it is like being seduced by the artist. I feel that he is taking my clothes off, slowly, one item at a time.’

Kristina bit down on her lip and didn’t dare look at Serge.

Frau von Rittberg turned and smiled at them. ‘And you haven’t offered it to anyone else?’

Serge shook his head. ‘We don’t work that way. We speak to only one client at a time.’

She regarded him for a moment before saying, ‘Then I will honour you by not trying to negotiate a lower price.’

It was the only moment in the whole procedure that made Kristina doubt Frau von Rittberg’s competence. A dealer who doesn’t try to negotiate a lower price is not a dealer.

Frau von Rittberg picked up the telephone and spoke to someone in German, a language neither Kristina nor Serge understood, except Kristina picked up one word: dringend . It meant ‘a matter of urgency’. She’d heard it uttered in German bulletins on the radio before the French translation was given. Kristina pushed back a wave of fear. Frau von Rittberg put down the receiver and turned to them, but then the telephone rang again. This time she spoke at length in an excited voice. Kristina did her best not to think about what would happen if things went wrong. But when Frau von Rittberg put down the telephone receiver the second time, she looked pleased.

‘I think it is time for champagne,’ she said. ‘The money will be transferred to you no later than tomorrow but on the condition that I take possession of the painting now. You’ll be given all the paperwork and a deposit today of course.’

‘Those terms are acceptable to us. I am very pleased for your client,’ said Serge.

Kristina murmured her agreement. Art dealers normally didn’t pass on priceless paintings until the full payment was received, but in that moment she’d have agreed to anything just to get out of there. She wondered if Serge had felt the same way. Whoever the buyer was, he obviously had blind trust in Frau von Rittberg to part with that much money without viewing the painting himself.

Frau von Rittberg opened the champagne bottle and poured them each a glass. ‘I’m glad we settled things quickly,’ she said. ‘I want to take the painting with me to Berlin as soon as possible. The Führer is impatient to see it.’

Kristina didn’t believe her ears at first. But Serge’s sudden pallor confirmed that she had heard correctly.

‘The Führer has a lot on his mind at the moment,’ Frau von Rittberg continued. ‘But the search for great works for the Führermuseum must continue.’

Kristina took a gulp of champagne. She tried to take in the reality of what had just happened. But even after repeating it to herself a dozen times in her head, she still couldn’t believe it. Surely she’d wake up and see it all as some strange hallucination.

‘Indeed,’ said Serge, his face frozen. ‘I’ve heard that the museum will be quite something.’

It was then that the identity of the buyer cemented itself as a picture in Kristina’s mind: the pale, penetrating stare; the hair combed to one side; the toothbrush moustache. But most of all the hate and evil that emanated from the man. The acceptance of the fact of what had occurred was so shocking, Kristina felt dizzy with it.

They had just sold her forgery of Botticelli’s Flora to Hitler.