Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Six

Eve

Paris, June 1946

‘Eve! I’m delighted you are back!’ Georges said, ushering me into his study. ‘I’ve got some good news. I managed to persuade the examining judge to give Kristina Belova a chance to study the two paintings Serge claims she forged – the Rembrandt that Martin La Farge purchased and sold to a collector, and the Botticelli that Serge and Kristina sold to Hedy von Rittberg. Perhaps Kristina will remember the clue she planted in them if she sees them.’

I sat down in the chair he offered me. ‘That’s wonderful.’ But my enthusiasm hit a false note. Kristina hadn’t recognised her own daughters or Serge in the photographs Inès had shown her. Paris wasn’t familiar to her, and when I had asked her on the train from Nice about the ‘time bomb’ in the forged paintings, she had no recollection of what I was talking about. So Georges’s ‘good news’ really didn’t mean anything. It was all starting to seem hopeless.

Georges leaned against his desk and scrutinised me. ‘Eve, what’s wrong? You look like you are about to cry.’

‘No, I’m not,’ I lied, choking up even as I said it. ‘I haven’t slept very much, that’s all. Hasn’t anybody who Serge and Kristina rescued been found?’

‘No, and I don’t think we can count on it in the short amount of time we have. People had false papers, and records were destroyed at the time to keep them safe. Many of them have gone to live in the United States and even China and the Middle East.’

‘What can we count on then, if Kristina can’t remember anything?’

Georges grimaced. ‘A miracle – and I don’t like our chances of that.’

It felt as if all the wind had been knocked out of me. ‘If Serge is condemned as a murderer then I won’t be able to believe in justice anymore – or miracles.’

‘Eve...’ Georges hesitated. ‘You are in love with Serge Lavertu, aren’t you? Now don’t deny it – I saw the way you looked at him when we went to Fresnes prison.’

‘The way I looked at him?’

Georges waved his hand. ‘With longing in your eyes, as if he were the only man in the room. I don’t blame you. He is sophisticated and charming, but under the circumstances I should counsel you against your infatuation, if it is at all possible to counsel people to be sensible when they have fallen in love.’

‘He’s my father, Georges.’

For a moment Georges looked exactly like the French saying: Un berger qui a perdu ses chèvres . A shepherd who has lost his goats. In Georges’s case, he had to coax his herd from hilltops, valleys and meadows before he was able to speak again.

‘Your father!’ he cried. ‘Gracious! But neither of you said anything about it.’

I fiddled with my sleeve. ‘He doesn’t know. My mother left France when she was pregnant, and I came to Paris to find him. Then I saw how he was struggling, and I didn’t want to burden him until I could make something of myself.’

‘You were doing that for him?’

‘Yes, and of course for myself too. I thought if we could both go up in the world then we could live happily as father and daughter.’

Georges drummed his fingers on his desk. ‘Where is your mother now? Still in Australia?’

‘She... killed herself. I haven’t told him that either.’

Georges digested what I’d said and then looked at me with sympathy. ‘I’m sorry, Eve. I wish I had known.’

It occurred to me that I often told Georges things I wouldn’t say to anyone else. ‘You understand I can’t tell him any of this now, not when he has so much else on his mind.’

Georges gave a sad shake of his head. ‘Of course not, and it’s not my story to tell anyway.’ He bit his lip. ‘It’s a brutal world. France is a country that knows that well. But I will promise you one thing, Eve,’ he said, looking into my eyes, ‘I will do everything in my power to save your father.’

I was touched by the kindness in his words. ‘I know you will, Georges.’