Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Eve

Paris, July 1946

When I went to see Serge at Fresnes he was brought in wearing rough prison garb. The chains around his feet made him shuffle in tiny steps. He had a diary tucked under his arm. When he reached his chair, he handed it to me.

‘Ever since I saw Kristina, I have been writing in this diary for her,’ he said. ‘I’ve shared everything I remember about her life with Max and her children. I’ve written about her parents and an account of what she did in the war – the people she helped, and our friends Moira, and édouard and Beatrice Fould. But most of all, I wrote about how much she was loved .’

The diary was weighty, thick with words. Serge had poured all his love into it. Here he was, in chains and condemned to death, and yet thinking of Kristina.

‘You are loved too, Serge,’ I said.

He shook his head sadly. ‘Anybody who loved me is dead... or can’t remember me. I won’t be missed, and strangely, that is a comfort somehow.’

‘I love you.’

‘Eve,’ he said, his voice full of compassion, ‘you did everything you could. I haven’t even had a chance to thank you.’

I shook my head and breathed deeply before plunging forward. ‘I should have spoken sooner,’ I said, a tremble in my voice. ‘I’m Madeleine’s daughter. Your daughter .’

Serge went still, like an image frozen in time.

‘After she left France, my mother went to Australia with Efron Archer, where I was born,’ I continued. ‘I was given his name but I wasn’t Efron Archer’s child, although for the first seven years of my life I believed I was. I was yours.’

Serge stared at his hands as if trying to take in what I had told him. ‘Madeleine had a girl,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I always thought the child would be a girl. That’s how I imagined her.’ Then he looked up at me and his eyes filled with tears. ‘How I imagined you , I should say. You have no idea how often I’ve thought of you, but I believed you were lost to me forever. And yet, here you are... like an angel.’ He paused, thinking. ‘It’s a miracle. I’ve been praying for one, only God has answered a different prayer to the one I was sending.’ He smiled gently. ‘This is a far, far better miracle. But how did you find me?’

‘My mother... Madeleine, told me all about you. She told me how wonderful and talented you were.’

‘She did? But I thought she hated me.’

‘Why?’ I took from my purse the letter my mother had written before her death and passed it to him. ‘She asks you to forgive her .’

Serge read the letter, his face clouding over when he reached the end. ‘Did she...?’

‘Yes, she took her own life.’

He shook his head. ‘She was beautiful, and funny, and clever. We all loved her.’ His eyes took on a faraway look. ‘She sang like a nightingale.’

‘She sang?’ It was news to me. My mother had hated any sort of singing. I wasn’t even able to hum nursery rhymes without eliciting her irritation. ‘My mother wasn’t a well person. She drank.’

Serge looked at me sadly. ‘I think things happened to her that would make anyone lose their sanity. Her family was... well, they were abusive. She was afraid of them. I believe that’s why she ran away. She was afraid they would harm you.’

‘Do you know who they were?’

Serge shook his head. ‘She would never say. After she left, we found a picture in her room of an old woman with a baby we assumed to be Madeleine. They were standing in front of a grand house with a mansard roof and a bronze equestrian statue of Marcus Aurelius near the door. Kristina told me that Madeleine had known love only from her grandmother, and that her father and brother were brutes.’

We both sat quietly for a moment, absorbing what we had revealed to each other. My mother had said that she had come from a rich family so the grand house had probably been her family home. But she would never tell me her family name, so I didn’t see any way I would ever find out who they were. But there was another more pressing question to ask.

‘Did you love her?’

He nodded. ‘Yes, very much. But not in the way she needed. I believe I hurt her deeply.’

‘How? What happened?’

Serge shifted as if he had borne the weight of his guilt for a long time. ‘One night when we were both sad, we tried to find comfort in each other’s arms. And for one passionate moment in time, we did, and it was beautiful. It was the night you were conceived. But in the morning, I realised I’d made a terrible mistake. I could not give her as much of myself as she wanted, and she took it as a rejection.’

I nodded towards the letter. ‘Whatever happened between you, she forgave you. And she wanted me to come to you.’

Serge looked into my eyes. ‘I wanted to be your father more than I have ever wanted any painting,’ he said. ‘But now they’ll take everything from me, I can’t even give you an inheritance.’

‘It doesn’t matter. I never wanted anything from you other than to hear what you’ve just told me – that you thought of me and wanted to be my father.’

Serge nodded towards the diary. ‘I’m even more glad I wrote it all down now. I’ve written a lot about Madeleine. Kristina loved her too – and you. She used to light a candle for you every year on what she thought would be your birthday.’

His face crumpled into tears, and I wept too. We cried until we were both spent, and afterwards, even in the dirty and sordid atmosphere of Fresnes prison, the air felt as fresh as spring. I realised that all the pain of the past had been washed away and everything was anew. Whatever happened, for however brief it might be, Serge and I finally had each other.