Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty

Kristina

Paris, July 1946

Kristina was lying in her bed in Inès’s guest room, half-dozing, when Eve came in looking unusually dishevelled. Strands of hair had fallen from her chignon and her lipstick had faded. She seemed very young and vulnerable, and it stirred something maternal in Kristina. She raised herself into a sitting position and patted the space on the bed next to her. ‘Come sit with me,’ she said. ‘It’s been a distressing day.’

Eve took something from her purse, a diary, then handed it to her before sitting beside her. ‘Serge wrote down all the things he wants you to know about your life.’

‘When did he do it?’ Kristina asked, looking at the diary in wonder.

‘He said he’s written in it every day since you first visited him.’

Kristina turned to the first page.

Let me start by telling you things about yourself, Kristina. You liked to paint in the morning. You were often the first to rise and you would go to your studio and work until you produced something you considered worthwhile. Nature was a wonder to you, and you could spend an hour studying a rose or a leaf. If a bird appeared, you would watch it with fascination, whether it was a rare European roller or a common street pigeon. You brightened everyone’s lives with your inner beauty and kindness. The sound of your voice would bring a smile to everyone’s faces – Max, your daughters, and even your pet rabbits adored you. Whatever and whoever you enfolded in your heart, blossomed in the joy of its existence...

Kristina brushed her fingers down her throat. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she said. ‘He’s written beautiful things about me.’

‘I think he’s written the truth about you, Kristina. You are beautiful.’ Eve bit her lip, thinking a moment, then added, ‘Before you read more, I want you to know that Serge is my father. Madeleine was my mother. He said he’s written about her in the diary, but I haven’t read any of it yet.’

Kristina studied Eve, taking in this new information. ‘You and Serge look very much alike. I am surprised I didn’t make the connection sooner.’

‘We have things in common too, you and I,’ Eve told her, almost shyly. ‘You see, there’s so much I don’t know about my mother’s life before she came to Australia, so much that’s a mystery to me. Sometimes I think I know how you feel when you say you’re missing parts of yourself.’

Kristina handed the diary to her and leaned back on the pillows. ‘We will discover the past together then.’

Time stood still as Serge’s words brought the past to life. Sometimes Eve read to Kristina and then Kristina would take over. They laughed at the story of Serge arriving home from a trip to find Max had hocked his furniture so he could buy all Kristina’s paintings, and about Kristina and Serge’s rescue of Leo the rabbit from his would-be butcher.

‘So that’s where my love of rabbits started,’ said Kristina.

She and Eve smiled at the stories of Nadia and Ginette, whose personalities Serge so vividly described that they burst like sunshine from the pages. Then they read with heavy hearts the grim days of the war. The diary was a testament to love.

Although you cannot remember any of these things for now, you carry your loved ones in your heart, as I carry you in mine. I will now face the darkest night with courage because of you. I will wait for you in that land where we can never be separated or lose each other again.

‘It is a glorious gift he has given me,’ said Kristina, her voice trembling with emotion. ‘He has given me back my life.’ Then looking at Eve with glistening eyes, she said, ‘He means this as a parting gift, but neither of us can lose him, not now.’

‘No, not now. Not ever,’ agreed Eve.

Kristina felt so drawn and tired. Eve saw it and helped her under the sheets. But before she drifted off to sleep, she took Eve’s hand.

‘Serge wrote so many wonderful stories. Some of them happy and others sad. But he didn’t write about what happened to Max and my daughters. Why is that? It’s something I have to know.’