Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Two

Kristina

Nice, October 1943

Three days after Kristina and Serge had sold Flora to Frau von Rittberg, the remaining payment still hadn’t arrived. They had received a deposit of three hundred thousand francs in cash, and nearly died from nerves when it was delivered to Frau von Rittberg’s room by an SS officer who had taken his time counting the money out. The delay could simply be a banking hold-up due to the war. But a niggling doubt bothered Kristina: What if Hitler had other art dealers in Berlin examine the painting and they declared it a forgery? Or if they looked closely at the faked provenance and told Hitler that Flora was the Botticelli from the Foulds’ collection that he and G?ring had been in competition to find. Serge showed his usual calm when she voiced her worries to him and Max one afternoon while they were playing cards in the drawing room.

‘There is another possibility you haven’t considered,’ Serge said, sending a smirk to Max. ‘The Germans think they have cheated us and have no intention to pay. They’ll assume we have no redress and we won’t be able to pursue the matter in court. But who’s going to have the last laugh in the end?’

‘Three hundred thousand francs for the escape line is a lot of false papers and bribery money,’ Max said. ‘Besides Martin La Farge’s cheque has cleared. I don’t know which is funnier, Hitler “stealing” a forged painting or La Farge paying full price for one.’

He and Serge laughed like mischievous school boys.

‘I’m glad you two find it funny, while I’m losing sleep,’ Kristina said. But she smiled too, there was something special in those moments when Max and Serge were together. Their warm regard for each other, as well as the way they could be arguing passionately one moment and then enthusiastically discussing a painting the next, spoke of a bond that was deep and lasting. To her it was priceless.

*

The following day, Max called to Kristina from the cellar. He was standing over the oven that he and Serge had used to dry the forged paintings.

‘Do you feel like painting some more fakes?’ he asked her.

‘Not really.’

He smiled. ‘I’ve hidden all the valuable paintings behind false walls. But I thought it would be good to have some decoy paintings hung around the house. They don’t have to be perfect copies, but good enough that any looters might make off with them and not look too carefully for hiding places.’

‘Are we expecting looters?’ she asked.

‘The Germans are taking over houses even outside of Nice now. This one, with its perfect view of the bay, will most certainly be on their list. When our “guests” leave, you and the girls must leave too, along with Serge. It’s no longer safe for you to stay here. The Germans are getting more desperate. If they uncover the identity of an agent, they will arrest his family and torture them for information – or worse. And Serge is Jewish. Someone will denounce him sooner or later.’

Kristina felt a tinge of apprehension. ‘Max, you’re not leaving?’

‘I must now that I’m well enough,’ he said, barely able to meet her eyes. ‘I have to join de Gaulle in London.’

All Kristina could think of was the dull and aching void of the days during the war when she did not know where Max was. Although they were in danger, it was easier to bear it when they were all together. But she could see that he had made up his mind.

He opened the old cupboard against the back wall of the cellar. ‘I’ve hidden the letter from édouard Fould entrusting his collection to Serge between the frame and stretcher of Frenchman with a Rabbit . I’ll make a false back to the cupboard and hide the painting behind it.’

‘Why did you hide the letter in my painting?’

‘Because we can’t lose that letter and it’s not safe to take it with us or even deposit it in a bank. The Germans will empty every drawer and rip up every loose floorboard in the search for hidden valuables. This is the best hiding spot I can come up with. Should they open the back of the cupboard, they will simply see—’

‘A painting not worth looting.’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ said Max.

‘But you’re right. A Kristina Belova painting doesn’t face the danger of being sold far and wide like a Vermeer or even a degenerate Picasso. They might palm it off to a second-rate dealer in Nice who won’t be able to sell it – or they will simply leave it.’

Max put his hand on her shoulder. ‘Stop it, Kristina. This is painful enough as it is. I’m hoping they won’t discover the painting in the first place, that’s why I’m making such an effort to hide it. But if they do, yes they are more likely to leave it or sell it locally than they would a Vermeer or a Picasso. Not because it’s a lesser painting, but only because you aren’t a well-known artist yet .’

Kristina turned away and squeezed her eyes shut so he wouldn’t see her bitter tears. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her tenderly on the forehead.

‘You have given yourself selflessly to save others these past three years. After the war is over, you will paint again,’ he told her. ‘I will see to it that you have no distractions. Together, Serge and I will make you the best-known painter in France: A place you deserve far above any other artist I can think of.’

*

The entire household ate dinner together that night, the adults trying to effect calm for the sake of the children. Despite all the difficulties, it had become comfortable hiding away from reality in their little oasis. Now they were about to venture out into the world and go their separate ways. Kristina sensed the danger, but also a profound feeling of loss. She perhaps would have preferred it if they could all have stayed in their little cocoon forever. But as Max had pointed out, the house was a target and there was no choice now but to go.

Their lovemaking that night was sweet, gentle and sad. Kristina and Max lay awake afterwards, bathed in the moonlight, and Kristina thought how the moon softened the edges of things. She drifted off and woke sometime later. But when she reached out for Max he was gone, and she immediately sat up. She knew the planes came from London when the moon was bright, and wondered if he’d thought it was easier to leave her without saying goodbye. But then she heard Max and Serge talking quietly in the garden. She pulled her robe around her and went downstairs to find them.

The French doors were open, and Max and Serge were standing together, their heads close and their voices soft. Kristina leaned against the wall and watched them from a distance. This parting was painful for them too. They were like two trees whose roots had grown together. They supported each other in sunshine and held together in storms. Kristina was about to go back to bed, to leave them the moment for themselves, when they moved closer together and kissed. Not a kiss of friendship, but a passionate kiss. One that was lit by a fire within.

Her eyes opened wide, unable to comprehend what she had just seen. Her thoughts rolled out in so many directions, she couldn’t keep track of any of them. She stifled a scream as she felt her entire life splinter into pieces. Everything she believed collapsed around her. She was not losing Max to the war, she had been losing him every moment of her life, and to the person she had trusted most.

‘Kristina?’ said Max, peering into the darkness of the house.

His voice sounded far away, muted by the blood rushing in her ears and the ache in her chest. She thought that the three of them had understood each other, but it seemed they were all living parallel lives. Maybe Max and Serge had never felt the same way she had about them. Perhaps they had pitied her or worse – perhaps she had been something of a joke. Poor, innocent, na?ve Kristina. She wanted to hide and pretend she never saw anything so that life could go on as before. But her anger at their betrayal got the better of her. She strode out into the garden, not knowing what she would say or do.

They turned to her, and their faces fell.

Max stepped towards her. ‘Kristina!’

‘I saw!’ she gasped. ‘I saw!’

She was so shaken with rage and hurt, it was all she could say. She had loved them both and had never questioned the integrity of their foundation.

‘Kristina, I’m sorry,’ Serge said, tears in his voice. ‘This is my fault. Not Max’s. I took him by surprise. He has never...’

‘I trusted the both of you,’ she said through gritted teeth. Then directing her full fury at Serge, she said, ‘You’d better leave.’

His face dropped. Those simple, cold words with their tone of dismissal cut him deeper than if she had plunged a knife into him, and she knew it. They signified a change, a death of love and companionship. He glanced at Max then turned to leave. Even in her own hurt, she felt torn apart. She wanted to call after him, Don’t walk away. I can never stop loving you. But she was too confused and couldn’t get the words out.

Then she heard the car motor start up and the sound of tyres on gravel. Serge was gone.

Her tears were falling freely now and she turned to Max. ‘Our children. I thought we would be growing old together. Was it all a lie?’

His expression was tortured. ‘No, Kristina. It was never a lie. You haven’t lost anything. Not me or Serge.’

‘He’s gone.’

‘He’ll come back.’

‘You were kissing him.’

Max came near and she lifted her hurt gaze to his eyes.

‘Kristina, you are loved,’ Max pleaded with her. ‘You have two men in your life who love you more than anything else in the world. Neither of us would ever want to hurt you.’

His voice was muffled by the cacophony of thoughts in her head. She caught only snatches of what he was saying, but it was clear he was reassuring her that the bond between the three of them was irrefutable and that nothing could break it.

It was a single gunshot that made them both jump. Then the sound of someone pounding on the front door. They ran to the side of the house and crouched down behind a bush. Then they saw that all they had been dreading for over a year had taken shape in the form of an SS officer in a grey-green uniform standing on the doorstep. He was tall and intimidating, and from the light of the torch he held, Kristina saw that he wore a pair of frameless glasses that gave him an air of cruelty. Behind him were four German soldiers holding machine guns. She realised the sound of the gunshot she’d heard was one of them shooting the lock on the gate.

The lights went on and to Kristina’s horror, one of the Jewish refugees, Sarah, opened the door. Why, after all the drilling, would she have done such a thing? Kristina couldn’t fathom it.

The officer held up a piece of paper to Sarah’s face and yelled, ‘All occupants are to come into the courtyard now!’

Sarah, clearly panicked and not thinking straight, called out Kristina’s name. For a terrible moment she worried that Sarah would call out the names of the other refugees as well, but thankfully she didn’t. Then, because Kristina hadn’t responded, she called out for Max.

‘Monsieur Bergeret?’ the officer asked her. ‘We weren’t aware there was a Monsieur Bergeret residing here.’

Sarah instantly realised her mistake, but she couldn’t think fast enough on her feet to come up with a lie. Delay. Say something , Kristina prayed. Sarah needed to stall so as to give the others time to make their beds and go to their hiding places. It had to appear that it was only Kristina and her daughters living here. Sarah could try to pass herself off as their maid, but she faltered under the SS officer’s gaze.

Kristina moved forward. She would have to delay the Germans herself. But Max pulled her back.

‘No, an agent is a much more important catch,’ he said.

Their eyes met and she understood he intended to sacrifice himself, and that she would not lose him because of Serge. She would lose him because of the Germans.

‘I love you, Kristina. I’ve always loved you,’ he said.

A chill ran down her spine when she sensed someone behind them.

‘Get up!’

She hadn’t noticed the fifth soldier. The one who had been searching the garden and had found them. She and Max only had seconds to reach for each other’s fingers and squeeze them before the soldier pushed them out into the open.

The SS officer was surprised to see them. He looked over his shoulder and gave a command to one of the soldiers: ‘ Geheime Staatspolizei .’ The Gestapo.

Kristina anticipated that they would take both of them, but the soldier grabbed only Max. With the help of another, they forced him into the car. He turned and looked at Kristina for one brief moment. It was a parting look that spoke of an end of a journey together and the pleasure that they’d shared for a time. It said, I’m sorry I hurt you. Forgive me. I love you , and answered, I know. I love you too .

The car drove away, and Kristina knew then that they would never see each other again.

‘On your knees!’ the SS officer screamed, grabbing her by the hair and pushing her to the ground. Two trucks arrived, and she assumed someone had denounced them and they had come for the Jewish refugees. But instead, a familiar figure jumped out of the cabin of the first truck. He was so blond he practically glowed in the dark. Martin La Farge. The SS officer went to meet him.

‘So you believe this is where the Fould collection is being hidden?’ he asked Martin.

Suddenly Kristina understood. The Germans had not come for the Jews, they had come for the art. The soldiers shoved Sarah out of the way and stormed into the house. Kristina could hear them emptying cupboards, breaking and pushing over furniture. Nadia and Ginette were brought out, dazed and confused. They were forced to kneel either side of Kristina. Nadia was brave, her face expressionless, but Ginette was weeping. Kristina longed to hold her, to comfort her. To whisper to her to be calm and not allow herself to be noticed or to show fear.

Then there was a sudden silence. All noises coming from the house had stopped.

‘ Obersturmführer! ’ one of the soldiers shouted. The next moment, the other Jewish adults staying with them were marched out. They looked straight ahead, not at Kristina, and she understood. They had surrendered themselves to try to save the children who must still be hiding somewhere. Kristina prayed with all her heart that angels would protect Hermine and Joséphine, Herschel and Aline.

While the soldiers continued their raid, Martin La Farge stood by the truck smoking a cigarette. He must have seen Kristina and the girls. He must have known this was her house. Had he realised she’d sold him a fake painting and this was his revenge? But then the SS officer had mentioned the Fould collection. However, Serge had only brought a small part of it back to the villa – the rest was still hidden at the Foulds’ home. A thought began to turn in her mind, but before she had a chance to make sense of it, the SS officer yanked her up by the arm and forced her into the house.

‘You’ve been hiding Jews!’ he screamed in her ear.

Then he dragged her into the library and she saw that they had smashed through the false wall behind one of the bookcases. In the space were the children, huddled together like frightened rabbits in a burrow. She knew then that all hope was lost.

The children were dragged out, so frightened they were silent, even little Aline did not cry. Kristina was watching everything she had worked and hoped so hard for disintegrating before her eyes. They would find the art now, but what did art matter? It was those helpless children, and her own, that were important. The SS officer dragged her back to the courtyard.

‘Jewish-loving whore,’ he hissed in her ear.

She heard Ginette cry out, ‘Mama!’

Two shots rang out in the dark.

Then all went black.