Authors: Karen Swan
Instead Flora just smiled. Whatever Franz had done, Jacques wasn’t his father, that much was clear to her. He was a good man, a doctor.
Jacques walked round to the fireplace again and picked up his tumbler that he’d left on the mantel. ‘I’m glad that we’re all here. I wanted to talk to you about what
I’ve decided to do.’
‘About what, Papa?’ Natascha asked, lying back on the arm of the chair, her jacket gaping dangerously open.
‘Our next steps as a family.’
‘Then why’s
she
here?’ Natascha demanded, sitting bolt upright – jacket crisis immediately averted – and stabbing an accusing finger towards Flora, who in
reply, took a step back.
‘Because Flora is central to my plans.’ Jacques replied calmly. ‘Won’t you sit down, Flora?’ he smiled, indicating the sofa opposite.
Flora hesitantly took her seat, painfully aware that Xavier had now come further into the room and was standing right behind her, his drink in his hand.
‘It would be no exaggeration to say that these past few days have been the worst of my life,’ he began haltingly. ‘The shame I feel is like a weight pressing on my chest,
crushing me. Crushing us all. Ever since we learned the terrible truth, I have asked myself repeatedly – how did we not know? How did
I
not suspect for all those years the darkness in
our past? Is it who we are? You?’ He looked at his son. ‘You?’ He looked at his daughter. ‘It has made me sick to my stomach to see the way you have all been treated, as
though it was
you
who signed those papers, or stood over those poor people with a gun in your hands.’ He closed his eyes, falling silent for a moment. Flora slid her gaze round the
room, noticing how Lilian was staring up at her husband with genuine concern; even Natascha’s customary scowl had melted away, her eyes round and sad when they weren’t slitted with
scorn. Magda’s eyes, on the other hand, were clamped firmly shut, her chin thrust forwards and her hands stroking the snoring dog in her lap.
‘I wish this truth were a lie. I would do anything to make it different, but what happened back then, we cannot change. I know that. Our knowing the truth, finally, of our own
family’s role in those dark years, doesn’t change what happened. But it does change us, our focus, because there is something we can do now. We can repent, openly, for the world to see.
We can join with their dismay, let them know we share it too.’
Lilian looked anxious. ‘But how, Jacques?’
‘We give the paintings back.’
‘We
what
?’ Natascha spluttered. ‘No!’ But there followed a silence and stare from her father, so severe that she sat back again and lowered her gaze.
Flora was feeling a panic of her own, but for very different reasons. Tracing all those heirs, to give the paintings back? She’d be here for years!
‘Flora, this is why we need you. You have already shown us how diligent you are in your work, how determined you are to do the right thing—’
Magda harrumphed.
Flora scanned his face, looking for sarcasm, but there was none. Just calm appeal.
‘This is why I want no one else working on this but you. Those transactions were never made in true faith. They were made in fear, terror, desperation, false hope. I want no part in
it.’
‘Jacques,’ she began. ‘I’m flattered. And this is a noble idea. I have so much respect for you for even considering it, but it’s not going to be as easy as simply
finding the previous owners and handing the pieces back. The Germans were meticulous in their paperwork, they went over and above to ensure that everything looked like a legal sale – it will
be almost impossible for us to ascertain which deals were made under duress and which weren’t.’ She blinked. ‘But even if we can establish which were the forged deals –
those that were effectively armed robbery by the SS, as you say – tracing the heirs will be a mammoth task. So many of the people who sold these paintings will have died in the camps, and
divesting their estates were last-ditch attempts at trading assets for freedom. Those that did make it would have moved city, moved country, changed their names . . . Unless a sale is disputed or
an artwork registered with the Art Loss Register, finding those heirs will be like pointing at stars in the sky.’
Jacques nodded, listening to her with due consideration. ‘I hear what you’re saying and I have a proposal for streamlining the process. We draw a line from 1938, the time of the
Austrian Anschluss. As you say, after that date, we have no way of knowing whether a brokered sale was genuine or made under pressure, as part of a flee bargain. Anything that was sold to my father
before 1938 I think we can more safely consider to be a deal that was made with free will on both sides. Those items I want to sell at auction.
‘The others – everything sold to my father after 1938 – I want us to try to trace the names of the previous owners where possible, return the items to their heirs. Where we
can’t, we will have to take the provenance at face value – that the sale to my father was undertaken freely – and sell them at auction too.’ He
raised his hand for silence as Natascha opened her mouth to speak (or rather, complain). ‘Once your commission, Flora, and that of the sales house has been
deducted from the final value, I want all the monies to be put towards a new fund that we will set up to benefit the children of refugees.’
An astonished silence inflated in the room.
‘They will call it blood money,’ Magda said, her bitterness piercing her voice. ‘They will not take it.’
Her every word was thrown like a stone on the ground.
‘I disagree. We will show France that we are not monsters, we were as ignorant of the facts as anyone. We cannot change what happened, but we can show our regret and humility and our
desire to atone for what my father has done. Because what was done may have been done with our name, but not in it. We are not Von Taschelt.
I
am not
him
.’
Magda looked away, long before Jacques turned his head and looked at Flora. ‘Will you help us? I have already placed an advert in the LAPADA bulletin, asking people who believe they may be
the rightful heirs to contact us.’
Flora swallowed, her mouth feeling dry. She felt she was being sucked into the marrow of this family. What had started as a cursory inventory and valuation was now turning into a full-blown
forensic search across Europe (and perhaps further afield) for heirs to victims of Nazi-looted art. She looked at the faces waiting for her response – Jacques, anxious to atone; Lilian, like
her own mother, merely anxious; Magda and Natascha, bristling with hostility and resentment. Xavier – well, she didn’t need to turn round to know the look that would be on his face
right now. She could feel the heat of his glare just on her neck.
Half the family terrified her, openly pouring scorn on her, while the other half was beseeching, asking for her help, trying to scrabble out of this tabloid world they’d been thrown into
because of
her
indiscretion. She wasn’t the ally they presumed her to be, she thought miserably. Wasn’t this the very least she could do? The least she owed them?
‘Of course I will,’ she replied. ‘It would be an honour to work on this project and help you restitute the artworks to the rightful owners.’
Lilian clapped her hands and got up, coming over to kiss Flora on the cheek. ‘We are so grateful,’ she said, her hands on Flora’s shoulders.
‘There is one more thing,’ Jacques said as Lilian took her seat again. ‘Our name is Vermeil, not Von Taschelt. We know the truth of our past – we can’t pretend we
don’t – but we can turn our back on it. From this moment forwards, I do not want to hear my father’s name ever mentioned. Not in this house, not anywhere.’ He looked at his
mother, his children. ‘Is that clear?’
Flora couldn’t see Xavier’s response of course but she saw Natascha nod, meek for once.
‘So then I propose a toast,’ Jacques said, holding his glass aloft. ‘To new beginnings.’
‘New beginnings,’ Lilian trilled, just as Genevieve came back into the room.
‘A visitor for you and Madame,’ she said.
Jacques looked surprised. ‘Thank you, Genevieve. Excuse us a moment.’
Flora watched in dismay as Jacques and Lilian left the room, leaving her alone with Magda, Natascha and Xavier. It would have been safer swimming in a tank of sharks.
Flora took a sip of her drink, not entirely sure what to do, a silence filling up as the atmosphere in the room changed. ‘Well, I should probably get going,’ she said, placing her
drink on the table and rising to stand. ‘It was a pleasure t—’
‘You are the one who started all this trouble,’ Magda said, cutting over her, her hand still stroking the dog as she looked at Flora with chilling calm.
Flora shook her head. ‘No,’ she protested, feeling her mouth go dry again.
‘You did this. Everything was fine until you started digging, like a little weasel.’
Natascha gave a choked laugh at the sudden insult.
Magda sat forward in her chair, the dog giving a small squeal as it was squashed by her stomach and jumping onto the floor. ‘Why did you not leave it alone?’ The old woman’s
hands were pulled into fists, her mouth grimly set in a straight line. ‘You only had to work on some paintings. Not
destroy our lives
.’ The last words came out as a hiss.
‘I . . . I wasn’t trying to cause trouble.’
‘No? Then what were you doing,
hein
?’ Magda slapped her palm on the arm of the chair. Flora jumped. Behind her, she heard Xavier move. God, what was he going to do? Put her in
a headlock? She turned slightly so that she could see him on her right.
‘I was trying to be thorough. To understand,’ she said, as calmly as she could, but her voice clearly wavered and the old woman smiled at the sound of her fear.
‘Don’t be fooled by this act. She’s a troublemaker, Granny,’ Natascha chimed in with a cruel sneer. ‘Did you know she hit me? Did Papa tell you?’
Flora’s mouth dropped open. ‘What? No, it wasn’t like that,’ she protested, feeling tears gather in her eyes at the growing attack, the outright lies. She was outnumbered
in here and they all knew it.
‘No? What was it like then? You saw, Xavier, didn’t you? You walked in and found her attacking me because she didn’t like something I’d said or done, or . . .
whatever
.’
Xavier didn’t reply.
Natascha arched an eyebrow, surprised by her brother’s silence. ‘Xav? Tell Granny what you saw. Tell her exactly what this bitch is really lik—’
‘That’s enough!’ Xavier snapped.
An astonished pause ricocheted off the walls.
‘What did you say?’ Natascha whispered, so utterly stunned it was as though she’d been punched.
‘I said that’s enough,’ Xavier repeated more quietly.
Natascha’s mouth opened in shock, her eyes narrowing to slits. For several moments, she literally couldn’t speak. ‘You’re taking her side?’
‘No. I’m not taking—’
But Natascha wouldn’t be denied.
‘
You are. You are! But you hate her. You told me so yourself.’
‘I . . . No, I . . .’ He glanced at Flora. ‘I just don’t think anything’s going to be achieved by acting like this. Papa’s right. What’s done is done.
What matters now is how we move forward.’
But rationale found no home with Natascha. ‘Have you slept with her, is that what it is?’ she cried, on her feet now. ‘Has she got in your head?’
‘What? No!’ he sneered, almost recoiling from the suggestion.
Flora felt it like a slap but Natascha whirled her attention onto Flora again, giving her no time to breathe. ‘Is that your game – divide and conquer?
You think you can come between
us
? You think your Little Miss Perfect routine’s going to work on him like it has
my father?’ She gave a brittle laugh. ‘I’ll give you some advice right now. Don’t. Even. Try.’
‘You’ve got this all wrong,’ Xavier said, advancing towards his sister. ‘Nothing has happened
between us. She’s . . .’
‘She’s what?’ Natascha asked, as he failed to finish the sentence. Slowly, she walked towards her brother, holding his gaze in hers. ‘What is she, Xav?’
He looked down at her, not answering. Flora felt herself trembling as she – they – awaited his verdict.
‘What is she, Xav?’ Natascha prompted. ‘Tell me.’
He shrugged. ‘She’s nothing.’
Flora couldn’t help it, a gasp escaped her, her humiliation complete – a ‘little weasel’, a ‘bitch’, a ‘nothing’ – and she ran from the room
before they could see her tears, Natascha’s victorious laugh ringing in her ears.
‘Wait!’ she heard Xavier call, but he didn’t follow, didn’t apologize and within minutes she was back in the cottage, sobbing on the sofa, the front door firmly
locked.
She kept the door locked to the flower room now too. She explained to Genevieve the next morning, as she asked for the key, that it was a precaution – that until the
appraisals were complete and valuation estimates made, insurance couldn’t be arranged. But it kept
them
out: Magda, Natascha, Xavier . . .
The French doors onto the garden were open, of course – the daytime temperatures in there would have been untenable otherwise – but either no one thought to seek entry that way, or
they weren’t stupid enough to try, and for the past two days, she had been able to work in splendid isolation, letting herself into her workshop at 7.30 a.m., long before anyone else was up,
and running back to the cottage at 6.30 p.m., when the family seemed to disappear upstairs to get ready for drinks and dinner.
She was keeping her days intentionally long. Not only did it mean she didn’t have to see anyone – the only time she was ever at risk of that was during her occasional furtive sprints
across the lawn for lunch and even then she was careful to check the coast was clear before making a dash for it – but it was also clear that the sooner she did this, the sooner she could be
out of here and back in London with her own family, where she was needed.
Her iPad FaceTime rang out and she picked up. ‘Hey, Angus,’ she said over her shoulder, walking to the far wall and unhooking a Pissarro that was next on her list.