Authors: Karen Swan
‘Of course,’ Flora nodded, trying to smile. ‘My flight’s not till this afternoon.’
She felt Xavier’s eyes on her and she wondered if he would stay, now that she was the one falling on her sword?
Lilian reached out for him, her hand patting his shoulder. ‘You’re my good boy,’ she murmured affectionately.
Flora – and Lilian – saw him wince.
‘Oh, darling, your poor shoulder.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘Are you sure you shouldn’t get it X-rayed?’
‘It’s fine, Mother. Just bruised.’
‘You should have a hot bath to bring it out.’
Xavier instinctively looked across at Flora again – flashes of the tenderness, the intimacy they had shared for just a few precious hours, racing through both their minds. But then of
course too, the secrets shared, the darkness in the centre of both their lives, spilled like blood on the floor, separating them once again.
‘I already have,’ he said quietly, offering his mother his arm and escorting her out of the room.
Flora watched as the door clicked shut. Was that the last time she’d ever see him? Tears rushed at the thought as she stared at the closed door, seeing nothing, trying to feel nothing, to
ignore the sudden sense that without
him
she was nothing.
But the door didn’t open. He wasn’t coming back.
The sun was already moving round the house, peeping in at the windows like a playful child. She knew she needed to get back to the cottage and get dressed. If she was going to go to this
meeting, she couldn’t turn up looking as though she’d slept in the bushes. And yet . . . Her feet wouldn’t move. She didn’t care that she was pale, her eyes puffy; she
didn’t care that her hair was still tousled from playing in bed.
Her eyes scanned the room, saying goodbye. In a few hours she would be gone from here and back to the real world, running home to the faded, cluttered, shabby decor of Little Foxes where the
strips of wallpaper in the family bathroom remained, twenty-seven years after Freddie had torn them as a toddler, and their heights on each birthday were all painted inside the door on the cupboard
under the stairs. The only marble in their house was on the chess board and her father’s taste in antiques ran to the Regency period rather than the Greco-Roman antiquities that Magda clearly
favoured.
Lilian had left the album lying open on the sofa and automatically Flora went to close it, wondering whether Jacques would ever get past the first page. He didn’t have to forgive his
father, but surely he would want to at least see his story? Didn’t everyone have an innate need to know the stock from which they came? Their tribe?
She replaced the album in the box, but as she went to close the flaps, she glimpsed a slip of ballet-pink satin down the side. She slid her hand in and pulled out a thin bundle of letters tied
in ribbon, the envelopes so delicate and aged as to be friable, thumbprints visible on the paper from multiple readings.
Magda Von Taschelt
was the name written on the envelopes, but the address was neither Vienna, Paris nor Antibes. It was Geneva.
Switzerland? So that was where Magda had escaped to? Because of Franz’s collaboration with the Germans?
She pulled on the ribbon, knowing this was beyond her remit – she had quit and this wasn’t her concern any more – but she was too far in not to know.
The bow gave easily, the letters weighty in her hands. She pulled the first letter from its envelope and began to read.
Paris 75010
12th October 1942
Magda, my darling,
Your letter brought me great joy. You cannot imagine my relief to know everything went as planned. There is so much uncertainty in this world we find ourselves in, it gladdens my heart to
know you are safe. Forgive me that I am not there by your side.
I miss you so very much but am remaining busy. It helps no one if I dwell on my doubts and besides, there is much to do. Every day, there are more people, more deals and if it is not me,
then who? You will be pleased to hear the Miró consignment was shipped safely, docking in New York two days ago. Things are very different there – the sun continues to shine, the
world continues to spin, the markets continue to prosper. You could be forgiven for forgetting, on those shores, that the rest of the world is at war.
I have been finalizing plans for a delivery to Copenhagen next week. God willing, all will be well. The situation is worsening in the city, here – hundreds are leaving, paranoia
grows, I cannot trust anyone. I suspect I am being watched. Old friends have become new enemies. My heart breaks a thousand times a day and is only put together again at the thought that you are
not here to see it.
Bring me more happiness in your next letter. Write to me and tell me about the mountains. Has the snow come? Are the night skies silent from bombs?
I shall write again soon, my darling.
Your loving husband,
Franz
Flora folded the letter and took a moment to consider it, feeling conflicted about the discrepancies in it – sympathizing with the Jews’ suffering on the one hand and then
speculating on the upbeat art market in the US on the other. He lamented the breakdown of friendships – yet would go on, she knew, to betray his own. And in contrast to Magda’s
sister’s letter, he was seemingly a devoted husband.
She opened the next letter with a sigh. What the hell did she know?
Paris 75010
18th November 1942
My darling wife,
Forgive my long silence. Things have become more difficult in recent weeks and I have been working almost every hour of the day. Just last week I was flown to Austria – twice –
Amsterdam and Berlin, which is to say nothing of the work that must be done here in the capital.
I fear, my love, you would not recognize our home. The bombs fall like rain and the nights are as bright as day with all the fires. The 14ème was evacuated two nights ago when the
raids were very heavy, but not everyone got out in time. The end of a block was destroyed, with a family inside at the time, sleeping – father, mother, six children. I offer thanks that
they would not have known anything of it. God rest their souls.
On a happier note, I have made two more successful deliveries to America in the intervening period since my last letter. They cannot get enough of our European modernism and for that I am
eternally grateful. It might be the only good thing to come from this war.
I saw Juls and Natalya in Vienna last week. They are bearing up well, all things considered, although their change in circumstances is severe, particularly on the children. They asked after
you and kindly send you their regards.
Send more cheer from the mountains, my love. Your letters sustain me more than you will ever know. Sleep well, knowing we shall be together again soon.
Your loving husband,
Franz
She didn’t bother to slip this letter back into the envelope, instead impatiently pulling out the next.
Paris 75010
2nd December 1942
Magda, my beauty,
There is little time to act and none to explain. Be at the border at 05h00 on 5th.
Take delivery of the consignment, batch code 01196ESR /FVT. Cargo valuable beyond measure.
God speed.
Your loving husband,
Franz
Flora swallowed as she reread the note, taking in the hastiness, the cautious, almost paranoid tone. So they had been in it together. Magda – safe in the Swiss Alps – smuggling
stolen art, building their fortunes as Paris burned.
Hurriedly, she picked up the next letter. The penultimate one.
Paris 75010
31st December 1942
Magda, my darling,
Herewith the final day of the most terrible year. These past few months without you have been an agony I have scarcely been able to endure. In my blackest moments, I crave your presence in
the dark beside me. Forgive me. I am a terrible husband to ever wish that you be here with me, in this, and I am only lifted by the knowledge that you are safe in the light.
As we turn the page on 1942, I want to believe the future is coming. I try to sense bright new horizons where we will all be reunited, to live as one family again. This is the hope that
feeds me. I think of you constantly and wonder what you are doing. Are you settled? Are you safe? My arms ache to hold you. It has become hard to sleep these nights. I fear God will judge me for
my sins and the mistakes I have made on this path. Can any of us right the wrongs done in the name of freedom?
I fear I am suspected. Or that my usefulness is coming to an end. Or perhaps that is the paranoia speaking? People here are afraid of their own shadows, as thin as them too. I see the looks
they give me as I walk past, fattened like a pig on the spoils denied to them. My sweet darling, have I the strength to continue on? Sometimes I think the deception is more wearing than the fear,
but then I only have to look at what is being done to our people, and I know I must continue on. There is no other way.
Sending glad tidings to my little family for 1943,
Your loving husband,
Franz
Flora closed the letter, barely aware that she was breathing more quickly, her fingers fumbling with the envelopes in her haste. She opened the final letter.
Paris 75010
21st January 1943
Darling Magda,
They know.
You may not be safe. Move, disguise yourselves. Do not write to me here. Contact Travers, he knows what to do.
God speed to you and little Jacques.
Your devoted husband,
Franz
Flora closed the letter, her hands shaking. What had happened to him? Where had they gone? Flora knew Franz had died in 1943 but when exactly? January or later? Was his death connected to the
event in this letter? And how long before Magda had known that he wasn’t coming back?
Flora didn’t like the woman, could scarcely believe she could feel sympathy for a couple who had profited so shamelessly from the war and yet . . . his fear had jumped from the page.
Whatever he’d done, he’d suffered for it at least.
The library door opened and she looked up, startled, her hands trying to obscure the fan of letters on her lap.
It was Genevieve. ‘Mam’selle Flora, they are waiting for you in the study.’
‘Oh.’ Flora was surprised. How long had she been in here? ‘Yes, right. Of course. I’ll be right there. I’ll just . . .’ She shuffled the letters back into a
pile and retied the ribbon. ‘Research,’ she mumbled.
Genevieve disappeared and Flora got to her feet, trying to calm herself down, reminding herself that this family’s history was none of her business. All that she had left to do for them
was sit through this meeting. If the paper trail added up, they could all be out of it in twenty minutes.
She automatically smoothed her dress, remembering again what she was wearing – or rather, wasn’t. No shoes, no underwear. She froze. Could she really go into a meeting looking like
this? She barely went into her own bathroom looking like this.
She sighed. Attitude and proficiency were going to have to count for more. She was halfway to gone from here anyway. Who the hell cared what she looked like?
She walked towards the study and knocked on the door.
‘
Entrez
,’ Jacques’ voice said from behind the door.
Flora walked in – and froze.
‘Hi, Flora,’ said Noah, a cold smile on his face. ‘I thought I might see you here.’
‘Oh, you know each other?’ Jacques asked in surprise, his gaze moving between them.
‘Well, socially really, although we first became acquainted through a professional enquiry,’ Noah said, his eyes never leaving Flora. From his quizzical expression, she could see he
was wondering what was going on for her to walk in barefoot, hair unbrushed and with no make-up. She was a far cry from the poised, self-possessed young woman he’d met that day in Vienna and
he arched an unimpressed eyebrow before looking directly at Jacques.
‘Flora was researching the provenance of a Renoir which is the companion to one already in my collection and which my family “sold” –’ he made speech marks with his
fingers to convey he was using the word loosely – ‘during the war.’
‘A Renoir? Really?’ Jacques looked back at Flora, clearly ill at ease with the unexpected direction the conversation had taken. It wasn’t the painting under discussion
today.
‘Yes. In fact, if you are the client she was representing –’ he smiled, coldly – ‘and I do entirely believe you are, then I will be chasing restitution of that
artwork too. I told Flora at the time I would be interested in making you an offer for it.’
‘I see.’
‘But clearly circumstances have changed since then.’ Noah’s gaze was hard.
‘Indeed.’
‘What makes you so sure Jacques is my client with the Renoir?’ Flora asked briskly, sitting straighter and trying to exert a little authority. She had come in on the back (bare)
foot. ‘I have many clients, Mr Haas.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you do,’ he replied, his eyes glittering with the shared understanding of why he himself had not become one of them. ‘Well, let’s see – you told
me your clients were based in Paris.’ He gesticulated a hand towards Jacques. ‘And that Von Taschelt was the last-known owner you could trace.’ Another hand movement, this time
made with greater irony. ‘Not to mention your very special interest in the painting behind you which has brought me here today.’ Flora turned to see the portrait of Noah’s
great-aunt on an easel behind her. She’d been so shocked to find
him
here, she’d missed it altogether but the woman’s presence felt as physical in the room as if
she’d been sitting in the next chair.