The Germans were mostly in uniform, those of the Luftwaffe and Wehrmacht, but there were others of the Gestapo and the SS, and those early dress uniforms of theirs were the colour of anthracite. Tall, short, thin, big, plump, fat, grey-haired, or not, some of the men were handsome, most quite ordinary, but all had varying degrees of the sinister, for these were the conquerors, and I still can’t bring myself to think of them in any other way.
The buyers and dealers of art and antiques were among them, some from Switzerland, others from the Reich, and still others from each of the occupied countries and territories, but they were not in uniform. Instead, it was tuxedos or expensive business suits, and they appeared as sprinklings among the black, field-grey, or navy blue uniforms and all those lovely evening dresses. Yet it was business as usual for them and others, too, of the Paris elite. Everyone was overly polite, overly attentive, silly, or serious, and sometimes all in quick succession since few really knew one another and those who did were hard to find.
I circulated as I had to. I, the woman of the house who had recently butchered and buried the body of a young Canadian pilot, had to smile and welcome everyone because that’s what a hostess does, and I saw that the Oberst Neumann, my star border, felt a little out of place. The Feldkommandant of Fontainebleau was flattered that the Reichsmarschall should pay his district a visit and stay, of course, in the palais, the hunting lodge of former kings.
The Vuittons were watchful. Always they kept that little bit of distance between them and whomever they were talking to. That bitch had her black hair piled high and pinned with spun gold skewers that were centuries old. She wore a low-cut gown of black velvet, a necklace of gold and turquoise, and I saw the gap between her breasts as a chasm.
Dupuis from the Sûreté smoked his pipe as he groused around or stood alone, watching everyone in the mirrors. Clever, eh? He looked as if he’d still got his rubbers on, but don’t let that fool you. He was far more sinister than most of the others.
And Göring? Göring was resplendent in the soft, dove grey-blue uniform he had made especially for himself and that the Führer had let be different from all the others. There were medals on his chest like I’d never seen before, but don’t get the impression they weren’t deserved. That one was a flying ace in the Great War and had a bullet from that, also splinters of paving stone and lead that were lodged in the thigh muscles and groin from something that came later, a Nazi thing. That’s when he turned to drugs. He sat on one of the couches, all but filled it, his great hams spread. A glass of champagne was always in hand; the other often dunked into a cut-glass bowl with frosted nymphs that Lalique had wrought, a masterpiece that was filled with jewellery. Art Nouveau to please him, amethyst and aquamarine, rings, bracelets, little butterflies, the cheap and the gaudy hiding the good. Rubies and sapphires, my diamond earrings. Agates, malachites, and lapis lazuli, strands of pearls but most of all, emeralds to match my dress and remind me of the tiara of the Empress Eugénie. A little warning from my husband and his friends, but now there were other priceless pieces that were far more recently stolen in Paris from the Jeu de Paume auction.
Katyana was feeding the Reichsmarschall herring on toast, thin wedges of it. I was introduced again by my husband as the sculptress. Göring looked me up and down but didn’t say a thing about the tiara. Did he even know what happened to the real one?
Jules said, ‘She’s the one who made that bronze of this one, her sister.’
He took Nini by the hand and brought us face-to-face with him. Nini had the shadow of a bruise under one eye, but with that Midi beauty it was perhaps hidden enough.
‘Two sisters. Yes, I see the resemblance,’ said the great one. ‘The sculpture is very good, madame. You should do something more.’
Giving him a defensive shrug, I tried to find my voice. ‘I haven’t the energy, Herr Reichsmarschall.’
‘Then your husband should see that you have all the help you need.’
Ah, merde alors, what an idiot I was. More Nazis in the house, more of their comings and goings!
It was Nini who took charge by sitting at his feet. ‘Lily’s really quite able to manage, Herr Reichsmarschall. Like all artists, she simply needs peace and quiet and the encouragement of an expert like yourself.’
‘A bronze of the three of you, then. Yes … yes, that would be suitable. That one,’ he points at Michèle. ‘And yourself and that one.’
Katyana-‘Giselle.’ ‘En costume d’Ève, Herr Reichsmarschall?’ she asked, for his French was excellent. Her eyes were saucy as she stroked his sleeve.
‘Toutes nues?’ he roared with laughter, his cheeks becoming bright red, the champagne sloshing out of his glass onto the Aubusson carpet. ‘The Three Graces. Yes, that is exactly what I would like. ANDREAS!’ he bellowed, the crowd quieting as glasses were deliberately lowered, but so slowly one would hardly notice. ‘Andreas, another commission for you to negotiate.’
Walter Andreas Hofer was little, with thinning hair but sharp, shrewd eyes, a real dealer and the man who would play such a part in the evening to come. Göring’s chief buyer could and did secure the release of wealthy Jewish art dealers and see them into Switzerland so as to use them there, a man with connections, lots of them, riding on the swift-winged horse of the times.
‘Andreas, the Fräulein Sculptress will do a piece for me.’
Had he forgotten my name already? Remember, please, that he commanded the German air force and was responsible for what happened to Rotterdam, but failed to bring Britain to her knees.
‘In wax,’ I heard myself saying. ‘Then you can take it to whichever foundry you wish.’
‘Marcel could look after that,’ said Jules. Was my husband so wrapped up in this crowd he has forgotten that he had kicked his former friend?
‘Marcel, yes … yes. Marcel Clairmont, the artist, could see to the casting for you,’ I managed to blurt.
‘He’s the one who handled that little piece we found in Carrington’s hotel room,’ said Jules.
‘Yes,’ said Hofer, who, like Göring, didn’t know a thing about that room or the man who was killed instead of Tommy. Asking what the Reichsmarschall wished to pay, he suggested, ‘Something modest?’
There was a curt nod, not only of dismissal but of censure. The pay-off. I was not really that good. Even so, Hofer and I began the negotiations. ‘Three hundred thousand old francs,’ I told him.
‘We deal only in the new. It’s the law.’
‘Five hundred thousand, then.’
Göring overheard and spluttered, ‘Five hundred … Lieber Christus im Himmel, get that bitch out of here!’
‘Three hundred, then. New francs.’
‘Two hundred thousand,’ said Hofer, the Riechsmarschall now watching us closely.
‘Two-fifty,’ I told him.
‘One-fifty,’ says Göring. Was he trying to bait me? Had he sensed my hatred of him and what that air force of his also did during the Exodus?
‘All right, for yourself, Herr Reichsmarschall,’ I tell him, ‘two hundred thousand francs.’
To him it had all been a great joke, but a deal had been struck and he knew I’d realized that, and anyway it was just chicken feed to what was to come, but I think it had excited him to see me barter. Quaffing champagne, he ate a slab of pâté Nicki’s wife had offered, she laughingly asking, ‘Are you sure you don’t want yourself to be included in the piece as a Bacchus, Herr Reichsmarschall?’
To roars of laughter from him, the sounds of the room picked up, and I suddenly found myself alone with my husband and my sister. ‘Behave,’ said Jules. ‘I’m warning you, Lily. Do exactly as he asks. This …’ he indicated the crowd. ‘Is very important.’