‘For whom?’ I asked.
Was there sadness in my husband’s eyes? ‘For you and the children.’
It was Nini who asked, ‘What else could she possibly do?’
‘You keep out of this.’
‘I haven’t done anything,’ she said.
‘It’s enough that they’ve questioned you.’
Janine touched the bruise. ‘This must show, Lily. Me, I’d better put something on it. I know I’ve forgotten to.’
Leaving him, we headed upstairs, but from the landing turned to look down the staircase past that chandelier to see the Vuittons looking up at us. Dupuis joined them like a grey moth to its candle, Nefertiti with her withered breasts and overly made-up eyes, that husband of hers like another moth, the gumshoe seemingly lost in thought, the moment trapped in my mind forever.
For all their former wealth, the de St-Germains had only one washroom and one toilet. Both of those rooms were impossible. The Blitzmädels were, of course, watching the children, but even so we checked on them and they were so happy to see Nini again, Marie was in her arms, all wet kisses and hands that explored the pendant, the earrings, the nose, the eyes, that bruise. Jean-Guy, I mothered, for I knew he was a little jealous of his baby sister. I was, too, once upon a time.
At last, we were alone. We’d stepped into the library past the two men in uniform who were on guard here. Crates had been broken open, and their contents set about. Surprises awaited the Reichsmarschall. There was a Gobelin tapestry, a masterpiece of royalty in a forest with hounds at the hunt and a ferocious boar being put to the spear. There was an icon, a Madonna and Child, a priceless thing that had the look of veneration, so many other pieces, it was like a private art gallery. ‘Nini, what happened to you? How bad was it?’
My sister shrugged as we stood before an absolutely sumptuous painting by Luca Giordano: the fall of rebel angels, the winged knight stepping on them with upraised sword. Göring had a passion for the baroque painters of the seventeenth century. Nini was in awe of it, as was I. ‘Did the Gestapo get rough with you?’ I asked.
‘A little, but the bruise isn’t from them. It’s from Jules. He’s afraid, Lily. Terrified because of the robbery.’
‘Ah, bon. How did Michèle and Henri-Philippe make out on their way into Paris from here?’
‘Just routine. What about the pilot?’
I told her, and she took me by the hand to squeeze my fingers. It was such an immediate and intimate gesture of sympathy and understanding. ‘We mustn’t talk long,’ she said. ‘We’ve a network, Lily. It’s spreading. Dmitry … Has he made contact with you yet?’
I shook my head. The Vuittons were now standing in the doorway, watching us. Nini pointed at the painting and said, loudly, ‘He will. I’m certain he will.
‘The Reichsmarschall,’ she said to that bitch. ‘He’ll buy this one for sure.’
‘Then everything will be forgiven,’ said Nefertiti.
The Egyptian necklace had come from the loot of some tomb robber. The goddess Isis figured prominently in the centre of that thing, its wings outstretched towards the bony shoulders. There were hieroglyphs: snakes, birds, boats, crabs, beetles, too, and lions.
‘Who is that redhead?’ she asked, only to see us shrug.
‘An acquaintance of the Riechsmarschall’s, I think,’ offered Nini. ‘Doesn’t Obersturmführer Schiller know?’
I waited. I remembered that Schiller paid Nicki a visit before the war, and asked myself, Was Katyana present? It was a horrible thought. Vuitton was too watchful; tense, like Jules: The whole business that night must come off well or else.
‘Please excuse me, madame et monsieur. I must see to the other guests.’
‘Not until I’ve finished with you,’ she said. ‘The Reichsmarschall is to have his pick and that includes anything on the walls of this house. Jules has agreed.’
‘Then there’s nothing to worry about. The things are his, not mine.’
It was she who did the talking for the couple. ‘One word, one false step from either of you, and I’ll personally see that you are held responsible should anything go wrong.’
They were really worried. ‘Michèle not cooperating?’ I taunted.
‘That girl’s a fool. She could have so much.’
‘Maxim’s suits her,’ said Janine. ‘To play in a French string quartet for the Germans every evening from five until ten thirty puts bread on the table, isn’t that so?’
That Nefertiti couldn’t resist saying, ‘She gets many offers and refuses all. For her own good, you should warn her to accept some.’
‘And those of my husband?’ I asked. ‘Or has he now forgotten all about her?’
The expression she gave was a mask out of antiquity. ‘Jules is no longer interested in any of you. He has much better to occupy him.’
Yet he had suggested Marcel take care of my little sculpture in wax. ‘Then I hope he’s happy with them, madame, and that he doesn’t get syphilis.’
I watch the house but none have dared to show themselves. Though the rooms and corridors are where my memory lies best, I must have strength for that. Always I would try to carry a little something in my pocket. A crust of mouldy bread, a piece of gristle from the filthy ‘soup’ they fed us in the camps, the leaf of a cabbage. I would try to save it to eat in secret, sharing only with myself, because only then does one come face-to-face with the friend and comrade that must be inside each of us lest we fail.
They’ll wait for nightfall. They’ll say to each other, She’s coming then.
Like the leaves at autumn’s end, they, too, must fall, but the sun streams through the branches as I move away to fade back into the forest and lie in secret, looking up at the sky.
Marie and Jean-Guy loved to make leaf people. Tommy would heap leaves on them or we would simply laugh and sit together while they played. Brief times … all too brief, but I mustn’t cry. I must remember that night Göring first came to the house.
Schiller watched Katyana all through that dinner. Somehow I needed to warn her that he had made a telephone call to Paris and that the SS might have a photo of her.
She had a little handbag, a thing of beaded silk, very feminine, but heavy-bulkier than it should have been. This handbag was never out of her reach, Neumann being to one side of her, Göring to the other at the head of the table. Juices poured down his chin. Venison, pheasant, beets, borscht, mustard, wine, champagne, it all went in. Ah, mon Dieu, that man could eat! His eyes swam as if in water.
She pecked at her food. She’d noticed Schiller all right, and I felt him move suddenly. ‘Mademoiselle,’ he said from across the table and down it a little, ‘your handbag, please.’
‘My …?’ she blurted. ‘But why?’
Her expression was one of utter dismay, but he snapped his fingers, and suddenly the table shut up. Cream fell from a spoon. Göring set his knife and fork down. ‘Ach, what is this?’ he asked.
Again, Schiller snapped his fingers. The handbag was passed from guest to guest, Katyana seemingly shrinking from what could well happen. Her lovely red hair was so soft and light, but never had I seen such a look of dismay. It was as if she realized the game was up.
Schiller received the handbag. Does it hold a pistol? he wondered. Remember, please, that Göring started the Gestapo and that for us, they and the SS were one and the same, so Schiller could move himself up the ladder if he uncovered a little something.
‘Be careful, Herr Obersturmführer,’ said Katyana. ‘There may be women’s things.’
There was, mes amis, a slab of pâté wrapped in a napkin. ‘Pour mon petit chat,’ she said, but this was greeted with suspicion by Schiller. He was certain she was going to poison the Reichsmarschall.
A small paper of white powder came to light. ‘Icing sugar,’ she said apologetically. ‘From the kitchen, you understand, but please don’t punish the cooks. It’s simply very hard to get now and I …’ She shrugged, and me I was willing to bet there were others round the table with the same idea.