Hunting Ground (26 page)

‘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.’

‘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.

Mustard fell on Göring’s dove-grey lapel to join an avalanche of gravy. Lipstick, a compact—several other items came out of that bag. The key to her flat, her papers, all these were laid out. ‘We shall see then,’ said Schiller. He was very proper. The long fingers dusted the powder over the pâté. He used a dinner knife to spread it evenly.

Arsenic? I wondered, as did everyone else.

Some of the pâté was placed on a bit of bread. A little more of the white powder was added, and that thing, that monstrous thing, was passed from hand to hand to her.

‘Eat it,’ he said. Her eyes found mine. Was there apology in them? Nini began to stand up to stop her. Me, I wanted to cry out, Katyana, please don’t!

Her gaze settled on each person around the table, then the ‘Giselle’ smiled wanly and said, ‘Yes, of course, Herr Obersturmführer, but you must forgive me, all of you. No one else was involved. Only myself.’

The table waited. There wasn’t a breath. Göring wet his lips. Had he ever watched a woman die like this?

She took a nibble, chewed, and swallowed most delicately, only to hear, ‘All of it,’ from Schiller, she hesitating as she touched the base of her lovely throat.

‘You must excuse me then because I’m rather full.’

Ten seconds—is that how long it takes for the burning sensation in the mouth? I know it’s a most painful death—I’ve read of this in detective stories. Who hasn’t? The victim lies on the floor, cramped with stomach pains and vomiting hard, then the violent purging starts. But nothing happened. There was no poison. Just a sip of wine and then another.
‘Salut!’
she said and grinned. ‘Are you satisfied?’

The table erupted with laughter. The scar tightened. Schiller got to his feet and bowed as he handed the pâté in its napkin back and it was passed from hand to hand. ‘For your cat, mademoiselle.’

As the handbag and its contents were returned, Dupuis didn’t join in the fun, nor did Jules or the Vuittons. For them, as for Nini and myself, the agony had been too much.

‘Seven hundred thousand francs.’

Göring sat like a potentate among the treasures in the library. He never bid himself. That was always left to Hofer. He only smoked his cigar and watched.

The Gobelin tapestry went for something like a million; the Hellenistic terra-cotta sculptures, three beautifully done heads, and a small statue of a woman whose arms had been lost centuries ago, fetch a miserable one hundred fifty thousand francs.

The icon brought only five hundred thousand; the Giordano canvas one-and-a-half million. So many things. Göring had his pick. A set of Roman coins, some Etruscan glass, two of the Renoirs from the house—Jules hated to see them go, but they were the price he had to pay.

A Limoges enamel triptych, by Pierre Reymond, sixteenth century, was someone’s loss. A Dürer
Madonna and Child
, in watercolours, caused the Reichsmarschall to hesitate, but he couldn’t let it go and gave a nod before filling his mouth with champagne. As the treasures were carried out to a waiting lorry by men in Luftwaffe uniform, the rest were left to be fingered and exclaimed over, for the auction had been a bit of a sham since there was only the one bidder.

‘From Avon, the train will make its way to Munich,’ confided my little sister, ‘and from there to Karinhall, his estate some ninety kilometres to the north of Berlin.’

She didn’t tell me any more, simply because it would be safest, but I knew that some of Nicki’s treasures must have been among those purchased, and that Katyana had apparently slipped away.

It’s getting dark. Soon Jules and the others will be cold in that house of my husband’s. Perhaps they’ll light a fire and say, ‘It will draw her in,’ but I’m used to not having any heat. Have they forgotten this?

The Cherche-Midi was once a convent. Built in the reign of the Sun King, it had thick stone walls, airless corridors, iron-bound wooden doors, and moisture that ran down the walls to freeze. Each cell had a window—just a rectangle behind iron bars and of pearl-grey glass into which God had pressed chicken wire as if one might try to escape through such a thing.

Converted to a prison during the Revolution, it held us for a while, and maybe still my name is there, scratched on the wall among all the others.
Lily, taken 22 November 1943.

From the Cherche-Midi, we were sent to Drancy in late January 1944, in the Black Marias the French called the ‘iron salad shakers’. From there, in the dead of that winter we went by rail in cattle trucks to Birkenau and in the dead of the next winter to Bergen-Belsen, so me, I know a lot about cold. I know how the bones can ache, how the eyes glaze over and there are no thoughts because even that takes too much energy.

I know how Michèle Chevalier clung to life throughout all that cold because she believed in me and I had repeatedly told her she would survive. I know how they took us from our block at dawn and told us we were to die.
Cher Jésus
,
the war was finished for them. They could have used a little humanity. Cold, I felt so cold. I tried to hold Michèle’s hand. Her fingers were like ice. I said good-bye, said, ‘I’m sorry I failed you.’ And they made me watch!
Pour l’amour de Dieu
, those bastards, Schiller and Dupuis! Schiller had ordered the executions. Dupuis was still in Paris, I guess; Schiller, I don’t know where. Just a voice on the telephone: ‘Kill them.’ Nothing else except, ‘Yes, you are to use the axe.’