The Pearl Thief

by Fiona McIntosh

  Samuel continued talking gently to his boy until the orloj chimed its bells and the two doors slid open above the clock face to allow the figures to rotate. People smiled at him and his child as they passed, some also pausing to admire the figures of prevailing prejudices, from Vanity to Greed, and Philosopher to Angel. Samuel cleared his throat quietly and shifted Petr back into his pram as the figure of the Jew with his bag of money circulated clearly. ‘Shall we continue?’ he said conversationally to his son, who gave him a bright smile to warm him.

  Samuel steered the pram around the fringe of the town square. ‘You know, Petr, this used to be the most significant marketplace. Why?’ he asked and then proceeded to answer his own question. ‘Well, you see, its history can be traced back to the tenth century, long before the clock was designed and installed. And in those days it was considered a main junction – a crossroads, if you will – between the east and west so it was a vital trading place, and in fact the building just behind here’ – he nodded – ‘is the former customs house where all the goods brought through by the foreign merchants were cleared. This used to be a thriving centre of shops, some fixed, some that just seemed to set themselves up in the moment, and all around here’ – he swept his hand vaguely, sounding enthralled – ‘were more than a dozen stone cots where the most expensive imported cloth was sold.’ He smiled to himself, continuing talking as they moved down into the main boulevard along New Town’s south-eastern border. ‘Bakers stood alongside potters who jostled for space with herbalists and other craftsmen, from wood products to leather. And where we stood near the clock, the vendors of food tended to gather … butter, cheese, grease, fruit and vegetables, including our famous mushrooms and other forest gatherings. But fish’ – he waggled a finger in the air – ‘Prague had special privilege for fish sellers. They had their own market by the north-western part of the town hall. And the annual markets, I believe, were a sight to behold. Everyone came from all over the region.’

  Father and son made their way down the main artery of Prague, which ran perpendicular to Wenceslas Square and was host to the National Museum, the main theatre and the impressive neo-Renaissance train station, his destination. Samuel was sure that Petr enjoyed the walk – the unfamiliar sights and sounds had dried his tears, and if there was still pain in his small body, he was distracted from it. But as the coiling pressure of Petr’s crying and Olga’s fatigue and fears began to ease in Samuel’s chest, a fresh tension replaced it. He felt it each time he came to bear witness to another trainload of children leaving their homeland. And this would be the worst one of all because it might be the last transport of hope. Who knew if others would get through?

  Soon he was standing in the main hall beneath the grand half-domed ticket hall that looked out towards the station’s triumphal arch. It was flanked by towers topped with glass globes that were meant to symbolise the gateway to this grand city. Normally this was a place of happy welcomes, but now it was the chaotic scene of people preparing to hand over their most precious belongings.

  Samuel had parked the pram at the entrance, and carrying his becalmed ten-month-old son he found himself turning misty-eyed with his friends as they gave a final kiss to the rosy-pinched cheeks of their own infant son, barely weeks older than Petr. Pavel cried when lifted from his mother’s arms and she had to be physically supported by her husband, stoic midst his wife’s misery, as a man ticked his son’s name off the list of children headed for London.

  ‘Why won’t they let us onto the platform?’ Anna groaned, leaning heavily against her husband who wore a masklike expression.

  He could see Rudolf was feeling emotion as a physical pain and when his friend didn’t answer, Samuel obliged.

  ‘They believe it makes the parting harder,’ Samuel said softly, also knowing from his network of contacts that the Germans were searching all the outgoing children’s suitcases for valuables once out of sight of their parents. Even if Pavel’s tiny suitcase had nothing of value to Hitler it would be an abiding and painful memory to his parents watching his clothes and favourite toys being rummaged through and flung around.

  ‘It couldn’t be harder,’ she wept, ‘and it’s a few minutes more with him.’

  The first whistle blew and a gasp rippled through the station as parents felt their hearts collectively breaking to its shrill sound. Samuel knew there would be two more yet, but even so, he began to urge his friends to leave.

  ‘You won’t be able to see anything,’ he murmured to Rudolf.

  ‘We’ll watch the last billow of steam take our child from us,’ his friend replied through a clenched jaw.

  Samuel nodded, squeezed Rudolf’s arm and looked back into the rare, smiling face of his son. He looked so like his eldest sister, Katerina, it hurt. Petr was made in her image … including the curious ‘cat’s eye’ of one pupil. The striking flaw he recalled from his grandfather had endeared him to both children. Petr giggled and the sound was a balm to his father; Samuel kissed his son’s tiny forehead and regretted once again the decision that prevented Petr from having a life of freedom. He would have to suffer all the indignities and restrictions that were surely coming their way. No amount of wealth, it seemed, could protect his children from a madman’s hate.

  He shook himself free of the dark thoughts and hugged Anna. ‘Come visit when you feel up to it,’ he said, giving her a gentle but lingering peck on her cheek. ‘Olga will bake her famous poppyseed cake.’

  Anna gave Petr a teary smile and nodded at Samuel, unable to reply.

  He had to get away. The farewells hurt but still he wished it was Petr leaving alongside Pavel; he had a momentary daydream of their two boys growing up alongside each other in some kind stranger’s home in England. Samuel had only just turned to shoulder his way out when a cry went up. A voice on a loudspeaker began to yell. People strained to look, their voices rippling into one murmuring sound of enquiry. Samuel returned to where his friends stood.

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘They can take another baby, if I’m understanding correctly,’ Rudolf said.

  They listened to the next announcement but couldn’t hear all of it above the din. Samuel didn’t pause to wonder at what propelled him. He simply moved on instinct, pushing his way to the front of the temporary barrier where an official with a clipboard was fielding questions.

  Samuel’s tall stature and his expensively tailored clothes helped attract attention. ‘Excuse me, sir? Please, my name is Samuel Kassowicz,’ and he could see by the lift of the man’s eyebrows that the well-known name registered with the fellow. ‘What is this about an additional baby?’

  The man shook his head in soft exasperation. ‘A mother has panicked at the moment of handover and now she refuses to send her infant.’

  ‘Every parent here would surely understand.’

  ‘It’s no surprise, but with respect, I am disappointed that the child is missing out on this rescue attempt that everyone here has been working so hard to bring about.’

  ‘There are no words that can convey how grateful the Jewish community is … but it doesn’t help the pain of separation.’

  ‘What this means is that we have a critical space and it would be short-sighted to waste the opportunity.’

  ‘Take my daughter, please?’ a father suddenly cried, elbowing his way through.

  ‘Sir, please, we can’t take another girl.’

  The man’s exclamations and further enquiries were lost as another woman reached the front, breathless, bullying her way past Samuel, who fortunately stood a good head taller so he still had a clear view. ‘Well, I have a son,’ she pleaded, ‘he’s three, old enough to be no trouble. I want you to take him.’

  Other parents muscled through, offering their children. Samuel felt only heartache for them all. They would each have had the same opportunity as his family and, for various reasons, like Olga, had opted against it but now, faced with the dilemma, caught up in the excited terror of this potential last chance, who could bl
ame them for thrusting their beloved children at this man?

  The official put his palm in the air. ‘Please,’ he began, but the cacophony only got louder.

  Samuel joined in with the official to quieten the folk around him. There was an atmosphere of new desperation but they knew and trusted Samuel Kassowicz, a prominent member of the Prague Jewry. They listened to his plea for calm so the official could explain.

  The man tried again. ‘What you need to understand is that there is a family in England that is expecting to receive a baby. They’ve prepared for an infant. They’ve got clothes for a boy. It probably suits their life to have a son growing up. They may not want a daughter, or a three-year-old, or a seven-year-old.’ He gave a look of deep apology to those parents who had offered those children. ‘I’m sorry for you all. But we have to be grateful to these people at the other end and we want your children to be safe and cared for and, above all, cherished while they’re with them. So we need to deliver what we’ve promised … what they believe they’re getting.’ Samuel hated how their children sounded like commodities. He watched the official scan the worried faces. ‘Forgive us, please, but all we can take is an infant boy.’ As a father held up what looked to be a deeply upset newborn he said hurriedly, ‘A child who is sitting up, on solid food.’ He glanced now at Samuel holding a solemn Petr, who regarded the crowd from beneath his blue cap and the crook of his father’s arm. ‘Mr Kassowicz, how about your boy?’

  Samuel swallowed in shock. He dared not admit to himself that it was the reason he’d forced his way to the front of this horde of desperate people. He tried to pretend to himself in this moment that he was simply an interested observer. Rudolf arrived at his side.

  ‘Samuel. Really? Are you going to do this?’

  ‘Sir, I shall have to press you to make a decision, or I will search elsewhere.’

  ‘She’ll never forgive me,’ he murmured to himself, feeling spangles trill through him like a phosphorescence of private, disbelieving horror as he began to shift his son from his comfy cradle. He was doing it. It was as though the father of Petr, who loved this tiny child, and the rational manufacturer that was Samuel Kassowicz, who could make the toughest of decisions, had suddenly parted company. The father stepped back while the colder, rational man stepped forward. ‘Take him to safety,’ he said in a voice that sounded equally disengaged. It had a gritty quality, as though it had fought its way to his lips, pushing past the gate-keeper of his conscience and all the protests that told him not to do this.

  ‘Very good, sir. This is an awkward situation, a brave decision. Your wife, is she —?’

  ‘His mother will understand,’ he lied. ‘This is what she would want,’ he pushed on, searching for the truth that finally emerged. ‘I regret deeply that we didn’t formalise this when we had the right opportunity.’

  ‘Then the angels are certainly taking care of him today, Mr Kassowicz, because he can leave with us in a few minutes.’

  ‘I have nothing to send with him,’ he said, looking around, feeling the drag of nausea clawing its way to his throat.

  Rudolf pulled at his arm. ‘Samuel! Olga …’ He didn’t need to finish. His voice was laced with shame, echoing how Samuel felt.

  Samuel nodded nonetheless. ‘Our son will be safe, Rudolf, like yours. That’s what matters.’

  The official answered his query. ‘The parents of the child not going will donate his case and its contents. I’m afraid your son must travel on his documents.’

  Samuel frowned. ‘Why?’ But even as he asked he knew what the answer would be. It was obvious.

  ‘Because all the paperwork is complete and there are barely minutes now before the train departs – no time to prepare fresh details, no time to even change these. In fact, it makes no difference that he is not …’ The man consulted the pages, flipping through them until he found what he needed. ‘Hersh Adler. He’s a boy of the right age and the family at the other end will accept him as such.’ He shrugged. ‘No one will care.’

  Samuel bristled, the bile arriving in his throat. He had to swallow. ‘I shall care.’

  ‘Forgive me, Mr Kassowicz, sir. I hope you know I meant no offence.’ A woman arrived at his side with enquiry in her expression.

  ‘Have we a substitution?’ She looked anxious, clearly in a hurry. ‘We leave in two minutes.’

  The official – he didn’t even know the man’s name – searched Samuel’s face. ‘Sir?’

  Samuel held his breath and kissed his son one last time, tasting the soft baby skin, smelling his mother’s perfume on it like a guilty wraith. ‘We will not forget your name, Petr,’ he promised, and without allowing himself another second to renege on the terrible decision that he already knew was going to have far-reaching consequences, Samuel Kassowicz handed over his son.

  Petr let out a wail immediately as the square-jawed woman grabbed him. She didn’t mean to be rough, Samuel could see that, but her hands were larger than Olga’s and perhaps held Petr too tightly. He looked lost in her arms as he squirmed and protested.

  ‘He suffers colic,’ Samuel ground out. He knew he sounded pathetic.

  ‘We’ll take care of him,’ she said, and her smile changed her features to the kindest of expressions. She was indeed one of the angels looking out for his son. The angel looped a cardboard sign around Petr’s tiny neck; it carried a number and Samuel could only make out the first two … a six followed by a three. And then Petr was gone. She had turned and walked briskly away, probably deliberately not giving Samuel any opportunity to change his mind or shout any more instructions.

  ‘Goodbye, sir,’ the official said, and although Samuel distantly heard the words, he couldn’t tear his gaze from the broad, squat back of the woman who carried his son from him … and he knew in his heart it was forever.

  Samuel followed the wail of Petr, distinctive enough until it was lost to the piercing sound of the train whistle and a vast billow of steam that accompanied a jolt of the train and a screech of wheels. The crowd reached a feverish excitement that was all fear. Rudolf and Anna were at his side behind the barrier and Samuel hadn’t realised they had all linked hands, all collectively holding their breath until the third whistle sounded. Then all the families pressed forward, a single moan of despair lifting to the ceiling of the Art Nouveau hall as their children eased out of Prague’s main station within the carriages of the Kindertransport that the Germans were likely glad to be rid of.

  Samuel watched from the distance until there was nothing but empty railway tracks, until all the other parents, including his friends, had drifted away. He stayed until there was not a soul left on the platform, and it was only then as a cold wind blew through the empty glass and steel canopies and against his cheeks that he realised he was silently sobbing.

  1

  THE BRITISH MUSEUM, LONDON

  The neat angles that ordered the planes of Severine’s face looked as though they’d been drawn in determined strokes with a sharpened pencil. Yet the keen points that usually held her figure so finely poised, from the wide triangle of her shoulders tapering to the slant of her ankles, seemed to pleat, shrinking her as she backed away from the glass cabinet. Swooning for a heartbeat, she reached blindly behind for a nearby seat into which she folded.

  The tailored two-piece she wore, with its Parisian designer’s label stitched to the satin lining, folded with her. Nevertheless, it maintained its hauteur and thus her envied chicness that her female British colleagues referred to with wistful envy. Perched on the chair, though, she resembled a fragile bird, ready to startle; she didn’t register others, not even when her colleagues descended making collective clucking, worried noises.

  ‘Mademoiselle Kassel!’ her companions cajoled, but it was as though she could no longer hear them.

  In these moments of terror, Severine couldn’t touch the present because she was transported. Today, suddenly, she was no longer standing on parquet floors surrounded by burnished timber and glazed bookshelves in the King�
�s Library of the British Museum. In her mind it was no longer morning in London’s Great Russell Street of 1963 that was rife with traffic and people sniffling with the tail end of their spring colds. All those human sounds and today’s innocent landscape had dispersed in her mind and coalesced into the vivid scene of 1941, a memory she had bullied over the past decade into hiding.

  In these protracted moments of rekindled terror, the nightmare escaped from the prison in which she kept it, unleashing the recollection of blood, so powerful she could feel its damp stickiness once again clinging to her skin. On her lips was the taste of it … like the copper of the Czech korunas that used to tang on her childhood tongue when she hid them in her mouth on the way to the sweetshop.

  She had pushed the horror of 1941 so far away inside, buried it so deep, that there were some days – the rare, shiny ones – when she did not think on the evil that had changed the course of her life. Severine did, however, feel the burden of it inside like a viscous poison trying to erode its way out to consume her again with all its toxic, terrifying reality. But she had taught herself to be the ring-master of those demons, and that circus was not allowed to play in the big tent of her mind – unless she chose to let the beasts out.

  That disciplined control meant for many years she’d led a quiet, regimented life of exacting routine in order to keep evil corralled, to keep her thoughts occupied and tidy. And particularly to keep her emotions cooled. It meant, though, that she – once an effervescent and precocious child – had become someone for whom neither unbridled joy nor genuine laughter was likely.

  But today she’d shown no control. It was the sight of the Pearls that had triggered her.

  Her day had started without any clue of the drama about to unfold. She’d woken at the usual time of nearing five-thirty to a frosty spring dawn. Early sunlight slanted through her Bloomsbury flat on the top floor of the red-brick mansion; she wasn’t sure whether it was neoclassical or baroque. English architecture’s fluid styles down the centuries confused Severine and she reminded herself once again to check with her colleagues at the museum. Nevertheless, she liked the tall and brooding symmetry of her building – called Museum Chambers – which she presumed was Victorian by its austerity but it was countered by decorative details of scrolls, window dressings and a portico in white stone. It was her temporary home and a mere stroll from her work at the British Museum. Her apartment in France had tall French windows and these English sash versions with pretty boxes of tumbling flowers during spring and summer were, in Severine’s opinion, a happy substitute. Her balcony encased by wrought iron would be ideal on a balmy summer’s evening, although she would never know. Her contract was only for six weeks.