The Pearl Thief

by Fiona McIntosh

  I barely recognised him. He had always been lean but now he was haggard; he had developed a stoop and his cheeks were hollow, his eyes sunken, haunted as if holding a dreaded secret. By comparison to others I believed we were still eating reasonably well but he was either choosing not to consume his fair share, or he was not benefiting from the nourishment. I was convinced he was heartbroken in a way I was not privy to.

  ‘I do understand about our mother,’ I assured him.

  He continued as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘It is said that Hitler believed Protektor von Neurath was mollycoddling us in Prague.’ I opened my mouth in astonishment but no sound came. My father pulled a ghastly smile – more of a smirk. ‘Yes, can you imagine it? He thinks we need better management and a stronger man is required for the job. And so we now have someone whose great claim to fame is being amongst the first to be awarded the coveted Death’s Head Ring of the SS.’

  Czechoslovakia was now in a state of martial law as Heydrich began to hunt every resister. We watched police cars move through our streets taking prisoners to be shot, to be tortured, or both. As I walked across our cobbled roads, my yellow star clearly on show, I noted neatly typed-up notices attached to street lamps and shop-fronts proclaiming the names and dates of birth of the latest victims or those the Germans hunted.

  ‘You do realise the Gestapo charges the families of the executed for the cost of the shooting and the public placards, don’t you?’ my father said. I knew it was a rhetorical question and did not reply. His voice had a tone of terror in it. ‘They’re abominable! Heydrich is demonstrating he will not be nearly as tolerant as von Neurath.’

  While the thought was petrifying, I suppose I wasn’t surprised. As young as I was, I’d lost the dreaminess of youth; I’d become cynical and I feared I was fast becoming resigned to hearing the knock at the door and seeing German police with their hated swastika badges arriving for us. Imprisonment, being worked to death in some place like Terezín, felt inevitable. Dare I admit that death sounded not exactly welcome but perhaps the best outcome? My life until 1939 had been full of possibility and promise; now it felt like my world had reduced itself to blocks of twenty-four hours, each of them filled with the angst of survival. This was no time for ambition or dreaming … but I allowed myself a tiny streak of hope, like the first slash of dawn as morning cuts through night. Thin but luminous hope sustained me that I might live to see the world at peace again, that I would make it through whatever fresh trauma came our way in order to bear witness to a Nazi humiliation.

  I recall the day that a triumphant Adolf Hitler arrived in our city. We Jews were banished, not to be seen on our own streets while the leader of the Third Reich was driven up to the castle accompanied by what I presumed to be enforced fake cheers from a stunned crowd. We learned he enjoyed an honour guard in the first courtyard, which sickened all of us, I’m sure, before he appeared at one of our proud castle’s windows. Third floor, third from the left. I always hated that window from then on.

  One tiny moment of joy was learning that Hitler had ordered the destruction of the statue of Mendelssohn, the revered composer and pianist, who was Jewish, from the top of our former concert hall – now our parliament building. Its rooftop boasted lifelike sculptures of all the famous composers. To our amusement, the soldiers given the task couldn’t make out Tchaikovsky from Handel, so one wit suggested they look for the one with the biggest nose as he was bound to be the Jew. The statue of Wagner, arguably Germany’s most beloved and lauded composer, was torn down and smashed. Mendelssohn looked on stoically and he survived. He too was part of my defiance.

  If my father’s summary was right, then Heydrich was a man banged out from the same mould as his leader – emotionally, anyway. Physically they couldn’t have been less alike. I spotted Heydrich once; my fairer hair and lighter eyes allowed me some scope to roam, especially if I took the risk and didn’t wear my yellow star – it was worth it sometimes to get better food for the children. He liked to hurtle around in an open-topped Mercedes-Benz made especially for him. It was said he refused an armed escort because he doubted any pathetic Czech would dare to take aim at him. I watched with loathing as the blond, hawk-nosed, milky-faced brute with a receding hairline revved his engine with frustration as he had to slow for a group of schoolchildren crossing the street not far from the old royal palace where he spent his working days. According to the gossips, the man who planned to humble the Czechs and rid the country of its Jews liked to drive home to his family in the country. He preferred his children to grow up in the bracing air, well away from our beautiful but tense and traumatised city.

  I think if I could have lifted a gun from my pocket that day I spied him, arrogantly leaning on his car horn to speed the teachers and their charges on and out of his important way, I would have gladly given my life to make an attempt on his. I recall wondering in that moment as he roared off again, not even noticing me or any other passer-by, if I could be capable of such violence. But then I remembered my shattered family and all the families crowding into what had become a Jewish ghetto and I decided I might indeed be capable if the circumstances presented themselves. It was October 1941: he’d only been in Prague a month, and I can’t imagine a Czech man, woman or child, Jewish or otherwise, who didn’t fear him.

  It soon came to pass that he was planning medical exams for the entire population as he strived to work out who in the region could be saved for ‘Aryanisation’, as they called it, and which of us should be destroyed for having unwelcome racial traits.

  ‘Your honey-coloured hair might yet save you, Katerina,’ my father lamented. ‘Your sisters, though …’

  ‘Stop, Papa!’ I told him. ‘We don’t need saving. Tell me about your plan to leave. How are we going to make our escape?’

  7

  It was the shrill sound of a doorbell that forced Katerina Kassowicz back from her recollections to see that early evening had stolen across Paris and the light was failing in Daniel’s studio.

  She watched the smudge opposite stir.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked gently as he stood.

  She nodded. ‘It’s painful. This is why I try not to look back.’

  ‘I’m sorry if —’

  ‘Don’t be. I make my own choices. I didn’t know it had become so late. I should go.’

  ‘No, wait!’ He tempered his tone. ‘That will be Madame Bouchard with our pie. Let me refresh the coffee and share a piece with you. Don’t hurry off … please?’ He didn’t wait for her response, leaving the room as if scurrying away could force her to remain seated. She did. He returned with the bustling neighbour from downstairs, bringing with them the aroma of baked pastry and the oozing caramel of roasted fruit that brought a fresh and different sort of brightness into the room, as though sunshine had been trapped in the food.

  Madame Bouchard arrived mid-conversation with Daniel but immediately smiled broadly. ‘Hello, dear. Monsieur Horowitz tells me you have a headache.’

  Katerina threw a look at Daniel hovering in the doorway behind his neighbour, wearing a look of apology.

  Or she’ll stay, he silently mouthed in plea.

  ‘It’s not bad – one of those low, annoying ones.’

  ‘It’s because you don’t eat enough! Get a slice of this down you.’ She beamed. ‘Shall I serve it up for you?’

  ‘Er, I will have a slice a little later, if I may?’ Katerina replied graciously. ‘I’ve just swallowed a couple of aspirin and they tend to make me feel a little queasy.’ She tapped her belly and made a small grimace. ‘I can’t wait to try it, though,’ she promised.

  ‘Of course, of course. It has cooled to perfection and I’ve glazed it with a fresh fruit syrup, so make sure you eat it while it’s still just warm. I’ve brought rich cream to go with it.’

  ‘You do spoil me, Madame Bouchard,’ Daniel joined in. ‘It smells magnificent.’

  She made a happy clucking sound, like a hen. ‘So, should I leave it in the kitchen?’ She was hold
ing the tart but didn’t look prepared to give it up just yet.

  ‘If that’s all right?’ he offered, and as she turned her back he whispered to Katerina, ‘If she could, she’d check my bedroom for rumpled sheets as well!’

  She put a hand to her mouth in amusement.

  Madame Bouchard was back. ‘I’ve left it on the counter and the cream in the chiller but don’t leave it to get too cold,’ she impressed upon them.

  ‘We won’t.’ They said it together like teenagers being left alone in the house for the first time. They shared a secret amused glance.

  ‘Enjoy it, my dears, and I hope you feel better soon, mademoiselle. I’ll say goodnight on your way out.’

  ‘Yes, thank you again,’ Katerina replied.

  When Daniel returned from seeing his neighbour off the premises, his look of dismay prompted another grin from her. ‘Did you catch the artful way in which my overseer was ensuring that you didn’t have any designs on staying longer than she considers appropriate?’ He gave a sound of despair.

  ‘Perhaps we should tease her.’

  ‘Yes. Oh, please stay all night,’ he groaned, hardly hearing the audacity of the invitation, intent on his frustration instead. ‘She makes me feel like a child. Heaven help me if I did want to have a woman spend the night with me.’

  Katerina laughed and again there was the smoky authenticity of genuine amusement. ‘It happens because you allow her to push you around.’

  ‘Does anyone push you around, Katerina?’

  ‘Not any more,’ she said, her expression becoming sober. ‘Not for a long time,’ she added, and recalled when that turning point was.

  8

  It was October of 1941. We had made it to the country house, but not without a lot of help and clandestine arrangements. We were moved in two transports: my father, mother and my younger sister Lotte, followed by me with the twins. I know my fairer looks made it possible for me to sit up in the car without nearly as much fear as the others might have had, and we tied the children’s hair back and put on bonnets to hide as much as we could. Our clothes were high quality, which no doubt helped too. I sat in the front of a large vehicle owned by a Czech industrialist who ran a sugar factory, a long-time friend of my father who was determined to see us to the relative safety of the hills. I was inwardly frightened but not to the point of trembling or looking guilty; I was able to muster a laugh, even sing a song with my sisters at the checkpoint. Either our companion was already familiar with the men or he’d paid them off handsomely. I can’t bring to mind the details but they seemed more relaxed about people leaving the city than entering it, so I don’t recall any awkward questions. I think the fact we were in an expensive car, wearing borrowed furs and looking every inch the wealthy Czech family, meant we were waved through.

  I do, however, remember feeling a lurch of sadness to be leaving behind the gymnasium where I had been planning to ace my exams in readiness for my senior school years before attending university. I would miss walking the youngsters to their school before hopping onto the rumbling tram for the journey to mine. I used to stare out of the window as we clanged and clattered along the way from our posh neighbourhood, passing avenues of pines and maple.

  I especially liked the linden trees that clustered around our expansive family home which looked a bit like a grand doll’s house with its symmetrical facade and neoclassical lines. It sat raised on a mound a couple of miles behind the castle in which Hitler and his henchmen now roamed, like emperors of old, while my father who had helped build Prague’s industry was now only permitted to carry limited currency at any time. Everything else that we couldn’t successfully hide was taken.

  I can remember the roses used to grow wild around our home and I could chase my baby sisters through sweet-scented arbours – at least half a dozen of them. In winter we’d play under the central staircase and sometimes, if our mother would permit it, we’d step out onto the upstairs balcony, which had a grand balustrade and soaring Ionic columns that overlooked the stairs and the iron fencing that ringed the house.

  It was from this balcony that we tearfully let our canaries fly free. Each of us children had two that we kept in huge cages at the bottom of the garden. The gardens were like a small private park and we could step into the aviary, it was so large and airy for our birds. But before we were forced from the house we’d heard that Jews would not be permitted pets and so rather than have the canaries killed, we gave them freedom. As we made our charge to the country house I felt like those canaries now, fleeing for our lives.

  On reflection I suppose the German soldiers policing that checkpoint knew if we were running, there really was nowhere to run to. We were headed west, after all, towards Germany – back into the old Saxony region – so I doubt they were terribly worried that we’d be Jewish escapees, nor would they care. My burnished golden hair that I made sure I had brushed to shiny and had deliberately kept loose I tossed back and forth as I feigned my laughter and sang my songs. It played its role. The sun was out, it was a dry autumn day and the checkpoint soldiers were enjoying what they no doubt presumed was the last of the mild weather. I assumed this was hardly a busy gate, or an important one, so it looked to me as though they’d given the job to the youngest of their men. One winked at my glance and I couldn’t help but be flattered. His grin brought a warmth to my cheeks and I gave him a surreptitious and perhaps even flirtatious smile in return. I could hate myself now for it, given what was to come, but at the time I was still much of a child that was having to behave as an experienced adult.

  Our family villa was in Hvozdy, always a beautiful drive out of Prague towards Slapy where the dam and reservoir had been recently begun. Czechoslovakia had plans for a hydro power station too and while I didn’t enjoy all the heavy works around the peaceful countryside, I knew my father applauded its arrival.

  ‘Think of the electricity to our homes, our businesses … think of the jobs for so many men and women as a result. So many families can now look forward to giving their children an education, those children going on to university to become our new doctors, dentists, engineers, bright thinkers and doers.’ He was always so optimistic, my father.

  As soon as I saw the Vltava River on my left, its serpentine laziness snaking alongside, I began to feel the fear of our escape dissipating. I knew this Bohemian countryside well; we’d been coming to the villa each summer since my birth, and while we’d not spent many winters here, the thought of an autumn holiday in a favourite place after the blight on Prague felt like all my birthdays were being celebrated at once. My shoulders lost their tightness, the frown I hoped I’d hidden with a fake expression of pleasure I could now feel easing, and the tightness in my belly relaxed.

  ‘We could call in at the bakery?’ my companion suggested, nodding over his shoulder towards the girls. ‘Try and keep it normal, eh?’ He didn’t look scared but I recognised the taut tone that he couldn’t hide.

  ‘That’s a lovely idea, thank you, sir.’

  ‘Call me Tomas, please. You’re old enough,’ he said. ‘I feel so badly for the family, Katerina; none of you deserve this.’

  ‘No Jewish family deserves persecution but my history studies assure me this probably won’t be the last time.’

  ‘Heavens! Your father told me you leaned towards seriousness but now you’re speaking like an old lady. Try to keep your youth burning brightly within. We need the young to keep their hopes alive.’

  I nodded, even though I didn’t feel especially hopeful. My father had been surely referring to his eldest daughter of now rather than his eldest of years gone; I didn’t remember being a sober infant. In fact, I remember my mother laughing at me and wondering how they would ever keep my personality under control because I was so precocious. Maybe that quality had dissipated, but not through choice. My teenage years ahead were meant to be about discovery, empowerment and romantic ideals but looking towards them I could only see bleakness. Everything optimistic had been chipped away and yet I felt g
uilty for my dark thoughts, knowing we were still faring better than most of our poorer counterparts.

  We pulled into a tiny bakery, famed for its bread made with caraway, a place familiar enough to be part of the tapestry of my life. The smell of its pastries still rising to their full burnished height in the oven and steam escaping through the chimney to perfume the immediate surrounds reminded me of every good memory that I’d managed to trap and keep safe. Every party, every family picnic, every birthday, new frock, well-played piece of music, each highly graded essay or exam, each laughing kiss from my parents felt as though it was wrapped up today in those familiar sugar-scented pastries.

  ‘Wait here,’ Tomas advised. ‘We can’t be too careful. The reason this place can keep going is because it’s a favourite of the Germans who take a drive out. They make sure it gets far more than its fair share of ingredients, but sugar especially, as you can smell, is here in abundance.’

  ‘Are soldiers here?’ I asked, hearing the fresh fear in my voice as I craned to scan the surrounds. The bakery was nestled into the valley, nothing else around it but a few scattered houses and the river to its front, the hillside to its rear. It hunched in a hollow like a fairytale cottage with its merrily smoking chimney.

  Tomas cut me a look of sympathy. ‘I’m being especially cautious, that’s all. I see no other vehicles and we’re here a bit early in the day for picnickers. Just be still; act normal. I won’t be more than a couple of minutes.’