The Pearl Thief

by Fiona McIntosh

  He tracked away from the main road and the ripe whiff rising up through a manhole from the sewer below to his favourite path that took him between tall hedgerows of woodland hawthorn and oaks behind them. Sycamores prospered like weeds in the grassy areas and ivy clambered around anything it could find purchase upon. The early evening light was dappled through the trees and landed on him as soft as a mother’s kiss.

  He thought about his real mother, the one who had given birth to him. She would have been dark-haired, he imagined, but did he get his height from her or from the man she married? His father … he wanted to know him! He only allowed himself to think about the Jewish family when he was here, on the Heath, where he felt more like Hersh and rarely like Henry. He’d taken to wearing a kippah now and then when he was on these pathways; had hidden one in the crook of an oak branch. He didn’t consider himself religious. I just want to know what it’s like, he’d thought. He didn’t wear it often – just when he was feeling angry at not knowing the truth of his life. The anger came in unannounced waves; he didn’t raise his voice or lose his calm. Instead he felt his mood dip for no reason and he’d try and explain again to his parents and inadvertently bring his mother to tears and watch disappointment in his father’s gaze … in eyes of grey-blue. Both his parents were fair and blue-eyed.

  So, did he look like his true father, then? The strangeness of his eye; was that the mark of his line? Did anyone else have the mote? Did they survive the war? If not, where did they perish? So many questions, the main one being: was it hard to give him up? Did they send other children away? Was he missed? Did she sing him a final lullaby? Why did they choose Hersh as his name? Why didn’t it feel comfortable on him?

  ‘Hello, Hersh.’ An oval-faced girl with luxuriantly springy hair, the colour of the oak bark in winter, was smiling at him. Eyes darkened green, with a hint of copper warming them, regarded him and he felt the heat of the message they sent.

  ‘Oh, hello, Nissa. I didn’t see you coming around that bend.’ They hadn’t known each other long, only meeting at the end of last autumn.

  Her smiled widened with invitation. ‘We’re taking little Michael out for some air.’

  Hersh crouched to tickle the infant’s chin.

  ‘He cries and the only thing that soothes him sometimes is tucking him into his pram and walking around for an hour. Does us all good.’ She grinned.

  ‘Where’s his mum?’

  ‘Ruth’s back up the path with my parents.’

  He stood up. ‘It’s mild enough that everyone should be out and about.’

  ‘It is.’ They stared at each other awkwardly while the baby gurgled beneath them. Too late, he heard voices of imminent arrival. ‘Oh, here they come,’ she warned, making it sound casual.

  Hersh regretted his hesitation but smiled in greeting at the new arrivals. ‘Good evening, Mr and Mrs Gellner. Hello, Ruth.’

  ‘Enjoying this lovely evening, Hersh?’ Mr Gellner asked.

  ‘I am, sir. Did you see anyone swimming?’

  ‘None. They’d be fools if they were. It has to be freezing in that water.’

  Hersh laughed. ‘And still they do.’

  ‘How are Mr and Mrs Evans?’ Mrs Gellner asked. ‘I must pay a visit to your mother. I promised to make some poppyseed cake for her. She wants the recipe too.’

  ‘I don’t blame her. Yours is the best.’

  She flicked away his praise but clearly enjoyed it all the same.

  ‘They’re both very well, thank you,’ he continued, ‘and waiting for me to return so we can listen to The Archers.’ He grinned.

  Both women checked their watches with sudden alarm, while their youngest daughter, Nissa, didn’t take her gaze from Hersh.

  ‘Come on, Ruth. We’ll miss it,’ Mrs Gellner urged, all of the other Gellners sufficiently distracted not to notice Nissa’s shy smile at the young man in their midst. Ask me, it said, and I’ll say yes.

  He felt himself colouring as a result. Soon he’d find the courage to take her out … perhaps even kiss her. He’d have to steal it, though, for her parents may not approve of the Jewish boy with the blond Anglican parents with their Welsh surname. Nevertheless, if he didn’t change his name and remained Hersh Adler, they wouldn’t disapprove, especially of a potential husband with a flourishing business he would inherit.

  ‘Our best to your parents, Hersh,’ Mrs Gellner said, squeezing his wrist.

  He nodded with a smile, robbed another glance from Nissa and realised he still had his hand on the pram handle. He let go as if slapped for his impertinence.

  ‘Oh, Hersh, before I forget,’ Mr Gellner said, ‘there was a most interesting program last night on the wireless. It was about the Kindertransports from Prague. They were interviewing its hero, Nicholas Winton. Did you listen in?’

  Hersh frowned, shaking his head.

  ‘Pity. It was very moving, particularly when he spoke about how brave and trusting the parents were to hand over their children to strangers on a train platform. It made me think of your precious family in Prague that went through this trauma.’

  Hersh felt like Mr Gellner was tapping into his thoughts. ‘I often think about that time too,’ he said, careful with his choice of words.

  ‘Yes, I don’t doubt. Until I listened to him I’d only considered the Kindertransports as a generous opportunity to help a desperate situation. I hadn’t fully contemplated the emotional struggle for the mothers giving up babes in arms, infants on their hips … little ones they adored. Mr Winton spoke of the despair and how some mothers panicked and struggled to let go of their children in the final moments – there were a couple he mentioned whose mothers in the moment simply refused.’

  ‘How sad for them all.’

  ‘Exactly. “Damned either way” is essentially how Winton described it. He felt only deep sorrow for those women who did walk back into the city of Prague with their children who had been destined for the safety of Britain and from thereon faced an unknown future.’

  ‘What a waste of a seat to freedom.’

  ‘Oh, well, I gather there were any number of willing parents, certainly by the final two trains, so terrified of what was happening in Prague that they offered up their children on the spot. No luggage, no paperwork, no guidance … I’ve been trying to imagine making the snap decision to kiss tiny Michael here goodbye, knowing it was almost certainly the last time I’d see him.’

  ‘Papa, stop!’ Ruth chided gently.

  Mr Gellner shrugged. ‘I’m just saying, we are one of the most fortunate families that escaped. Hersh’s mother, who presumably wasn’t so fortunate, did something more brave than we can imagine to protect him.’ He cut a look at Hersh. ‘Forgive me, I hope you don’t mind me mentioning that?’

  ‘No, sir, and I’ve never thought of it that way,’ Hersh admitted, and it felt like a door had opened in his mind.

  ‘God cannot be everywhere at once. That is why He created mothers,’ Gellner said in a gentle tone. ‘That’s Rudyard Kipling, although I’m sure I haven’t quoted it correctly.’ He grinned. ‘But you catch my drift. Goodnight, Hersh.’

  They parted and Hersh began a slow loop past the mixed bathing pond and back to the main road. It should get him home in time to share the country’s favourite radio program with his parents.

  His mind was not on the fictional English village of Ambridge, though. It was in Prague – not that he knew what Prague looked or felt like, but he’d read much about it in his local library and the British Library and had come to the conclusion that he had been born in one of the world’s most beautiful capitals. But where was the family who had lived there with him? He would keep hunting, listening out for news, and maybe he should try and learn more about the Kindertransports themselves.

  10

  PARIS

  They had arranged to meet at the Grand Basin in the Tuileries Gardens.

  ‘Be prepared to fight for a chair,’ Daniel had quipped.

  Katerina arrived first, or so she tho
ught. And she arrived earlier than noon so that seats were freely available. She paid her sixty centimes for two and chose a pair at the southern end that put her back to the Louvre to give her the view that never got old for her. She could gaze directly through the Grande Allée of the gardens all the way to the Place de la Concorde and on to L’Arc de Triomphe at the top of the Champs-Élysées. Tourists often remarked on and travel writers wrote of the straight line through these gardens. It might appear that way, she thought, knowing the truth that it was far from a perfect line; the unsuspecting eye could be tricked.

  It was a typically clear spring morning in Paris: sparkly, as though viewing the day through a crystal, but the chill of its air hit the back of her throat like the sharp end of an icicle. It was definitely milder in London, but Paris would catch up and soon these gardens would be teeming with families, couples, friends and lovers strolling through their beauty.

  ‘Good morning, Katerina,’ Daniel said, moving into view from her right. She’d been looking for him and yet hadn’t seen him steal up on her. She only knew it was him from his voice because despite her dark glasses, she still had to shield her gaze from the sharp sun slanting across her vision that turned Daniel into a dark shape. She could tell he was lifting his hat politely from that thatch of dark hair. ‘May I join you?’

  ‘Of course. I even saved you a seat … and didn’t have to claw anyone’s face to hang onto it.’

  He shrugged. ‘You know how it can be in summer. We could have had a free bench seat near the bush.’

  ‘We could have,’ she said, rewrapping her thick scarf to cover her neck and shoulders. She was well rugged up in fur-lined boots and gloves too. Katerina reached into her bag for cigarettes; her first of the day. ‘But I chose these individual chairs that feel recklessly decadent at thirty cents each.’ She threw him a grin as she made to light up.

  He surprised her by reaching for her wrist to stop her progress. ‘Did you have breakfast?’

  She cut him a playful glare.

  ‘Good,’ he said, ‘because I brought it, even though it’s near midday.’ From the bag she hadn’t noticed him carrying he pulled out a thermos. ‘Tar-black Colombian coffee, unsweetened,’ he said, holding it up with a flourish. ‘Put those things away,’ he said, feigning disgust at her Pall Malls. She’d only smoked a handful since London. ‘Happy breakfast.’ He had also brought thick slices of his neighbour’s glossy tart but her attention was on the caffeine.

  ‘You are civilised.’ She grinned.

  He poured them each a cup into a plastic beaker. ‘Black or red?’

  ‘Both a bit Nazi,’ she quipped in a whisper only for his hearing and he shocked himself as he exploded into laughter.

  ‘I wasn’t ready for that.’

  ‘Yes, must be careful who overhears. Not an amusing topic. But I’ll take black for my mood.’

  ‘Really?’

  She shook her head. ‘Gallows humour, forgive me. It’s just, I know where our conversation is headed and I’m afraid to confront it.’

  ‘No need to yet,’ he said. ‘Or ever,’ he added with a sad smile. She couldn’t tell if he meant it. ‘Let’s enjoy this wonderful space for an unguarded while as friends.’

  ‘All right.’ She sipped.

  ‘Is it good?’

  ‘Delicious, thank you. So … did you know that we’re sitting on the Historical Axis?’

  ‘We are?’

  ‘Yes. More to the point, we are oriented on a precise 26-degree angle that follows the course of the sun from its rising in the east,’ she said, pointing her long arm away from the right angle as she squinted again into its brightness, ‘to where it sets, west of Paris.’ The movement across his sightline shifted his vision to his left. ‘This is the identical orientation of Notre-Dame Cathedral, so we can begin to understand that this is not just a series of monuments along a designer’s ideal aesthetic. There is symbolism at work.’

  ‘What are you suggesting? A conspiracy?’

  She shrugged. ‘Not really, but perhaps a secret plan. We don’t know … Freemasons, Egyptology … it’s open to interpretation, but it’s rather nice to think there might be some obscure mystery in how our grand monuments have evolved.’

  ‘You mean down the generations from architect to engineer, to designer or artist?’

  She nodded and he shook his head in wonder. ‘You have surprised me.’

  ‘Consider the three arches: the Carrousel, the Arc de Triomphe and the Grande Arche?’

  He nodded.

  ‘The Carrousel was first. The Arc de Triomphe doubled its size. And then the third doubles the size of the one before. Coincidence?’

  He shrugged. ‘You tell me.’

  ‘We don’t know.’ She laughed. ‘But just to keep you awake at night I’m also going to tell you that the distance from the Carrousel to the Obelisk is one kilometre. And from there to the Arc de Triomphe is two kilometres.’

  ‘And to the Grande Arche it’s four, right?’ he stated, his expression quizzing in disbelief.

  ‘Correct. Still coincidence, you think?’

  ‘And it ends at the Grande Arche?’

  ‘No, I think generations of architects and designers will enjoy playing with the notion that the Historical Axis has its mystery and they will pay attention to what has gone before … following the seeming rules and the meander of the Seine.’

  ‘All the way to the forest of Saint-Germain-en-Laye?’

  ‘Perhaps. The Sun King would surely approve.’

  Daniel laughed. ‘Well, I love what I’m looking at,’ he said, and when she turned to regard him and noted he was staring at her, he shifted his gaze and cleared his throat. ‘Look how far we can see from here. All the way up that grandest of avenues.’

  ‘It’s intentional, let me assure you, that our eyes are led to that wide Champs-Élysées. Fields of Elysian,’ she said, translating the true meaning of the boulevard’s name into English suddenly. ‘Heaven on Earth.’

  ‘And expensive too,’ he added to make her smile, and offering to take her beaker. ‘Finished?’

  ‘Mmm, yes. I hope you’re not going to complain if I smoke and don’t eat any tart?’

  ‘I won’t. You make smoking look elegant.’

  ‘Helps me to think.’ She took her time lighting up the Pall Mall and once again Daniel kept his counsel, spending the time emptying the dregs of the cups and returning the thermos and uneaten tart to the bag. Katerina blew out the smoke from her first short pull on the cigarette, and while the second drag and subsequent release steered her into the calm she needed, she realised she likely wouldn’t finish the packet of cigarettes. She’d keep them as a souvenir of London, or perhaps a reminder of the sharp turn her life was taking. ‘Shall I continue?’

  ‘Please. I recall you had arrived at your family’s country house, reunited with your parents. October 1941, I believe?’

  ‘Very good, Daniel. You are paying attention, aren’t you?’

  He didn’t reply. She took a third puff on the cigarette and began to talk, sitting forward to hug her own body’s warmth. She did not remove her sunglasses.

  Being intact as a family again, and all of us feeling safer than we had in many months, prompted a small celebration after a few weeks of settling in. Even my mother seemed to climb out of her gloomy shell for a brief time and she was vaguely animated when she cooked for us, with my father’s help. I often offered to assist with the preparations but he shooed us all from her kitchen.

  ‘Let her potter in her favourite space.’ He shrugged. ‘Who knows, the familiarity and all of us in such good moods may help her to find her way back.’

  I gave a sound of exasperation, shaking my head at his rationale, but it occurred to me that perhaps it pleased him to see her busy, even if all we ended up with was porridge or eggs. I think I’d forgotten in the scenario of me … us … losing our mother to her misery at the death of Petr and the arrival of war, that my father had lost the love of his life. So I found a smile fo
r him and nodded. ‘What can I do, then?’

  He walked back into the parlour and put an arm around our mother. I heard him whisper but couldn’t hear the words. She came back with him, much to my surprise.

  ‘Why don’t you and the girls pick some mushrooms for us?’ It was wonderful to hear her sounding so normal and I hugged her tight. I suspected it wouldn’t last but while it did I wanted to enjoy it. ‘It rained yesterday so it’s perfect mushroom-hunting time. I’ll make some kyselo,’ she promised and there was the smile I’d grown up being loved by.

  The thought of the hearty mushroom and sourdough soup made my mouth dampen with anticipation. I rounded up my sisters and after much back and forth over which hat and mittens belonged to whom, we clambered into boots, scarves and overcoats and proceeded out into the garden, towards the back gate. I looked back to wave at my father, whose eyes were moist with what I took to be both relief and tenderness for us together.

  Our garden gate, which led into the forest surrounding the villa, sat within a dry-stone wall that I remember my father building when I was probably not much older than six. Now juvenile ivy leaves reached out on slender creeping shoots, finding every nook and cranny of the stones to cling within, while the larger adult leaves layered themselves individually over those stone pillars to catch whatever sunlight they could. It was effectively a gown of glossy emerald leaves and this threshold we crossed always gave me the impression we were entering a fairyland.

  I think I probably needed this vision of leaving behind the sadness of our reality and moving into a magical world where all that resonated was the singing of birds, the vague rustle of small creatures in the undergrowth, the odd flash of a startled rabbit’s fluffy tail and the promise of autumn mushrooms. October was the perfect time to be searching out our quarry and it didn’t take long to start filling a basket with fat brown-capped fungi that had pushed their way to the surface over the last few days. My mother hadn’t lied; the ground was spongy from the rain and smelled of damp leaf litter while the air was scented with a primitive, earthy aroma that spoke of something meaty and rich. While my mother would gladly accept the pravák mushroom – a simple wild edible fungus, with a small tight cap and a bulbous stem that likes spruce forests – I knew she’d love to see us troop in with a basket of delicate chanterelles, famed in this region.