The Pearl Thief

by Fiona McIntosh

  Despite my father’s order, I helped Rudy on with his huge and heavy overcoat and watched him pull on his gloves. ‘Katka, speak with your father. He cannot hide up here for much longer.’ A leathered finger traced the shape of my face from my ear to the tip of my chin. I worked hard at remaining expressionless. ‘You really are quite divine; do you know that? All that simmering beauty to stir a man’s passions. In a year or two …’

  I shifted my head away from his revolting touch before he could finish but I did so gently, showing none of the defiance I was feeling. ‘Rudy, please, can you help us? I … I don’t know what my father had in mind, but —’

  ‘No, darling Katka. Your family’s fate is sealed. I shall be back, but next time in a uniform.’

  A mayor’s uniform? It sounded ridiculous but there was no time to ponder that. ‘How much time do we have?’ My voice was shaking, pleading.

  He smiled sadly at me in the dim light of the hallway. ‘Don’t run, my darling, there are soldiers throughout these hills now and all through the village and the roads leading in and out of it. You would be shot on sight like vermin. Better to wait for me. I shall be able to make it all go easier.’

  I didn’t know what that meant – I presumed he was referring to transport to Terezín – but I was shaking now and I let him walk away, not pressing him for further explanation.

  ‘I’ll see myself out,’ he threw over his shoulder.

  He didn’t return the next day or the next. We were sitting in our drawing room around the fire in the glorious late afternoon light that glowed through windows I’d cleaned only that morning in an effort to keep myself and the girls occupied. They were all playing quietly upstairs and my mother was resting. I had made a pot of tea for my father to enjoy around the flames. I think Ruda Mayek was taking his time in order to keep building our fear of what might lie ahead. And it worked. My father must have discussed a dozen scenarios with me but all were academic; we both knew none of them would work for they all meant splitting up the family and how would we do that? Who would go with whom? What if we ended up in separate ghettos, or some of us were sent to Poland, or worse? No, separation was never going to be the choice. It was when my father suggested we make for the neutral territory of Switzerland that I heard his desperation and it was time for me, at least, to be realistic.

  ‘Papa! How do you propose to get three small girls under ten and our mother, who shuffles around in her own world most of the time, across occupied and hostile territory to Switzerland?’

  He ignored me. ‘Or south, maybe we head south … I hear there are options via Rome. There are parts of the Mediterranean that —’

  ‘Just stop it now! There’s nothing and no one who can help us.’

  ‘Money talks, Katerina. Have I taught you nothing?’

  ‘They’ll take your money and laugh at you, Papa.’

  ‘They’ll take it anyway, my darling child, but I’ll feel happier trying to make it buy our freedom.’

  ‘There is no freedom. We are Jewish. We are doomed to this fate but perhaps Terezín isn’t such a bad idea. We can stay together. Papa, if we try to flee, they’re going to have the excuse they need to kill us. Do you want your children to be hunted down like foxes, shot in the back while trying to outrun the pursuers?’ His eyes glistened wet. It was cruel to speak to him in this way. ‘So let’s pack and ready ourselves. It’s been two days since he was here and I doubt we’ll get more than another day, so let’s prepare properly – I’ll get the girls organised, you worry about Mama.’

  ‘She’s the lucky one.’

  ‘Because she’s lost her mind?’

  He nodded. ‘Katerina, she’s lost because of Petr. I need to tell you —’

  ‘Papa, forgive her. Remember her as the woman you fell in love with, not who she’s become through her sorrows.’

  He gave me a sad smile and touched my face with love, genuine affection, and mostly grief at how life was turning out. ‘When did you get to be so wise, my beautiful girl? I see myself in you each day but I also see the young Olga who caught and trapped my heart the first time I met her.’

  I swallowed; this was heartbreaking and we needed to avoid weakness. ‘Come on, Papa. We have to be strong for the girls. There’s a journey to be made and who knows what we face at its end.’

  The sudden banging at our door startled us and I spilled the tea. I was just handing my father his second cup and in fright I let some of it topple onto my mother’s beloved Persian rug. My regret in that moment was so intense I wanted to howl my rage at the world; the yell of anguish came as far as my throat but I was not someone prone to histrionics and my father would not have appreciated a display right then. I wanted to be fourteen, I wanted to still be a child, but as my father stood to answer the incessant rapping at our door, I righted the toppled cup, glanced with sadness at the stain and realised in a horrible moment of understanding that the rug no longer mattered … in fact, we no longer mattered.

  Katerina looked up from where she’d been drawing invisible circles on the white tablecloth. ‘I can’t go on today.’

  Daniel swallowed his disappointment. ‘I understand. You’ve been talking for a while. All the other diners have gone.’

  She looked around in surprise. ‘We must go. They’re readying for dinner,’ she said, embarrassed. Katerina peered out of the window across the restaurant. ‘The afternoon is already darkening.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘No, it can’t be so late?’ She reached for her handbag.

  He gave a sad grin. ‘I didn’t dare interrupt. I am holding my breath as it is.’ He signalled to a relieved waiter for the bill.

  ‘Let me,’ she began, opening the clip of the bag.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m old-fashioned. And it was my idea, anyway, to come here.’

  ‘It was kind of you, thank you. Er, will you excuse me?’

  ‘Of course.’ He took out his wallet to pay while she visited the powder room.

  On her return Daniel helped her on with her coat and they left the warmth of the hotel to feel the pinch of a chilly spring evening against their cheeks.

  ‘Would you like to take a taxi home?’

  ‘No, I think I’d prefer to walk,’ she admitted.

  ‘May I walk you?’

  She paused, found a smile and shook her head. ‘Please don’t be offended. I think I need some time alone.’

  ‘Then, tomorrow? I mean, only if you’re up to it.’

  ‘It’s the ugliest part of my story.’

  ‘Then tell me while we’re surrounded by beauty. How about we stroll through the Musée de l’Orangerie and view Monet’s Water Lilies?’

  She smiled at him. ‘I haven’t seen them for a long time.’

  ‘All the more reason to visit. I find them restorative to my soul.’

  ‘You go often?’

  He nodded. ‘Three or four times a year.’

  ‘You continue to surprise me. All right. How about two o’clock?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  ‘I want to say good afternoon but it feels like the evening is closing in. And rain, I fear. I must hurry. Bonsoir, Daniel.’

  ‘Bonsoir, Katerina. Dream sweetly.’ He meant it, but he doubted she could dream anything but darkly that night.

  13

  It was a drizzly afternoon when Katerina arrived beneath a striped umbrella to tap Daniel on the shoulder. He had been facing the other way, no doubt expecting her to arrive from the Tuileries, but she had walked the Champs-Élysées to stare mindlessly into shop-fronts as a treat as she gathered her thoughts for the rest of her story.

  It was still a surprise to her that she was sharing it. That morning in her small apartment as she looked out at the view, made crooked by the heavy rain against the long window panes, she wondered why she was letting all of this poison out. Would it do her any good? Well, if it did anything, it would make her angrier, and in rekindling her fury she might find that old strength that had ensured her survival. In talking with Daniel, she wa
s indeed feeling stronger about what she was sure was coming – a new confrontation with an old foe.

  ‘Right on time,’ he said, beaming. ‘You’ve been shopping.’

  ‘An errand.’

  ‘An expensive one.’ He grinned, noting the bag from an exclusive store. ‘For a man?’

  It was none of his business but still she noted how observant he was. ‘I like to wear men’s sweaters at the weekend,’ she said drily.

  He shifted the topic adroitly. ‘Well, kiss goodbye to that neighbourhood. The new rapid transit system will change its clientele irrevocably.’

  She shrugged, not minding that the exclusive avenue would now be more accessible to the general public. ‘The wealthy will grumble but it’s a good thing for all of Paris and new tourism.’

  Daniel gave a careless lift of a shoulder at the remark. ‘You look rested,’ he said.

  ‘Curiously, I slept well and dreamlessly.’

  ‘Well, we’re getting damp chatting here. Mercifully, hardly more than a handful have gone in and at least two have come out again.’

  They lowered their umbrellas, shaking them at the entrance and leaving them in the basket provided. Daniel was quick to pay for their tickets. ‘You must stop that,’ she admonished him. ‘I can pay my way.’

  ‘I know you can, but I wasn’t brought up to let a lady pay. It’s not an insult to accept such a small gift from a friend.’

  She nodded. ‘So long as I buy the coffee afterwards.’

  ‘Certainly,’ he said, looking delighted that there was to be coffee later.

  They strolled around the exhibition of fabulous works by the Impressionists: Renoir, Cézanne, Gauguin … holding off on the beautiful Monet lilies for later, moving instead to gaze at works by Picasso and Matisse, Modigliani and their companions.

  ‘Not a fan of cubism? At least I think that’s cubism.’ Daniel observed her dismayed expression as they stood before the portrait Red-Haired Girl.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Explain why to me.’

  ‘Well, do you like it?’

  ‘Not in the slightest, but I’m interested to hear why you don’t.’

  ‘Hmm, well, to me there’s beauty in everyone. Even a plain woman might have lovely hands, pretty eyes, a sweet smile, a slim neck … He hasn’t looked for the beauty in this girl at all. Look at how he’s accentuated her jaw and chin, one eye larger than the other and her mouth so high and pinched on her face.’

  ‘That’s what he saw.’

  ‘I’m not keen on portraits, anyway. I prefer landscapes or still life.’

  ‘Because they’re lonely?’

  ‘They don’t have to be; I prefer beauty in paintings. By that I mean what I personally find pleasing, such as symmetry, clean lines, colours that soothe … or just helpless prettiness.’

  ‘Fair enough. So Renoir and Monet for you.’

  She smiled. ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Let’s go see Claude Monet, then.’

  They entered the space that was covered by nearly one hundred linear metres of the painter’s famous Water Lilies.

  They sighed in unison. ‘Seeing them never fails to make me feel safe,’ she admitted.

  ‘Because they’re a symbol of peace,’ he remarked softly, almost a whisper. ‘He donated them on the day of the Armistice —’

  ‘The day after,’ she corrected, as she did a slow tour of the pieces that made little sense close up. Nevertheless, she liked looking at Monet’s splodges of paint, which only took their real form when the viewer gazed at them from a distance. ‘The Water Lilies cycle took him three decades.’

  ‘Extraordinary,’ he breathed. ‘He’s managed to give us water, flowers, trees, clouds in the most random manner and provide the illusion of a limitless whole.’

  ‘Beautifully said,’ she complimented him. ‘It’s what he intended … “a wave with no horizon, no shore” … his words.’

  ‘I read somewhere there are three hundred or so paintings in this series.’

  ‘It’s true, and around forty of them in a large format.’

  ‘Let’s sit,’ he offered, gesturing to a bench seat.

  She joined him and they sat in silence for close on five minutes; her back was turned slightly to him and that made it easier to pick up where she’d left her sad tale the previous day.

  Katerina could hear the rain drumming gently against the roof. It was soothing rather than distracting and they were still alone; perhaps the rain might keep others away for long enough that she could finish this difficult part of her tale. She began talking softly; sensed him settle back behind her, relaxing into her voice and the hardest part of her story.

  It was a German soldier wearing his greatcoat and helmet who stood on the threshold. I could see the burly outline of a second man from the porch light but then they both stepped aside and I caught my breath.

  Strolling into our villa wearing his trademark smirk was Ruda Mayek and he was in uniform; it was not, however, the dress of a mayor of a small town in Czechoslovakia. It was not even the uniform of a German soldier. No, Rudy had surpassed our estimation of his ambition, and his evil. He looked resplendent in the grey field tunic of the feared SS but as I watched him move confidently across our doorway I noted the boards on his wide shoulders did not signify the German Secret Police. As young as I was I knew what they signified. It was worse – far worse, in fact.

  ‘Forgive me for the dramatic entrance, Samuel. Frankly, I prefer my civilian clothes but I’m afraid when I’m on official business I am required to wear my Gestapo uniform.’

  I think we could all tell he was lying about his preference for civvies.

  Gestapo. I watched, with dread, as he pointed at the same shoulder boards that had caught my notice – I was always one for small details – and as he indicated the poison-green piping that signified his tribe I had to swallow bile that tasted acid in my throat. Halfway down his left sleeve was the black diamond patch of the security forces, bearing the letters ‘SD’ embroidered in white.

  ‘Good evening, Katka,’ he said, pretending only now to notice me, but I think I understood finally that Rudy was always aware of me, although I was still unsure whether he hated or desired me. ‘This is what I’d hoped to avoid a few days ago. But …’ he said, returning his attention to my stunned father, still shocked at seeing the little boy he’d treated like a son arriving at our house with intent to bring harm. That much was clear. ‘I’m sorry that it’s come to an armed escort.’

  The girls had wandered down the stairs too and were sitting like a flock of sparrows watching.

  ‘Hello, Rudy,’ Lotte said. ‘So that’s your mayor’s uniform? It matches your eyes. They look grey today, like a storm cloud.’

  I couldn’t have described him more accurately myself.

  His smile was so fake it hurt me to watch it spread across his thin, neatly drawn mouth. ‘I’m glad you like it,’ he replied, even though that’s not what her remark had intimated. He gave an impatient tut. ‘Samuel, we must speak.’ He glanced my way. ‘Alone this time. Just the men.’

  My father looked beaten and nodded, gesturing to the warm, sun-drenched room.

  Rudy had been carrying his black leather coat and without a word handed it to me. I wondered where the hat was, but what did it matter? His coat was so heavy I had to bend my knees to hang it for him. ‘We shan’t be long,’ he said now. ‘I suggest you wake your mother if she’s asleep and get her dressed.’

  I had no choice but to obey. My mother dithered and bleated like a helpless lamb. This was the worst she’d been in a while, muttering about Petr and how there was no body to visit. I didn’t understand; I’d been at the funeral but we were so young, we didn’t question why there was no guarding of Petr’s body in the process of ‘watching the dead’. I remembered the torn black ribbons we all wore to signify our loss and I recall my father taking his off during the brief service but no one remarked on it. I knew my father was hiding something, but my question was lost to my grief
of that period.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked me earnestly.

  ‘Another journey,’ I murmured.

  ‘Where’s your father?’

  ‘He’s speaking with Rudy Mayek, making the arrangements.’

  Clarity waned. ‘Little Rudy. Always so fond of you, darling …’

  My eyes were damp with tears that I refused to allow to fall. My poor mother. She was confused and these moments of lucidity didn’t ease my heartache. They were like lightning cracks that illuminated the earth for just a second and then it was all darkness again. Right then, I think I wished my mother the blessed darkness of ignorance and confusion. She really didn’t need the pain of knowledge that we were all about to be imprisoned.

  I led her and my sisters, who were all uncharacteristically subdued, down the stairs to the hallway. I’d packed a small suitcase for each, keeping it light so they could carry it themselves if necessary. The presence of uniformed men in boots with pistols at their hips was not encouraging even Lotte to be talkative.

  ‘Do we have guests?’ my mother wondered, and she then began walking from room to room, as if trying to recall where we were. I was happy to leave her in that happy ignorance and cut a look of warning at Lotte, who seemed to be readying an explanation for her.

  The door to the sitting room opened and the image of my father is one I shall never forget. Here was a broken man. He’d shrunk over the last few minutes and in that moment it was as though I was watching my father’s corpse, briefly animated. He had no life within and the light that normally danced in his darkish green-brown eyes had been extinguished. Behind him loomed Rudy, who looked to be flicking some lint from his proud uniform.

  ‘Everyone ready? Good.’

  I refused to be so compliant in our own imprisonment. ‘Where are we going now? It will be dusk in a couple of hours.’

  ‘Your father will explain, Katka. We will need your help with the children.’

  I opened my mouth to protest.

  ‘No, Katka, you will listen to me now. What I have arranged is for the best and for your sake. The alternative is unpleasant. I have organised for your father’s carriage to be brought out.’