Aurore

by Graham Hurley

  Huber was tapping his pad. Mona Lisa?

  At last, glad that the conversation had strayed so far, Hélène did his bidding. She could picture her husband sprawled at some desk in the middle of London, his feet up, his tie loosened, the buttons on his waistcoat undone in anticipation of a decent lunch. The clue, as ever, was the voice. Nothing, to her immense relief, had changed. Nathan, regardless of the circumstances, was enjoying himself.

  She told him about the previous night’s conversation with Huber. The French had emptied galleries across Paris.

  ‘Very wise. I did the same.’

  ‘But you took your stuff with you. I know you did. It’s the rest Herr Huber wants to know about.’

  She’d brought the list Huber had given her last night. She went through it, line by line. Specific galleries. Specific paintings. She saved the Mona Lisa until last.

  ‘So what’s your question?’ The laughter had gone from Nathan’s voice.

  ‘Not my question, darling. Huber’s. He wants to know where all this stuff has ended up.’

  ‘And he thinks I know?’

  ‘He’s certain you know.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Because he thinks you were friends with these people, with the people at the Louvre, and all the other galleries. And he assumes they let you into their little secrets.’

  ‘Does he really?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he thinks I know where these pictures, these paintings, are hidden?’

  ‘Yes. France is full of chateaux. He has men standing by. He wants to know where to start.’

  ‘Then tell him I don’t know. Tell him any chateau. It makes no difference. It’s a lottery, like everything else in life. Maybe he’s lucky, maybe not. You want a tip from me? The Mona Lisa is probably treble-wrapped in waxed paper inside some little wooden crate and buried in the middle of some farmer’s field. Tell him to start at Calais and work south. Dig it all up. The Pas-de-Calais. Picardie. Normandie. Bretagne. The lot. He’ll be an old man by the time he gets as far as Paris but at least he’ll have the satisfaction of knowing he’s tried. Blood and soil. The Germans love it. Our soil. Their blood. That sounds like a deal most gentlemen could live with. Tell him to try it. Let’s see what happens.’

  Hélène glanced at Huber again. The older man had given him a pair of headphones. He was obviously monitoring every word of the conversation.

  There was silence on the line. Then Nathan asked whether she was still there.

  ‘I am, darling.’

  ‘And Huber?’

  ‘Him, too.’

  ‘Good. Something else he ought to know. In fact, three things. Tell him to write them down. Is he ready?’

  Huber was back in the armchair. Not a flicker of response.

  ‘Go ahead, darling,’ Hélène said. ‘I think he’s listening.’

  ‘All right, so it’s 1940. The Germans are on the move. They’re in France. They’ve found an open window. They’ve climbed into the boudoir. And they’re about to screw us, every single one of us. That’s a fact. That’s what they did. Now Huber happens to be right about the galleries. Most of them moved stuff out much earlier because in real life that’s what you do. I happened to be late because I happen to be a gambler. You know that and so do all those important people Huber mistakes for friends of mine. Alas, that’s not true. For three reasons. One, I’m a Jew. Two, I’m very successful. And three, I know how to look after myself. So does Huber, of all people, who knows a lot about Jews, really imagine that any of these important people would share their secrets with a fat little Persian kike who’s made so much money? Has he ever lived in that country of ours? Does he know about Dreyfus? About Léon Blum? And how about the camp at Drancy? Let me tell you something about Huber and his pals. They’ve emptied all the galleries in Paris run by Jews. Every single one. And you know where all those paintings have gone? The Jeu de Paume. The Rothschilds, the David-Weills, the Bernheims, Paul Rosenberg’s stuff, it’s all gone there. Put him on, Hélène. Let me talk some sense into the man.’

  The Jeu de Paume was a gallery on the north corner of the Tuileries Gardens. There were tens of thousands of looted pictures stored there. All Paris knew.

  Hélène was staring at the phone. Even she was taken aback by the venom of her husband’s outburst. She’d seen this side of Nathan before. In business he could be tougher than anyone she’d ever met. That’s what had earned him his standing in the city’s art world. That’s what had led to the opening of his second gallery. People admired his taste, appreciated his negotiating skills. But there was something else he had to understand here, something she’d yet to share with him.

  ‘They’re making threats, darling.’

  ‘Who’s making threats?’

  ‘Huber. He thinks you know what he needs to know. And he thinks I can make you share that knowledge.’

  ‘He really thinks I’m privy to all this stuff?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then he’s crazy.’ A longish pause. ‘Threats, you said.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What kind of threats?’

  ‘It could be anything. These people have total control. They can do whatever they like.’

  ‘To you?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. I don’t want you to worry, my darling. I just want you to know.’

  ‘And you think there’s a difference? Jesus fucking Christ.’

  Nathan rarely swore. This was suddenly a whole new conversation. Hélène checked on Huber again. For once, there was a smile on his face.

  ‘Tell your husband he has a week,’ he murmured. ‘One week. Then you have another conversation.’

  Hélène nodded. Nathan was back. He’d been thinking about what she’d told him. And he’d come to a decision.

  ‘Put Huber on the line,’ he said again.

  Hélène looked at Huber. Huber shook his head.

  ‘You can tell me,’ she said.

  ‘Fine. These people are crude. They take a hostage. It happens to be you. They know you’re my wife. They assume you’re precious to me and for once they’re right. So the deal is simple. We swap. I come to them. You come here. Then I can tell them in person what I really feel. Put it to him. Ask him. Tell me what he says.’

  ‘He’s listening, darling. He knows already.’

  ‘And?’

  Hélène let the question hang in the air. She was looking at Huber. He scribbled something on his pad and then got to his feet.

  ‘One week,’ he said, heading for the door.

  15

  Billy took the train to London. He’d telephoned Ursula Barton, the signatory of the telegram, and learned nothing beyond his summons to an interview. When he’d enquired whether this might be connected to his imminent posting to a training squadron, she’d been non-committal. But what was odd was her accent. Billy was good with accents, and he was certain she was German.

  Despite it being high summer, London was wet and dispiriting, a study in grey. The war was eating away at these people, Billy thought. You could see it in their faces, gaunt, unsmiling. They were preoccupied, withdrawn, locked inside a world of someone else’s making. The top of the bus was packed as it made its way out towards the western suburbs yet there was little conversation. Even the servicemen had nothing to say.

  The woman on the telephone had told Billy to get off at Shepherd’s Bush. Stanlake Road was a five-minute walk away. He was to look for number 49. It had a brown front door. Billy set off from the bus stop. The directions took him into a terrace of substantial properties, handsome double-bay windows, modest first-floor balconies. Even a spindly tree or two dripping rain onto the flagstones in the front gardens. The gate at number 49 had been secured with a loop of binder twine. Cracked black and white tiles led to the front door. Brown. Just as the woman on the phone had promised.

  Billy hesitated. He’d been expecting something more official, less interesting. This house couldn’t belong to any branch of the RAF. He pushed through the gate,
then paused again. From deep inside the house came the sound of a woman singing. It was a recording. It had to be. Billy stood motionless, listening to the sweep of the music, then the moment of near silence that brought in the soloist. Simon Meredith had owned the recording. He’d once played it in the Mess on a particularly rowdy night, to universal bewilderment.

  Billy looked for a door knocker. There wasn’t one. He rapped on the single pane of pebbled glass. Waited. Tried again. At length a shadow appeared behind the glass and the door opened.

  It was a woman, medium height, patterned dress, nice legs, sensible shoes, thin face, good features, blonde hair carefully gathered with a tortoiseshell comb.

  ‘Bellini,’ Billy said. ‘Casta Diva.’

  ‘Excellent,’ a hint of a smile. ‘A very good start, if I may say so.’

  She invited him inside and shut the door. The house smelled musty. At the end of the tiled hall Billy could see a kitchen through an open door.

  ‘Ursula Barton,’ the handshake was brief. ‘We will talk in here.’

  Billy had been right about the accent. Definitely German. It went with the face, naturally severe, and with the hint of sternness in her bearing. This was a woman used to being in a man’s world, Billy decided. And in all probability she didn’t live here.

  The front room was badly in need of redecoration. The wallpaper was beginning to peel in one corner where the damp was getting through and the fireplace had been roughly bricked up. A scattering of books brightened a low shelf on the back wall and there was a fading reproduction of Constable’s The Hay Wain hanging drunkenly above it.

  The gramophone lay on a table in the bay window. The woman lifted the needle and slowed the turntable with her finger until it stopped altogether. In the sudden silence Billy could hear the clip-clop of a horse coming down the street. The milkman, he thought.

  The woman tidied a wisp of blonde hair and asked Billy to sit down. Two armchairs, both leather, both showing their age.

  ‘Bel canto is like a box of Belgian chocolates,’ she said. ‘Very rich. Very tempting. But sometimes you can have maybe too much. Do you find that?’

  ‘Never,’ Billy nodded at the gramophone. ‘Leave it on if you want to.’

  She favoured him again with the same faint smile but made no comment. She wanted to know about his days in the theatre. She’d listened to the performance of Desire Under the Elms on the radio and thoroughly approved.

  ‘Elan is a difficult character. You caught him perfectly. Accent. Manner. Everything. A fine performance, Mr Angell. In fact I went to Bristol to find out more.’

  Billy was staring at her, caught completely off guard by the compliments. Was this some kind of audition? Was she part of the London theatre world? Had his luck suddenly changed? Was this the beginning of some kind of fairy story?

  ‘So what did you see?’ he asked.

  ‘As You Like It. And you didn’t disappoint.’

  ‘That was just before we went to New York. With the Eugene O’Neill.’

  ‘So I understand. Selling the Americans their own work. That takes nerve as well as talent. Did you enjoy it?’

  ‘I loved it.’

  ‘No nerves?’

  ‘Of course. If you’re not frightened you’ll never do yourself justice.’

  ‘You believe that?’

  ‘I do, yes.’ The expression had come from Irene. Billy had never forgotten it.

  ‘And it works for you? On stage?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘And off?’

  ‘That can be harder.’

  She nodded. This conversation had already become an interview and Billy suspected that most people would have been taking notes by now. But he sensed that this woman didn’t need paper and pen. She’d remember everything.

  She changed the subject. She asked him about his Quaker beliefs.

  ‘How did you know about that?’ Billy felt the first flutter of alarm.

  ‘You were a registered conscientious objector, Mr Angell. It’s a matter of record.’

  ‘But is it relevant?’

  ‘Everything is relevant.’

  ‘Why? How?’

  ‘Just answer the question please, Mr Angell.’

  Billy, aware of a sudden hardening in her voice, struggled to formulate an explanation. Anything too formal sounded wrong and so he decided to make it personal.

  ‘I was a bit lost at the time,’ he said. ‘And then I met a woman at the theatre. An actress. She was a wonderful person. And she also happened to be a Quaker.’

  ‘She converted you?’

  ‘She made me see life differently.’

  ‘Are you an easy person to change?’

  ‘I’m a person who trusts people I like, people I look up to. Irene was older than me. She was also wiser than me and she knew how to listen. You don’t meet many people like that.’

  ‘You make it sound like a love affair.’

  ‘It was. On my part.’

  ‘And hers?’

  ‘She looked after me. I owe her everything.’

  ‘Have older people always mattered in your life?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She nodded, turning to briefly swat at a fly buzzing in the heavy air. The rain had stopped now and a shaft of sunshine caught the planes of her face. Billy had rarely met someone so intense, so direct.

  ‘Tell me about your family,’ she said. ‘Your father. Your mother.’

  ‘My father was killed in the last war. My mum brought me up.’

  ‘Your father’s dead?’ The news appeared to surprise her.

  ‘Yes. He was killed before I was born. I never knew him.’

  ‘So your mother brought you up?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And how was that?’

  ‘Fine. Lovely.’

  ‘No men in the house?’

  ‘None. We were pals, Mum and me.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now’s different.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘She’s remarried. Her new husband is very wealthy. In some ways I think she deserves it. Having no husband all that time must have been hard.’

  ‘And has it changed her?’

  ‘I think it’s changed us.’

  ‘For the better?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  Billy left it at that. He hadn’t come all this way to talk about his mother, to explain about the new life she was sharing with a man too rich and too selfish to make room for a stepson, to describe a house with so many rooms that his poor mum would need a map to locate them all. That conversation belonged elsewhere. He’d had it only days earlier with Don.

  ‘Why am I here?’ He did his best to warm the question with a smile. ‘Do you mind me asking?’

  ‘Not in the least. And in due course I might explain. But first I need to know why a conscientious objector joins the Air Force. Thirty operations, am I right? And the last one over Hamburg?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So what happened? What made you kill all those people? Given that you were a pacifist?’

  For a moment Billy wondered whether she had relatives in Hamburg, or maybe in one of the countless other cities he’d helped destroy. Then he dismissed the thought.

  ‘Irene died in an air raid,’ he said simply. ‘And that made me think.’

  ‘About what, Mr Angell?’

  ‘About God.’

  ‘Because He wasn’t there that night? When your Irene died?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you expect Him to be there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Because Irene told you?’

  ‘No. Because Irene introduced me to Him. We went to meetings together. I like to think I got to know Him. I like to think I got to trust Him.’

  ‘Trust Him to do what?’

  ‘To look after us all.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I was wrong.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I was working in the big hospital in
Bristol. I was a porter. It was my job to take bodies down to the mortuary.’

  ‘And one of them was Irene?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How was she?’

  ‘In pieces. Literally.’

  ‘And you.’

  ‘Much the same. Ever since.’

  He’d said exactly the same thing to Don, the result of another recent conversation that had lasted for hours. Then, like now, he knew it was true. After Irene nothing had made any sense.

  Billy heard footsteps in the hall outside. The door opened and a man stepped in with a couple of mugs in one hand. He was immensely tall, middle-aged, military bearing, stiffly erect. He was wearing an old pair of flannel trousers and a grey cardigan over a check shirt. Beautifully polished brogues.

  He left the mugs on the table beside the gramophone, then glanced down at Billy.

  ‘No sugar, I’m afraid.’

  He turned on his heel and stumped from the room. Billy picked up his mug. He hadn’t smelled coffee like this since New York. He took a sip, and then another.

  ‘Delicious,’ he said. ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘Lisbon. They import the beans straight from Brazil. We regard it as a rare perk, Mr Angell.’

  We? Billy was tempted to enquire further but sensed this wasn’t the time or the place. There was a script here, a tacit protocol, and his role was to sit tight and do his best to answer whatever questions came his way.

  ‘Tell me about RAF Wickenby, Mr Angell. Are you glad to have left?’

  ‘I’m glad to have survived.’

  ‘That wasn’t my question. Would you be happy if you never returned there?’

  ‘You mean Wickenby? Or operations?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  ‘We think you may.’

  ‘You mean leave the Air Force?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘To do what?’

  The question seemed to amuse her. She took another sip of coffee. Long fingers. Carefully trimmed nails. No rings. Then she looked up again.

  ‘What took you into acting, Mr Angell? Why the stage?’

  ‘I sort of fell in love with it. I liked the show. I liked the make-believe. It was amazing to watch people have to become someone else.’

  ‘You mean actors?’

  ‘Of course.’