[Fen Churche 02] - Night Train to Paris

remember from both, it’s a near-identical match.’
‘Indeed. Down to the little creepiest of crawlies…’ Rose inched the fingers of one hand across the table as if they were an insect. Then she laughed. ‘Of course, I had them side by side before the war and, if I say so myself, my copies are rather fine.’
‘Copies… that makes sense. But how did you…?’ Fen was flabbergasted. It couldn’t be that… No, Rose would never have swapped them over, would she?
‘That Bosschaert would have been right up Herr Göring’s street, it had to be rescued along with the others.’ Rose looked at Fen, and smiled coquettishly. ‘And no, dear girl, I was never left alone with the original, if that’s what you’re asking.’
‘Why do you do it?’ James asked, rescuing Fen from her blushes.
‘Why? Well, it’s a discipline, isn’t it? Anyone can daub some paint on a canvas and call it art. But looking at something, examining it from all angles so you can be absolutely sure that you can copy it, tiny piece by tiny piece, well, that is an achievement.’
‘I think I understand,’ Fen sucked in her cheek as she thought of what to say, then carried on. ‘It’s like the crossword puzzles that I love solving. Arthur taught me how to do the cryptic ones and he always said, “if you can’t solve your five down, check your six across,” or suchlike. What he meant was that sometimes you can’t work something out just on its own, you have to really look around and find something else that fits in with it.’
‘Exactly,’ Rose waved her hands around and emphatically agreed. ‘To copy something, you have to really look at it, really understand it. Decode it, if you will. Now, do you want to know what this surprise is, or not?’
‘Oh yes! Sorry, please do tell.’
‘Well, guess who is coming to see me, us, this afternoon?’ Fen barely had time to think of a name before Rose continued. ‘You’ll never guess, stupid game that one really. Anyway, it’s the Bernheims. Joseph and Magda.’
Fen rocked back in her chair, and the tears that had only recently subsided after her memories of Arthur threatened to reappear, but this time in joy. ‘Magda! And Joseph. Oh my word, they’re safe? They’re here?’
Rose nodded. ‘Recently back from New York, if you can believe such a miraculous thing.’
‘Oh Rose, this is super news. James,’ she turned to explain her evident joy to him, ‘Magda and Joseph Bernheim were some of our dearest friends when we lived here. Ma and Pa knew Joseph’s parents and went to their apartment for dinners and dances. Rose, what happened to them?’
‘Magda and Joseph made it out in 1940 when it became obvious what was happening. Well, I don’t need to spell it out for you, I’m sure.’
‘And the Bernheims senior?’
‘Not so lucky.’ The three of them sat silently and Rose pulled a packet of cigarettes out of her bag by her chair and inserted one of the Gauloises into its long holder. ‘You don’t mind, do you? Eh bien.’ She lit it and inhaled deeply before Fen or James had had a chance to reply. ‘Do you remember their apartment in the eighth, Fenella?’ She was referring to the number of the arrondissement, or neighbourhood, in which Joseph’s parents’ apartment had been. It was one of the smartest districts in Paris, encompassing the Champs-Élysées and Place de la Concorde.
‘Yes, very well. They kindly invited us to the wedding party, it must have been just before we left Paris in 1935. I remember it so well, having never been to a Jewish wedding before.’
‘That’s right, yes. What a party that was, I think it went on for most of the night, didn’t it?’ Rose inhaled and blew her smoke out in near-perfect rings. ‘And that apartment, oh it was a marvellous place, magnifique! The light! It would stream in through the windows… and the Bernheims were such astute collectors. Old masters, yes, but some more contemporary art, too. After their wedding, Magda, on old Mrs Bernheim’s insistence, came to me for lessons, much like you used to, Fenella, dear.’ Rose seemed lost in her reminiscences.
She took another deep drag on her cigarette and then stubbed it out in a small glass ashtray as the waiter brought over three small plates, each with a slice of deeply caramelised brown tarte Tatin on it. There was even, to Fen’s absolute delight and astonishment, a small scoop of the softest whipped Chantilly cream on top.
‘Ooh la la,’ Fen couldn’t help herself admiring the pudding.
‘Dig in, I say,’ James was the first to take a fork to the glossy apple tart.
‘I’m sorry,’ Fen blew on her forkful of warm pie before putting it to her lips, ‘do carry on about the poor Bernheims, Rose.’
‘Well, that was the thing. They weren’t poor then. They were incredibly wealthy, with not just art but furniture from the time of the revolution, great ormolu clocks, and Madame Bernheim senior’s jewels were exquisite. She had a sapphire from Ceylon that was a big as a gull’s egg, I swear.’
‘Dare I ask?’ Fen knew she didn’t really want to know what the fate had been of the Bernheims senior, the human tragedy of this war already being too much to really take on board, and knowing the family in question so well made hearing of their suffering so much worse.
‘The Germans arrested them and deported them, only days after we’d got Joseph and Magda out. They were due out on the next boat.’ Rose took a deep breath, her anger over their arrest still burning strong. She sucked in her lips and smacked them out again, then continued. ‘Their apartment was stripped of all of its furniture, its Persian carpets, and of course their clothes, her furs, her jewels…’
‘The sapphire?’
‘Probably adorning some Nazi hausfrau in Munich.’ Rose prodded her apple tart, her appetite seemingly vanished. ‘And their art… oh, it was the most terrible of days when Henri and I were summoned to their