They came in the early evening, when businesses were shutting up for the day and most people were heading home in the winter darkness to their families and firesides. There were three of them, purposeful, businesslike. Two were dressed like any other citizen: gaberdine trench coats, woollen mufflers, hats pulled low to ward off the damp. Only the way they carried themselves, self-assured, coolly aware of their power, indicated that they were officers of the Gestapo. The third man was corpulent and comfortable, dressed in an expensive camel-hair overcoat, a soft hat and kidskin gloves – the clothes of a man who had attained a life of material ease and liked it that way. The rosiness of his cheeks gave him a deceptively jovial air, but the expression of his eyes, deep-set in folds of flesh, was hard and shrewd.
A chilly drizzle was falling. As the men paused beneath a street light, its glow highlighted the droplets which floated through the air to settle on their hats and shoulders, but they didn’t seem to notice. They waited for a tram to pass, then crossed the street to stop outside a small business premises, its windows in darkness. On the frontage above, a discreet sign read ‘J. Silberstein, Fine Arts’. A notice on the door indicated that the shop was shut for the day.
The man in the camel-hair coat looked up at the first-floor windows, from which lights were burning with a merry glow, and rang the doorbell. At length there came the sound of someone approaching, and the door was answered by a maid who didn’t have time to do more than give a startled glance at the visitors before a man’s voice called down the stairs from the flat above the shop.
‘You’re early – I wasn’t expecting you so soon!’
The voice was followed by the sound of footsteps on the stairs, then the man himself: mid-forties, spare, his sandy hair slightly thinning, wearing his shirtsleeves and a welcoming smile, which faltered when he saw the man in the camel-hair coat, whom he recognised as a fellow art dealer.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Good evening, Jacob. You won’t mind if we come in, will you?’ replied the art dealer.
‘Well, as a matter of fact—’ began Jacob, but the man had already stepped into the narrow hallway, followed by his companions.
‘Are you Jewish?’ said one of the Gestapo officers to the maid.
She looked puzzled, and glanced at Jacob in appeal, and he replied for her.
‘No, she isn’t. Go upstairs,’ he said to her, and she obeyed, with a scared glance at the visitors.
The man in the camel-hair coat indicated a glass door leading off the downstairs passage, which bore the word ‘Gallery’ in neat gold letters.
‘Let us go in,’ he said.
‘We’re closed.’
‘Open the gallery,’ said one of the Gestapo men in a tone that brooked no argument. Jacob Silberstein opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it. He produced a key from his pocket and led them into the large room that served as a gallery, turning on the light as he did so. His was a modest-sized business, but he was selective in the paintings he chose to buy and sell, many of which were highly valuable, and thanks to his acumen and hard work he had fully expected to become quite wealthy in the next few years, until the new anti-Jewish laws had put paid to it all. He stood by the door, biting his tongue, mindful of the Gestapo presence, watching as the art dealer walked around with a notebook, looking at the paintings, occasionally asking a question and making a note.
‘I want to buy these,’ announced the dealer at last. ‘Shall we go upstairs and discuss it? It’s cold in here.’
‘As I said, we’re closed,’ replied Jacob, irritated now. ‘If you want to discuss buying the paintings then come back tomorrow during business hours.’
‘We will go upstairs,’ repeated the art dealer, as if there were no doubt about the matter.
Jacob knew he had no choice. He led the men up and into a warm, comfortable living room. Through an open door could be seen a large kitchen, from which delicious smells were emanating. Two children, a boy of about fifteen and a girl of twelve, were sitting at a table by the window in the living room, doing their homework. Alerted by the maid, a woman, wearing a smart frock under her apron, came out of the kitchen as they arrived, wiping her hands on a cloth. She stopped as she saw their visitors.
‘Go to your rooms,’ said Jacob to the children. ‘Or, better still, go and help your mother in the kitchen. Irma, take them. Anna, you’d better go home now.’
The maid nodded and went to fetch her coat and hat from a cupboard.
‘I suggest you don’t come back,’ said one of the Gestapo men meaningfully as she passed him. They heard her footsteps hurrying down the stairs and the slam of the door as she went out.
‘Come,’ said Irma Silberstein. The children, with a wary look at the newcomers, rose and went into the kitchen with their mother. One of the Gestapo men closed the door behind them.
The man in the camel-hair coat sat down in the most comfortable chair and brought out a cigar. ‘Do you mind?’ Without waiting for an answer he lit it, and the room was shortly filled with the acrid smell of cigar smoke.
The Gestapo officers were standing by the door. Jacob knew he was treading on eggshells. He’d been caught employing a non-Jewish maid, and for that reason alone he could be in trouble. Of course they didn’t need any real reason to persecute him – his being Jewish was enough. The man sitting in the chair was a big name in the art business, and was rumoured to have the official favour of Hitler. Jacob was certain that he’d chosen this hour to arrive and throw his weight around purely to humiliate him and show him who had the upper hand. But Jacob was still a businessman first and foremost, and if his visitor was going to insist on buying his paintings, then it was up to him to make the first offer, so he stayed silent.
The art dealer seemed in no hurry to speak, however. He sat, drawing on his cigar with great enjoyment for several minutes, then at last tapped a clump of ash onto the rug and said:
‘I hear some interesting things about you, Jacob.’ He indicated the Gestapo officer who was standing nearest the door to the stairs. ‘Richter here tells me he has received information that you have been speaking out against the Nazi Party, and the Führer in particular.’
‘That’s not true. I’ve never said a thing against him!’
‘No?’ The dealer jerked his chin towards Richter, who took out a notebook and began reading.
‘On October fifteenth last, you were heard complaining to a client of yours, saying that the Nazi Party doesn’t care about ordinary German folk, and that Hitler will destroy Europe.’
Jacob stared.
‘Nonsense—’ he began.
‘You also said Hitler must be given a taste of his own medicine before he goes too far,’ went on Richter.
Jacob was racking his brains. Had he ever said such a thing? If he had, it had been a remark in passing, made to someone he trusted. Who had reported him?
Richter read on inexorably, a list of accusations, of statements and actions, most of them exaggerated or invented. Jacob had spat in disgust at the mention of the Aryan master race. He’d torn down posters that urged the boycott of Jewish businesses. He’d been seen associating with a group of known Communists – that was the worst one of all, because even to be suspected of being a Communist meant risking arrest and torture. Jacob denied each charge hotly as it was read out, but it was no good – it was obvious his visitors had come prepared, and that he was in great danger.
‘That maid of yours,’ said the art dealer, when Richter had finished. ‘What are you doing employing her? You know the law.’
‘She’s been with us for years. She received a blow to the head as a child and she’s a little simple, but she adores my wife and begged us to let her stay. She’d have difficulty getting work anywhere else, so I couldn’t bring myself to fire her.’
‘That’s as may be. Still, as you can see, you are in trouble.’ The art dealer gestured to the Gestapo men. ‘All these things are enough to have you arrested and probably shot right now.’
He paused, waiting for a protest, but Jacob, increasingly angry and mutinous, said nothing. The dealer went on,
‘As it happens, however, I can offer you a way out. I know Hitler would be very interested in some of the paintings you have downstairs – the Flemish ones in particular, those landscapes by Massijs and Brueghel. But naturally he’s not interested in acquiring anything from a Jew such as yourself.’ He said the word with a subtle emphasis which somehow managed to drip with disparagement. ‘It will have to come from me. Now, you must have realised that you can’t possibly expect to continue in business given the crimes that have been recorded against your name. Berlin isn’t safe for you. Quite frankly, I don’t know why you didn’t leave long ago. God knows the Reich are doing their best to drive you people out of the country. But it seems many of you aren’t easily persuaded. Let’s see…’
He paused to make some calculations and wrote a figure at the bottom of his list, then tore out the page from the notebook and handed it to Jacob.
‘Let us get down to business. I will take these paintings off your hands, and in return you shall have a week to pack up and get out of Germany. Otherwise, I will leave you to the mercies of Richter and Baumann here.’
Jacob experienced a brief surge of relief that he wasn’t about to be arrested. He’d been thinking of taking his family out of Germany for some time now. This wasn’t how he’d have chosen to do it, but perhaps it was the spur he needed. With the cash from the paintings he could start up in business somewhere else. He looked down at the slip of paper the art dealer had given him and his mouth dropped open in disbelief.
‘This is what you’re offering? You’re joking, surely! This isn’t even a tenth of their value.’
‘Nevertheless, I think you will find it is a fair offer in view of your circumstances,’ replied the man smoothly.
‘I can’t afford to sell them at this price. You know I can’t. The proceeds won’t cover the migration tax for the four of us, because they’ll calculate it on the full value of the paintings. We won’t be able to afford to leave.’
‘You are lying. I know perfectly well you Jews all have plenty of money squirrelled away in secret places. I’m quite sure you will have no difficulty in finding the funds. It’s your choice. This is not a time to be miserly. Sell your jewels or your gold or whatever and pay the tax, then get out and think yourself lucky.’
The expression on the art dealer’s face was complacent, and Jacob flushed. This man had barged in without so much as a by-your-leave, and was now sitting in the best chair, scattering ash all over the rug, bent on ruining another man for his own benefit, purely because he could. It was the sort of insult Jews had had to endure for years now, the result of laws that persecuted one group of people to the advantage of another. Jacob’s blood began to boil, but he remained calm.
‘How dare you come in here and speak to me like this?’ He spoke quietly, trying to keep his voice from shaking. ‘It’s obvious you’re hell-bent on ruining me, but I’m damned if I’ll take this sort of insult on my evening off, in my own home, in front of my wife and children. You people slither around in the dark, hiding your faces like cowards. Well, if you are going to ruin me, you can come back tomorrow and do it in daylight, in full view of the world, and let everybody judge you for what you really are.’
He stepped forward, fists clenched.
‘Jacob!’ came a warning voice. It was his wife, who was standing in the kitchen doorway, watching the scene. Behind her, the two frightened children looked on silently.
The man in the camel-hair coat stood up. He was much taller and bulkier than Jacob, and his presence seemed to fill the room. He laughed, an unpleasant sound.
‘Your wife has some sense, at least. Do you think you have any rights here, Silberstein? You will take what I offer you and be thankful for it.’ His face changed. It was hard, threatening, even cruel. ‘And in fact, for your rudeness I’m minded to change the conditions. I’ll take the paintings for nothing and you can think yourself lucky.’
‘You can’t do that!’ exclaimed Jacob.
‘Oh, but I can,’ replied the art dealer infuriatingly.
At that, Jacob lost his temper. He made a lunge for the other man, catching him by surprise. The Gestapo men sprang forward, and the next few moments were confused ones. There was a sharp crack of a gun, and Jacob was on the floor. Irma screamed and ran forward, crouching over the fallen body of her husband, shot through the heart, his blood seeping into the rug. The children whimpered, terrified, clutching each other in the kitchen doorway.
‘Well, I would have paid him,’ said the art dealer. His breathing was heavy as he straightened his collar.
Irma, numb with shock, picked up the page the art dealer had torn out of his notebook, which had floated down to rest on Jacob’s body. It was soaked with blood. She stared at it, then bent over her dead husband and began sobbing uncontrollably.
Mr Falconetti was of the opinion that the English ladies had made a mistake in not going to see Venice. Now that September was half over, the heat and the smells would be less oppressive, he said, and the place would not be so crowded with tourists as it was in July and August. The Italian was genial, enthusiastic in his description of the Grand Canal, and the view of St Mark’s Square from the lagoon, and the two ladies listened politely, since he had a strong claim on their attention – although they were keeping a wary eye out in case he began to impose upon them.
He had come to their rescue at Bologna, when they had been deserted in favour of an important local personage and his much younger wife, both of them swathed in furs and dripping with money. The porter had transferred his allegiance without so much as a backward glance, leaving the two unimportant Englishwomen surrounded by their luggage, with no other porter in sight and the train due to leave in ten minutes. Mrs Unsworth had fretted and tutted and fussed while Stella made tentative suggestions as to their carrying their own bags, but if the smart little man with his moustache and his stiff collar had not spotted them and insisted on escorting them to the right platform, fetching another porter himself, snapping out instructions and ensuring their luggage was safely stowed, they would almost certainly have missed their connection.
Having waved away their thanks, Mr Falconetti now seemed to consider them as his special charges and was sitting across from them in the carriage, pointing out the various attractions from the train window. Not that there were many to be seen, since the landscape had changed all at once a short distance from Bologna, from the flat expanse of the Po Plain to the rolling inclines of the Apennines, and now much of the line consisted of long tunnels that burrowed through the base of the mountains straight towards Florence. The train was an electric one, and Mr Falconetti spoke with pride of the opening of this new, faster line, such as they had in other countries – America, perhaps? He remembered reading about it somewhere. He was sure the trains in other countries were very efficient, but nobody could do things as well as the Italians.
Mrs Unsworth, mindful of her young companion, wanted to be only distantly polite, but his friendliness was disarming.
‘You’re a proud patriot,’ she said indulgently, because of course she knew England was the only country.
Mr Falconetti swelled. ‘I am.’ He shook his head. ‘But you English tourists, always you go straight to Florence, when there are many other places to see.’
He himself was a native of Modena, and with the true regional loyalty of his kind was dismissive of Tuscany as inferior to his own homeland.
‘But Florence is so beautiful,’ said Mrs Unsworth.
He shrugged. ‘Beh. It is pretty, yes, but a little too loud – too obvious. Florence is all very well, but if you come to Emilia Romagna, you will find that the food is much better and the people are so much more friendly. The fiorentini, they are not very kind. You must be careful because they will cheat you whenever they can. They see you are English and they will make the price double, triple. It is not correct – this is what you must say to them. It is not correct. And then you must leave the shop, and they will run after you and beg pardon and say they made a mistake and ask the proper price.’
He glanced expressively at the younger of the two ladies as he spoke. A girl she was, really, with a raw, unfinished look about her, as if she’d just come out of school and wasn’t quite sure what the world wanted of her. Not beautiful – no, he couldn’t honestly say she was the type he admired – but her hair was thick and dark, and her eyes were striking: wide and deep blue, with flecks of vivid green around the pupil and a thick fringe of eyelashes. The eyes were mostly cast down, or turned away, looking out of the window, but now and again she would direct a look at him – an earnest stare that caught and held his attention until she turned back to the window or her book. She’d been reading a Baedeker’s guide to Italy, consulting it at each station so as to catch as much as possible of the places they passed through, and joined in the conversation only when addressed directly. She and the older woman were not mother and daughter, as far as Falconetti could judge. Mrs Unsworth must be the chaperone. He was innocently curious to know more about them, but they had that British reserve and didn’t seem inclined to unburden themselves.
The train emerged from a long tunnel and they came out into sunshine. The morning had been grey, but now the low mist had lifted and the sun drenched the countryside with colour. The train passed through several smaller stations – ugly, concrete constructions they were, but behind them could be seen glimpses of pretty villages extending up hillsides, yellow buildings with red roofs, with here and there the domed roof or proud bell tower of a church. Stella was only half-listening to the conversation. Mr Falconetti was now talking about the newspaper of which he was the editor; it was a small, local publication, but it had a long and proud history, having been published continuously since 1870, the year of Italian unification. In the early years of the current century the paper had developed Communist leanings, but after the dictator Mussolini had come to power it had been forced to moderate its tone or risk closure. Occasionally an article slipped through that might be considered subversive, but so far they had avoided trouble.
‘And why should they want to harm us anyway?’ said Falconetti. ‘We are all proud Fascists now, thanks to Il Duce.’
Stella looked up, and he threw her an amused look, as though he had just made a joke. Mrs Unsworth had not noticed the irony in his tone, and took his words at face value.
‘Mussolini has been very good for your country, I think,’ she observed.
‘But certainly,’ replied Mr Falconetti, and again there was that note of dryness. ‘He and Herr Hitler will start a war together, build us an empire and make us all rich and happy.’
‘Oh!’ exclaimed Mrs Unsworth. She had at last sensed an undercurrent of something and noted the creases about his eyes which spoke of concern, and in true English fashion turned the conversation to a less touchy subject. They began speaking about London, which Mr Falconetti had visited many times.
Stella’s mind was drifting between the conversation and the view through the window. As far as she could tell, the train was on time, so it couldn’t be long until they reached their destination. She hoped they would see Florence as they approached, and began to crane her neck for a glimpse of it. But there was nothing, only mile after mile of solid, grey railway and overhead wires extending into the distance, cutting among the hills. Mrs Unsworth’s descriptions of the city dated back thirty years, and she lacked the imagination to do the place justice, but she’d dug out an old postcard, and Stella had taken it and gazed at it for hours. It was the classic view of the cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore, taken from the Piazzale Michelangelo on the south side of the river Arno, according to the printed caption on the back. Stella had wanted to go to Stanfords and buy a map of the city to study, but for one reason or another there hadn’t been time. No matter: surely Monica would have one, or if not, she could go and buy one herself.
Stella was struggling to subdue her resentment at having been packed off to Italy like a piece of unwanted furniture to stay with Monica, of all people. Monica, the Italian beauty who had married Stella’s father when Stella was eleven and Monica herself was only in her mid-twenties. Monica, who had been the reason that Stella had hardly seen her father from that day until the day he died six years later, hit by a car as he was out walking one evening. Monica, who had married a Florentine count less than a year after Raymond Cockburn’s death, and was now Stella’s only relation and guardian of sorts. There was a bitter irony in the fact that the woman who had torn her beloved father from her was now to be put in charge of her welfare, and Stella felt it keenly.
Mr Ellison, the solicitor who acted on behalf of the trustees, hadn’t known what to do with Stella in the year since she’d left school. She’d never been the academic sort, and even if she had been that way inclined, university would have been out of the question. What on earth was the point, since she would come into her inheritance when she was twenty-one? But something must be done with her, and so, when a letter arrived from Monica, inviting Stella to Florence for a few months, Mr Ellison had jumped at the opportunity. If he did have any concerns about what he’d heard of anti-British sentiment among the Italians, they were soon dispelled by the reflection that Monica’s husband was a senator in Mussolini’s government, and would surely not have allowed the invitation had he considered Stella’s presence at all unwelcome. To Florence Stella was to go, then – at least until she came of age, after which Mr Ellison’s responsibilities would be at an end.
Nobody had ever asked Stella what she thought of all this, but if the trustees had ever given the matter any consideration they would have assumed she was happy with the plan. As it happened, Stella’s thoughts were very much conflicted. She’d longed to visit Florence ever since could remember – but certainly not by the grace of Monica. She couldn’t understand why she had been invited at all, in fact. Once Monica had come on the scene Raymond had lost all interest in his daughter, which must have been his new wife’s doing, so why had Monica suddenly decided she wanted the company of a former stepdaughter she had never shown the slightest interest in up to now? In the days leading up to her departure from England, Stella had thought of many things she wanted to say to Monica about her deep-seated feelings of hurt and rejection, but in the end she’d swallowed them. What was the use? Stella had adored her father, but he’d been a busy man with an important job dealing in valuable works of art, and even in the years when she’d had him to herself she’d seen him very little. Any time they’d had together had been in the form of minutes and hours snatched from his other duties; occasional days out; the odd weekend at Easter or over Christmas. He’d done his best, but he’d never really had time for a daughter, as much as it hurt to admit it.
Stella didn’t remember much about her mother; she’d died when Stella was quite small, and had almost immediately been forgotten by everyone, it seemed. Stella had spent her early years with a succession of governesses and companions, and as soon as she was old enough she’d been sent to school, and had seen her father only during the holidays – and sometimes not even then. Then had come Monica, who wasn’t interested in sharing Raymond with anyone else, and so Stella had seen him even less than before. After he died, Stella had had to shed her tears in private, because nobody was interested in the feelings of his discarded daughter, who, with his death, had become nothing more than an administrative burden. Now, a year later, Monica wanted Stella to come and stay for some reason, so here she was, travelling through Italy under the watchful eye of Mrs Unsworth.
But whatever other feelings Stella might be struggling with, the foremost one at present was undoubtedly excitement. She could hardly get enough of the view through the train window, as one tantalising glimpse of scenery was rapidly replaced by another in their journey towards their destination. They had now left the mountains behind and had come out onto another flat plain. The next station was Prato, Mr Falconetti informed them. He went off to speak to the conductor about something, and Mrs Unsworth stopped fussing with her handbag and looked out of the window.
‘I don’t think we visited Prato last time I was here,’ she said. ‘What does Baedeker say? I don’t suppose there’s as much to see as there is in Florence and Siena.’
Stella frowned over the guide.
‘They have many early Renaissance works of art,’ she said. ‘And the cathedral is in the Tuscan-Romanesque style.’
She would have read on, but it was obvious that Mrs Unsworth was already thinking about something else.
‘Are you quite sure your stepmother knows what time you’re arriving?’ she said. ‘Perhaps we had better ask Mr Falconetti where we can find a taxi, just in case.’
‘I’m sure she hasn’t forgotten. And besides, even if she has I’m sure we can find our own taxi without bothering Mr Falconetti.’
‘Oh, but after what he said about the Florentines! One doesn’t wish to be overcharged, even if things are so very much cheaper over here.’
‘Shall you stay in Italy, do you think?’ asked Stella. Mrs Unsworth was a widow whose means had become gradually straitened year by year since her husband’s death, and she had been lured out to Italy by her sister with promises of sunshine, a simple life, and a much lower cost of living.
‘My dear, I don’t know. It’s a big change, of course, but Dorothea is quite longing for company, she says, and you know she can’t go back to England, as the damp would kill her. I’ve told her I shall give it a month or two, and then we’ll see. Perhaps one could spend part of the year here and part of the year in London.’
Stella couldn’t think of dull, grey London just at present – not with all these new things to look at. A little thrill went through her at the thought that here she was, in Italy, away from England and the constant talk of war. In this bright, sunny corner of the world how could anything so ugly as war intrude? Stella wanted to explore. She wanted to wander through the streets, haggle with stallholders, absorb the cool atmosphere of the churches, marvel at rich, golden altarpieces, and bask in the glorious sunshine of this country she’d heard so much about, but up until now only seen in pictures.
Just then the guard came to inform the ladies that they would shortly arrive at Florence Santa Maria Novella, and Mrs Unsworth was galvanised into a state of bustle, while Stella, her heart beating, gathered her few belongings together and waited quietly. The train inched into the station and at last they were on the platform and looking about for the exit. They procured a porter immediately and came out of the station into a wide, open piazza that was busy with people and cars and trams and horses and bicycles. It was three o’clock and the sun was still high, and Stella blinked at the brightness. The air felt warm and damp; the presence of one or two puddles indicated that it must have rained an hour or two earlier, but the sky was clear now, a brilliant blue glaring down on the red roof of the building opposite. The place smelled of warm cobbles and dirt and engine fumes. The sound of voices mixed with church bells in the distance, striking the hour, and as if in answer the bells of the church opposite the station began to ring too. So this was Florence. Everything was life and motion, and Stella stood very still, trying to take it all in at once and fix the scene in her memory.
Mrs Unsworth was fussing with the baggage and keeping an eye out for thieves, who, she was convinced, were waiting to pounce as soon as she let down her guard.
‘Which is our car, do you suppose?’ she asked, although Stella didn’t hear her, as she was gazing at the church opposite, in brown stone with a tall tower. It must be the Basilica of Santa Maria Novella. What had the guidebook said about that?
A man approached them. He was wearing a chauffeur’s jacket and cap, but they bristled uncomfortably on him as though he’d put them on just for the occasion. He was in his sixties, perhaps, short and strongly built, with a receding hairline, a grey moustache, and eyes that peered out from an overhanging brow.
‘Villa Bruni?’ he said hesitantly. ‘Miss Cockburn?’
‘Yes,’ said Stella.
He smiled, and his face was transformed.
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