Page 49 of Hell to Pay
And full—so very full—of joy.
23
MARGUERITE IN DISGUISE
After fifteen minutes more of my personal organ recital, Dr. Eltschig came to sit beside me and said, “The board and I believe that we should obtain legal advice before attempting to retrieve the tiara. This is for your protection as well as ours. Neither of us would wish for any cloud over the ownership of such a valuable and historic piece.”
Alix said, “You’re kidding.”
Dr. Eltschig looked at her calmly. “The value of the tiara alone,” he said, “based on an analysis of the photos,ifits provenance can indeed be traced back to Bonaparte, will likely be a million Euros at the least. I won’t know for sure until it’s appraised, but I assume that our attorney will advise us to hold it in a sort of …” He stopped, apparently searching for the word.
“Escrow,” I said.
“Yes,” he said. “To hold it in escrow, where we cannot sell or display it while its ownership is being legally established. Until we have an agreement on that score, I wouldn’t wish to take ownership of it.”
“Are you really expecting to have that little self-control?”Alix asked. “That you’d see it, grab it, yell ‘Yippee!’, and hoard it like a dragon? I know antiquities people are a little nuts about this stuff, but seriously?”
“No,” he said, not rising to the bait. “I believe I can trust myself. But consider this: what if I’m ousted from my position, or perhaps struck by one of our estimable and very heavy trams, and am replaced by another who feels I’ve been too trusting in this matter, too swayed by a good story, or just that the tiara rightfully belongs to the state? I sincerely believe, Princess Marguerite, that neither of us wants any sort of legal battle, or indeed anything but the most just outcome, but that’s not necessarily in our control. If things always went according to plan and all people were reasonable and honest, nobody would need lawyers. Sadly, however, this is the real world, and I believe we must be businesslike.”
I don’t want to admit how tired I got walking the short distance back to the hotel. A wheelchair had been offered, but that was succumbing to weakness. I was fatigued, that’s all, and I’d been fatigued before. All the same, the last twenty yards to the hotel’s doors were an effort.
At the elevator, Ashleigh said, “So do I get to have dinner with you guys and hear more of the story? Please say yes. Pretty please?”
“Not tonight,” I said. “I’ll dine in my room tonight.”
Alix said, “I knew it. You got too?—”
I stared at her—how useful the cobra stare can be—and she put up her hands and said, “I’m not saying it.”
“Good,” I said. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning for breakfast. Tomorrow, I believe we should focus on finding that provenance expert, and also a lawyer.”
Alix said, “Dr. Eltschig should be able to recommend one.”
“Never allow your attorney to be selected by the other side,” I said. “A lesson I learned over many decades in real estate. No, I’ll ask the concierge for a few recommendations, speak to the candidates by telephone, and choose one. It’ll be a simple matter of reading over a contract and looking for any problematic clauses. The lawyer will be the easy part.”
“Geez,” Ben said. “Are we ever going to get the tiara back?”
“Oh, yes,” I said. “I believe we are.”
“Why?” Ben demanded. “How?”
I smiled. “Because Dr. Eltschig didn’t call me ‘Frau Stark’ this time. Didn’t you notice? He called me ‘Princess Marguerite.’”
Back in my bedroom, I slowly removed my clothing—how difficult the simple act of taking off and hanging up a pair of trousers can seem when one is very tired!—took a shower, and slipped into my silk pajamas and slippers with a sigh of relief. Really, the best pleasures are the simple ones. Then I ordered myself the sameAbendessenSebastian had procured for me. Bread and cheese, pickles and ham, and, of course, tea. All of which is as comforting and satisfying to a princess as to a ploughman. All of which I’d longed for so many times, back in 1945.
Then I opened the bedside table and pulled out my diary.
14 February 1945
I’m writing this while Dr. Becker prepares his children to leave our cellar. Andrea is now wearing my hideous BDM uniform—dark blue skirt, white blouse, black neckerchief, and woolen stockings—although we can’t exchange shoes. Her feet are bigger than mine! That made us both smile a little.
The clothing exchange was my idea, and I’m rather proud of it. Isthere anything more Aryan, after all, than the Band of German Maidens, to which no Jew could possibly belong? I’m happy to think that I’ll never have to wear that uniform again, so that’s another benefit. I’m now wearing Andrea’s blue cotton dress, which is shabbier and plainer than anything I own and slightly too small, as if I’ve grown out of it. A much better disguise.
Right. Iwillwrite about what happened. I need to be very clear-eyed from this point on, very practical, and that starts with not turning my eyes away.
Going through the pockets and possessions of my parents, of the servants, who’d always been so kind to me, was difficult. Very difficult, but Dr. Becker, after taking my father’s shoes, said, “I can’t disturb their belongings more than this. It isn’t right.” He was, at the time, forcing his own shoes onto Father’s feet, “so I’m merely exchanging, not stealing.” The lower part of Father’s body still held some flexibility, while the upper part was frozen and stiff. “Rigor mortis setting in,” Dr. Becker explained. He didn’t seem bothered by handling the body, but I suppose he’s had practice. For me, it was … I can’t say what it was. They were my parents, and yet they weren’t. I see now why religion teaches us that we have a soul, for that was what was missing. The things that had made Father Father and Mother Mother were gone.
I did my part as quickly as I could, even as I tried to think rationally about what we needed most and could carry with us. Father had given me all his money, but Mother and Frau Schultz still had some in their purses for the shopping, and I took it, feeling like a thief and murmuring, “Sorry,” even though I knew there was nobody to hear it. I took their ration books, too, for the coupons. More importantly, I took Herr Kolbe’s Kennkarte,his identity document, and gave it to Dr. Becker. Herr Kolbe won’t be needing it, after all. “His photolooks similar enough to you to pass,” I said. “But I think you should keep the real one, too. If we reach the Americans, you may need it.”
