The Forger of Marseille: A Novel

Part 1

Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.

—GEORGE SANTAYANA

The Reich

Berlin, 1938

Red and black swastika flags crack in the wind like gunshots. Fascists on streetcorners bark the glory of the Reich while the Schutzstaffel (SS) strut in black death’s head caps and knee-high boots. Hitler Youth sport knives at their belts and harass Jews on the streets.

At any moment, the Gestapo could knock on the door.

The sun was low as Sarah rushed out of the store where she’d managed to buy a small piece of cheese and a potato for dinner. It would be a long walk home, but since the enactment of the Blood Laws, buses in Berlin were no longer safe. She’d just rounded a corner near the café where she and her mother used to enjoy hot chocolate on Sundays. Now a sign on the wall announced No Jews allowed .

She felt their eyes on her. The Hitler Youth. Boys who played war games, wearing uniforms that imitated the Sturmabteilung (SA), the thugs of the Reich. Now nineteen, she sometimes marveled that for so many years she’d avoided being the focus of their menacing attention. But on this day they surrounded her like wolves on a hunt, growling from deep in their throats.

Ah, young lady, you got something for us in the bag? How about underneath your coat?

They pushed her into an alley, then shoved her against a brick wall where they took turns grabbing and groping. Sarah pushed blindly at hands and arms, her cries of "No! Stop!" muffled by the leader’s mouth pressed hard against hers as he thrust his hand up her dress. She struggled as he slid his rough fingers along the bare skin of her thigh.

A harsh male voice sliced the air. "You! Get away—leave her alone!" And as suddenly as it had started, the pack of young Nazis scrambled off, leaving her stunned and her clothes in disarray. Who had stopped them?

She smoothed her dress and wiped tears from her cheeks. When she felt she’d pulled herself together, she looked up and met the piercing eyes of a handsome young man in a Nazi uniform. Unlike the idealized Nazi with blond hair, his hair was black and his eyes were dark as a moonless night.

It’s all right, Miss. They’re gone.

She tried to fix her mussed hair, not sure what to do next.

I’m sorry for your troubles, he said, sounding genuinely regretful.

Sarah wanted desperately to run home, but she knew that this man was expecting gratitude. Trying to control the tremble in her voice, she looked up and said, You are so kind. I don’t know what might have happened if . . . then her voice trailed off. What did he want?

His lips formed a smile, but his eyes were lifeless. He pressed a hand against her back and said, I’m Captain Schmidt, and now you are safe. Come, please. Let me get you a drink. I’m sure you could use something after such a terrible ordeal. He gestured to the café across from the alley.

Sarah’s heart raced, and she took quick, shallow breaths, hoping to conceal her fear. I must hurry home, she said. I’m late, and my mother is expecting me.

He grasped her elbow and began to push her along the alley toward the street as if she hadn’t said a word in protest. We won’t be long. Let’s relax. Get to know each other.

His words sent a chill down her body, and her heart thumped at the sight of the café’s No Jews allowed sign. He didn’t care that she was Jewish? Or he didn’t know?

Once inside, he gestured to the host, commanding a table in the corner, then pulled out a chair for her and murmured, A fine young woman like you needs protection.

She would be polite. She would drink quickly, then insist that she must go home.

He ordered hot chocolate and sponge cake. She tasted the hot chocolate and nibbled at the cake, playing her part, smiling and nodding at his small talk about the neighborhood and how the great Reich was going to create an even better Berlin. She sipped the last of the hot chocolate, stood up, curtsied, and thanked him politely as she turned toward the door.

He grabbed her hand. Why leave so soon? he said, brushing a curly strand of hair from her forehead. We’re only beginning to become familiar.

Her muscles tensed, and she suppressed a gasp at the idea that he felt free to say such things and to touch her. This was the kind of man who did as he pleased. She tried to show no fear as she let go of his hand and smoothed the section of hair he’d touched. I must help my mother. She’s ill. It’s pneumonia. She moved a few inches away, but he’d boxed her in.

Your father can care for her. His face was so close she could see the pores of the evening beard that darkened his face, and his breath was heavy with tobacco. She turned away, but still he was so close.

My father is no longer with us. She prayed he wouldn’t ask questions.

Ahh, he said with a sneering smile, all the more reason I must keep a close eye on you. We shall visit the museums, you and I. We will . . .

. . . My mother—please, she needs me. Sweat ran down her ribs. It was disgusting, his offer. Art with a Nazi?

His smile disappeared, and his cold eyes seemed to look right through her. He snatched her purse from the table, yanked out her identity papers and studied them. She held her breath.

"Ah, who have we here? Sarah Rosen."

What did he have in mind now? Maybe she could disarm him with charm. Flashing a smile that she hoped didn’t look forced, she asked, Are you surprised?

He looked her up and down. I didn’t guess, but I suppose I should have. The Hitler Youth seem to know who the Jews are, don’t they? He shook his head and grinned, as if proud of the young thugs for their powers of detection.

Sarah’s heart was beating fast as she said, I’m here with you in a café that doesn’t accept Jews. What will happen to us?

"Us, you say? He closed the identity papers and clenched them in one hand. Yes, you’re illegally here with me, but don’t worry, we can work something out. So ‘Sarah’ is your given name?"

Yes, she replied quietly. She felt sorry—even a bit guilty—that Jewish women not named Sarah were forced by law to add Sara to their documents.

He smiled, this time in a way that made her shiver. An oily smile that brought a glint to his eye. "Please call me Kurt. About your identity documents—you’re in luck to have just met me. Tomorrow, yes, it happens to be tomorrow that all Jews will have a red J stamped on their identity papers and passports. But you won’t have to worry. He paused to look at her again and reached for her hand. What shall we do about this, Sarah? Perhaps I could help you, if you let me."

Sarah guessed the cost of this help. She lifted her head and smiled. She’d play along—what choice did she have? Kurt, she said softly, practically wincing as she said his name, you make me wonder what exactly you’re suggesting.

He stood up. I’m so pleased that you’re in agreement. I’ll see what I can do. We can meet tomorrow and discuss all this. Better yet, I’ll send a car to your home, he said, opening her identity card and checking her address. I can give your mother assurances that you will be well taken care of.

Sarah felt a surge of dread that now he knew where she lived, but she smiled and said, All right. I’d be happy if I could go home, please. I really am late, and my mother will be worried.

She stood up abruptly and scooted away from the table. Then she stopped and turned to him. I’ll need my papers.

Kurt pursed his lips, no doubt working out what course of action would get him what he wanted. He handed her the papers, and in that moment Sarah decided she’d try to pacify him with feigned interest and figure the rest out later.

His driver was waiting by the car, a tall, uniformed man wearing a cap. He nodded at her and bowed slightly as he greeted the officer. Was that a smile on his face?

They settled in the back seat of the shiny black sedan, and right away it began—his hands, his lips, his indecent whispers in her ear. She held back as much as she could, hate sizzling in her chest as she allowed him to busy himself kissing her cheek and her neck. And then slowly, her lips.

Then she felt something alarming. She’d never been kissed like that, and against her will, her body began to respond in a way she didn’t understand. She felt a warm sensation rise from her legs to her stomach, which made her lean toward him and kiss him deeply. Then her mind called her back, What are you doing? as her body trembled in response to his searching lips. This was so very wrong. She felt hot—was it shame? She got hold of herself and pulled away from him. What was happening? She’d never been kissed, not in the passionate way a man kisses a woman, and now she felt that something had been unleashed inside her.

Pretending to cough, she opened her purse to find her handkerchief, then blew her nose, trying to draw out the acts of dabbing her nose and smoothing her hair. She didn’t want his lips on her again. Her own body had betrayed her.

He leaned back in the seat, smiling. "My, you’re a live one, aren’t you? I can see we’re going to have a very good time. Let’s say I’ll come by tomorrow at seven in the evening. You can tell your mother to prepare to meet your new friend."

The car pulled up in front of her apartment. Sarah could feel her face burning from shame and confusion, and she said a fast goodbye, then tripped as she ran up the stairs. She pressed herself against the wall of the building as she watched the car pull away, disgusted and shocked. Disgusted with him, disgusted with herself. She would never speak of what happened—not fully—but she had to tell her mother something.

Sarah held onto her composure until she was inside her home with the door closed. Then came the explosion of tears. Through a flood of anguish, she dashed into the living room. "Mama! Help me! Please! Mama!" She collapsed on the sofa, her face buried in her hands as she cried.

Her mother sprinted down the stairs and threw her arms around her sobbing daughter. Sarah! What is it? Tell me what happened! Are you hurt?

Sarah sat enveloped in her mother’s arms and cried deep wails that stole her breath. Then she grew quiet, pulled away, and looked into her mother’s terrified eyes. In between gulps of breath she said, Mama, I was attacked . . . I was . . . they, the Hitler Youth. They . . . pushed me into an alley and . . . and . . . they touched me.

Oh no! Are you all right?

I’m . . . not hurt. I’m fine. But there’s more. She could see in her mother’s eyes a tortured combination of fear and confusion, so she let her story tumble out in a frenetic ramble. A Nazi officer stopped them—he drove those horrible boys out of the alley but then he made me have coffee with him, and he grabbed my papers and saw that I’m Jewish. When he drove me home, he started kissing and grabbing me and said that he’ll be back tomorrow night so we can get to know each other much better. When she pictured herself kissing the Nazi and remembered the surge she’d felt in her body, she began to cry again.

Her mother took Sarah’s hand in hers and said, Sarah, all that matters now is that you’re not hurt. Mr. Lieb—he’ll know what to do.

But I can’t tell him about this—it would be so humiliating.

He’s loved you all your life, Sarah. Nothing could ever make him ashamed of you. But we don’t need to tell him all the details. We need to act quickly now—already he and I have been making some plans. We just hadn’t completed all the details.

A plan? What kind of . . .

"We’ll explain everything. You must be strong. Call Mr. Lieb—right now. You need to tell him about the Nazi—that he’s coming back. Be as honest as you can, and then I’ll speak to him. Right now I must find some papers and our hidden money. Hurry, Sarah!"

As her mother dashed off to another room, Sarah wiped her eyes and caught her breath. And as she picked up the phone, she knew in her bones that from that moment on her life would never be the same.

Dread

On the other side of the city, Joshua Lieb stood in his studio and stared into the German officer’s icy eyes. Today he would not look down, he would not look away. Today he stood firm and tall, as if bolstered by the bone and muscle of his ancestors.

The two men stood in the middle of Joshua’s studio, a small space overcrowded with the materials of a master luthier. On every surface, every shelf, every inch of wall space were violins, violas, and cellos in various stages of creation—some with open bellies, some with unfinished fingerboards and scrolls.

The stripes and medals on Werner’s uniform were dull in the dark room, but his eyes were a piercing blue. You know that your business can be seized, he said. Tonight, if I wish.

Joshua didn’t know why this time he chose not to cooperate with Werner. Several times before, he’d sold his handcrafted violins—priceless violins—to this sneering German for not even a quarter of their value. But suddenly, it all felt like a knife in his backbone, the idea of Nazis getting his instruments for almost nothing. He knew it was extremely dangerous to try to negotiate with Werner, but still he looked the man in the eye. Your offer is not enough. These instruments are worth four times your sum. You know this.

As he spoke, he wondered where his bravado had come from. This man had been shortchanging him for months, and Joshua had acquiesced each time, but today something had snapped. The idea of Nazis owning, even touching the extraordinary instruments he crafted was demeaning and painful, but he was also being cheated, cheated by thieving members of the Reich.

"You try to change terms now, when I’m expecting ten violins, tonight? Werner bellowed. Or do you have a sudden taste for hard labor? Then he went quiet and narrowed his eyes. He gestured to the luthier’s hands. Dachau would ruin a man like you. You think you would ever play the violin again?"

Joshua tried not to react, but the threat was chilling. He was a Jew in Hitler’s Germany. This man was an officer in Hitler’s army. An officer, an Aryan involved in commerce with a Jew, which happened to be against the law.

Werner leaned in close and almost whispered, You seem to forget who you are, Herr Lieb. Perhaps your business could disappear tonight?

Joshua was sure that standing so close Werner could hear the thundering of his heart, so he looked away from the man and tried to focus on the tools and instruments hanging on the walls of his studio. The aroma of linseed oil and raw wood in the room helped to calm him. Then he took a step backward. All right, he said as calmly as he could, you will have your violins tonight, those that are ready. There are two that need more work. They will be ready tomorrow night. They need another coat of varnish to shine like gold. Joshua was making things up as he went, hoping to buy time.

Werner rubbed his hands together gleefully. The lorry is waiting.

Joshua tried to steel his fury as he gathered up the violins and gently set them in their cases, bidding them a silent farewell before laying them carefully on blankets in the lorry.

The sun had set as Werner slowly peeled away the bills for the violins. Tomorrow night. Be here—or . . . Werner grinned and tilted his head as if he’d interrupted himself mid-thought. I must say, Lieb, for a Jew you’re decent, an honest man. But you walk a thin line here in the Reich. It will pay to have a friend like me as things are changing here. We have a fine friendship, yes? He didn’t wait for an answer but headed to his black Mercedes Benz, then turned to face Joshua. But if you cross me again . . . He dragged his finger across his throat.

Joshua Lieb stood and watched the car go, his legs shaking. Then from inside his studio he heard the telephone ring. He gathered himself, rushed inside, and picked up the phone with a trembling hand. For a few seconds he listened to the breathless voice on the other end, then interrupted, "Sarah? Are you all right? Sarah, slow down. Tell me what happened . . ."

In a tiny studio hidden high in an attic on a back street in Berlin, the forger adjusts his lamps to shine light directly on the documents. He’ll work through the night on these papers—the situation is urgent. More and more such urgencies have crossed his table in recent weeks as so many people are rushing to leave.

His colored inks, along with an array of pens, official stamps, and brushes are lined up neatly across his desk. He peers through the magnifying glass at the clerk’s signatures on the original documents—he must replicate them with complete precision and accuracy. He must also choose new names for these people. Joshua will be first to change—the name is too Jewish. Lieb is a solid German name—that can remain. Joshua will now be Josef Lieb. Same initials, this should be a help to him. Sarah Rosen—she will need an entirely new name. Rosemarie—that name would allow her to keep some of her original identity. Rosemarie Bern—perhaps as Rosemarie, she can distract officials with talk of her English origins.

Erasing old documents and filling in new information is easy enough for a chemist who has formulas, but the signatures require the skill of an artist. The forger’s work is the most dangerous underground activity in Hitler’s Germany. If he were to be found out, he’d be lucky to end up in a camp. They might just shoot him on the spot.

His name is passed around in the shadows and back alleys through word of mouth. He knows it can be only a matter of time until it’s passed to the Gestapo. Still, he works through the night, almost every night now. He wipes the sweat on his brow with an ink-stained handkerchief.

He fills in the documents and affixes the photos. Next, he alters the name on the letter that will admit this new Rosemarie to art school in Paris. He fills out everything carefully, then picks up his magnifying glass and checks his work again and again, then drops the papers on the floor and scuffs them. He looks one more time at his work and then rests the documents on the top of the most urgent stack.

He takes a long breath, sits back, and observes the tower of papers on his worktable. The documents of escape, the documents of hope. Documents that will be examined, scrutinized. Even seized. The horrors to follow such a seizure, he would not witness, but the images that blaze through his mind make him shudder.

Escape

Joshua Lieb jumped at the sound of the knock. He cracked open the door and took the package, keeping his eyes averted as he placed the envelope of cash in the open hand. It was his savings, nearly everything he had. He closed the door and turned back to packing his small satchel. A few pieces of clothing and his carefully wrapped violins. The small picture of his dear wife Lili and the cross she wore around her neck. Then he thought about how dangerous it was to try to smuggle the two instruments out of the country, even though he would be posing as an Aryan—a masquerade he hoped his blue eyes would make plausible. He scurried into his kitchen and returned with several lumps of pungent limburger cheese, which he tucked around the clothing that surrounded his violins. Then he closed his satchel and hoped.

At eight the next morning, blouses, skirts, and sweaters were strewn all over their bedrooms as Sarah and her mother packed, unpacked, and repacked their suitcases. Eva tenderly folded Sarah’s favorite sweater in tissue paper and tucked it into her suitcase along with two skirts and a pair of shoes. This is all we can fit in one suitcase. But you’ll be able to shop for Paris fashions!

Sarah knew that Eva was trying to be brave, to redefine this departure as the start of an adventure, but Sarah’s heart ached. Within the hour, she and Mr. Lieb would leave for Paris, but her mother wouldn’t be going with them, and this reality was grueling for her. She and her mother had clung to each other since the death of Sarah’s father when Sarah was just eight years old, and Mr. Lieb had been like a father to her through the years.

Eva promised that she too would leave Berlin before the morning was over. She would go to the home of her elderly parents, Sarah’s Oma and Opa, who lived just outside of Berlin. She promised she’d stay there.

Sarah sorted through the rings and other jewelry treasures laid out on her dressing table, then chose a necklace her grandmother had given her when she was ten years old to celebrate Sarah’s first art exhibit. It was a lovely gold heart pendant that had been handed down to her grandmother from Sarah’s great-grandmother. She put the necklace on, clasped it, then tucked it under her blouse. Scarcely twelve hours after the attack in the alley, Sarah was operating automatically, as if in a trance. It was all too much, so she was trying to pretend that none of it was really happening, as if this was all just an exercise in theater.

Sarah looked into her mother’s dark eyes. Promise you’re going to Oma and Opa’s house as soon as we leave, that you won’t wait, not even a few hours. Promise you’ll be out of here by late morning? Please, I need you to swear you’ll do this. Her own words surprised her. Pressing her mother to make promises?

Eva pulled her daughter into her arms. I will be gone by late morning, I promise on my life. Now I don’t want you to . . .

A loud knock at the door made them both jump. Sarah’s heart quickened as she heard a key turn in the lock on the front door.

Mr. Lieb burst breathlessly into the house. I’m so sorry to barge in. I hate to interrupt your goodbyes, but we must go—now. He opened his satchel. I have everything we need. He pulled out the papers and showed them to Sarah. From now on, he said, you are Rosemarie Bern.

She stared at him. What? Rosemarie? Bern?

Joshua said, Rosemarie has a hint of English. It’s a good name.

Eva said brightly, Rosemarie? Lovely name. Back in school, my dearest friend was an English girl named Rosemarie. This is a positive omen, my dear. My sweet Rosemarie.

The sound of her mother calling her this strange new name caused Sarah’s heart to wrench.

Mr. Lieb tucked the new papers back into his satchel.

Eva faced her daughter and rested a hand on each of Sarah’s shoulders. My beautiful Sarah, she said, and the words caused their tears to flow again, "only nineteen. So talented. Go and become the artist you’ve dreamed of becoming. You’ll stay with the Rosenbergs, a lovely family, an established family. Don’t worry about me—I’ll be fine. I’ll write to you at the Rosenbergs’, and you’ll write to tell me all your wonderful stories, ma belle fille."

Sarah couldn’t bear it. She could barely speak as she threw her arms around her mother. Then she stood back for a long look at her mother’s face, taking a memory photograph to cherish.

Eva and Mr. Lieb embraced, made many promises to write, and reminded each other to be careful.

The wipers of the waiting taxi flapped back and forth in the autumn rain. Sarah followed closely behind Mr. Lieb as he dashed to the car and loaded her suitcase next to his. Then they slid into the back seat, and the car pulled away from the curb. She looked back at her mother, standing up straight as she waved, a bright smile fixed on her face. As Eva became a smaller and smaller image in the distance, Sarah strained to keep her mother in view, to hold onto every last glimpse of her. Then the car turned a corner, and she was gone.

Through the rain-spattered car windows, Sarah watched her childhood go by—the park she’d played in but was no longer allowed to stroll, its lush tree branches now spidery and bare of their leaves. The café where she and her mother had spent countless wonderful afternoons but were no longer allowed to frequent. The art school she’d been turned away from. All of it disappearing behind her.

She blew her nose and noticed that the taxi smelled of wet wool and Mr. Lieb’s tobacco. The familiar scent of him comforted her as she took deep breaths and willed herself not to cry. They were headed for the station, and she would do her best to look like a respectable young lady on her way to France.

Mr. Lieb turned to face her, making sure the driver couldn’t see as he slipped the papers along the back seat beneath his long wool scarf. Practice, he said and pointed to her new name. Rosemarie Bern. He slipped open his own documents and silently mouthed Josef Lieb, Josef Lieb, Josef Lieb.

Announcements blared over the loudspeaker—train numbers and destinations, track numbers, the names of people being summoned to the main desk. Sarah tried to stay calm through the cacophony, but her nerves were seared by the sight of the menacing SS in their black uniforms and death’s head caps and the Gestapo whose eyes always looked like daggers. The power these men held over everyone drove fear into the hearts of both the innocent and the guilty. Uniformed men swarmed all levels of the station. The travelers appeared pale—how many were Jews trying to escape? How many were ordinary Germans simply traveling? Sarah tried to steady her shaking hands as she clenched her papers and repeated to herself, Rosemarie, Rosemarie, Rosemarie.

Mr. Lieb glanced at her, his blue eyes soft with concern. Oh, the risks he must have taken to ensure her safety, to whisk her into a new life in France. Maybe someday he’d tell her how he happened to know a forger in Berlin, how he managed to secure train tickets to Paris.

Her legs trembled under her coat as she approached the steely-eyed officials. At the front