The Time Between

by Karen White

  His gaze flickered above my head, as if he were trying to see into the hall behind me. I took a step forward, bringing the door with me as I wondered why I was trying to protect Helena. And from what.

  “I’ll do that,” I said. “Have a good day.” I stayed where I was until he was safely inside his car and backing out of the driveway. Then I moved back into the foyer and closed the door, my head down as I read the business card.

  Jacob B. Isaacson

  Isaacson & Sons

  European Fine Art, Antiques

  “Who was that?”

  Helena’s voice startled me enough that I dropped the card. We both watched as it slid beneath the hall chest, out of sight.

  “Leave it,” she said, gripping the head of her cane tightly as she turned toward the music room.

  “But you don’t know who it was—”

  “It is that man who is wanting to see my paintings. I am not interested. It is because of people like him that I have an unlisted number.”

  “He said Bernadett called him—that’s why he was here.”

  She didn’t stop her slow progress across the hall. “And Bernadett is dead, so there is no reason for him to return.”

  Confused and not a little annoyed, I followed her. “Don’t you think you should see him? You don’t even know what he wants. What if he’s the man Bernadett wanted Finn to meet?” I rushed so that I stood in front of her, blocking her way into the music room. “I can have Finn call him to see—”

  “No.” She didn’t shout the word, but she didn’t need to. She stopped, and I could hear her rapid breathing.

  I put my hand on her elbow. “Are you okay?”

  She shook her head, as if speaking would be too much effort. After a moment, she raised her eyes to meet mine. “I want you to play for me.”

  I allowed my hand to fall from her arm as she moved into the room and settled herself onto the love seat. With a voice that shook only a little, she said, “Today is Bernadett’s birthday. I would like you to play Brahms. He was her favorite.”

  “The waltzes?”

  “I suppose. I would suggest his Hungarian dances, but they might prove to be too difficult for you. The waltzes are overdone, but Bernadett loved them. To play and to listen. And to dance. She loved to dance. She was so light on her feet and so tiny. Bernadett never lacked for partners when we would go to dances.” She stared wistfully out the window, seeing a world that I could not. “Magda and I would tease her that the reason she liked to waltz was so everybody could see her dress and the way the skirt would twirl with her.” She smiled at a memory, for a brief moment transforming her face into that of a beautiful young woman.

  I could not see the Bernadett that Helena was talking about. All I could see was the sparse room and the handful of hanging clothes and two pairs of shoes in the armoire.

  “All right,” I said, moving to the stacks of music lining the room. There were fewer piles now, as I’d managed to place quite a few in the pink binders.

  “I’m going to put all the waltzes in the same notebook so that they’re easier to find instead of organizing them by composer. I’ve got them all stacked somewhere—”

  “You did not ask me if that is how I would like you to do it,” Helena interjected.

  “No, I didn’t. But you also didn’t tell me how you would like to organize them, either. I figured I couldn’t wait for the small window of opportunity when you’re awake to find out how you’d like it done. After you fire me, you can redo it all.”

  I didn’t look up from my perusal of the piles, as I could well imagine her tightened lips and wobbling chin as she decided whether to laugh or put me in my place.

  “That could be a problem. I do not believe that Finn would allow me to fire you now.”

  I straightened, holding up the small coverless book of Brahms waltzes, pretending I hadn’t heard her. “Opus thirty-nine. Any particular one you would like to hear?”

  “Number four in E minor. It was Bernadett’s favorite of all the waltzes. She had a heavy touch on the keyboard, which made that particular one more fun to play but more difficult to listen to.

  “And pretending that something is not there will not make it go away, Eleanor. My eyesight is bad, but I am not blind.”

  I knew she was no longer talking about the music.

  I sat down on the piano bench, taking my time adjusting it so my back could remain turned toward Helena. “If you’d like me to make an appointment to have your eyes examined, please let me know. And remind me not to get any more romance novels for you at the library.”

  “You’re worried about your brother-in-law and your feelings for him. Have you ever considered that the reason why you remain infatuated is because it is safer for you? There is no risk in wanting something you can never have.”

  I stilled, clutching the music book and staring at the keyboard, the black and white keys blurring together as I struggled to keep my anger in check. “And you know so much about these things because you’re ninety years old and have never been married.”

  I heard her sharp intake of breath and used her silence to place the Brahms book up on the music stand.

  “I was in love once.”

  I turned around slowly to face her. “Yes. You told me.”

  “He was the love of my life, and I remember how it was when he looked at me and how I felt when I looked at him. It is something that is hard to forget.”

  “But you never married. So what happened?”

  Her gaze remained steady. “He never came back for me after the war.”

  I didn’t say that I was sorry, couldn’t say it. Not because I wasn’t—I was. But because no words could soften the raw grief I heard in the old woman’s voice. Saying that I was sorry would be like trying to stop an incoming wave with my hand.

  “Play,” she commanded. “Number four.”

  Turning back around to face the music stand, I reached up and opened the book, the pages opening easily to waltz number four. As I spread the pages wide, a small photograph that had been stuck inside the binding fell from its spot and fluttered into my lap.

  I picked it up and studied it, recognizing a young, blond Bernadett in the photo but not the serious dark-haired man beside her. They were in what appeared to be an outdoor café, sitting close to each other. She was smiling broadly and leaning toward him, her blond hair spilling onto his dark shirt, her hand resting possessively on his arm.

  Despite his smile, the man regarded the photographer with serious dark eyes, his black hair and mustache making him appear very Hemingway-esque. He was attractive in a way that intelligent men often are, with an air of knowledge and self-possession about them. Like Finn. I brushed the thought away and turned back to Helena.

  “This fell from the book. I think the woman is Bernadett—do you know who the man is?”

  I stood and brought the photograph to her and placed it in her open palm.

  She didn’t say anything at first, and then, “This was stuck in the music?”

  “Yes. On the same page as the E minor waltz.”

  “Of course,” she said, not bothering to explain to me why that made sense to her.

  “Is that Bernadett?”

  She nodded, her face losing color. “Yes. And that is her Benjamin. Benjamin Lantos.” Her hand began to shake. “He had two left feet and could not dance. But Bernadett loved him anyway. After she met Benjamin, she never even looked at another man.” With a low voice, she added, “I wish she had never met him.”

  “Why?” I asked, startled at her vehemence.

  As if I had not spoken, she said, “When Magda died, her husband gave us all of her old photographs—the ones she brought from Hungary. There were not very many, but they were special to us—like this one. Bernadett always said she would put them in an album for me, but she was always too busy with al
l of her charities. I wonder where the rest of them are.”

  I stared down at the photograph, not willing to meet her eyes. I would have to tell Finn about the basket and the rest of its contents and let him decide what we should do.

  Trying to assuage my guilt, I said, “I can find a frame for it and put it on your nightstand, if you like.”

  “Yes. Thank you. I would like that very much.”

  I left the photograph with her and returned to the piano bench. I picked up the book and shook it to see if anything else fell out of it, then returned it to its perch. I placed my hands on the keyboard as my eyes scanned the music, each note playing in my head. I lifted my foot over the pedal in preparation, then stopped, the thought that had been swirling in my subconscious finally demanding to be brought to the surface.

  Turning around one more time to face her, I said, “The man you said was the love of your life—what was his name?”

  Her eyes softened, again reminding me of the beauty she had once been.

  “His name was Gunter. Gunter Richter.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Helena

  “I will come back for you.”

  The night lit up again as the American bombers swept over the city, bombs and leaflets falling into the Danube and in the streets, the percussion of sound echoing in our ears.

  “Do not leave me, Gunter. I am so afraid.”

  He slipped the small parcel into my hands. “Do not lose this. This is safe passage for you and Bernadett.” He squeezed my hands together over the package and kissed them. “My brave Helena. You can do this. And when it is all over, we will be together again.”

  His eyes reflected the burning fires on the bridges that crossed the river, the smoke and flames reaching up to a heaven that no longer seemed to be watching. “I am afraid,” I said again, no longer wanting to be brave. I was tired of being brave, of pretending that all was fine, tired of the persistent hunger, of the constant vigilance.

  He took my hand and led me back to the farmer’s truck, where Bernadett lay in a feverish sleep. “You are saving her life. Do you understand this? You are doing this for her.”

  “But what about—?”

  He took my head in his hands, his lips brushing mine. “They will be safe. I promise. And when this is over I will come back for you.”

  “Miss Szarka?” Eleanor’s voice broke through my dream.

  I jerked awake to the sound of the Szarka Sisters singing “Time Waits for No One.” The words squeezed my heart, making it hard to breathe, the crackling of the gramophone reminding me too much of that long-ago night when fire and sound erupted in the sky, rending my life forever into two parts—the time before and the time after.

  “Miss Szarka?” she asked again, her hand on my shoulder.

  I blinked up at her. “Turn that off. Magda had a difficult time staying in tune, and it is plainly clear in that song.”

  Eleanor moved to the gramophone and lifted the needle. “I was going to ask if you were okay, but I can see you’re in fighting form.”

  I frowned at her as she sat down again in Bernadett’s chair and picked up the book she’d been reading. It was the book from the library about eighteenth- and nineteenth-century art, one of the books that Bernadett had not wanted me to see. I was about to suggest that Eleanor read to me from one of the novels we had just selected from the library when she looked up.

  “I’m curious about something,” she said.

  “Curiosity . . .”

  “I know. It killed the cat. Finn already pointed that out to me. But it’s my nature to ask questions, and I figure you can always refuse to answer.”

  I sighed to show my disinterest, all the time aware of the book in her lap.

  “You’ve told me a little about your life in Budapest, growing up with your sisters and your mother in a tiny house near the river. My mother—who I told you once helped at one of your Christmas parties—said that when she referred to you and your sisters as just like the Gabors, you got angry. You said something like you and your sisters weren’t raised with a lot of money and worked for a living so you didn’t need to rely on wealthy husbands to save you.”

  “Your mother has a very good memory.”

  “You have no idea.” She rolled her eyes, then looked back at me expectantly.

  “I was a very hard worker. I sang in cafés at night to earn money when our mother got sick and could not bake anymore. Somebody had to support our family. Bernadett was too busy trying to save the world and teaching music to orphaned children for free.” I narrowed my eyes at her. “But you have not asked a question, so I do not know how you want me to answer.”

  “Well, I guess I’m wondering where all of your paintings came from.”

  Breathe in. Breathe out. I focused on the simple function so that I would not pass out again. But perhaps it would have been easier to hold my breath and wait for the darkness to take me.

  “Do I ask you where you buy your unfashionable clothes?”

  “No, but if you did I’d tell you. I’d like to think that we knew each other well enough by now to ask each other questions, as well as be comfortable enough to refuse to answer.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “That man who came today—he told you to ask about my paintings.”

  “No. The only thing he asked me to do was to extend his sympathies regarding Bernadett’s death and to ask you to call him.” She patted the open page in her lap. “I’ve been reading this book and I’ve recognized several of the artists as the artists of a few of the paintings in your house. While you were sleeping, I took the liberty of studying the signatures at the bottom just to make sure.”

  She continued. “I’m not an art expert, but I would think that if one Breitner was sold at auction for over one hundred thousand dollars, the rest of his work would probably be valuable as well.”

  “Most likely,” I said, not willing to give any more away than I had to, but knowing that Eleanor was like a termite, unable to resist until she’d poked a hole into my foundation. “What do you think?”

  “I thought that perhaps you’d inherited the paintings from a relative, or that they were worthless. I know now that they aren’t worthless. Mr. Isaacson mentioned that you’ve sold several through the years that have brought in decent money. So that leaves me with my other theory. That you could have inherited them from a relative.”

  I stared hard at her, willing her to stop now. “Yes,” I said. “They could have been.”

  “I guess I was wondering why you won’t allow Finn to have them appraised. There are such things as hurricanes and house fires.”

  When she realized that I was not planning on saying more, she leaned forward, her elbows pressing into the book. “Why did Bernadett want to keep this book from you? It’s not like there’s any love scenes in it or anything.” She grinned, referring to the spicy romances we had been checking out from the library.

  I did not return her smile. “Perhaps we should get a Ouija board and you can ask her. My sister always thought like a child, never worrying about where the money would come from for food or a new dress. She had a large, compassionate heart, and if she had a meal or a pengö to spend, she would share it with those who had nothing. I loved my sister, but she was not an easy person to live with. So, no, I do not know the reasons why she did the things she did. You will have to ask her directly.”

  We both turned at the sound of car doors slamming outside. Eleanor stood and moved to the window. “Nurse Kester is in the kitchen, so I have no idea . . .” The loud squeal of laughter echoed in the night air. Turning to me, she said, “I didn’t think Finn and Gigi were supposed to be here until tomorrow.”

  I watched as she smoothed down her hair and skirt, the color in her cheeks pinking. “Perhaps Finn could not stay away for another day.”

  The color in her cheeks deepened. Sticking out her chin, she s
aid, “I doubt your company is enough to get him to drive all the way here after dark.”

  “Exactly,” I said, enjoying her flustered look.

  We heard the front door open and then, “Aunt Helena! Ellie! Come quick—you don’t want to miss this!”

  I began the long process of moving myself to the edge of my seat in preparation to stand. Eleanor stood in front of me. “Just give me your hands and I’ll pull. It’ll get you out of your chair ten minutes faster.”

  Not in the mood to argue, because what she said was mostly true, I stretched out my arms and she managed to lift me by my elbows.

  “Hurry!” Gigi called, her voice this time accompanied by running feet followed by her head peeking into the room. “Aren’t you coming?”

  She stopped and watched our slow progress, with me leaning on both my cane and Eleanor’s arm. “You need one of those mini-scooters, Aunt Helena, like you see on TV.”

  I took another step. “I could not do that, darling girl. Because then people would think that I was old.”

  I heard Eleanor snort through her nose at Gigi’s expression, the little girl trying to determine if pointing out the obvious might be rude.

  Gigi began walking backward in front of us, moving her hand like a man guiding an airplane on the runway.

  “Why are we racing through the house at such breakneck speed?” Eleanor asked.

  Oblivious to sarcasm as the young often are, Gigi replied, “It’s Aunt Bernadett’s night-blooming cereus. And if we don’t hurry it’ll be gone.”

  I stumbled with my cane, remembering how adamant Bernadett had been about finding this one species of cereus, the Selenicereus grandiflorus, and waiting all year for it to bloom. I had forgotten it in the months since her death. It usually bloomed in late spring or early summer, and I could not help but wonder if it had waited for me to be ready to see it.

  “Surely it won’t stop blooming in the time it takes us to get there,” Eleanor said.

  Gigi’s eyes widened. “It could. Daddy said so.”

  As if conjured, Finn emerged in the foyer from the front door. “Do you need help?”