The Time Between

by Karen White

  I picked up the two roosters from the dressing table and moved them closer to Helena, where she almost purred with satisfaction at seeing her two treasures again.

  I stared at the broken tail of the orange rooster, my mind’s eye flickering like an old movie, trying to guess the plot before it happened. “Helena, remember how you told Finn and me about how you broke the rooster?”

  “Yes, of course. I was clumsy. I am sure you find that hard to believe.”

  I didn’t rouse to her distractive bait, and for the first time I saw a glint of wariness in her eyes.

  “You said it was the night the Americans bombed Budapest. I read in one of my books that they did it to convince the Hungarian government to stop the deportations of Jews that had started in March.”

  “Yes, but I did not know that then. I was too busy trying to earn money for food for my sister and myself. We tried not to involve ourselves in politics.”

  “You told me before that you sang in cafés to earn money for food. Is that how you met Gunter?”

  A secret smile touched her lips. He was the love of my life. “Yes. The Germans were encamped outside of the city, but when they had leave they would come into Budapest. Gunter came to my café every night he could and sat at one of the front tables. It took him nearly a month before he said anything to me. And then it was only to ask me if I was thirsty. He told me I was too thin and bought me dinner. He would not allow any of the men to say anything he considered too rude. Gunter was only a butcher’s son, but he was a gentleman.”

  I looked into her face, trying to see what I needed to know. “Did it bother you that he was a German soldier?”

  The wariness returned to her eyes. “I did not see him that way. I only saw him as the young man who brought me flowers and spoke to me of the life we would have. The war did not exist for us.”

  “But I imagine it did for Bernadett.” I waited for that to sink in. “Did Bernadett ever join you in singing for the soldiers?”

  Gnarled fingers started picking at her bedclothes. “She was very shy and did not like to perform in front of others. But no, she did not join me. She could not.”

  “Because of Benjamin?”

  Her hands stilled and she sent me an odd smile. “Yes, I suppose you could say that.” She sighed. “They were difficult times for everybody. I did not care who I sang for, or who gave me money. You would understand if you knew what it is to do without, and the things that you would do to be safe, or to have food in your belly. It is a choice we sometimes have to make.”

  I reached over and picked up the broken rooster again. I rubbed my thumb over the rough stub where the tail had once been, wondering what it had been like for her. For Bernadett. To know how fragile life could be. “I’m curious about something.”

  She tilted her head back, narrowing her eyes. “And all of my warnings about the curious cat have not stopped you with your questions.”

  “No. Not yet. My sister, Eve, told me it was one of my good qualities.”

  “And when have you ever listened to your sister?”

  “Not often enough, apparently,” I said, knowing I never would have admitted such a thing to Eve. “And you could always ask me to stop.” I wasn’t sure why I’d said that. Maybe because a part of me didn’t really want to know. Or maybe because I’d always sensed something in Helena, a darkness she tried to hide from the outside world. A darkness she wanted to shed. Maybe it was this last thing that made me ask Helena if she wanted me to stop.

  She didn’t say anything.

  I continued. “I suppose it’s because I’ve been reading all of those history books that I’m so intrigued. Especially since you were there. I have a firsthand witness to what I’m reading about now.”

  “A witness?” Her hands stilled on the bedclothes.

  “Yes. To the bombing and your escape. It couldn’t have been easy to get out of Hungary. It had pulled away from Germany and was looking to ally itself with the Allied forces. So Germany invaded Hungary, and all the countries surrounding it were already under German control. I can’t imagine they would have allowed just anybody to walk across the border.”

  “You have a strange way of asking questions, Eleanor. You say you are curious and are going to ask a question, and then you do not. Instead you tell me things I already know.”

  I pressed my thumb hard against the stubbed tail, hard enough that I broke the skin and made it bleed. “I’m just trying to help you with your memory. Trying to set the mood, so to speak, and the scene, so you can picture that night and tell me what you saw. You can tell me how you and Bernadett escaped during the Nazi occupation with a broken china rooster and a collection of valuable paintings that came from your tiny house.”

  Her gaze turned steely, but I wouldn’t look away. Nor did she ask me to stop.

  “Did you escape before or after the bombing? I’m trying to picture you and Bernadett with all these rolled-up paintings stuffed under your coats, trying to cross the border without being stopped, and I can’t. Did Gunter help? Or Benjamin? I’m hoping you do a better job than my imagination in telling me how you managed it.”

  “I would like some water, please,” she said, her feeble voice at odds with the feisty woman I’d just been speaking with.

  I got up and went to the kitchen and returned with a glass. I put it in her hands and sat down again. “If you’d rather rest now, we can stop.”

  Her eyes met mine and she lifted her chin. “I am not so old that I need to rest all the time.”

  I leaned back in my chair. “So how did you leave the country?”

  She stared into her water for a long moment, and when she looked up at me again, her eyes seemed to be warring with light and shadow. “By vegetable truck,” she said, her mouth twisted in a crooked smile.

  “A vegetable truck?”

  “I do not know what Gunter promised the farmer, but he got us a truck. We could not leave on foot. Bernadett was ill—too ill to walk.”

  “What was wrong with her?”

  The glass in her hands shook. I reached over and held it to her lips, then placed it on the bedside table. “She had been ill for nearly a year. She would divide her food rations with the children at the convent where she taught music, and she was too thin. She had colds and coughs constantly so that she never regained her strength before the next ailment. This last was typhus. Gunter was able to give us some medicine for her, and food, but we knew that would not last. She needed penicillin. Everyone knew that the war was over for the Germans, and they were becoming desperate. And the Russians were eager to take over when the Germans left. So Gunter and I made plans for Bernadett and me to escape.”

  “And you made plans to meet and marry after the war.”

  “Yes,” she said. “He promised to come back to me.” Her voice broke, and I had to look away.

  I wanted to ask her about the paintings, ask her if the truck made it easier to conceal rolled-up canvases. But her story made me pause. It made me picture my own sister, starving and sick, whose only hope was me getting her to safety. I leaned closer. “Where were you trying to go?”

  “America eventually. Magda’s husband had booked us passage from England—a prospect that terrified me. The German U-boats were everywhere, and even though the Allies had invaded France the previous month, I was afraid to cross the channel, much less the Atlantic Ocean. But there was no other way. First we had to get to Switzerland for medical care. If Bernadett died, I did not care what happened to me, so I did not dwell on anything after Switzerland. There would be time to think about it later.”

  “And Bernadett—what did she think?”

  Helena turned toward the window, to allow light on her face or to hide from me; I couldn’t tell which.

  “She was delirious with fever. It was a good thing that she could not fight me. She would not have gone.”

  “Wh
y? Surely she knew how desperate the situation was.”

  Helena continued to look out her window, seeing sights too large for my own imagination. “There were some she would not leave.”

  “Benjamin? Could he not go with her?”

  She looked at me then, her face contorted with grief, and I waited again for her to ask me to stop. And still she did not. It was almost as if she’d been waiting all these years to tell someone.

  “Benjamin?” she echoed. “No, she would not have wanted to leave without him, just as I know he would not have left with her. It was the children. The children in the convent where she worked. She would not have left them. But I told her that I would take care of things, as I always did. And she believed me.”

  I sat up, remembering the silver box. “The convent where Bernadett taught the children—was that at the motherhouse of the Daughters of the Divine Redeemer?”

  She looked at me with only mild surprise, as if her thoughts were turned so far inward that she could not focus on anything else. “Yes. That was it.”

  “Would you like more water?” I asked.

  She didn’t answer right away. Then she blinked as if she’d just realized I had spoken. “Yes. Please.”

  I lifted the glass to her lips. “And so Gunter got you a vegetable truck. Did he drive you all the way to Switzerland?”

  “He would have if I had asked, but it was too dangerous for him. Dangerous for us, too, but more so for him since he was a soldier and he would have been shot for desertion. I had to do it on my own. Gunter arranged papers and passes for us, and train tickets through Austria, but he could not go with us.” She studied her hands as if she were surprised that they were hers, surprised not to see the smooth skin and straight fingers of a young woman.

  I, too, saw the young woman, determined to save her sister. Despite the danger and uncertainty and threat of losing her own life. I thought of Eve, saw her fall from the tree again, felt the need to get to her as quickly as I could. I could still feel the rough tree bark slipping through my hands, slicing my finger, and the pain as my skull hit the hard-packed dirt of the road. I had thought of that moment many times in the years since, and not once had I considered reacting differently.

  “Have you ever told Finn your story?”

  She shook her head. “I have never spoken of it. Even to Bernadett. It is not something we wished to remember.”

  “But you made it. With a broken rooster and a collection of oil paintings.” I waited for her to speak again, my words suspended in the air between us, a hole into which we both could fall. When she didn’t say anything, I said, “You were very brave. I don’t know if I could have done what you did.”

  “She was my sister,” she said, the words simple yet filled with meaning. Her gaze swept past me to the window again. “We gave away one of the paintings to the farmer near Bern who fed us and let us sleep in his barn for three days. He and his wife were very kind and did not ask questions. The wife made chicken soup for Bernadett and gave her medicine. I do not know if Bernadett would have made it if we had not stopped there on our way to the train station in Bern.”

  “It was a small price to pay, then. To give them a valuable painting in return for Bernadett’s life.”

  “Yes. It was.” Her gaze met mine, the old arrogance back in them as she regarded me. “There are some things in life for which the cost cannot be measured. Even if it means paying for it for the rest of your life.”

  The hair rose on the back of my neck as our gazes met. “Did you know the Reichmanns? They were a wealthy family in Budapest before the war.”

  Her expression didn’t falter. “No. I am not familiar with the name. Should I be?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, suddenly unsure of what I needed to know. Or why I needed to know it.

  I stood. “I want to show you a picture I found in one of the library books about art—one of Bernadett’s books.”

  “Could we not listen to music instead? I am in the mood for some Schubert. And I see you are just about finished organizing the music. I would like for you to show me what you have done and where you intend to file all of the books. Perhaps I can help you.”

  I wanted to say yes and forget about the art book and my conversation with Jacob Isaacson. Forget about the Reichmanns and their stolen art and a painting that had been misplaced by history. But I could not. I knew what guilt without forgiveness did to a soul, and Helena was running out of time.

  “Maybe later. Let me show you the book first.”

  Her eyes showed no alarm as I walked from the room. Or maybe I mistook the lack of alarm for resignation.

  I paused in the entranceway to the music room, taking in the tall windows, the stacks of music against the walls, and the beautiful piano. I thought of the music I’d played there and the way that Helena would sit with her eyes closed and a smile on her lips as she tried to disguise the fact that what I played wasn’t too horrible to listen to. And I thought of the simple songs I’d taught to Gigi and how Finn would sometimes slip into the back of the room when I played as if I wouldn’t notice. As I went to where I’d left the book, I couldn’t help but wonder if I would ever see the room the same way again. Or if I’d ever be allowed back in it.

  My phone rang, jarring my thoughts. For a horrified moment, I thought it was Jacob Isaacson, calling to see if I’d spoken to Helena yet. I fumbled for the phone in my pocket and saw that it was a Charleston number I didn’t recognize. “Hello?”

  “Hello, Eleanor? This is Harper Gibbes, Genevieve’s mother.”

  “Yes, hello.”

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but my daughter told me you were on Edisto babysitting that horrid old aunt of Finn’s, so I figured you’d need a reprieve.”

  “Um, she’s not—”

  She didn’t wait for me to finish. “Genevieve says she’s bored to death and wants to go to Edisto. She has no camps this week, so I have no objection, and neither does Finn. There’s just the matter of getting her there.”

  My eyes fell on the painting of the woman in red velvet. “I’d be happy to come pick her up. I just have to wait until the nurse returns from the grocery store and then I can leave. Tell Gigi—Genevieve that I’ll be there within the hour.”

  “Thank you, Eleanor. I’ll be sure to tell Finn how amenable you’ve been so he can put a bonus in your paycheck. We’ll see you in an hour, then.”

  She ended the call before I could say good-bye.

  I wasn’t sure if I was more disappointed or relieved at having to postpone my confrontation with Helena. Leaving the art book where it was, I made my way back to Helena’s room to tell her the change of plans.

  She lay on her back with her hands folded on her chest in a pose one sees on medieval crypts. The bedcovers rose and fell in a steady rhythm designed to feign sleep, and as I approached she let out a small sigh, then turned her face toward the window.

  I leaned down to whisper in her ear. “We’re not done with our conversation, Helena. And you can’t sleep forever.”

  I slipped out of her room, passing Teri Weber on the way in, and climbed into the Volvo. Absently, I rubbed the cut on my thumb from the broken tail of the rooster, thinking about something Helena had said about choices and what people would do to survive.

  CHAPTER 30

  Eleanor

  Gigi’s small suitcase was already packed and waiting by the door when I arrived, dashing through the rain to the covered piazza, the front door thrown open before I could ring the bell. I heard the tap of high heels and waited for Harper to appear behind her daughter in the doorway.

  Harper’s hair and makeup were perfect, as were her slim ankle pants and crisp blouse. I tried to remember the last time I’d looked in a mirror, realizing with some horror that it had been that morning when I’d brushed my teeth.

  “Thank you so much for doing this, Eleanor. Finn’s actually
finished a bit early and will be returning from New York this evening. He’ll probably drive right out to Edisto, regardless of the hour.” She shook her head and rolled her eyes to the ceiling. “I’ll never understand his love for that place.”

  I bit my lip to prevent myself from saying what I wanted. “It’s not a problem, and it’s always more fun when Genevieve’s around.”

  The little girl beamed up at me, then turned to her mother and threw her arms around Harper’s slim hips. “I love you, Mommy.” She kept her face tilted toward her mother, waiting.

  A smile softened Harper’s angular face as she leaned down and kissed Gigi’s cheek. “You behave and don’t talk everybody’s ears off. We’ll go shopping for new school shoes next week.”

  “Can they be pink?”

  Harper actually laughed. “You know your school doesn’t allow that.” She bent to straighten the pink floral headband in Gigi’s fine hair. In a conspiratorial tone, she added, “But maybe we can find a way to stick a pink ribbon in the laces.”

  “Thanks, Mommy,” Gigi said, giving her mother a final squeeze before racing down the piazza toward the car.

  I picked up the suitcase. “You have my cell number if you need me.”

  Harper nodded, a wistful look on her face as she watched Gigi disappear. “Yes, thanks.” She turned back to me. “She had a little cough this morning, but she seems to be totally fine now. Just keep an eye out for any other symptoms.”

  “I will,” I promised, wondering what it must be like to interpret every cold symptom or ache or pain or even allergy as a potential precursor to a relapse.

  “And drive carefully,” she added almost absently. “All those cruise-ship tourists are like palmetto bugs scurrying across the road and just begging to get hit.”