Keeping Secrets

by Bina Bernard

  Copyright © 2021 by Bina Bernard

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Arcade Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  Arcade Publishing books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Arcade Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or arcade@skyhorsepublishing.com.

  Arcade Publishing® is a registered trademark of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.

  Visit our website at www.arcadepub.com.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Walter Bernard

  Interior designed by Natalia Olbinski

  Print ISBN: 978-1-951627-30-0

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-951627-57-7

  Printed in the United States of America

  Children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge them; sometimes they forgive them.

  —Oscar Wilde,

  The Portrait of Dorian Gray

  Shaped by actual events, this novel is dedicated to all survivors living with their scars, and to my granddaughters, Scarlett Dorothy Lindgren and Orly Olympia Lindgren, who make me feel hopeful about the future!

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  PART I

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  PART II

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  PART III

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  PART IV

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  EPILOGUE

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  A Note on the Typeface

  Keeping Secrets: Reading Group Guide

  PROLOGUE

  Poland, January 1945

  HIS BREATH FORMED PUFFY CLOUDS. The only sound he heard was the crackling noise his shoes made as he walked over the crisp snow. If he had not been warmed by the anticipation of seeing Lena, the freezing cold Polish winter would have made him shiver. When he saw the iron gate off in the distance, he quickened his pace, his heart racing.

  The young nun who greeted him as she opened the heavy gate made no eye contact but seemed cordial. She led him to the office of the Mother Superior. He smiled as he remembered the sound he and Lena had made walking these same glistening hard wood floors four years before. Inside the office, he stopped smiling when the face he expected to see was not there. Instead a much younger woman with a stern expression sat behind the desk.

  “I’m here to see the Mother Superior,” he said, expecting to be ushered into the proper room.

  “I am the Mother Superior,” Sister Marianna said firmly, and gestured for him to take a seat.

  “I’ve come to get Lena!” he said and sat down on the chair in front of her desk, clutching the wooden arms so tightly his knuckles turned white.

  “I know the other Mother Superior understood that I brought Lena to the orphanage temporarily, until someone in her family was able to care for her. Her father was supposed to get her back after the war. But since he died fighting with the Underground, her aunt, her mother’s sister, wants to raise her,” he said, reiterating the story he had given the former Mother Superior. Even with this new nun in charge they had to give Lena back to her family, he thought, and relaxed.

  Then he heard, “I’m sorry. Lena is not here. There are no children here, and have not been for some years.”

  Stunned, he stared blankly into space and thought about the last time he saw Lena’s sad little face framed by cascading blonde curls.

  “Where is she?” His question barely audible.

  “I don’t know,” Sister Marianna said forcefully.

  “How can that be?”

  “The children were moved years before I came here, and the orphanage records were destroyed by a fire,” she answered.

  “What do I tell the family?”

  The Mother Superior sighed. “I will try to find out what happened to Lena, but I’m sure she was placed in a good home,” Sister Marianna said as she began ushering him out.

  Outside the howling wind blew the mounds of snow. The gate shut behind him, and he leaned against it for support. Paralyzed.

  PART I

  CHAPTER

  1

  New York, May 1976

  HANNAH STONE WAS TROUBLED. Friday closings at Weekend magazine, where she worked as a staff writer, were notoriously chaotic, but she always managed to keep her anxiety level mid-meter. This Friday was different. The one weapon in her survival arsenal she always depended on, her ability to do her job well no matter what was going on in her life, had failed her.

  “What is this supposed to be?” the managing editor shouted. Hannah had walked into Betty’s office for an assessment of the draft she’d left in her in-box early that morning. Before Hannah could answer, Betty handed the marked-up manuscript back to her and announced, “I expect a publishable piece by three o’clock. Go!”

  Clutching the rejected manuscript as she walked back to her cubicle, Hannah squeezed her eyes tight to keep the tears in check. Betty’s dismissal of her profile of Rosalynn Carter was painful, but it was not her only problem that morning. Her parents were about to resurface and Robert, her Robert, was far away. Back at her desk, she sat there for a few minutes, swaying from left to right in her swivel chair.

  “Get a grip and get to work,” she finally told herself.

  Hannah reached for one of a half dozen cold coffee containers languishing on her desk as she started to read Betty’s comments. She broke out laughing when she realized she was about to take a sip of a substance that seemed to be growing penicillin. Her laughter lifted her spirits. A resolute Hannah was ready to start over.

  Fingers poised on the home keys, eyes closed as if in prayer, she was determined to salvage her lackluster interview with the possible next First Lady, while anxiously waiting for the call announcing her parents’ safe arrival at LaGuardia Airport.

  When her mother had mentioned in one of their weekly chats that they were coming back to New York a month early so her father could see a heart specialist, Hannah didn’t believe that was the real reason for their return. She herself had been trying to get him to see a cardiologist for years.

  “Why should I take another doctor’s opinion?” was his answer. “I’ve forgotten more about medicine than most of them will ever know!”

  Did the great Dr. Harry Stone suddenly change his mind? Not likely, Hannah thought. Why were they coming back? She suspected her casual comment that Robert was staying at the cottage in Amagansett might be why. Whatever the reason, their impending return made Hannah’s body stiffen and she mentally reached for some Maalox. Hannah loved her parents, but their unspoken demands almost cut off her air supply. Only while they were away in Eastland Village could she breathe freely. Once a week Hannah willingly listened to her mother’s complaints. And with twelve hundred miles separating them, she could easily maintain the f
iction that the coldness between her and her father did not exist. While they were in New York, she attributed the pain she saw etched on both their faces to her missteps. Hannah assumed guilt the way a sponge soaked up water.

  At three o’clock when she checked her watch and her rewrite was still not ready for Betty’s critical eyes, Hannah’s anxiety level spiked. Several times she reached for the box of Marlboro cigarettes in her purse. Having resisted each temptation, she congratulated herself mentally. After Hannah had interviewed a young woman battling lung cancer, she decided to test the strength of her willpower to curb a pack-a-day habit. Without committing to stop smoking, she wanted to see how long she could go without lighting up. “I can take one whenever I want,” she assured herself. The unopened box of Marlboros had waited in her purse for three months. Although the butt-filled ashtrays were gone, the books and everything in her office still reeked of stale cigarette smoke.

  While Hannah kept her cigarettes handy, the M&Ms in the large glass apothecary jar next to the phone now served as a substitute.

  “Am I simply choosing diabetes over cancer?” Hannah joked to herself, as she noted how quickly the M&Ms were disappearing. She was eating them by the handful, carefully selecting the red ones to help her fight her writer’s block.

  Hannah loved working on a magazine, even though defending story ideas at the weekly editorial meeting was a blood sport. While the staff walked into the conference room with the enthusiasm of lambs going to the slaughter, Hannah, clipboard in one hand and coffee cup in the other, insisted, “What’s not to like? Free glazed doughnuts for everybody.” She sat in the same seat around the oval conference table and waited until the editor said a variation of, “You’re up Hannah. Since we don’t have time to hear your hundred ideas, just give us your Top 10.” That always brought laughter from the staff, and a grinning Hannah started making her pitch.

  She preferred writing profiles rather than covering headline grabbing events. “I like to let people tell why they do what they do,” Hannah explained. She had often fantasized about interviewing her father to figure him out.

  On late nights waiting for their stories to close, when she wasn’t sleeping on the floor in her cubicle, Hannah enjoyed hanging out with her fellow writers, drinking jug wine, and contemplating such existential questions as Why do doctors and nurses wear their hospital scrubs in the street? and Who exactly prefers a glass half-empty to a glass half-full? Ostensibly a willing participant in these gab sessions, Hannah always kept some distance. For her any conversation, no matter how trivial, was equivalent to a championship chess match. It was exhausting! Before Hannah uttered a word in jest or as part of a serious exchange, she had to know what the last gambit would be. She envied people who did not mentally calculate all the possible consequences of any words they uttered or action they planned to undertake. A self-described information junky, Hannah stored important and trivial tidbits in her brain bank to be retrieved as needed. Facts were her protective armor. She never thought she had to know everything, but Hannah had to know what she didn’t know. That gave her a chance to figure out how to get answers before anyone knew she didn’t have them. For Hannah it was always, No Mistakes Allowed.

  When her mother phoned at 4:30, all the red M&Ms were gone and Hannah was still struggling.

  “Welcome home,” she said in her best cheerleader voice. “How was the flight?”

  “Fine. There were so many people in wheelchairs you’d think we were on a flight to Lourdes.” Molly Stone chuckled.

  It cheered Hannah that her mother seemed to be in good spirits. She was grateful that she did not mention Robert. Hannah felt the stiffness in her neck soften.

  “Sorry I can’t take off early today and help you get settled,” she said. Trying to explain her predicament, Hannah added, “I’m having trouble with my Rosalynn Carter story, it’s . . .”

  Molly interrupted. “You met Rosalynn Carter? Next week she and Jimmy Carter are making a campaign stop at Eastland Village. Too bad I won’t get to meet them, but I’m glad to be back,” she said, still cheerful.

  “Great. Let me finish writing and I’ll come by later to welcome you properly.” Hannah hoped she could keep her word. “Give my best to Dad,” she said, signing off.

  Hannah was glad her parents had not expected her to pick them up at the airport. Still she felt guilty because she had never made the offer. Sometimes feeling guilty was Hannah’s trade-off for doing what she wanted.

  At 10:30 when her mother called again, the apothecary jar was empty and Hannah was putting the final touches on her story.

  “You’re still there,” Molly said, surprised.

  “Of course. I told you I was working late and would come by afterwards.” Hannah was defensive.

  “Well, we’re going to bed. It’s been a long day. Can you come tomorrow? Your father is anxious to see you.”

  “Sorry about tonight, Mom. I’ll come for breakfast. Really, I’m having trouble . . .”

  “I understand,” she cut her off. Hannah couldn’t decide if her mother was truly being understanding, or miffed thinking she’d been ignored. After a tough week Hannah hoped the weekend would not be tougher. She sighed and crossed her fingers. The fact that she still had not figured out the real reason for her parents’ early return gnawed at her. And Hannah dreaded having to explain Robert’s living in Amagansett.

  They had had some reservations about the marriage to begin with. A definite red flag for Molly was the fact that Robert was divorced and had a child. Surprisingly his not being Jewish never seemed to be an issue. Hannah knew a possible break up was the last thing her parents would want. Harry and Molly Stone did not adjust easily to change. Their version of “Be careful what you wish for!” was “Stick with what you have, what you might get could be worse.”

  That night when Hannah opened the door to her apartment she headed straight for the bedroom and fell, spread-eagle, on the bed. I’ll just rest for five minutes, then go into the shower, Hannah thought. She woke up Saturday morning still in her street clothes, something she had not done since college.

  Hannah stripped, dragged herself into the shower, got dressed in record time and, armed with assorted bagels and cream cheese from Zabar’s, and the morning newspaper, arrived at her parents’ Upper West Side apartment by 10:30, absolutely determined to make their reunion pleasant.

  Seconds after Hannah rang the bell, the door to the apartment swung open and her mother flung her arms around her even before she had set both feet inside.

  “It’s so good to be home,” Molly said.

  “You look great, Mom!” Hannah said as she loosened her mother’s grip.

  “Thank you.” Molly grinned, and patted her perfectly coiffed hairdo with her beautifully manicured hand. How does she keep that flaming red nail polish from chipping, Hannah wondered, as she looked down at her own scruffy nails. Molly pulled her daughter toward the living room. Nothing changed here, Hannah mused as she looked around the apartment she hadn’t seen in eight months.

  When she glanced into the living room where her father was asleep on the sofa, Hannah held her breath. She was visibly shaken seeing his frail body engulfed by down cushions.

  Who is that man? Hannah thought.

  Dr. Harry Stone, née Hershel Stein, was one of the lucky ones: a Jew who survived World War II in Poland by passing himself off as a Gentile. With the help of his Polish friends and the money he amassed from his thriving medical practice in Krakow, Harry secured false identity papers for his wife, his daughter Hannah, and himself.

  Secure with his new documents in his breast pocket, he had brazenly walked out of the Krakow Jewish Quarter and boarded a train for Warsaw. There, as Dr. Bronisław Bieliński, he became an actor in a dangerous drama. His masquerade was aided by his straight nose, light brown hair and green eyes, which did not fit the Jewish stereotype. However, his circumcision branded him a Jew. Harry ingeniously fashioned a foreskin out of skin-tone artist wax to camouflage that. But he was alwa
ys mindful that his ruse could not pass a close inspection.

  A mere accusation of “JEW!” by a potential extortionist demanding money put him in jeopardy. On several occasions, instead of paying, Harry threatened his would-be blackmailer.

  “Yes, let’s stop that German officer over there and see if he believes a thug like you or the doctor who fixed his sprained wrist last week!” he bluffed. But more often Dr. Bieliński paid and immediately moved his office or residence to another part of Warsaw, depending at which venue the encounter occurred.

  In 1944 after the Polish Underground failed to liberate Warsaw, the Germans packed the few Polish men left alive onto trains heading to concentration camps. Dr. Bronisław Bieliński was one of them. With his medical bag under his arm, he stationed himself along the edge of the boxcar. Just as the train slowed down around a curve, he jumped off. A young German soldier spotted him, pulled the emergency cord and stopped the train. At gunpoint he forced Harry back aboard. A few miles later, feeling he had nothing to lose, Harry jumped again. This time the same soldier waved him on. A grateful Harry waved back.

  Harry often wondered what that young German would have done if he had known he was letting a Jew go free. Luck was with him. He felt invincible then.

  Being a survivor was a burden Harry Stone could not shake. It wasn’t his fault the retreating Germans burned down entire buildings in Warsaw with his relatives hidden inside. Still he was haunted by those deaths. He grieved for those he hadn’t saved. Those he left behind. Time did not heal those wounds. His new life in America could not make up for what he lost.

  Hannah always believed her father was indestructible. The figure she saw now tossing and turning on the sofa bore little resemblance to the formidable man Harry once was. His gaunt face and graying brown hair made him look much older than his sixty-eight years. My God, he’s really sick, Hannah mouthed the words to herself. She glanced around the apartment again. Nothing had changed, except Harry.

  “Let him sleep,” Molly said, bringing a finger to her lips. “He didn’t have a good night.”