Wednesday dawned bright and clear, the promise of a beautiful day if not for the dread that snaked throughout the land. The hours passed slowly, but the Germans did not appear. As the sunlight dimmed in the west, Hendrik’s mood brightened. Alison could see that he felt vindicated in his belief that Germany’s threats were meaningless, that the Nazis had too much respect for their northern cousins to invade the Low Countries.
But Pieter remained restless, seemingly unable to accept that they were safe. He had spent a couple of hours that afternoon developing the film in the gallery darkroom so that Alison could create an album of the hidden treasures. Now he paced from the parlor to the library to the kitchen and back again, not settling anywhere for long.
When he wandered back into the parlor and stood staring out the window, his hands tucked deep in his pockets, Alison joined him. “Sit with me,” she said, gently tugging his arm as she lowered herself onto the window seat. “I have something to show you.”
“What is it?” Pieter said with little curiosity as he shifted beside her.
Flipping open her sketchbook to the drawing of Pieter in his rowboat, she handed it to him and waited anxiously for his response. His impassive face hid his reaction as he studied the sketch, and her stomach did a flip when finally the corners of his mouth lifted, revealing a tiny dimple in his left cheek.
“It reminds me of a photo,” he said.
“I have it in my room.”
“Do you really?”
She nodded. “I keep it on my dresser.”
“The days I spent in that boat . . .” His voice sounded wistful, as if remembering happier times. “We’d race sometimes, the other lads and me. I almost always won.”
Alison smiled, encouraged by the slight change in her father’s demeanor. The tension that kept him wound so tightly seemed to have eased as he reminisced about his childhood.
“The drawing has a forlorn quality.” He smiled at her, but sadness shadowed his eyes. He blinked and nudged her with his elbow. “This is very good, Alison. You’ve got the Van Schuyler touch.”
He turned the page and Alison reached for the pad. “You don’t want to see the others.”
Pieter clutched the pad as he twisted from her. He peered back at her over his shoulder. “Of course I do.”
“Papa, please.”
“Who’s this?” Pieter’s eyes twinkled as he held up a portrait of a young man with strong features and a mischievous grin. “Tell me again about this British officer you met.”
Alison stared down at her clasped hands. She had dreamed of intimate moments like this with her father. But a rare shyness made it difficult for her to speak.
“I used to make sketches like this of your mother.” Pieter cleared his throat. “Seems I couldn’t keep her out of my mind.”
Alison raised her eyes to The Girl in the Garden and felt the warmth of her mother’s smile. “How did you meet her?”
“At the gallery.” Pieter gave a small chuckle. “I was changing the display in the front window and there she was, standing on the sidewalk watching me. She motioned me to move the painting to the left—a Botticelli—so I did. Then she motioned me to move it to the right.”
“And you did?”
“To the exact spot I had it to begin with.” He hesitated a moment. “Then she laughed, and I looked into her eyes.” He gazed at the portrait on the easel and shrugged. “And I knew.”
Alison laid her head on Pieter’s shoulder. He’d known, just as she had. No matter how she tried to deny her feelings, they were there . . . in her sketches of Ian, deep within her heart.
“Why did you leave?”
“Her parents were dead. She lived with an uncle, a cruel man.” His voice trembled with anger. “He forbade her to see me. He hit her.”
An involuntary shiver ran down Alison’s spine. She shut her eyes against the brutal image evoked by her father’s words and suddenly remembered running toward her mother’s outstretched arms, tears streaming down her face because of some long-forgotten hurt. Mama had kissed her cheeks and enveloped her in musical laughter. Alison hugged the memory to herself, a shield against the monster who had inflicted cruelty on her kind, gentle mother.
“I sent her to America. Later I joined her. It was the only thing we could do.”
“And started a new life.”
“Yes,” he said softly.
Alison fidgeted and took a deep breath. “Would you do it again?”
Pieter stiffened beside her and Alison wished she could disappear into the window seat, dragging the question with her. She opened her mouth to apologize, but her father tapped the drawing. “Where is he?”
“Somewhere in France.”
“At least now I know why.”
She raised her head and searched his face. The pain in his eyes mingled with resignation. “Why what?”
“Why you won’t go home.”
“This is my home, Papa. It has been for ten years.”
He slipped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. Enveloped in his comforting warmth, she breathed in the lingering odors of the photographic chemicals he had used earlier in the day.
“Then it’s my home too.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
On Friday, May 10, Alison and her family stood outside their home and stared upward as countless Germans descended from the clouds. Their white parachutes appeared angelic against the gloriously blue sky. Planes soared across the heavens and rumbling explosions echoed in the distance.
“They’re bombing The Hague,” said Hendrik. The stricken look on his face gripped at Alison’s stomach.
“Probably the airfields,” said Pieter.
Meg nervously fingered the pendant at her neck. “I pray the queen and her family will be safe.” Like the vast majority of Dutch families, the Van Schuylers prominently displayed a royal portrait in their home. The long-reigning, strong-willed Queen Wilhelmina had led her people through decades of political and economic difficulties.
“Pray for our safety too.” Pieter smiled gently as he put his arm around his aunt’s waist and led her toward the house. “We need to get inside.”
“The gallery.” Hendrik’s eyes lacked focus. “I must go to the gallery.”
Pieter caught Alison’s attention and tilted his head toward Hendrik. She nodded and took her grandfather’s arm. “Monsieur Duret is at the gallery, Opa. He’ll take care of it until we can get there.”
Except for their meals, which Meg insisted they eat in the dining room, the family spent most of the day near the console radio, eager for even the tiniest scrap of news. Hendrik fussed about going to the gallery, but as the German planes buzzed above their industrial city and tanks rumbled on nearby streets, even he had to admit that it was too dangerous to leave the house.
As darkness fell, the city settled into an uneasy quiet. Pieter and Brant, dressed in dark clothes and wearing knit caps, slipped out of the house and across the lawn to the canal. Alison watched from a back window, barely able to discern the men from the shadows of the night, as they paddled away in the rowboat.
“To be young and spry,” Hendrik said wistfully.
“To be a man,” Alison countered.
“Touché.”
They joined Meg and Mrs. Brant, whose hands were busy with needlework, in the parlor. Settling in his chair, Hendrik filled his pipe bowl with tobacco. Alison curled up at one end of the couch and studied the clock. If all went well, her father and Brant would be at the gallery in twenty or thirty minutes. A quick report from Monsieur Duret and they’d be on their way home again. An hour, two at the most.
Exactly ninety-three minutes later, Pieter and Brant came in through the kitchen door. “Duret is fine,” Pieter announced. “And the gallery is still standing.”
“As it has for three hundred years,” said Hendrik.
“And will until the end of time,” said Papa.
* * *
Over the next couple of days, Alison and her family listened to
the scanty radio broadcasts that reported Nazi victory over Holland’s ill-prepared military. Numb to the noise of planes, tanks, and gunfire, Alison couldn’t concentrate on her watercolors or sketches, so she spent more time than usual helping Mrs. Brant in the kitchen.
Early Sunday morning, Pieter drove his father to the gallery so Hendrik could see for himself that all was well there. Hendrik brought Monsieur Duret back to the house with him so the Frenchman could enjoy a hearty, home-cooked meal. Pieter stayed behind to guard the gallery. He had taken The Girl in the Garden with him, promising Alison he would try his best to restore the painting.
A sliver of hope lightened their spirits later that afternoon when they learned that Dutch forces were preventing the Germans from crossing the north bank of the Nieuwe Maas, the broad river that ran through Rotterdam. They listened as the queen, safe in England, broadcast a message of courage and resolve to her people. After the broadcast, Monsieur Duret returned to the gallery and Pieter came home.
Alison sat with her father as he ate a late supper. “What was it like, being in the gallery by yourself all day?”
“Strange.” Pieter dipped a thick slice of bread into his potato soup. “Quiet.”
“I don’t know how Monsieur does it. Night after night.” Duret had lived in two adjoining rooms on the second floor of the gallery building since before Alison had come to Holland.
“I think he likes to be alone. Solitude is a salve for some men.”
Men of sorrow. Like you. Alison mentally shrugged away the thought and shifted in her seat. Another matter pressed between them, one that had occupied her thoughts throughout the long day.
“Well?” she asked.
Pieter took a sip of the hot tea she had prepared, gazing over the rim of the cup at her. “Well, what?”
“Mama’s portrait.”
He returned the cup to its saucer, seemingly mesmerized by the tea’s dark translucence. “I’m not sure I have the skill. Or the patience.”
“But you will try?”
“Does it matter so much?” He leaned back in his chair and looked upward, as if gathering his thoughts. “Isn’t it more important that the job is done right than that I do the job?”
Alison stood, rubbing her palms along the sides of her skirt before stirring the soup that remained in the pot. She didn’t know the words to express what she felt about the painting. She only knew that it made her ill to think of someone other than a Van Schuyler performing the restoration.
Living in Chicago, her mother had remained an outsider, a name on the branch of the tall family tree, but never truly a part of its heritage, its traditions. Pieter had been her only connection to the Van Schuyler legacy. But even he had turned his back on the family when he went to America. For her sake.
“We owe it to her,” Alison said softly.
Pieter carried his cup and saucer to the sink, his back to his daughter. “Then you may have to do it.”
“Me?”
“I tried, Alison.” His voice quivered. “I really tried. But it’s gone.”
“What is?”
He spread his fingers, palms up, and examined his hands. When he faced her, his eyes were rimmed in red. Stubble darkened his jaw. “Our gift. I cursed it.” He jammed his hands in his pockets and gave a harsh laugh as he turned from her. “And now it curses me.”
“I don’t believe that. I won’t.”
He spun back toward her, eyes flashing. “A word of advice to you. Love your art or love that soldier. But don’t think you can have them both. It’s our greed that destroys us.”
Alison stepped back from her father’s anger and tried to fit his words into a composition that made sense. But they clashed and jarred, a surreal collage of sharp edges.
“That’s the truth behind the cursed ‘family fate.’ Thinking that because we’re Van Schuylers, we can have it all.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his anger seemingly spent, then walked past her. At the kitchen door, he hesitated. “Take it all, and you’ll wind up with nothing.”
Alison’s throat constricted as the door closed behind him. Her legs wobbled and she grabbed for a chair, sliding into its solid reality as she labored to breathe. His final words reverberated through her heart, and she fought against them until something else he had said snapped within her.
He couldn’t paint? She shook her head. That couldn’t be possible. She loosened her grip on the chair’s seat and spread her hands before her, fingers stretched, palms up. To lose that tingle when her fingers ached to create what her mind envisioned—nothing could be worse.
Oh, Papa. She moaned. No wonder you are so lost.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Alison reclined on the parlor window seat, her back against the side wall so that she could easily see out the panes. Not that there was much to see. Their neighbors no longer gathered on the sidewalk to chat about the weather or each other. Even the squirrels and the birds seemed to be in hiding.
She held a half-finished letter to Ian propped against her knees. According to the radio broadcasts, the Germans had finally attacked the British Expeditionary Force gathered along the French-Belgian border. The Allied battalions were slowly retreating toward France’s northern coastline along the channel. Leaning her head against the windowpane, Alison wondered how near Ian was to the front lines of the battle. In the thick of it, she supposed, as she stared toward the sky and dreamed of an end to war.
Two polished black Mercedes drove slowly along the street, and Alison watched with apprehension as they pulled in front of the house. Dropping the stationery on the window seat, she headed for the foyer. Someone pounded on the door, shaking it in its frame. Alison hesitated, then turned as Tante Meg entered the hallway.
“Who is it?” Meg mouthed.
Alison shrugged as the pounding started again. She peered between the shutters covering the foyer window. “It’s Theodor.” He wore a sharply pressed German uniform, his impatience evident in his stance.
She opened the door. “What are you doing here?”
“Alison.” He looked her over, as if ensuring himself she was unharmed, and exhaled in relief. “I must speak with you.”
“Please, come in.” She stood aside and gestured in welcome.
“Good morning, Count Scheidemann,” Meg said, with cold politeness.
“Fräulein Van Schuyler.” Theodor acknowledged her with a brief nod, then faced Alison. “Is your grandfather home?”
“He and Papa are at the gallery.”
“Papa? Your father has returned?”
“He was concerned for my safety.”
“I see.” Theodor smiled brightly at Meg. “Fräulein, would you excuse us? I wish to speak to your niece in private. With your permission, of course.”
Alison nodded in response to Meg’s questioning glance.
“I’ll be in the library,” said Meg, “should you need me.”
Alison ushered Theodor into the parlor and invited him to sit down.
“I’d rather not. We don’t have much time.”
“Time for what?”
A shadow crossed Theodor’s face as he stared at Alison’s temple. She lowered her head and self-consciously touched the ridged scar. He lifted her chin with the tips of his long fingers and genuine concern shone in his eyes. “Your grandfather made a dangerous enemy.”
“My grandfather did nothing.”
“He tried to have Commander Göring arrested.”
Her eyes flashed. “As he should have been.”
“Göring will pay for what he did to you.” Theodor gently traced the ridge into her hairline. “I promise he will not go unpunished.”
She flinched and stepped away.
“You have to leave here, Alison. Immediately. My chauffeur has instructions to escort you to Geneva. I have an apartment there for you.”
“I’m not . . . I can’t just leave.”
“Alison, you don’t understand. I can protect you.”
“Protect me from what?”
/> Theodor stepped closer and took her hands in his. “Göring and his men are at the gallery. He is taking everything.”
Alison felt the blood drain from her face. “I have to go there.”
“No.” Theodor kept hold of her hands. “It’s too late.”
“But what about Opa? And my father?”
“They won’t be harmed. As long as they cooperate.”
Fear gripped her stomach as she fought to hold back tears. Monsieur Duret and Brant were at the gallery too. She couldn’t imagine any of them standing by while Göring looted their collection. Protect them, Father, she silently prayed. Please protect them.
“Don’t despair, Alison.” Theodor tenderly touched her cheek. “You have been chosen for a great privilege.”
She bit her lip, striving to control her emotions. “What privilege would that be?”
“The perfection of the human race.”
She stared at him, trying to reconcile the cultured young man she had met at the Vermeer exhibit with the man who stood before her.
“I know it sounds grandiose,” he said sheepishly. “But der Führer has a grand vision. You are exactly the type of woman to fulfill this great destiny. Together, we can transform history.”
“I’m not a type, Theodor.” She pulled away from him and returned to the window. Staring out at the street and hugging her arms to her chest, her thoughts were consumed with the gallery and what was happening there. Foreboding haunted her, and she feared that whatever evil the day held, it was only the beginning of their sorrows.
“True.” Theodor stood behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. “You are singularly talented and lovely. Say you’ll come with me.”
She shrugged away, unable to bear his touch, and turned to sit on the window seat. Theodor picked up the stationery she had left there and sat beside her. Realizing he held her letter to Ian, she tried grabbing it from him. “Give me that.”
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