“Children!” Hendrik rose from his chair. “Behave yourselves. I’m taking this upstairs to the safe.” Leaving the alcove, he waved the metal box that now held the contents of the pouch.
Pieter leaned against his father’s desk. “Any news from Amsterdam?” he asked Duret.
“Our friend Göring will be there the day after tomorrow. On another of his shopping sprees.”
At the mention of the beast’s name, Alison unconsciously touched her scar. Over the past couple of years, it had faded from pink to white. Her father noticed, and she dropped her hand into her lap. “Why else would he come?” she blurted, trying to hide her embarrassment.
“I thought it wise to close our little enterprise.” His earlier enthusiasm spent, Duret sank into one of the leather chairs facing the desk. “The unsold paintings are in the car.”
“I’ll bring them in,” Will volunteered.
“I’ll go with you,” Pieter said. But before leaving the alcove, he bent over Alison. Resting his hand against her cheek, he kissed her temple. “Guard your light, dochter. In the end, it’s all you have.” Before she could respond, he left, jogging to catch up with Will.
Alison stared at the stationery rolled into the typewriter, a letter from Opa to a potential client who claimed to have recently discovered several “worthwhile paintings” in his attic. Similar letters came on a weekly basis.
After confiscating their inventory, Göring had blacklisted the gallery, essentially forcing it to close. But he couldn’t stop them from wheeling and dealing behind closed doors. Ironically, the black market was driven by Nazi officers with ill-gotten money to launder and reputations as art connoisseurs to cultivate if they wished to impress their Führer. Suddenly the neglected landscapes and portraits that littered Holland’s attics were fetching enormous prices. By acting as brokers for these works through a rented storefront in Amsterdam, the Van Schuylers were getting a commission on several of the sales.
The officers, including Göring, even bought the despised art that Hitler labeled as degenerate and fit only for burning. These paintings were often bartered for more coveted works.
Alison received respectable sums for her delicate watercolors, and Pieter’s infrequent forgeries provided additional income. Opa no longer worried that the Van Schuyler Fine Arts Gallery would totally collapse under his watch.
Now that the Americans had joined the fight, he often said to Alison, the war would soon end. Tucking their tails between their legs, the German foxes would scamper back to their dens, whimpering in humiliated defeat.
When that happened, the gallery would be hers to rebuild in the reputable Van Schuyler tradition. Something she might not be able to do if she got caught painting forgeries now.
“What troubles you, cherie?”
Monsieur Duret’s soft voice startled Alison from her reverie. She had forgotten he was still in the alcove. Getting up from behind the typewriter, she dragged a chair next to his and sat beside him.
“Do you think Papa is right? That my talent is all I have?”
“That is not true for you, cherie. Nor is it true for your papa.” Duret sighed heavily. “But it is easier for him to bear his guilt if he believes his ‘light is extinguished,’ as he says it.”
“Guilt for what?” Alison bit the inside of her lip as memory carried her to their Chicago home. To the moment when she had crawled under her bed, dragging her pillow and blankets with her, to shut out her papa’s ferocious grief. “There was nothing he could have done to save Mama. Why can’t he understand that?”
“Because he believes God took your mother’s life. To punish him. So he traveled from one place to another, seeking forgiveness. But never seeking it in the right place.”
“Forgiveness for what?”
Duret sighed again; then he reached for Alison’s hand. “A secret can be a terrible burden. Have you the strength to carry it?”
Dread curled in Alison’s stomach, and her palms turned clammy. Yet another secret had been kept from her. “Is it about Mama?”
“It is not my place to tell you this. But it presses on me that you should know. Perhaps the truth will free you from the superstitious fear that you and your young man can’t have a future together.”
“You don’t believe in the family fate.”
“Not for you.”
Hope flickered in Alison’s heart, but she pushed it aside to think about when she was alone. Now she needed to find out this new secret. “Tell me about Mama.”
“Her parents were ostracized from their families.” Duret paused, seemingly lost for a moment in a faraway memory. “You see, her father was Jewish, but her mother was not. When they both died of scarlet fever within weeks of each other, there was no one to take her in except her uncle. But her very existence was a reminder of what he considered his brother’s faithlessness. He treated your mother cruelly.”
“Papa told me that. He said that’s why they ran away to America.”
“That’s true, as far as it goes.” Duret took her hand, and Alison braced herself, sensing that he was preparing her to hear something difficult. Something Papa didn’t want her to know.
“The uncle wanted your mother to marry in the faith, not a Dutch Gentile. When Pieter asked for Amy’s hand, her uncle beat him terribly. It was several days before Pieter saw Amy again. Her uncle had beaten her, too.”
Alison closed her eyes against this horror, but the image pressed into her mind, vivid and grim. She squeezed Monsieur Duret’s fingers.
“There is more, cherie. But if you wish, I will not tell it.”
“Tell me,” Alison said, her voice jagged.
“Pieter disappeared, and Madame Meg traveled with Amy to New York. It was all very sudden. But only two days after they left, Amy’s uncle was found in a shed behind his house.”
“He was dead.”
“Yes.”
“Papa killed him?”
“Only Pieter knows that answer.” He gave a gallant shrug. “Perhaps your aunt also knew. But if so, she kept his secret.”
“Tante Meg never told me she’d been to New York. Not even when I talked about being there with Papa. Before he . . .” The pain of Duret’s revelation overshadowed Papa’s abandonment and knotted her throat. She pressed her fingers against the ache and raised her eyes to Duret’s.
His dear, familiar face appeared splotchy, his stooped shoulders even more bowed. “Forgive me for telling you these things, cherie. But you must believe—you must know—that your fate is not at all like your father’s. Trust in God for your future, not in superstition.”
“Even God can bring me sorrow.”
“But only He can bring you peace.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
With a steady grip on the hoe, Ian straightened to his full height and lost the sloppy grin. He narrowed his eyes, daring the officer to follow Gretchen into the barn.
Thrusting out his chest, the German sneered. “Who are you?”
“Nobody important.” Ian shrugged, no longer hiding his British accent. “Who are you?”
The German swaggered closer, stopping a meter or two away from Ian. His eyes held a menacing challenge. “You first.”
Better to let the Kraut think he had the upper hand. “Ian Devlin.”
“Are you a soldier, Ian Devlin? In civilian clothes?”
The threat was clear. A soldier wearing civilian clothes in enemy territory was treated as a spy. And spies weren’t granted the protection of the Geneva Convention. Not that it mattered. Only one of them would be leaving peaceably. If the German didn’t drive away, preferably without his sidearm, then Ian would force him to go. Or die trying.
Ian switched to English. “Lieutenant. British Army.”
“Hauptmann Walter Huber,” replied the German in his native tongue. Then he, too, spoke in English. “Equivalent to your ‘captain.’ I outrank you, Lieutenant. And now I am placing you under arrest.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then I
suggest you go on your way. Perhaps you will make it to England alive. If you stay out of affairs that do not concern you.”
Ian glanced at the hoe, and Huber gave a short laugh and stretched out his hands. “Will you attack me? When I am unarmed? That wouldn’t be very sporting.”
Not very sporting at all. Which was why cruelty reigned over decency throughout Europe. But sometimes a man had to stand up to a bully. “I don’t have to kill you,” Ian said softly. “Only maim you.”
Fear flickered in Huber’s eyes, then changed to disdain. Ian realized the German was looking beyond him, and he glanced over his shoulder.
Gretchen stumbled toward them, wielding a pitchfork in front of her. Determination shone on her bruised face, and her eyes were filled with hatred. She stopped when she reached Ian’s side and pointed the tines at Huber. “Leave. Or I will kill you.”
Despite the gravity of the situation, Ian almost wished his brother-in-law were here to see the absurdity of the two of them facing the Nazi with farm implements. He hoped he had the chance to tell Mark about it someday.
Huber swaggered another step closer. “My dear Gretchen. I thought you desired my company.”
Gretchen plunged the pitchfork forward. It glanced off Huber’s chest and fell to the ground. She stepped back, covering her eyes in horror as droplets of blood darkened his shirt. Cursing at her, Huber lunged for the pitchfork. As he picked up the handle, Ian tripped him with the hoe.
Huber fell to one knee but waved the tines at Ian, who jumped back. Huber stood, and the warriors faced each other with their medieval weapons. Out of the corner of his eye, Ian watched as Gretchen picked up a rock and drew back her arm. Huber must have sensed her movement. Before Ian could stop him, the German wheeled and thrust the pitchfork into Gretchen’s abdomen with a victorious grunt. She grabbed for the tines as he pulled it back, the rock slipping from her hands. Blood spurted in hot streams, ragged parallel lines that stained her yellow dress. Her eyes pleaded with Ian as she lurched forward and fell.
The haunting memory of Alison, the bandage across her temple, flashed through Ian’s mind. With a primal yell, he swung the hoe in a wide arc that landed the blade squarely on Huber’s neck. Dazed by the blow, Huber collapsed, and Ian pounced on him. Grabbing a fistful of the German’s hair, Ian slammed his head on Gretchen’s rock. Again and again, until the spasms of raw anger that fueled his arm weakened. He rolled Huber onto his back, and the German’s cold blue eyes stared vacantly at the heavens.
Ian sat back, forearm across his knee, head bowed. His chest ached, as if a giant hand had squeezed his ribs until there was no breath in his lungs. All Huber had to do was drive away. Get in his car and drive away. He inhaled, a massive intake of air to start his heart beating again.
A low murmur sounded behind him, and he twisted around to Gretchen. Her eyes flickered, and he brushed the hair from her forehead before examining her wounds. The deep punctures spewed forth rich pools of blood. Ian hurried to remove his shirt and pressed the wadded material against her torn flesh. She covered his hand with hers and attempted a grateful smile.
“I’m sorry,” he said in German. “I’m so sorry. If I hadn’t been here, maybe this wouldn’t have happened.”
“Nein.” She barely exhaled the word. Laboring to breathe, she struggled to speak. “My daughter—Leiba. She believes you . . . her papi.”
“I know.”
“He called her Libby. And now he’s gone.” The words came out in a sudden rush, as if she were late and anxious to be on her way. “Take her to your home.”
“I can’t . . . I . . .”
“Please.” Her soft brown eyes glimmered, and she squeezed his hand. “Promise me.”
Ian worked his jaw, nodded as her eyelids flickered shut.
“Promise?” she whispered. Her hand, pressing against his, relaxed.
“Ja.” He bent over her limp body. “I promise.”
* * *
The creak of the barn door, eerily loud in the dead stillness of midafternoon, brought Ian to his feet. Libby’s pixie face peeked out at him, and he hurried to scoop her up and carry her back into the barn before she saw her mother’s body. Too late.
“Is Mami sleeping?”
Ian sat on a bale of hay and settled the little girl on his knee. “Mami’s tired.”
“Is the mean man sleeping too?”
“He’s sleeping too.”
Apparently satisfied, Libby leaned contentedly into Ian’s chest and yawned.
Ian tried to relax for the sake of the little girl, but his mind swirled with questions. What was he going to do with the bodies outside the barn? Where had Libby’s papi gone? And most important, how much time did he have before someone started looking for the German?
The swollen cow blinked at him and gave a long bellow. Ian frowned as her sides heaved in and out. Just what he needed—something else to worry about.
“Betsy is going to be a mami,” Libby piped up.
“Is that the cow’s name? Betsy?”
“Ja. Mami said I can name the baby when it comes.”
“The baby will be here pretty soon.” Ian eyed the heaving cow again. Maybe this was the distraction he needed. “Libby, I need to take Mami to the house, okay? Will you stay here with Betsy? We don’t want her to be lonely.”
“Will you come back?”
“Yes, I promise I’ll be back very soon.” He picked up the little girl and placed her in the bed of the wagon. Bits of straw and dust littered the floor, but at least it would keep her contained. As long as she didn’t try to climb out. “Stay here and I’ll bring you a snack. We’ll have a . . .” His German failed him, so he switched to English. “A picnic.”
Libby giggled. “Pic-nic.”
“That’s right. Just stay here. Why don’t you sing Betsy a song?”
Holding on to her cloth doll, Libby stood in the corner of the wagon nearest the cow’s stall and sang the same lullaby Ian had heard her singing earlier. He waved to her and headed for the barn door.
Once outside, he hesitated, gripped by indecision. But he didn’t have the luxury of time, so he shook away the fogginess and considered his options. There was only one, as much as he hated it.
Gretchen might not be missed, but Huber would be. No one searching the farm could find either one of them. Slinging Huber’s body over his shoulder, Ian staggered to the well and slid the German into its dark depths. “Für Sie der Krieg ist vorbei,” he said after hearing the distant splash.
He returned to Gretchen, easily lifting her in his arms. “I’d give you a decent burial if I could,” he said apologetically, “but I don’t have that luxury. Not if I’m going to save Libby.” He breathed a wordless prayer, slipping her into the well as gently as possible. His lunch rose in his throat as she fell.
* * *
Before returning to the barn, Ian raided the house, hurriedly changing into another of Hans’s shirts. Finding Huber’s holstered sidearm on the bedroom dresser, he belted it around his waist. He tucked the Steinberg family photograph and the leather-bound Tanak into a bag. Getting safely across the Swiss border and all the way to Gibraltar with a child—he was foolish to even try. But the photograph and Tanak were the only things Libby would have to connect her with her family. He’d do his best to get them to England too.
Once he had the sedan packed with food and clothing, he returned to the barn with a tin of apple cake. Retrieving the blankets he had stashed in the loft, he folded one for Libby to sit on while she ate the cake. Delighted to have the entire tin to herself, she sat cross-legged on the floor of the wagon while Ian tended to the cows.
“You’ll have to do this on your own, girl,” Ian said, patting Betsy’s neck. “I can’t wait on you.” He opened the stalls so the cows could leave the barn, then lifted Libby from the wagon and carried her to the sedan.
“Where’s Mami?” Libby asked, clutching her doll.
“Mami can’t come with us right now.” Ian shot her an uneasy smile. He was
going to have to tell her the truth sometime. But not yet. “She wants us to go on a trip.”
“Where to?”
“To my house.” God willing.
“Will Mami find us?”
He opened the car door and scooted her onto the bench seat before sliding in after her. “Please, Libby. You must trust me. Can you do that?”
“Yes, Papi.” She sat close beside him, her doll tightly clasped on her lap.
He drove the car away from the farm, his heart pounding as he prayed for wisdom. The sedan could take them over greater distances in less time, but it was also conspicuous. He only hoped that God still listened to his prayers after what he’d done.
Killing on the battlefield—he lived with that as a necessary evil. But murder driven by rage? The sour feeling gnawed at him that if he hadn’t been there, or if he’d stayed in the loft, Huber would have eventually driven away. Gretchen would still be alive. Libby wouldn’t be an orphan.
And he wouldn’t be a murderer.
“Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.”
The familiar verse slipped into his heart, searing his chest with its convicting truth. Vengeance had strengthened his arms and clouded his mind. Huber had paid with his life for his brutality to Gretchen. But he had also died because of what that pig Göring had done to Alison.
Ian braked as he neared a bend in the road, fingers tapping the steering wheel. As he rounded the curve, he saw a truck parked at the side of the road, and he slowed to a crawl.
Libby tucked her doll under her arm and clapped her hands in delight. “You found our truck.”
“That’s your truck? Mami’s truck?”
“It broke when Mami was driving. The tire went splat.” She pressed her hands firmly together. “Then the mean man came, but he didn’t want to help Mami. He wanted to come to our house.”
“Where were you and Mami? Before the tire went splat?”
“At the store. I got candy.”
The pieces of Gretchen’s puzzle fell into place. She and Libby must have been on their way home, with only a few kilometers to go, when the truck’s tire gave out.
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