Ian scrutinized the landscape as he parked behind the truck. Leaving Libby in the car, he pulled the Walther from its holster and approached the truck. The front tire on the passenger side was flat. Through the window, he saw a few parcels on the floor.
Glancing from the truck to the sedan and back again, Ian made his decision. He had yet to meet anyone on this road, but that could change at any moment. He and Libby would be less conspicuous in the truck. He checked the keys he had taken from Gretchen’s house and inserted the one for the truck into the ignition. After a few tries, the engine kicked over.
Keeping a tight control on his nerves, he quickly replaced the truck’s flat tire. Libby helped him move their belongings to the truck, proudly carrying a small bag of apples that Ian had taken from the cellar.
He lifted Libby into the truck, then looked back at the sedan. There was nowhere to hide it. The best he could hope for was to get as far away from the farm as possible before it was found. Drawing back his arm, he threw the sedan’s keys into the nearby field. The metal glinted in the bright spotlight of the sun’s horizontal rays as they arced and fell. A glint that momentarily blinded him with a strange vision of a guiding beacon. Somehow, he no longer felt quite as forsaken.
CHAPTER THIRTY
My grandfather was Jewish.
That thought hadn’t occurred to Alison when Monsieur Duret divulged her parents’ secret history earlier that afternoon. At the time, she had been too preoccupied with the horror of the beatings and the mystery of the uncle’s death. But later, reflecting on the tragic story as she wandered through the sparse gallery, the words resounded in her mind as loudly as if she had spoken them.
Her life had been rooted in a hodgepodge of New World patriotism and Old World tradition, a double dose of innate superiority. She found this revelation, that she belonged to an ancient heritage rooted in the pages of Scripture, both humbling and disturbing. What would it feel like to wear the yellow star, to be identified only by what it symbolized? To have the giant J stamped on her identity card? To be singled out for persecution?
She hoped to never find out, even as she longed to accept her mother’s ancestral legacy.
Lost in her thoughts, her steps took her to the gallery’s center wall, where The Girl in the Garden had hung and impishly invited her viewers into her Monet-esque world. Alison mourned the loss of the painting, stolen two years ago along with everything else during Göring’s raid on the gallery. She imagined that fiend using the portrait for target practice, gleefully destroying the American.
If only he had known the truth.
Another painting hung on the center wall now, an oil on canvas of a middle-aged man in a weathered rowboat. His downcast eyes and wry smile spoke of heartache and pride. His lean muscles, beneath the rolled-up sleeves of a faded cotton shirt, halfheartedly pushed against the oars. A man of contradictions, no longer sure where he belonged or where he should go.
Alison’s signature graced the bottom right corner. The project had taken weeks to complete, each stroke demanding the full attention of both her mind and her heart. By the time she finished, the sharp edges of grief—for Tante Meg and Gerta Brant, for her mother’s portrait and the canal house, for the way things were before the Nazis came—no longer cut quite so deeply. She had learned to laugh again, to embrace the beauty of a sunrise, without the press of guilt against her chest.
“That’s not the man I meant to be.” Pieter came up behind Alison and put his arm around her shoulders. “You deserved a much better father.”
“I have the only father I want.” A half truth. They both knew it. Pieter had been home for a little over two years now. But she still turned to Hendrik for advice and comfort. And it was Brant whose teasing made her giggle uncontrollably. Not Pieter. “I should have painted you in a different mood. But this one—” she hesitated—“fit.”
“Always paint what you see, Alison. Whether you’re looking with your mind or your heart. That’s the secret to genius.”
“But you don’t like it.”
“It’s an honest portrayal.” He made a huffing noise. “I’m just sorry that’s who I am.”
“You did your best.”
He brushed her hair from her forehead. “I wasn’t here. When you needed me.”
“You’re here now.”
“I want you to know something.” His eyes darted away, then back again. “Sending you to your grandfather was the hardest thing I ever did. But it’s where you belonged.”
“I missed you, Papa.” Alison bit her lip, choosing her words with care. She wanted him to know that Duret had told her about Mama’s uncle. More than that, she wanted him to tell her himself. That seemed unlikely even now, when he was in a rare sentimental mood. “But you were right. I needed to grow up here. The only thing I wish were different is that you had been with us too.”
He drew her close in a fatherly embrace. “No matter what happens, Alison, know that I love you very much.”
Something in his voice caught her attention, and she searched his eyes for any secrets his words were hiding. But his gray-blue eyes, so like her own, shone with affection, and his smile charmed her.
“I know that, Papa.” She leaned up and kissed his cheek. “I love you, too.”
* * *
Later that evening, Alison relaxed in her sitting room. Hendrik had left her alone only a few moments before, wishing her a good night and padding along the corridor to his own room. His slow footsteps tugged at her heart. During the day, he managed a facade of cheerfulness. But as the sun disappeared below the horizon, his spirits waned and his shoulders sagged, bowed by the pressures of war.
She bent over her stationery, writing a letter to Ian’s sister, Trish, with the gold pen bearing his initials. At Will’s suggestion, she had written Trish shortly after the Dunkirk evacuation and asked for any news about Ian. Trish had immediately answered, telling Alison that her husband, Mark, had made it home, though he was seriously wounded. All Mark could tell the family was that Ian had left him with two other soldiers in the surf, then returned to the battlefield. No one seemed to know what had happened to him.
A long week later, Trish had written again with the news that the Red Cross had notified Ian’s family of his imprisonment. Since then, Ian wrote the weekly letter he was allowed to Alison, Trish, and his parents on a rotating basis, but the letters sometimes took weeks or months to arrive. Alison and Trish quickly fell into the habit of sharing any news they received from him and, in the process, became friends themselves.
Tonight’s letter to Trish didn’t include any news from Ian. Here it was, getting close to the end of June, and her last letter from him had been dated in April. She finished writing her letter and turned to a fresh page in her sketch pad. She was shading the contours of Ian’s jaw when Will knocked on the frame of the open door.
“Busy?”
“Just doodling.”
He sat beside her on the sofa and took the sketch pad out of her hands. “Him again? Why don’t you ever sketch me?”
She grabbed the pad away from him. “Because you won’t sit still for more than five minutes.”
“Too many other things to do.” He looked away, his hand beating a restless rhythm on the arm of the sofa.
“Something wrong?”
“Not really.” He faced her, his mouth set in a firm line with the corners slightly turned up. “I lied to you.”
“About what?”
“Do you remember . . . ? It’s been a couple of years. Remember asking me if I ever loved anyone?”
“You said you were waiting for the girl who could turn your heart upside down.”
“The truth is, I’d already met that girl. But she loved someone else. Married him. You know her.”
Alison furrowed her brow, but it took only a moment for her to bring up the right image. “Hannah?”
Will nodded. “I never stood a chance. Her parents wouldn’t have approved. I’m not sure my parents would have approved.” H
e frowned and gave a slight shrug. “Not that it mattered. She and Danny had known each other all their lives. I think they fell in love when they were still in diapers.”
Alison touched his arm. “Oh, Will. I’m so sorry.”
“I’m worried about her. I told her we could find a hiding place for her and the twins. But she won’t go.”
“Why not?”
“Because Danny’s mother won’t leave.” He shook his head in frustration. “She’s convinced Hannah that as long as they cooperate, everything will be fine. They can’t see that it’s only going to get worse.”
“It’s so bad now. How much worse can it get?”
He stared into her eyes, wordlessly giving her his answer. She looked away first, head bending over her sketch pad, seeing Ian’s smiling face gazing back at her.
Will shifted and took her hand between his. “You must leave here, Alison. Soon.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he didn’t let her speak.
“Do you have any idea what is happening in Poland? In Germany?”
“I’ve heard the rumors.”
“They’re not just rumors. Trains are leaving Westerbork more frequently than ever, crowded with Jews. Where do you think they’re going?”
“I don’t know,” she said, hesitantly.
“You can bet nowhere good.”
“That has nothing to do with me. No one is going to put my name on the lists.” Because no one knows, no one in any official capacity knows about Mama. “Besides, you need me here. To find safe houses for the children. To take them to the farms.”
“You won’t be doing that anymore.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s time for you to go,” he said vehemently. “And you have to persuade Hannah to go with you.”
Anger built in Alison’s stomach. Why couldn’t he understand that she had as much right to stay in Rotterdam as he did? Papa was even worse. At least once a month, they had the same argument, and she was sick of it. But she pushed all that aside, determined not to argue with Will when he already seemed so distraught. Instead, she took a different tack.
“Why would Hannah listen to me?”
“She likes you. She told me so.”
Alison looked into Will’s eyes and knew she was looking into his heart. Love, fear, uncertainty—a palette of clashing emotions. A palette she understood all too well. Poor Will. His heart was more hopeless than her own. Empathy overcame her anger and she leaned back into the sofa cushion, throwing her arm over her head. “I thought you were on my side about this. That you wanted me to stay.”
“Things have changed.”
“What things?”
“Nothing I can tell you.” He stood and crossed to the window. Barely moving the heavy blackout curtain, he peered out into the night. When he turned back to her, his brown eyes held a strange resignation. “No matter what happens, take care of Hannah,” he pleaded. “For me.”
“This isn’t fair, Will.”
His jaw twitched, but he didn’t say anything. He only looked at her, desperate for her promise. “If there’s anything I can do to help Hannah, I will,” she said. “That’s the only promise I can make.”
“I guess that will have to do then. Good night, Alison.” He kissed her on top of her head before hurrying from the room and down the stairs.
* * *
A few hours later, she suddenly awoke, trembling, and tried to remember what had awakened her.
“No matter what happens.” Papa and Will had both said the same thing. Both had given her an affectionate kiss. It was as if . . . she scrambled out of bed and pulled on her robe and slippers. The bedside clock showed the time as about twenty after seven.
In the hallway, she glanced through the open door of the room that Pieter shared with Hendrik. Finding it empty, she headed downstairs to the kitchen. The warm smells of ersatz coffee and fresh bacon teased her senses, causing her mouth to water. But the men weren’t in the kitchen. She was about to go into the main room of the gallery when raised voices came from Brant’s room.
“Why didn’t you stop them?”
Stunned by the anger in Brant’s voice, Alison stood just outside the door where she couldn’t be seen. She had never heard him talk to her grandfather in that tone of voice before.
“What did you expect me to do? Tie them up?” Defeat lent a plaintive tone to Hendrik’s soft voice. “They were determined to go.”
“I’m going after them.” Hearing groans and the squeak of bedsprings, Alison realized Brant was trying to get out of bed. His painful injuries, which had become infected despite their care, had kept him incapacitated longer than any of them had expected.
“No,” Hendrik said firmly. “It’s too late. The best we can do now is wait. And hope they change their minds.”
Fear settled in Alison’s stomach as she realized they were talking about Pieter and Will. She entered the room, facing both men. Brant tottered on the side of his bed, trying to get his bandaged legs into a pair of pants. Hendrik sat in an upholstered chair that had been salvaged from the wreckage of the canal house.
“Where are they?” Alison’s voice held a note of hysteria.
Hendrik waved his pipe and stared out the window.
“Where did they go?” she said, more insistently.
“To Amsterdam.”
“Amsterdam?” As soon as the name of the city left her lips, she understood. She leaned against the doorjamb to keep from falling. “Göring? They’re going to kill Göring?”
Hendrik nodded, his arm slack, the pipe bowl barely caught between his fingers.
“I’m going after them.”
“You can’t.” Hendrik’s voice was sharp, a tone he rarely used and never with her.
“If I’m there, they won’t go through with it.”
“You can’t be sure of that.” Hendrik tried to stand, but he fell back into the chair. Placing both hands on the chair arms, he pushed himself to his feet. “You could be caught up in whatever trouble they find themselves in.”
“Our sons,” Brant moaned. “They will be martyrs to a lost cause. What will happen to them?”
“Nothing.” Alison summoned all her courage and straightened her shoulders. “I will find them, and I will stop them.” She was almost out of the kitchen when Brant called her name.
“Miss Alison, come quick. Your grandfather.”
Rushing back to the room, she found Hendrik slumped on the floor, Brant beside him, shaking his shoulders. She dropped beside Hendrik and laid her hand on his chest. “Opa? Opa, can you hear me?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Alison stood next to Hendrik’s hospital bed, her eyes glued to his pale face. His watery eyes focused on her, and he tried to smile. The effort seemed too difficult for him, and he grimaced.
“Are you in pain?” she asked softly. A heart attack, the doctor had told her earlier. One that had caused extensive damage.
“I feel fine.” Hendrik’s voice was barely above a whisper. His eyes roamed the cubicle, formed by movable screens that provided little privacy from the other patients in the ward. “How did I get here?”
“Monsieur Duret brought us.”
“I imagine Brant had something to say about that.” Hendrik’s brief laughter turned to a gagging cough. Alison quickly offered him a drink of water, helping to hold up his head.
“He wasn’t happy about being left behind at the gallery, that’s for sure.”
“Where is Etienne?”
“He went to Amsterdam,” she whispered, not wanting anyone who might be listening on the other side of the screens to hear.
Hendrik slowly closed his eyes. “You’ve not heard from your papa.”
“No.”
“Foolish boy. My foolish, foolish boy.” He took a deep breath and heavily exhaled as he nodded off. Alison watched him closely, breathing her own sigh of relief when his chest rose and fell, rose and fell, in medicated sleep.
The long hours since their a
rrival at the hospital had been spent in agony, pacing and praying in the waiting room, anxious for the doctor to bring her some news. Praying for Pieter and Will to come home. Praying Monsieur Duret found them before they attempted to exact their revenge.
Heavy footsteps sounded in the ward, coming closer. Shadows appeared against the screen.
“I must protest,” the doctor said firmly. “This simply cannot be allowed.”
“This is not your concern, Doctor.”
Theodor.
Alison quickly scanned the room and just as quickly recognized her folly. Obviously there was nowhere to hide. Her muscles tensed, and her knuckles turned white as she grasped the bed railing.
Theodor appeared in the gap between two of the screens, the doctor close behind him.
“Alison,” he said, his face awash in relief. “I must talk to you.”
She glanced at her grandfather, whose eyes flickered open.
“Herr Van Schuyler,” said the doctor, “I offer my apologies. But the count insisted on speaking with your granddaughter.”
Theodor had not taken his eyes from Alison. The intensity of his gaze frightened her. “We must speak.”
“It’s fine, Doctor.” Alison forced a smile. “Count Scheidemann is a . . . friend.”
“Five minutes,” the doctor said, vainly reasserting his authority. “No more.”
“No more is needed.” Theodor dismissed him with a nod, and the doctor reluctantly left them alone.
“How did you know I was here?” she asked as casually as she could.
“A man at the bakery told me. He said he helped carry your grandfather to the car.”
“Yes, he did.” She and Monsieur Duret couldn’t manage on their own, and poor Brant was unable to help at all. The baker was known for being a gossip, so she expected the neighboring merchants to know about her grandfather’s collapse. But not a Nazi.
Theodor interrupted her thoughts. “Where is your father?”
“I . . . I don’t know.” She tried to stay composed, but she couldn’t keep the fear from her eyes. “Why?”
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