The Beekeeper's Ball

by Susan Wiggs

  Magnus nodded, turning to Mac. “You’ve not met Ramon. He isn’t well, but perhaps we can visit him on a good day.” He stacked his hands atop the head of his cane. “The two of us have been friends since we were boys in the underground.”

  “Friends?” Annelise shook her head. “I have a different recollection.”

  “I’m sure Mr. O’Neill would like to hear it,” Magnus said, a twinkle in his eye.

  Mac spread his hands, palms out. “That’s why I’m here. It would be great to hear both your perspectives.”

  Annelise clasped her hands in her lap, then unclasped them. She patted the carpetbag. “I brought some things for your exhibit.” She turned to Mac. “This is a wonderful opportunity after all.”

  “We’re here to listen,” he said quietly.

  Isabel watched his manner with her grandfather and Annelise. He had a gift for being neutral, yet compassionate. It seemed to put people at ease. It put her at ease, which was not the way she was accustomed to feeling around guys.

  “When I was a girl,” Annelise told him, “the Nazis arrested my parents. My father was a hospital administrator in Copenhagen, and Mother worked as a volunteer nurse there. The Nazis discovered they were part of an organization affiliated with the resistance. From the hospital where they worked, people would be smuggled out of the country by way of the hospital’s body bags, or disguised as victims of illness on stretchers. They were betrayed and taken away, perhaps the same way Magnus’s parents were—without warning, and then sent to die in work camps without any due process at all. It’s likely I would have been taken, too, but Magnus helped me run away.” She paused, and shared a solemn look with Grandfather. “He put me on a boat to my grandmother’s house in Helsingør. She was a widow who gave music lessons to the village children.” She took a breath, turned to Tess and then Isabel. “That is where I met Eva. We became best friends.”

  “You and Eva were friends in Denmark, too?” Isabel interjected. “I didn’t realize you even knew each other.” Friends. Bubbie and Annelise had known each other, had shared a berth while coming to America.

  “If not for the upheaval of war, we would not have met at all. She and her father had gone to Helsingør to keep from being found and deported. It was a little fishing town on a narrow strait. People needing to disappear quickly would sometimes take a boat, even a small dory, across the strait to Sweden. Eva and I met in the autumn at the Wednesday market. She was selling apples, and I made a sketch of her.”

  Rummaging in the carpetbag, she took out a faded cardboard portfolio bound with string. “This is a sketchbook I managed to keep with me all these years.” She unwound the string and paged through the thick, yellowed paper. Then she held out a simple pencil sketch of a girl with large eyes and pigtails, holding a basket of apples.

  “That’s lovely,” said Isabel. It was rendered well, though she didn’t recognize her grandmother in the smiling girl.

  “Annelise has always been a fine artist,” Magnus said.

  “A hobby,” she corrected him.

  “She was an art teacher in San Francisco for many years,” he added.

  “Forty-five, to be precise, all at the Sherman School.” She smiled, her eyes misty with memories. “I think now that I retired too soon. I miss those children every day, even with their noise and their messes. My life is much too quiet these days.” She set aside the portfolio. “Now, where was I?”

  “Eva, the girl in the picture,” Mac said quietly. “You were telling us about your friendship with Eva Solomon.”

  “Oh. Yes, of course.” The old lady blinked slowly, her pale face soft with vulnerability.

  Isabel exchanged a glance with Tess. Grandfather and Annelise were both sturdy for their age, but moments like this were a reminder of their great age and their fragility.

  “We became fast friends the day I sketched the portrait, and I adored her. But as you surely understand by now, ours was a long and complicated relationship. She was a wonderful person who rose above the things she suffered. Isabel, you were privileged to be raised by her, as I’m certain you know.”

  Isabel nodded, unsure of what else to say. She was dying to ask why, if Annelise considered Eva such a wonderful person, she would have a baby with Eva’s husband. Had Annelise and Magnus actually been in love, or had they succumbed to a moment of passion? She cautioned herself to keep silent. She was learning from Mac that listening could sometimes be the most important part of the conversation.

  “So you both lived in Helsingør,” Mac prompted.

  “We did, for a time. I wish I could recapture those days for you. Everything seemed to be painted by a gilded haze. We were young girls, and despite what had happened to us, we lived each day as children do.” Annelise helped herself to a cup of tea, drizzling honey into it. “I believe children have a gift for recovering from even the most terrible losses. Perhaps it’s a survival mechanism. Surely we were all deeply scarred by what happened, but life went on and played out day by day. We discovered it was impossible to be hurt and sad every single moment. We learned to find the joy in the small things, and to hold that in our hearts. I believe Eva would agree with me. When I remember those days, I remember the laughter and the sunshine.”

  Magnus set aside his cane, then settled back in his chair. “Memory is a strange thing. There are moments I can recall with the most detailed clarity, and other whole stretches that exist in an undifferentiated blur.”

  Annelise took something else from her bag. She wrinkled her nose in apparent distaste. “I have always felt obliged to keep this for its historical significance. It certainly has no sentimental value for me,” she said, handing Mac a small booklet with brittle pages. “I consider it a reminder that we can move past our history, but we can never truly erase it. I have given a lot of thought to this project. There are things that happened that I’ve never disclosed, not even to you, Magnus. Not to anyone. Now I wish to be part of the conversation.”

  Mac studied the little book, the colors of its cover faded by time. “Poesiealbum?” he asked. “Is that a book of poems? Do you mind if I have a look?”

  “Help yourself,” said Annelise. “It is a bit of ephemera you’ve probably never encountered.” There was a waver in her voice that sounded to Isabel like anger.

  “Is something wrong with it?” She leaned over Mac’s shoulder as he paged through the fading, handwritten pages. A couple of brightly colored illustrations were stuck between the pages. Mac paused to study one of them. The illustration depicted apple-cheeked children with armloads of flowers, skipping along, their chubby knees rosy...and their clothes decorated with swastikas. Isabel slumped against Mac’s shoulder, its solid strength a comfort until she caught herself, and then backed away.

  “I don’t have cooties,” he murmured.

  “That’s what all the boys say.” She turned to her grandfather and Annelise. “I can see why you’re not a fan.”

  “The little pictures are called Oblaten,” Annelise explained. “They’re a bit like the stickers or trading cards my students used to love. Members of the League of German Girls used to collect and exchange them. The Oblaten were quite the commodity, the ‘Hello Kitty’ of their time.”

  “Only not so innocent. It’s a form of vile propaganda, perpetrated upon children,” Magnus said.

  “I’ve never heard of the League of German Girls,” said Isabel. Yet for some reason, she knew she’d find out soon enough.

  “The League was known in Germany as the BDM,” said Annelise.

  “Now that,” Tess remarked, looking up from her desk, “I’ve heard of. I probably came across it in my research. Stands for Bund Deutscher Mädel. It’s the girls’ arm of the Nazi Youth.”

  “That’s creepy,” Isabel said.

  Mac flipped through the innocent-looking paper album, its yellowed pages filled with childish scrip
t. “Okay, not my favorite artifact. Where’d it come from?”

  Annelise cleared her throat and winced, glancing away from him. “It belonged to me, long ago.”

  Isabel’s heart dropped. “You mean you belonged to the Nazi Youth?”

  “No, certainly not, although I was encouraged to join.” She locked eyes with Magnus, and some kind of wordless exchange passed between them. “In truth, I was nearly forced to join.”

  Grandfather said something in rapid Danish. Isabel didn’t understand, but the expression on his face was unmistakable.

  “That’s shocking,” said Tess. “I’m sorry, Annelise. It must have been awful.”

  “And this?” Mac held up a small triangular-shaped pin with the SS logo and a word across the top. Its rusted pin was attached to the back of the booklet.

  “Another terrible memento,” Annelise said. “You see, I was only safe in Helsingør for a short while, and then my grandmother died. I had no other family, and knew no one to take me in. There might have been neighbors who would have looked after me, but there was such fear and depredation in those times. I was in a haze of confusion when I ran off after her death. That was when I joined the Holger Danske, living by my wits, much as Magnus was doing. As a young girl, I rarely fell under scrutiny from the authorities, and I became quite good at underground activities. Youthful arrogance was my downfall. While carrying out an act of sabotage, I was apprehended.” She fixed her gaze on Magnus. “I believe you’ll recall the night in question.”

  “Yes. I was with you that night. I’m sorry....”

  “You couldn’t have done anything to prevent my arrest.” She turned to her other listeners. “After I was caught by the soldiers, I was sent to an orphanage on an island in the Baltic Sea. And it was known—although not to me, as I was so young—that this was a place where certain young girls were forced into Himmler’s Lebensborn experiment. You have heard of this?”

  A chill passed over Isabel’s skin. Dear God.

  Annelise nodded. “It was a horrible attempt to breed a master race. The Germans kidnapped young girls all over Europe, but some came from orphanages. There was an obsession with a certain physical type—Nordic and tall, light-haired and blue-eyed. It was known as ‘Aryan’ and considered to be racially pure. Everyone knows it’s nonsense, but under the Nazis, the program was accepted and state sponsored.” She paused again. “I had the misfortune to match their ideal physical characteristics.”

  The back of Isabel’s neck prickled, though she held herself very still. She had a bad feeling about this conversation.

  Annelise handed over a picture. “This was taken for an identity card.”

  Cast in the fading amber of an old photograph, Annelise had been as deadly serious as a marble statue, but extremely beautiful. Even in old age, she was a beautiful woman, taller than most, with cornflower-blue eyes and fine facial bones, her hands delicate and ladylike.

  “It’s like some horrid sci-fi story,” said Tess.

  “Except it was no story,” Annelise said. “Girls were treated like livestock, forced to mate with selected men—or raped—until there was a pregnancy. Many of the men were SS officers or other ranking officials. There were even special homes for them all over Nazi-occupied Europe. Birthing houses, they were called. The girls were sent to these places to have their babies in secret, yet the Germans claimed it was a privilege to bear children in the name of the Reich. The special homes were run like luxurious resorts, by caretakers who treated us like captive princesses. We were then compelled to give the babies away to Nazi families.”

  Us...we. Isabel stared at her. The prickling on the back of her neck spread down her arms and to her throat. “You mean you...” She couldn’t find the words.

  Annelise got up and walked to the window. She folded her slender arms across her midsection.

  Magnus hurried over to her with the strides of a much younger man. His stance as he planted himself behind her was protective. He smoothed his hands over her shoulders and murmured something in Danish.

  Isabel caught some of what Grandfather said: “You never told me....”

  Annelise’s reply was indistinct. Then, in Danish again, Magnus said, “You do not have to speak of this to anyone, ever.”

  This time, Isabel understood Annelise’s response: “Keeping silent is just as hurtful as telling the truth. Nothing will make it...” The next word was one Isabel didn’t recognize in Danish.

  “He’s right,” she said, speaking to Annelise but sending Mac a look. “You’re under no obligation to talk about any of this.”

  “I understand that. And I’ve gone through most of my life in silence.” She turned back to them, and seemed to grow in stature as she straightened her shoulders. The evening light through the window outlined her slender form. “I believe I would like to be heard now.”

  Tess went over and gripped her hand. “Really?”

  Annelise nodded again. “If I survived the ordeal then I can survive the telling of it.”

  Both Tess and Magnus urged her to sit down. “I cannot argue with that,” Magnus said, still speaking Danish. “Sit down, love, and take your time.”

  Love. The endearment filled Isabel with confusion. It felt both strange—and strangely right—to hear her grandfather refer to her as his love.

  Annelise was silent for a moment, though her expression became lively and engaged. Finally, she started speaking. “The only way I can bear to think about what occurred is to imagine that it happened to another person, in another life,” she said. Her voice was soft and flat-toned, devoid of emotion. Or perhaps, Isabel reflected as the old woman carefully and deliberately folded her hands in her lap, the emotion was buried so deep, it was unreachable.

  “At the age of thirteen, I was forced to have a Nazi SS officer’s baby,” the old lady stated.

  Isabel felt nauseated. Her pulse thudded heavily in her gut.

  Tess moved her chair closer to Annelise. Her eyes brimmed with unshed tears. She slid her arm around the old woman’s shoulders. “We’re here to listen.”

  “I appreciate that more than you know,” Annelise said. “What happened to me was not an uncommon occurrence during the Nazi regime. Yet these days, the Lebensborn program has been forgotten except by a few.”

  “That’s true,” said Tess. “Mac, had you heard of it before today?”

  “Yes,” he said. His face was stony. “It was a breeding program created by Himmler, but the idea is so outrageous, I never thought about it in actual human terms.” His gaze was deep with sympathy as he regarded Annelise. “Until now. Miss Winther, I’m so sorry.”

  Her folded hands tightened in her lap, though she nodded in acknowledgment. “The child was born at a special clinic about forty kilometers from Copenhagen. The place had beautiful furnishings, lace curtains, nurses in crisp uniforms, embroidered bed linens and lovely gardens. The food was abundant and delicious, unheard of in wartime. That is where I was given the Poesiealbum. I never wanted to make a single mark in it, but I complied because the whole time I was forced to stay there, I was plotting my escape.”

  “I’m glad you got away,” Isabel said softly.

  “Do you know what happened to the baby?” asked Tess.

  Annelise unfolded her hands and took hold of Magnus’s. “The infant was taken from me with its umbilical cord still attached. I never saw its face, though I’m quite certain I heard someone announce that it was a boy. I had been given a narcotic drug during labor, probably some sort of morphine, and my memories of those hours are vague and somewhat confusing. This is probably a mercy. I’m sure I would have been forced to bear more children. Another girl at the residence had born two in as many years. This made me absolutely determined to get away. Out of pure necessity and a will to survive, I had developed some useful survival skills.”

  “You must have be
en very brave,” Tess told her softly.

  “Sometimes desperation can look a lot like bravery,” Annelise declared. “There was a moment after the birth when the nurses’ guards were down and they were preoccupied with the infant. That was the moment I seized to escape from that place with the blood...still running down my legs.”

  Aching for the captive girl Annelise had been, Isabel felt a tear slip down her cheek. She tried to be discreet as she brushed it away. The image of the terrified girl haunted her.

  Annelise must have seen the horror and sadness in her eyes. “Pardon me, but I must speak plainly.”

  “Of course,” Mac said.

  “I stole some clothes from the clinic laundry and wheeled a cart of soiled linens off the grounds of the place.”

  “Please tell us you found help right away,” said Tess.

  “The birthing house was on an island. I told a local fisherman some nonsense story about needing to get back to the city, and persuaded him to ferry me on his daily run to Copenhagen. Once there, I went to a Catholic church in a farming neighborhood. I had heard some things about it, that it was a safe haven. A laywoman took me into her home and gave me a room in the attic. I slept for days, waking only to drink some soup and water. I left her as soon as I’d regained my strength, not wanting to put her in jeopardy.

  “Eventually I found safe haven with the Holger Danske, the resistance group I’d worked for before my arrest,” Annelise said. “As soon as I’d regained my strength, I rejoined their effort. It was dangerous, but I suppose I was looking to reclaim some sort of power and control over my life. I became a bit of a daredevil, and more vengeful than ever. I played fast and loose with my safety, because at that point, I was beyond caring.”

  “You’re amazing,” said Tess. “And heartbreaking.”

  “No, I am a survivor.”

  “She turned out to be one of the youngest and best agents in the organization,” Magnus said. In Danish, he said to her, “For the love of God, you should have told me.”