by Jan Moran
Sofia gasped for breath as her coughing subsided. What would Max and Danielle return to? She thought of little Nikolov—her precious grandson Nicky—and regret flooded her mind. Danielle had been so anxious about leaving him. Sofia had assured her the boy would be fine, that they would meet them in Paris. How wrong she had been.
Sofia passed a hand over her gaunt brow and leaned against the wall. Suddenly, she heard the rear door slam.
Heavy footsteps raced up the rear servant’s stairs. She knew the sound of those boots. “Heinrich?”
Sofia made her way up the entryway stairs and met Heinrich in the hall. He looked disheveled, his blond hair sticking up like thorns, his clothes soggy with perspiration. He held a small bag in his hand.
“Aunt Sofia. I–I thought you’d left already.”
Sofia pulled herself up and squared her shoulders. “You saw the car leave and you assumed I was in it. You did not want to face me?”
“No, I–”
“Where have you been?”
He lowered his pale blue eyes and studied his feet, then threw his head back and puffed out his chest. “I am going to join in the glory of the New Germany.”
Sofia’s stomach clenched and she reached out to the wall for support. She struggled to speak. “Wha-at?”
“I’ve enlisted.”
“For Germany?”
“I am German.”
Sofia was aghast, her breath rattling in her chest. “But you’ve lived here since you were ten. You’re more Polish than German.”
“No, you are Polish. My uncle was not. I had no choice after my parents died, did I?” His lip curled in a sneer. “My blood is German and I’m proud of it. Mein Führer needs me.”
She knew Heinrich idolized everything German, especially Hitler. Even as a child he’d played soldier games, staged battles and studied strategy. He yearned for the uniform, the comradeship, the imagined glory. How could she stop him? She touched his arm. “Heinrich, I’ve always loved you like my own son.”
“The great Maximillian? Don’t lie to me, Aunt Sofia.” He jerked away.
Anger swelled within her. “You don’t know what you’re doing. You don’t know what they’re doing.”
“Forging a new world order, that’s what. And I’m going to be a part of it.”
“Part of what, Heinrich? Part of their inhumane laws? Part of their racist regime, their fascist philosophy?”
Heinrich’s youthful face twisted with hatred. “That’s right. Your precious Max betrayed his race by marrying a little half-breed French Jew who passes herself off as Catholic. And you welcomed her into this home. You spent more time with her and that brat than you ever did with me.”
“Is that what’s behind this? You’re jealous of Danielle and little Nicky?” She shook her head in disbelief. True, Heinrich had been moody after Danielle arrived, but Sofia had assumed it was just adolescent behavior.
“Jealous? No, they’re beneath me, Aunt Sofia. And so are you.” He spun on his heel and pounded down the stairs.
Sofia heard the door slam. Her eyes welled with sorrow for Heinrich, her heart burned with rage against the Nazis. She leaned against the wall and tried to catch her breath.
Her poor, foolish, misguided Heinrich. She recalled how he’d been a frightened young boy, missing his Berlin friends, when he came to live with them. She thought that was the reason for his surly demeanor. But how he must have resented her. She pressed her hand to her mouth.
He has joined the enemy. He has betrayed the family.
A chill crept over her and she shivered. Heinrich knew the secret of Nicky’s heritage. He wouldn’t inform on little Nicky, would he?
She heard feet padding behind her.
Nicky flung his plump arms around her knees. “Grand-mère, what was Heinrich mad about?”
“Oh Nicky, it’s too complicated. But he’s gone now. He won’t be back.”
Nicky appeared thoughtful. “I know I’m supposed to like him, but he says awful mean things to me.”
Sofia’s heart clutched. So it was true.
“I’m glad he’s gone.”
Sofia knelt and hugged Nicky, even as her heart broke for Heinrich. “Go back to bed, Nicky, my dear. You need your rest.” She took his hand and walked him to the nursery.
After she tucked him into bed and kissed him, she went to her bedroom. Her mantle clock read after midnight, yet she had no time to indulge her aches and anxieties. Her maid had already fled in hysterics and there was still much to do.
She selected a simple black wool traveling dress and sewed her finest jewelry into the hem. Photographs, money, and real estate deeds went into a large black bag, along with a change of clothing, eyeglasses, medical supplies, and food.
Sofia remembered during the last war, the Great War, troops took over manor homes and estates for officer’s quarters and command posts. She glanced around. They might take my home, she decided, but I’ll not provide for their comfort.
Max and Danielle had planned to close the chateau. Now the task fell to her. Huffing, she collected her mother’s silverware and hid it in a cedar storage closet where she locked her old furs. She dragged her portrait and other family paintings down to the cellar, wincing with each step. Aching and panting, she rolled up the rugs and drew the draperies against the greying dawn. Yet she couldn’t help but feel her precautions might be futile.
Exhausted, she collapsed at her desk in the study. She tried once more to call Danielle’s parents in France. “Hello, hello?” But the line was thick with silence. The post and telegraph offices were also closed. Communication was cut off.
And where was Jacob?
Gasping for breath, Sofia took a moment to rest. Her weary eyes fell on the silver-framed photographs on her desk: The wedding picture of Max and Danielle, one of her beloved husband Carl, others of Max and Heinrich as children. She remembered how hard Max had worked to restore the factory he had inherited from his father, her Carl—that handsome, lovable rascal.
She and Carl hadn’t been married long when they were forced to flee Germany amidst an avalanche of Carl’s gambling debts. All that remained was Sofia’s family estate in Klukowski.
That was when they moved to Poland and Sofia encouraged Carl to establish a business. She sold family antiques to raise money to purchase the old crystal and glass factory. Soon the Von Hoffman factory employed half the village. They prospered for a time before Carl ran the business into near bankruptcy. When Carl, along with his brother and his wife, were killed in a train accident, Max inherited the floundering firm.
Max worked so hard he hadn’t had time to consider marriage. In fact, he was forty years old when he’d met Danielle at a perfume conference in Paris. Sofia smiled. But the beautiful Danielle had been worth waiting for.
Sofia couldn’t have asked for a better daughter-in-law. Danielle was well brought up, hard working, and talented. And in the lexicon of perfumery, Danielle had the nose. Someday her family’s perfumery, the small, yet world-renowned, Parfums Bretancourt, would pass to her. Max assumed she’d sell it, but Sofia knew that Danielle would never part with it. In the future, they planned to divide their time between the United States and Europe, keeping the Klukowski estate to use as a summer retreat. Sofia was so happy for the life they’d planned.
She shook her head sadly.
Her breathing restored, she removed the photographs from their frames and stashed the pictures in her bag, then checked her watch pin. Five-thirty. Threads of light crept into the room. Jacob should be here.
She woke Nicky and dressed him. From one of Max’s old shirts she fashioned a knapsack for Nicky.
Nicky hugged his favorite stuffed animal, a red-striped monkey. “I want to take Mr. Minkey.”
“That’s fine.” Danielle had made it for him. “But you must promise to carry him.”
“I will.”
At last, they were ready.
Sofia held Nicky’s hand and waited in the rear doorway for Jacob to return. A
distant church bell chimed seven times. What was keeping Jacob?
“Look over there,” Nicky said. The light summer breeze ruffled his fine, golden hair as he pointed to the west. Smudges of grey smoke drifted on the horizon.
Sofia sniffed. A faint burning odor permeated the morning air. She hugged Nicky to her breast.
But the boy grew restless.
“Let’s walk through the garden.” Sofia took his hand and he tried to run, but she refused to let go. “My, you’re energetic this morning.”
They knelt on the soft, dew-kissed carpet of grass. Sofia glanced around, taking solace in her garden. Realizing she might never see it again, she closed her eyes and inhaled the delicate aromas of her luscious red roses, the creamy white honeysuckle, and the lilac bushes that blazed purple every spring. She remembered when her grandmother and mother had planted many of the original plants, and when she later added to them. She inhaled again. They were the aromas of a sweeter time.
She began to cough—another brutal cough that consumed her body.
Nicky climbed into her lap and hugged her around the neck, his bright, Bretancourt green eyes wide with concern. “Are you still sick?”
She kissed his smooth cheek. “My dear, sweet child.” She knew she should prepare him. How much should she tell him? “Whatever happens, Jacob and his wife will look after you.”
“But where will you be?”
She hugged him. “Just promise you’ll do as they say.”
Nicky’s lower lip trembled.
“Don’t be afraid, my little dear. Courage, you must learn courage. Like your mother and father. They’ll be back for you, this I know.”
Suddenly, she heard a car turn into their lane. “Wait.” She pressed a hand to Nicky’s mouth and peered from the garden. When her car wheeled into sight relief surged through her.
Nicky scrambled from her lap. With great effort, she stood and smoothed her grey chignon, then took Nicky’s hand, and picked up her bag. She straightened, bone thin but regal, and strode to meet the car.
Jacob’s wife and children were crowded into the back of the car, along with Jacob’s older brother, Oscar. Sofia greeted them and gave Nicky’s hand to Jacob’s wife, Irma, who said, “Thank you, we never could have escaped without your kindness.”
Weary, Sofia smiled at her, then turned to Jacob. “Give me a moment.”
She walked to the front of the chateau, removed a large skeleton key from her pocket, and locked the pair of intricately carved entry doors. She hesitated on the stone steps.
Across the lane from their home stood the Von Hoffman Glass and Crystal Factory. The complex was quiet. The shutters were closed. Her heart ached for their employees, and for Max, who had put so many years of effort into rebuilding the business.
Her history was here in Klukowski, in the village named after her ancestors. She remembered Carl, so full of life and so proud of Max and Heinrich. Several generations of her family had lived on this land, descendents of a valiant Polish knight and his striking wife, a Silesian countess. Her great-great-grandfather had built the magnificent home. She swallowed hard, her throat tightening at the memories.
Her shoulders slumped for a moment before she lifted her chin. Her family had survived much; they would survive this. She gazed up at the great house and hoped it, too, would survive. For her son Max, for Danielle, and for Nikolov, the next generation.
She reached out with a quivering hand to stroke the worn entryway. The faded grey stones were smooth with time and cool beneath her touch. Closing her eyes, she leaned in and kissed the wall of her home. In her heart, she knew it was good-bye.
Jacob appeared at her side and placed his hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said, his tone soft and respectful. “It’s time to go.”
“I’m ready.”
Jacob offered her his arm, and Sofia rested her hand in the crook of his elbow, grateful for his support. She walked to the car, her head held high, and slid into the front seat. She took Nicky in her arms.
As they drove away, she turned to watch her grand home disappear behind the hill. Silent tears slipped from her eyes, splashing onto Nicky’s fine hair.
Nicky sat in her arms and clutched his stuffed monkey, clearly mindful of her mournful retreat.
Suddenly, a high thin whistle sounded overhead.
Sofia clutched Jacob’s arm. “What’s that?” Before he could answer, a deafening roar shook the car.
Sofia craned her neck to see. Black smoke billowed behind them. A silvery glint in the sky caught her eye, then another, and another. “Aeroplanes. Good Lord, they’re dropping bombs!”
Jacob pressed the accelerator to the floor.
3
Hours after the sinking of the Newell-Grey Explorer, Danielle sat shivering on the quiet darkened deck of the British destroyer that had come to their rescue. She drew a damp woolen blanket, heavy with its animalic aroma, around her shoulders, but it offered little warmth and less comfort.
Danielle owed her life to the Irish woman in the lifeboat whose strong arms had lifted her to the surface. Thankfully, everyone in her lifeboat had survived, including the little boy she’d promised to look after. Danielle was unharmed, except for a few bruises and a throbbing welt on the back of her head. But other passengers weren’t as fortunate. She shuddered at the memory of stiff, discolored bodies adrift in the sea, and tried to push the scent of death from her mind.
One thought revolved endlessly through Danielle’s mind. Where are they, where are they? She had seen neither Max nor Jon since she’d boarded the lifeboat. She could only pray they were aboard the ship that trailed them, a Norwegian vessel that had aided in the rescue. Both ships were observing radio silence, so survivors on the Norwegian ship could not be confirmed.
First Nicky, now Max. I can’t bear it, she thought, her head reeling. Have I lost them both? She drew her hands into fists and crushed Nicky’s woolen cap to her cheek, inhaling his memory. After the lifeboat had capsized, her sturdy purse had bobbed to the surface with Nicky’s cap inside.
She recalled the last moments she’d been with Max, and inevitably, the vision of the U-Boat appeared in her mind. Anger grew within her, tightening around her heart.
What right do these Nazis have? How had Hitler seized power, and why did people blindly follow him like so many mindless lemmings? She recalled the horrible stories that had filtered in from Germany and realized now, with a sinking feeling, that the stories must be true. People were being terrorized by their own police force. They had little choice but to acquiesce to the new laws. How had this madman risen to power? She swallowed against the bile rising in her throat. He’s nothing but a brutal little wallpaper hanger from Austria with a gift for public speaking and a clutch of barbaric ideas. To Danielle, his popularity was utterly unfathomable.
Muted sobs reverberated in the salted midnight air, but Danielle remained dry-eyed, resistant to any emotion but rage, her breath coming in short rasps.
She clasped her knees and rocked in the biting cold. Her husband might well be among the dead, yet she dared not think of mourning. She fixed her gaze toward England. They’d been told the Red Cross would help them find shelter and help with arrangements for the dead.
But no doubt, Nazi U-Boats tracked the ships’ movements. Would they even reach England? And then what?
At least Heinrich was with Nicky and Sofia. Although in truth, she’d always been wary of Max’s cousin. Heinrich acted distant, but Max only laughed and said it was his Prussian background. Heinrich treated her cordially, yet she sensed he viewed her as an interloper.
Danielle turned to concentrate on the blackened form of the Norwegian vessel. As the night progressed, exhaustion set in and despite her vigilance, she drifted into a troubled slumber.
When Danielle woke, the English shore was in full view. Groggily she thought, Where am I? What’s happening, where’s Max, where’s Nicky? Then the memory of the night before rushed through her mind, and she stumbled to her feet.
She drew herself farther into her soggy blanket and crinkled her nose against the sour smell of the still wet wool. The damp air held an ominous chill, and the charcoal sky reflected the somber mood of the morning.
She watched as the British destroyer maintained its position until the Norwegian ship docked, then the destroyer maneuvered into port.
Danielle saw solemn passengers lining the rail of each vessel, and strained to see if Max or Jon were among them. She peered out over the throng of people who’d gathered to greet the ships, heard them call out names in hope. Then the heavens burst with a crack of thunder and far below, furtive clusters of umbrellas unfurled against the sudden rain.
Danielle shuffled with the shivering mass of survivors herded off the ships and into a bleak processing area. She searched the crowd. Max, Jon? Where are they? But all she found were dry blankets and bland soup, and volunteers who could do little more than offer condolences.
“Refugees,” she heard them called. Her face burned with renewed anger. That’s what we are now, she thought, facing the bleak truth.
Barefoot and clutching her purse, Danielle moved to the front of the line and gave an efficient, grey-haired woman her information. With her heart in her throat, she asked about Max.
The woman consulted a list, frowned, then excused herself.
As she waited, Danielle licked her raw lips, tasting salt water. The smell of perspiration and dampness infiltrated her nose. Not far away, she noticed a trim man with a press credential tucked into his hatband. He sounded American.
“How many people were aboard?” he asked an official.
“Twelve-hundred ninety-four,” came the reply.
“Survivors?”
Danielle strained to hear.
“At last count, nine-hundred seventy-six.”
Her head throbbed as she calculated. More than three hundred dead.
The reporter scribbled in his notebook. “And what can you tell me about the S.S. Athenia?”
The official shook his head. “She was bound for the States, but suffered a U-Boat attack just north of Ireland. More than a hundred civilians and crew died.”