“I depended on you. You said we were partners in this, remember? Your grandfather depended on you to honor his wishes. And what about Adele and Vladimir? Don’t we owe it to them to tell their story? If you go through with this, how will anyone ever know what happened to them?”
“They’re gone, Sera. More than seventy years gone.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” he whispered. “And I think you know it too. We’ve looked in every corner there is. You may want this to end differently, but their secret might have to stay in Auschwitz—”
“I’m going to Paris.”
“What?”
“To Paris. To see the defendant in your case.”
“Alone?” William asked, without the usual strength in his voice.
“Yes.”
He glanced over at the worktable and the wooden stools upon which they’d once sat. Was he remembering the same night, the same conversation about the life they both longed to lead? Was he imagining what could have been had they lived it together?
Sera nodded. She was broken too. “How did you find her?”
“It was because of you.”
It was the last thing she wanted to hear. “I don’t understand.”
“I called my father, just like you said.”
Sera stood before him with arms crossed over her chest. “And what happened?”
“Nothing. He had nothing for me. So when I returned home to the estate, I began digging in boxes of photos in the attic—it was the only thing I could think to do. My mother had stored his old stuff up there when he left. And of course, it was a dead end. Just like I thought it would be. That is, until I found something none of the family had considered before. I found my grandfather’s Bible discarded in a box. I blew the dust off the cover and flipped through the pages. And in it, I found a snapshot of my grandfather with a woman I’d never seen before. It was dated 1967.” He tilted his head toward the ghostly image of Adele hanging on the wall behind them. “Believe it or not, our painting was in the background. The back of the photo had her name. He knew the one thing that would lead me back to it had to be turning to God.”
Sera’s pulse quickened. She felt a rush in her veins and almost grabbed the front of his shirt on instinct. “Do you have the photo? Is it Adele in the photo with him?”
He stood back for a moment, a rather curious look having taken over his features. “Is that all you care about, Sera? Finding the painting?”
“But don’t you want to know?”
William shook his head. “Of course I do. And I did what I had to for my family. I didn’t have a choice, Sera. But you do. You don’t have to give up everything in the present to live in the past. You can choose to have a new future.”
He was talking about the loss of her father. And her almost-wedding. It was her hurt. Her past. Her memory of pain that kept her from taking any second chance that could be handed to her.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, William.”
“I came back.” His words were spoken quietly, almost as if it pained him to say them aloud.
“What?”
“That night—the last night before I left to go home to California. I was stupid and impulsive. I made the taxi bring me back and I stood out there, trying to think of the words.” William paused, then tore a hand through his hair. “I was coming back to tell you that I . . .”
Sera wrapped her arms around her middle. Suddenly the room felt cold.
“To tell me what?”
He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“So why come back now? You dropped me completely. You dropped whatever was between us.”
“Because I saw you.” His words were heavy with feeling. It was unmistakable. “I saw you with him.”
She swallowed hard, knowing what he’d witnessed through the gallery windows. An embrace from her ex-fiancé and a lingering kiss on the cheek, with emotion on both sides.
“Yes. Michael was here.”
He seemed to scoff at the meager admission. “Now you tell me.”
“It wasn’t important. It didn’t change anything.”
“It looked important from where I stood, Sera.”
“And this was your revenge? To break your promise, file a lawsuit, and cash in your inheritance—because you thought you saw something that night?”
“Tell me. What did I see?”
Sera swallowed hard. “You saw a good-bye, William. That’s all it was.”
He shook his head. “What if I wouldn’t have come back? Would you have ever told me?”
“It was innocent, William,” she cried, tears stinging her eyes as she shook her head. “He’s getting married.”
“Married?”
She nodded, unable to say anything for a moment. A pin could have dropped and it would have crashed through the silence loud as a thunderclap.
“Well, I’m happy for him. And his bride. But it doesn’t change anything between us, does it?”
“He came to tell me he was sorry. For everything.”
“Sorry for what? Leaving you at the altar? For casting you off like you meant nothing? Well, you meant something to me.” William pounded his palm to his chest on the words. “He’s a fool who will never know how much you’re worth.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Don’t I?”
Sera closed her eyes tight, the image of his hurt too much to look at. “How could you make me care—only to betray me? After what I told you? I put myself out there! I exposed two years of pain and shared it with you because I thought you really cared.”
“I did—” He paused. “Do. I do care.”
“But you lied to me, and that trust—now it’s broken. And you can’t go back.”
Soft thunder rattled the windows behind them and a flash of white light glinted off the glass. It was a punctuation mark on Sera’s last words, though neither appeared to need such a thing.
Is this it, God? Sera’s heart felt like it was bleeding. Is this over?
“When do you leave for Paris?”
“Tomorrow.” She wiped at her eyes with the back of her palm and sniffed before continuing. “I had to get through the show first.”
He stared at her, a curious look taking over his face. She saw it. His eyes were guarded in much the same way they’d been that first day in his estate office. He’d been distant then, and clearly, he was distancing himself now.
“Did it ever occur to you that you don’t have to find the end of Adele’s story to have the beginning of a new one yourself?” He shook his head on the last words. “When you walked across the gallery that last night, I thought we were taking a step forward—together. That was more than enough for me. I’d have given up the chase if I thought you could too.”
“But it wasn’t enough, was it? It’s easy to judge when you got what you wanted.”
He surprised her then by taking a step closer until his mouth brushed up against her ear. She shivered when his breath warmed the side of her neck. “You have no idea what I want, Sera. Like everyone else—you never asked.”
“William, I . . .” Sera couldn’t think what to say.
It had never occurred to her that he might have understood a little more of heartache than she gave him credit for. She’d always been so wrapped up in her own pain that she hadn’t thought much about his.
“We’ll never find our own peace, Sera,” he said, and brushed his hand over her arm from elbow to wrist, until it finally stopped at her fingertips. “I sat in that attic with my grandfather’s Bible in my hands and realized that I don’t have peace about any of this—not in my relationship with a grandfather who’s now gone or with a father who’s walked out on his family. I know I’ll find the painting and save my grandfather’s legacy, but at what cost? When all is said and done, will I have anything left that really matters?”
She closed her eyes on the image of him sitting in a dark attic with his grandfather’s
Bible in his hands, wondering about what might have been.
Could they move past regret? Or was it too late?
“I’m sorry, Sera.” His words held sadness. “I came back that night to tell you something. But I need to tell you something else now.”
“Which is . . . ?”
He squeezed her hand, then pecked a kiss to the tear on her cheek and turned to walk away. “I hope Paris turns out to be everything you hoped it would be.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
October 19, 1944
The aftermath of the revolt at Crematorium IV was staggering in its ability to silence the brave.
All the men who helped in the attack were rounded up and killed before the burnt-out shell of the building had stopped smoldering. The pile of brick and mortar, now charred and black, continued to leak smoke that bled up into the sky like a menacing shadow, almost alive as it curled up to mingle with the tips of the clouds. Adele watched it. Hated it. Felt that it mocked any attempt the prisoners had made at escaping their cruel fate.
It was as if the scorched building laughed at them all for daring to hope.
And the men were gone. Just like that. In a hail of gunfire and shouting guards, the prisoners’ long-awaited attempt to fight back had proven futile. They’d been gunned down. Attacked by the dogs as they tried to clip holes in the barbed wire. Chased and given not even a breath of freedom before they were silenced . . . And now the women involved were holed up somewhere else in the camp, placed in isolation, awaiting their own execution at the hands of the SS guards.
Adele heard water drip somewhere behind her.
It was a cold day, wet and unforgiving for autumn, but she hardly noticed. Her nerves were no longer raw. The threat of death no longer loomed. The daily terror had been replaced by despondence so that the chill was not bothersome, and the light tapping of the drops from the leaky roof became a reliable companion.
Adele felt the disconnection in her soul, if that was possible. Numbness had crept in and made a home. She felt cold. And empty. And hollow now that the painting in the stairwell was all she had left to connect her to Omara.
Adele was giving up.
She would still be required to play in tonight’s concert to honor visiting members of the Third Reich. It was rumored that several high-ranking officials were making an appearance to show solidarity within the ranks, though that bit of news was speculation on the tongues of the prisoner population. Regardless of whether it was true, Adele was sickened by it. She was sickened by the senseless death the revolt had caused. And she was sickened still further that she must now play for the men and women who would celebrate the execution of the only person she had left in the world.
So she sat on the floor, the lovely dress they’d given her for the concert that night cradled in her lap, staring up at the ghostly painting on the wall. They’d once stood there together, she and Omara, and had talked of hope. Of God. Of the human spirit and the great beauty of creation. Adele stared at it now, transfixed as her hand ran the length of the beautiful ice blue fabric in her lap, wondering what would happen to Omara’s masterpiece.
She told herself that to have something of worth in a world full of chaos was the very definition of beauty. It felt like a spiritual liberation that couldn’t be silenced. These prisoners, the ones who painted or wrote poetry or played in the orchestra—they refused to let that spirit die. And this, she decided, is why the heart creates.
God plants the talent and it grows, sustained by a spirit-given strength to endure, even in the midst of darkness. It thrives in the valleys of life and ignores the peaks. It blooms like a flower when cradled by the warmth of the sun. It remains in a hidden stairwell in a concentration camp. It grows, fed in secret, in the heart of every artist.
The God-worship of every life—this was the art of Auschwitz.
The image of the painting was burned on her heart. This was Omara’s legacy. This was the tribute to those who had lived and endured and died all around her . . . Adele could imagine Omara’s hands, aged and knotted fingers moving with care over the makeshift canvas in the hidden stairwell, painting the image with as much pride as any artist in a modern studio. It was her art and here it would be lost.
Adele wiped at the tears that had pooled in the sunken skin around her eyes.
Would she play or should she refuse? Would she take a bullet in the head?
The young violinist in the painting looked back at her.
She looked pure, perhaps as Austria’s Sweetheart had looked all those months ago when she’d first stepped off the train platform and into her new shadow of a life. But in looking at the shaved head, the sad eyes, and the hollow expression in the painting, it became clear; there was but one thing to do.
Adele rose up from the floor. And before she could talk herself out of it, she picked up the dress and shoes and walked out to the warehouse to retrieve a pair of scissors.
A general gasp permeated the crowd when Adele appeared on the concert hall stage.
She saw the sea of faces, some confused, others exclaiming at how the Germans could have allowed Austria’s Sweetheart to have been shorn of her crowning glory. She heard their whispers, likely appalled by the loss of her dignity before such an auditorium of distinguished guests.
It was surreal, walking out before an audience of the Nazis’ elite for the second time. And knowing what she must have looked like to them, with her trademark blond locks gone and her crown shaved smooth in replacement, face without powder or rouge, her skin translucent and pale as death. It was no wonder that the quiet murmurs sent a wave of shock to blanket the concert hall. She knew how she must look. Still, Adele kept her chin up as she stood tall before them, resolute and without shame now that her decision had been made.
No one had thought to check on her prior to the performance.
Why would they? None of the guards ever had. The musicians had always been too terrified to do anything the least bit out of place. But not this time. Adele knew it was reckless but she didn’t care. The feeling of taking scissors to her hair and shaving her head smooth had been freeing—she’d never imagined shedding that old part of her would minister to her soul. She fully expected to receive a death sentence because of it.
It didn’t matter now. She’d already decided that regardless of her fate, this would be her last performance.
All she could do was think about God and how she would honor Him with her gift. For the first time in her life Adele felt beautiful in her weakness, a perfect creation with the shorn locks, feeling God’s strength uplifting her from all sides. She was one of them now, the Jews and the other lost ones. Now that her former life had all but faded away, the prisoner population had become fused to her core. Her heart was with those who had died in Auschwitz and she would never, ever be the same person again.
Live or die—the outcome no longer mattered. Adele knew she would never leave Auschwitz.
In the echoing silence of the concert hall, she raised her bow and tucked the violin up under her chin. With her heart free and the scars on her palms burning to give the performance of her life, she waited for the crowd to quiet and the conductor to proceed, though he too appeared shaken. He looked to someone offstage, lifted his eyebrows in question, then turned to the orchestra with a look of subdued fear on his face.
He called them to attention.
And just as she’d always done, Adele breathed out deeply. She set her back poker straight. Her arms were fluid and ready to be used with proficiency. She looked at the crowd, the same sea of faces greeting her as a stranger, and tried to instead imagine Omara in the front row. She pictured the mothers who had walked the lonely path with their children, remembered the elderly who followed with bent backs and tired steps toward the gas chambers. She pictured everyone who’d been lost, urging her on, telling her it was okay to finally let go . . . that the Butterfly could dance with just one more song of praise lifted upward from her violin.
The rest of the orchestra sat
at attention with her.
Adele was ready to play with every fiber of her being. Instinctively, like so many mornings at the camp gates or during the horrendous selections at the train platform, she looked up. Her eyes went to the second chair in the back row, just as they always had.
And in that perfect moment, all time stopped along with her heart.
Vladimir.
A breath of disbelief escaped her lips. Her fingers trembled and her feet twitched with their need to run to his side.
Is it really you?
She blinked once. Twice. No, her eyes weren’t playing tricks.
His head was shaved. And he’d been beaten at some point, for a scar marred his forehead along his hairline and the telltale shade of purple darkened his left cheekbone. Appearing frail with a washed-out face, her love sat, quite alive but dreadful in appearance, on the same stage as she. Beaming at her with the same heart-stopping smile she’d dared not hope to ever see again.
Yes, it’s me. She could almost hear his heart whispering to her. I’m still here, Adele.
Her Vladimir looked back with joyful tears freely dampening the eyes that blinked three times just for her. They couldn’t talk. Couldn’t touch. Couldn’t do anything but know that they were onstage together. And whether they’d have a future together in this life or not, this one moment of worship they’d give back to God. They’d do so gratefully—together.
They had the past—it was all she’d been able to think on in the years she’d been in Auschwitz. And while they may not be gifted with a future, Adele was overcome by the present, the moment she’d always prayed would come. In that instant, she thanked God for second chances. He’d heard her prayers and had gifted her a last good-bye.
She blinked back. Quickly. Three times. And Vladimir nodded, ever so slightly, keeping his eyes fixed on her.
It was fitting somehow that she played Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto in E Minor, for it was one of the unique concertos to begin with the violin solo. The song called her to attention and she gave herself up to it. Longing for peace. Searching for God in such a soulless place. She played the crying melody with eyes closed and arms that moved swift as the wind through Birkenau’s birch forest, her heart soaring in worship as the notes were carried from her heart to the strings on her violin, and echoed behind her by the orchestra.
Butterfly and the Violin (9781401690601) Page 26