by Bodie Thoene
Andre followed his gaze, hoping to glimpse Juliette, but the stairs were empty.
“Thank you, Pascal. You may show the colonel in. That will be all.”
The servant bowed, clicked his heels like a Prussian aristocrat, and stepped aside. Pivoting with military precision, he hurried down the corridor.
Silence reigned as the two men contemplated one another for the first time. An enormous grandfather clock counted the seconds.
“You are Colonel Chardon.” Snow nodded once. “She has your eyes.”
“I had to speak with you.”
“We may be a very ancient house, but we do have the modern conveniences. You might have telephoned.”
“Like the last time? To give you opportunity to go to . . . where was it?”
“Belgium.” Snow’s eyes narrowed. “We will be able to speak more freely in here.”
Andre entered the large, high-ceilinged room with tall, Gothic windows overlooking the Petrusse River. It was lined with bookshelves that surrounded an alcove where three original paintings of haystacks by Monet were hung side by side to capture the full effect of the changing light.
On the wall behind an enormous, ornately carved desk was a full-length portrait of a woman in a long, yellow gown of Victorian fashion. She resembled Elaine. Andre’s eyes lingered on the woman’s features.
“I see you are a man who appreciates beauty,” Snow said gruffly.
“She looks so much like—”
“She was Elaine’s mother. She passed her perfection along to my daughter. And ultimately to your daughter as well.”
“Monsieur Snow,” Andre began, “I must speak to you about Juliette.”
“She is at school, or I might have had you arrested at the door. You have been here before; have you not? Standing there on the riverbank?”
“Yes.” Andre glanced at the light streaming through the window. Snow had watched him from here.
“Won’t you sit down, Colonel Chardon? I suspect I know why you have come.” There was resignation in his voice. He took a seat in a tall wingback leather chair opposite Andre. “I hear that the Nazis are collectors of great art.” His gaze lingered on Monet’s haystacks. “Hermann Göring, is it? He has had a palace built in Berlin just to house the paintings he has stolen.” He inclined his head, as if bowing to the inevitable. “Did you know the haystacks in the fields just across the river from us in Germany now conceal machine-gun emplacements?”
Andre inhaled deeply with relief. It was true that Abraham Snow had good reason to hate the man who had impregnated his daughter then not married her, but he was a realist. “That is why I hoped to speak with you today.”
“Of course.” Snow smoothed his mustache. “We in Luxembourg are protected by an army of three hundred and fifty soldiers, Colonel. I am no fool, although others in the Grand Duchy may be. How long do you think we have?”
“It is spring. The ground is drying out.”
“I drove to the Meuse yesterday. The Germans are observing our neutrality in a peculiar way. They have built their pontoon bridges halfway out from their side of the river to the center of the stream.” He gave a bitter laugh and reached for a box of cigars on his desk. He offered one to Andre, who refused it, then took one for himself. “You are a soldier, Colonel. How long would it take them to construct the other half of their bridges into Luxembourg if der Führer is so inclined?”
“No doubt the parts are prefabricated.”
“How long?”
“An hour.”
With much thought, Snow trimmed the end of his cigar and lit it. “A single hour. And Luxembourg would go up in smoke.”
“It could be. Yes. And that is why I came. If the Germans come through the Ardennes and Luxembourg—”
“If?” Snow interrupted. “Is it not inevitable?”
“There are some who think not.”
Snow laughed. “Well, then, they are in for a surprise, are they not, Colonel?”
Andre did not express his own certainty. “I am concerned for your welfare.”
“And the welfare of my granddaughter?”
“Of course.”
Snow let the ash on the end of his cigar grow. “It has occurred to me, of course, that I may be at some disadvantage considering my social status. That is, if Hitler turns his eye on Luxembourg.” He held up his fingers, ticking off logical reasons for danger. “I am, first of all, a Jew. A very unpopular thing to be in the eyes of the Nazis. Secondly, I own the highest-producing steel manufacturing plant in the Duchy. And thirdly, of course, I have a collection of fine art that would be highly prized by Hermann Göring.”
“Good reasons to get out of the way. Just in case.”
“I considered Switzerland. But it is rumored the Nazis will move against Switzerland at the same moment they strike Belgium, Holland, and our little corner of the world.”
“I cannot speak to that. Only to the fact that Luxembourg is likely to be a very busy intersection in a long German highway before long.”
Abraham Snow tapped the cigar delicately on the edge of the ashtray. “All of this does not mean that I do not despise you for what you have done. However, even in your folly you accomplished one good thing in your life. There is Juliette. My last real treasure, Colonel. The Nazis do not like Jewish children any more than they like steel magnates and art collectors, I am told.”
“Then let me take her to Paris, to my home,” Andre urged. “You will both be welcome . . . safe there. Two million French soldiers stand between Germany and Paris, Monsieur Snow. I cannot think that line will be broken. And . . . I will not . . .” He faltered, unable to finish.
“You will not tell her who you are?”
“It does not matter. Her safety is my only concern now.”
“In that we see eye to eye. Otherwise you would not be here. When will you take her?”
“Tonight. But you will not be coming with her?”
“I will follow later. If there is a later.”
6
Momentous Events
With a promise to pick up Josie at seven o’clock the next morning, Hermann Goltz let her out at the ancient Black Gate in Treves. The Porta Nigra Hotel, named for this Roman wall, was a grand old pile built in the Victorian splendor of the 1890s. But now swastika banners draped the gingerbread cornices. Tall, arched windows looked out on a quaint square that bustled with men in uniform.
The staff cars sporting the flags of officers from the German High Command arrived one after the other in front of the hotel. Josie recognized these men from photographs and her brief stay in occupied Poland. Arriving first was the chief of Army Group A, von Rundstedt, and his army commanders, Busch and List, as well as Army Group B’s chief, von Bock, and his subordinates, Reichenau and von Kuchler. Following these were the lesser lights: division leaders Erwin Rommel and Heinz Guderian.
Josie watched them enter the Porta Nigra with the sense that she had somehow stumbled into the hub of the Wehrmacht universe. There was a tangible excitement in the atmosphere. This gathering of eagles held the portent of momentous events.
Not one head turned her way as she ascended the steps and entered the hotel among the less vaunted members of the General Staff. Josie brushed shoulders with the plainclothes Gestapo agents, uniformed secretaries, and young adjutants all crowding into the lobby. Like a school of tiny scavenger fish, they swarmed after the sharks, oblivious to everything but the proud backs of their masters.
No one checked her documents. Would she be at the Porta Nigra without permission from Berlin? Impossible!
Josie hung back as they tramped en masse down a wide corridor to the double doors of a meeting room. Was Major Horst von Bockman among them? she wondered. Who of all these sycophants would have the courage to bring a Jewish child into the midst of such a congregation?
The undertone of conversation sounded like a gaggle of geese. Coats and gun belts were hung on a long polished coatrack in the hall. Here was proof of the superiority of the German n
ation; was it not? No one in the Reich would dare to steal the gun or the coat of a general.
The doors banged shut. The roar subsided to a murmur. Josie remained alone in the foyer and was at last approached by a wizened little doorman in the long, green coat of a turn-of-the-century hack driver.
“May I direct you, Fräulein?”
“I have reserved a room.”
With this revelation, he handed her over to the desk clerk, who confirmed the fact that American journalist Josephine Marlow was indeed expected and most welcome in Treves. So far so good. He picked up a dusty book entitled Rules for the Entertainment of American Tourists and rang the bell to summon a porter. When Josie pointed out that she had no luggage, she was escorted to her small hotel room, where the red fabric of the Nazi flag blocked the view out onto the square. There, as instructed, she settled down to wait.
***
Wehrmacht Major Horst von Bockman emerged from the German staff meeting at the Porta Nigra Hotel in the late afternoon. The ever-present Gestapo agents lounged in overstuffed chairs in the lobby. They pretended to read the Frankfurter Zeitung as they observed the comings and goings of everyone who was not one of them. Wehrmacht officers made quiet jokes about Himmler’s goons, citing the fact that this race of weasels had completely disappeared when the real action had started in Poland. They had only resurfaced when the bombs stopped falling. Soon enough they would scurry back to Berlin and hide in the Chancellery bunker once the offensive against France began.
In the meantime, they were here in Treves and were as dangerous as an 88 mm long rifle. Horst resisted the urge to climb the stairs and knock on the door of No. 221. He had spotted the tall, chestnut-haired Josephine Marlow instantly among the crush of the crowd this morning. The American had arrived safely at least and had moved easily through the confusion of the meeting as Horst had hoped. But things were quiet now, and he dared not push their luck. He decided to wait until after supper to go to her room. By then most of Himmler’s agents would be full of sauerbraten and half drunk on good Münchner beer.
He escaped the cloud of tobacco smoke, emerging onto the steps of the hotel. The morning had given some promise of warmth, but now there was a chill in the air.
Thousands of soldiers strolled along the twisting lanes of medieval Treves. They cluttered the sidewalks and bargained for mementos to send to their families back home. Inkwells, cheap fountain pens, lead paperweights fashioned in the form of the cathedral all bore the legend Souvenir of Treves. By tomorrow night, Horst knew, they would be called back to their units in preparation for the offensive. By the end of the week, it was quite possible that the fresh-faced private waiting patiently to purchase a pink comb for ten times its worth would no longer have a head.
And all the while, on the other side of the line? French and British soldiers, destined to die, were also being lovingly cheated by the merchants of their homelands. Just boys, all of them. Horst could not help feeling pity for them. The day was so beautiful. How many beautiful days did the world have left? He could count what remained of peace in hours now.
Horst inched his way through the throng and turned up an alleyway in a shortcut to the house of his wife Katrina’s aunt. The echo of youthful laughter pursued him. The living voices of the condemned already seemed a distant memory.
By tomorrow afternoon the shops will be empty. . . .
The windows of the half-timbered home on St. Helena Strasse were open wide to let in the fresh air. Katrina was playing Aunt Lottie’s piano. Horst could hear the music of Beethoven’s “Für Elise” as he rounded the corner of the medieval lane. Window boxes overflowed with red and yellow blooms.
By tomorrow afternoon Katrina will be on a train to Berlin and I will be gone. . . .
He quickened his pace. He was grateful that the baby had given her reason to come to Treves. Pastel banners in the sky began to deepen to lavender and purple as he looked up through the steep gables. He took the stairs to the front door two at a time.
Katrina was here, he knew, but it seemed like a dream. Reality loomed, terrible and dark, over the beauty of Treves. How many years would it be before there was another spring day like this one in Europe?
Katrina and Yacov were alone in the house when Horst entered the small sitting room. She did not look away from the piano until the baby playing happily at her feet squealed and crawled quickly to Horst.
Horst stood awkwardly gazing down as Yacov reached to bat his reflection in the highly polished boots.
Katrina stopped playing. She smiled at the scene. “Pick him up, Horst. He wants you to pick him up.”
The tall man scooped up the child and raised him high overhead. Yacov chuckled a deep and rollicking baby laugh that made Horst smile in spite of all the news he had heard today.
“You should be a father,” Katrina said wistfully.
He held Yacov in the crook of his elbow and sat in a delicate petit-point chair beside the window of the bric-a-brac–cluttered room. “When things are different, we will have children. When our world is not controlled by madmen and morons and sadists.”
“When will that be?”
He ignored her question. “Where is Aunt Lottie?”
“I took her to the train station. She will stay at Aunt Margaret’s until . . . I don’t know how long.”
“We are alone, then.”
Yacov drove his finger into the side of Horst’s mouth as if to disagree with the last statement.
“Almost alone,” Horst corrected himself.
“Yes.” Katrina folded the sheets of music. “You did not tell me if the American came.”
“She did.”
Katrina lowered her head. “I see.”
“You are sorry she came.”
“He is a good baby, Horst.” She did not look at her husband or the child. “I was hoping—”
He interrupted. “He is not a lost puppy.”
She straightened. “That was a harsh thing to say. Please, I only meant that I will miss him.”
“I suppose his mother feels the same. If she is still alive,” he remarked bitterly. He hated the fact that he wanted to argue with her, even when it was not her fault.
She glared at him. “What happened to you between this morning and now?”
He rubbed his forehead, attempting to push away the ache. “We are all being called up. Every unit. You know what that means.”
Her eyes lingered on the baby. “It means . . . he must go with her. Must.” Then her gaze flitted to Horst’s face. “It means this is our last night. It means . . . let’s not waste what few hours we have left. Not argue. Look at me, Horst. Please.”
He nodded and stretched out his hand to her.
She came to him and cradled his head.
“I am sorry,” he whispered. “For myself. For you. For this child and ten million others. For everyone. And there is nothing more I can do. There is no changing anything.”
***
The interior of the Snow mansion was built in the grand style of the nineteenth century. A formal staircase led up to a large sitting room with Louis XIV furniture and a massive concert piano in the corner. French doors opened onto a broad balcony that overlooked the Petrusse River.
It was nearly 8 pm, but the sky was still light behind the rain clouds when Andre arrived and was directed by the sad-eyed butler up to the sitting room.
At the top of the stairs was a portrait of Elaine in the blue dress Andre had so loved. She smiled down at him. Her tranquil gaze followed him with the same tolerant amusement he had seen in her eyes a thousand times when they had been together.
“You have been a fool, Andre,” she seemed to say. “You missed the best of everything. You lost me and nearly lost Juliette! But now you have another chance. Take it!”
Those words thrummed in his head with every step: Another chance! Another chance! Another chance!
He entered the pale yellow room that displayed the stamp of Elaine’s good taste. Monsieur Snow stood beside the pi
ano that Elaine had played. He wore a dark burgundy smoking jacket. The dourness of his expression and the darkness of his form and clothing seemed to clash with the brightness of the space.
Andre’s breath was coming fast as he scanned the room for Juliette. The little girl was not here.
Snow did not move as Andre entered. He pivoted his head slightly in acknowledgment and nodded to the butler in some unspoken signal that the two men understood.
The servant gave Andre a half smile, as if to indicate that he had kept his promise from Andre’s first visit and given the doll to Juliette. Pascal was an ally, silently cheering Andre on with his warm brown eyes.
“You are very prompt, Colonel,” Snow said stiffly.
“I hope not too early.”
“Juliette is not yet here.” Snow inclined his head slightly. “Ballet class. Like her mother at that age.” There was infinite sadness in his voice. “We are losing our whole world. But little girls must have dancing lessons.”
How to reply? Should he promise that Juliette would forever have ballet lessons? piano lessons? ride the carrousel in the Tuileries every Sunday? Should he tell Monsieur Snow that his granddaughter would live in a world as perfect as if there were no war?
Finally he said, “Shall I collect her luggage before she comes back? Perhaps it will make the parting easier.”
“There will be time for that. My servant Grundig will see to it.”
“How did she take the news that she is leaving?”
“She does not know yet.” The old man’s shoulders sagged for just an instant. “I could not bring myself to tell her everything today. Only that she would be leaving with a friend of her mother’s for a short visit.”
It was clear in his expression that Snow did not believe he would ever see the child again. This was more than just a temporary parting for him. It was a final farewell.
Andre took a step nearer and extended his hand, palm up, like a supplicant begging for forgiveness. “Please. You must come with her. Elaine would approve if—after everything—we were to become friends. Please come to stay in my house in Paris until this business is over.”
