Time's Hostage: The dangers of love, loss, and lus (Time Series Book 1)

by Brenda Kuchinsky

  “Asshole? I thought you liked him very much,” Chanel protested.

  “I did until I saw him thoroughly fucking you.”

  “We both wanted this.”

  Chanel started to turn to Sophia for support. And then an ebullient Barth came out on the terrace, saving Sophia from the triangulation set up by the two women.

  “I’ve had a refreshing sleep. I’m surrounded by my three favorite people. I’m in Normandy, ready to feast on cheeses and chocolates and whatever else the locals serve up,” Barth said, oblivious to the tension that was thick in the air like a choking fog. “You three look like you could use a little cheering up. How about some bubbly?”

  Sophia flashed on Dirk pouring champagne, undressing her, whipping her. “I’ll stick with the calvados, my newfound friend,” Sophia said, doing damage to her left ear.

  “Relax. We’re here to enjoy ourselves and the girls,” Barth said, pulling her hand away from her ravaged ear. “I’ll try some of that,” he said.

  “I’ll stick with tea,” Chanel said, rubbing her flat belly.

  No one wanted to continue the discussion.

  “What happened to Jack?” Lili asked. “Wasn’t he supposed to join you?”

  “He couldn’t. Some big case came up. Murder and mayhem. It involves a prominent citizen who may have killed his wife and botched the alibi,” Sophia said. “Maybe next year.”

  “It’s just as well. We’re postponing the big celebration we promised you. I’m not up for celebrating our marriage right now.”

  “Whatever you think is best. We’re here to enjoy you and Chanel, party or no party,” Sophia said.

  “When are we going to La Petite Auberge? I’m ravenous,” Barth said. “Still tired, but ravenous.”

  “Let’s finish our drinks and go. It’s nearby, and then we can call it an early night. We’re all worn out one way or another,” Lili said.

  “You two chose wisely. For a small place, Rouen is impressive. Location, beauty, and history. I’m already thinking of our next visit. Maybe I can show my work at the Galeries Lafayette here in town.”

  Barth’s exuberance was jarring to the three glum women. He didn’t notice. “Once we’re at this restaurant, I’ll tell you about my last painting, the departure from my old style. You two naughty vixens never saw it,” he admonished Lili and Chanel. “And wait until I tell you about what I’m working on now. It’ll knock your socks off. Maybe Sophia will let me tell you about the source of my inspiration for this latest one. They will have to take me seriously now. I’m no longer just a lighthearted, decorative painter,” Barth said, puffing away on his cigarette, sipping his brandy, and beaming away at the three silent women.

  Sophia glared at him. She wasn’t ready to bandy about her discovery about her mother. She hadn’t fully absorbed it herself. And the letter accompanying that heavily laden photo was still an unknown quantity.

  The charms of La Petite Auberge were lost on Sophia. She had reverted to brooding. About Dirk. About Lili and Chanel. About her mother and that fucking smug Nazi. For once she wasn’t engaging in emotional eating to allay her sorrows.

  The other three were oohing and aahing their way through the food. Lili had perked up. Chanel was feeding her tidbits and kissing her in between bites.

  “You two are so adorable together,” Barth said.

  Chanel is probably trying to ease a guilty conscience, Sophia thought darkly. I’m not buying the faithful innocent act either.

  The garlicky food tasted like cardboard to Sophia, but she enjoyed the plentiful drinks. Aperitifs, wine, and more calvados.

  Amid all the eating and drinking, Barth forgot to expound on his paintings and no one asked.

  Once Sophia and Barth were settled in the guest bedroom, which was painted a pretty salmon, Sophia tore her top and bra off and jumped into bed in only a slip and panties, unwashed and unbrushed.

  Mistaking this for a sexual overture, Barth followed suit.

  “You want to fuck me even though you’re not fueled by jealousy? That hasn’t happened in a while.”

  “Who says I’m not jealous. You may have met Dirk in London. Don’t think that thought hasn’t stayed with me,” he said, reaching for her nipple.

  “I won’t even dignify that fantasy with an answer,” she said, pushing his hand aside.

  Just as he was renewing his efforts, they heard a shrill squeal, followed by two bickering voices.

  “Come on. To drown them out,” Barth urged.

  “On one condition.”

  “Name it.”

  “You spank me first.”

  CHAPTER 45

  No one was in the mood for the botanical gardens, a treat reserved for their last full day in town. Exotic and variegated plants including an astronomical collection of fuchsia species, honey-producing beehives, ponds, and a beautiful Pan sculpture did not pique the disgruntled four’s interest.

  They were going nevertheless. Lili was determined to show her mother and Barth a good time. She had planned a lavish, old-fashioned European picnic, complete with a large rug to sit on and an enormous wicker picnic basket filled to overflowing with local cheeses, eggs, cold cuts, breads, pastries, chocolates, fruits and veggies, and an assortment of wines and hard cider. She envisioned them languishing in the sunshine and fresh air, eating and drinking, talking volubly and laughing heartily. You couldn’t picnic properly in Miami. The fire ants would eat you alive.

  Sophia, in no mood for anything in the morning, had sequestered herself in the guest bedroom, drinking excellent coffee, which was relentlessly intensifying her hangover. Barth’s reluctant, tepid attempt at spanking her had not only succeeded in turning her off but it also caused her to pine for Dirk. She was inconsolable.

  Last night’s bedroom fiasco had finally caused Barth’s touristic joviality to dissipate like a wisp of smoke. Sophia’s poor response to his spanking, which had sparked some suspicion, had succeeded in dragging him down to the emotional depths of the other three.

  And Lili and Chanel never surfaced from the subterranean grotto of jealousy and resentment, fueling a simmering, unremitting battle that was inevitably eroding their love and tranquility.

  Here they were. Four unwilling participants, buried in their own heads, the beauty of the birds and the bees lost on them.

  Sophia was the first to make a supreme effort to rouse herself and pretend to enjoy herself, for Lili’s sake.

  “I love this place. And a picnic. What a wonderful idea for deprived Floridians. Lili, you are a clever girl. I feel like I’m in a Jean Renoir film. Maybe La Bête Humaine? I can’t remember it. Maybe we can have a Jean Renoir festival next Christmas.” Sophia was rambling.

  “I hope to be included next time,” Barth chimed in.

  “If you hadn’t disgraced yourself in the first place…” Sophia trailed off, biting back the bitter words.

  “What are you talking about?” Lili asked. “What did he do?”

  “I’ve said too much. We’re not talking about it. Someday I’ll tell you. Let’s eat, drink, and be merry for tomorrow we die.”

  Sophia and Barth glared at each other. Lili and Chanel exchanged puzzled glances.

  “Barth, tell us about your paintings, s’il te plaît,” Chanel entreated, pouting prettily, trying desperately to lighten things up.

  “Believe it or not, I’m not in the mood, my darling daughter-in-law,” Barth said.

  Sophia’s renewed gibe, combined with her withering critique of his performance last night, had demoralized him.

  “May I call you ‘Papa’?” Chanel asked.

  “Of course. That would please me,” Barth said, leaning over and kissing her on her smooth cheek.

  “Let’s eat,” Lili announced.

  CHAPTER 46

  “I still don’t get that whole spanking thing. How long have we been together? Suddenly, after almost nine years, you want to be spanked? No, not spanked. Thrashed is more like it,” Barth said.

  “Can’t I want to s
park things up in the bedroom without you becoming a brooding worrywart?” Sophia asked, packing her last bra and closing up her suitcase. “That’s exactly it, Barth. We’ve been together for a while now. I just wanted a little variety. A little spice.”

  “You kept your panties and slip on. Maybe somebody else has been spanking that ass.”

  “I kept them on because they were sexy.”

  “Let me see your ass. Pull your pants down. Now,” Barth demanded, looking like a bloodhound focused on his quarry, nostrils aquiver, eyes fixed.

  “I will do no such thing. You have some nerve.”

  Barth started chasing her around the room.

  “What is going on in here?” Lili asked, poking her head around the door, which was ajar. “Are you two fighting or playing?” she asked, a bemused look on her face.

  “A little of both,” Sophia said, breathing hard and pulling on her ear.

  “Saved by your daughter. But wait till we get home,” he threatened.

  “Ready to go?” Lili asked, bewildered by Barth’s last remark but knowing better than to ask for elucidation. Couples and their mysterious ways. “You don’t want to miss your plane. You can quarrel all the way across the ocean,” Lili said.

  “Almost,” Barth said, carelessly throwing a few more things into his suitcase before zipping it up, muttering, “Your mother distracted me.”

  They trundled out to the car, where Chanel was already waiting behind the wheel.

  “I’m going to miss you, Lili, and you too, Chanel,” Sophia said.

  “You’ll come back once the baby arrives?” Lili asked.

  “Of course we will,” Sophia promised. “Maybe we’ll come here for the holidays.” Maybe she could wangle a few days in Paris with Dirk.

  “Thanks again for the picnic, girls. That raised all our spirits,” Barth said.

  Once they were on the plane, settled into their seats, Barth acted carefree. He chatted on about his new painting, asking for endless glasses of red wine whenever he had the chance.

  Sophia, grateful for the reprieve, responded wholeheartedly.

  “Darling, this painting will blow you away. If you thought Metamorphosis was spectacular, wait till you see this. I call it Fecundity. I was inspired by Klimt, who painted a nude, very pregnant redhead—her protruding fertile belly dominates the painting—threatened by some sort of odd oceanic hobgoblin while a death’s head and several other grotesque heads practically latch onto the back of her head. Life amid death. Perfect for a painting of that photo. It was scandalous at the turn of the twentieth century in Vienna. A naked pregnant woman. Of course, Klimt only inspired. His inimitable style is his alone. Hope 1, it’s called.”

  “Barth, I can’t wait to see it. I’m sure it’s grand.”

  Barth smiled at her, all controversy forgotten. “Let’s get some sleep,” he said, donning his sleep mask.

  Sophia followed suit.

  Once they were home, bedraggled and exhausted, Barth grabbed Sophia by the hand and led her to Fecundity. He unveiled it quickly with none of the slow drama he had employed when revealing Metamorphosis.

  Sophia gasped with astonishment. He had painted her, naked and pregnant. Her mahogany red curls, wild and unrestrained. Her green eyes, eloquent and bold. Defiant and besotted, like her mother’s eyes in the photo. Her breasts, enormously round, straining, bursting with fertility, mirroring the life-bearing belly in its full circularity.

  Behind her, cloaking her like a Nosferatu, was the Nazi commandant, all in black with the silver death’s head prominent on his snappy uniform hat. He glowered possessively over her shoulders, his clothed body obscene next to her pure nudity.

  “Barth, it’s fantastic. You are so good with red and green. You painted me,” she said.

  “Not you. An amalgam of you and your mother.”

  “More me, I think.”

  “I wish I had seen you pregnant with Lili. I bet you were a gorgeous pregnant woman,” Barth said, looking at her longingly.

  “Yeah, gorgeous when I wasn’t wracked with anxiety, worrying about that shit Morton and how it would all work out,” she said, thinking back to those troubled days.

  “Now you have me, so you don’t need to worry,” Barth preened.

  She bit back her remonstrance, ready on the tip of her tongue, and forced a smile.

  “The commandant looks a bit like Dirk,” she said, hoping the mention of that name wouldn’t enflame Barth.

  “He does, doesn’t he? That wasn’t intentional. It flowed out that way. There is a very good reason for that, though, I found out afterward.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Sophia, let’s shower, relax, and sit down together. I have something to tell you.”

  “What?” she asked, tensing, pulling on her ear reflexively.

  “You’ll probably want to spank me,” he grinned uneasily.

  “Very funny. Stop keeping me in suspense. What?”

  “Agnieszka translated your mother’s letter for me.”

  “Who’s Agnieszka?”

  “Remember I told you I have a Polish colleague at the university?”

  “I thought you were going to wait until I felt comfortable.”

  “Well, I didn’t.”

  Her hammering heart, her throbbing head, and her quivering belly all tried to knock her to her knees, but she stayed upright.

  “You’re the one always complaining about a legacy of silence and denial. What better way to break the cycle and face what you can know? Imagining some horror is always worse than actually facing it head on,” Barth said, grabbing her arm and leading her to the green-suede chair in his studio. “You look peaked. I’m getting you a brandy.”

  “I’m not ready, Barth,” she protested, gratefully draining the brandy snifter in one gulp.

  “Let’s take showers and get into comfy robes. Then I’ll show you her translation. She said it made for engrossing reading. It could be the kernel of an idea for a novel. A way to work it out,” Barth said, taking the glass from her tingling hands and leading her into the bathroom.

  Allowing the hot spray to sting her shoulders, Sophia wondered about her mother’s revelations. Rape, torture, death? Most likely. Bone-searing deprivation, denuded dignity, a slow stripping away of all that was human? And then improbable, forbidden lust and love. She couldn’t take it all in. The possibilities were too powerful.

  She collapsed onto the tile floor, the needles of water unnoticed, sobbing so loudly that her ears rang as she completely let go.

  She couldn’t face it.

  Barth found her huddled in the corner of the shower. He turned off the water, toweled her down, and wrapped her in her robe, hugging her tightly.

  CHAPTER 47

  Sophia wanted to read it alone. No more brandy. No more crying.

  But this weeping was different. Silent tears flowed from her eyes. No drama, no gut-wrenching sobs, no red eyes. Just a stream of sad regret until the lachrymose wellspring dried up. She read, her wish come true, her mother speaking to her about the unspeakable.

  06/06/1954, Miami Beach

  I don’t think anyone will ever read this, but it helps to write it. Now I’m safe and secure. And yes, often bored.

  Although sometimes when I see all these Jews around me here in Miami Beach, I can’t help thinking about how easy it would be to round them up and send them to camps.

  He raped me the first time. He wasn’t the first, but he was the last. With him, I didn’t act like I was being raped. After all, no snail’s trail of virginal blood from a ruptured hymen would smear his spotless white pants.

  I moaned and groaned. I grabbed his ass. I writhed and wriggled. I pushed my willing fingers into his thick, clean hair. And when he came, I came with him. Why not? I had nothing to lose. My beauty, fading fast from hunger and hurt, was my only currency.

  Hunger was rattling my bones and buzzing in my hollow belly constantly. In such a state, you can’t think of anything else. I had nothing lef
t but the will to live—or maybe survive is a better word for it.

  I was already seeing the white-tailed eagle perching on top of the open door, eyeing me with his intense hunter’s eyes. He wanted to eat me. He sensed weakness.

  Oh no, Ivor. Not this time. I’m not ready yet. I named him. Even an imaginary friend who is really an enemy waiting to swoop deserves a name. It was easier to talk to him that way. He was company.

  In the beginning in that place, I saw him all the time. I was alone like a stone. Allein wie ein Stein.

  Then I had Willie. I even think he loved me a little because I kept the sex going, and he kept the food coming. It was a wonderful arrangement.

  We were in Chelmno, the first death camp, I was told. That’s why it was so clumsy. So inefficient. Three old vans used to kill fifty or so Jews each at a time. Then they buried them in the forest clearing or burned them and buried the ashes or put them in the Jews’ blankets and threw them in the river. The smell. I can’t think about it. Can you treat humans like that?

  We were in a palace. Some palace. Some death camp. I thought the ghetto was bad. It was bad. Hunger, cold, danger. This was worse. A nonstop death factory. I thought the Germans were efficient, but their death book, their Totenbuch, was full of holes. Not everything was recorded. They were careless.

  I hated and loved the Totenmahle, especially the ones on Jewish holidays or Christmas. Killing Jews called for feasts and celebrations. They were doing the world a favor, they said.

  I loved the food. Roast chicken, bread, even vegetables. Sometimes sauerbraten with loganberries. It was a pleasure to eat pork. Strudels, cakes, whipped cream. Champagne flowed, and there was real coffee.

  Really, that’s all I ever thought about. Food. And sex. Everyone is gone. Dead, I guess. Dear God, I no longer cared. I no longer believed in God. What a joke. My feelings were dead. Yet I wanted to live. I didn’t want Ivor to get me even though sometimes I felt like the walking dead. I know I imagined him, but still I thought he was waiting for me to die.