The Pieces We Keep

by Kristina McMorris

  Prison time. That’s what they had given him, not a death sentence.

  Vivian strained to keep listening through her jumbled thoughts.

  “Nobody was willing to risk letting Hitler find out that the reason we caught the spies was because they surrendered. And Hoover was more than happy to let the Bureau look top-notch. Not to mention himself. Now that the war’s over, though, Isaak is no longer considered a threat. So I helped push for an appeal and finally Truman granted him a pardon. I suspect Dasch and Burger will get the same before long.”

  The details burned through Vivian like a flame on a wick, quickened by the potential ramifications. In front of Judith, she fought to keep from exploding. “Does Isaak know what you told me? All this time, did he think I just cast him off? Left him alone in a cell to rot? How dare you-”

  “The idea,” he cut in, “was Isaak’s.”

  With that, the flame was snuffed out.

  “He didn’t want you waiting around for him, wasting more than a decade of your life. He pleaded for the favor. He was so desperate when he asked me ...” Agent Gerard broke from her gaze. He paused before continuing in a near murmur. “Doesn’t mean I haven’t wondered if it was a mistake. I came close to telling you months afterward, but I gave the guy my word.”

  The motive behind Agent Gerard’s last invitation to meet, that day at Prospect Park, suddenly gained clarity. As did his inability to look her in the eye when he’d delivered news of Isaak’s death.

  “Normally I wouldn’t have gotten so involved,” he went on.

  “But I figured it was the decent thing to do.”

  Decent? Allowing her to believe the father of her child had been sent to the electric chair, that he had been a traitor rather than an unrecognized hero, conjured many a word, none of which included decent.

  She wanted to lash back, to seek vengeance for the tears and sorrow based on falsehoods. She wanted Agent Gerard-and Isaak even more-to feel the impact of the injustice they had inflicted. But before she could utter a word, metallic rustlings and a sharp giggle diverted her attention.

  On the floor Judith was sprinkling paper clips like drops of rain. Her round cheeks glowed with purity and joy. In a flash, like a story told on the silver screen, Vivian saw an averted path-of prison visits with she and Judith in their Sunday best, of reproachful glares at a convict’s child, of a life without Gene Sullivan. And through the thicket of this vision, a burst of gratitude filled her chest.

  “Where is he now?” she asked, still focusing on her daughter.

  “Headed back to Germany. To an American-occupied zone. All three of them will be watched there. But kept safe.”

  Judith, deep in concentration, crumpled her chin. The echo of a dimple, in its timing, shouted a message of a mother’s duty.

  “In that case,” Vivian said, “I need the address.”

  There was no sense to be made of the discovery. Then again, perhaps it all made perfect sense. Whatever the case, Vivian spent the day vacillating between two types of betrayal, one the product of speaking up, the other of staying silent.

  Dear Isaak,

  I have not the faintest notion how to properly compose this letter. Nothing about the past we have shared has been simple or clear. The present moment is no different, as I learned only this morning that your life was spared. I assume you must be questioning, from your view today at a distance, whether the child I was carrying in my arms is

  Vivian raised her pen from the page. Seated at her vanity, she scoured her brain for an end to the sentence: the child I was carrying in my arms is ...

  What, in fact, was Judith’s relation to him? A daughter. A blessing. An accident. A mistake?

  Once more, Vivian wadded the stationery and flung it toward a scattering of other failed attempts. Every letter bore a variation of the same inept opening, each one blocked by a wall of consequence.

  She yearned to purge her bottled screams but managed to refrain, unwilling to disturb Judith’s afternoon nap. Security and peace would fade from the child’s world soon enough.

  Vivian placed the tip of her pen on the next blank sheet and forced herself to start again. What outcome was she hoping for with Isaak an ocean away? Whether she would ever mail the letter she couldn’t say. Certainly not without Gene’s blessing. Until then, she would set the words to paper, if solely to discern her thoughts.

  From behind came the soft crackling of paper.

  She glanced in the mirror, expecting to see Judith stepping on a discarded page; the girl had conquered the skill of climbing out of her crib. Instead, it was Gene, home from work early. He stood near the dresser, reading a wrinkled letter.

  Vivian shot to her feet, dropping her pen. She pushed down a swallow. “Before you jump to a conclusion,” she began, but a look in his eyes eliminated the rest.

  More aptly, the absence of a look. There was no anger or accusation. No bewilderment or betrayal. Strikingly, not even mild surprise.

  In that instant she realized: “You already knew.”

  He voiced no reply. But seconds later, he edged out a nod.

  The shock of this caused her an intake of breath. She folded her arms over her middle.

  Had every man in her life conspired to deceive her? If Gene had kept a secret of this magnitude, what else was he withholding?

  Not to say she herself had always been a model of honesty.

  “How long?” she asked, a near whisper.

  “Just a few weeks,” he contended. “All these years I made a point of not seeking out information. I wanted to put it fully behind us.”

  Her throat loosened a fraction, though not her arms, still snugly wrapped. “How did you hear?”

  He sat on the foot of the bed, facing her. “When I was in DC, I was sifting through some documents for the Nuremberg Trials. I came across a file about the case. Did some digging around. That’s how I found out he’d been imprisoned all this time. That what you’d told me about him, about giving up the other saboteurs, it was all true.”

  Now she understood Gene’s recent behavior. As she had guessed, the burden he’d been carrying did involve children of the war, but in a more personal way than she had imagined. She thought back to their discussion the night before, about his reluctance regarding the house, an investment in the permanence of their future together.

  “So you also know Isaak was released,” she ventured.

  He nodded. “Yeah.”

  In the quiet stretch that followed, she imagined how she would feel if the roles were reversed. She could scarcely blame him for being cautious.

  “I’m sure it would’ve been better,” he said, “if you’d heard it from me first. But I just . . .” He looked down at the letter in his hand, then to the floor, at the other strewn pages. “I was afraid of losing you. And Judith. She’s always thought of me like a father.”

  “No,” Vivian interjected, causing him to look up. “Not like a father. You are her father.”

  This wasn’t a generous placation but an irrefutable truth. Given his care for Judith since the day of her birth-taking shifts on long colicky nights, his solid discipline formed of compassion, his prideful praise for every significant milestone-no child, nor mother, could want for more.

  Vivian walked toward him, longing to reinforce her assertion with physical contact. But just as she reached for his shoulder, he said, “Vivian, I have to ask you something, and I need you to be honest.”

  She drew back, unclear where this was headed. “All right.”

  Gene hesitated, as if needing to gear up for the question. “Look, it’s clear how much Isaak loved you-”

  She shook her head. “Gene, he lied about everything, even his death.”

  “–and I know this,” he finished, “because if I’d been in his shoes, I would’ve done the exact same thing.”

  The sincerity and resolve of his words resonated inside her.

  Though she had moved on with her life years ago, it would be false to say she didn’t wonder
at times if Isaak’s feelings for her were real, or if the risks she had taken had been for a virtual stranger.

  “What I don’t know,” Gene continued, “is if deep down you still love him. And I’ve got to know that, Vivi. Because I’d rather hear the answer is yes than carry around doubt for the rest of my life.”

  She considered the issue carefully. He deserved a genuine response, no matter how difficult to craft. Consequences aside, she owed it to him, and herself, to examine what lay in her heart.

  What she immediately discovered, however, was it required no more effort than determining if ice was cold or fire was hot. Some things in life bore such certainty, love being among them, they rendered opinions inconsequential.

  Vivian took the crumpled paper from Gene. Letting it fall, she knelt before him and looked up into his eyes. “It’s true that on some level I’ll always care for Isaak. And in a way, he’ll always be connected to Judith. But that doesn’t mean what I feel for him is love. Love,” she said, “is what you and I have built together.”

  She grasped both of his hands, the very hands that had held her and protected her and supported her in every way possible. “Gene, on the day we exchanged our vows, goodness knows the circumstances weren’t ideal. But I can tell you this. I would relive that day a hundred times over to become your wife.”

  His eyes gained a sheen matching hers, and the relief in his face was unmistakable. He kissed her hand before leaning in to do the same to her lips. The gesture was as tender and warm as their very first kiss, from the night they stood on those brownstone stairs, but now with a fulfillment only history could bring.

  When their mouths parted, his gaze slid back to their hands. There was something more he needed to say.

  “Gene, what is it?”

  After a moment thick with thoughts, he raised his eyes. “Isaak should know about Judith.” He said this as though accepting his own conclusion. Not the type to rejoice over, but a statement of fact.

  Vivian tilted her head at him. “Honey ... are you sure?”

  “If I were him, I’d want to know. More than that, I don’t ever want secrets to hurt our family again.”

  Isaak’s ban from the States, very likely, played a factor in Gene’s decision-to feel more threatened by proximity would only be human. Yet his courage and principles were no less worthy.

  She just wished she could borrow his bravery. The papers on the floor still loomed from the practicality of the task.

  As if reading her mind, he said, “It’s not really fit for a letter, is it?”

  She shook her head, aware she would have to compose the missive regardless. Beyond that, already she could sense the excruciating weeks of waiting for a reply, imagining Isaak’s reaction, wondering if the message was ever received.

  “What if we went to Germany?” Gene said, the suggestion startling her.

  “Germany?”

  “The three of us together.”

  “But–how?”

  “I’ll work something out.”

  The vision of meeting in person was even more daunting. How would that make delivering the announcement any easier?

  “I don’t know. It’s such a long trip. Judith, at her age . . .”

  “Yeah. You’re probably right.”

  Vivian nodded. She had just begun to relax when he added, “You and me then. We can start there. Figure out the rest as we go.”

  She scrounged for reasons to object. But he laid his hand on her cheek, and from the comfort of his touch the jittering of her uncertainties settled. Yet again, he was the solid rock that steadied her, the balm to her worries.

  Vivian released a breath, and nodded.

  At their trade of gentle smiles, she folded into his embrace. They would do this together, the way it would always be for the two of them. How foolish of her to believe she couldn’t possibly love her husband more.

  67

  So finally she can be with him.

  As much as Audra wanted to erase the phrase from her mind, she was overcome by the feeling that at last it completely fit. Her first inclination after hanging up with Taylor had been to call Sean and Luanne. She was about to dial them up when she realized who, more than anyone, deserved to hear the discovery first.

  “Excuse me,” Audra said to the gallery manager upon entering with Jack. “I’m Audra Hughes. I’m the one who called earlier.”

  “Oh, yes,” said the woman in cat’s-eye glasses. “Judith told me to send you on back to the studio.”

  On the phone, Audra had asked Judith if they could meet in person right away, by now the topic evident. According to Sean, his mother had taken Luanne’s admission considerably well but needed time to process it. Audra just hoped the information she was bringing would be helpful, not a hindrance.

  “If you’d like,” the manager added, “while you and Judith talk, I’d be happy to show your son the new artwork we just hung.” Clearly, she was aware the discussion called for privacy.

  “It wouldn’t be too much trouble for you?”

  “Not at all. So far, it’s been a pretty slow day.”

  Audra turned to Jack. “Are you okay with that?”

  “Sure,” he said lightly, already scanning the room.

  “Thanks,” she said to the woman, who nodded and swept Jack off for a grand tour.

  Audra treaded toward the back corner and into the studio.

  At the worktable, Judith sat on a cushioned stool, lost in thought. Her hands rested on a nest of iridescent gauze. Beside the material were several items identifiable at a glance: a stack of books resembling diaries, letters and notes aged from time, and contents of the manila envelope Audra had returned to Luanne.

  “Hi, Judith.”

  The woman greeted her with a half smile.

  “I appreciate you seeing me,” Audra said. “I know you’ve had a lot to think about the last few days.”

  “It certainly hasn’t been dull.”

  On this point, they were in total agreement.

  Audra stepped closer. “I really don’t want to make things worse for you or your family. But there’s something I just learned. Something I think you should know.”

  With an audible sigh, Judith said, “I’m not sure my heart can take many more surprises.”

  Audra hoped this was said in jest, because she was delivering a rather large one. Regretfully, she could think of no skillful way to ease it in.

  “Judith, the man you’ve heard about, Jakob Hemel . . .”

  “Isaak,” Judith said, as if trying to reconcile the names.

  Audra nodded before finishing: “He’s still alive.”

  Judith sucked in a breath. Clenching her hands, she turned her face to the shelves above her table. “How do you know?” she said.

  “The person who helped me with research called today. Taylor—that’s her name—she said she tried to locate Daniel Gerard, the FBI agent involved with the trial. She found out he died several years ago. But when he first learned he had Alzheimer’s, he’d asked his daughter to transcribe stories from his life. That’s how Taylor knew about Jakob’s help with the case, and even about his transfer to Europe.”

  “Back to Germany,” Judith said, “wasn’t it?” She continued to stare straight ahead.

  “Yes,” Audra said. “Before he landed, he was given a new identity for his protection. And later he moved to Switzerland to be with his relatives. That’s why it was harder to trace him.”

  After a moment, Judith asked, “How old is he now?” Her guarded tone was understandable. A man of his generation could very well be incapacitated, or at minimum incoherent.

  “He’s ninety-four—but from what Taylor gathered, he’s one of those George Burns types. Still youthful and lively, like your aunt, Luanne. Apparently he takes walks through town in the evenings, knows just about everyone in Lucerne.” When Judith didn’t respond, Audra added, “And he loves to paint.”

  Judith suddenly angled back to her. “He’s an artist?”

 
Audra nodded, watching the woman recognize the potential source of her own traits.

  “Does he ... have a family?”

  “His wife passed away some years ago, but he has two daughters and a son.”

  “You’re telling me I have siblings,” Judith said, voice tightening.

  “Nephews and nieces too.” Audra smiled to emphasize the positive nature of the news. “Taylor had sent out some e-mails to track down information, and his oldest daughter, Ursula, is the one who responded.”

  Judith covered her mouth with her slender fingers, her eyes moistening.

  Perhaps this would only magnify her resentment from not knowing all of these years. Audra hoped that wasn’t so, but still she felt confident in having come here. It wouldn’t have been right to withhold any more secrets.

  “I’m sorry to upset you. I just thought you should know.” When tears slid down Judith’s face, meeting the shield of her hand, Audra decided it was best to leave; the woman needed time alone with so much to absorb. Yet before Audra could excuse herself, Judith lowered her fingers to reveal a wisp of a smile.

  Audra exhaled in relief.

  “For so long,” Judith said, “I’ve been searching for who I am. It seemed like part of me was missing . . .” Her sentence faded away, but Audra didn’t need the rest.

  “I know the feeling,” she replied, and Judith nodded.

  Just then, a knock turned them toward the partially open door.

  “Pardon me for the intrusion,” the manager said meekly, “but a customer needs my help. I wasn’t expecting him until later. Would it be all right if I sent Jack in here?”

  Audra went to answer, but Judith responded first. “Of course. Bring him in.” She brushed away her tears as Jack entered the studio. “Jack,” she said with growing brightness. “What a treat to see you again.”

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “You know what?” Judith said. “I have an idea. How would you like to help me with a new art piece?”

  The offer seemed either an excuse to more closely study Jack, in light of Luanne’s theories, or a form of payment for the ways he’d inadvertently changed Judith’s life. No matter the case, Audra wasn’t about to intervene. Not after his eyes lit up at the shelves of shiny, colorful supplies.