Cut and Run

by Carla Neggers

  “What’s this?”

  “My resignation.”

  “Matthew, don’t be a jerk. You know I was—”

  He held up a hand, stopping her. “I know you were.”

  She sighed. “What are you going to do?”

  Rising, he put on his leather jacket. “Become a music critic.”

  “That’s not funny. Stark, stay,” she added. “Do this story.”

  “Thanks for arguing, Feldie, I was hoping you wouldn’t let me go without a little bit of a fight. But it’s okay. Time to move on. Hell, I’ve even got a glimmer of an idea for a book.”

  “About Vietnam?”

  He grinned. “No.”

  “We won’t run the story,” she said suddenly, “not as you gave it to us. We’ll just present the facts. You do up the rest for some big fancy magazine. It doesn’t belong in the Gazette.” She gave him a devilish smile. “Too goddamn long.”

  “The boys upstairs’ll throw you out.”

  “The hell with them. They fire me, I’ll swallow my pride and move over to the Post.”

  “Alice—”

  “Get out of here. You heading to New York?”

  He looked at her, surprised. “How did you know?”

  “A woman who’ll paint her nails African Violet has an instinct for these things. Just invite me to the wedding, okay? Every now and then I like to have an excuse to wear high heels.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your piano player. Marry her, for God’s sake.”

  “Feldie, I’ve known the woman for two weeks.”

  “Yeah,” Alice Feldon said, “but the way I see it, you’ve been waiting for her for thirty-nine years.”

  Catharina smiled at her daughter, sitting on the edge of her mother’s bed in the huge, elegant master suite of her Park Avenue apartment where her doctor had insisted she remain for a couple of days. An infection had started in her arm, but they’d given her antibiotics and put on a cast and everything would be fine soon. She only regretted not being able to roll out her speculaas for the holidays.

  “Hendrik de Geer was a friend of ours—Johannes, Wilhelmina, myself—for many years, since he was a boy,” she said, speaking quietly. “During the war, he became an informant for the Underground Resistance, sharing information he’d learned from his contacts with the NSB, the police of the Dutch Nazi party. We despised them even more, I think, than the Germans, because they were Dutch, our countrymen. Hendrik played a very dangerous game, but no one made him. It was his choice. He knew the risks.”

  “Was he actually on the Nazis’ side?”

  Catharina shook her head sadly. “He was on no one’s side but his own, Juliana. During that last, terrible winter, we were all suffering terribly, none more than the onderduikers, and our resources were stretched to the limit. Hendrik came to us and said he believed the Nazis were suspicious of us, but that he could keep them away and get us food and some coal if only he had something to bargain with. Father and Johannes decided to tell him about the Minstrel; Wilhelmina was against it, of course, but they were desperate to help those in hiding. We were all starving—and so cold! We were desperate, and we trusted him.”

  “You couldn’t have known,” Juliana said.

  “Perhaps. What Hendrik didn’t tell us was that the Nazis suspected him and he was going to use the Minstrel to save himself. Well,” she said, “it didn’t work. Johannes and my father gave me the stone to bring to him, knowing, I think, that he’d never harm me, but it was too late. The officer who’d suspected Hendrik of playing both sides against the middle had pressured him, and to save himself he told them everything—about Mother and Father’s work with the Resistance, Willie’s, where Johannes was hiding, Ann, the Steins. His plan was to get back to them before the Nazis could and warn them, but he couldn’t. They were all arrested, and here we were, Hendrik and myself, ‘free.’ He could have taken the Minstrel and left me, too, to the Nazis, but he chose instead to get me safely into hiding and disappear, without the Minstrel.”

  Catharina stopped, unable to go on. Juliana touched her mother’s hand. “Was anyone killed?”

  Her mother nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Nine members of the Stein family were murdered in the concentration camps. Rachel and Abraham were the only survivors. Willie was imprisoned until the end of the war. Johannes was sent to a labor camp.”

  “His wife?”

  “She was deported to Auschwitz, but she came back. However—” Catharina held back, unable to go on. How could she tell her daughter? How? “However, her son was sent with her, and he was gassed. It’s something I’ve never been able to bring myself to talk about. I—it’s as if I’ve blotted him from my memory, but, of course, I haven’t. He was your only cousin on my side of the family. His name…his name was David. He was six years old.”

  “Dear God,” Juliana whispered, “I had no idea—”

  “I should have told you, I know.”

  “No, Mother. A month ago, I might have said yes and been furious, but not now. You weren’t ready to talk. I understand. What about your parents? What happened to them?”

  “They were executed,” she said. “Shot by the Gestapo after being tortured for information. They never broke. I’ve always thought they should have gone to Hendrik with the Minstrel, and if they had—but they guessed what he might do, you see, and they wanted to protect me.”

  Juliana smiled through her tears. “But now you understand, don’t you, about protective parents?”

  “Yes,” she said, grasping her daughter’s hand with her thick, strong fingers. “They did what I would have done.”

  “What about the Minstrel?”

  “I returned it to Johannes after the war, when he was released. He was the rightful caretaker; the stone was his to do with as he felt necessary. I begged him to throw it into the sea, but obviously he didn’t listen. In all these years, I never thought you would have anything, ever, to do with the Minstrel’s Rough. I expected the tradition to die with him. But we’re a family of tradition, aren’t we? You were the last Peperkamp, and Johannes felt it his duty to pass the stone to you, no doubt. He did it in Delftshaven, at the concert?”

  Juliana nodded. “He told me not to mention it to you.”

  Catharina smiled, still crying. “Yes, I can see why. But it was his right—I don’t question that—and he must have thought Hendrik was dead since he hadn’t come for the Minstrel in all that time. And who else knew about it? Only us. Juliana—what Hendrik told you, before he died…”

  “Mother, please, you don’t have to explain. That’s none of my business. I understand that I don’t have to know everything about your life.”

  “I want you to know, Juliana—he was my first love. I adored him—idolized him. He was what all men should be, and when he betrayed us…I thought I could never love again. But when your father came to Holland as a graduate student, he was so different, so good.” She lifted her shoulders, uncertain how to explain. “He taught me to laugh again.”

  He came in then, Adrian Fall, tall and so enduringly patient. For two days now he’d been turning away reporters and telling Catharina and Juliana that yes, he would forgive them, but never, never again were they to put him through such horror. While they were in Florida fighting Bloch and his men, he’d been in New York screaming at the police to find his wife and daughter.

  “Wilhelmina called,” he said. “She informed me she’s bringing supper.”

  “What?” Catharina laughed. “She’s a terrible cook!”

  Adrian looked at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled at his wife. “Better than you, I should think, in your condition. She said she’s discovered Zabar’s and was delighted to see they had smoked eel. If you both don’t mind, I think I’ll send out for a sandwich.”

  Catharina assured him that Wilhelmina wouldn’t be offended, and when he left, Juliana looked at her mother. “Does he—”

  “No,” Catharina said, “he doesn’t kn
ow much more than you did. Juliana, do you want to tell me about Matthew Stark?”

  “Not now,” she said. Matthew…how many times had she picked up the phone to call him? How many times had she remembered how he’d lifted her up into his arms and kissed her, right before he’d turned around and landed his fist squarely on Sam Ryder’s jaw, just as the FBI and God knew who else had arrived? They’d practically ended up arresting him! He was in Washington, she knew. She smiled at her mother. “But would you like to hear about J.J. Pepper?”

  Wilhelmina had transplanted four begonias into fresh, clean pots and put them in the windowsill in her living room. The sun was shining. It was a fine day in Delftshaven, and she was content. She had arrived home the day before and would go to Antwerp in the morning to settle her brother’s affairs. She missed him. She had seen so little of him over the years, but she’d always known he was there in Belgium with his diamonds, with the memories of their shared past. Now he was gone.

  She had spent her last night in New York with Juliana, and they’d had dinner with Catharina and Adrian and learned more about J.J. Pepper, whom Wilhelmina found quite reassuring. A needed presence in her niece’s life, to be sure. At least this J.J. explained all the old clothes.

  Juliana had come to her before dawn and awakened her, sitting on the edge of her bed. “Were you and Hendrik de Geer lovers?” she asked directly.

  “You’re impertinent,” Wilhelmina told her.

  “He loved you first, and then my mother started to mature, and he fell in love with her, too. That’s what he meant, isn’t it?”

  “Go back to bed.”

  “I can’t sleep.” She sighed, her eyes shining even in the dark. “I feel like playing the piano.”

  “At three o’clock in the morning?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, then, let me get my robe. We’ll play a duet.”

  “You play piano?”

  “I used to. Lately it keeps coming back. I don’t know why; I sometimes play at the church. During the occupation, when times were particularly difficult or frightening, I would sing sonatas to myself, to occupy my mind so I wouldn’t worry so much about what would happen to us all, about failing my responsibilities. Rachel and I would sing all the time. She had such a wonderful, clear voice, Rachel did. We didn’t have a piano. I’d pretend to play on the table, and Rachel would pretend to catch my missed notes. Your mother thought we were so crazy! She was always cooking. She could lose herself in her cooking at any time. She never complained about hunger of anything else as long as she had something to cook, if only potatoes and seeds and beets.”

  They’d played for hours, and Wilhelmina made no apologies for her missed notes, her awkwardness. Juliana was delighted. “You should get a piano!”

  “Bah. The neighbors would complain.”

  But now she almost wished she did have a piano. She never fell asleep when she was the one doing the playing!

  At the airport in the morning, Wilhelmina had kissed Juliana goodbye and told her, “Yes, Hendrik and I were lovers, but only for a little while. I always suspected what kind of man he was—I just didn’t think he could ever hurt us. If I could have seen what he’d do, I’d have slit his throat in the night. After what happened, I tried to find him and kill him, but now…I think he suffered more by living.”

  “And you, Aunt Willie? Are you lonely?”

  “I’ve had a good life, Juliana. No, I’m not lonely. But you must come visit me.” She smiled. “Bring your mother.”

  “Oh—I almost forgot. Mother sent these.”

  It was a box of butter cookies. Inside was a note. “Willie, Adrian and I talked last night. I told him everything. It felt so right! I’ve been crying ever since, for his goodness, for Mother and Father, and little David, and Mr. and Mrs. Stein, the children, even for Hendrik, for everything…at last. The burden of guilt isn’t gone, but it’s lessened. I know Mother and Father wanted me to live, as I would do anything—too much?—to protect Juliana. Dear sister, forgive me. You never drove me away. I left because I couldn’t stay; that’s all. And because of Adrian. He’s made me so happy. Enjoy the cookies. C.”

  Wilhelmina had enjoyed the cookies tremendously. She’d eaten most of them on the plane; there was only one left.

  She went to the wooden box she kept on the hearth and dug out an old black and white photograph. The edges were crinkled and yellowed, the quality of the photograph not terribly good, but she didn’t care. She balanced it against a lamp and looked at it a long while.

  It was of Rachel and Abraham, Johannes and Ann, Hendrik and herself, and Catharina, a mere child, at a skating party before the war. She’d once considered cutting Hendrik out of the picture, but in so doing she would have cut out a part of herself.

  She went into the kitchen and made herself a cheese sandwich and a pot of tea and ate the last butter cookie.

  Twenty-Seven

  “Get your butt down here.”

  It was four-thirty on Wednesday afternoon, and Juliana had picked up the phone on the first ring, dazed and filled with compulsive energy. She’d had a monumental day of practice. The Chopin had jelled in her mind, and she regretted having to let it go, even for a second, and yet she knew she needed the break. She’d be better off for it, and so would her music. Although she was pleased to hear Len Wetherall’s voice, there was another voice she’d have rather heard. She wasn’t sure when she would. Or if. But she tried to understand. He’d been through a lot; he needed to be alone.

  “Len—what do you mean?”

  “I mean you’re already thirty minutes late, babe.”

  She was surprised. “I’m not fired?”

  “Hell, no. You’ve got an audience, angel. Folks’ve been reading the papers. World’s most beautiful concert pianist rescues mother and Dutch aunt from the clutches of killers.” He laughed. “I like that. You’re a curiosity. Now you got to wow them so they keep on coming back.”

  Wow them. Juliana smiled: the world of J.J. Pepper wasn’t so different from her own. “Who should I come as?”

  “Come as yourself, babe. That’s all you can ever be.”

  She tinted her hair green and put on J.J.’s white organza tea dress, circa 1919, and her own full-length white mink coat and hat, white boots and white gloves, and she took a cab.

  Len met her at the door. “Whoa,” he said, grinning.

  “I wouldn’t show up at Symphony Hall in Boston looking like this, but here, it feels right. I’ve got a lot to learn about jazz and pop,” she said, “but one day soon I hope to record some of my favorite—” she grinned “—tunes.”

  “You going to stick to early evenings and catch-as-catch-can between concerts?”

  She nodded. “But I’m cutting back on the number of concerts I do a year. I don’t want to do so many any longer—but I can’t give this up, Len.”

  He let his relief show. “That’s great, babe, because I don’t want to have to give up J.J. Pepper, either. She’s fun and spacey—and talented as all get out. I’d like to keep her around, so long as that’s what she wants.”

  “It is.”

  “What’s Shuji say?”

  “It’s not up to him; he knows that. He doesn’t understand, and he’ll never like jazz, but he’s not going to abandon me because of it.”

  “That’s okay, then. You don’t need him to understand?”

  “No, I don’t,” she said. “It’s okay.”

  When she’d finished her first set, she knew she’d wowed the crowd because Len told her when she came to the bar for her Saratoga water. Only then did she notice the applause and whistles and hoots of appreciation—and that she’d kicked off her shoes. She’d let go in a way she never did when playing Carnegie Hall.

  Len nodded toward the other end of the bar. “You’ve got company.”

  Sipping her water, Juliana looked down the bar and became very still.

  Matthew Stark.

  “Say the word, I’ll toss him.”

  “No, I�
�ll take care of him.”

  Len grinned. “Thought you might, babe, thought you might.”

  She ambled down and leaned against the bar next to Matthew’s stool, feeling the sweat trickling between her breasts. She could almost talk herself into believing it was his fingertips.

  “Hey, toots,” he said with that slight, unreadable grin, his dark eyes on her. “Nice hair—same color as your eyes, isn’t it? Better watch out nobody comes along and hangs candy canes on your ears.”

  “Matthew,” she said, hearing the hope and hollowness in her voice. Did he know? Could he hear how much she wanted to be near him? Almost four days without seeing him and it seemed an eternity. Their night together in Vermont had changed everything. Knowing him had changed everything. “I thought you’d still be working on your story.”

  “Feldie’s sticking to the facts, which were straightforward enough. She isn’t printing a thing about the Minstrel’s Rough.” He grinned, loving the way she couldn’t keep still, the way she blinked, the way she stood there, gorgeous and green-haired and the only woman he’d ever want again. “So you’re safe from the IRS for now. Any plans for the stone—or don’t you want to tell me?”

  She shrugged. “I think it should fade back into the mist of legend.”

  “Back to being a paperweight for jam recipes, is it? Tell me, J.J./Juliana, what are you doing for the holidays?”

  “Going to Vermont—finally.”

  It was the truth, although she had hoped not to go alone. She’d considered various ways to get Matthew back up there with her, including letting him deal with the matter of Shuji’s car. “You lost my car!” he’d raged. “Is this what happens when Jelly Roll Morton gets in your veins? Get it back!” But he’d headed to his house in California, trusting her. Abraham Stein was sending her a package to Vermont via courier. The Minstrel’s Rough was being returned to its place with her jam recipes. She’d considered various alternatives. Donating it to a museum, throwing it into the ocean, giving it to her mother or Abraham Stein or even Aunt Willie. But she’d decided to keep it. Only the Peperkamps knew for certain it existed…and Matthew.