by Levy, Marc
“So, you were a rich art dealer.”
He nodded. “Were being the operative word.”
“What happened to your paintings? Did you still have them at the start of the war?”
“That’s another story for another day,” he said with a sigh. “I should get back; Hanna doesn’t like being left alone this long.”
Weeks passed. Robert at last found his place in the brigade. At times, he would even hop on a bicycle and ride across the countryside with important messages to deliver. One night, he filled in for a partisan who was missing and drove a pickup carrying two cases of grenades. Another night, he joined a small crew setting up runway lights for a makeshift landing strip. Two planes arrived that night, one carrying a Brit and the other an American. Shaking hands with a fellow American made Robert homesick, especially since they only had time for a few quick pleasantries. The American was promptly received by handlers Robert had never met, and then disappeared into the night. He remained in the dark about his compatriot’s mission.
But aside from those brief moments of action, Robert spent most of his time pacing around the hunting lodge. Every night, he would sit on that same tree stump next to Sam. The art dealer would bum a cigarette and ask about the day’s mission. The fact that Robert had come so far from home to be embroiled in a conflict that was completely foreign to him seemed to make Sam feel indebted to the young American.
A real friendship was forming between the two. The art dealer was a great listener, one Robert could trust completely. Sam listened to him in a way that his own father never did.
“So, my boy, have you got somebody waiting for you back home in Baltimore?” Sam asked one day, and it didn’t take long for Robert to understand what Sam was getting at. “Come on, the ladies must be all over you!”
“I’m no Don Juan, Sam. I never was much of a ladies’ man, and the truth is, I haven’t been with that many women in my life.”
“Well, what about the current one? Have you got a photograph?”
Robert reached for his wallet, and his fake ID fell to the ground in the process. Sam picked it up and had a look.
“Robert Marchand? You’re posing as a Frenchman? With your accent? I sure hope you never actually have to use that name. And if you do, pretend you’re a mute, or deaf, or something.”
“I didn’t think my accent was that bad.”
“However bad you think it is, my friend, it’s worse. So, all right then, where’s this girl?”
Robert took back his ID and slid the photo to Sam.
“Well, well, she’s a knockout! What’s her name?”
“No idea. I found this photograph on the gangway of the ship I took across the pond, so I just slipped it into my wallet. I have no idea why. Maybe it helps somehow, pretending there is somebody waiting for me back home. I’m a walking cliché.”
Sam squinted his eyes at the smiling face on the photo.
“I say . . . Lucy Tolliver. Twenty-two years old, volunteer army nurse, Dad was an electrician, Mom was a housewife, she’s an only child . . .”
“Great. So apparently we’re both walking clichés.”
“Careful not to get attached to this face. It’s not a meaningless thing. There’s no lie without a bit of truth to it, especially when you lie to yourself. When I was a schoolboy, my parents were very strict. So, I invented a best friend, sort of as a way to get back at them. Of course, my friend’s parents were far laxer than mine. He wasn’t forced to keep his mouth shut at the dinner table. His bedtime? Much later than mine. And he only had to do homework when he felt like it. I even made him Catholic in an attempt to annoy my mother, as, of course, his parents didn’t make him keep the Sabbath. Long and the short of it is, Max was allowed to do everything I wasn’t, and as a result, boy oh boy did he thrive on such freedom! I was a child, I couldn’t see any other reason for my own shortcomings and failures than my authoritarian parents.
“Mother wasn’t fooled by the whole thing for very long, but she let me dig myself deeper and deeper into my fantasy. And for an entire school year, my imaginary friend had a whole life of his own. Mother would ask for regular updates on how he was doing. If I dreamt up a sore throat for Max? She would slip a honey candy into my backpack. She would sometimes give me twice as much food for my snack, just so I could share with Max. Then one day, for reasons that still escape me after all these years, I was complaining about something or other, going on and on about how great Max’s parents were, and my mother decided to call my bluff: she invited Max over to our place for lunch! After all this time and how much she’d heard about him, it was only natural she’d want to meet her son’s very best friend in the world, this marvelous boy, this Max . . .”
“What did you do?”
Sam winced. “There was an accident! Poor Max ended up getting tragically crushed beneath a trolleybus.”
Robert whistled. “That’s a pretty drastic move!”
“Granted. But I was in quite a bind, and I couldn’t think of anything else to get me out of it. Want to know the icing on the cake, the most absurd part? I actually felt like I’d lost a friend that day. It took me two months to get over his ‘passing,’ and even longer to fill the void left by losing him. I still think of him from time to time, even now. Point is: you can never really get rid of a lie you’ve convinced yourself is true. Food for thought. Anyway, it’s late. We’d better continue this conversation tomorrow.”
“Sorry to say I won’t be here tomorrow, Sam. I’m heading off on a mission, and this time it seems like it might be something serious.”
“Oh? What’s it all about?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. But I need to ask a favor, in the event I don’t make it back.”
“Get out of here! You’ll make it back just fine. Forget your favor.”
“Sam, please. If anything happens to me, my one wish is to be buried back home.”
“And how in the world do you think that I could make something like that happen?” asked the art dealer.
“When things calm down, when peaceful days come again, I know you’ll find a way.”
“And if I’m not around then? If I don’t live to see these peaceful days?”
“Well, then you can consider yourself released from your promise.”
“Careful now: I haven’t made any promise.”
“Oh yes you have. Maybe not with words, but your eyes sure did.”
“You’re not following me. You didn’t think I’d want anything in return? This is Sam Goldstein you’re talking to, my boy! My condition is as follows: should some ill twist of fate befall me before you, take Hanna with you back to Baltimore. And don’t tell me I drive a hard bargain. You and I both know your end of the deal is much sweeter. You get to take a cruise with my lovely daughter, and I with your coffin!”
After a laugh and a nod, the two men sealed the deal with a firm handshake.
As it turned out, Robert did make it back from his mission just fine, and May 1944 came and went with no Lysander arriving to take him back to England. By early June, the war had escalated even further. Stranded and seemingly forgotten, Robert grew more and more involved with the Resistance.
With the arrival of the Allied Forces imminent, the partisans began emerging from the shadows. Armed Resistance fighters rose out of nowhere to strike the enemy. The beaches of Normandy were a world away, and even with Allied Forces on the march, peaceful days weren’t coming nearly as quickly as Sam and Robert had hoped. Backed into a corner, the Germans began lashing out, their crackdowns increasing in severity. The most fanatical members of the local militias had yet to surrender, and instead doubled down on their relentless hunt for Resistance fighters.
One night, an enemy patrol of local militiamen came dangerously close to discovering the hunting lodge. Lookouts spotted them approaching through the forest and raised the alarm. Sam and Hanna ran to hide in the cellar while the partisan crew stationed themselves at the windows, guns in hand.
With te
nsion mounting, Sam came up and begged Robert to join them in the cellar. Once below, Sam led Robert to a wall of some twenty-odd crates that had been stacked up to mask the secret tunnel leading to the weapons cache. The men moved aside boxes until there was a large enough gap for Hanna to slip through. The tunnel was nearly ten meters long, with sufficient space for Hanna to hide for a short time. But she refused.
“Not without you, Papa!” Hanna pleaded. “I won’t be locked up in there without you.”
“Do as I say, Hanna! You mustn’t question me. You know what you’re responsible for now. You have to do the right thing.”
Sam hugged his daughter close, then began stacking up the crates once more to close the gap. Robert stood watching in shock. It was the very first time he had heard Hanna speak a single word, and the mere sound of her voice had left him dumbstruck.
“Well, are you just going to stand there gawking or are you going to lend a hand?”
“Sam, don’t be crazy! Get into the damn hole with your daughter, and let me seal the two of you up in there.”
“No. Not this time, I refuse. I’ve spent too long burrowing down here like a frightened animal. If the good guys are taking on the enemy, I plan to join in and fight by their side.”
Once the crates were back in place, Sam and Robert climbed back up to ground level, and each took position at a window with a Sten submachine gun in hand.
“You know how to use that thing?” Robert asked.
“Well, you don’t have to be a genius, do you? Let me guess: Pull the trigger?”
This made a nearby partisan snicker. “You hold it like this, by the magazine, old man, or all you’ll end up doing is shooting a bunch of holes in the ceiling,” he said. “That thing’s got a hair trigger, so hold on tight. You do so much as hiccup, you’ll set it off!”
They could hear the militiamen stalking through the forest outside, the sound of their footsteps marking their approach. The partisans were tightwire tense, barely even breathing as they waited to open fire on a pack of faceless enemies. Just then, the militiamen abruptly departed, and everyone sighed with relief. They had never even set foot on the path leading toward the hunting lodge.
Crisis averted, Sam and Robert went down to free Hanna from her hiding place. The girl immediately stormed up the stairs and disappeared into her room. Robert started to follow, but Sam stopped him with a hand on his arm. He dragged his American friend down into the dark tunnel, came to a sudden stop, and sparked up a lighter. Robert squinted as his eyes adjusted to the light.
“I got the idea from watching the partisans dig away down here, hiding their weapons,” the art dealer whispered. “See this wooden post?” he asked, running his hand over one of the thick beams holding up the tunnel. “I’ve used it as my very own hiding spot.”
In the glow of the flickering flame, Sam slid out part of the wooden beam and waved Robert in for a closer look. A deep hole had been dug into the wall behind, and Robert could make out some kind of a tube hidden within, the flames reflecting off its metal surface.
“I rolled them inside the cylinder and hid it here where they would be safe,” Sam said. “Whatever fate befalls the two of us, they must never get into German hands.”
Robert watched entranced as Sam slid the wooden beam back into place.
“Manet, Cézanne, Delacroix, Fragonard, Renoir, Ingres, Degas, Corot, Rembrandt. And of course, my precious Hopper. The ten most beautiful paintings from my entire collection . . . the spoils of a life’s work. Priceless masterpieces. Priceless. Enough to ensure Hanna’s entire future.”
“Who else knows about this?”
“Only you, my boy. Now, don’t you forget our little deal . . .”
19
ELEANOR-RIGBY
October 2016, en route to Baltimore
As the plane glided over Scotland, I gazed out of the window to where the coastline met the rolling waves, the rest of the land still hidden under the wing. I had kept the leather pouch in my lap since takeoff, clutching it tensely as though it were some sort of precious relic. The leather was cracked, and the cord slack and worn with age. I had explored every last inch of the pouch, putting off the most important part. I was terrified to actually read the letter.
I thought about Michel writing that note and slipping the pouch into my jacket, all in secret. It must have weighed very heavily on him. Strangely enough, it actually gave me hope to know that my brother had strayed—even the tiniest bit—from the straight and narrow. It was crazy to think that lying and sneaking around had actually brought him one step closer to “normal.”
As I finally took the letter from the pouch, I was struck by the scent of my mother’s unique perfume on the envelope. I had to wonder: Just how long did she hold on to this mysterious letter? Closing my eyes, I pictured my mother opening the envelope and reading the message within, just as I was doing now . . .
My darling Sally-Anne,
First, I must tell you that this will be my final letter, even if it’s the last thing I want. This annual tradition has been so important to me—a much-needed escape from the crushing loneliness of my daily life. But you don’t need me to tell you about loneliness.
I often ask myself: How could two people’s lives be so utterly destroyed by one single, tragic mistake? Do you believe that kind of rotten luck is passed down from one generation to the next, like a curse?
I can just hear you teasing me for rambling, going on one of my tangents. How very clever of you. Well, it’s true. I’m losing my mind, darling. The guillotine dropped yesterday at the doctor’s office. I watched as that stuffed shirt studied my brain scan, his doughy face all soft with compassion, desperately trying to avoid looking me in the eye. That bastard doctor couldn’t even tell me how long it’ll be before I forget who he is! The most absurd part is that the disease won’t claim my life, just eat away at my memory. I don’t know if that’s a blessing or a curse. I’m keeping my chin up, as always. But I am terrified, darling. I want you to remember me as the woman I was, no matter what happens, not a decrepit old loon rambling away in a total fog. And that, my love, is why this will be my final letter.
So many memories that will be wiped away in time, yet they are still crystal clear in my mind. I see us riding through the wind on your motorcycle. I see those wild days and nights. I see our newspaper and the loft where I spent some of the happiest days of my youth . . . God knows I loved you. So much. I have loved you every day since and will keep on loving you until my dying day. Who knows? Had we stayed together, maybe that love would have eventually turned to hate, as it happens with so many couples left to weather the storm of time . . . Maybe that’s the one silver lining to our story.
You resolved to put the past behind you, my darling. I have always respected that choice. But we’ve all got to go sometime, even you. And I can’t help but think back to what we stole. So, I am begging you, my love. Do not let such a precious treasure dwell in darkness and fade from memory. Bring it back into the light where it rightly belongs, no matter the cost. You know that Sam would have wanted it that way.
It’s time to forgive the dead, my love. Bitterness left to fester doesn’t help anyone, and clinging to vengeance comes at such a heavy cost.
Tomorrow, I will set foot in my new home, one which I’ll never leave. Maybe I could have enjoyed my freedom a bit longer, but the burden would be too great on my son. So, I’ve decided to pretend—if I act crazier than I am, he’ll be free of that burden and free of any guilt. It’s the least I can do in light of the sacrifices he’s made for me.
To think of all the suffering we’ve caused. I would have never thought that love could take such cruel turns. And yet, I do still love you. I have always loved you.
Think of me from time to time—not the person writing these words today, but the fiery young woman with whom you shared so many dreams. All those dreams, my love . . . when the impossible was within our grasp, close enough to touch . . .
Still Independent, and your
most faithful accomplice,
May
I read the letter over again, start to finish. The first pieces of a cryptic puzzle were falling into place right before my eyes. Mum did launch a weekly paper, it seemed—but not in England.
Who in the world was this woman calling her “my love”? Why did Mum never mention her, not even once? The loneliness part escaped me completely. What act could Mum have committed to ruin the rest of her life? So many unanswered questions. The treasure. Sam. The suffering she mentioned. The talk of tragedy and vengeance that was completely shrouded in mystery. What did she mean, “forgive the dead”? Forgive whom, for what?
I resolved to find this mysterious May, wherever she was. I hoped—albeit selfishly—that her condition had not worsened too much in the years since she wrote the letter. Then it hit me. I flipped over the envelope in a frenzy, cursing myself for not thinking of it sooner. The stamp. It was the same as the one from the anonymous letter. Could May have written it during a momentary lapse of reason? No, she couldn’t be the poison-pen. The handwriting didn’t match at all.
