The Last of the Stanfields

by Levy, Marc

  “I won’t wear that dress, Robert. I don’t want dirty money, and I don’t want to live like this anymore.”

  Hanna had been spending far too much time walking around posh neighborhoods. She watched the refined, attractive people wearing the most lavish attire and driving around in shiny new cars. She peered through the windows of places she was now barred from entering, gazing at the very people with whom she had spent her entire childhood. The war and the loss of her father had forced Hanna into exile. She was looking in from the outside, wandering about like Alice in Wonderland in search of a secret door that would lead her back to her old life and the world to which she belonged.

  “You don’t understand, Robert. We’re never going to get anywhere with you driving a truck, and I can’t stand the thought of you in prison—at least, not unless it’s for something worthwhile.”

  “Are you serious?” asked Robert, astonished.

  “Of course not! If you join the Mafia, I’ll walk out on you. I only wish we could find a way to get back to France . . .”

  “And just what would that change?”

  “One day I’ll tell you.”

  Hanna had no idea of the consequences of her words. That one conversation would steer the course of their entire future together, driving Robert further into a life of lies. The absurdity and irony of it all was that every lie was out of love for her.

  The end of December 1944 saw Manhattan blanketed in endless snow. On New Year’s Eve, Robert promised Hanna he would be back before dinner. She had pushed their budget to the limit on a decadent meal from Schwartz’s, their favorite deli on the Upper West Side, splurging on smoked whitefish, pastrami, salmon roe, and sweet challah. She arrived home and set the table, at last ready to put on the dress her husband had given her.

  At nightfall, Robert made his last run of the year, arriving to find the docks in total darkness and empty. There was no risk that the police would be patrolling all the way out there on New Year’s Eve. The loading of cigarette cartons and crates of booze took place seamlessly. The two longshoremen who helped Robert wished him a happy new year and were on their way. He tied down the tarp, climbed behind the wheel, and turned over the engine. As the truck lumbered between two cranes, a red light appeared in Robert’s rearview mirror. A cop car was right on his tail, its siren wailing in the dark night. Robert knew he could play dumb about the cargo, claiming he was a deliveryman putting in some overtime for the holidays. With his spotless record, he risked little more than a night in jail and a slap on the wrist from a judge. But the thought of being held behind bars made Robert panic. He froze, paralyzed by the memory of the only other time he had been held prisoner, and the scars that he still bore from that terrible day.

  He slammed on the gas, jerking the wheel. Determined to bury any evidence of wrongdoing, Robert sent the truck roaring straight for the river. He leapt out of the cabin at the last second and rolled, catching just a glimpse of the truck as it plunged into the murky Hudson. The cop car nearly met the same fate, but came to a screeching halt with its front bumper hanging out over the void.

  Robert didn’t wait for the cop to come to his wits. He scrambled to his feet and fled, disappearing into the labyrinth of stacked cargo.

  1945

  New York had already rung in the new year by the time Robert arrived home, with skinned elbows and knees, and a fresh set of bruises on his back. Hanna tended to his wounds without uttering a single word. He thought she might explode at any moment, and he’d spent the long two-hour walk through the dark and icy streets preparing for a serious blowup. Yet Hanna seemed strangely calm as she dressed his wounds.

  Once Robert was patched up, Hanna sat down across from him and took his hands, the look in her eyes surprisingly gentle and loving.

  “I should be furious with you. I was furious around nine o’clock, I was. Around ten, I was even more furious. But by eleven, there was no way I could stay mad a minute longer. I panicked, I was so worried about you. When the clock struck twelve, I made a vow before God and heaven that I wouldn’t be mad at all, as long as you came home in one piece. By two in the morning, I was convinced you were dead. But here you are. So, no matter what happened to you, it couldn’t be as bad as all the thoughts that ran through my head. Now, listen to me, Robert. Tomorrow, there are two ways this can go. The first, I pack my suitcases and leave. You’ll never see me again. The other option is you tell me everything, every last detail of what happened, and I stay. As long as you didn’t kill anybody, and you make me a promise that it’s the last time you’ll ever do anything so stupid.”

  Robert chose the latter, telling his wife the whole truth and vowing to never again commit a crime. Hanna forgave him.

  Robert planned to beg his boss not to turn him in and to promise to pay back the money for the lost truck. But when he arrived at the truck depot two days later, his boss cut in before Robert could even say a word. The man looked like he had seen better days.

  “A pair of rotten gangsters stole your truck for black-market stuff! Can you believe that? What’s worse, when the cops showed up and caught them in the act, the loons drove the truck straight into the river to save their own hides! I went down there myself yesterday when they dragged it out of the Hudson. It’s nothing but a junk heap now. So, as you can imagine, I got hit hard, money-wise. Insurance won’t be enough to replace it. There’s no easy way to say this, but I got no truck for you to drive, and I can’t pay you to sit on your hands. What can I say? I sure am sorry, kid.”

  With a heavy heart, his boss paid Robert a day’s wages as consolation and sent him on his way. Even if he was no longer part of the black-market scheme, Robert still had to find a way to pay for the merchandise he had lost in the Hudson. He doubted that his other “bosses” would be nearly as forgiving. Settling his debts without a car or a job would be no small feat, especially since he’d promised to stay on the straight and narrow. When he got home, Robert bared all the ugly details of the situation to Hanna, who decided to take matters into her own hands. After Robert had acted so recklessly, she knew their survival was entirely up to her. And even if her husband did manage to find an honest job, one working salary wouldn’t be nearly enough to settle the debt. Robert was against the notion of his wife going to work, but Hanna told him to go to hell with his old-fashioned ways. Before the war, Hanna had accompanied her father on visits to his wealthy New York clients, many of whom had swooned over a young girl so knowledgeable about art. Hanna was her father’s daughter, after all. She had grown up immersed in Sam Goldstein’s world and was confident she could carve out a place for herself in the local art scene.

  She visited every gallery in the city over the following week. Some of Sam’s former clients met with her out of respect, lamenting her father’s tragic fate over tea and biscuits. Such a wonderful man, it’s a horrific tragedy . . . but what a relief that you managed to make it out alive . . . so many innocent lives lost . . . They would run through a whole catalog of catastrophes before inevitably arriving at their own hardship—the struggle to survive in a wartime art market—as explanation for why they simply couldn’t do a thing to help her.

  And then Hanna went to see John Glover, an English gallery owner who’d had a very close relationship with Sam. He’d opened a gallery in New York in 1935 and decided to make the move there in 1939, right at the onset of the war. Now, he hoped to return to London the moment the ink on the armistice had dried. The weakened Nazi forces were retreating on all fronts, losing battle after battle, and it was only a question of months before Hitler would be forced to surrender. In the meantime, Glover decided to take a chance on Hanna. If she proved herself, he would let the young woman manage his affairs in the United States when he went back to England. Beyond the modest starting salary, Hanna was offered the priceless experience of working side by side with the man himself.

  John Glover came to Hanna’s aid when she needed it most, which she would never forget. It is rare in life to encounter someone as pure and be
nevolent as Glover. He was an exceptional man, with a kind soul and a strong sense of humility. Small of stature, Glover had round glasses, a goatee, and an enormous heart.

  The gallery owner would come for dinner twice a month at Hanna and Robert’s ground-floor apartment in a brownstone on Sixty-Seventh Street. Hanna never felt an ounce of shame hosting him in their threadbare studio apartment. As Robert became friends with the gallery owner as well, Glover once more helped the couple by entrusting him with cross-country deliveries of valuable paintings, vases, and sculptures.

  Germany surrendered on May 8, 1945. By the time Japan followed suit and officially brought World War II to a close, Europe had already moved on. Life for the young couple took a turn for the better. Hanna worked tirelessly at the gallery, helping Robert pay back his debt little by little. She took to her new profession with the passion of a fanatic, often traveling to meet clients for the purchase or sale of pieces. All the while, her new mentor kept a watchful but trusting eye on her development. Hanna worked countless hours and gave her all, until the blood, sweat, and tears at last began to pay off. And every day without fail, her walk home across Fifty-Ninth Street to Columbus Circle continued. She would gaze up at that other life she craved so desperately, her eyes tracing the facades of the prestigious buildings overlooking the park.

  Robert was aware that his wife longed for something more, and though he never spoke of it, he himself dreamt of his family’s lost wealth. It was painful to think he would never become the head of the family that he’d once dreamt of becoming, since his father had recklessly gambled away his birthright. Robert was struck with an idea: What if he found a way to make money from legal deliveries? He already had solid working relationships with clients and suppliers along his legitimate routes. With wartime over, people had a newfound thirst for revelry. The streets of New York were flowing with booze, and yet it was never enough. Robert was inspired to break into the liquor business. Determined to make a killing, he decided to specialize in high-end spirits (bourbon, scotch, brandy), champagne, and rare wines. But to get his business off the ground, he would need to borrow money. Robert made the rounds, only to be refused by bank after bank—the hallowed Stanfield reputation existed only within Maryland’s state limits. In New York, Robert was like any other unproven, ambitious young man. He knew of only one person in the world who might trust him enough to take a leap of faith.

  Robert poured body and soul into his new venture. He found the perfect storefront on Ninety-First Street, with a street-level entrance, an inner courtyard large enough for loading vans, and an old shed for storing inventory. As for Hanna, her whole life revolved around the gallery now. The guarded young girl who had stepped off the boat with a wad of bills hidden beneath a layer of gauze was no more. A resolute woman on a mission had emerged in her place. Intoxicated by her new career and all that went with it, Hanna traveled coast to coast—Boston; Washington, DC; Dallas; Los Angeles; San Francisco—one city blurring into the next. Stepping back inside her tiny, cramped apartment only inspired her to work harder so she could one day leave it.

  By the end of fall 1945, Robert’s fledgling business had begun to turn a profit, which was no small feat. The young couple saw each other only once a week, on Sundays, when they would make love and sleep the whole day through.

  1946

  On the second of March, the family butler called with terrible news: Robert’s parents had been killed in a car accident in Miami. What’s more, they died without a penny to their name, lacking even enough to cover funeral arrangements.

  Hanna insisted that she and Robert cover the cost. Even if Robert hadn’t forgiven or forgotten, it was imperative a son attend his parents’ funeral. In all the time since the couple stepped off that boat, Robert had never spoken a word to his parents. As far as Robert knew, they had died not even knowing that he had married, and Hanna felt guilty for not pushing her husband to patch things up. She had been so focused on building a life for themselves over the past two years that she had forgotten the bonds of family. Now, it was too late. She made all the necessary arrangements for their remains to be returned to Baltimore, where they could be laid to rest in the family vault, the last vestige of the family’s former glory.

  The couple left for Baltimore two days later. There were very few in attendance at the small funeral in the cemetery chapel. The family butler, seated in the first row, seemed most affected by the loss. Hanna and Robert sat next to the housekeeper in the second row. At the end of the pew was a paunchy man in a three-piece suit and an old-fashioned coat. The sermon was short and to the point, and the officiating priest concluded by offering condolences to the many who would mourn the dearly departed. With only five people in attendance, the words resounded in the chapel like the punch line to a very dark joke.

  The funeral came to a close as the coffins were placed in the family vault. Hanna was moved to tears, thinking of her own father. Now more than ever, she felt the need to cross the ocean and stand before his grave to pay her respects. While they were fleeing Europe, Robert insisted that the Resistance would have made sure her father received a proper burial, but there was no way to know for sure.

  As they returned to their car, they were approached by the paunchy man from the funeral. After offering his condolences, he told Robert something that affected him even more than the loss of his parents. The Stanfield estate was headed for the auction block to pay off his parents’ debts. Robert had but three months to waive his claim of inheritance or be forced to take on those debts himself. Hanna interrupted, asking just how much it would take to hold on to the estate. The banker, as he described himself, said it would take a full five hundred thousand dollars.

  Hanna spent the first half of the trip back to New York turning the problem over in her head. As they reached the outskirts of Philadelphia, she took Robert by the hand and told him she might have thought of a way to hold on to the family estate.

  “How in the world are we going to scrape together that kind of money in such a short time?” he asked. “If we pay back debts by borrowing more, it just puts us deeper in the hole. Both of us are working like crazy already, my love. Heartbreaking as it is to imagine strangers living in my childhood home, sometimes you have to let go of your dreams and move on.”

  “Don’t give up so easily,” Hanna replied. “I wasn’t talking about borrowing at all. For my plan to work, I’ll need to find a way to get back to France. The rest will be a matter of luck.”

  Robert thought he was piecing together what Hanna had in mind, but he kept his theories to himself. Night had fallen by the time they got back to the city. After a quick meal, Hanna slipped into bed and huddled close to her husband. Robert had been thinking about her idea nonstop, but fearing the consequences, he had decided he couldn’t let her go through with it.

  “You don’t have to do this,” he said, as he turned off the lights. “We can make a future for ourselves. We’ll build a new life, one that will make our children proud.”

  Hanna sat up in bed, deciding all at once it was time to share a secret that had been weighing on her for months now.

  “Robert . . . if I haven’t gotten pregnant yet, after all the time we’ve been together . . . darling, I don’t think I can have children.”

  Two weeks later, far sooner than she expected, an opportunity emerged for Hanna to carry out her plan. It came in the form of a major client from California, set to arrive in New York. Glover had been on his way to London to close another deal, but felt he should stay to greet the exacting California client personally. When Hanna offered to travel overseas in his place, the art dealer put her on a flight and set her secret plan into motion. It was the first time Hanna had ever flown. Although she had some initial jitters during takeoff, the rest of the trip was unforgettable. The view out the window and the idea of dining above the clouds filled Hanna with pure wonder.

  After three days in London, Hanna had completed all her work duties. She called and asked Glover for a few days of
f, explaining that she was so close to France, it would be a shame not to visit her father’s grave. After Hanna’s role in closing two astronomical deals in one month, Glover was ready to offer her the moon on a silver platter. He went as far as to sponsor her entire trip, and changed her return ticket so she could fly back directly from Paris.

  Hanna caught a train from London, then crossed the Channel by ferry and boarded another train to Paris. After a night at a hotel near the Gare de Lyon, where she left her suitcase, she took one last train to Montauban. The next leg of the journey Hanna covered by bus. She stopped at two different town halls near the hunting lodge until she had tracked down the address of a blacksmith by the name of Jorge. She hoped his memory would still be fresh. It had only been two years since his brother, Alberto, had perished with the others at the hunting lodge.

  She recognized the man instantly as she entered the workshop. When Jorge caught sight of Hanna’s face, he dropped his hoof knife to the ground and swept her into his arms, his eyes full of tears.

  “Oh, thank God in heaven, you’re alive! We looked for you everywhere,” the blacksmith gasped. “You made it!”

  “Yes, I was one of the lucky ones,” Hanna said, doing her best to keep calm and not break down.

  “I heard about your father. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “And I’m sorry for yours. I’m only alive today because of what your brother and the others did for me.”

  For the second time, Hanna recounted the tale of that June afternoon in 1944, and all the horrors that unfolded in those woods just a few kilometers from where they now stood. Jorge gave her a ride out to the cemetery on the back of his motorcycle. He left her alone to pay her respects at her father’s grave, then returned and told Hanna all that had transpired following that fateful day at the lodge.

  “The next day, around noon, a gendarme came to tell us we could come get the bodies of the dead. Raoul, Javier, Antoine, little Marcel, and my brother, Alberto . . . they’re all here,” said the blacksmith, gesturing out over the tombstones.