by Kris Tualla
“Eventually.” Hollis’s dad laid his hand over her mom’s. His eyes were misty.
“Karen’s daughter, Kathleen, who was only fifteen at the time, was pregnant.”
Hollis’s heartbeat stuttered at hearing the name for the first time. “Was I that pregnancy?”
“Yes. And Karen and Howard were determined to make Kathleen give up the baby. After all, Sparta is a tiny little town and Howard was already the Lutheran pastor there.”
“But Kathleen was stubborn,” Ian added. “She said she didn’t want strangers to take her baby.”
Hollis drew a deep breath and tried to imagine how frightened Kathleen must have been. “So you offered to take the baby—me.”
“Offered?” Her dad snorted. “We begged. For three solid months.”
Brianne’s expression turned somber. “Finally, Karen and Howard put our request to Kathleen. She knew us well, of course, and she was thrilled.”
“So why did that take three months?”
“Because, as we said last night, there were conditions.”
Hollis fell back in her chair. “You had to move and take me away.”
Her mom nodded. “And never tell you where you came from.”
So many ramifications of the tale bashed around in Hollis’s head that she didn’t know where to start. “Does Kathleen know anything about me?”
“Probably not,” her dad admitted. “But Howard and Karen ask about you now and then.”
“Is Kathleen still in Sparta?”
Her parents looked at each other. “She went to college in Madison, I thought,” her mom said.
“Did she get married?”
Her dad looked apologetic. “We don’t know. We weren’t allowed to ask for any information about Kathleen.”
“And you won’t ask them now…”
“Hollis,” Sveyn ended his watchful silence. “They have already broken their promise not to tell you. Please do not ask them to do more.”
Hollis’s shoulders slumped. “What should I do?”
“Do what everyone else does,” Sveyn answered. “Look on the internet.”
Thursday
February 11
Hollis’s phone rang in the middle of a group discussion about what to do for Hollis and Sveyn’s shared birthday the next day. The number on her screen was the Milwaukee museum.
“Hello?” She mouthed sorry to her mom.
“Hollis? It’s Mary.”
“Hi, Mary! What’s up?”
“The Art Museum had an opening for their x-ray tech to scan the Rachel painting right after lunch today, so I took it over there.”
Hollis froze, staring at Sveyn. “And?”
“And I’m going to email you the images.”
Hollis hit the kitchen table with a fist. “Oh, come on! Just tell me.”
“What did they find?” Sveyn asked.
“Way to spoil my fun,” Mary teased. Then she said the name like Hollis should know it, “A Max Lieberman.”
Hollis’s excitement dipped. “A Max who?”
Mary groaned. “Really?”
“Yeah. Really.” Hollis turned a confused expression to Sveyn. “Nineteenth-century paintings aren’t my area of expertise.”
“Well look him up. I’m sending the images now.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“And call me after you see them.”
“I will.”
Hollis hung up the phone and faced the three expectant faces at the table. “The x-ray of Rachel revealed another painting underneath. One by a Max Liebermann.”
“Let’s look him up!” Her dad jumped up and handed Hollis her laptop, which was on the kitchen counter.
“Google him,” Sveyn urged.
“I am.” I’ve created a monster. Hollis read the first thing she found out loud.
“The son of a Jewish banker in Berlin, Liebermann studied law and philosophy at the University of Berlin, and later studied painting and drawing in Weimar, Paris, and the Netherlands. After living and working for some time in Munich, he returned to Berlin in 1884, where he remained for the rest of his life.”
Hollis looked up from the screen. “Well, Benjamin was in the right location.”
“Now look up how much his paintings are worth,” her mom said.
Hollis got lost in trails trying to find solid info. “I think Mary’s going to have to use her contacts for that answer.”
“What about missing paintings?” Sveyn asked.
She typed in Max Liebermann missing.
“MonumentsMenFoundation.org?” Hollis laughed. “I had no idea that’s still a thing.”
“Look at that,” her dad pointed at the screen. “So much artwork is still missing. This many years later, I’m betting it was destroyed.”
“Or is hanging in someone’s house…” Hollis opened another tab and went to her email. “Let’s see what exactly we’re looking for.”
Mary’s email had two large images attached.
“Oh. My. God.”
Behind the barely visible portrait of Rachel was the portrait of another girl, in the almost identical pose, but wearing clothing from a completely different era. The painting was clearly signed along the bottom in the right hand corner: M Liebermann ‘89
Sveyn leaned over her shoulder. “Was it stolen by the Nazis?”
“I don’t think so. It’s listed as from a ‘private collection’ and ‘whereabouts unknown’…” Hollis scrolled down. “The owners are listed as Elijah and Marion Weichsel.”
“So Benjamin got the painting from them,” Sveyn posited. “Could he have bought it?”
“Maybe.” Hollis looked at him over her shoulder. “The question is, could he afford it?”
Sveyn slid back into his chair. “He was an art restorer. Perhaps he traded for it.”
“Hopefully Eli will know. After we tell him, that is.” Hollis stood. “I have to call Mary back—this changes the situation.”
Her dad spun the laptop around to face him while she walked into the living room and dialed Mary’s number.
“So, Hollis. What do you think?” Mary’s bubbly personality didn’t require a salutation.
Hollis laughed. “This is crazy! What are we going to do?”
“Well, I contacted the mediation committee yesterday and gave them the two stories, both of which were substantiated with additional evidence,” Mary said. “They promised a ruling in forty-eight hours.”
“So Friday afternoon?” Hollis paused. “Let’s have the families come back on Monday. Then we won’t have to bum-rush the unhappy side.”
“Good idea.”
“You know, both sides say the painting isn’t valuable but they want it for sentimental purposes. So I don’t think either one of them has a clue.”
“I think you’re right.” Now Mary paused. “We shouldn’t tell them until after we announce the committee’s decision.”
“Good call,” Hollis agreed. “Do you have a sense of which way they’ll go?”
“No, they gathered facts, asked a couple questions and said they’ll get back to me. Why?”
Hollis hesitated, trying to coral the elusive threads of logic which were linking in her mind. “What would happen if we disagreed with the committee’s decision?”
“You mean because we have new information?”
“Yes.”
“We could appeal and present what we’ve found. What are you thinking?”
“I think I know who should get the painting,” she stated. “I think the answer to was it a gift is obvious.”
“Really?” Mary chuckled. “Care to share?”
“Not yet, I’m still working out the details.” Hollis sighed. “Promise you’ll call me as soon as you hear?”
“Sure thing.”
Hollis walked back into the kitchen. Sveyn’s long legs stretched under the table, his Nordic frame so different from her adoptive father’s.
Am I really a Hansen?
“I’ve decided what I want to d
o for my birthday,” she announced. “I want to go to Sparta.”
Friday
February 12
“This looks like Norway,” Sveyn said as Hollis drove the hundred-and-eighty miles across central Wisconsin.
She smiled. “That’s why so many Norwegians settled here, I guess.”
“And Germans,” Ian said from the back seat. “Lots of Germans.”
When Hollis announced that she wanted to go to Sparta and try to find out more about the young girl who birthed her, Sveyn thought it was the perfect way to mark the day. And of course, there was no way that Ian and Brianne were staying behind.
Hollis spent the rest of yesterday searching on ancestry sites, telephone and address listing sites, even Facebook, looking for any reference to Kathleen Mueller from Sparta.
Sveyn asked about Hollis’s birth certificate, prompted by his own recent experience. “Is the father listed?”
Hollis shook her head. “My legal birth certificate always listed my legal parents, the McKennas. But I do know where and when I was born, so that helps.”
“We’ll check church records,” Brianne offered. “And call some of our friends. Somebody has to know who Kathleen was going around with.”
“Teachers at the high school might, if any are still there,” Hollis added.
“Good idea,” Ian said. “I’ll go there.”
Hollis huffed a laugh. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, Dad, but we only have one car. We’ll all go everywhere together.”
“Might we be able to walk?” Sveyn asked.
Hollis shrugged. “Maybe. Depends on the weather.”
Sveyn squinted at the brilliant blue sky and the bright white ground beneath the acres of dormant forests that they whizzed past. “If this holds, we will have an enjoyable search.”
*****
Sparta was a typical midwestern-America town, with a main street lined with hundred-year-old government buildings and repurposed shop fronts and restaurants. Hollis followed her GPS’s voice to the Victorian bed-and-breakfast she found online yesterday. Even though it was Valentine’s weekend, the dead of winter wasn’t when most people visited rural Wisconsin, so she was able to book three rooms.
“Oh, go ahead and stay with him,” Brianne said when Hollis told her. “I’m not that naïve.”
Hollis blushed a little. “Believe it or not, we haven’t—I mean, we’re not—”
Brianne put up a hand to hush her. “That’s fine. I don't need to know.”
As a child Hollis always felt like she was coming home when she and her parents visited her grandparents here. Their cozy nineteen-forties bungalow always smelled like bacon—her grandfather’s favorite food. And when her grandma baked, the sweet and savory aromas mixed into what Hollis thought of as comfort.
I wonder if I could get a room freshener that smells like that…
Hollis parked the car and led the charge up the Victorian’s front steps. She looked at her watch; it was only ten-thirty. Thanks to the clear day, they made the drive in good time.
“Let’s get settled in and start our search.” She looked at her parents. “Most of our targets will be closed tomorrow, so now’s our chance.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Their first stop was the hospital where Hollis was born.
“Records are in the basement,” the cheery girl in the candy-striped apron said. “Take the elevator at the end of the hall.”
This hospital was much smaller and older than the one Sveyn and Hollis had been in. He almost made a comment about that before remembering that his own part in that fateful day at the Renaissance Faire was a secret.
Ian opened the door to the records’ room and the four members of their group filed in.
Hollis stepped up to the desk and asked for the records from her birth. The bookish man, who was clearly surprised by the sudden crowd at his counter, had her fill out a paper, show her driver’s license, and then he looked at the date.
“Happy birthday.”
She gave what Sveyn thought of as her polite smile. “Thank you.”
“This might take a minute. Our new records are digital, and we’re still working on scanning in the old stuff.”
Sveyn pressed his lips together, refusing to smile at Hollis’s birth being called old.
“Fine.” She looked around the small chair-less space. “We’ll just be standing here.”
The man returned after a very long eleven minutes. “Here you are. The application for a birth certificate.”
Hollis nearly grabbed it from the man’s hand. Her eyes flitted over the paper, then she turned a defeated face to Sveyn.
“She wrote that the father is unknown.”
Ian reached over and rubbed his daughter’s shoulders. “That happens a lot. I’d bet Karen told her to write that.”
Hollis asked for a copy of the paper anyway. “There might be other clues. Or it’s a souvenir.”
“The church next?” Brianne asked as they waited for the elevator.
“What are we looking for there?” Hollis asked.
“Confirmation records. Maybe a name will pop out.”
Sveyn looked at Brianne. “Do you believe the father to be the same age as Kathleen?”
Brianne’s eyes widened. “No! He’s older! I remember Karen saying something about him being a senior…”
Hollis counted backward. “A summer fling before college? Kathleen would have been between her freshman and sophomore year when she conceived.”
Ian nodded. “So we’ll go back four years, just to be sure.”
The church secretary at the Lutheran church was clearly put out by the request. “Those logs are in a closet in the old office building.”
“We’d be happy to search through them so you don’t have to,” Ian told her with a smile. “We know which four years we need and confirmation only happens twice a year.”
“Hmph.” The woman called somebody on the phone. “Can you come get some visitors and show them to the file closet?”
She hung up. “He’s on his way.”
The man who escorted them was much cheerier and greeted them with a grin. “I’m Marcus. So what are you folks looking for?”
“Confirmation records,” Hollis answered. “I was adopted and I’m trying to find my father.”
“Like putting a puzzle together.” Marcus nodded. “Or a murder mystery.”
Surprised at that choice of words, Sveyn looked askance at Ian. “Let us hope not.”
The closet was filled with shelves, and the shelves were filled with binders. Thankfully the dates were on the spines, if not the type of records inside them.
“Do you folks need any help?”
Brianne smiled kindly. “No, we can manage. But thank you.”
Marcus looked disappointed. “Are you sure?”
Hollis shot Sveyn a resigned look. “I guess you could hand us the notebooks we need, then put them back when we’re done.”
Marcus smiled like it was his birthday. “Happy to!”
Each of the four took one year, starting with Kathleen’s assumed confirmation year. “Found her!” Hollis called out.
“Should we try and get copies made, or just write down the names?” Ian asked.
Brianne handed out pens and tore slips of paper from a shopping-list pad in her purse. “This will be faster.”
Sveyn accepted the task, though his handwriting was still rough. He could not wait to find a Hansen.
*****
An hour later, the group cozied into a booth at a diner and ordered a hot lunch. A soap opera played softly on a flat screen TV over the dinette’s counter, while two women in business attire and one man dressed like a laborer sat on the red vinyl stools and watched as they ate.
While they waited to be served, Hollis’s little group read each other’s lists. Hollis was looking for Hansens.
She knew there was no way she could say anything to her parents about Sveyn’s contention that she descended from his father—who was
born a thousand years and forty generations ago. But after knowing the Viking for these last five-and-a-half months, she believed he knew what he was talking about.
She found six Hansens on the lists, two of which were boys. One of those was three years ahead of Kathleen in school. Hollis put a little checkmark next to his name: Aleksander Hansen.
Then she slid the list under Sveyn’s hand.
He gave her a puzzled glance before he looked at the names. Then he smiled, and handed back the paper.
“What is it?” Brianne lifted her teabag from its steaming cup and wrapped the string around the spoon to squeeze it. “Did you find something?”
“Oh, Sveyn thinks it would be funny if I turned out to be a Hansen.” Hollis kept her tone flippant. “And there’s a boy on the list who’s the right age.”
The waitress and a busboy showed up with plates of food and began dispersing them around the table.
“I like how people here eat.” Sveyn smiled. “It reminds me of home.”
Ian’s brows pulled together. “Phoenix? Really?”
“Sveyn thinks of Norway as his home,” Hollis covered. “He spent a lot of time there, like he said.”
The waitress brightened as she set his plate on front of him. “Snakker du Norsk?”
“Ja,” he replied. “Jeg lærte norsk før jeg lærte engelsk.”
“Jeg også!”
Whatever they were saying, the waitress was clearly flirting with Sveyn. Hollis laid her hand on his arm and interrupted their little Norse party.
“Mom wants to know if the church is still available on our wedding date.”
Sveyn coughed a laugh. The waitress whirled around and walked away, hips swaying defiantly.
Her father winked at her, grinning. “Well played, daughter.”
“What’s mine is mine.” She leaned against Sveyn’s muscled arm. “And this hunk of Viking is mine.”
A very familiar voice pulled her attention to the television. “Oh my gosh! Look!”
Sveyn’s image filled the screen.
She hit his arm with the back of his hand. “It’s your commercial!”
