by Jan Moran
No, not another ship, too. Danielle’s head swam with fury. So this is war, she thought. Then I will fight, and I will win.
Across the room, Jon searched the crowd of tired, weary faces. Where the devil is she? He ran a hand through his hair. He hoped she hadn’t been on the lifeboat that sank. He couldn’t imagine Danielle not fighting like hell to safety, but then, he’d known many a strong sailor bested by the frigid waters of the North Atlantic.
Then he saw her. She stood with a blanket wrapped around her willowy frame, her auburn hair slicked from her forehead and hanging in a tangled rope down her back.
He caught his breath, not because of her bedraggled appearance, but rather because of the way she stood, so straight and tall. He grinned. Courageous. What a woman.
She looked regal in her woolen blanket, her face set with determination. Her chin lifted as if in defiance. As he watched her, his pulse quickened.
When he moved closer, he saw the brilliance of her eyes as she glanced about the room. Looking for Max, he assumed. Her eyes were the color of Colombian emeralds, with fiery sparks and the intense gaze of a lioness that would make any man think twice about crossing her. Heat gathered in his belly. What a beautiful woman.
He stopped, and checked his thoughts. What a fool I am, she’s a married woman. And he was practically engaged to Victoria. But a man could look, couldn’t he?
No, Danielle’s appearance wasn’t what unsettled him, except that she was an undeniably lovely young woman. He loved her incredible eyes, ached to stroke her honey-colored skin. But no, she had something else, something within her. She moved with grace, she was entirely feminine, and yet, she possessed an inner strength that was alarming for such a young woman. He nodded to himself. She was a most capable woman, indeed.
If only I’d met her before she married Max.
He let out his breath, chastising himself for his thoughts at a time like this.
Against a bright overhead light, Danielle saw the outline of a man as he approached her, a man who moved with assurance and vitality. She knew his commanding height, the broad span of his shoulders, and his thick chestnut hair. Danielle waved and pressed through the crowd, her heart surging.
“Jon, Jon!”
“Danielle, I’m so relieved.” Jon caught her by the waist and hugged her close. His lips brushed her forehead.
Jon’s warm embrace was solid and reassuring, but it was a long moment before she pulled away to put a proper distance between them. “They can’t find Max’s name on the list. Is he all right? Have you seen him?”
Jon looked down at her, his bleary eyes bloodshot and damp.
She caught her breath. Not Max! “No, no,” she murmured.
“Don’t worry, Max is fine, Danielle.”
She released her breath. “Oh, thank God.”
“He was incredible. He helped so many people to safety. Along with the captain, we were the last off the ship.”
“Where is he?” Danielle gripped his jacket lapel. “I must see him.”
“He’s being questioned.”
Her shoulders tensed. This wasn’t good. “Why?”
“He has a German passport. I tried to vouch for him. He gave them quite a start, though. They think he looks just like Edward, the Duke of Wales.” One corner of his mouth turned up. “He’s not a German spy, is he?”
“How could they even think that?” Danielle was appalled at the thought. “And his mother is Polish.”
“That’s what I told them, but they need to see you, too. Come with me.”
Jon continued talking as they walked. “About your lodging, my parents already have a full house, but you can stay at our friend’s home, the Leibowitzes. They’re like family.”
* * *
Max sat at a rickety table in a small dim room and struggled to keep his composure. “No, I am not, nor have I ever been, a member of the Nazi Party.”
Two uniformed male officials stood before him, inspecting his passport and travel documents. Three others in stark black suits spoke in hushed tones at the far end of the room. They hunched over a stack of papers and cast glances his way.
Max’s face burned. Never had he been so humiliated. “I am German, but I am not a Nazi sympathizer.”
One suited man stood and walked toward him. He reached into his pocket for a cigarette, lit it, and tossed the match into the ashtray on the table. Max stared at the cigarette, yearning for a smoke. He had lost his pipe when the ship went down.
The man flicked an ash from his cigarette. “Let me clarify,” he said, his polished voice calm, his British accent clipped. “You are a German citizen; we can detain you indefinitely.”
A sharp knock sounded at the door and a woman handed a note to the man. He read it, folded it back so that only the signature was visible, and slid it across the table to Max. “Friends in high places, I see.”
The note was signed, Sir Nathan Newell-Grey. Jon’s father, Max recalled.
The man inclined his groomed, balding head. “How long have you lived in Poland?”
“Twenty-five years. My mother is Polish, we live on our family estate in Klukowski.”
The man’s gaze took in Max’s dirty, torn clothes. “Your estate?”
“Yes, our estate. I don’t always look like a hired hand.”
“Hmm.” The man’s cool blue eyes held his. “And your loyalty is with which country?”
“My loyalty is with Poland,” Max replied through gritted teeth. “For God’s sake, man, my mother and son are still there.”
“Does your loyalty extend to the German people?”
Was this man trying to trick him? Max hesitated, checked his anger. It was complicated, but Max had his standards. “Yes,” he said with renewed conviction. He took care to pronounce the English words. “But my loyalty is to the people of Germany, not to Hitler. The people must be freed of his reign, their honor restored.”
“Hmm, their honor, indeed.”
Max clenched his jaw. He had spent his life trying to regain the honor of his father’s family. Did I reveal too much? He drew a steadying breath. He knew he must be more careful, or he would never regain his freedom, let alone his honor.
The suited man eased himself on to the edge of the table. With a lift of his hand, the uniformed men left the room. “Would you be willing to travel into Germany and Poland on behalf of His Majesty’s government to help oust Hitler’s regime?”
Max’s heart skipped. “When can I go?”
For the first time, a shadow of a smile flickered across the man’s face. “We must complete our security check first.”
Emboldened, Max drew himself up in his chair. “I have one condition.”
The man’s eyebrow arched.
“I must see to my family’s safety.”
The man glanced at his two colleagues in the corner. The eldest nodded in agreement. “We’ll be in touch.”
After they opened the door and left, Max swallowed a surge of relief, replaced by a new sense of bitter resolve. What choice did he have? His gut tightened. He was a man without a country; his Germany was gone.
* * *
When Danielle and Jon reached the processing area, Danielle went through a debriefing, gave their address, her parents’ address in France, and assured officials Max was not working against British interests. Once they realized Danielle’s mother was Jewish, they asked few questions. How could a man be a Nazi sympathizer with a wife and son of Jewish heritage?
Minutes later, Max appeared at Danielle’s side, and she was relieved to see him. “Thank God you’re all right.” He embraced her and buried his face in her tangled hair. He pulled back, drew his brows together. “And the baby?”
She placed her hand on her slight belly. “Fine, I’m sure.”
Max turned to Jon, who stood next to Danielle. “Give my regards to your father, Jon. Please tell him thank you.”
“It was nothing, really. My father simply put in a good word for you. You’ve both been granted tempora
ry asylum, Danielle.” Jon gave her a sad smile. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll find Libby Leibowitz. We could all use a hot bath and a change of clothes.”
Jon hurried away, and Danielle watched him go. I’m so glad he made it, she thought. And my darling Max, too, she hurriedly added, squeezing her husband’s hand.
Max frowned. “Who is Libby Leibowitz?”
“A friend of Jon’s. We can stay at her home.”
“Danielle, you know we cannot impose on strangers.”
Had she heard him correctly? “What?”
“We’ll make other arrangements.”
“Such as?”
Max jutted his chin out, but said nothing.
Exasperation welled within her, and she began to count to ten. One, two...I cannot deal with his infernal pride...three...and then she lost her composure. “We don’t have any money for a hotel,” she shot back. “We spent it all in New York. And we can hardly call our banker in Poland. Of course, to call my parents, that would be charity. Will you let your pregnant wife sleep in the street?”
“Danielle, control yourself.”
She heard a child cry in the distance, and it fueled her anger. “And I should never have left Nicky!”
Max looked shocked. He put his arms around her. “I’m sorry, I never dreamed it would come to this.”
Danielle steadied herself. Two apologies in two days. It was unlike him. She pushed their petty argument aside. “Max, we must return home.”
“Soon, I promise,” he said softly.
“Look, here’s Jon again. And that must be Mrs. Leibowitz.”
A small, dark haired woman, dressed in a nubby tweed suit, walked beside Jon. She didn’t wait for introductions.
“You must be the von Hoffmans.” She turned a lined, wren-like face up to them. “I’m Libby Leibowitz,” she said, an Eastern European accent clearly evident. “You’ll stay with me and my family.”
Before Max could argue, she replied, “We would be most appreciative. I’m quite exhausted.”
“We’re happy to host you until the Germans are defeated, or until...well, let’s leave it at that, shall we?”
Jon offered a weary grin. “What did I tell you? Isn’t Libby terrific?” He gave her a peck on the cheek. “I’ll see you later this evening. Duty calls, I must join my father.”
Max and Danielle followed Libby to her car. When Danielle saw the shiny black, chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce, she glanced down at her tattered clothes in embarrassment. But I am so grateful. They stepped into the car and Danielle breathed in the rich scent of the leather upholstery.
“We’d planned to have a dinner party tonight,” Libby said. “But it will be very casual, in view of everything. The Newell-Greys will join us later. Lord knows they’ll need to relax.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Leibowitz,” Danielle said. “But I may not feel up to dinner. I’ve been rather queasy.”
“Probably because you haven’t eaten. You must eat. Now more than ever,” she said with force.
Danielle decided that Libby, though tiny in stature, was a woman with immense resolve. She wielded her power with well-practiced authority.
On the drive to the house, Libby turned to them. “My husband is an advisor to the Crown. He’s been in meetings all day, but will be pleased to meet you.” She sighed. “I have lived through one war, that’s what brought me here, and I have no desire for another. Hitler must be stopped at any cost.”
“I agree,” Max said. “Though it will not be easy.”
“Nothing worthwhile ever is.”
“May I ask where you’re from?” Danielle couldn’t place the woman’s accent.
“I am from Lithuania,” Libby replied with obvious pride. “Although I haven’t been back since the war.” She shrugged. “My life is here now, with my husband.” Her eyes darted from Max to Danielle. “Do you have family?”
Danielle felt her throat constrict. I hope so....
“Yes, we do,” Max said. “Our son Nicky celebrated his fourth birthday before we left. He’s at home with my mother. In Poland.”
Libby’s face clouded. “This is not good, not good at all. You must get your family.”
“As soon as we can,” Danielle said, her jaw set.
* * *
The Leibowitz home was in Belgravia, an exclusive area of London. Danielle caught her breath when she entered the gracious foyer. “What a lovely home, Mrs. Leibowitz.”
“Thank you, my dear.” Libby removed her gloves, handed them to a butler. “But you must call me Libby. All my friends do.”
The wood parquet floors and Aubusson rugs reminded Danielle of her parents’ home in Paris, and the Bretancourt family chateau in Grasse. And how I miss my parents, too, she realized. French Impressionist and J.W. Turner paintings lined the walls, and gleaming vases of fresh roses scented the air. With a pang of sadness, Danielle noticed silver-framed photographs of attractive, smiling people—much like the photographs that filled her own home. Would she ever see it again? She asked, “Your family?”
“And extended family.” Libby met Danielle’s gaze. “Love is really the most important element in any home, isn’t it?”
Libby motioned to a uniformed servant. “Sarah here, our upstairs maid, will find some suitable clothing for you. You must get out of those damp clothes right away. Come with me, I’ll show you to your rooms.”
Danielle and Max followed her up a sweeping mahogany staircase, its rail polished to a smooth sheen, sleek beneath Danielle’s hand. She caught the faint aroma of lemon oil. A crystal chandelier sparkled overhead, as fine as their own factory produced, she noted, frowning as she thought of their employees’ fate. A stab of sorrow sliced through her.
They reached the second floor and Libby turned. “I want to reiterate that you’re welcome here for as long as you wish.”
“You are too kind,” Max said.
“Not at all. It’s a little selfish on my part, really. You see, we were not blessed with children. We tried to claim Abigail and Jonathan as our own, but their parents wouldn’t hear of it.” She smiled wistfully. “A home this size needs people. You’ll give us company and conversation. I think it’s a fair trade. I only wish the circumstances were more favorable.”
“So do I,” Danielle said.
“Here we are.” Libby opened a door at the end of the hall. Danielle stepped inside. The plush carpet felt soft beneath her bare feet, which were rough and bruised from her ordeal.
The guest suite stretched the width of the building and consisted of a sitting room, bedroom, and bathroom. English Hepplewhite mahogany furniture and a sunny yellow and peach tapestry combined to create a setting of serene elegance.
A fireplace graced the sitting room and filled it with the comforting aroma of crackling wood. Danielle crossed to the windows, where a delicate Chippendale writing desk overlooked a manicured garden. She gazed out at a green maze of clipped hedges woven among a colorful blanket of well-tended roses. Tall trees in the early stage of coppery fall foliage surrounded the perimeter. Danielle sighed. How could she ever again enjoy such beauty, in the face of such worry and heartache?
Her thoughts were drawn to another lovely garden a thousand miles away. She remembered their beloved home, her son, and Sofia. Her head tingled, her skin grew cold. She gripped a chair for support.
“Oh my dear, please sit down,” Libby said. “You’re white as a ghost. A hot bath and a nap should do wonders.”
Danielle sank onto the chair, her head spinning.
Max started toward her. “Is it the baby?”
“I’ll be fine, Max.” She waved him away. Of course it’s the baby! And the war, and my son, and Sofia, and....
Libby clicked her tongue and plumped a pillow on the bed. “Right, then. There are dressing gowns, fresh towels, and feather down pillows, and writing paper in the desk. My butler, Hadley, will see to your post and telegrams if you wish. You’re welcome to use the telephone. There’s one in the library downstairs. Simply give the num
ber you wish to call and the operator will ring back when your call is answered. If there is anything else, Sarah will see to it.”
Danielle acknowledged Sarah with a kind glance.
Libby went on. “Turn the handle to the left of the fireplace to ring her downstairs and she’ll be right up. Won’t you Sarah?”
“Yes, madam.” Sarah dropped a curtsey.
“And Sarah will bring a change of clothes, along with tea and sandwiches, straight away.”
Danielle nearly gagged at the mention of food.
Libby paused with her hand on the doorknob. “We’ll see you downstairs at seven-thirty for cocktails.”
Miraculously, Sarah produced clothing and shoes for them, worn but serviceable. “Yer lucky,” she told them. “We have all sizes. Mrs. Leibowitz collects clothes for the London Women’s Society.”
After a steaming bath, Danielle’s body was somewhat restored, but her mind still swirled. How would they return home? Was Nicky safe? How ill was Sofia?
She emerged from the bathroom in a cotton robe. Max was pouring tea in the sitting room. Instantly, she detected the aroma of bergamot—that would be Earl Grey tea, she knew, her mind instantly transported to her perfumer’s organ. The citrusy oil from the Italian bergamot fruit was frequently used to lift and freshen the opening accord in perfumes. And, of course, in Earl Grey tea. She sighed, aching for her art...her family, her home.
Sarah had left a silver tea service on a tray laden with cold chicken and cucumber sandwiches. The crisp cucumber smelled fresh and green, but still, she couldn’t imagine eating. When will this madness end?
“Cup of tea, darling? Sandwich?”
Danielle leaned against the sofa and shook her head.
Max frowned at her. “You look pale, Danielle. Are you sure you’re well enough for dinner?”
“Actually, no,” she snapped. “How can you even think of a dinner party at a time like this?”
Max’s jaw tightened. “What do you want, Danielle, a silver tray in your room tonight? Don’t act spoiled, we have a responsibility to our hosts. Besides, I must speak with Nathan Newell-Grey.”
She threw a glance at the tea service before Max, but she was too weary to voice her opinion on double standards. Bitterness welled in her throat. “Fine, I’ll get through the evening somehow.”
