by Cat Gardiner
“I’m not afraid of the truth, Jack. Kitty alluded to many things, and she did tell me that Lizzy is still alive—and I still feel the same way about protecting her. Mostly we talked about my grandmother’s courage, and frankly, at that moment that was more important to me then learning about her and Lizzy’s parents.”
“Rightfully so and astute of Kitty to see that. Lillian was an extraordinary woman in her youth and without her, I have to admit, I would not be here today. Hopefully, after my explanation you will understand more clearly why Lizzy, Kitty, and Lillian remained silent about their past.”
He uncomfortably cleared his throat. “This might come as a shock to you, but your grandmother’s father was a virulent Nazi who orchestrated and financed enemy saboteurs to come ashore in America. Frederick Renner worked with Nazi Intelligence and their Marines in coordinating the placement of mines along the Atlantic seaboard, some even here in New York Harbor.”
Flushed ivory skin from the warmth of the kitchen turned ashen, as her eyes grew wide, and her mouth fell slack. Forcibly swallowing, she responded, “My G-d. No wonder no one wanted to admit the Renners even existed. I would deny my family too. Who … how did they find out?”
Jack played with his fork for several long moments waiting for the constriction in his throat to subside, until finally he said, “Lizzy made an anonymous tip to the FBI.”
Juliana gasped. “You’re kidding?”
“I don’t kid about this and under any other circumstance than this … I don’t talk about it either.
“You might think that’s the worst of it, but it isn’t. His most heinous crime was that he funneled money to companies who had a hand in Hitler’s final solution. IG Farben being the worst of them. Along with every explosive and synthetic gasoline made by this company for purposeful use by the Wehrmacht, they created Zyklon-B, which was used to gas millions of Jews in concentration camps as well as those others the Nazis considered unfit—people like Kitty or the mentally challenged.”
Nauseated, Juliana dropped her fork and pushed the pie plate away from her. She stood and walked to the stove, pacing until turning to face him. She leaned her back against the counter, and folded her arms across her chest. “My great-grandfather did this?”
Jack felt a semblance of guilt, his forthright explanation having caused the shocked expression on her pretty face.
“Yes, your great-grandfather. Hardly an appropriate adjective for the man, wouldn’t you say? I’m sorry, I’m truly sorry, but my aunt explained to me why she believes you needed to know. I can’t understand what good it does but perhaps it helps to put your grandmother’s silence into perspective. Kitty’s testimony of her mistreatment and fears for her life gives even more credence to Lillian’s reasoning for hiding the truth about their father, mother, and eldest sister.”
“As horrific as this is, I agree with your aunt. I do need to hear this. From what I’ve surmised already, and if for no other reason, I truly want to better understand how his evil activities changed the lives of three of his daughters, my family, for the good.”
He nodded. “In 1946, our government stated that ‘without IG Farben the Second World War would simply not have been possible’. After Farben’s liquidation following their trial, one of their four chemical companies survived, a well-known aspirin brand today, even though they had actively engaged in drug experimentation on Auschwitz prisoners.”
He watched as Juliana opened the pantry door, removed a bottle of aspirin, then, assuming it was the brand of which he spoke, vehemently tossed it into the trash with a curled lip. Her expression was unlike any he had seen on her in their brief acquaintance, but it didn’t stop his explanation. He had come this far. At her prompting with a wave as though saying, “Bring it on. I need to hear it all,” he would finish.
“Later, the family learned that his payment from the Reich was a rare manufactured automobile as well as a few paintings, considered to be masterpieces that the Nazis had looted from homes and private collections of European Jews deported to ghettos and death camps.”
“What happened to that evil scumbag? I hope they fried his ass in the electric chair.”
“They never had the chance. He committed suicide before his arrest, but his lawyer was arrested and executed in 1947.”
“What happened to Lizzy?”
“Years later, Lizzy and Kitty, with the agreement of Lillian, created The Phoenix Foundation through which every dollar of the Renner fortune has been spent making personal restitution for the acts committed by their father. Since 1945, Lizzy has dedicated her life to atonement for his acts against humanity. Currently, she is dealing with the French Culture Minister to return two paintings to the families of the original owners and she’s also negotiating to recoup a painting currently held by the French government. I think she’s trying to see to its return to its rightful family. For years, she has obsessively tried to determine the origin and owners of the two paintings—a Monet and Degas—which hung in Meercrest. The foundation will also be erecting a veteran’s home in Glen Cove.
“On Meercrest’s property?” Juliana asked recalling the sign on the estate grounds.
“Yes. They also constructed the museum this past year, and the donation of the Renner family’s Manhattan mansion, Greystone, to the Polish Consulate in 1976 are some other projects. She sold her father’s yacht, the Odin, for almost a million dollars, splitting the money in donations to several organizations responsible for relocation of displaced survivors as late as 1957. A team within the foundation works diligently to keep the Renner name removed from any and all reference that might appear, especially, as a benevolent gesture. It’s all done as anonymously as possible, and even after fifty years, there is still a significant amount of money that she pours into education, remembrance, and restoration.”
Juliana sat back down in her chair, clasping her hands tightly before her. “Now I understand why you didn’t want me to print an article. The press could slander and misconstrue the efforts of the foundation and the Renner sisters, exploiting the fact that everything was done using Nazi money. I suppose critics would fail to report the irony that Nazi booty was restoring lives not taking them.”
“Yes, particularly since we are leaving for Paris in three weeks to take part in the memorial as well as a restitution ceremony for the paintings.”
Jack reached his hand out to hers and grasped over her fingers. “Juliana … Lizzy’s first act of reparation was to adopt my father. Lizzy is my grandmother. Your great-uncle was in love with my grandmother.”
She sighed; all the pieces were falling into place as to why Jack hadn’t been forthcoming. “Your grandfather was the John Robertsen in the photograph I found at the library, a man she married while William was still at war.” The letter … the R on the letter in the fireplace stood for Robertsen not Renner. Did she and William have an affair in ’49? She thought of the letter’s words she had memorized. “You know that what we did …”
“Yes, John Robertsen was my grandfather.”
“Did they … um … have other children?”
“My Aunt Annette, born I think in ’43, and my Uncle Dan born maybe around ’48.”
His thumb brushed hers, and their eyes locked, both feeling contrite for their earlier discourse, both feeling an intimate connection of something deeper. In spite of the darkness of the secrets shared over pie and coffee, the magic of Primrose Cottage, as it was always intended, began to cast its spell upon them, and both felt it acutely.
Reading his expression and the intent written all over his face, Juliana withdrew her hands from his. “Jack … I hate to state the obvious but you are my cousin. Our grandmothers were sisters.” She chortled. “I can’t believe I just said that … I have family!”
“You do, you absolutely do. Seven first cousins, but I’m only related to you by adoption, not blood, and we are second cousins.”
She wondered if she was looking for any excuse to pull back, but when the music ended down the ha
ll, it seemed to amplify the sound of the beat of her heart against her chest wall. When Jack took her hand again, she bit her lip unsure of herself and the warning bells going off in her head.
He had unexpectedly been honest, and she wondered if she should be as well. A battle within her ensued on whether to share the contents of the letter she found in the fire grate. No, the only thing that letter proved was that her great-uncle and his grandmother communicated in 1949. Nothing more, nothing less, and whatever was meant wasn’t anyone else’s business. She agreed with Jack that this noble woman should never have her reputation tarnished—even if, especially if, it concerned an affair of the heart. It was clear that the man beside her idolized Lizzy, so Juliana swore to herself she would protect her, too. Lizzy was her great-aunt and someone she felt she had come to know intimately. She was a woman whose life story deserved protection. Now she fully understood Jack’s discretion. No, if there had been an affair, she’d keep that a secret.
His thumb brushed against the pad of her hand. “Will you show me the mantel? Because I have something to share with you.”
“Sure, of course.” Their eyes remained engaged as they exited the kitchen.
Nearing the parlor, Jack stopped at the console table in the hall. The velvet pouches still sat where Juliana had placed them, and he picked up the smaller of the two, his index finger lightly stroking over the raised embroidered Hebrew lettering.
“We found those along with candlesticks and a goblet behind that painting. Do you know what it reads?” she asked.
He smiled thoughtfully trying to remember where he had placed his own twenty years earlier. “For the life of me, I can’t remember my Hebrew, but I can tell you what it is. I received mine at my Bar Mitzvah, every young man does. They’re called Tefillin and verses from the Torah, written on parchment, are placed inside the leather boxes. They’re used for prayer. I imagine the other is the Tallit, the fringed, silk, prayer shawl. The embroidered date is most likely the date of your great-uncle’s Bar Mitzvah.”
“And the goblet?”
“Ah, well if it is sterling, it’s one that might be used during the Shabbat for the Kiddush prayer. The candlesticks would be intended for the woman of the house to light the candles and recite the blessing every Friday night.”
“But, my uncle wasn’t Jewish.”
He made a speculative noise from the side of his mouth, “Maybe he was, and maybe that was why he never married my grandmother. Think about it. Nazi father, Jewish boyfriend, maybe one or the other backed out—or worse yet—was made to. Maybe others had a hand in their separation.”
“How sad. I don’t think he broke it off. I found an engagement ring beside her photograph in what was supposed to be the master bedroom. Was she … happy with your grandfather?”
“They seemed happy, sort of like the best of friends. He spoiled her to no end, and she took such good care of him.”
“Hmm …” As though a thought burst into the forefront of her mind, she dashed to the painting, swinging it outward and removing the letter. “This is to Lizzy. I found it with the other items in the wall. Will you see that she gets it?”
He sighed. “Oh, Juliana, what have we stumbled upon?”
“I don’t know, but in spite of the revelations about my great-grandfather, it’s damn exciting, and I suspect you’re coming around to understanding my intrigue.”
Jack placed the Tefillin bag back on the table and walked to the mantle in the silent front room, admiring his grandmother’s image and the snapshots of her and this man she obviously loved. The grandfather clock in the corner chimed ten, while Juliana busied herself turning the record over to the second side. He wondered how on earth he was going to bring up the subject of Juliana with Lizzy. Would she welcome this living, breathing, tangible reminder of her romantic past? Would she deny this romance, or worse yet would it open a door that he himself wasn’t yet prepared for her to enter?
Artie Shaw’s “Stardust” broke into the quiet when the trumpet began the romantic piece. Their eyes slowly drifted toward one another across the space of the room as the music wrapped them in the magic of Primrose Cottage. In that moment, there were only two people in that room; gone were the specters and speculations surrounding Lizzy and William of fifty years ago.
Jack couldn’t deny Juliana’s allure, every smile and giggle; each furrowed brow and determined set of her jaw enchanted him. Those clear, blue eyes of hers were a sea of tranquility—and boy did he love the sea.
As though prompted by an unseen force, he walked to her, holding out his arm. “Will you dance with me?”
“Here? Now?”
“Yes, Juliana. Here and now.”
“But I don’t know how.”
“Please.”
Tentatively she took his hand, stepping into his embrace. He hoped his hand splayed firmly against her back would relax her apparent hesitance. Certainly, just the nearness of her caused him to calm and muse that romance was possible.
The persistent tugging in Jack’s heart and a shiver in his soul made him imagine the chiming of the clock had transported them both to an era of romance and innocence. He was Juliana’s GI and she was his sweetheart and, suddenly, it was 1942.
They swayed closely to the romantic tune because neither knew the proper dance steps. The fox trot was something he had only heard about or seen done in old black and white films; but this house made him brave, made him feel unusually romantic, and this woman was opening his heart to possibilities, even if she was afraid.
As the clarinet played, Jack surprisingly envisioned his grandmother dancing in William’s arms in this very parlor, maybe to this very song, and he felt guilty over the thought that it wasn’t his own Granpops he imagined holding her.
He breathed deeply, lightly resting his cheek against Juliana’s soft, golden locks. She smelled like sweet citrus blossoms on a sunny morning. The overwhelming combination of intoxicating music, the feel of her against him and the scent of her hair caused a bead of perspiration to form upon his temple. It wasn’t the hot summer night—it was the woman in his arms whose delicate hand was currently clasped around his bare bicep.
For a playboy bachelor, this experience with Juliana was new. This intense emotion and connection was driving his impulse and desire rather than impulse and desire driving his libido.
When his hand left her back, his index finger caressed her delicate neck, moving forward to tilt her chin upward. Their eyes locked, their lips parted, and he felt the tickle of her cherry-infused breath upon his mouth. She was so close, and all he desired was a taste of her then to consume her body and soul.
Slowly his lips descended to her waiting ones, and he closed his eyes in sweet anticipation, but it was not to be. Unfulfilled, disappointed lips met the soft flesh of her cheek when Juliana abruptly turned her face from his, left his embrace, retreating toward the fireplace.
“I’m sorry, Jack. I just …”
“It’s okay, Juliana. I’m the one who should be sorry … I didn’t mean to rush you. You’re a attractive woman, and I just couldn’t help myself.”
She smiled shyly. “It’s the house.”
He walked toward her and took her hand. “No, it’s Juliana.”
Slowly, she slid her hand from his and took a step backward. “What did you want to tell me earlier?”
Shaking off the disappointment for the moment, he refocused. “Well, I have good news. I heard from one of my contacts, and it turns out that your great-uncle is alive.”
“I knew it!”
“He’s living in Sitka.”
Shocked, her eyes widened with incredulity. “As in Alaska?”
“That’s the place.”
“Wow … well, I’ve never been to Alaska before.”
“You’re kidding right? You’re not really considering going to get him, are you?”
“Oh, I’m dead serious. Is there any chance that you might know of a good hotel?” She grinned and raised her eyebrows in expectation
, nodding optimistically. “Maybe you can hook me up with some travel deals?”
The song changed to an upbeat “Begin the Beguine,” and Jack held out his hand again, mischievously grinning. “Only if you dance with me one more time. Maybe we can try to swing dance.”
“Are you bribing me, Mr. Robertsen?”
“Absolutely.”
“I expect Michelin, five-star rated.”
“Not in Sitka. But will you settle for a nice bed and breakfast with a view of Mt. Edgecumbe, amicable hosts and the best damn smoked salmon you’ve ever had?”
Juliana stepped into his embrace. “Deal.”
~~*~~
Twenty-Three
Memories of You
June 1992
William Martel loved the crisp morning air of Sitka at daybreak. Rising early with the sun had become the norm for him, and as he aged, he found deep sleep less and less necessary. The long summer days in Alaska spanned upwards of eighteen hours, and he always made the most of the natural light, particularly on this day. He had been up since five and hadn’t stopped going for four straight hours. Several roof shingles needed tending, and he’d be damned if he was going to hire some thirty year old to do a job he easily could manage at seventy-one.
Sitting atop the gentle slope of the A-frame’s roof, he rested from his repair work and clutched the plastic cup of the coffee thermos. Admiring the view of Sitka Sound, his mind traveled to a decision he needed to make, a difficult one that had been laid at his feet the night before. Decision? No, more like a gentle ultimatum. He hoped the splendid, clear vista of the snow-kissed peak of Mount Edgecumbe in the distance would afford him greater clarity.
Fifty-degree weather felt refreshing and that, too, he expected would clear his confused mind and obstinate heart. He never tired of the breathtaking view, and manual labor always helped when he faced difficult decisions. Like three years ago, when deciding whether or not to adopt a dog from the local pound. Pondering that matter allowed him to finish building the addition to the cabin.
