Deep red velvet lined shallow, recessed drawers, each divided into compartments. It would have been entirely hidden by Anneke’s hanging clothes. Another secret place. Another private world. Slowly, Nora opened the panel as far as it would go, afraid of what she would find. But she knew instantly. They stood side by side, sunk in rich coronation velvet. Silver orbs.
Nora lifted the first gently from its nest. An intricate A inscribed on the front. She ran her finger over the detailed work. She knew what would be on the back. As she turned it over, the cool of the metal warmed to the curve of her palm. An identical A. Abram en Anneke. She unfastened the silver clasp from her neck and lifted her mother’s locket to compare them. They were the same.
Nora pulled the drawers open. Thirty-four identical silver globes glowed softly, burnished flares against the claret velvet. A holy shrine—Anneke’s hallowed place, her final reliquary. Pieces of Anneke’s heart commemorating each year she had survived without Abram. Nora imagined her mother, year after year, holding the silver stones, warming them in her hands, never losing the touch of his hand, the love of so long ago.
Nora sensed the intrusion of her presence. She was never meant to see this. She closed the secret panel. She would come for them later.
She walked back into her parents’ bedroom and glanced around. Was there anything else she had missed? She turned to go and then realized that she had almost forgotten the shadow box on the wall. It had always hung there and, after time, had become part of the room, like furniture one never noticed.
Nora walked over and studied it. The Anneke Rose. That was what her father had called it. Anneke had cultivated it in her beloved greenhouse, her one passion. There she was happy, her hands in the rich earth, nursing cuttings, singing softly to herself.
Hans had built her a small room off the greenhouse. While Anneke gardened, Nora would lie on a mattress in her nook, reading and sleeping; sleeping and dreaming. Many summers were spent this way, the two of them in companionable silence.
Each summer morning, Anneke would clip a tiny pink rosebud and lay it on Nora’s pillow. And every morning, Nora would take her book and curl up on the bed, the rose a scented bookmark, a daily token of love and thoughtfulness.
Nora stared at the intricately embroidered rose in the shadow box. Pink—a soft, baby-breath blush of a rose. It seemed so real that Nora could almost smell its pure, childlike scent.
She lifted it from the wall and walked toward the door. Then she heard something flutter onto the carpet. An envelope. Nora stared at it. Probably a bill from the framer, taped onto the back of the shadow box. She laid the box on the bed, sat and opened the envelope. She shook it upside down. A dried pink rose fell onto Nora’s lap. Inside was a letter dated two months after Rose’s birth.
My darling Nora,
How strange it is that I must write a letter to you instead of telling you these things as you sit in the other room, peacefully nursing my grandchild. I hope when you read this that you will not blame me for keeping my secrets from you, knowing I love you more than you can imagine.
I will not tell you the details of my life during the war. It was a time of hate, death and loss. What is important for you to know is your true heritage. I have struggled all these years trying to decide whether to tell you this at all, but as my daughter, I feel you have the right to know.
During the war, both Hans and I fought in the resistance. It was a terrible, terrifying, yet exciting time. I met another resistance fighter, a Jewish man named Abram Rosen. He was the love of my life, Nora. I know it must hurt you to know that Hans was not. He was a fine man who loved me. And you were the light of his life.
A shameful fact of my life is that my father was a Dutch Nazi, a cruel, brutal man. I pretended to be one to hide my resistance activities. In 1942, Abram was forced into hiding. I moved him constantly, terrified that he would be discovered. In April of 1945, just one month before the liberation, I discovered I was pregnant. Abram was thrilled about the baby. He just knew he would make it, that we three would make it–to freedom.
I had tried to keep my relationship with Abram secret from Hans, who was a childhood friend. He was horribly jealous. One night Hans and I had an argument about Abram. I told him I was pregnant and he went into a rage. I didn’t know that he had been following me to the house where Abram was hiding. He ran out and I ran after him, knowing he would go there, terrified at what he might do.
Then it happened all at once. Hans and Abram fighting outside the safe house, the Dutch police running up behind me, my pulling Hans away from Abram. And then an officer shot Abram. Between the eyes. His last look was at me. I shall never wipe that from my mind.
Hans was blamed for killing Abram. He did not. I was blamed for leading the police to Abram. I did not. I learned only after Liberation Day who had betrayed my darling Abram. The killer told me himself.
My father.
He was suspicious of my absences late at night and had me followed. I never knew how he did it, but on that horrible night, he had the Groene Politie track me to Abram’s safe house. Then the fight. The shot.
I was pregnant. My lover was dead. Life was over for me. I didn’t care where I went, what I did. Everything was hopeless, lost, destroyed. I had a difficult pregnancy. After you were born, it was Hans who persuaded me to come to America. He knew he would be blamed for Abram’s murder and that, as an NSB-er, I would be arrested, jailed.
Hans and I tried to make a good life for you. I hope we have. Now you have your own daughter to love. My only wish for you is that you find your Abram. If you do, never let him go.
I leave you this rose I made for you. I leave you the love that is here in my heart, as perfect as yours for Rose. Never mourn me. You are the child of a great love. Live your life as one.
EPILOGUE
Nora walked to the Leidseplein on a beautiful summer day. She saw Nico sitting with Rose at an outdoor café. She grasped the locket around her neck. She knew what was inside. She had placed photographs of her and Nico into the two oval spaces. Beneath them were the old pictures of Anneke and Abram.
Nico saw her and waved. Rose came running toward her, red curls bouncing, her mouth open in laughter. She walked to them, her hand molded gently around the new life that grew inside her. She walked to the man she loved, her daughter and a life filled with promise and joy.
It was as Anneke and Abram would have wished. Their love lived on.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from SAVING MAX by Antoinette van Heugten.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For my first editor, who is forced to live with me as I go through the tortured rituals that precede every novel and who reads every line of every revision. Without his unqualified love and encouragement, I would still be staring at a blank page. Thank you, my darling Bill.
For my family, for always being there.
For my brilliant agent, Al Zuckerman, and the agony he puts me through with every novel, pushing me to make every word, scene and chapter the very best it can be. I cannot imagine writing without you!
For Glenn Cambor, without whom I would never have become a writer and who has saved my life in so many ways.
For Beverly Swerling and her steadfast support and encouragement.
For my professor and mentor, Francis Bulhof, who long ago taught me Dutch and who patiently shepherded a naive girl through the scholarship maze that led her to the Netherlands.
Deep appreciation for my dear friend Marijke Clerx, my cousin, Liesbeth van Loon, and her husband, Yvo, for reading the manuscript and correcting my most flagrant errors in language and history. Thanks to Prof. A.G.H. Anbeek for his course in Dutch culture.
For my editor, Susan Swinwood, and the entire MIRA group, for their continued support. I take full responsibility for any historical errors regarding events depict
ed in the Netherlands during the war. My research was conducted over thirty years ago, when I spent a year in the carrels of NIOD (Nederlands Instituut voor Oorlogsdocumentatie). I was fortunate to meet its founder, Loe de Jong, and to be assisted by the Institute’s wonderful staff, who helped me comb through stacks of diaries donated by Dutch citizens after the war. Any errors in the Dutch language are mine, as it has been decades since I spoke with any fluency.
Finally, deep gratitude to my readers for their enthusiastic response to my first novel, Saving Max. I hope you enjoy this one, as well.
Deeply Moving
Thought Provoking
Powerful Storytelling
They have nothing in common except one powerful bond: the men they love are fighting in a war a world away from home...
A remarkable tale about finding hope in a time of turmoil and about the transcendent and transformative power of friendship.
“With lyrical prose and exquisite detail, Shona Patel’s novel brings to life the rich and rugged landscape of India’s tea plantations, harboring a sweet love story at its core.”
—Shilpi Somaya Gowda, New York Times bestselling author of Secret Daughter
In a riveting exploration of the power the past wields over the present, Antoinette van Heugten writes the story of a woman who must confront the roots of her family’s troubled history in the dark days of World War II in order to save her child.
Find your copies wherever ebooks are sold!
Imagine your entire life turned upside down.
A spellbinding and stunning debut, The Returned is an unforgettable story that marks the arrival of an important new voice in contemporary fiction.
“Exceptional.”
—Publishers Weekly, starred review
“Breathtaking.”
—Kirkus Reviews, starred review
“Eloquent.”
—Booklist, starred review
“This is a masterly first novel for Mott.”
—Library Journal, starred review
The Returned are coming. Order your copy today.
And don’t miss your chance to also own the digital prequels to this moving tale:
“The First”
“The Sparrow”
“The Choice”
Chapter One
Danielle falls gratefully into the leather chair in Dr. Leonard’s waiting room. She has just raced from her law firm’s conference room, where she spent the entire morning with a priggish Brit who couldn’t imagine that his business dealings across the pond could possibly have subjected him to the indignities of a New York lawsuit. Max, her son, sits in his customary place in the corner of the psychiatrist’s waiting room—as far away from her as possible. He is hunched over his new iPhone, thumbs punching furiously. It’s as if he’s grown a new appendage, so rarely does she see him without it. At his insistence, Danielle also has an identical one in her purse. The faintest shadow of a moustache stains his upper lip, his handsome face marred by a cruel, silver piercing on his eyebrow. His scowl is that of an adult, not a child. He seems to feel her stare. He looks up and then averts his lovely, tenebrous eyes.
She thinks of all the doctors, the myriad of medications, the countless dead ends, and the dark, seemingly irreversible changes in Max. Yet somehow the ghost of her boy wraps his thin, tanned arms around her neck—his mouth cinnamon-sweet with Red Hots—and plants a sticky kiss on her cheek. He rests there a moment, his small body breathing rapidly, his heart her metronome. She shakes her head. To her, there is still only one Max. And in the center of this boy lies the tenderest, sweetest middle—her baby, the part she can never give up.
Her eyes return to the present Max. He’s a teenager, she tells herself. Even as the hopeful thought flits across her mind, she knows she is lying to herself. Max has Asperger’s Syndrome, high-functioning autism. Although very bright, he is clueless about getting along with people. This has caused him anguish and heartache all his life.
When he was very young, Max discovered computers. His teachers were stunned at his aptitude. Now sixteen, Danielle still has no idea of the extent of Max’s abilities, but she knows that he is a virtual genius—a true savant. While this initially made him fascinating to his peers, none of them could possibly maintain interest in the minutiae Max droned on about. People with Asperger’s often wax rhapsodic about their specific obsessions—whether or not the listener is even vaguely interested in the topic. Max’s quirky behavior and learning disabilities have made him the object of further ridicule. His response has been to act out or retaliate, although lately it seems that he has just withdrawn further into himself, cinching thicker and tighter coils around his heart.
Sonya, his first real girlfriend, broke up with him a few months ago. Max was devastated. He finally had a relationship—like everybody else—and she dumped him in front of all his classmates. Max became so depressed that he refused to go to school; cut off contact with the few friends he had; and started using drugs. The latter she discovered when she walked into his room unannounced to find Max staring at her coolly—a joint in his hand; a blue, redolent cloud over his head; and a rainbow assortment of pills scattered carelessly on his desk. She didn’t say a word, but waited until he took a shower a few hours later and then confiscated the bag of dope and every pill she could find. That afternoon she dragged him—cursing and screaming—to Dr. Leonard’s office. The visits seemed to help. At least he had gone back to school and, in an odd way, seemed happier. He was tender and loving toward Danielle—a young Max, eager to please. As far as the drugs went, her secret forays into his room turned up nothing. That wasn’t to say, of course, that he hadn’t simply moved them to school or a friend’s house.
But, she thinks ruefully, recent events pale in comparison to what brings them here today. Yesterday after Max left for school and she performed her daily search-and-seizure reconnaissance, she discovered a soft, leather-bound journal stuffed under his bed. Guiltily, she pried open the metal clasp with a paring knife. The first page so frightened her that she fell into a chair, hands shaking. Twenty pages of his boyish scrawl detailed a plan so intricate, so terrifying, that she only noticed her ragged breathing and stifled sobs when she looked around the room and wondered where the sounds were coming from. Did the blame lie with her? Could she have done something differently? Better? The old shame and humiliation filled her.
The door opens and Georgia walks in. A tiny blonde, she sits next to Danielle and gives her a brief, strong hug. Danielle smiles. Georgia is not only her best friend—she is family. As an only child with both parents gone, Danielle has come to rely upon Georgia’s unflagging loyalty and support, not to mention her deep love for Max. Despite her sweet expression, Georgia has the quick mind of a tough lawyer. Their law firm is Blackwood & Price, a multinational firm with four hundred lawyers and offices in New York, Oslo and London. She is typically in her office by now—seated behind a perfectly ordered desk, a pile of finished work at her elbow. Danielle can’t remember when she has been so glad to see someone. Georgia gives Max a wave and a smile. “Hi, you.”
“Hey.” The monosyllabic task accomplished, he closes his eyes and slouches lower into his chair.
“How is he?” asks Georgia.
“Either glued to his laptop or on that damned phone of his,” she whispers. “He doesn’t know I found his...journal. I’d never have gotten him here otherwise.”
Georgia squeezes her shoulder. “It’ll be all right. We’ll get through this somehow.”
“You’re so wonderful to come. I can’t tell you how much it means to me.” She forces normality into her voice. “So, how did it go this morning?”
“I barely got to court in time, but I think I did okay.”
“What happened?”
She shrugs. “Jonathan.”
Danielle squeezes her hand. Her husband, Jonathan, although a b
rilliant plastic surgeon, has an unquenchable thirst that threatens to ruin not only his marriage, but his career. Georgia suspects that he is also addicted to cocaine, but has voiced that fear only to Danielle. No one at their law firm seems to know, despite his boorish behavior at the last Christmas party. The firm, an old-line Manhattan institution, does not look kindly upon spousal comportment that smacks of anything other than the rarified, blue-blooded professionals they believe themselves to be. With a two-year-old daughter, Georgia is reluctant to even consider divorce.
“What was it this time?” asks Danielle.
Her azure eyes are nubilous. “Came in at four; passed out in the bathtub; pissed all over himself.”
“Oh, God.”
“Melissa found him and came crying into the bedroom.” Georgia shakes her head. “She thought he was dead.”
This time it is Danielle who does the hugging.
Georgia forces a smile and turns her gaze upon Max, who has sunk even lower into his leather chair and appears to be asleep. “Has the doctor read his journal?”
“I’m sure he has,” she says wearily. “I messengered it to him yesterday.”
“Have you heard from the school?”
“He’s out.” Max’s principal had politely suggested to Danielle that another “environment” might be more “successful” in meeting Max’s “challenges.” In other words, they want him the hell out of there.
Max’s Asperger’s has magnified tenfold since he became a teenager. As his peers have graduated to sophisticated social interaction, Max has struggled at a middle-school level. Saddled with severe learning disabilities, he stands out even more. Danielle understands it. If you are incessantly derided, you cannot risk further social laceration. Isolation at least staunches the pain. And it isn’t as if Danielle hasn’t tried like hell. Max had cut a swath through countless schools in Manhattan. Even the special schools that cater to students with disabilities had kicked him out. For years she had beaten paths to every doctor who might have something new to offer. A different medication. A different dream.
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