Читать книгу The Beekeeper's Ball - Susan Wiggs, Susan Wiggs - Страница 16

Chapter Seven

“And that,” Magnus told his rapt listeners, “is how I learned my father and his friend Sigur—my Uncle Sweet—were involved in the resistance effort. It was quite a moment for me, finding out my mild-mannered father had a secret persona. Discovering his secret was like revealing Clark Kent’s hidden identity as Superman. Very exciting. In my mind, my father went from being an ordinary civil engineer to a war hero.”

“Your father claimed he wasn’t risking anything more than the British guy was risking,” said Tess. “That’s not true, though. He put the whole family at risk.”

Magnus’s smile of memory disappeared. “Times were different then. Early in the occupation, life continued to seem normal for a time, so perhaps we didn’t understand the risk. It wasn’t until later that we grasped the danger and seriousness of the underground activities. In all, the Danes manufactured about ten thousand submachine guns, and many of those originated with my father’s production drawings. He drew everything down to the last detail, and then mislabeled the parts in code so they would appear to be anything but weapons. For all the Jerries knew, the drawings were entirely mundane—parts for bicycles or sewing machines. The guns were then assembled in various places throughout the city—bicycle shops, small machine shops, pump repair facilities—under the pretext of being something else altogether.”

Mac scrolled to a website on his laptop. “So these production drawings that were preserved by the Danish Historical Society were made by your father?”

“The ones labeled Bruder Petersen—Petersen Brothers—likely came from him. The Petersen brothers were two boy detectives in a series of novels we used to read as youngsters, so it was actually a nonexistent company.” He studied an enlarged drawing on the screen. “This one is labeled ‘rocker arm for pump relay.’ In actuality, it is a STEN gun trigger. I assume that after my father drew, measured and labeled each individual part, someone else was in charge of the assembly.”

Isabel exhaled a shaky breath, not even realizing she’d been holding it as she’d listened to the story. The tension her grandfather had described while hiding beneath the cellar stairs had been palpable.

On the table lay a few pictures of Magnus as a boy; she’d seen them before. He was tall and good-looking, neatly dressed and solemn, his eyes large and darkly fringed, making him appear almost too pretty for a boy. Yet as often as she’d seen the photographs, she had never quite been able to connect the teenage boy with her grandfather. Now the youngster came to life in her mind, a kid avidly reading a comic book, or looking forward to ice-skating with his friends, or crouched beneath the basement stairs, too frightened to speak up.

“That’s such an extraordinary story. Why have you never told me this before?” she asked him.

He reached across the space between them, patted her hand. “Life is long,” he said. “I have so many moments to remember, large and small, and I haven’t thought about that incident in decades. I suppose, considering what came after my discovery in the basement, it never occurred to me that this would be of interest to you. Or to anyone.”

“Of course it is,” Tess assured him. “Your father and his friend must have been incredible.”

“I’m sure they regarded themselves as ordinary men, simply doing what was right in order to live with themselves. But yes, they were heroes in my eyes.”

“In anyone’s eyes,” said Isabel. “I like to think I’d be that kind of person, the one who would dare to put myself at risk.”

“Let us hope you never have to find out,” said her grandfather. “I was very proud of my father, and I miss him to this day.” Magnus’s eyes looked into something distant and unseeable. “However, sometimes I can’t help imagining how our lives would have unfolded if he had not embraced the cause. You see, many of our friends and neighbors simply kept their heads down and endured the occupation, then returned to normal routine after the war. Of course a big part of me, the part that desperately needed my parents and grandfather, wishes Papa would have chosen that path rather than risking himself. Risking the whole family, when it comes down to it.”

“You’re only human,” said Tess. “Of course you wished that.”

“Did you know what resistance group your father was affiliated with?” asked Mac.

“He wasn’t with the Princes, since he was a civilian, although I believe he did identity work for them. There was a faction of the resistance known as the Holger Danske. It wasn’t terribly well organized, but they got things done—underground activities, rescues, acts of sabotage. I believe that was his main connection.”

Isabel studied the “family” picture taken by Uncle Sweet so long ago, angling it toward the fading light. Grandfather was just a gangly boy on the verge of becoming a man, yet he had a face she recognized. He was standing next to his own grandfather—the beloved Farfar, a distinguished physician and a widower. His mother sat in an old-fashioned tufted armchair, which looked incongruous in the outdoor setting. With a faint smile on her face, she was flanked by his pretend uncle and cousin, a slender girl with her hair in pigtails. She looked directly into the camera, her guileless expression heartbreaking to Isabel, because the girl in the photograph had no idea what would soon happen to her. Finally her gaze went to Magnus’s father, Karl Johansen, who stood with one hand on his wife Ilsa’s shoulder, comb furrows in his hair, his tie perfectly straight.

The idea that the Johansens had sheltered a Jewish man and his daughter made Isabel proud, too. Yet she could relate to her grandfather’s wish. Suppose his father had done nothing to resist the Nazis. The family’s entire future would have unfolded in a different direction.

Mac stood and checked out the photograph over her shoulder. “They were hiding in plain sight,” he said.

Magnus nodded. “At first, I’m certain we—everyone—underestimated the danger. Reports of atrocities were just that—reports. Everyone found out about Kristallnacht when it occurred in 1938, but the world shrugged its shoulders. Most people believed the Night of Broken Glass was a disgusting spectacle, but an isolated event. The extent of the Nazis’ activities was still not fully known. Look at us in that picture. None of us knew what was around the next corner.”

“You look so much like your father,” she said. “I’m sorry you lost him.”

“I lost everything,” Grandfather said, bracing his hands on the chair arms and levering himself up. “I’m tired. I believe I’ll go inside and read my paper.”

Isabel exchanged a glance with Mac, who pocketed his phone and stepped back.

“Are you all right, Grandfather?” asked Isabel, going to his side. “Do you want me to help you?”

He gently touched her cheek. “I am fine,” he said. “Fine. It’s curious, the way reliving the past can be so draining. It will be good to be alone with my memories for a bit, and to get some rest.”

“Are you sure? I can get you a glass of chamomile tea on ice, maybe a honig kik—your favorite cookies—”

“Such a worrier,” he said with a chuckle. “How did I manage to raise such a worrier? I forbid you to hover. You stay here and entertain Mr. O’Neill. Theresa, you can help me inside. We will talk some more tomorrow, perhaps.”

She stood and watched him go, with Tess walking slowly by his side. Though shrinking with age, he still had a proud bearing as he moved. Her heart was filled with love for her grandfather, yet there were questions, too. She knew the conversation was only one of many he would be sharing in the weeks to come.

Turning back to Mac, she said, “Just so you know, I’m not going to entertain you.”

He grinned and pocketed his phone. “And I was so looking forward to that.” He gathered up the photos and papers, tucking them into a clear green envelope with a string closure. “Your grandfather has quite a story to tell.”

“I always knew it, but he never spoke of it in such detail, like the story he told about the basement. I worry, though. He’s going to relive the loss of his family and lord knows what else.”

“He’ll let me know if it’s too much for him.”

Mac sounded very sure of himself. Isabel studied him in the rich golden sunshine, watching the play of light on his face, the breeze in his hair, his big hands as he gathered up his notes and gear. His dog-eared spiral-bound notebook was already filled with several pages of notes in his squarish, precise handwriting. She’d watched him writing as Grandfather talked; he seemed to have the ability to listen and compose simultaneously.

“Everyone knows people suffered during the war, but hearing him talk about things as he lived them really drove that home.”

“He’ll be okay. People process trauma in their own ways.”

She thought about the few things Tess had told her about Mac’s past, and wondered how he’d dealt with his own trauma. He was a widower. It was shocking to contemplate the idea that he’d been married, that his wife had died. In her mind, she’d always pictured a widower as someone like her grandfather, not a young, vital man who exuded sex appeal. Mac looked older than Isabel, but not much older. Maybe thirty-five to her thirty.

She wondered what had happened to his wife. Tess hadn’t been able to answer that question, saying she’d never met the woman, but judging by her name—Yasmin—assumed she was foreign, perhaps Middle Eastern.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

She realized she’d been staring at him. Though tempted to ask him about his past, she felt the need to keep her distance. She barely knew the guy. “I’m... You seem pretty sure of yourself. Pretty sure he’s going to be able to talk about these things.”

He flashed a half grin. “Trust me, I’m a professional.”

“That’s what Tess says.”

“Then trust her. She’s your sister.”

Isabel nodded. “Yes, but we haven’t grown up as sisters. It’s...complicated.”

“I don’t have a sister myself, but I’ve heard it’s always complicated.”

“Tess and I met only recently. Did she explain that to you?”

“She said neither of you knew about the other when you were growing up.”

“We connected with each other when she came here a year ago, and she changed everyone’s lives.”

“Seems like Bella Vista—and you and your granddad—changed her life.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “What a nice thing to say.”

“Sometimes the truth is nice. A lot of the time, actually.” He moved the wooden chairs out of the pathway. “Does this mean I’m forgiven for losing your colony of bees?”

“Never,” she said.

“That’s harsh.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s me. A harsh woman.”

“My favorite kind.”

“Really?”

He gave her a long, considering look. Then he said, “We’ll see.”

“How’s your knee?” she asked suddenly. “Are you up for a short walk?”

“With you? Hell, yes.”

She turned away quickly, pretending not to be flattered by his enthusiasm. “We can go to the top of that hill with the big oak tree. There’s something up there that might give you some insights about my grandfather...and me. You might find it kind of grim, but it’s part of the story.”

“I can handle grim,” he said simply.

Though tempted to ask him about the grim things he could handle, she’d save those questions for another day. She led the way up the slope, stepping over the ankle-high grass in the meadow, covered in budding lupine.

“It’s the family plot,” she said when they arrived. The rectangular area was west-facing, bathed in afternoon light and surrounded by a wrought iron fence. There were three simple headstones of weathered rock. Oscar Navarro, the caretaker, kept the grass mowed, though wildflowers were left to bloom around the stones—egg-yolk-yellow California poppy, purple sage and tiny delicate wild iris. Not far away was a spreading California oak, its long branches creating a broad shaded area. “See what I mean?” she asked. “Grim.”

“It feels peaceful here,” he said. “A resting place. And it’s sad, yeah.” He regarded the carved stones. “Your grandmother Eva, your mother, Francesca, and your father, Erik.”

“The family plot,” she said. “It doesn’t really make me sad anymore. I don’t associate this spot with the people I’ve lost.”

“Still...Isabel, I’m sorry. Real sorry.”

“Thank you. I never knew either of my parents, but my grandmother, Bubbie...” Even now she couldn’t find the words to express how much she missed her. Sometimes when she closed her eyes, she could still feel Bubbie’s hand expertly brushing and braiding her hair while singing a soft song in Yiddish about a cherry tree.

“You want to talk about it?”

“I don’t know. When Tess first told me about this project, just yesterday, in fact, I didn’t want to talk about anything.”

“But now...?”

“It seems like something my grandfather wants. But his story is entwined with my own...” She bent and picked a sprig of sage, inhaling the savory scent of it.

“Then how about you tell me. Make me understand why you don’t want me here, asking personal questions about your grandfather, your family.”

His frank request startled her, yet oddly enough, she didn’t feel defensive. She chewed her lip, wondering if she could possibly trust him.

He regarded her thoughtfully, then lifted a hand, palm out. “Go ahead. I’m not here to pass judgment. Swear.”

She couldn’t tell if his reassuring manner was genuine, or a journalist’s trick. Please be genuine, she thought. “As I said, it’s a bit complicated. Tess and I are half sisters. We were born on the same day.”

“That’s cool. But how is sharing a birthday a complication for the two of you?”

“Not just the same day.” She took a breath, cut her gaze away from him. “The same year. To different mothers who had no idea the other one existed. That’s why we grew up apart. My grandparents raised me here at Bella Vista, and Tess and her mother lived all over the place, in big cities, mostly.”

He folded his arms across his chest, and she watched him process the information. “Oh. Well. Unusual circumstances make for a good story, anyway.”

“We’re not just a ‘story,’” she said, bridling.

“I get that,” he said. “But I still don’t see why it’s a problem for you. Nothing you’ve told me is going to reflect badly on you. Or your grandfather. Your dad...maybe.”

The tension she’d been holding inside unspooled just a little. Sometimes, when people heard about the unorthodox situation, they acted as if Tess and Isabel were somehow defective, having a rogue of a father who’d been careless enough to get two women pregnant, and then get himself killed in a mysterious car wreck.

Mac studied Erik’s name, carved on the headstone, with a phrase:

Erik Karl Johansen, beloved son. Measure his life not by its length but by the depth of the joy he brought us. He jumped into life and never touched bottom. We will never laugh the same again.

“Our father was a bit of a rogue,” Isabel said. “More than a bit. Sometimes I wonder what he might say in his defense. ‘He jumped into life and never touched bottom,’” she read from the headstone. “I once asked Grandfather what he meant by that, but all he ever said was that Erik had a huge appetite for life.”

“He gave the world two daughters. I can’t imagine your grandfather would have any regrets about you and Tess. And after all this time, the fact that your dad was banging two women doesn’t seem like much of an issue.”

Had he really said banging? How very refined of him. “Has Tess told you anything else about Erik?”

“Nope. Something tells me your sister is preoccupied with other things these days.”

“The wedding. I love that she’s having so much fun with it.”

“I never took her for the marrying type.”

“Really?”

“She was such a go-getter. Always seemed married to her career.”

“That was what she was like when I first met her, too,” Isabel agreed. “Now she’s going to be a wife and a stepmother, and probably a mother one day. I suppose it just goes to show you—love can change everything.”

“Very nice,” he said. “You’re a hopeless romantic.”

“No, just a keen observer.” She suddenly felt uncomfortable under his gaze. “So about Erik—our father. One thing you’re bound to find out from Magnus is that my grandmother, Eva—Bubbie—was not Erik’s birth mother.”

“He was adopted?”

“Yes. Grandfather is very open about it—lately. But for the longest time, no one knew.” Isabel took a breath, then said in a rush, “Grandfather was his birth father.”

“Oh. So he was—”

“Please don’t say ‘banging’ again,” she said. “He will have to be the one to explain, and you’ll have to figure out how it fits into the story you’re writing. Erik’s birth mother was a woman named Annelise Winther.”

Mac said nothing, just stood there, his arms still crossed. She couldn’t help but notice how good he looked in a white T-shirt and jeans, his coloring deepened by the sunset. Finally, he asked, “Is she still living?”

“Yes. She lives in San Francisco.”

“Do you know her?”

“Thanks to Tess, I do now. Annelise is another survivor from the war years in Denmark,” Isabel explained. “She and my grandfather knew each other during the war. She’s actually...kind of wonderful. I’m hoping to get to know her better.”

“So you’re saying this woman had a baby, and Magnus and Eva raised him.”

“They did. We figured it out last year as we were going through old records and learned Bubbie could never have children. It was all a huge secret at the time.”

“That sort of thing was a bigger deal back then.”

“True. Now Grandfather wants it all out on the table, for my sake, and for Tess. You’re going to have to ask him what sort of arrangements they made in order to pull it off, because it seems they were very careful. Even the Navarros—they’ve lived and worked at Bella Vista for decades—claim they never knew.”

“And let me guess. Tess had a hand in figuring all this out.”

She nodded, feeling a flicker of surprise—at herself. She was giving up information like a singing canary. There was something about the intent way he listened that made her want to talk. Another reporter’s trick? Or was he actually a good listener? A rare trait in a guy.

“Tess is very good at research,” she continued. “In all the mountains of old family papers and records, she came across a medical file from the 1960s. From that, we figured out that Eva could never have children.” Isabel’s heart filled with sympathy for her lost grandmother. She could too-easily picture Bubbie as a hopeful young wife, getting the news that she had uterine cancer and needed a hysterectomy. In one cruel moment, the news would have taken away any dreams she’d had of having babies of her own.

“How much is it going to bug your grandfather when the subject comes up?” asked Mac.

She thought about it for a moment. “Ever since his accident last year, he’s been adamant about telling us everything. He seemed almost relieved when Tess and I asked about Erik’s birth mother.”

“Ah. Then you’re thinking it’s going to bug you.”

Ouch. “Bubbie was the only mother I ever knew. To find out, after all this time...I’m still getting used to the idea. And now it feels very strange that you plan to publish this whole story about my family. I keep trying to convince myself it’s not disrespectful.” She stared down at Bubbie’s headstone, wishing she could feel her presence once again, hear her voice, listen to her sing the cherry song one more time.

“In my experience, people are more comfortable with the truth than any lie,” said Mac. “Eventually.”

She leaned down and plucked a dockweed from the base of one of the stones, and then started down the hill toward the house. “I realize that. The fact that my grandfather had a baby out of wedlock is a key part of his story. I don’t understand why he did what he did.”

“Have you ever asked him?”

“No.”

“You should. It’s remarkable how much you can learn simply by asking.”

“Good point, but try asking your grandfather to explain something like that.”

“No, thanks. My granddad was a Freudian analyst. He probably would have liked the topic way too much. I never really knew my other grandfather. He owned a pub in Ireland, died when I was a little kid.”

“And the Freudian grandfather?”

“Total nut job, but he was a good listener.”

So are you. The thought crossed Isabel’s mind, taking her by surprise. “My grandfather has always been big on loyalty,” she said. “You’ll see that as you get to know him. When I found out about him and Annelise, it totally threw me off. It was hard to imagine Grandfather betraying his wife. He was—he’s always been—my moral compass.”

“Whoa. That’s a lot to ask of someone.”

“True. I’d hate to be someone’s moral compass,” she admitted.

He held open the wrought iron gate leading to the courtyard. A visceral hip-hop tune was playing on the workers’ radio. “I bet you’d be pretty good at it, Isabel.”

Her head snapped up as she passed through the gate in front of him. “You don’t know me.”

“No,” he said, his voice like the breeze, a soft caress. “But I want to.”