The Butterfly and the Violin (37 page)

Sera looked at her, noting that she too had light eyes, though they weren’t the same striking color as in the painting.

“Are you Adele?”

“No. I am not.” The woman shook her head, though the hint of a knowing smile refused to fade from her lips. “But I knew her. We were acquaintances.”

“Tell me? Please.” Sera took a step forward, as if the anticipation of hearing the truth was too much to keep her away. “I have to know what happened to her.”

The woman nodded. “You’re the gallery owner.”

“Yes,” she said, relieved that the woman seemed welcoming. “Sera James.”

“And you’re looking for the painting?”

Was she? Was it only about the painting, or was it something more? She wasn’t sure anymore. “Yes. I’ve come all this way because I wanted to speak with you about them. Adele and Vladimir, I mean.”

“So you have,” she agreed, and gave a gentle nod.

The woman opened her door wide, which revealed a classically decorated flat cloaked in shades of soft primrose and violet and lace trimmings that dripped from the drapery hooks and the tufted arms of a wood-framed settee. “I’ve a teakettle on the stove,” she said as she walked into the living room to a door that led into a cozy French kitchen with slate blue walls and the smell of buttery cinnamon pastry wafting out into the hall.

“But what is your name?” Sera called out, leaning into the apartment because she was as yet unsure whether she’d been invited to step inside or not. “Ma’am?”

“And mind you wipe your feet,” she called from an adjoining room. “The rain has been pelting the windows for hours. Paris in the springtime, you know.”

No. She didn’t.

She closed the door and stood in the entry, dripping rainwater on the woman’s hardwood flooring as she stood. She tried to dry the tips of her hair with the edge of her sweater, but it was no use; she was drenched from head to toe.

“Caught in a Paris shower, were you?”

Sera looked down at the rain-speckled floor at her feet. In embarrassment, she brushed a lock of wet hair back from clinging to her cheek. “I suppose I was.”

“Here you are,” the woman said, and handed her a bath towel that smelled of fresh lilacs. “Dry yourself off and have a seat. I’ll be back with the tea tray. Do you like shortbread?”

She didn’t have a chance to answer. The woman puttered back to the kitchen.

Sera took the towel and began patting the drops from her hair and clothes as she walked into the apartment. The large living space was pleasant. It was a far cry from lavish, but certainly not shabby. The woman had floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on the back wall, full of carefully arranged books. There was a small writing table in the corner, complete with an antique chair and what looked like a 1920s-era Remington typewriter in remarkable condition on the desktop. There was a vase of bright peonies the color of April sunshine prettying up a low, circular coffee table in the center of the room.

The living room was bright and cheery, just as she’d imagined it would be. Her eye was drawn to the oversized whitewashed mantel on the back wall, its top lined with dozens of framed photos. She crossed the room, lost in thought. She ran her fingertips along the edge of the wood as her eyes scanned the photos for images of Adele and Vladimir.

There were dozens of photos. Some were small and unassuming in tiny, gilded frames. Others were more pronounced, such as an eight-by-ten vintage wedding photo of a beaming bride hidden beneath the curtain of an elegant, Spanish lace veil. The photos were beautiful, and Sera could see a lifetime of memories in them. And then she stopped. Her breath caught in her chest, for hidden behind several other photos was a small, wallet-sized photo of a young smiling couple.

Before she could even lift the frame, she heard the woman’s voice behind her.

“Yes. I knew them.”

Sera plucked the frame from the mantel and turned round, cradling the photo in her hands. “You’re their daughter.”

The woman gave a slight chuckle, which jostled the teacups on the tray in her hands. “No. They didn’t give me life. But I suppose you could say that they did give me my life back.” She placed the tray on the nearby coffee table.

Sera looked at the woman, hardly believing that the connection was real. “What is your name?”

“Sit. Let me tell you about them.”

Sera found a spot on the nearby brocade settee and sat on the edge of it, the photo still clutched in her hands. She then looked up at the woman with the silver hair and the wise smile.

“I’m ready.” And she was. Two years and a lifetime of living in between had ensured it.

“Good. Because I want to tell you a story about the night my family was killed. My name is Sophie, and Adele and Vladimir saved my life.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

November 4, 1944

I
n a bitter cold the orchestra was pulled into line with the rest of the prisoners. They had no clue where they were going. Were they marching to their deaths? Adele couldn’t have guessed.

Marta was lined up in front of her, Fränze behind. The other girls were around them, some looking woefully pale, others fighting to stand up like a reed against a violent wind. None of them said a word as they stood unmoving while the frigid November morning sent an icy wave of snow with each gust of wind. Adele shivered with each punishing wave.

“Where are we going?” Fränze asked, coughing into the wind.

Marta seemed to know and looked around for the SS before speaking up.

“They’re loading us on trucks today,” she said, and pointed out to the far end of the fencing. “They’re abandoning Birkenau.”

A long line of vehicles coughed exhaust in the cold morning air.

“But why?” Adele asked.

“Why ask questions, Adele? At least they’re not feeding us to the gas chambers,” she whispered. Fränze nodded meekly, her long lashes peeking out from bangs that fell down over her eyes. “If they’re even still standing. They have been dismantling the buildings as quickly as possible.”

“We can’t leave Omara behind.” She was still in isolation.

“They’re not giving us a choice,” Marta noted. “And we don’t even know if Omara is alive.”

“If the women had been executed, we would know.”

“How, Adele?”

“They haven’t had a public execution in a while, have they? They’d want to make an example of the prisoners who fought in the revolt,” she argued. “They always do.”

“So what happens now?” Fränze asked, her voice meager against the roar of the trucks in the distance. She glanced up at the top of the tower where uniformed guards still stood watch.

“Edith works in the kitchens and she told me they’ve been taking everything away—packing up what they don’t burn.” Marta paused long enough to give a cautious look around, then continued. “I’ve heard rumor that the Jews are being taken away somewhere. Anyone else”—she looked at Adele—“is being sent over to Auschwitz I. Christians. Political prisoners. Some of the Russian prisoners of war . . . We are leaving and they’re to stay behind at Auschwitz.”

Fränze hugged Adele’s arm. “They’ll separate us?”

Adele’s thoughts went to the only options she had left.

Should she try to sneak onto one of the trucks? It didn’t seem like a clear choice. Even now, as they watched prisoners being loaded on trucks and into the cattle cars at the train platform, she saw no food or water being loaded with them. It was likely they’d all be sent away and die in transit.

But to stay behind at Auschwitz? What would happen to the non-Jewish prisoners?

“I could pass for a Jew.” She ran her hand over her head, the month’s growth of stubble scratchy to her palm. “I could hide with you in the trucks.” The line moved haltingly forward and she took care to stay directly behind Marta.

“You can’t mean you’d come with us?” Marta asked over her shoulder. “How could you do that?”

Adele felt the fresh tattoo, a discipline for her stunt at the concert, burning into her left forearm. She was marked like the rest of the population now. Couldn’t she somehow fade into the ranks of prisoners being shipped out? The SS were moving quickly, as if time was running short. Surely they wouldn’t notice one out-of-place prisoner in a population of thousands?

“Look at how they’re moving around. They are anxious about something. They’ve been dismantling and burning buildings for days, haven’t they? They might not have time to gather all the administrative files on everyone. It’s possible they wouldn’t know who I am, especially with my hair gone.”

Fränze looked up at Adele with doe eyes. “But what if they ask who you are?”

“Sweet Fränze.” Adele pressed a kiss to the top of the kerchief covering her head. “I’ll lie. We’ll all lie if we have to.”

“No. You’re tattooed now, remember? They’ll catch you and kill you for it. And they’ll kill us for knowing about the deception and not coming forward.” Marta made no attempt at softening the truth. Fränze lowered her chin on a muffled cry.

“We must stay together,” Adele whispered, and they moved ahead a few steps, the lines being drawn nearer to the cavalcade of trucks before them. “We promised Omara, didn’t we? Most everyone in the orchestra here is a Jew, so I have to stay where the majority of the girls are. That’s on those trucks.”

Marta glanced back at her for only a split second. “And what about your cellist?”

Vladimir
.

Yes. Adele had thought about him. If she stayed behind, could they be reunited somehow? If the Germans were pulling out, which it looked like they might be, then maybe the prisoners could make a stand and fight. Wasn’t that what she wanted to do—fight alongside the man she loved? What if she could feel his arms around her just one more time?

“I don’t even know if Vladimir is alive. I haven’t seen him since the concert.”

She kicked at a stone on the snow-covered path.

How could she be asked to make a decision between a life-or-death promise she’d made to Omara and the chance that Vladimir was somehow still alive in Auschwitz I?

God, what do I do?

Except for a frozen, threadbare uniform and a now-tattered picture of Vladimir that she kept hidden in the seam of her shirt, Adele’s worldly possessions were walking right next to her. Fränze, Marta, and the rest of the girls were something tangible that she could see and care for, as she’d promised Omara.

But seeing her Vladimir again?

That was a dream.

“Marta, what else have you heard about Auschwitz I?”

“They are setting fire to some buildings, blowing up others. And shipping prisoners out to other camps.” When she lowered her eyes, Adele knew there was more.

“Go on,” she urged. “What are you not telling us?”

Fränze seemed to hang on the questions as much as Adele did. They shuffled through the snow together, yet kept their eyes trained on Marta instead of the line of vehicles that grew closer with each step.

“The sickest prisoners are staying behind—we don’t know why. Only those who can walk are being forced to go. And there are rumors that those going to Auschwitz I are being shot, that the SS are eliminating witnesses, especially those who may have privileged knowledge—”

“Such as the members of the orchestra who played at SS parties and concerts.”

Marta nodded. “Yes.”

The temptation to go to Auschwitz I and look for Vladimir was so great, Adele could scarcely stand it.

What do I do, God?

She looked out over the barren fields and ramshackle barracks that were now blanketed in snow, feeling as desolate as her surroundings.

How can I follow my heart if it goes in two different directions?

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

T
he story behind Adele’s painting was so much deeper than Sera had ever imagined.

She pressed her fingers to her lips, covering the emotion. “I had no idea what she went through.”

The story that Sophie had relayed over the last hour was so poignant that Sera struggled to make sense of it all. The atrocities. The fear they must have endured. The lives of Omara and so many others, lost within the barbed wire walls. The world was irreversibly altered . . . and for all that Adele lived through, this humble little woman before her was now the only witness to it.