The Time Between (37 page)

“Ah,” she said, looking at me with understanding. A small smile touched her lips. “I wish I had known. Then all that came afterward would never have happened.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

After a deep breath, she continued. “Magda made certain that I was careful to whom I sold the paintings, making sure the transactions were not publicized. Although, as you know, Mr. Isaacson apparently has sources that I was not aware of and found a way to track them.

“But every single penny that I have ever made from their sale has gone anonymously to children’s and Jewish charities around the world. It is a very small thing, I know. But it was all I could do at the time. I was trying to honor the family and assuage my guilt at the same time, and for a long while it worked.”

“Did you ever tell Magda the whole story? About Samuel and the children?”

Helena shook her head. “No. Only about the paintings, and Gunter. I could not burden her with the rest.”

She lifted the lid from the basket between us, the gold letters of the Bible winking at us in the sun.
Rachel weeping for her children, and would not be comforted, because they are no more.
Our eyes met, and I said quietly, “It worked until Bernadett found out about what happened to Samuel.”

Helena nodded. “In 1989, when the Iron Curtain fell, I wrote to the new Hungarian government, hoping to finally get an answer to what had happened to the children, hoping that finally I could reunite Bernadett and Samuel, even imagining he would have children himself and Bernadett and I could travel to meet them and they could meet their grandmother.” She closed her eyes. “Sometimes lying to oneself is just as easy as lying to others.” She shrugged. “The reply was quick. Within three months I had my answer.”

I put my hand on her arm, letting her know that she did not need to say it out loud, the words I had already read.
They were deported to Auschwitz. All believed to have perished.

“They never had a chance, you know.” She paused and drew in a deep breath. “At the camps, they killed the children first. Because they were not useful. They took them off the trains, along with their mothers and the other women caring for them, and marched them straight to the gas chambers with promises of water.” A shudder went through her. “I had killed my own nephew and other innocent children. I could not tell Bernadett. I could not. I should have destroyed the letter, but something held me back.”

She turned the lid over, and with the nail of her left index finger, the one digit that had suffered less than her other fingers from arthritis, she plucked out a thick strand of woven grass and then another, revealing a hidden pouch inside the lid. I stared in surprise as a small brass key fell on the bench between us. “This was Bernadett’s hiding place. It was Magda’s basket; that is why Bernadett felt it safe to hide things here. Magda was always good at keeping secrets. Even after Magda died, Bernadett would find an excuse to see the basket. We all knew, of course, that she would put things in and take things out. Bernadett was always so easy to read. But I don’t believe she ever thought we knew.”

I remembered when I had been caught snooping in Bernadett’s room. “The doors on Bernadett’s armoire. Is that what the key is for?”

“Yes. It used to be in my room until I moved downstairs and there was not enough space. Bernadett had always admired it and asked to have it moved to her room. I did not think to remove the letter because she was never the kind of person who would attempt to see behind a locked door.” The brass gleamed up at us in the sunlight. “Bernadett must have hidden the key here after . . .”

“After she discovered the letter,” I finished for her. “But how did she find the key?”

“I attached it to the back of the van der Werff painting in the music room, where I knew Bernadett wouldn’t find it—not that she would ever look for it. She had once asked me about the locked doors on her armoire, and I told her that the key was lost and she accepted that without question.

“But I wanted to be certain. I thought it was a good place to hide the key. Nobody paid any attention to the paintings except for me. Even the housekeeper knew not to touch them. At least until Bernadett decided she wanted to give a large sum of money to a charity that I did not approve of, and I told her no. I had known my sister for my entire life, yet I had forgotten how strongly she felt about saving the world. She would happily allow others to make her decisions for her, but if she saw an opportunity to help others, she would stop at nothing to make it happen. I think she learned that from Benjamin.

“She knew about Pieter van der Werff because of the exhibit and knew we had several hanging in the house and that they would be valuable. I had told her from the beginning that we were saving the paintings for the church from the Communists. After the Iron Curtain fell, I had to give her another reason why I had not returned them yet. I told her that I had been writing to the church in Rome for direction but that it might take years to determine where the paintings would go.

“I had already told so many lies that one more did not seem so bad. But it had been more than a decade, and she felt strongly about her cause and, I believe, most likely thought the church would approve of the donation on their behalf.” She smiled softly, shaking her head. “I rarely came into the music room anymore, and I imagine she thought she could sell a painting behind my back without me noticing and then tell me afterward. She taught Sunday school to high school students at our church, and she asked one of her students to search online for the artist and his works.”

“And that’s how she found out about the portrait of the woman in the red velvet dress.”

“Yes,” she said wearily. “And that it was believed lost or stolen. That must have been how she found Mr. Isaacson, too—searching online for art dealers who were actively looking for art stolen by the Nazis during the war. She called him to meet with her and Finn without telling me. She thought I had done something terrible—as you had, and rightfully so.

“Bernadett gave me no hints about any of this. She was still teaching Sunday school and working in their music ministry. It was probably at this point that she went to the library in Mount Pleasant to find out more without telling me. She was always concerned about my feelings, and I imagine she thought this might have all been a mistake and she just needed more information. But then she removed the painting from the wall in preparation for Mr. Isaacson’s visit.”

“And discovered the key,” I said. “And then the letter.” I looked down at our entwined hands, imagining they belonged to the same person. “How did she confront you?”

She was silent for a long moment, and I sat still, holding her hand the only comfort I could give. “She brought me the Bible and made me mark that passage and read it out loud, and then she made me burn the letter, saying that I should have done so when I had received it. That she had been happy believing that her Samuel was out there somewhere, and that Benjamin might one day bring him back to her.”

Helena was silent for a moment. “And then she simply prepared to die. I did not realize it at the time. All I could see was that she would not allow me to explain why I had done what I had done. I gave her time, thinking she would get to a point where she would listen. But she took the pills and there was nothing more I could say.”

Her voice had lost its strength, and even though I had more questions to ask, I knew she needed to stop for now. “Are you ready to go home?”

She surprised me by not arguing. She simply nodded her head and allowed me to replace the key in the basket and put the lid on top before helping her stand.

We made our way to Magda’s grave, the dragonfly suddenly bursting into life with a wild fluttering of its shimmery wings as it moved from one side of the stone to the other.

“I wish you could have met Magda,” said Helena. “She was the smartest and most compassionate person I have ever known. Finn is very much like her.”

She lifted her fingers to her lips, then pressed them down onto the headstone as she spoke quietly in Hungarian.

When she was finished, I asked, “Was that a prayer?”

“In a way,” she said, turning to me with bright eyes. “It is what Magda said to me before she died, and it has taken me all this time to understand what she meant.” She shut her eyes and was silent for a moment before she began to speak. “‘There is how we were before, and how we are now, and the time between is spent choosing which doors to open, and which to close.’”

The dragonfly hovered over us for a moment before taking off toward the old oaks with their shawls of Spanish moss. The old woman took my elbow as we began our slow progress to the car, allowing us both time to think about the doors in our lives, about the ones we had already closed behind us, and which ones still lay open.

Eleanor

I
lay in bed in my room at Luna Point, listening to the hum and whir of the air conditioner and hearing the words of an old woman in a quiet cemetery. The emptiness of Gigi’s room beside me yawned its vacancy like a crouching presence, waiting to leap.

I had spoken with Finn several times throughout the day, and each time he reported an improvement in Gigi’s progress. The swelling had gone down enough that they were going to bring her out of the coma. The next step beyond that was seeing if she could breathe on her own. We could not begin to contemplate any other outcomes.

Finally, I got out of bed and opened my window to the sticky night, hoping the music of the marsh would erase the fantasy noise of doors opening and closing in my mind. I paused, wondering if I was imagining the murmur of an approaching car, the airy light notes of a piano dancing in the night air through a car window.

The sound grew louder, and I leaned out as far as I could, listening closely until I could spot two headlights approaching beyond the pecan trees and moving toward the house. I stilled, recognizing the sounds of a Chopin mazurka and knowing who it was.

I ran down the stairs and through the foyer to the front door and threw it open just as the car pulled to a stop in front of the house, the piano music shutting off with the ignition, but the headlights casting two tunnels of white light across the drive, then fading into the place where the darkness and water met.

Finn opened the car door and stepped out, the ground crunching beneath his feet. I walked slowly across the porch, my steps tentative. The moon spun silvery shadows across the lawn, spilling into the creek as it slipped toward the river.

“Finn?” The word melted into the night, carrying with it all the hope and terror I had been holding on to.

“She’s awake. Gigi’s awake. And she’s talking and asking questions. And her brain scan is normal.”

His voice broke on the final word, but I saw the gleam of white as he smiled, trying to regain control.

I ran down the steps, feeling nothing under my bare feet, feeling nothing until I was in his arms and he was holding me, my face pressed into the warm space between his shoulder and his neck.

He lifted my face to the moonlight and kissed my wet cheeks, tasting tears I hadn’t known I’d shed. He pressed his lips against mine, the stubble from his unshaven beard brushing my face, and I kissed him back, wordlessly telling him how glad I was that Gigi was going to be all right, and all the things I’d been holding back since he’d first told me about the night as a boy he had spent listening to me play the piano.

I pulled back, our breathing heavy between us, and felt the question in his eyes. I took his hand and led him up to the porch and through the door of the old house, closing it soundlessly behind us. We climbed the stairs and I paused only a moment before I pushed open the door to his bedroom.

We stood together in the darkened room, the glow of the moon from the windows filtering its light on his skin, across his gray eyes. His fingers touched my cheek and then my lips, and then I stepped back and slid my long T-shirt over my head, letting it pool at my feet.

I pulled back the sheets on the bed and lay down, watching in the half-light as he shed his own clothes, the moonlight moving against his skin. He slid under the covers next to me, his body warm against mine as he bent to kiss me.

We made love slowly, our touches knowing, as if we had both envisioned this moment for a long time, as if we knew the feel of each other’s skin and the beating of our hearts. As if we knew we would have a lifetime of this, a lifetime of joining.

Afterward, as I lay in his arms, our legs entwined on the narrow twin bed, I stared up at the ceiling filled with the remnants of his childhood, the rockets flying through a space that never ended, remembering what he’d said to me the first time I saw this room.
I wanted to be an astronaut.

“You should take flying lessons again,” I whispered against his chest.

“Why?”

“Why not?”

His laugh rumbled beneath my ear.

I lifted up on my elbows to look in his face. “Because it’s something you’ve always wanted to do. And if you can’t remember why, you’ll probably figure it out while you’re up there.”

“Okay,” he said softly. “But only if you’ll come, too.”

“Why?” I asked, echoing his own question.

“Because it sounds like something you would have once wanted to do.”

I smiled in the moonlight, feeling its cool touch on my face. “All right.”

`He brought my lips down to his again, his kiss lingering, then held my head in his hands. “I love you, Eleanor Murray. I think I have loved you ever since my aunt Bernadett brought me to Russell Creek and I heard you play the piano. You bared your heart, and it was a beautiful thing to hear.”

I rolled to my back, bringing him with me, his face hovering over mine. “And I think I have loved you since you first told me how you came back to listen.”

He kissed me then, and we made love again beneath the planets and the rockets and the dreams of childhood that hung from the ceiling, and within the light of the silvery moon and the North Star that guided the lost toward home.

I awoke to full morning, with the sun shining brightly through the windows. Finn was gone but his scent lingered on the pillow, and as I pulled myself up to a sitting position my hand found a piece of wide-lined notebook paper with Finn’s handwriting. He must have discovered the paper in the small desk drawer, and the image of him hunting for a pen and something to write on in his childhood desk while trying not to awaken me made me smile.

I’m going to the hospital to see Gigi. You looked so peaceful sleeping that I didn’t want to wake you. I’ll call you later and we can figure out a good time for me to come pick you up for a visit. I love you.

I closed my eyes, feeling the warmth of his words and the heat from the sun on my face. My eyes flew open as I realized that it was past early morning, and searched for a clock. An old electric clock radio sat on the nightstand, the orange digital numbers faded yet readable. Nine twenty-three.

I stumbled out of the bed, the sheets tangled around my legs. I hadn’t slept that late in years, and since the accident I hadn’t been sleeping at all. I imagined that the relief from the news about Gigi had given me enough peace of mind to sleep so soundly that Finn’s leaving and even the bright sunshine had been unable to wake me.

After taking a quick shower and throwing on clean clothes, I raced downstairs to Helena’s room, only to find Nurse Weber standing on a step stool with a measuring tape in hand in front of one of the windows.

She stepped down from the stool and quickly wrote a few numbers on a pad of paper. “Helena’s out on the screened porch,” she said, reading my mind. “She was up early this morning and has been waiting for you.” She gave me a sympathetic glance as she moved the stool to the other side of the window.

I found Helena seated at the wrought-iron table, the sweetgrass basket opened in front of her, the photographs placed faceup in rows like a game of solitaire. She didn’t look up as I walked in. “I did not think that Finn paid you to stay in bed all day.”

It was almost a relief to have the old Helena back. Ignoring her comment, I pulled out a chair and sat down next to her, realizing why she was back to fighting form. “Finn must have told you the good news about Gigi.”

She closed her eyes briefly and smiled. “Yes. I saw him this morning as he was leaving to go back to the hospital. It is very good news. For all of us.” She looked at me with sharp blue eyes. “He seemed happier than I have seen him in years. And I do not think it was all because of Gigi.”

I met her gaze without blinking, although I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks. I sat silently, waiting for what would come next and trying not to flinch.

Helena lowered her eyes to study the photographs on the table. “I can only hope that you were able to use some of the things we read about in those novels you insisted on checking out of the library for me.”

My cheeks flamed even more. “I—” I stopped, knowing there was nothing I could say.

She glanced up at me. “I approve, by the way. Finn could make a much worse choice than you.”

I rolled my eyes, but Helena had already turned her attention back to the basket. She reached inside and removed the silver rosary box and the Bible, then lifted out a few more photographs, flipping through them until she came to the one of the unnamed baby. She held it toward me. “This was Samuel.”

I smiled at the picture of the cherubic boy with the toothless grin and dark hair, and my heart stretched and pulled as if I had known him, as if I had grieved for him for seventy years.

“And this is Gunter,” she said, handing me the photograph of the soldier in the uniform.

“I know,” I said. “Gigi and I found the basket, and I saw the name on the back.”

She met my eyes without comment, then returned to sifting through the old photographs, letting them fall back onto the table like leaves. “All of these memories will be lost when I am gone. All of their stories. It will be as if they had never lived at all.”

I held my breath for a moment, finding the courage to ask one more question. “So Finn knew nothing?”

Helena shook her head. “No. I was too ashamed to tell him. I knew he was troubled over Bernadett’s suicide. He did what he could to honor her memory by keeping the suicide from public knowledge. But I could not tell him why. So many years had gone by that I had become comfortable with all of the lies. And Magda and Bernadett took my secrets to the grave.”

I felt relief that Finn hadn’t known, but I was sad in a way, too. I shook my head. “No, Helena. The memories won’t be lost. Tell them to Finn.” I closed my eyes, remembering Eve’s words to me. “You are smart, and strong, and beautiful, and brave. That is your legacy, something Gigi will be proud of one day. It’s where she gets her strength.”

Her eyes met mine, and I saw new shadows in them, like clouds passing in front of the sun. “I would like you to tell Finn. I would tell him myself, but I am afraid I will not get the chance. I would not want to burden him now.”

I looked at her with surprise. “I will tell him if you really want me to. But you’ll have plenty of time to tell him yourself. Gigi is already planning your pink dress for her wedding, remember?”

She smiled weakly, her eyes moist. “I believe it would be easier for Finn to hear it from you. I am afraid that I will see the disappointment and grief in his eyes, and I do not have enough years left on this earth to be able to make me forget that.” She patted my hand before I could protest. “Thank you, Eleanor. For everything you have done for me.”

“For what?”

“For making me tell my story. Your sister said the most remarkable thing the other day. Something about the possibilities for second chances being everywhere if we just look hard enough. Everything that has happened will have meant nothing if nobody learns from it. And thank you for letting me bully you into playing the piano again. It hurt at first, to listen to you play. You reminded me so much of me and the way I felt about my music. But that was your story, and one you needed to tell so that you could heal, too.”

“And what is my story?”

She looked through the screen, toward the river that had always flowed into the ocean, a constant as time moved inexorably forward. “That adversity in life does not rob your heart of beauty. It simply teaches it a new song to sing.”

I took her hand and squeezed it, sharing grief over lives lost and choices made, of mistakes we had once believed to be permanent. My gaze fell on the photographs once more, and something Helena had said came back to me.

“Didn’t you say that Bernadett had plans to make a scrapbook for Gigi?”

“Yes. But she died before she had the chance.”

I smiled at her. “But you have time. And I do. And Gigi does. We can work on it together. You can tell the stories to Gigi, and I will write them down, and we will put the photographs and the stories in a scrapbook so that Samuel and Benjamin and Gunter and all the rest will never be forgotten. It is your legacy. It’s Gigi’s legacy. And there is much there to be proud of.”

Helena’s eyes misted and she blinked rapidly, and I watched as she struggled to control her emotions. “Would the scrapbook cover have to be pink if Gigi is involved?”

I pretended to consider it for a moment. “Probably. I hope that’s not a problem.”

We laughed together, and the sound carried out through the screen and up to the morning sky, where a great heron stretched its wings under the warmth of the sun.

Helena picked up the photograph of Gunter again and leaned back in her chair, studying it. “I would have liked to be a butcher’s wife,” she said with a sigh. “I would have liked to live within sight of Lake Constance and see the snow on the tops of the Alps in the middle of summer. I would have been happy.”

“Are you happy now?” I asked, repeating the question Finn had once asked me and which I hadn’t been able to answer.

“Yes. I think so. Or I will be when Gigi comes home. But all of my mistakes and all of my choices have brought me here to this place. To Edisto. And to Finn, and Gigi, and you, Eleanor. How could I not see my life as blessed?”