The Sound of Light, page 32
Paul’s face grew serious. “Simone passed away in 1940. Cancer. Lucie and I have been married almost two years now.”
Else chewed on her lip, then stopped herself. Between the occupation and Hemming’s secret life, communication had been completely cut off—and so had friendships.
But no longer.
Paul gestured down the dock. “We booked three suites at the Plaza. My mother is watching all our children there. I hope you don’t mind. It was Peter’s idea.”
“It’s our five-year anniversary.” Peter held out his elbow to his wife. “We had our honeymoon at the Plaza.”
“And on the Aquitania.” Evelyn smiled up at the ship. “Memories.”
Else stayed by her husband’s side as they walked, but she indulged in one last nostalgic look at the ocean liner.
Hemming turned to Paul. “I’m glad you left Paris before the Nazis came.”
“We didn’t,” Paul said, and he gave his wife a smile. “It’s a long story.”
Evelyn leaned around her husband with a pout. “And they won’t let me write it.”
“After the war, ma chère,” Lucie said. “We have people to protect in France.”
Evelyn’s eyes lit up, and she grinned at Hemming and Else. “Do you two have a story?”
Else squeezed her husband’s arm. “Quite.”
“One you can tell?”
Hemming lifted that great un-bearded chin, and the corners of his mouth edged up. “That’s why I came to the United States.”
Evelyn squealed in joy.
“Not yet.” Peter guided her ahead. “Let them rest. They’ve had a long and tiring journey.”
One of the tiring parts of Else’s journey had been her briefing in London. The Allies had achieved a controlled nuclear chain reaction, they’d discovered how to isolate the needed isotopes, and they’d even created a brand-new fissile element called plutonium.
They were indeed working on an atomic bomb.
The knowledge shocked and drained her, but she’d give her best to the project. And she’d keep secrets from her understanding husband.
At the taxi stand, Hemming gave their luggage to a cab driver and shooed the Langs and Aubreys into their own cab.
Else slipped into the backseat.
Hemming joined her and draped his arm around her shoulders. “Happy to be home?”
“Happier to be with you.” She stroked his freshly shaven cheek.
The cab pulled away from the curb and rumbled down the street.
In Hemming’s striking eyes shone all she loved about him, all the colors. “A prism.”
He nuzzled close and planted kisses all over her face. “Keep talking, my love. I’ll eventually make sense of it.”
She laughed and cradled the back of his head. “Light has no color, yet it has all the colors. A prism separates the wavelengths so the colors can be seen.”
“Continue.” He worked his hand into her hair.
How could she when his kisses made her delightfully dizzy? She pressed her hands to his cheeks and pulled back a bit.
He grumbled and his lips stretched for her.
She pacified him with a tiny kiss. “The past few years have served as a prism. Our colorless lives hit that sharp, glassy edge. We could have been broken.”
“We weren’t.” Understanding flickered in his eyes. “The colors came out.”
“Yes.” She saw so many beautiful colors in her husband—kindness and compassion and nobility and courage, the Viking warrior, the gentle laborer, the freedom fighter, and now the diplomatic spokesman.
“Your colors.” Hemming’s voice grew low and husky. “So brilliant, they take my breath away.”
He was biased, her Hemming, but she didn’t mind. “Now that the colors have been loosed, just think what we can do.”
“Just think of the potential.” He pulled her into an embrace and a kiss overflowing with love.
In her head spun a kaleidoscope of possibility.
TILBURG, THE NETHERLANDS
FRIDAY, MAY 10, 1940
As soon as she escaped to England, Aleida Van der Zee Martens would cut her hair, read newspapers again, and have her son photographed for the first time.
Sebastiaan approached from behind. Why couldn’t her husband ever wait until she finished brushing her hair? Sometimes he interrupted at seventeen strokes, sometimes at thirty-one, today at forty-three.
He wove his fingers into her hair halfway down her back, and she tensed.
In the bureau mirror, Aleida met his gaze. Warm gray today, not chilled steel.
Regardless, every muscle stayed taut.
He kissed her cheek. “Breakfast in ten minutes, Lay-Lay.”
“Yes, Bas.” A smile rose. She and little Theodoor would never breakfast with Bas again.
After he headed downstairs to listen to the morning news, Aleida finished brushing her hair. Only seven strokes remained to remove the feel of him. Not enough, but today of all days she couldn’t go above her customary fifty strokes.
She set her brush on the silver tray, centered between her comb and her perfume atomizer. At the base of her brush lay her rings. First she put on her grandmother’s sapphire ring. Then her engagement ring, which she would sell in London.
Her fingers trembled, and she drew back lest she knock something askew, knock her plan further askew.
With rumors of German troops massing on the Dutch border, she’d been forced to move up her plan an entire week.
But it was a good plan, and she coiled her hair the way Bas liked.
After Bas left for work, while the cook cleaned up after breakfast and the housekeeper scrubbed the downstairs floors, Aleida would sneak out a suitcase. She’d already hidden her essentials and Theo’s in bureau drawers, ready to pack.
When the housekeeper moved upstairs to scrub the guest rooms, Aleida would announce she was leaving for her hair appointment, timed for when her mother-in-law across the street was away for her own hair appointment and wouldn’t see Aleida and Theo leave with luggage.
Tonight, she and her three-year-old boy would be safe with Tante Margriet and Uncle James in the English countryside.
Yet her fingers still trembled.
A voice climbed the stairs—Sebastiaan’s. Shouting orders, closer and closer.
Her chest seized, bile rose up her throat, and she gripped the bureau top. “Not today. Please.”
The bedroom door banged open, and Bas wrestled three suitcases inside. “We’re leaving in fifteen minutes. Start packing. Only necessities and valuables. Hurry.”
“What?” The word poured out in a breathy haze. She did plan to pack—but not with Bas.
He heaved the suitcases onto the bed and flung open his wardrobe. “You have family in England, ja? A cousin? An uncle?”
She’d hoped he’d forgotten. “I—I don’t understand.”
“Don’t get hysterical.” Bas folded business suits into the largest suitcase. “The Germans invaded at dawn. Parachutists landed at airfields and bridges. Tanks crossed the border. I can’t possibly run a profitable business under the Nazis, but I can in England.”
Acid burned her throat, coated the inside of her mouth, corroded her hopes.
Bas flicked up his gaze to her. “Pack or don’t pack, but we’re leaving in fifteen minutes. Cook is preparing a hamper of food, the chauffeur is warming up the automobile, and I already have visas in our passports. I planned everything.”
So had Aleida. Her plan covered every contingency.
Except this.
Sebastiaan cursed and stomped on the brakes.
Aleida braced herself on the dashboard. They’d managed to cross from the Netherlands into Belgium, but refugees and soldiers filled all roads.
Bas ran his hand through thick blond hair. “I have enough petrol to reach Boulogne, but not if I have to stop for these idiots.”
A stoop-shouldered woman with a shawl over her head pushed a heaping handcart. She glowered at Aleida.
Aleida ducked her chin. Only three people occupied their large vehicle.
If only she could join those on foot, hide in peasant’s garb, and blend into the masses.
Her plan lay in shards on the floor of her mind, and she tiptoed through and poked at the splinters. Could nothing be salvaged? With Bas at Tante Margriet’s, where could Aleida and Theo go to flee from him?
A whimper rose from the backseat, and Bas scowled at Aleida.
She offered an apologetic smile. “If I could get in the backseat—”
“No.” He slapped the seat between them. “A wife belongs with her husband.”
Theo slumped against the door with his white-blond hair mussed and his perfect little mouth warped by fatigue. He cuddled his stuffed elephant, cupping the floppy trunk against his cheek. More whimpers bubbled out.
“Tay-Oh,” Aleida sang out with a sunny smile. “Tay-Oh. Would Oli like to play a game?”
Theo blinked, sat up, and handed Aleida his best friend.
She held the elephant down in her lap. “Oli, where’s Theo? You’ve forgotten? Please say you haven’t forgotten, Oli.”
Theo shook his head, and his eyes shone. “Oli not forget.”
“That’s right, Schatje. Elephants never forget.”
Bas snorted. “Who made up that nonsense?”
Aleida’s mouth tightened. “It’s an English saying. If you want to go to England, you’d better get used to it.”
His gaze knifed into her. She’d pay for that flippancy later.
But now her son needed her. She dangled Oli’s trunk over the seatback and pointed it at Theo. “That’s right, Oli. There’s Theo.”
Giggles poured out, and Theo slithered off the seat and scooted behind Aleida. “Where am I now, Oli?”
Aleida swung Oli’s trunk in a loop, then pointed it at her son. “See? Oli will always find you. Oli will never forget—”
“What’s this?” Bas spoke with an air of gleaming anticipation.
On the road, people scattered to each side, cars pulled over, people spilled out, ran.
“Oh no.” Aleida leaned forward, craned her neck up.
Two silver shapes winged down from the sky, spitting sparks, dragons scorching the earth.
German aircraft!
“Theo!” Aleida sprang to her knees and groped over the seat for her son. She had to get him out to safety. “Come to Moeder! Come—”
The car leapt forward.
Aleida almost toppled over the seatback. “What on—”
Bas sped down the road, unimpeded.
“Bas!” She ducked to see out the windscreen. “The planes!”
“They don’t care about refugees, only soldiers. Now’s my chance.” His jaw set in that hard way of his.
The dragons swooped lower, foul breath spinning in silver discs.
“Theo, stay down! Cover your head.” Aleida folded herself low. Her hands formed the flimsiest of helmets. “Stay down!”
The roar of the auto’s engine merged with the whine of the planes. Pops rang out, and Aleida screamed.
The whining and pops veered away.
“Told you we were fine,” Bas said. “I’m the only person on this road smart enough to see it.”
Aleida stayed low, breathing hard, burying her fingers in the hair she’d coiled so neatly.
He expected her to praise him for his insight and courage.
She jammed her fingers deeper into the hated hairstyle. Why should she have to praise foolishness? Why should she have to lie to a man who endangered his wife and child? Why couldn’t she get away from him?
Why couldn’t he die?
Aleida choked on that dark thought.
Bas groaned, and the car slowed. “At least I gained a mile.”
She peeked over the dashboard. Refugees dragged carts onto the road, herded animals around . . .
Around a horse and a man sprawled on the road.
Red. So much red.
Aleida gasped and clapped both hands over her face. The Germans did kill refugees. It could have been them.
The car lurched down to the right, and Bas cursed. “Must have blown a tire.”
What did he expect racing at such speeds? But Aleida kept that thought to herself.
Bas eased the car into a line of trees, where dozens of refugees were setting up camp. “You prepare dinner while I change the tire.”
“All right.” Her voice and her legs quivered as she climbed out of the car.
She opened the back door and gathered Theo into her arms. He clung to her. “It’s all right, Schatje. You were so brave.”
Bas shrugged off his suit jacket. “Hold this.”
She shifted Theo so she could take the jacket.
Bas opened the car trunk and hauled out the spare tire. “Don’t let the jacket out of sight. Our passports are in there.”
Aleida took a step back. Another.
While Bas changed the tire, she and Theo could walk away. Simply walk away. She could exchange her couture hat and coat for a peasant’s shawl. And keep walking.
With her passport, she could cross the Channel. With Sebastiaan’s, she could block him from following.
“Here’s the food hamper.” Bas set it under a tree.
Aleida jolted out of her dream. What was she thinking? Hasty decisions led to disaster. Like marrying Bas.
She knelt beside the hamper. “Let’s see what Cook packed for dinner, Theo.”
He twisted to see, and she set him down.
Aleida spread a cloth under the tree and arranged bread, sausage, gouda, and mustard.
Bas’s tools still clanked, so she leaned back against the tree trunk. Theo crawled onto her lap, and she kissed his silky hair. Before them, golden barley waved in the fading sunlight.
If only she could tune out the trudging feet and honking horns behind her and pretend the Germans hadn’t invaded the Low Countries and Bas hadn’t invaded her plan.
“Green!” Theo pointed up to the leaves with his right hand, the one with no fingers, only five darling little bumps, as if his digits had been sleeping when the order to grow was issued.
“You’re so smart, Theo.”
“Blue.” He plopped his hand rather close to Aleida’s eye.
She laughed and gazed into her son’s sparkling greenish-blue eyes. “Just like yours.” Thank goodness her son had inherited the Van der Zee eyes, not Bas’s cold gray.
“Red.” Theo tugged down her lips, and he giggled.
She kissed his hand, each darling bump, leaving lipstick behind. “Now your hand is red.”
A click.
“That’s swell,” a man said in American-accented English. He crouched in front of them, holding a camera and grinning.
He’d taken their picture? Aleida’s heart pounded in hope—a photo of her son at last?—and in dread.
“I beg your pardon,” Bas said in English. He marched over, his face a cool mask. “Did I give you permission to photograph my wife?”
Aleida curled inward and gathered Theo closer.
“Good evening, sir.” The dark-haired man tipped his fedora. “I’m with the American News Service.”
Bas’s gaze bored into Aleida. “Was that thing showing?”
“I—I don’t know.” She tugged her son’s sleeve down. “I didn’t see him until it was too late.”
“Give me that camera.” Bas held out his hand.
The photographer let out a scoffing sound. “I don’t need to do that.”
“Vader angry.” Theo burrowed in Aleida’s arms.
He was indeed. The poor American didn’t know he’d entered a bear’s lair.
“I will tell you what you need to do.” Bas’s fingers clenched and unclenched. “I am a powerful man with powerful friends. If you print that photograph, I will destroy your career.”
The photographer’s lips twisted in disbelief, and he turned to Aleida.
A sob burst from Theo’s mouth, and Aleida begged with her eyes. “Please don’t cross him, sir. Please. You don’t know what you’ve done.”
Dark eyes widened, and the man’s jaw fell slack. “I beg your pardon, ma’am, sir. I promise I won’t print the picture.”
“If you do.” Bas’s tone rose in a clap of thunder.
“Hey! You have my word.” He raised his free hand in surrender and hurried away, shaking his head. “Crazy.”
The thunder rolled Aleida’s way, and Theo wailed and wound his arms around her neck.
“Make it shut up. Now!”
“Hush, Schatje.” Aleida rocked her boy with her gaze locked on the bear. “Hush.”
“I’m sick of the crying.” Bas flung his hand toward the car. “Go to bed. No dinner.”
“Yes, Bas.” Hunger was the least of the punishments she could have received.
She struggled to her feet, climbed into the backseat, and lay down with her sobbing son in her arms.
“Make it shut up.” Bas thumped his hands on the car roof. “Or I will.”
“Hush, Schatje.” Her tears dampened her son’s hair. His welfare—his life—depended on his silence.
Salt-crusted eyes resisted opening. Aleida rubbed them, and faint daylight emerged. Then came the memory of what caused that salt, and she tightened her arms.
Around nothing.
Theo? Had he fallen?
On the floor of the car, Oli lay upside down. His thick gray legs jiggled in the air.
The car was moving.
“Theo?” She sat up.
Bas was at the wheel. He’d put Theo up front with him? How unusual.
The front seat was . . . empty.
Her mind emptied. Her lungs emptied. Her heart emptied. “Where—where’s Theo?”
“Don’t get hysterical.” Bas honked the horn. “Hurry, you idiots.”
Aleida’s fingers coiled into the seatback. “Where is our son? What did you do with him?”
Bas shook his head. “Why do you always get hysterical?”
Of all times, now she had every right to hysterics. “Where is our son? Our son?”
“I told you to shut him up, but you never do. Is peace and quiet too much to ask?”
“What did you do?” Aleida’s voice ground out.
“Last night, an English couple agreed to take him to London for us.”
