Brown-Eyed Girl (23 page)

“Right,” Sonnenschein conceded, “but there are conservative law firms in the Rockies that usually handle this sort of thing. Mountain States Legal Foundation is the most famous, but there are plenty of others, and I've never heard that Whipple, Hipple was doing that sort of litigation. Who's the lead attorney on the case?”

Minor looked at her notes. “A fellow named Bobby Helwigsen.”

Sally's eyes narrowed.

“I haven't actually met him,” Minor continued, “but according to what I've been able to learn, he's a specialist in tax and estate litigation. He just came back to Wyoming last year, but he's handling some of the biggest money in the state.”

“A guy like that doesn't come cheap—who's paying his tab?” the lawyer trustee asked, making a note on a yellow pad.

“The plaintiffs aren't saying, but we're trying to find out,” Minor replied.

“That's fine,” Sally put in, “but what do we do now?”

Maude looked at Sally, around the table. Nobody quite knew why Maude was at the meeting, but when she wanted to speak, no one was prepared to tell her to shut up.

“You're the Dunwoodie Professor, Sally,” she said quietly. “You're the one who was hired to set up the Center, write Meg's biography, teach women's history at the U. These guys want to get rid of you. If you say you don't feel like fighting, you can always go back to UCLA and chalk this all up to foolishness. You can save the University a lot of time, money, and trouble if you bail out, and you don't really lose anything by it. So Boz and the boys win a round—big deal. They're not the only ones who think they have a right to Meg's money. You can save yourself a hell of a lot of problems if you just give up. What do you want to do?”

“At the moment,” Sally answered, with fierce and surprising calm, “I want more than anything else to write about Meg Dunwoodie's life. I've found some puzzles I can't leave until they're solved. This is going to sound crazy—maybe you have to be a historian to understand. But I'm beginning to feel Meg's somehow watching me. I don't understand who or what it is that wants to stop me, why some shirttail cousin of Meg's vandalized my car, broke into my house,
Meg's
house, and beat you up. That makes me furious. I can't imagine who's willing to spend big money paying lawyers to get me out of here, but that kind of ticks me off, too.

“To be honest, this
is
all a little daunting. But I'm damned good and sure I'm the right person for the job. If you all think it's expedient to try to compromise with these guys, I'll tell you I'm sorry you feel that way. Byron Bosworth and his group have absolutely no interest in seeing Meg Dunwoodie's story told at all, much less told with care and compassion and critical judgment. I do. I'd like to fight them, and I'm not afraid. I'm fully prepared to stand up to anybody who wants to prevent me from writing that story.” It was a brave speech; she hoped she meant it.

Maude had heard what she wanted to hear. She and Sonnenschein exchanged a glance, and he began, “As designated representative of the Dunwoodie Foundation, I would like to introduce to you the chairwoman of the Dunwoodie Foundation, Maude Stark.” Maude inclined her head. Nobody had known, of course, but neither was anybody all that surprised. “The Foundation consists entirely of Maude and me,” Sonnenschein continued, surprising them a little more. “The chairwoman will now outline to you, the representatives of the University, the Foundation's terms,” he finished, turning to Maude.

“Take it or leave it,” said Maude.

“Beg pardon?” said Minor, who'd picked up a fountain pen, all ready to write copious notes on her own yellow pad.

“Take it or leave it,” Maude repeated. “The University can either take the bequest, including the terms that Sally continue as Dunwoodie Professor, that the papers remain in the Dunwoodie house so that Sally can go on with her work uninterrupted and unimpeded”—here she glared briefly at Egan, who shrank a little. “The management of all monies and other assets continues as it has, jointly administered by the Foundation, the Archive, the College of Arts and Sciences, and the Center Director”—Sally inclined her own head—“all that. No changes. No negotiations. If they don't like it, too bad. If the University doesn't like it, well then, we'll just take back the money, cut the University out of the deal and start paying Sally directly for the biography.”

“And I would be willing to represent Professor Alder in the event that she chooses to bring action against the University for breach of contract,” Sonnenschein added smoothly.

Nobody spoke. Egan looked much sicker. Minor stared at her yellow pad, drew little flowers with her expensive fountain pen. Edna frowned, thinking hard. Sonnenschein smiled faintly.

“Wait a minute.” Sally broke the silence. She couldn't imagine suing the University. She must be a lousy American. Her thoughts were elsewhere. “I'm not sure I like the idea of writing the in-house biography, Maude. Suppose I write something you won't like? I don't want you or anybody else deciding they have the right to censor or suppress this book.”

Sonnenschein answered for Maude. “Sally, nobody knows better than Maude and me that Meg Dunwoodie wasn't anybody's angel. She was a complicated, magnificent woman, who doubtless did some terrible things you'll have to tell the world about. But Maude assures me we can trust you to be truthful, and fair, and to care about her, and to be stubborn enough to write a damned good book. And that's what we've agreed we want.”

I will not cry, Sally told herself.

The trustees whispered to one another. One handed Edna a cellphone, and she punched in the president's number. After a rapid conversation, she handed the phone back to the trustee, and said, “The president wants to go for it.”

The counsel looked at the determined dean, at the archivist, who was ghost-pale, at the trustees, faces full of care, at the Dunwoodie Professor, whose lips were pressed so tightly together they were white around the edges. “Having reviewed precedents, I can tell you they run both ways. Most challenges to bequests to universities never get beyond the stage of bad publicity and hurt feelings. But when they do end up in court, it's anybody's guess which way they'll go. I am perfectly willing to fight this one, if that's what you all decide.”

Egan knew his own choices: Margaret Dunwoodie's papers eventually, versus no papers. Money for other projects, versus no money. “Righto,” he said. “No bloody choice about it, so might as well be in for a pound as a penny.”

“And as for the pennies,” Sonnenschein offered, “my office would be pleased to assist with the litigation, on behalf of the Foundation. We see no reason why the University should have to incur substantial legal fees,” he added.

“That seems fair enough,” said the lawyer trustee, figuring, what the hell, they were sued or screwed either way. This way seemed cheaper. The other trustee nodded.

Sonnenschein handed Minor his card after writing his home telephone number on the back. “Call me. Sorry to cut this short, but I've got a lot to do.” He rose, signaling that the meeting was over. Edna crossed to him to shake his hand. Egan slapped him weakly on the back on his way out.

Sally gave Maude a hug, held out her hand to Sonnenschein, who surprised her once again by putting an arm around her shoulders and squeezing. But surprised or not, she wanted some explanations. “Maude, Mr. Sonnenschein, I think you two ought to come back to the house with me,” she told them. “I want to ask you some questions.”

“I guess we want to give you some answers,” Maude allowed.

“Glad to hear it,” said Sally. “And Mr. Sonnenschein, I hope you brought your keys.”

“Call me Ezra,” said the Denver lawyer, squeezing again.

Chapter 23
Little Eddie

“So, evidently,” Sally told Maude and Ezra as they walked the four snowpacked blocks to Meg's house, “I've passed some kind of initiation test.”

Sonnenschein navigated the icy sidewalk with ease, despite his slippery city shoes. “We wanted to see how much this project meant to you. If you'd run at the first sign of trouble, you wouldn't have been the person to write Meg Dunwoodie's story. We know some things that her biographer would have a hard time finding out if we didn't say anything. We've reached the point where we needed to know if we can trust you.”

“How do you know you can?” Sally asked, clomping along in her Sorels, her breath nearly freezing in her lungs.

“Judgment call,” said Maude. “Mine. Ezra goes along with what I want.”

“Why?” Sally asked.

“I'll tell you when we get home. We'll talk, then we'll open the closet,” Maude announced, wrapping her arms around herself and putting her head into the frigid wind.

Maude insisted on making coffee. They were sitting in the kitchen now, and she was taking her time getting started. Finally, Sally was fit to bust. “Come on, Maude, damn it!” she said through clenched teeth. “Spill it.”

“All right,” said Maude, taking a deep breath. “You know Meg came back to Wyoming from Europe in 1940, right?”

“Right. Her mother was sick. She was needed at home. At least that's the story she told.”

“Yeah. Well, Gert was sick, that's true. She had cancer. Took her two years to die, and Mac didn't make it any easier. He was a man who thought the best way to deal with problems was to get good and mad and stay that way. Made those last years of Gert's life hell, raging around the house, yelling at Meg, and no help at all.”

“Why was he yelling at Meg? I know people get mad at death, but did something in particular piss him off?”

Ezra cleared his throat. “Ahem. That would be me.”

Sally looked at him, skeptical. “You? How old are you, Ezra?”

“He'll be sixty this year,” Maude answered for him.

Sally did the math: he'd been born in 1938. “What did you have to do with it? You were—what?—two years old.”

“Not quite two, actually,” he answered. “My birthday's in September.”

“What's your point, Ezra?” Sally asked, running out of patience.

“Well, you see, when Meg came back, she wasn't alone,” he explained. “Do you know who Ernst Malthus was?”

“Yes,” Sally said, a million amazed questions dawning at once.

“Well,” Sonnenschein continued, taking a bracing sip of coffee. “He was with her. And so was I. We, ah, traveled from Paris to Laramie via New York, Chicago, and Denver. As a family.”

Sally looked hard at him. Was Ezra Sonnenschein their child? Ernst and Meg had both been blond, rosy, hearty, Nordic. Sonnenschein's hair was going silver from black, his skin olive, his body slim and elegant. If she was any judge, he had the looks to go with the Jewish name. “What were you doing with them?” she asked.

“They were saving my life,” he answered simply. “My parents understood that the Nazis were going to do horrible things to the Jews who fell into their hands. My father was in the Resistance, and my mother was worried about her parents. They felt they couldn't leave, but they wanted to get me out. Ernst and Meg agreed to take me to the United States.”

“Do you know the name Marc Sonnenschein?” Maude asked her.

“No,” Sally replied. But she did know an initial. “M— —. The third man on the Riviera. The friend of Ernst Malthus and Paul Blum. And Giselle.”

“Giselle,” said Ezra, “was my mother. She and my father were married in 1937, but her paintings were beginning to be known, so she never changed her name. Meg Dunwoodie was her dearest friend in the world, and she asked her to take me out of France. My father's family was Alsatian, from Strasbourg. They were financiers who did a lot of business in diamonds. He and Ernst and Paul Blum were very close. Ernst said he could help. And they did it.

“The first thing in my life I remember was being put on the train at the Gare du Nord in Paris. My mother was holding me and crying. She was wearing a suit with a fox collar. I can still remember the way the fur smelled, and the little heads and paws of the fox pelts dangling. My father was walking down the platform, talking to a bearded man. Meg was bossing a porter who was putting the bags on the train. There was smoke and steam everywhere.

“Finally Meg said it was time to go, and my mother put me down. She knelt down and took my hands and told me, ‘Ezra, you have to go away for a while. And for now, I want you to do what I tell you. Until Papa and I can come and get you, you are to call this man'—the bearded one— ‘and Aunt Meg Mama and Papa. They'll call you Eddie. Can you remember that? It's very important.'”

“Eddie?” Sally asked, incredulous. Ezra Sonnenschein was not an Eddie, but at two he might have passed for one, in a pinch. This had definitely been a pinch.

“Eddie Martin. Ernst had arranged forged passports and papers for all of us. He was heavily disguised, had dyed his hair, affected a beard. We were an American family named Martin—Ernest, Margaret, and little Eddie. Residents of Cincinnati, Ohio, the town in which I had supposedly been born. Fortunately, I was young enough that when the customs agents asked me my name and age at Le Havre and again in New York, I didn't have to say anything. All I had to do was look frightened, which wasn't hard.”

“You must have been terrified,” Sally managed.

“More than you can possibly imagine,” Ezra agreed. “But my mother had told me I'd be safe with them, and that she and my father would come to get me just as soon as they could.” He raised the cup to his lips, took a small sip. “I kept on believing her for a long time, even though I never saw her again.” He lowered the cup, left his hand on the saucer. Maude put her own hand over his.

“So they brought you to Wyoming?”

Maude took up the tale. “Yeah. Can you imagine— Paris to Wyoming in six weeks? Meg had to go home, and Ernst couldn't stay. She was terrified somebody on board the ship would recognize her or Ernst, but they didn't know what else to do. It was just luck that nobody knew them, and they got away with it.

“Meg figured she could find somebody to look after Ezra until Giselle and Marc could get away. What she hadn't counted on was her father's reaction.”

Sally thought about it a minute. “I can imagine. A conservative Wyoming rancher finds that his daughter has come home from gay Paree with a man she's not married to and a small child of uncertain parentage. I assume he wasn't pleased.”

“Well, I can't say what he thought of Ernst,” Ezra replied, “but I do remember him screaming at Meg in English words I didn't know, but which I understood were angry, and directed toward me. It was clear he wouldn't have me in his sight. Both Meg and Ernst tried to reason with him, but he made us leave immediately.”

“Where did you go?” Sally asked. It was an amazingly clear memory from such an early age, but then it wasn't exactly falling off a tricycle. She bet therapy had brought a lot of it back. She ached for the traumatized toddler, the rejected prodigal daughter, and the man who had pulled some very long, doubtless tangled strings to get them to what was supposed to be safe harbor.

Maude answered. “Meg had bought a car in Denver, and they'd driven up to the Woody D from there. They drove over to Laramie, and stayed with Meg's old professors, Miss McIntyre and Miss White. They had to find a place for the little boy, and fast. Meg was hoping that she might be able to persuade one or other of her Parker cousins to take him, but a lot of the Parkers had left Wyoming, and the ones left in Albany weren't one bit interested in taking in somebody's refugee kid. Very nice people,” she observed.

“So—who?” Sally wanted to know.

Again, Maude provided the answer. “My mother used to take in washing, and she used to do laundry for Miss McIntyre and Miss White. Meg and Ernst and little Eddie had been at their house a couple of days, racking their brains, when she came over to pick up the wash. I went with her. Eddie was sitting on their kitchen floor. I was eight years old and I really wanted a baby brother. I found a set of tin measuring spoons and gave them to him to play with. You really liked those spoons,” she recalled, looking fondly at Ezra. He returned the look. “So my mom asked who he was, and Meg told her, and she said she'd be glad to give the poor kid a home until his parents could come for him, whenever that might be.”

“You had a nice mom,” Sally told her.

“Yeah, I did,” Maude agreed. “A nice dad, too. He was a veterinarian, used to having banged up critters around. Mom brought Eddie home and we all loved him from the start.”

“That was an amazing offer,” Sally exclaimed.

“It was. But Ernst kept telling everybody that he was sure that Eddie's parents would be coming to get him soon, and that he would do everything in his power to help them. We had no idea what that meant—for all we knew, he was a businessman from Cincinnati, who happened to be a friend of Meg's from Paris. She didn't tell us who he really was until much later.”

Sally wondered what kinds of powers Ernst had had. Evidently they extended to doctored passports and disguises. What else? “How long did Ernst stay in Wyoming?”

“He took Meg back to the ranch, and I don't know how long he was there. Not long, I think. We saw him one more time, in the summer of 1943, wearing the same disguise.”

“He stayed in the U.S.?” Sally wondered.

Maude shrugged. “According to Meg, he traveled around throughout the war. New York, London, Zurich, Capetown, South Africa. And Berlin and Paris. He was a diamond trader, and as far as we know, he stayed in business. From time to time, he sent Meg money for Giselle and Marc's son. My parents put it in a bank account, in Ezra's real name.”

“Malthus was a German citizen, right?” Sally asked.

Ezra nodded.

“How did he manage to travel so freely in enemy territory?”

Ezra and Maude looked at each other, and he answered. “We wish we knew. There's no doubt he was involved in intelligence work. He kept in contact with the French Resistance through my father. It appears he did some work for the Resistance, laundering money, that kind of thing. Perhaps other things. Ernst had friends in high Nazi places. His brother was one, but it turned out that his brother Rainer wasn't as loyal a follower of the Führer as he should have been.”

“Rainer Malthus, of the
Schwartzkappelle,”
Sally said.

“The same,” Ezra answered, pleased that she'd gotten that far in her research. “Executed when the assassination plot failed.”

“So Ernst was in the Resistance?” Sally inquired, romantically hopeful.

Another look passed between Maude and Ezra. “It's not clear. That's one thing we're hoping you might help us find out. Certainly he was funneling money and weapons to my father's cell. But he may also have been working in some capacity for the Fascists, or for their sympathizers in other countries. Or he might have been an agent for the Communists. We just haven't got him figured out yet.” Ezra shook his head sadly.

“He saved your life,” Sally told him, as if that settled the matter.

“He wasn't a monster,” Maude replied. “What else he was or wasn't, we aren't quite sure.”

Sally expected to do quite a bit of work finding out. The first thing she'd do was file a Freedom of Information Act request for any government files on Ernst Malthus, and for that matter, on Meg Dunwoodie. “Did Meg come to visit you much?” Sally asked Ezra.

“During the first couple of years, Meg came whenever she could, but she had to be at the Woody D and take care of her mother, and for that matter, her father. Gert took a long, hard time dying, and it was clearly tough on Meg,” Maude remembered. “Every time she'd come to see us, she looked skinnier and tireder, and by the time the end finally came, she was worn down to bones and nothing. They buried Gert on the ranch, and it wasn't a week later that Meg showed up in Laramie with a couple of suitcases, looking for a place to live and a job.”

Sally considered.

“So then you saw a lot of her.”

“She thought of herself as my aunt,” Ezra said. “She loved me. So did Ma and Pa Stark and Maude. Meg wasn't exactly close with her own family, and the Starks kind of adopted her as a cousin.”

“So you grew up in Laramie?” Sally asked, incredulous. Laramie did not add up to Ezra Sonnenschein's kind of suave.

“I lived there until 1948. That was when my father came for me.”

Postwar Europe took some time sorting itself out. Marc Sonnenschein had managed to evade the Nazis through five horrid years. He'd lost countless friends and loved ones, including his parents, all his siblings, the wife he adored. It took a long time for him to reclaim what was left of his life before the deluge, to reassemble his profession, scrape together what he could of his property, and make his place in a new society. With all he'd sacrificed and all that had been taken from him, he lived for years on the promise that his son was safe and well cared for, somewhere in the wilderness of America.

Ten-year-old Ezra, known to his Laramie pals as Fast Eddie, loved Stan Musial of the St. Louis Cardinals, the novels of Edgar Rice Burroughs, and the Rocky Mountains. He was known around town as “that war orphan the Starks took in,” and considered a success story. If he was a little quiet and intense, a little too studious, he was also a wiry ball of energy, a base-stealing, power-hitting Little League phenom. Doc Stark said he wouldn't be surprised if the kid made it to the bigs.

Then Marc Sonnenschein showed up.

Ezra was overwhelmed. The life he'd come to think of as natural was the one he was expected to leave without a thought. Paris to Laramie, eight years before, had been terrifying. But the prospect of Laramie to Paris, now, seemed nothing short of devastating. A thin, hollow-cheeked foreigner had come to claim him. Marc looked at Ezra as if he were seeing a ghost. Later Ezra realized that he must have thought he was, seeing his own eyes looking back at him in the childish rendition of his dead wife's face. And the child knew himself as Eddie. It startled him when Marc called him Ezra, with the accent on the second syllable.