The Butterfly and the Violin (11 page)

It felt now like her own father was attempting to bait her.

Adele answered carefully, “He is an acquaintance from the orchestra.”

Fredrich shook his head. “Do not lie to me.”

The words were clipped, and flat, and without the least bit of warmth.

So he did know. She guessed he knew everything. What good then would it do to paint pictures of the truth? He was her father, after all. He’d not allow any harm to come to them. Perhaps she could appeal to that side of him.

“Whatever they’ve told you—there is an explanation.”

“I come back from fighting a war only to have been told an outlandish story about my only daughter. That she sustained injuries while committing a crime that carries a harsh punishment. Knowing it cannot be true, I now seek to hear your denial of it.”

“What story, Father?”

His intake of breath was sharp, his stance rigid as a fireplace poker. He stared back at her, the bushy mustache strangely unmoving when he spoke.

“Where were you last night?”

Adele’s heartbeat began to thump in her chest, for she’d begun to doubt. She’d half quipped to Dieter the night before that if her father knew what she’d done, he’d have turned her in himself. Now she was fearful of that extreme becoming truth.

She opened her mouth to speak, but was silenced by guttural screams that rang out from somewhere out in the hall.

Adele turned her eyes toward the closed door, though she could see nothing through it. The high-pitched wails, however, were frightening. The sounds were coming from a woman—her mother? She was screaming uncontrollably, “This cannot be happening!” And was she hitting someone? It sounded as if someone was attempting to restrain a wild animal, not a refined concert pianist who was well respected in the social circles of Vienna’s elite.

Her father did not flinch through the entire tirade. He stood quite still as fists pounded upon the door and something
shattered—the porcelain vase on the table in the hall, perhaps? Before long, the animalistic wailing descended the stairs and became but a faint memory on the first floor.

God
. . . , Adele’s heart cried out to Him.
What is going on?

Her father must have seen the display of emotion cross her face because he addressed it.

“Yes. That was because of you.”

“But what—” Adele couldn’t say it. What did this mean? What were they going to do to her?

Her father stared back at her with empty eyes. There was no depth of feeling there, nothing of the man who had tucked her into bed as a child. No, he was the general now. This was the man others had—and whom she now—feared.

Nothing but coldness predicated his next words.

“Bring him in.”

Adele turned toward the door, and in a split second, her world crumbled.

She jumped to her feet as Vladimir was dragged in, barely able to stand for the beating he must have taken. His hands were shackled in front of him, his lip bleeding onto his white tuxedo collar and the bow tie dangling from his neck. One eye was swollen but still open, looking back at her with as much emotion as she’d ever seen.

They couldn’t touch, didn’t dare try to talk . . . There he was, her love, broken and bruised, and all she could do was accept the crushing apology displayed on his face.

“Tell me your association with this man.”

“What?”

Vladimir shook his head, telling her without words that she had best keep quiet. The guards who held him stood still, like iron statues at his sides. One shoved him and barked a command when they saw him attempt to communicate with her. Vladimir quieted but kept a steely resolve on his face.

“All I need is confirmation of what I already know to be truth, Adele.” Her attention was brought back to her father.

“I don’t understand what you’re asking.”

“Answer me! Were you with this young man at the docks last night?”

Adele looked from her father to Vladimir and back again. The instinct to flee was overpowering. Couldn’t they try to get to his contacts in Switzerland? Could they run and hide somehow? Perhaps Dieter could hide them. Surely this was not the end?

When she could say nothing, when the only movement that could be felt was the quivering of her chin, the quiet shattered. Without an ounce of remorse, her father issued the order: “Kill him.”

“What?” she screamed, but the officers had already shoved him down to his knees, and one raised a pistol to the back of Vladimir’s head.

She had the instinct to scream, “No!”

Even then, Vladimir fought to shield her from the horror of what could happen were she to say anything further. “Look away, Adele!” he screamed, head held high with the gun barrel pressing up against it. “Don’t watch!”

“Shut up!” One of the guards smashed the butt of the pistol against the back of his skull. Vladimir fell to all fours, his cuffed wrists keeping his body from crumpling on the floor.

“Stop!” Tears stung her eyes. Could this be happening?
Oh God, what can I do?
“Please,” she sobbed aloud. “Father?”

Adele looked to him, hoping, begging even, that she would find some glimmer of compassion yet alive in his eyes. But she found none. Her father looked through her and nodded to the guard with the gun. With a split second to make a decision, she screamed out the words she’d always wished to say and threw herself on the ground in front of Vladimir.

“I love him!”

Adele’s words cut into the air, bringing a severe silence with them.

Her father looked like he had molten lava flowing under his skin, his red face giving way to a display of acute rage. His hands balled into fists at his sides as his chest rose and fell with each intense breath. The guards, equally astounded, looked back and forth between her father and her body on the floor, waiting for a sign of what to do next.

She looked to Vladimir alone and with shuddering emotion mouthed the words “
I’m sorry,
” for they both knew what she’d done.

Vladimir was attempting to be gallant. If she admitted nothing, then he could take the fall alone. He’d have kept their secret to the grave to protect her. It made her love him all the more—made the fading dream of a future together all the more gut-wrenching as they knelt on the ground, their hearts exposed as they faced each other.

Vladimir shook his head at her, ever so slightly, tears glazing his eyes.

“This is out of my hands now, Adele.” Her father stepped over to the French doors of the office and flung them open. She gasped to find the second-story landing of their grand home full of armed SS guards. Vladimir hung his head in defeat when several guards came in, one yanking her up from each side while another shackled her wrists in front of her. She was hauled up to standing as her father watched, emotionless.

“You already knew?” She directed the question at her father, with nothing left to lose.

Fredrich gave her a curt nod, though she thought—hoped—she saw a glimmer of sadness in the eyes that stared back at her.

“But how?”

Not one for illusions, he replied, “Dieter’s wife. The fool. She turned you both in, thinking it would remove suspicion from
them. But you went to their home, put them all at risk. If they are executed, the blood is on your hands, Adele.”

“But the doctor? He is your friend . . . We’ve known him all of my life.”

“A friend who is a traitor to Austria.” He paused, but only for a split second. “As are you, Adele. Austria will forget you after tonight.” His voice was layered with emotion, his resolve cold as ice. “I hope you understand the fate you have chosen.” And with that, he walked out of the study, leaving them behind with the terrifying group of SS officers.

And it began.

Vladimir was hauled up and they were forced out into the hall, then down the stairs. A wool coat was wrapped over her shoulders, though she wasn’t even given time to force her arms into its sleeves.

“Where are they taking us?” she tried to ask Vladimir, then turned to the guards standing around. No one could or would answer. She was given no opportunity to retrieve anything from her room—not her grandmother’s earrings that she’d taken off after the concert, not her Bible or the journal she’d always kept. She’d be allowed nothing and instead was ushered to the marble entry of the grand home where the etched glass front doors had been opened, the depth of the black night before her.

“Give her this.” Adele turned at the sound of her mother’s voice.

She could scarcely breathe for the terror building in her heart.

What would they do to her? Was this the last time she’d step through the threshold of her childhood home? Would she never hear her mother’s voice again? However much she needed a glimmer of compassion from one of her parents, the violin case was all that was forthcoming. It was shoved into her hands by one of the guards as her mother turned her back, tears glistening on her cheeks, and walked away into the conservatory.

It was her practice violin and not as grand as the one owned
by the orchestra, but it was a companion of sorts nonetheless. She hugged it to her chest as they were ushered out the front door, the rain unyielding as tiny ice pellets stung her cheeks.

Adele turned once more to look at Vladimir. He turned too, perhaps his soul having connected with hers, and looked across the top of the car to where she stood. She didn’t know what she expected, for everything had turned out opposite of what she’d thought. Would he be angry because she didn’t save herself? Would he deny her a last look as her parents had?

Vladimir looked at her with the same eyes, those lovely eyes of her friend that were now full of heart-shattering emotion, and mouthed, “
I love you too
,” before his head was tucked under the roof of the vehicle and he was swallowed up by the night.

And her new world began.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

S
era was relieved when she saw William trotting up the walk to the bed-and-breakfast.

Until the Jeep pulled into the drive, she wasn’t sure whether he’d show up. In fact, she wasn’t even sure if she would be there. The alarm clock had sounded a good two hours before she was due to head to the airport and she’d lain awake in bed, agonizing over what to do.

The possibility that they could work together and find something that would break the mystery wide open was more than tempting. Sera had, after all, been searching for the painting, coming up with no new leads. But if she stayed now, what would the gamble be? Spending the previous evening with him had surprised even her. William Hanover wasn’t a cold businessman. He’d shown a tender side, and that scared her to death.

With the wedding happening tonight, she’d doubted whether he would show. But he surprised her yet again by greeting her with two paper coffee cups and an easy smile.

“Morning,” he said, coffee cup held out. “I took a shot and ordered you a mocha. I hope I was right.”

It wasn’t lost on her that she found it easier to smile in his presence now, for he seemed a bit more relaxed too. She guessed it was because of the peace they’d made the night before. His
jeans were worn-in, as was his T-shirt, matching the casual smile he offered as he settled in the Adirondack chair next to her.

“Thanks.” She took the cup from him and tipped the warm confection to her lips. “Don’t think I’ve met a latte I didn’t like. I’m from New York—we practically live on caffeine.”

“I kind of wondered if you’d be here this morning or if you’d be jet-setting your way back to the East Coast.”

“Why is that?”

He shrugged and took a sip of his coffee. “Last night it seemed like you may have said everything there was to say—about the painting, I mean. I thought maybe you’d be about ten thousand feet up right now.”

Sera almost smiled, but bit her bottom lip to cover it. “In truth, so did I.”

He nodded. “But you’re still here.”

“You offered to change the plane ticket, so, yes. I’m still here. But you—are you sure it’s okay that you’re here? With the wedding and all.”

“It’s hours away—I’m fine.” He looked at the virtual home office scattered around her: laptop, files, cell phone, and a legal pad with notes scrawled on it. “Already deep in research, I see.”

“Up to our necks in research is what we’ve been for more than two years,” Sera said and dropped a folder down on the coffee table in front of him. “And like I said last night, we’ve hit a dead end.”

He set his coffee cup down on the table and picked up the folder, flipping through the stack of papers inside. “What’s this?”

Sera exhaled. “That is a file with the last known records of our girl. Everything we can find on her stops after October 1944. Records weren’t always kept if someone was sent to the gas chambers or was one of those randomly executed by SS guards. It’s horrible. And we’re not sure what happened to her.”

“Orchestra records . . . photographs . . .” He held up several
printouts of black-and-white photos, turning the snapshots from horizontal to vertical to view each image.

“Yes. The ones on the top are from her early years. Whatever I could find. And in the back of the folder are these.” Sera took another sip of her coffee. “You’ll understand what we’re looking at when you see them.”