The Butterfly and the Violin (39 page)

“Tell me—were there survivors at Auschwitz? Did anyone make it? You must have received news in regard to this, being with the press.” Her voice hitched on the last words, her heart thumping for word on a young cellist she’d seen onstage months before.

She must have guessed correctly. He looked down at his camera for a split second, then reconnected his eyes with hers. “Have you lost your family?”

Her soul cried with the question.

Yes!
She wanted to scream it out.
I’ve lost my family. My innocence.
Even my heart is gone. I’ve lost everything. Except for God! He’s
all I have left . . .

“Who survived at Auschwitz? Do they have prisoner lists?”

“They haven’t told me, miss. I am merely following orders given to me here.”

“But if we could find out?”

The young man shook his head. “The SS destroyed their administrative files before we arrived here. I can only assume they did the same at Auschwitz. But I promise we’re here to help. No one will harm you again. We can begin the search for your family after you’ve first been properly taken care of.” He pulled her hands from his lapels and cradled her arm at the elbow. He raised his eyebrows slightly and tried to offer her a nudging smile. “Come now, might you be able to walk with me? I’ll hold you steady so you can get your footing.”

She swallowed hard and nodded, her effort at walking quite feeble and her legs feeling as if they were attached to nothing but a weakened shell. He walked with her, as slowly as she needed,
one arm around her waist and the other hand clutching her elbow. Step by step to the convoy of transport trucks, the young man held her in his care.

“What is your name?” she asked, their feet trudging along at a painfully slow pace.

“My name is Edward, miss.” He looked as though he was trying not to connect with her gaze, for he kept his eyes fixed on a point out over the horizon of ramshackle barracks and leftover SS officers digging graves in the fields.

Edward,
she thought.
You have kindness in your eyes.

Adele allowed him to continue walking. She kept her head down, eventually leaning it against his shoulder when the strength to hold it up proved fleeting. “Edward, I have been praying for kindness for two years,” Adele whispered against the thick canvas of his jacket. “And here it is. Surely God has heard our prayers.”

A soothing hand cradled the back of her head, gently patting her nape, drawing her closer to the compassion of a stranger. She felt the nod of his chin against her brow. “You’re safe now, miss.”

“Thank you, Edward.”

He loaded her on the back of a truck, even as her taxed legs trembled from the short walk to the line of roaring engines. Marta was there, coughing and miserably dirty, but took her by the elbow and pulled her down next to her in the truck bed. Fränze was there too, and curled up close to her side.

As Adele looked around, she realized that it had happened.

The promise had been kept.

The orchestra had survived. The girls were war torn and weary, dirty and likely unrecognizable now, but they were alive. Adele looked at their faces. Marta’s strength was there, in the toughness of her set jaw. And little Fränze, still a child at fourteen, retained something of her doe-like innocence in the soft hazel eyes that were always searching. And the rest of the girls—Adele
looked them over, one by one, the ones who were still by her side through it all.

Thank You, Lord.
Her heart could have wept for the blessing of life.

And in an instant, a pang of fear dropped over her.

“Wait!” In the bustle to load the last of the survivors in the truck, she’d lost sight of the British officer.

Several trucks began moving away. In a moment of panic, she called out to the drivers through the kicked-up dust, “Wait, please wait!” Her eyes scanned the soldiers. They all wore the same clothes, all had the same forlorn expression and downturned eyes. But Edward—he had a camera round his neck. Her eyes wildly searched for the distinction.

“They’re taking us to safety, Adele!” Marta shouted, and tried to pull her back. “You’ll fall from the truck—please sit down.”

“Edward!” Her eyes scanned the crowd of officers, searching for the man with the kind eyes and the camera. She called out to him, over and over, praying she hadn’t lost the one chance she and Vladimir may have had left.

Suddenly, he was there. His hands clasped hers and he moved her backward toward Marta’s waiting arms. “You’ll fall, miss. Please, do sit back. Sit here with your group. I promise they’ll take care of you at the Allied camp. You have only to rest now.”

“You are a photojournalist with British intelligence?” Her eyes searched his face.

He seemed surprised by her question but answered anyway. “Yes, miss.”

Adele looked him straight in the face, hoping beyond hope that his kindness would stretch far enough for what she was about to ask.

“Then you may have contacts who can help,” she said, tears welling in her eyes.

“Contacts to help with what?” He blew the words out, the sun
not having burned off enough of the cool morning to keep his breath from turning to fog.

Adele hastily tore at the inside hem of her uniform until it gave way. She retrieved the worn photograph of Vladimir, her smiling cellist, and slid it into the young man’s palm. “His name is Vladimir Nicolai. I’m asking you to find this man,” she begged, eyes searching. “Find him and bring him to me.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

My Dear William,

I pray this letter finds you when you’re most ready to receive it.

Take it from an old man; life is fragile. It’s meant to be lived in service, with an abundance of love, in the gracious guidance of a Savior who leads each step we tread in this journey of life.

I’m sorry that you’re reading these words and I’m not able to tell you this until after I’m gone. But you’re clever. And a hard worker. You’ve grown into a fine man and I’m quite proud. But I also remember another William, a young man who talked often in his youth about the call upon his heart to become a minister. I remember the day that sixteen-year-old chap walked into my study with his Bible in hand, ready to tell the patriarchs of the Hanover clan that he had every intention of walking away from the family business in favor of walking toward a pulpit. I regret that your father and I rejected this path. I further regret that I remained silent and refrained from supporting this call upon your life. I aim to right that wrong now.

I’ve asked Ms. Sophie Haurbech-Mason to be a witness to my wishes. If you’ve found her, then your smarts are exactly as I’d thought them to be. You’ve learned the story of Adele.
I was indeed at Bergen-Belsen when the camp was liberated on April 15, 1945, and she was one of the prisoners who survived.

The events of that day have changed me to my core. I suspect they’ve changed you too.

You must know by now that the entirety of the Hanover estate is to be left to the owner of Adele’s painting. That owner is Sophie Haurbech-Mason.

“So it’s true.” Sera stopped reading and looked up. “You’re to inherit everything.”

Her face must have registered the shock, because Sophie leaned forward and nudged her hand with an aged fingertip.

“Continue, my dear.”

Sera obeyed, though the opinion she’d held of the sweet woman was in danger of fading if she was poised to take away everything William had fought so hard to keep.

Whether out of obligation to the company or to honor your responsibilities to the family, I admire your resolve. As the painting still exists, and you’ve found it, you have but to ask for it. If it’s still what you want, you can take it home, run the company, and live your life.

I give you the choice.

But if, after learning of Adele’s story, you’ve changed your mind at all, then I ask you to consider what brought you to Ms. Haurbech-Mason’s door in the first place. If you choose it, this letter can free you, my boy. You can walk away from any sense of propriety with a heart that is full.

Our lawyers have a copy of a new will outlining alternative wishes. I’ve taken careful steps to ensure that my last will and testament is executed in the manner you choose when the painting is found. As for the family assets, Ms. Haurbech-Mason
will have sole discretion to disperse the Hanover funds. She’s smart and honest; she will ensure the family is looked after. The leadership of the company will be turned over to the board of directors, who will in their own best judgment appoint a successor as chief executive officer. And you, William, can finally walk away. Live the life you’ve always wanted with my blessing in it.

Money, position, and power—we both know they are a ruse. There’s no lasting fulfillment in them, is there? I find shame that you learned this long before your foolish grandfather. I implore you to live your life for second chances, Will, because you shall always have one with Christ.

Your loving grandfather,

Edward William Hanover

Sera held the letter in her hands, moved by the fact that the man had cared enough to leave such a legacy behind.

“So Edward Hanover was there in Bergen-Belsen?”

“Yes, he was there on the day of liberation.” Sophie nodded. “And he was there for the days afterward, when prisoners died from eating the food rations that had been given them. When disease still claimed victims. He was there, and I can tell you, the things he witnessed transformed him.”

“I can’t imagine what all of them went through.”

“It was impactful enough that he remained close with Adele. They were friends for the remainder of their lives.”

“All because of that chance encounter . . .”

Sophie shook her head. “There are no chance encounters with God. Adele brought Vladimir to my family. We’d hoped to all escape,” she said, her voice taking on a softness that comes with the remembrance of memories from long ago.

“How did you survive the war?”

Sophie looked to the mantel and smiled at the sea of faces
staring out from the picture frames. “That is a story for another day, I think. But I had my own journey to take, just as Adele did, and we found each other after the war.”

“How?”

A smile warmed her face, spreading pleasant wrinkles from the corners of her eyes. “Edward. He intervened. He found me too, just like Adele’s painting.”

Sera took a sip of her tea.
So it was William’s grandfather who
had been the connection all along.

“I must tell you, Sophie, how sorry I am about what happened with the will being contested. Had I been able to prevent it, I would have.”

“Life is a funny thing, my dear. We try not to take it for granted. The moment we do, it’s gone. Wiped away on a memory.” She shrugged delicate old shoulders. “Who knew I’d been named in a will to the tune of a hundred million dollars? I only agreed to help Edward because of our mutual affection for Adele. I did not expect him to have changed his will. That point we never discussed. I would have discouraged it. Perhaps that’s why he told me after the fact.”

“But you discussed the other things in the letter?”

She smiled over the rim of her delicate rosebud-sprayed teacup. “Yes. We discussed your William.”

Sera found it difficult not to blush under the weight of the woman’s words.

“He is a fine man, Sera.”

“Yes,” she admitted, and swallowed hard over the lump of regret that had formed in her throat. “He is.”

Oh Lord . . . I think I’ve made a terrible mistake . . .

“We think we know what we want, don’t we? We always believe we know better than God. We have our entire journey plotted out. We may have even packed our bags and purchased a ticket, but God always has His own plans. And His plans are
infinite in wisdom.” Sophie smiled on the last words and took a sip of tea. “He was here, you know.”

Sera’s head snapped up. “Who? Not William.”

“Yes. Earlier today. He showed up on my doorstep asking for you, interestingly enough.” She smiled over the rim of her teacup. “Seemed to think he’d find you here.”

“And he read the letter.”

Sophie nodded with a gentle air and replaced the cup in its saucer. “He did. Said he had to know for himself what happened to our Adele. Edward and I had a bet, you see.” She looked to the lofty ceiling above their heads and chuckled. “I guess you won.”

Sera raised her eyebrows in question. “I don’t understand.”

“Edward approached me with the idea of helping his grandson because he’d never forgotten what was truly important in life. God had anchored and steered him through everything. And he knew that his eldest grandson desired to devote his life to following God, but hadn’t been able to because of the demands of the family business. And when he’d gone to the family about his wishes, Edward hadn’t supported him. But time can heal a heart, can’t it? He realized that William would never leave the business without his grandfather’s blessing. Edward wanted to leave this world having done something about that.”

Sera leaned forward to return the letter, hands trembling. “But he left the estate to you.”

“He did.” Sophie appeared pleased. “William may have contested the will, but it turns out he didn’t have to. He had the choice all along. So he asked for enough to take care of his family. As for the rest—the stock, the assets for the family business, even the painting—he asked for nothing. He mentioned something about going back to an old career path he’d always been drawn to, exactly as Edward hoped he would. He told me to do with the money what I will. To perhaps give it away because it’s what his grandfather would have wanted. It’s what Adele and Vladimir
would have wanted. Perhaps this money can give someone else a second chance?”