The Butterfly and the Violin (5 page)

“Here, my darling daughter.” She plucked a tube of lipstick from the vanity and motioned for her to push out her chin. “Pucker.”

Adele did as she was told and received a thick layer of cherry red to stain the natural pout on her lips. She rubbed them together and made a soft
pop
when she parted them.

“Lovely,” Marina declared, and turned to raid the jewelry box on the bureau. “You’re wearing cocktail gloves tonight?”

Her mother tossed the lighthearted question over her shoulder, her French accent bubbly. Adele couldn’t help but feel startled at the mention of the gloves and tried to cover quickly.

“Just until we go onstage.”

“Oh yes, they’re quite nice. Can you imagine appearing at a Vienna Philharmonic concert without gloves? I know you cannot play in them, of course, but they are proper to wear the rest of the
time.” She made a
tsk tsk
noise under her tongue as she continued searching through the jewelry box and mumbled, “Ah . . .
Cherie!
Where are those pearl earrings?”

After a few seconds, she turned with a victorious smile, holding up pearl studs.

“Your grandmama’s earrings,” Marina chirped happily, and began tugging at Adele’s earlobes. “She wore them on a night like this—the very night she met your grandfather. I hope you should have as much luck as she did.” Her mother’s voice trailed off as the earrings were slipped into her lobes and attention was given to the last details of her hair. “There will be hearts breaking for you all over Austria tonight.”

Surely her mother could hear the audible beat of her heart. The woman was making idle conversation; how could she know that the words were cutting into Adele’s chest, frightening her all the more?

Marina leaned to the side, meeting her gaze in the reflection of the glass. “Adele? Have you a young man, then?”

Yes. His name is Vladimir.

His name is Vladimir and I’m dying inside because I don’t know if he’ll show up tonight . . . if he’ll stay in Vienna . . . if he’ll even be alive tomorrow.

When Adele shook her head, her mother turned to busy herself with brushing the back of her skirt, fearful as always that she should appear the least bit wrinkled in public.

“Ah well, do not worry. You shall have one after tonight. A young Austrian from the city. Or perhaps a German officer? I know that one or two have asked your father if they could come calling. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Adele looked back at their reflection in the mirror, shocked at her mother’s nonchalance. There her mother was, preening as if their greatest worry in the world was planning a future wedding party. How delusional was she? Did she not know what
was happening outside their window? Did she not hear the rapid cadence of gunfire tearing through the streets at night?

The horror Adele had witnessed the night before was just a taste, she was sure. If what Vladimir had told her was correct, then the Germans were not experiencing as much victory as they’d have the world believe, despite the lavish victory concerts they always hosted. Each public event added to the deception that they were not being increasingly routed by the Allies. Why, the Germans were feverishly building fortified watchtowers all over the city and had been since September. Why would they take such measures if they weren’t fearful that a wave of the Red Army was about to wash over them?

“There.
Magnifique!
” Marina clapped her hands together. “My beautiful, perfect girl. They shall be stunned by you tonight—every officer in the audience—first with their eyes and then their ears.” Her mother tapped a finger on the tip of her nose. “Mark my words, Adele.”

“Thank you, Mama.”

Adele looked at her reflection in the mirror, feeling dead inside. How could she be dressed in such finery yet know that there was so much suffering all around? The contradiction took her breath away.

“Why so quiet, pretty girl?” Adele’s mother always meant well, though her affections were usually placed in extolling the virtues of a polished and graceful persona. “Are you nervous about tonight?”

“No. I’m not nervous.” Adele admitted the truth. She’d played onstage a hundred times before. Her mother wasn’t likely to believe that nerves had overtaken her anyway.

“Your headache has not returned?”

Adele shook her head against the lie she’d told to sneak out of the house the night before.

“Then what is wrong?” Marina turned her daughter to face her and tilted her chin up with her hand. “Tell your mother.”

Adele knew she could never tell her mother the truth. Marina Von Bron was too taken in by the glitz and glamour of their place in the Third Reich to care for any of the Jews in the city. Adele had heard her going on about Vienna’s “Jewish problem” at cocktail parties. She thought them wretched, soulless creatures and the sooner Austria had sent them all away to useful employment at the work camps, the better.

Preoccupied, her mother stepped away and then returned and, with a marvelous white mink shawl outstretched in her arms, prepared to grace Adele’s shoulders with it.

“Do you not wonder, Mama, what is happening out there?”

Marina seemed confused and looked to the closed bedroom door, even as her hands smoothed the fur around Adele’s neck. “Downstairs? Well, your father has guests to accompany us to the concert hall. If you’d rather we go on our own, we certainly may. I can have a car brought around.”

“No—I meant out there.” Adele tilted her head toward the windows that overlooked the charming Viennese street below. The streetlamps cast a soft glow outside. “Beyond our home, beyond the borders of our city. Where our boys are fighting and dying and coming home in caskets. Out there where our world is falling to pieces. Beyond parties and victory concerts . . . far beyond playing the violin on a stage. What does it look like out there? Do we even know?”

Marina looked disturbed by Adele’s words. The talk of death and war was too weighted a subject for her view of the light evening ahead.

She came round to stare her point-blank in the face. She grabbed onto Adele’s upper arms and squeezed hard, as if to shake her from her momentary stupor. “What in heaven’s name is the matter with you?”

“Nothing, I—”

Another squeeze and a shake. “Tell me this instant. Does this
have to do with your departure from a room full of dinner guests last night?”

“I just . . .” She paused, fearful of the wild look that had taken over her mother’s usually lovely eyes. “I don’t know if I can play, that’s all.”

“Hush your mouth this instant!”

The sudden outburst caught Adele by surprise, so much so that she couldn’t even manage to utter a response.

“What an insult to your father and the rest of the men downstairs, and to the Führer!” Her mother’s face contorted as if the very thought pained her. “What happens beyond our walls is no concern of yours, do you understand me? Your job is to play. That is what you will do for Austria. Play. You will honor the Führer and your family. You will not make fools of us tonight.”

“I hadn’t thought to make a fool of anyone.”

Her mother eyed her, the intensity of the glare working to shred her resolve.

“Where is this coming from, Adele?”

“Nowhere, I—”

Her mother cut in with force masked as elegance in her tone. “You have been gifted a rare talent, and I’ll not have you waste it because you’ve decided to become interested in philosophy all of a sudden.”

“But we are Christians, are we not?”

Marina huffed. “You see me pray in church every week. I light a candle for all of Austria. What else has God to do with what happens out there, except to protect the fighting sons of our country? I pray for their courage, just like everyone else.”

Adele didn’t understand why her mother was so upset. She’d never seen Marina Von Bron swat at a fly, let alone grab her by the arms until there were bruises pinched into her second layer of skin. And now she scoffed at her mention of God? He had everything to do with it, hadn’t He? Adele felt they had every right to
question what they were doing after the murderous display of evil she’d witnessed the night before.

“Mama.” Adele wished she could tell her the truth, that if they followed Christ, they couldn’t hope to follow the Nazis in the same breath. She knew what was happening out on the streets of Vienna, and all over Europe, for that matter. They couldn’t look away any longer. “How can I play in the midst of such suffering? How can I turn a blind eye to what is happening? I didn’t know what it was until now. But what we’re doing to the Jewish people, it’s”—she almost couldn’t say the words out loud and instead whispered them—“it’s
evil
, Mama.”

The smack hit her across the cheek without warning. Her mother had pulled back and let her hand burn the left side of her face with as much force as she possessed.

Adele was stunned.

She brought a gloved hand up to the side of her face and held it there, unable to believe it had happened except for the painful throbbing that had already begun searing her cheek.

“Are you a coward or are you Austrian?”

With her cheek on fire and thoughts racing, she whispered, “I am Austrian.”

Marina brought her face in closer until their noses were but an inch apart. “Then I suggest you
act
like it.”

Adele stood with her hand on her face, watching as her mother turned to tidy the makeup that had been strewn about the bedroom vanity. She dropped tubes of lipstick and blush brushes into the top drawer, then collected hairpins and deposited them in a mother-of-pearl box on the bureau.

“I expect you to be downstairs and ready to go in five minutes.”

She swiped her fur wrapper up from the vanity chair and without so much as a second glance left Adele in the coldness of her room.

CHAPTER FIVE

Sausalito, California

S
era stepped out of her rental car and looked up—way up, at the towering Bay Area estate home before her.

She turned in a circle as she glanced around at the pristine grounds. An expanse of lavish architecture stood tall over the weaving cobblestone walkway that led to the blue coast below. Several rocking chairs along the length of the back porch had been lulled into a gentle ebb and flow by a sea breeze that perfumed the air with a fresh saltiness. It made her want to drop into one of the chairs and rock the day away.

This hideaway was like nothing she’d ever seen. She was from Manhattan, an island with some of the most impressive real estate around—but not like this. Not like the pile of California bricks in front of her. It looked exactly like one of those sprawling California wineries she’d always seen in the calendar pictures that hung above her desk at the gallery.

She looked to a grassy area overlooking the bay. There was a large white tent pitched in the center. It had a lengthy stage and an archway with an outrageous amount of flowers, elegantly draped ivory gauze curtains, and strings of Italian lights being laced up all around. A commercial van sat to the side of it, where workers were unloading silver candelabras and an endless
stream of wooden crates that were being carried into the tent. What was going on? Clearly some sort of event.

She pulled off her sunglasses and took a long look at the expanse of the house, the tent, and the bay beyond, murmuring, “Just what in the world do you do, Mr. Hanover?”

“He was in real estate.”

Sera thought she’d whispered the question under her breath.

She spun around at the voice and was met by a man who had walked up behind her. He stood there, a thirtysomething Mr. California Cool with a soft blue T-shirt, matching eyes, and a Red Sox cap pulled down over his forehead.

He wore gardener’s gloves and had a rake in one hand, with a leaf or two still stuck to the prongs.

“Edward Hanover owned a real estate investment company,” he said, leaning on the end of the rake in a casual manner. His mouth curved with the slightest hint of a smile tucked under the shadow of the hat’s brim. “Heard you coming up the drive,” he said, and motioned to the tree-lined gate she’d driven through.

“Oh, right.” Sera nodded and looked blankly at him for a moment.

“Can we help you?”

“Uh, yes. I’m here to meet with the Hanovers. I have a gallery sheet in here somewhere.” Trying to cover her embarrassment, Sera fumbled about her oversized handbag for the printout Penny had given her before she boarded the plane. The one with all of the information regarding the painting. The one that had fallen into the black hole of her purse and was presently missing in action.

She tossed her hair back over her shoulder, now wishing that the kick of coastal wind would calm down enough so she could see what she was doing. After an awkward moment of silence, she gave up the search and plucked a business card out of her purse instead.

“Yes. I am, uh—” She leaned in, squinting in the sun, and offered the card to him. “I’m Sera James.”

He stared back at her as he took off the gloves and shoved them in his back pocket, a half squint evident on his face too. Her name didn’t appear to ring any bells.

“Of the Sera James Gallery in Manhattan?” she said, eyebrows raised, although if this guy was part of the grounds crew, why was she bothering?