The Butterfly and the Violin (8 page)

“You’re not a coward. You can’t help a heart condition you’ve had since childhood.”

He shook his head in defiance. “You don’t understand, Adele. Whether others look at me as a coward or not, I’d not have fought for Germany. No matter how much I love my country. But I have to use my life for something. I have to fight in some way. And playing on a stage in front of Hitler’s stooges isn’t the way to do it. A ticker that beats out of sync can’t prevent me from doing what I know to be right.”

“And what is that?”

He shook his head. “I can’t tell you.”

She didn’t ask where he would go, or what he would be doing. He wasn’t likely to tell her no matter how many times she asked. Instead, she needed to know only when he would return.

“But what if this war never ends?”

“It will.”

“How do you know? You don’t know that.”

Did she sound like she was pleading? She didn’t care. Her words were frozen on air, the last bit of warmth leaving her body with them.

“You must have faith,” he said, the words simply stated and giving the appearance of being deeply felt. “Have faith that God will use the evil of this war for His good. Somehow, He will.”

“And how will I know you’re safe?” Her voice hitched on
emotion that had long been bottled. She released it now, almost stuttering, “How will I know you are even
alive
?”

After the agony of the night before, of not knowing if he was alive or lying in an alley somewhere, she couldn’t relive that fear. Not again.

“When you see me onstage”—he breathed the words and inclined his head toward the back door—“in there. That will always be our place. It’s in both of us, isn’t it? The music? This call to play . . . we will always have it together.”

She trembled as a gust of wind wove around them with its icy dance.

Adele Von Bron in love with a merchant’s son? Her parents had already tried to stop it, but they’d send her away immediately if they learned their little violinist was ready to give up everything for this man. They found him unsuitable, without even knowing the events of the night before. Had they known the truth, that she loved him even more for the bravery he possessed in attempting to save the Haurbechs, they’d have turned him in to the Germans right then and there.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked.

“Last night. And now this—an extravagant victory concert even when Vienna could fall siege to the Russians. They are building watchtowers all around the city. They are doing it for a reason, aren’t they?”

He nodded. “The Germans are scared.”

“We’re all scared.” She shook her head. “Our entire world is going to change.”

He shocked her then by wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her in close, closer than he’d ever dared before.

“I think it already has,” he whispered against her mouth, and led into a kiss that could have melted the snow at her feet.

She fell against him, inviting the warmth of his strong arms to shield her from the shockingly cold night around them. She
clung to him with the passion she’d felt anytime her soul connected with his. He was, after all, her closest friend, and though the future seemed uncertain, he was the man she wanted to spend it with. The blackness of Nazi Germany flooded into their dreams for a future, but still she dared hope it would someday end, that she could one day love him freely.

Adele dared to hope their first kiss wouldn’t be their last.

Vladimir wound his hand through the curls at her nape, the softness falling down in a curtain around her neck. She melted further, leaning in, coveting every second of the kiss she’d always wanted from him. And suddenly, Vladimir pulled back.

The void left her speechless. Perhaps he was aware that if he did intend to leave, the kiss was only making it more difficult. Adele looked back at him, the hazel eyes she’d long ago memorized looking down on her so sweetly.

He lifted a finger and traced the outline of her chin.

“Was that a good-bye?” she asked. The only courage she had left was in those few short words. “Tell me it wasn’t a good-bye.”

“I’d take you with me if I could.” He brushed a hand over the hair at her temple, smoothing it back from her brow. “You’re safe here, with your parents.”

“But even when you do come back, my parents won’t let me see you.”

“I know, Butterfly.”

She blinked, knowing fresh tears were glazing her eyes. “Take me with you.”

“I can’t. Not where I’m going.” He squeezed her hand. “Anything that connects us now would only implicate you, and I won’t let you be hurt again. Do you understand me?” He pulled back sharply. “Never again.”

He tried to turn, but she spun him around, forcing him to look at her again.

“I chose this, remember?”

He wouldn’t acknowledge her words. Instead, he stood stone-faced, looking back at her.

“You didn’t know what you were doing.”

“Yes, I did. I was the one who brought them to you, remember? I was friends with them. I was the one who promised we would get them out—all of them. And I came to you. Why do you think I did that?”

Because I trusted you
, her heart willed him to understand.
Say it. Say you know I trusted you then and I trust you now . . . Tell me I haven’t imagined the love between us.

Tell me that, and I’ll live on it forever.

A clock chimed in the background, breaking the silence with its aching, lonely tone. It signaled what they both knew.

“We have to go,” she whispered, the fur suddenly inadequate to prevent the cold night from producing a chill down her spine.

She turned and he caught her at the wrist. Lightly. With the softest hold on her sensibilities at the same time.

“I promise this is not the last time we’ll see each other. I swear it to you.” His eyes searched hers, looking over her face with a fervency she wasn’t prepared for. “Do you believe me?”

She couldn’t say yes. Her heart couldn’t commit to it. She was too afraid this was the last time.

“Two blinks.” She offered the onstage signal they’d always shared. From that first night they’d played together, he’d blinked at her to give her courage to go on and it had been their silent message ever since. “I’ll give you your two blinks when I see you onstage, as usual.”

He shook his head. “I don’t think that’s going to work for me anymore. A signal to mean ‘my friend’ doesn’t seem appropriate,” he said, and offered a sudden, heart-stopping smile. “Not after the way you just kissed me.”

Adele blushed. She knew her cheeks were as red as her lips when she felt them flood with warmth.

“Now, as for our friendship—I’d like that to continue.” He tapped the tip of her nose with his finger. “The rest? We’ll see if we can change that to three blinks when I return.”

Three blinks? I. Love. You?

Adele smiled in spite of the world that threatened to fall around them.

For the first time in months, she had something to look forward to. She could look out in their future and finally see an end to war and a start to the life they might have together. It was hope filled, the promise of those three blinks, and she had a feeling it would get her through to his return.

“I see you’re considering it?”

She nodded and wiped a frozen tear from her cheek with her gloved hand. “I am.”

It was all she had to say.

“Good,” he said, putting an arm around her to lead her inside. A barely there whisper caressed the side of her ear: “You can do it, Butterfly.”

And the snow continued to fall.

CHAPTER EIGHT

A
dele walked onstage.

She could feel the eyes of everyone in the auditorium boring into her. Her mother, no doubt finding something inappropriate in her dress. Her father, puffing up like the proud peacock he was. And the rest of the affluent guests, the ladies dripping in jewels and furs, each clinging to a Nazi officer’s arm.

All of it sickened her. It was the first time in her life she could remember hating her gift. She didn’t want to use it like this. Surely God wouldn’t want her to play for this crowd?

The click of her heels echoed off the ceiling as she walked across the stage and stood out in front of the rest of the orchestra.

Nerves set in. Her hands, shed of the protective gloves and gauze, now lay naked at her sides, their blistered and puckered appearance tucked beneath the folds in her gown on one side and cradling her violin on the other. And when she thought she could not play, when she thought of forgetting what she must do and walking offstage, she looked up. Not with her entire head, just with her eyes. She looked at the second chair in the back row.

And there he was. Vladimir. Smiling. Urging her on. Telling her it was okay to play, to love the gift of music God had crafted in her heart, and to not be ashamed to share it with the rest of the world, even if that world was filled with SS officers. He tilted his
head down in a light nod and blinked three times. And as if by magic, Adele smiled in return.

She felt something come alive, and if only for that night, it was okay to play. She felt as if God was granting her permission through Vladimir’s accepting gesture. She wasn’t playing to honor the Führer. Instead, she was playing for the honor of another.

Adele vowed then to play for the lost. She’d play for Elsa, her friend. For Elsa’s husband, Abram, and their little boy, Eitan. She’d pick up her violin and touch her bow to it, playing the haunting melody for the little Jewish girl, Sophie, hidden by Vladimir somewhere in the darkness of the city. And she’d play for the rest of them, for the world’s loss of innocence and the coldness of hate that fought to overshadow the love she knew to be born of God.

She would play.

The conductor raised an arm and they were brought to attention, all of them prepared to do their job for Austria, to play as they never had for the leader of the Third Reich. And Adele joined them. She let the notes dance from her heart and out her fingertips. She allowed the pull of creation to take over every breath in her body as the notes cried from her innermost soul.

Then came the moment for her solo.

Adele played each note with precision. Brought to tears, feeling as if her soul had finally expended what God had called her to do. She knew then that an artist could feel it, could know when her craft is practiced, when it is used to its fullest potential. Adele felt it, maybe for the first time. She felt the music come alive from the inside out, pulling her away from the fear of the night before and pouring a measure of peace upon her.

It felt like hours that she stood up there, whisked away in the moment, sailing through her act of worship to her Creator. And for how fervently she gave in to the magical dance of the notes upon her soul, she felt no physical pain. Adele was astounded
that her hands didn’t hurt at all. No, they weren’t an impediment as she thought they’d be. They moved with dexterity to every note she wished to play. They flew back and forth, with the speed of the music and the haunting notes of each melody.

It felt wonderful to conquer her fear, to play without the instability of the future hanging over them like a threatening tyrant. She felt exhilarated and alive onstage, alive like she’d never expected. Adele stopped on the last note, lowering the violin and bow. She accepted the thunderous applause with the rest of the orchestra as the blood began dripping from her hands down the sides of her gown.

CHAPTER NINE

T
he phone was ringing when Sera stepped through the door to her room at the Ivy Ridge Bed and Breakfast. She dropped her bags in a heap on the floor and sailed over the bed to answer it, slamming her hand against the bedside table in the process.

“
Ow!
” She wedged the phone against her shoulder and began rubbing the stinging pain out of her fingertips. “Hang on.”

She almost lost the phone again when she tried to reposition it against her chin. “Penny, I am so glad you called,” she said, assuming her assistant would be the only one calling. “I just ran into the room and I smashed my hand on the bedside table. And my meeting at the Hanover mansion was disastrous. You won’t believe this—he actually thinks I’m after his money.” She shook her head and let out a weary sigh.