The Chrysalis (24 page)

Mollified, Michael moved to the long queue for tickets, his hand on Mara's wrist. He sweated as he was forced to wait out the line with patience and a pleasant expression, and Mara nearly smiled. But the quarter grin disappeared from her face as soon as the tickets hit their hands. Now she needed unfailing precision and a good measure of luck.

Michael allowed Mara to lead him into the Greek and Roman galleries. But Michael and Mara did not linger. They passed by the tour groups that encircled their guides like flower petals. A particularly dense pack crowded around the legendary first-century A.D. Roman
Statue of an Old Market Woman
halted traffic. Mara and Michael navigated their way through the still throng. Despite the crowds, the hall was hushed, and Mara felt scared about her plan.

Michael's cell phone rang, shattering the quiet. He checked the number and picked up. As he murmured into the receiver, his expression grew troubled. He slowed their pace, and Mara strained to discern his words. From the snippets she made out, she gathered that he was speaking to Philip and that something serious had happened to Lillian. Michael seemed shocked by the news.

A security guard approached. “Sir, you cannot use your cell phone in here.”

Michael ignored the warning.

The guard got closer. “Sir, I will have to confiscate your cell phone if you do not turn it off right now.”

Michael waved him away with his free hand, saying, “I'll only be a minute.” For an instant, he lost his grip on Mara's arm, and she slid back into the crowds, allowing them to envelop her as Michael and the man exchanged words. Moving within her protective camouflage, Mara darted off to the right, into one of the small galleries off the central hall. She knew that these galleries connected, one to the next, ultimately emptying out into a hallway with a little-used elevator.

Every muscle in her body longed to sprint down the corridor linking the galleries in the direction of the pulsing red Exit sign. But she knew that speed would draw attention to her. Over and over again, she repeated an old phrase of Nana's: “Slow and steady wins the race, child.” She almost felt her grandmother's hand restraining her, steadying her gait.

Mara spotted the elevator leading down to the parking garage. She pushed the Down button. The door opened, and before she entered, she looked back. She spied Michael turning down the hallway in the opposite direction, toward the coat check she had designated. As he rounded the corner, she saw him in profile, his eyes narrow, his gait fast, like a dog in a foxhunt.

By the time she reached the garage, tears streamed down her face. She would have loved nothing more than to collapse in a corner and give in to her fear, but it was an emotional indulgence she couldn't afford. She ran through the garage and exited onto Fifth Avenue and, from there, into Central Park.

When a lit cab passed by, she jumped in front of it. She grabbed the door handle and slid into the backseat. The cabbie hurled incomprehensible epithets at her, but she pushed several rumpled twenties through the divider. “JFK, please. I have to make a connection. There's more money for you if you get me there fast.” Mara was worried about Lillian but knew she had to get the documents first for their mutual protection.

“Okay, miss.” The cab driver's wrath disappeared, and he sped away.

When she got to the British Airways terminal at JFK, Mara selected the next flight scheduled to depart and proceeded to the first-class British Airways desk. She needed to get through security and into the boarding gate area fast; the storage area was designed only for short-term use. Oozing a feigned sense of entitlement, she purchased the last remaining first-class seat to Brussels and asked for an escort to expedite her way through security. Once through the line, she parted with the escort and broke into a sprint, this time toward a neglected hall containing the storeroom.

Instinct, not memory, propelled her toward the storage area, a lingering remnant from the days of leisurely, elegant travel. Full speed ahead, she thanked her lucky stars that an attendant was manning the storage area. The first time around, when she had stashed the documents, she had had to search high and low for an airport employee to unlock its dusty gates. She could not afford that time today. She slowed down and fumbled in her bag for the ticket stub. She saw the ticket, but her hands shook so violently, she could not grasp it.

“I have it!” She finally, desperately thrust it toward him. She needed those documents—for the authorities, for the victims, for herself, for Lillian.

He took the ticket. “Okay, miss. Okay. Hold your horses. Let me see what I can do.” The elderly man put down his
New York Post
and shuffled off toward the grimy corners of the storage room.

“Hurry, hurry. Please hurry.”

“Got a plane to catch, miss?”

Tears of futility welled up in her eyes as she heard him continue to shamble. “Yes.”

“Let me see, let me see…This might be it back here. Is it black, with a leather handle?”

“Yes, yes. That's it!” He handed her the bag. She tossed down another twenty, much more than the storage fee, and dashed off.

Up the stairs to the terminal, down the endless corridor, past the gates, down the stairs to the Baggage Claim sign once again, Mara ran. She veered off at the first sign of an exit and blended into the stream of incoming travelers, hoping to find the arrival area and a taxi driver willing to break the no-pickup rules for a price. It took another fistful of bills, but the first cab quickly jumped forward as she shouted, “Just go as fast as you can into Manhattan.”

With the documents in hand, Mara could refrain no longer from contacting Lillian, so she negotiated for the use of the cabbie's cell phone with more money. She dialed Lillian's home phone first, nervous that Philip might pick up but confident that the cabbie's cell phone rendered her untraceable. No one answered either at Lillian's home or on her cell, so Mara called information and connected to the concierge in Lillian's building. After explaining her concerns as innocuously as possible, Mara asked if he'd check on her.

Mara waited a full fifteen minutes, passing an additional bill to the anxious cabbie, before the concierge came back on the line. “Miss, are you still there?”

“Yes.” Her heart beat so loudly she was certain he could hear it.

“I'm afraid I have to call you back. I found Miss Joyce lying on the floor of her apartment, and I've just called an ambulance. I need to escort them to her.”

“Go, go! I'll call you back later.”

Mara sat frozen, cell phone in hand, watching the clock. After another twenty-five minutes had passed, time enough for the concierge to conduct the EMTs to Lillian, she contacted him again. “Sir, it's Mara Coyne calling back. How's Miss Joyce?”

“Well, the ambulance has taken her to Mount Sinai, but I'm sorry to tell you that it doesn't look good. They said it looked like her heart gave out.”

“Her heart?” Mara was puzzled; Lillian had never mentioned a heart condition—not that she would. Suddenly she remembered seeing Lillian take that pill on the plane. Had Philip done something to precipitate an attack?

“Yeah, she's given us some scares in the past. But nothing like this.”

Mara thanked him and hung up the phone. Too shocked even to cry, she was trying to process the concierge's words when the driver asked, “Where to, miss? We're getting close to the city.”

Mara didn't know how to answer his question. She felt unmoored by the possibility of Lillian's death, uncertain of what course to take, where to land. She thought back on her conversation with Lillian on the plane ride home, one of their last, and suddenly the right path appeared to her. Reaching down into her purse, she pulled out the business card Lillian had given her.

She read aloud to the cabbie the address inscribed on the card, and they headed toward the offices of the
New York Times.

thirty-two

HAARLEM, 1662

A
LONE, JOHANNES AND AMALIA DISCUSS THE POWER OF
painting and the force of the image. To deny the potency of the symbols, to assent to the Calvinist belief of faith based on the Word alone and not the icon as an intermediary, would be to disavow what they embrace, to renounce the very spirit that has drawn them together. They decide upon a union with the Catholic Church as the final step toward their own union.

Johannes strides down the aisle first, with a candlestick in hand to light the way. Meeting the priest at the altar of their little hidden church, he waits for Amalia. The deacon opens the door, and she enters, as he closes it behind her. A nimbus of light outlines her form and the intricate lace headdress over her loosened hair; as she walks down the aisle, her steps are a little shaky. Johannes longs to rush to her side, to help stabilize her gait, but knows she must make the journey down the aisle alone. When Johannes and Amalia join hands at the altar, her hand is steady, and the couple beams at each other.

As the priest readies the water, a door slams in the back of the church. The couple jumps. The priest reassures them. “It is only Brother Witte, helping prepare for tonight's Mass.”

They give a nervous smile to the priest, who asks, “Shall we proceed?”

“Yes, Father,” Johannes answers for them both.

“Have you undertaken a course of study of the Catholic faith?”

“We have.”

“Have you reached the conclusion that the Catholic Church is the true Church?”

“We have.”

“Do you believe the Catholic Church's teachings because God has revealed their truths to you?”

“We do.”

“Wilt thou be baptized?”

“We will.”

The priest first extends his arms to Johannes and Amalia in welcome, then he sweeps his hands to the heavens in thanksgiving. He smiles at the couple and gestures toward the baptismal font: “Come and be christened in the name of the one true Church.”

Amalia leans back first, then Johannes. The priest pours the water over them.

thirty-three

NEW YORK CITY, PRESENT DAY

R
AINWATER STREAMED FROM MARA'S HAIR, JACKET, AND SKIN.
It pooled at her feet while she waited. The wetness washed clean the reporter's clinging cigarette smoke, and tears sprang up in Mara's eyes again at the thought of her conversation with Elizabeth Kelly.

She had met the reporter at a coffee shop just outside the Times building. As Mara shared with Elizabeth
The Chrysalis
's tortured history, highlighting Beazley's involvement in its abuse, and turned over a set of
The Chrysalis
documents to her, the magnitude of Lillian's loss began to impact Mara. Mara started to experience intense guilt, no matter Lillian's earlier protestations that Mara did not “drag” her into anything, and sensed her strength start to crumble. But she knew she had to stave off those feelings until she completed her final task: meeting with Hilda Baum.

Mara rang the doorbell again, then reached for the heavy door knocker. A familiar cloud of white hair and a pair of milky blue eyes appeared over the chain.

“Ms. Baum, I'm not sure you remember me, but I'm—”

“I know exactly who you are. You're that lawyer for Beazley's.” The soft eyes hardened into steel.

“Yes, I'm Mara Coyne. There's something I need to tell you. May I speak to you for a moment?”

“You want to speak to me? Oh, that's rich. All those hours you spent questioning me in that deposition, lecturing me, muffling me every time I opened my mouth to speak. Strangling the words right out of me. And you come here expecting me to sit silently again when you want to speak? I don't think so.” She slammed the door shut and turned the dead bolt.

Mara rested her forehead against the door. “Please, Ms. Baum. Just hear me out. It's important.”

After a long moment, the dead bolt clicked again. The face reappeared over the chain. “What is it, then? Tell me your important news. But if you're here to inform me that
The Chrysalis
has been stolen, I already know.”

“No, Ms. Baum, it's not about that. I understand that you've been told about the theft and that you've reached an accord with Beazley's. I'm here to talk to you about something different, which I'm afraid will take more than a moment. May I buy you a cup of coffee?”

Hilda scanned Mara up and down, then hesitantly unfastened the chain and opened the door. “Come in, then. But before I'll sit mute again, listening to you rail on, Ms. Coyne, you're going to let me finish my story.”

Mara waited in the vestibule for a sign of where to follow. The apartment had the hallmarks of wealth, solid bones, and a good Upper East Side address but was distinctly down at heel. There were packing boxes and luggage everywhere. Hilda motioned for Mara to step over them toward the kitchen, to a chair across from a steaming cup of tea and a copy of
La Stampa,
a daily Italian newspaper. She tossed Mara a tea towel with which to dry off.

Settling in the chair across from Mara, Hilda began. “You know, of course, that my father owned and ran an insurance company. But what you don't know is that the business was merely his work, not his passion. Art was his passion.

“My earliest memory is walking with Father down the long hallways of our creaky seventeenth-century family home just outside of Amsterdam. Every wall, every corner, every tabletop, every nook and cranny of our home, every one of the three floors, was alive with art. I couldn't have been much more than three, but I vividly recall being carried in my father's arms as he pointed out each of the paintings on the walls. I listened to him tell their stories with such love, such regard, that I remember feeling jealous. I was particularly envious of his little Degas ballerina sculpture. I felt sure that she could steal my father's love for me…. Children's imaginations.

“Of course, at that time, many of the paintings on the walls, Dutch old masters and early German portraits by Cranach and Holbein, were very dark, very serious, even a bit scary to a child. In time, though, they became interspersed with color as my father became a connoisseur of Impressionist paintings. I loved the vibrancy of these more modern works, the bold swaths of brushstroke, the pictures of families.

“But the most treasured item in Father's collection was not the dazzling Impressionist paintings or the old masters or even the Degas ballerina. It was a private, intimate painting, one that hung alone in his study. One that radiated a light that illuminated my father's study more than any window ever could. It served as an altar of sorts for him, a place for meditation. I am referring to
The Chrysalis,
of course. This painting I recall above all others—not for its value or its aesthetics but for the place it held in my father's heart.

“As I grew older, war came again to Europe. Hitler hung about the periphery of my teenage years, always looming in my parents' conversations and in movie reels, but he never quite threatened my little world. Classes at the convent school, music lessons, language instructions—these were my daily fare. I had all the training necessary to be presented as the proper daughter from one of Europe's leading families. We all moved as if the world around us were perfectly normal.

“You know from my deposition that I was an only child, but what you don't know is that mine was not a lonely childhood. Father was one of four, and Mother was one of five. So my world overflowed with cousins of all ages. They were the brothers and sisters I never had. Madeline, in particular.” Hilda's voice cracked, revealing a chink in her carefully constructed reminiscence. “She and I were born exactly nine days apart. She never let me forget that she came first. Maddie was my constant companion. We were infant playmates, tomboys dangling from tree limbs, adolescent partners in crime, and dreamy, inseparable teenagers in love with the same movie idols. I have very few memories of childhood
without
Maddie.”

As Hilda rambled on, it occurred to Mara that Hilda wasn't sharing such intimate recollections for her benefit. Hilda seemed to be reliving her history for a greater audience that Mara could not discern—or for herself.

“But then my world began moving so very quickly, so very differently. It seems as though I left the protected, guileless days of my girlhood behind in an instant—the night I met my husband. I remember the rain of that night so well. The late-fall storms, which bring the kind of wetness you cannot shake off. A wetness that clings to you. I do not think you have so many types of rain here as we Dutch have. The downpour of the early-spring showers, the light drizzle at the start of winter that wants so much to turn to snow, the damp night air that is always present.” She stopped, steeped in her memories. Her story was growing long, like so many Mara's own grandmother had told her, so Mara coughed, hoping to bring her back to the point of her tale.

“The umbrellas made such a colorful patchwork of the narrow streets that night. Maddie and I did the best we could to stay dry, bobbing and weaving through them. We arrived late to the party. Oh, and the club was lit so low we almost did not see them.” She chuckled. “Imagine not having seen them.” She sighed.

“My dear friend Katya had arranged a little party at a jazz club in Amsterdam. Maddie and I, of course, had never been allowed to go to such a place. So we left our houses in secret, each telling our parents we were at the other's home. Then we dashed off to meet Katya. Do you know the word
rendezvous
?”

“Of course.”

“Well, that is what we did. Had a rendezvous.” Amusement welled up in her voice. “We were so scared, so innocent. Neither of us had ever disobeyed our parents before—but what an adventure! We could hear the chanteuse from the street. Her voice held a promise of the exotic, and we worked our way inside, finally finding Katya's table. Making our excuses, we sat down. And there he was, with his coal-black hair and eyes and easy smile, so different from the men I knew.”

“Who?”

“Giuseppi Benedetti, my husband. Not that he was my husband then. Oh, but the moment I looked at him, I knew he would be. Later, he told me he knew at that instant, too.

“Things moved quickly back in those days. Girls didn't date for years, live together as man and wife as you girls do today, only to find the man to be unsuitable as a husband. No, no. Within a few dates, mostly chaperoned by Maddie and held in secret, we orchestrated a meeting with Mother and Father, and Giuseppe asked for my hand. You see, he was an officer in the Italian army, Mussolini's army, and had to return. I was determined to go with him, but Mother and Father would hear none of it. Mother sobbed that I was only nineteen, and what did I know of the world? Father was devastated—that I could see—but he knew my will. So he did what he could to assure himself and Mother about this man, this Italian stranger whom I wanted to marry. Father telegrammed his sister in Rome, who years before had married an Italian man. Thankfully, through quite a bit of poking around, my aunt was able to vouch for Giuseppe and his family. Giuseppe and I exchanged our vows under the trellis in the courtyard of my family home. I had all of my family around me, and Maddie was my maid of honor.

“How I loved Italy. Everything was baked golden by the sun, a sun that burned bright even after my eyes closed. I loved the smell of sunbaked tomatoes and cypresses in the air, and the impossible warmth after all that Dutch rain. Our first days in Italy were a dream.”

Hilda's eyes closed as if experiencing the warm rays one last time. Mara hungered to hear more, wanting to know that her sacrifices, to say nothing of Lillian's, were not in vain.

Hilda's voice grew thick and low. “But I awoke. With Giuseppe's return to duty came knowledge of Europe's disastrous economic situation, of the worldwide depression, of the Nazis' tyrannical march back and forth across the Continent, and of the Final Solution.

“At this time, the family insurance business was in dire straits. Father could maintain the family home only by going deeply into debt and selling assets. The house was mortgaged, the family trust heavily borrowed against, certain precious paintings sent off to dealers on consignment—all as a way to generate some money.

“But I knew none of this until much later. Father was of the old school. He thought that his daughter, his only child, should know nothing about money. So Father's letters were full of chitchat about this cousin, that party. Even when I traveled home for Christmas in 1939, Father presented a perfect picture of normalcy. I do remember that some paintings had been changed. For example, a Degas had moved to a premier position where a Holbein once reigned, and the Holbein was missing altogether. Silver serving pieces that we always used at meals had been replaced with porcelain. I asked Father about these absent pieces. He laughed and said that he had gotten tired of certain paintings and so had rearranged them. As for the silver, well, it had been sent out for polishing. I wanted to believe the fiction that nothing was changing, so I did not ask more.

“But I would not be allowed the luxury of denial much longer. In May 1940, Germany invaded the Netherlands. We had heard rumors, but we were stunned. After all, the Netherlands had stayed neutral throughout World War I, and the world assumed that it would be permitted to remain so again.

“I was so worried for Father and Mother, and for the rest of my family, and of course, for Maddie. From my husband, I knew all too well what became of the citizens of Hitler's conquered countries. I also knew what became of the Jews. At first, I thought this had nothing to do with my family and Father's family: After all, we were Catholics. Then we learned that my parents were being classified as Jews because of Father's grandfather. Mother could have fought the label, but she understood that doing so would part her from Father, which she could never do. I knew then that my parents were in grave danger, no matter how agreeable my father's letters were. I knew that the occupied Dutch government would replace Father as the head of his own business with a German administrator. I knew that, as a Jew, Father would not be permitted to conduct even the most rudimentary form of business, including withdrawing money from his own bank accounts. I knew that Father and Mother would be required to wear yellow stars outside the house. I knew that, without the yellow stars, they would be more or less prisoners in their own Amsterdam home. And I knew that they could face the camps.

“You know, of course, about the letter of protection from Reichskommissar Seyss-Inquart that Giuseppe and I procured for my parents. And you also know that, as the situation worsened and we knew the letter would not keep them safe, Giuseppe and I tried to get my parents passage to Italy. Certainly it was war-torn, but we thought it more secure for them, with my husband's connections and the connections of my aunt. I relentlessly lobbied the Italian government for such permission, without success. Then, curiously, one day, glorious news arrived through the Italian embassy from my parents. They were given leave to come to Italy. They had managed to obtain travel visas, although I could not fathom a way in the absence of our help.”