Chapter 10

Genevieve reveals more of her past. James, her brother, cautions her against trusting Schubert.

Chapter 10

Monday, December 18. The wind blew all day, a fierce northern gale, resolute in its determination to freeze whatever lay in its path. The clouds barreled across the sky, an armada of warships hell-bent for the horizon. It howled through doorjambs, rattling windows and piling drifts of snow against boardwalks. At Stern & Goldman Assayers, Itzhak Stern filled the stove every hour, trying to keep out the cold but eventually, he gave up. Like the wind, the business with the coins had pursued him most of the day. By the time the storm blew itself out, it was past 3 p.m. He would go home, make a pot of tea and indulge himself with dreams of life outside this godforsaken land. 

He first tested the door locks, as he always did. He was a man of ritual and precision, required skills for his trade—order eliminated mistakes and mistakes cost money. Satisfied with the door, he began his walk home. Then, from behind, a hand gripped his shoulder. He wheeled around, his fear blooming quickly.

“Herr Stern, my apologies.”

“You! You brought me those coins,” he spat. 

“Yes, and I am afraid the man I represent thinks you have cheated him.”

“How did you come into possession of these coins? Perhaps the police would be interested in knowing about them.” 

Stern hoped his veiled threats would rid him of this man.

“You think you can reason with him? Such thoughts are fantasy. You need to be careful.”

“Is that a threat?” Itzhak said, suddenly emboldened.

Janzen shook his head. “It is only the truth.” He leaned in closer. “We are at war.”

Stern shrugged him off, confusing his position of wealth with security. 

“What of it? We’re in goddamned Whitehorse!”

Janzen stood aside, allowing Stern to pass by. He wanted to tell Stern the truth, but his fear of Penner prevented it. When Janzen’s uncle from Bielefeld had contacted him, asking him to meet “a friend” Janzen thought it a game, some sport to break up the monotony of building a highway. Unfortunately, Janzen made the same mistake in Canada as he had in Russia: he misread his real enemy.

Stern followed the alley towards Government Street, shuffling through the drifts of snow, shaken by another encounter on account of the coins. He was three strides from the main thoroughfare when a figure rose from the shadows. Stern slowed; he knew who it was before the man entered the light.

“Rest easy, my friend.” Penner shoved Stern up against the wall. “I am not here to hurt you. If I wanted to, you would already be dead. Now Jew, you will return the coins to me.”

Jew.

Stern began retracing his steps to the office. His gait slowed when the realization hit him: he was walking towards his own execution. Janzen stood aside as he passed, his head bowed, cowering. Stern unlocked the door and entered the office. The tools of his trade lay neatly ordered on the counter, just as he’d left them. He hesitated briefly. The point of a knife propelled him forward.

“Please, there is no need for violence,” Stern said.

“And there will be none. Open the safe.” 

The man’s voice was deep and vibrant. It could’ve been considered soothing, had it come from anyone else during another time.

Stern retrieved the keys and opened the Yale lock and then turned the combination on the tumbler. The hinges groaned and the steel door slowly swung open. He reached inside and retrieved a small packet.

Stern turned around. In front of him, a dagger floated lightly in Penner’s hands. Strangely, he was drawn to the fine stitching on the black leather gloves. The knife was polished to a bright sheen. On the hilt he saw the symbol that sealed his fate: the death’s head of the Waffen SS.

Penner emptied the contents and counted. “You are one short, Jew.”

“This was all I was given,” Stern said, having forgot about the coin in his coat.

“Janzen,” Penner called, his eyes fixed on Stern. “Are you and the Jew collaborators?”

“No, I gave him fifteen coins, as instructed.” 

“I count fourteen.”

“Then I…”

Penner spun around, throwing the dagger in one fluid motion. It caught Janzen high in the throat. He wheeled backward, smashing into the counter. His last act was to reach for his throat but the knife held fast. He was dead before he hit the ground.

The shame of his cowardice finally compelled Stern to move. He reached for a box of weights and lashed out. The blow connected and Penner fell, caught unaware. Stern ran for the back door, pulling at the lock when suddenly the wall next to him shattered. He stopped and turned around, no longer afraid. Today, I will die but I will not beg, he thought. His last act of defiance would be to face his executioner. 

“Yimakh shemo,” Itzhak murmured. May your name be obliterated, he cursed.

Blue smoke curled upwards from the silenced pistol. It reminded Itzhak of rising incense at Shabbat.

“Do what you will, you fucking Naz…”

Stern felt himself thrown against the back wall, like a fist had plowed through his gut. He gasped for air; a white hot pain seared through him; his legs buckled. Something warmed his hands and spread through his shirt. And then he saw blood. 

Penner stood over him. 

“You are bleeding internally. Your guts look like a bowl of Cholent, only you won’t be eating at Shabbat anytime soon. You will be dead in a few hours.” 

He retrieved the coins and removed cash from the safe. He noticed a folder stamped “Claim Numbers & Ownership” and took that as well.

Stern tried to focus, tried to understand why but then he heard the voice of his grandfather. He was speaking Hebrew, reciting a Psalm. Blood pumped gently through his fingers and he felt consciousness slipping away.

A lone black eye hovered above him. There was that soft glove again, so superbly crafted. He thought of his father, dead in a Warsaw ghetto. Before him, stood his dead wife. He reached for her.

And then, he saw nothing.

Later that same evening, at Schubert’s home, an impromptu recital was taking place for an audience of one. The Steinway filled the room with what Geneviève could only describe as “golden air.” She nudged her chair closer to the wood stove. Schubert sat at the piano, playing Fauré’s Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune. (Prelude To The Afternoon Of A Fawn). He arrived at the final cadence and gently lifted his hands. To her it seemed a feminine gesture, at odds with his physique. How a person reconciled their art with life was a question she was unable to answer. Perhaps they were like dusk and dawn, dependent yet separate.

She clapped. “Lovely, Karl. Thank you.”

He swiveled on the bench. His eyes conveyed a sadness he couldn’t disguise. She worked very hard at not revealing hers.

“You are thinking of the stage,” she said, reading his thoughts, deflecting.

“Mmm. I miss those days. I thought they would go on forever.” He closed the piano lid, a little too aggressively. “Please forgive my descent into self-pity.”

“You must mourn what was taken. That is only natural.” 

He nodded. “Singing, my art allowed me to explore the soul, to share the pain buried deep within beauty. There are times I am lost without it.”

“The war has taken much from us all. Millions have died—I can’t even comprehend that. I can only…” she stopped, chastising herself for her loquaciousness, for the things she couldn’t reveal.

There it is again, Schubert thought, the caution that guards your speech. 

“There was a time I believed Beauty could save us. But the Great War destroyed any notion of our inherent goodness. I was too young but Peters, he could tell you things that would keep you awake long into the night.”

“But I want to believe we are good, that the individual has the capacity to choose goodness.” Geneviève said. “The alternative is too pessimistic. Good must prevail. If, at our core, we are otherwise, how would we wake each morning? There would be no reason to go on living.”

“Your faith in humanity is admirable, considering the days we live in. My job has shown me how morally corrupt we are. I envy your life, the simplicity of baking, the pleasure you bring to people.”

“What we see in people does not necessarily reflect the experiences they have had, be they good or bad,” Geneviève challenged. Just a little truth in every lie, she thought, remembering one of the many lessons Guillaume had imparted. But hiding the truth from Schubert was becoming troublesome.

He laughed. “You’re trying to tell me you’ve done wrong towards others? Perhaps I should arrest you.” He’d meant it in jest, a harmless comment. 

Geneviève maintained her façade—it had fooled others not that long past.

The soft footfall of James carried through the hall, interrupting their conversation. 

“I heard music…Fauré?”

“Bravo!” Schubert gestured to a seat opposite. “Feeling better?”

“Yes, thanks.”

“I hope you’re comfortable, that you’re getting the rest you need.”

“I feel stronger, but that flue really knocked me back. It’ll be a while before I’m strong enough to be on my own.”

“Yes, I know all about that.” Schubert reached for a bottle. “Care for a dram of Oban? Geneviève?”

“Yes, thanks.” She reached for a cigarette. 

“James?”

He shook his head. “No, thanks. I’m unsteady enough already.”

Schubert poured and then reached for his pipe. 

“Geneviève tells me you’re an antiquities expert,” he said between clenched teeth. He lit a match and the brief flare cast his shadow on the wall.

“Was, mostly was. That was a lifetime ago,” James said. “That life lies buried in the past.”

“The war has put us all in that same boat, I’d say. No hankering to return?” 

“No different from your experience, I’d guess. I’m sure the stage pulls at the corners of your memory as strongly as academia and scholarship does mine. Yes, I miss it. I think it’s the sense of mystery and investigation that I covet most in my memories. You and I, we’re not so different. Research turns you into a kind of sleuth.”

“You’re absolutely right. Geneviève has told me a little about your scholarly discipline. With your expertise, I should think New York or London would welcome you.”

Schubert sensed something pass between brother and sister, but what it was he didn’t know. He attributed it to their bond as twins. James appeared untroubled by the question implied. 

“There are obvious reasons that ended my life of scholarship. The doctors labeled my condition as ‘battle fatigue.’ It was called ‘shell shock’ in the Great War.”

“The less gracious among us call it cowardice. To hell with them, I say.” 

James nodded. “The war affected my mind in ways I’m still trying to understand. I probably never will. But I know my life as a research scholar is over. I can’t concentrate enough to read more than a few paragraphs. I’ve got no retention, either. The eyes take it in and then, it’s gone. My powers of concentration were sacrificed on the battlefield.” He chuckled. “Read Egyptian? After Dieppe? The slightest sound sends me looking for cover. Besides, after what I experienced, I’m not sure my old discipline holds any interest.” 

“Nevertheless, you hauled some impressive books all the way to your cabin. Now, the watercolors? Those are excellent. Your ability to shade and blend lands you in Group of Seven territory. I think you could give Monet some competition.”

“Thanks. Painting is the one thing I enjoy. It’s slow and can’t be rushed. I do a little each day.”

“Probably the best therapy one could ask for.” 

Schubert knew the rest of James’ story since he suffered a similar fate. James’ mind had been damaged by war as surely as his had been ravaged by disease. He wanted to pursue the topic further but was interrupted by the telephone. 

He picked up. “Yes?” There was a prolonged silence, after which he said, “OK. I’ll be ready in ten.”

Geneviève read the concern on his face. The spirited conversation, the piano playing, that which gave him pleasure had evaporated. It was like the phone call had aged him. He set the phone onto the cradle, slowly and measured like an old man.

“Work,” was all he said, retreating upstairs.

James turned to his sister. 

“What are you playing here? What if he finds out? You’ve heard his questions. He’s a policeman, for God’s sake.”

“We lie. That’s what we’re good at, remember? What’s the use of hiding? London is a world away. Do you really think anyone in the cellars of Clandestine Operations is keeping watch on us? Or Commander Bristow at Winterton-On-Sea? Making sure we’re not revealing state secrets? I’m tired of running. I can’t, anymore. The war for us is over.”

“You think playing house here will change anything? There’s a bounty on our heads.”

“Take a look around, James. We’re in Whitehorse which is about as far from Paris as you could hope for. No one is coming for us, from either London or Paris. I’ve given up caring. They can put me in prison, put us in prison. I know what we did wasn’t sanctioned.”

“You’re wrong!” he whispered. “Guillaume deserved what he got. He was spreading lies about you to save his own skin. As if his death, one among millions, matters. You were double-crossed.”

“Perhaps you should remind MI5 to that fact.”

“Fuck them! They used you!” he hissed.

Geneviève stood, signaling an end to the conversation. 

“Yes, they used me. They also hope that I’ll keep my mouth shut and not expose their double-cross. For now, we’re safe.”