Tangled Ashes (11 page)

The scene reeled and roiled, came in and out of focus. The next thing Beck knew, the man was holding him in a bear hug, pressing
Beck’s face into his sweaty, foul-smelling chest, and repeating over and over, “There you go . . . there you go . . . there you go,” as if he were comforting a baby.

The Barry Manilow song was louder now. It throbbed in Beck’s head. He wanted to cover his ears, to blot out the noise of the music and the murmurs and the man in the suit’s voice, but he was anchored to him and couldn’t escape the stench or the chaos.

The world started to swirl. He saw the room pitch and turn, the vague, blurred faces of strangers staring. He couldn’t catch his breath. He started to scream. He thrashed about, tried to stand and use his legs to pull away, but they wouldn’t support his weight. He just kept getting drawn deeper into the suffocating mass that kept saying, “There you go . . . there you go . . . there you go . . .” while the child’s voice rose to a fever pitch.

At first, Beck thought the faint keening sound was a remnant of his dream. He sat bolt upright, taking in the unfinished woodwork on the desk in front of him, his T-shirt clinging to his sweaty skin, his breathing fast and labored. He felt sick. Filthy. Frightened. He got up from the desk, cursing himself for having fallen asleep, and steadied himself while his back spasmed from several hours spent sleeping in an awkward position. His legs were wobbly. His head spun. He opened the window and took in a deep lungful of cold air, holding it for a moment, then expelling it forcefully as he bent his body forward over the windowsill. And he heard the keening again. It seemed to come from the area of the patio, near the crawl space he’d explored. Shaking off the vestiges of his dream, he stepped barefoot into his work boots and threw a coat on over his T-shirt. Whatever the expedition revealed, it would distract him from his subconscious, and he was eager for the relief.

Beck grabbed a heavy-duty flashlight from the windowsill and took the stairs to the back door of the castle. He opened it as quietly as he could and stepped out into the night air. The covered passageway outside the kitchen shielded him from view. He looked around the edge of the wall in the direction of the patio and saw nothing but the willow tree that bent over the river, its bare branches swaying lazily in the night breeze. The moon was out, so bright that it cast a stark outline of the château’s chimneys and roofline on the lawn.

Beck moved out of the shadows, listening for the sound, but it was gone. A little spooked, he had to force himself to travel the short distance to the patio. The soggy earth was soft beneath his boots, its moisture gurgling with each step he took. He didn’t turn on the flashlight. He could see better without its beam interfering with his night vision.

Beck was halfway to the willow tree when he took stock for the first time of what he was doing. He’d woken mere minutes before from a terrorizing dream, had thought he heard an unusual sound, and had exited the castle in his pajamas so fast that he wasn’t sure what he hoped to accomplish once he got to the spot from which he
assumed
the keening had come. He was alone in the dark with nothing but a flashlight as a weapon, following something that might be much more real than mere vestiges of a nightmare. Every iota of logic he still possessed dictated that he should turn around and head back to the warmth and safety of the castle. But Beck was a stubborn man, and once he set out on a decided course, there was little that could deter him from seeing it through.

As he approached the hole under the patio, he turned on the flashlight, sweeping it quickly in an arc along the castle’s outer wall, then over the creek and into the brush beyond. He followed the stream with the powerful beam. Nothing there but stagnant water and the reflected eyes of some small animal. There wasn’t anything amiss—no intruder, no ghost, no danger at all.

Berating himself for his overactive imagination, Becker strode to the small opening next to the patio stairs and crouched down. It was time to prove to himself that his fears were unfounded. He turned on the flashlight again and shone the beam around the dank space. What he saw froze him to the spot. The rubble under the patio was still there, but nothing was as he’d left it on his last expedition. The tire had been flipped. The segments of pipe were several feet from where they’d lain before. Even the mounds of unrecognizable refuse seemed different. It looked as if someone had dug through the trash and the top layer of decaying soil in search of . . . something.

Without thinking twice, Beck crawled under the patio, shining his light ahead of him. Someone had been thorough. There wasn’t a square foot of the space that looked untouched. He crawled deeper into the cavity, exploring the objects the intruder’s search had exposed. There was nothing of value there. As he approached the far corner, his flashlight bounced off three small, pink forms lying on the dark earth. The rat’s nest he had heard earlier hadn’t survived the exploration that had turned the dark, musty space upside down. The three pups in his flashlight’s glare were dead, probably from exposure to the cold. Their mother was nowhere in sight.

It was that thought that prompted Beck’s hasty withdrawal from the crawl space under the patio. Ghosts and marauders were one thing. Angry rats were quite another. He sat on the edge of the patio for a moment, considering what he’d found. When the cold started to seep through his pajamas and jacket, he shone his flashlight in one last arc around the perimeter, then headed inside. He left his filthy pajama bottoms on the washing machine as he passed through the kitchen.

DECEMBER 1943

M
ARIE WAS GETTING
used to the horrendous sounds that came from the room upstairs. At first, she’d been terrified by them, tried to stay as far away as possible from the screaming and moaning that bled through the walls and seemed to coat everything they touched. Marie and Elise had developed a sort of sixth sense for when the babies would be born. The swollen faces and increased discomfort of the residents played into their predictions, but there was something more—something intangible—that they recognized as impending birth. Most of the mothers seemed to settle somehow, to become more focused and brave, as if nature itself were preparing them for the ordeal ahead.

“I’ll bet you my dessert that it’s a boy,” Elise said one day as they sat in the kitchen, polishing silver. The guttural sounds from upstairs were faint but unmistakable. Elise had her own theories about birth.
She thought she could tell the gender of the coming child by the pitch of its mother’s screaming, and this mother’s voice was low and hoarse.

Marie didn’t particularly like dessert, even though it was a rare commodity in these days. “Fine,” she said, extending her hand to shake on it. “Keep your dessert, though. You can give it to Karl if he comes by this afternoon.”

Elise smiled and feigned confusion about the guard from the château who had become something of a fixture at the manor in recent weeks. “Why, what on earth might you be referring to?” The question aimed for innocence but fell far short.

Marie put down the silver platter and dipped her rag into the dish of strong-smelling blue liquid. “I’m not an idiot,” she said, rubbing a particularly stubborn patch of oxidation. “I’m starting to suspect that he’s bribing all the other soldiers at the castle to let him run their errands for them—especially when those errands bring him here!”

“He’s sweet.”

“He’s infatuated.”

“He’s handsome.”

Marie pursed her lips. “If you like Nazis, I guess.”

“Marie!”

“What? You know he is!”

Elise’s eyes lit up. “But he’s not like the others! He’s kind—and generous!” She put the silver dish down on the table and took a small vial of perfume from her pocket, pulling out the cork that kept it sealed. “Smell this,” she said, lowering her voice nearly to a whisper and sliding the bottle across the table to Marie. “He brought it to me this morning, when he delivered a document to Koch’s office. Just dropped it in my pocket as he walked by!”

The perfume smelled like lavender and lemon. “He’s a guard—he can’t afford perfume,” Marie said.

Elise frowned. “Maybe they requisitioned the perfume factory
in town,” she mused, her expression serious—but not for long. Elise lived in the moment, seldom letting her spirits be bogged down by practical matters or excessive doses of reality. “Doesn’t it smell divine?” she asked, taking the fluted vial back from her friend.

“It smells like my mother’s underwear drawer and furniture polish,” Marie said, earning a flick of Elise’s rag.

They worked in silence for a while, the screaming and moaning upstairs having subsided to the occasional raised voice. When Marie spoke again, it was in the hushed tone the girls reserved for speaking of the Nazis while working in their manor. “Elise,” she began, searching for the right words, “are you—are you serious about Karl?”

Elise smiled. “Perhaps,” she said.

“You are,” Marie said, dread settling in her stomach.

“Maybe.”

“Be careful, all right?”

Elise shrugged.

“Elise, promise me you’ll keep it quiet,” Marie urged. “If your neighbors and friends find out that . . .”

“And what if they do find out?” Elise asked, dismissing Marie’s concern. “I haven’t broken any laws. Besides—” she rolled her eyes—“we’re being discreet.”

“You don’t know how to be discreet, Elise. Anyone who sees you will know something . . . happy . . . is going on!”

Elise put on a sour expression. “Is this better?”

“Elise . . .”

“Oh, hush, Marie. Karl and I are being careful. The only time I’ve seen him outside of work was at the parade last week, and even then, we only had a couple of minutes together before he had to ride back to the castle. No one will know.”

Marie was at a loss. Her friend was speaking of the soldier as if he were a harmless boy next door, not a footman in Hitler’s army. “He’s
a Nazi, Elise,” she said again, glancing at the doorway to make sure no one had overheard.

“So? You work for Nazis, and I don’t see you considering quitting.”

“There’s a difference between working for them and falling for them,” Marie said, hearing the futility of the argument as it left her lips.

“I don’t love him,” Elise replied, rolling her eyes again. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

“And yet—look at what you’re risking for him.”

Elise leaned across the table and grabbed her friend’s hand, excitement dancing in her limpid gaze. “He’s taking me to the ball!”

“The army ball?”

She nodded vigorously. “In the castle, with an orchestra and . . .”

“Elise.” There was genuine worry in Marie’s voice.

“Karl told me to wear my prettiest dress. Can you believe it? I’m going to a ball. . . .”

“Elise, are you sure?”

“Oh, Marie, stop being a nag!” Her frustration was growing.

“This is a big event. I know it’s happening at the castle, but who do you think will be serving? There are going to be townspeople everywhere, and you want to attend it with your German boyfriend? Do you know what people will think?”

“Let them think what they want!” Elise said, her petulance loud and brittle in the quiet kitchen. “I haven’t danced in forever, and I can’t wait for the first valse musette!”

“Your friends will hate you. . . . Elise, surely you realize that.”

“But you won’t, will you?” The worry in her gaze wasn’t feigned.

“No, of course not. Not me, but . . .”

Elise’s face split into a wide, exuberant smile. “Then it’s going to be wonderful,” she said.

B
ECKER BREATHED
a sigh of relief. The massive work that had prepared the skeletal structure of the castle for the renovations was finished, and the army of carpenters and other artisans Thérèse had so carefully selected for the next stage of the project were all on-site. The real restoration could now begin.

The crews gathered in the ballroom in the west wing of the castle, a vast, high-ceilinged space with creaky hardwood floors, tall windows, and an imposing fireplace. The bare-bulb lighting contrasted ridiculously with the carved ornamental molding that framed the ceiling and the tall, elegant windows through which the early-morning sunlight streamed. Beck was grateful for the change in weather. He’d seen little other than rain and grayness since his arrival in Lamorlaye.

When all the craftsmen had gathered, some of them new to the work site, he gave them a brief overview of the weeks ahead. There
was a timeline on the whiteboard he’d brought in for the meeting, and he walked each group of workers through the tasks that would be theirs. It was important that they all understand the full scope and sequence of the project if they were to work together to meet their deadlines. Beck had laid out a series of drawings and plans on several tables at the front of the room and extended an invitation for the men to peruse them at their leisure. He introduced Thérèse as the person to go to with any purchasing needs or general concerns and warned them that because time was short, he would personally be keeping a close eye on the superhuman effort completion would require.

If the tradesmen were in any way put out by having an Américain giving them orders, none of them showed it. This was a big job that would result in big paychecks, and it was obvious that they were motivated to begin.

Once the meeting was over and the men had dispersed to tend to their responsibilities, Beck moved with two carpenters to the grand staircase. He briefly explained the cuts that needed to be made, and after they’d asked for clarifications and stopped just short of questioning his methods, they went out to their van to get the necessary tools.

Thérèse stood by, biting her lip and looking up at the graceful expanse of wood. She cleared her throat twice before actually speaking. “So . . . you’re really going to cut that segment of the staircase out?”

Beck turned toward her, both hands on his hips. “Would you like to voice an objection? Every other female in the castle has, so you might as well chime in too.”

Thérèse swallowed convulsively, clearly torn between insult and concern. “It’s just that . . .”

“I know,” Beck said, holding up his hand to halt her. “It’s beautiful.” She nodded. “It’s old.” Another nod. “And you’d hate to see it damaged.”

“Yes. Precisely.”

“Take a good look, Thérèse,” he said, motioning toward the charred remains of railings and steps. “This staircase isn’t exactly in prime condition anymore!”

Thérèse dropped her head. “I understand.”

Her change of attitude did more to disarm Beck than her badgering usually did. He climbed up several stairs, making sure to stay away from the most damaged segments, and pointed to the sections to be removed. “We’re just taking this out,” he said, trying to sound conciliatory. “This part of the railing, these decorative pieces, and those eight steps.”

Thérèse moved forward, paying close attention to what he was saying. “And the . . . underbelly?” She was referring to the masking wood on the underside of the staircase that followed the structure’s curve and hid the steps from view. It was one of the design details that made the staircase seem so grand, as it provided a smooth expanse that curved around toward the landing above.

“We’re not touching that,” Beck said. “Just the steps.”

“All right,” she said, patting the hair around her tight bun. “I was just . . . wondering.” And with that she turned and walked toward the dining rooms, her high heels clicking pertly on the marble floor.

Castle life began to fall into a routine after that. There were, of course, occasional delays and miscommunications that required immediate action, but the craftsmen Thérèse had hired were generally good workers who seemed to love their trade. Thérèse came and went several times a day, alternating being a nuisance at the château with harassing other workers on other sites, and, truth be told, providing more help than hindrance. Her background wasn’t in construction, but it did give her a finer appreciation of the work
being done, and she was an efficient and competent—albeit annoying—asset to the project.

Becker had started his own renovation routine in earnest. His office had taken on the look of a workshop. When he wasn’t supervising the progress in the rest of the site and making adjustments where necessary, he was bent over the pieces of cherrywood he had bought to repair the staircase, meticulously carving out the shapes that would match them to the centuries-old woodwork in the entrance. It was laborious and finicky, the work so minute that he sometimes had to take a break just to release the tension he felt in his arms and head and stomach. Still, it was good work—satisfying work—and he found less need for distraction when he was engrossed in re-creating art. But the flip side of drinking less was that his hands were shaking more. He’d resigned himself to keeping a stash of bottles in his bedroom and retreating for a quick drink when the shaking started to interfere with his carving.

Jade continued to bring his meals to the office, and the clothes he regularly left on the washing machine turned up neatly folded on his bed several times a week. The stench in his quarters was nearly gone, though he still slept with the window open, and he was feeling less and less like running when the children were around. They still weren’t the best of buddies, of course, but he was okay with that, too.

It was on another rare sunny day that the sound of voices in the kitchen finally forced Becker out of his comfort zone. He’d spent part of the night researching the mortar that had been used to cement the massive stones that formed the walls of the castle, trying to determine what would be the best way to clean the stones and reinforce the mortar without causing further damage. As he had suspected, the solution would have to be a compromise between primitive and progressive. He had Thérèse out gathering information from experts on historical reconstruction and hoped they’d have a solid plan in place by evening.

There was enough to do that his mind should not have been wandering, yet he caught himself staring at the same carving he’d already been staring at for well over twenty hours, incapable of focusing. He finally turned off the light above his workbench, pushed back the large suspended magnifying glass he used for the smallest details of his craft, and headed to the kitchen. He told himself that it was nearly lunchtime anyway and that this would save Jade a trip to his office.

When he entered the kitchen, he found Eva sitting on one of the long countertops, licking a wooden spoon with gusto. Philippe stood on a plastic footstool by the counter, a giant rolling pin in his hands, trying to flatten a big chunk of stiff cookie dough. Jade stood beside him, giving him instructions and laughing in a motherly way at his failed efforts.

“It’s too hard,” Philippe said, a little out of breath from the exertion.

“But it’s good.” This from Eva, the human powder puff. She was covered from head to toe in flour and seemed not in the least concerned about it. “It’s really, really good. Can I have some more?”

“You,” Jade said, poking at the little girl’s stomach with a spatula, “can have one of the cookies when they’re done, but no more dough for you!”

Eva giggled and scooted away from the spatula, her eyes darting toward the arch where Becker stood. She waved happily. “Hi, Mr. Helmet Man!” Her voice was as bright as the sunshine streaking through the window and casting dancing patterns on the kitchen floor.

Philippe didn’t turn from his labor, but he chimed in too. “Hi, Mr. Crawls-under-the-Patio Man!” He blew his bangs up and kept trying to roll out the dough.

“Mr. Eats-in-His-Office Man,” Eva said, the sugar she had just eaten fueling her boldness.

“Mr. Needs-to-Get-to-a-Bar Man.”

Jade put a restraining hand on top of Philippe’s head, but Eva wasn’t finished. “Mr. Poopy-Head Man!” she said triumphantly, clearly the victor of her own one-upmanship.

“All right, kids, enough,” Jade instructed, but the firmness in her voice was contradicted by her laughter. She glanced at Becker, still laughing. “I promise I didn’t put them up to that!”

Beck leaned against the archway and cocked his head as he contemplated Eva’s final moniker. “Mr. Poopy-Head Man?” he asked.

Eva ducked her chin and looked sideways at her nanny, a mischievous smile on her lips and in her eyes.

“Say you’re sorry to Mr. Becker, Eva. It’s not nice to call people poopy-heads.” She looked at him with an
even if they’ve earned it
addendum to her statement.

Eva said a very halfhearted “Sorry.”

Philippe was having a terrible time with his job. He’d finally had enough and shoved the rolling pin away, sending it careening across the counter and into the wall behind it.

“Philippe,” Jade said, voice raised. “There’s no need for that.”

“It’s stupid. It won’t roll!”

“And what exactly does taking it out on the rolling pin accomplish?”

Philippe stood at the counter, his arms crossed tightly across his chest, his shoulders hunched, his eyebrows drawn downward in a fierce frown.

“Go sit in the time-out chair,” Jade instructed softly. “I’ll let you know when you can come back.”

Philippe stalked over to a chair just outside the pantry door, and Eva looked at Becker, her eyes wide. The time-out chair was apparently a big deal in the Fallon household. Jade took over where Philippe had left off, rolling the dough into a circular shape with ease. She looked over her shoulder at Beck. “Anything you need, Mr. Becker, or is this just a social call?”

Beck had a sudden urge to return to his office. Or to the entryway. Or anywhere other than the kitchen, really, as this seemed to be a place of awkward silences and time-out chairs. “I was just wondering what time lunch would be today,” he said, grasping at straws.

Jade propped a floury hand on her hip. “The same time it is every day,” she said pointedly, glancing at the clock above the archway. “But the lasagna might be ready now. If you’ll just give me a minute to cut the bread and get some coffee made, I’ll bring it right in.” She grabbed a hot pad and opened the oven.

Beck was discovering, as he had on some previous occasions, that the downside of being an intentional recluse was trying to become less of a recluse. It appeared to be one of those character traits so closely associated with a person that, unless there was consistent evidence to the contrary, it became indelible. The thought that he might be there for company had clearly not crossed Jade’s mind, and short of saying, “Actually, I’d like to talk,” he couldn’t think of any expedient way of altering her expectations.

“Actually, I’d like to eat here with you today,” he heard himself say. Shock froze him. Some small part of him must have known that he was going to say it, and that part had been sadly devoid of the kind of internal filters he liked to think he possessed. Three pairs of eyes—one at the oven, one on the counter, and one in the time-out chair—converged on him. “If—that’s okay,” he added.