The Butterfly and the Violin (38 page)

“What happened to Omara?”

“She was executed for her part in the revolt.” Sophie lifted her knotted hands, using them to emphasize the events of Omara’s death. “But not before making a great sacrifice. There were written accounts found buried near the site of Crematorium IV. Adele always believed that was why Omara ran from the block with nothing but a small shovel in her hands. It was her job to bury the prisoners’ accounts so that someday we would remember.”

Sera’s heart broke at the words. “How did she die?”

“There was a public hanging in January 1945. All of the women who aided in the revolt were killed.”

“Did Adele see it? Did the orchestra have to play for Omara’s execution too?”

“No. Thankfully, she did not.” Sophie’s voice was slow and steady, almost melodic. “The Jewish girls were taken on a death march to the Bergen-Belsen camp in Germany. Keeping her promise to Omara, Adele went with them. There they survived in horrific conditions until the camp was liberated months later.”

So Adele had survived the war.

“She lived . . . I didn’t know. We found no record of Adele after Auschwitz.”

“No. How would you have? Adele never again played in public, not after the last concert she gave in October of 1944. And there was nothing to tie back to any of us after Auschwitz was liberated.”

“That’s the last record we found of her.”

“Yes. And she wanted it that way. After the loss of Omara, Adele vowed that she would survive, but it would never be to go back to her old life. It just so happens that on the same day of the prisoner revolt at Auschwitz, Adele’s home was destroyed when Vienna was bombed by Allied planes.”

“So she never had to go back.”

“No. She did not.”

“But her parents? Did she ever see them again?”

“Her mother, yes. After some time,” Sophie relayed, her eyes fighting back what looked like the evidence of tears. “Adele was able to forgive her parents, and I believe, having been freed of that bitterness, she was able to go to Marina and make peace before her mother died.”

“And her father?”

Sophie shook her head. “Adele forgave him too, but he would never receive her again. Too much had happened during the war, with the loss of everything he’d built, and he could not forget what he believed was the treachery of saving my life.”

“And that’s why she never played in public again?”

“Adele kept her survival hidden. She was a new person after Auschwitz. This I can understand. I, too, have valued my privacy.
I expect you had great difficulty finding the painting, especially without any record of Sophie Haurbech ever having been tied to Adele Von Bron.”

“I’ve wanted to find it again since I was a child.”

Sophie’s interest appeared piqued. “You’ve seen Adele before?”

Sera smiled at how a painting could be referred to as the person depicted. It reminded her that the art lived on as long as the story behind it did.

“Once. As a child. My father was an art historian and he brought me to a friend’s gallery here. In Paris. I’ve tried to find him, but the gallery is long since gone. I could find no record of Adele’s painting ever having been there. All I had was the memory of seeing her hanging in the back of his gallery and negatives of the borders of the original. The film strip of the borders was how we confirmed Mr. Hanover’s painting was a copy.”

“A very good copy,” Sophie added, smiling.

“After my dad died, nothing made sense. I wanted to go back to that time in my life when everything was safe, when I wasn’t hurting. I remembered the painting and became obsessed with searching for it. I kept thinking the painting was like my Holy Grail—that finding it would make me complete.”

“But she was not ready to be found then, was she?” It was a rhetorical question to which Sophie required no answer. Instead, she stood and took Sera’s hand in hers. “Come with me.”

Sophie led them into a small sitting room adjacent to the larger living space. It had large windows draped with airy white lace, through which Sera could see the backdrop of the Paris city lights. It wasn’t until Sophie washed the small office in lamplight that the meaning for the foray into the tiny room became clear.

It hung on the wall, in a place that lacked prominence, overlooking the busy street below.

“I’ve brought you here because of this, child. You had to be ready to see it.”

Sera’s eyes misted. She couldn’t help it. After everything she’d researched, after every breath she held in waiting to learn the fate of this one remarkable woman—it was all there, right in front of her. The painting was real. It was real and Sera had all but unearthed her buried heart in the journey to find it.

Thank You, Lord, for this.

Sera took a step forward on impulse and asked, “I’m sorry, but can I please touch it? I just have to know it’s real.”

Sophie laughed softly. “I’d be offended if you didn’t.”

Sera shook her head, even closed her eyes for a moment as her trembling fingertips reached out and touched the uneven texture of the painted wood-planked canvas. She was inexplicably moved, knowing the story was real and that her hand was
this close
to living history.

“I’m sorry you had to come all this way, especially after your long search for the painting. But it was a last promise I made to a dear friend.”

Sera did a double take and stared from the painting back to the woman’s face. “Do you mean Edward Hanover?”

Sophie nodded as she slipped into a cushy chair opposite the painting. It looked as though it was positioned so that a viewer could sit opposite Adele. The old woman looked weathered and wise as she nodded, sitting in the chair with her hands gently folded in her lap.

“It’s estimated that one and a half million people died within Auschwitz-Birkenau.”

“Yes.” Sera’s chin quivered as she turned her attention back to the painting. She ran her hand over the coolness of the canvas.

“But Austria’s Sweetheart did not,” Sophie said, triumph evident in the elevation of her voice. “Adele led a full life. She passed years ago. Peacefully, in her sleep. With her beloved violin at her side and—she told me—with her Savior waiting to claim her with open arms.” The old woman chuckled softly. “I thought she’d outlive me for sure, courageous woman. But she left me her most
prized possession, a painting from within the same camp that almost took her life.”

“How was it saved from Auschwitz?” Sera walked over to a settee at the woman’s side and took a seat.

“Omara’s painting of Adele was found hanging in a stairwell within Auschwitz-Birkenau. It was saved along with many other works of art from the warehouse section of the camp.”

“Did Adele ever see it again?”

“She did. Edward Hanover used his contacts in Europe to look for the painting. He never forgot Adele, or her story, and wouldn’t give up the search for it. And he did find it a few years later, and sent it to Adele. She cherished it and the memory of Omara so much that she’d not part with that painting all the days of her life. Upon her death, she left it to me. I lived in Prague at the time, so it hung in a small gallery in Paris until I could come home and look after it. The same gallery you visited as a girl.” She reached out to pat Sera’s hand. “I suppose it was God’s plan all along that our paths would cross. Without the painting having been left in the gallery, you would not be here.”

“And I thought it was lost all this time. It seemed to vanish into thin air after I saw it all those years ago.”

Sophie chuckled. “It vanished to a Paris apartment, that’s all.”

“And what about the painted room? Did it survive?”

“Adele went back to what remained of the death camp many years later, but the warehouse that held the painted room had long since been demolished. It exists only in memory now.”

Sera went to the painting again and thought for a moment, then turned to Sophie.

“There are still so many pieces missing . . . What happened to Vladimir? And I don’t understand how Edward Hanover fits into all of this.”

Sophie patted the settee next to her.

“Sit down, child.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

April 25, 1945

B
y the time the British 11th Armoured Division arrived at Bergen-Belsen, there was almost nothing left, except for worn barracks made of cracked wood and tent cities that were tattered and falling to the ground around the tens of thousands of prisoners packed into the camp. The transported prisoners who had survived were a blink from death. Many were sick. Others were so malnourished that it would be a miracle to grasp them back from death’s clutches. With no provisions, little water, and the stunning sight of soldiers vomiting as they looked around at the carnage of Belsen, many survivors didn’t understand what was happening.

Adele had found some water that day. She’d stolen it, of course, half a bucket full, when one of the SS guards had turned to give attention to a convoy of trucks passing by. She was rushing back to the tent city where the orchestra had huddled together, trying to stay warm through the last freezing weeks of winter, and had been stopped in her tracks by the deafening sound of vehicles thundering into the camp.

Adele was terrified at first and nearly tripped over some stones on the path back to the orchestra girls’ tent. She righted herself quickly, then ran the rest of the way. They’d been skeptical, even when loudspeakers announced that the British were there.

“This is the British army. You are liberated . . .”

Over and over, the speakers sang out with voices loud in triumph over the Nazis. They were liberated. Free. Death had been conquered.

That was ten days ago.

Adele ran her hand over her head, the prickle of pixie-short hair coarse against her palm. She sat on the ground now, staring at the sunrise, with a thin blanket pulled around her shoulders. It barely shielded the dew that had collected upon and frozen her striped uniform in the night, turning it into fabric that crackled like paper when she made the slightest move.

“Miss? Did you hear me?”

Adele was shocked back to reality by the Brit’s words.

“Yes?” she answered, though she doubted she’d ever be able to hear a man’s voice behind her and not feel a split second of fear that it might be an SS officer with a cocked pistol.

The gravel-covered ground crunched beneath the weight of the man’s combat boots. He cleared his throat before continuing. “Pardon, miss. But it’s time to go. The doctors have cleared you for transport. The rest of your group has been loaded in the trucks and the last group before them left an hour ago—”

She turned and looked at him. “Tell me, sir—where do I go?”

“We have shelter for you at an Allied camp just over the ridge. You’ll be quite cared for. There we have food, provisions, medical care. We can help you locate your family.”

He didn’t understand what she meant. She studied his face.

No, she didn’t suppose he could understand. He was young, maybe only twenty or twenty-two years old at the most. His hair curved around the ears and was black as night. The morning sun was just high enough to shine upon a sprinkling of freckles on the bridge of a strong nose and a noble brow, illuminating youthful eyes that didn’t speak of experience with death. He looked innocent. And kind.

Adele wanted to know where she
could
go, not where she
would
go after the truck took them to the displaced persons camp. Where could she live now and not see Auschwitz around every corner? Her world had been forever altered, and locating her family wouldn’t change it.

“What will happen to them?”

He clearly didn’t understand, because he bent down and took her by the elbow to help her stand, trying to make her leave the barren fields of Bergen-Belsen. He looked out over the near-vacant tent city, his eyes scanning the nothingness that was left. “To whom, miss?”

“The camps,” she said, forcing her weakened legs to support her as he steadied her. “What will happen to the warehouses in Auschwitz, to the walls of painted brick? Will they be torn down?”

“I’ve heard tell of other camps through the wire,” he declared with a slight nod. “Is that where you’re from? Auschwitz?”

“Yes. Birkenau.”

“Well, you needn’t worry about that now. We’re getting you some help.”

Teeth chattering, she continued, “Tell me. Is Auschwitz still standing? There were explosions when we left. Have they burnt it to the ground?”

“No, miss.” He braced her elbow and, surprisingly, pulled a thick wool blanket up over her shoulders. She hadn’t even known he’d held it. “The Red Army liberated Auschwitz months ago. The Nazis pulled out—tucked tail and ran. But I believe many of the buildings still stand.”

“Liberated . . .
Auschwitz
?” She could scarcely imagine it. Auschwitz without guard dogs and watchtowers? The crematorium out of operation? No more trains . . . no more orchestra playing for the ghosts marching out to work each morning.

No more death.

“Yes. The Nazis destroyed many of the buildings before the Red Army moved in.”

She saw the camera hanging round his neck and stared at it, then lifted her chin to look at his face. She leaned into him and gripped the lapels of his army jacket. His face registered surprise at the forceful action.