The Pieces We Keep (23 page)

Audra smiled. “I’d say they deserve to be.”

He brushed this off by looking away.

“For what it’s worth,” she said, “I’m really glad you went.”

He turned back to her, and from her eyes he seemed to understand: It was the only way they would have crossed paths. “Me too,” he said.

The answer sent a surge of warmth up her neck. It continued over her cheeks and widened her smile.

“Mom, can we eat?” Jack had rolled up to the table.

“Um, yeah,” she said, flustered, as he hopped off his scooter. “Grab a seat.” She had almost forgotten about the picnic she’d packed.

Jack sat down but, to her surprise, did so on Sean’s side of the bench.

Audra unloaded the grocery sack and gave Jack his sandwich. He dove in, still wearing his helmet, before she could hand over his juice box and bag of grapes.

She scrunched her nose at Sean. “All I have are PB and Js. If you’d rather pass, it’s totally fine.”

“Are you kidding? That’s my favorite.” He snagged a sandwich, adding, “And lucky for me, since Aunt Lu makes them for me all the time.”

Audra laughed. “I have no doubt.”

 

For several minutes, the three of them quietly enjoyed their lunches.

Then Jack, with another surprise, asked Sean: “Did you see how good I’m steering with one hand?”

The question was slightly garbled from a mouthful of food, but Audra wasn’t about to correct him. His tone, though at a gentle volume, held the most enthusiasm she’d heard in as long as she could remember.

“I saw that!” Sean said. “Pretty impressive there.”

Jack slurped down his juice. “You know, I used to steer with no hands too.”

“Wow. Seriously?” Sean replied between bites. “That’s awesome, buddy.”

Audra paused at the nickname. More aptly, the way it drifted from Sean’s mouth, soft and natural as a leaf from a branch.

Jack wiped his mouth with the long sleeve over his cast. “After eating, wanna see me do it?”

Barely catching the reference, Audra cut in, “No. We don’t.”

“But, Mom,” he pleaded, “it’s easy.”

She hesitated, not wanting to dampen his mood, nor to be a “strict dictator.”

But Sean jumped in. “Better listen to your mom. She’s a smart woman. Knows what she’s talking about.”

The claim almost made Audra laugh. Boy, if he only knew.

“Besides,” Sean added, “you wouldn’t want to end up with two casts, right? How would you hug all your girlfriends?”

“Uh, Sean.” Audra looked at him. “He’s eight.”

Sean cleared his throat. “As I was saying, your mom’s a smart woman.”

She rolled her eyes, unable to stifle her smile—even more so when Jack giggled. The sound was so light and sweet she feared she had imagined it.

Hoping to sustain the momentum, she hazarded to bring up some of Jack’s old favorites: SpongeBob and ninja warriors.

“Who the heck is SpongeBob?” Sean asked.

Jack gaped as if the guy had never heard of air.

Audra doubted a former media producer was unacquainted with the famed cartoon. If he posed the question to keep her son talking, it worked. Jack, with the patience of a retired grandfather, launched into biographies of colorful characters from the underwater city of Bikini Bottom. The show’s humor, while not always the most appropriate, was admittedly very funny.

When Sean moved on to the ninjas, the conversation fizzled. It seemed Jack had used his allotted words for the week in one fell swoop. He did listen closely, however, to Sean’s insider tips on dealing with casts, the itching in particular.

The only other discussion Jack prompted was at the pond while feeding ducks.

“Is that real?” he asked, referencing Sean’s armband tattoo. “Did you get it for being in the Army?”

Audra, too, had noticed the black Celtic design peeking out from the edge of his shirtsleeve, but she’d averted her eyes from his upper arm to prevent giving the wrong impression. Now her attention bounced between the tattoo and Jack’s fascination. And she wondered what specifically had drawn her son out today: his interest in Sean as a soldier, or if a spiritual familiarity connected them.

She was ruminating on this thought when a dog barked. She reflexively glanced up but honed in on a stranger. A man sat in the driver side of his SUV, alone in the parking lot, his face angled in Audra’s direction. The tree shading his windshield lent his eyes a hooded look. Atop his steering wheel an object glinted in his hand. Whether a phone or a camera, either one could be taking photos.

Could her in-laws have hired a PI? What would the evidence he’d collected here show?
Just look at her poor judgment, bringing into Jack’s world a mentally troubled war vet, a guy who actually believes he’s somehow linked to her son’s past life.

“Daddy!” a little girl hollered, playing by the slide. Beside her, a woman made “come here” motions toward the same SUV. The man smiled and pointed to his cell phone, an illustration of finishing a call.

Though relieved, Audra had been sobered by her nerves. She turned to Sean and Jack, who were pitching the last of the bread crumbs. “Sorry, guys,” she said, “fun’s over for today.”

 

They soon collected their things and headed for the apartment. Almost there, Sean asked to use the restroom before he left. Naturally Audra agreed, but part of her—unjust as it was—felt anxious to see him go.

In the meantime, she helped Jack store his scooter in their laundry room. “Why don’t you wash up in the kitchen,” she said, “and I’ll slice you an apple?”

Jack hung his helmet on the handles. “Is Sean having dinner with us?”

“Not this time, baby.” A knock came from the front door. “I’ll get that. You get cleaned up.”

He nodded with a dash of disappointment. As he shuffled away, Audra went to the door and checked the peephole. Two policemen stood outside.

She told herself not to be paranoid, like she had been at the park. And yet there was no ignoring the callers’ demeanors. The way they anchored their hands on their gun belts, facing the door without taking, not smiling.

The officers weren’t here for a friendly house call.

V
ivian worked to calm the jittering of her pulse. Any second now the projector’s beam would blink to life. From the balcony of the movie palace, alone in the far back row, Vivian assessed the room yet again. For a Tuesday evening, attendance was lower than usual. With all but a few people opting for the main floor, vacancies surrounded her like a moat. Including the seat meant for Isaak.

At last, a newsreel flickered onto the screen. Parade music blared from the speakers. Boasting steadfast skill, fresh-faced GIs wove through obstacle courses and under wires, heaved themselves over slatted walls. They charged invisible enemies with bayoneted rifles. Airmen with equal zeal strapped on parachute packs to simulate jumps over cushioned mats. In a wisp of levity, they painted dedications on the canvas of bombs–
Delivery for Tojo, Greetings to Hitler
–the enemy so clearly defined.

Enviously so.

Then came the planes. Propellers whirred on P-38 Lightnings. The pilots roared down the runway, machine guns at the ready, and a revelation came to Vivian: Isaak’s craving for wartime reports originated not from concern for his mother but from his father’s military feats. Bedtime stories would have described the man donning a German uniform before zeroing in on Allied targets.

Could Vivian’s father be among those targets now? Isaak had appeared genuinely disappointed that her father remained in London. Had there been a plan involving his connections, his knowledge? Perhaps this was the true reason Isaak had summoned her to Prospect Park, the only reason he had courted her from the start. It would make sense why he had been secretive, about both their romance and his past.

Even their initial meeting could have been the product of a scheme. At the outdoor market, where he had covered her debt and whisked her off in the air raid, he might have been following her already when the opportunity arose.

How useful she had been, an indirect line to confidential, prewar updates. Until now, she had actually believed it was her idea to seek out the file-cabinet key and eavesdrop on her father. A brilliant manipulation.

Come to think of it, on the university campus she had not found a single acquaintance of Isaak’s. A spy would keep to himself. Except, of course, when it came to collaborators, like his professor Herr Klein, or fellow spies with whom Isaak would have met covertly-in such hideaways as the store cellar.

It was a plot befitting a Hollywood film, too outlandish for reality. But then what else was she to believe?

So many deceptions. Too many to count.

All day long they had accumulated in the pit of her stomach. They now began to churn. To keep from retching, she channeled her focus to the cinematic images. Sailors stood at attention on a massive Navy ship, straight as perfect rows of teeth. Churchill and FDR shook hands in united display. “The Axis powers will soon see their error,” the narrator asserted. “They have woken a sleeping giant that will not rest until the fallen heroes of Pearl Harbor are avenged.”

Not long ago updates of the like were a nuisance to Vivian, pesky gnats to shoo away. But those updates had since materialized into something inescapably real. Without warning, they had enveloped her entire world.

A noise boomed.

She jerked and looked over her shoulder. The technician in the projector room, a cigarette hanging limply from his mouth, appeared to have dropped a reel.

Vivian uncoiled herself to face forward, and she gasped. At her side, Isaak sat in the shadows. He had slinked in undetected, like the phantom he had always been.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said near her ear.

Through the tunnels of her mind, one of his old sayings echoed. She stared at the screen and recited dully, “More punctual than a German train. Isn’t that right?”

“I just wanted to be cautious,” he explained.

“Ah, yes. Cautious.” She had been that too once, with her future, her heart. She mourned the day he had convinced her to discard them both.

“Darling, what is it? You seem upset.”

Upset.
The concept applied to many a circumstance: wine spilled on upholstery, a favorite goblet dropped in the sink. “No,” she replied honestly. “I am not upset.”

The suggestion was so trivializing it struck her as laughable. Quite literally. In place of rehearsed words, a throng of giggles gathered in her mouth. She did not possess the power to withhold them.

“Vivian?” His voice poured with bewilderment.

For a moment she felt the irrationality of her outburst, but then the reasoning gained clarity. Her body was laughing to keep from screaming or, worse, from shedding another tear over this man she never knew.

Someone in the balcony sent out a
shush.
The reminder of an audience stifled her momentum. Yet, above all, it was Isaak’s hand on hers that fully stomped her amusement.

She pulled her arm away.
“Don’t.”

Suddenly Isaak’s gaze shifted past her. White pinpoints reflected in his eyes.

With a brisk glance, Vivian traced his attention to the silhouette of a man standing in the far aisle. The fellow was combing the rows with a flashlight at his shoulder. A policeman-like hat topped the outline of his head.

Isaak clutched the pocket of his jacket-perhaps a pistol stored inside. He shot Vivian a look that bordered between panic and uncertainty: an ironic question of betrayal. Then he slumped far into his seat, as if the furnishing, with enough pressure, would give way to a secret passage.

All at once it hit her. The mistake she had made coming here, playing this dangerous game. She should have told the police. She should have told Gene. It would have been the sensible step. She just didn’t want to confess until she had confronted Isaak herself. She needed the truth firsthand, for her own personal reasons, possibly to redeem herself for being so easily swindled.

Now, though, the chance for any of that might already be lost.

The man aimed the flashlight toward the balcony’s front row, where a couple shielded their eyes. They groaned in annoyance before the beam moved on. Vivian felt anxiety oozing from Isaak’s pores as he deliberated whether or not to flee. Only then did it occur to her that to evade her own arrest she had no choice but to follow.

Once more she imagined Jean Harlow, and the ways her characters might solve this dilemma. No doubt, kissing the fugitive was standard fare to create a façade. But before Vivian could act, the authority with the flashlight-not a policeman, she realized, but an usher-snatched a lone man by the collar and guided him to the aisle. Based on the reprimand, the viewer was a drunkard who had made a habit of sneaking in for naps.

Vivian fixed her eyes on the screen, catching her breath, and Isaak regained his composure. Jimmy Stewart saluted the camera in his Air Corps uniform, the epitome of chivalry and sacrifice. Women did their bit by working in American factories, like the ones-supposedly-on the Reich’s list to destroy.

The thought directed Vivian back to her purpose. Lingering adrenaline empowered her to charge on.

“Were you scared I had given you up?” she said in a low, quiet tone.

“Don’t be silly, darling. I know you wouldn’t do that.”

She turned toward him, pleased his hand had moved from his pocket to the armrest. “And why is that,
Jakob?
Because we know each other so well?”

He gazed back, his surprise nearly undetectable. “Yes,” he said.

“How can you say that,” she spat in a whisper, “when you’ve lied to me all along?”

“That’s not true.”

“You told me your name was–”

“I was born Jakob Isaak Hemel. Jakob was also my father’s name. I’ve gone by ‘Isaak’ since I was a kid, only to avoid confusion.” He squared his shoulders to her. “What else would you like to know?” It was more of an invitation than a challenge, but she still treated it as the latter, undeterred by a technicality.

“Since you brought up your father-is it true he fought for the Germans?”

Following a pause, Isaak nodded. “He was discharged early on, after being wounded. It happened before I was born. He rarely spoke of it. All I know is that he’d experienced enough of the German cause to want to leave the country for good. To seek out a better life somewhere else.”

Vivian gritted her teeth. The excuse sounded almost scripted. “If that’s the case, if America was so grand, why didn’t you stay?”

“Had it been up to me,” he insisted, “we would have. After my father died, my mother didn’t want me quitting school in order to work. A few months later we moved in with her sister’s family, back in Germany, just as I told you.”

“No,” Vivian reminded him, “you said it was Switzerland.” He conceded with his silence, and added, “Vivian, you know why I was afraid to tell you that. I swear, I have never lied to you about anything else.”

“Is that right? You would swear it to me?”

“Yes.”

“On what? Your father’s grave? The lives of your family? Of course, I’m referring to the family you had vowed
weren’t
Nazis.”

He hesitated for a second, then peered straight into her eyes. “And that was the truth.”

On the contrary, according to Gene’s report, it was a flat-out lie, now told directly to her face. It took concerted effort to keep Vivian from shouting her retort.

“I’m afraid your file disagrees. It says they’re officially members of the Nazi Party. ‘Devout members,’ I believe it said. And that your cousin was even part of some Aryan birthing program.” She fisted her hands on her lap, unsure which component disgusted her more. “Then again, with the articles you’ve written, about your superiority over filthy Jews, you were probably the one who convinced her to join.”

Isaak’s expression hardened. The scar on his cheekbone gained a menacing air. He exhaled heavily several times through his nose, a valve ready to burst.

She had gone too far.

“Let’s go,” he said, seizing her elbow.

Internally she shrank; outwardly she froze.

Another
shush
traveled across the balcony, a reminder of potential witnesses.

“If you have anything to tell me,” she said in an undertone, concealing the crack in her voice, “you can say it right here.” She readied herself to scream, but Isaak released his hold. His anger deflated and his body sank into the seat. His face turned to the screen.

When he spoke, it came as a ragged whisper. “An SS officer came to the house. He claimed to want information about
me.
It was the duty of the Gestapo, but Gertrud let him in. She was the only one home when he forced himself on her.”

Vivian remained silent as the pain, the guilt, of this rippled across Isaak’s face.

“As the mother of a bastard child, she would have been disgraced. But as the mother of a pure Aryan baby by a leader in the Reich, she was a national treasure. Just days before I came home, my relatives decided they had no choice. They finally gave in and joined the Party. They did it to reduce suspicions on all of us, but mostly for Gertrud. To help secure her admission into the Lebensborn program.”

Reflections from the projector mottled Isaak’s skin-but did not hide his opinion of the human thoroughbred system. “After all that, the baby was stillborn. I suppose, in some twisted sense, that was God’s way of showing mercy.” He glanced toward Vivian. “You know what ‘Lebensborn’ means, don’t you? The ‘Spring of Life.’ Ironic, don’t you think?”

With a look of disgust, he didn’t wait for her to comment. “Before long, my uncle was ordered to publish only articles approved by the Party. Stories that showed the Nazis in a favorable light, of the Wehrmacht gaining ground, winning the war.”

Vivian couldn’t deny it: The more Isaak shared, the more her skepticism waned.

She straightened with a shudder, wary of being fooled again. “I saw one of your articles,” she broke in. “It was your name on it. Your words.”

Isaak solemnly met her eyes. “My name, yes. Not my words. After I was arrested, my uncle wrote several articles that he printed as being mine. He presented them as evidence that I was a good, loyal German. He told everyone I secretly despised America ever since my father died in a factory there, a result of mistreatment and carelessness. Best of all, my uncle blamed the accident on a Jew. None of that was true, of course. But he was willing to say anything to protect me, and apparently so was Professor Klein.”

From the reference to the instructor, Vivian recalled details of Isaak’s benefactor, a war profiteer whose reichsmark were soaked with blood. “What about your ties to Mr. Mueller? And the source of his money?”

Isaak gave a helpless shrug. “He was a businessman, a steelmaker. He paid my tuition. I only met him twice. Professor Klein had arranged it all....” He trailed off, and shook his head. “I know how all of this must sound, Vivian. But I swear to God, I’m telling you the truth, about me, my past, the mission. About everything at stake.” Underlying the desperation in his voice was inarguable sincerity. He shut his eyes, shoved his fingers through his hair.

It was useless to fight what she felt to her core. Denying this–to him, or herself-would only waste valuable time.

“I believe you,” she told him. “Granted, that could make me the most foolish person on earth ... but I do.”

He looked up and his lips edged toward a smile. Not the charming, slanted grin that existed in her dreams. Rather, the one in real life, which had changed over time-as they both had.

“I presume,” he said at last, “that the person with the file was the one you were counting on for help.”

Reluctantly she affirmed this. “I’m sorry, Isaak.”

He nodded and murmured something too soft to hear.

She waited a moment before asking him, “What are you going to do?”

Gaze lowered, he clasped her fingers. She might have retracted them if not for the tally of a thousand days spent wishing for his return.