The Last of the Stanfields(42)
Robert’s only break from the constant boredom was the Goldsteins. Sam was a highly cultured and passionate man, and their lengthy conversations were a fascinating diversion for Robert. Yet, his daughter stubbornly refused to exchange a single word with him. After a brief period of getting to know each other, Robert and Sam soon became inseparable, whiling away the long afternoons discussing the past and the future. Sam insisted on staying hopeful, more out of concern for his daughter’s morale than out of any deep-seated conviction. Every night, Radio London would broadcast coded messages, telling listeners that the arrival of the Allied Forces was imminent. Sam would assure his daughter the war would soon end. “Soon! Soon, peaceful days will come again, you’ll see.”
Robert was the first of the two to bare his soul. He opened up to Sam about his family and how he had acted against their wishes in joining the war effort. Things with his parents had been so tense that Robert had gone without even saying goodbye.
One day, Robert tried to strike up a conversation with Hanna and was met with only dead silence, as the girl simply carried on with her reading. Sam discreetly beckoned Robert to follow him outside. They sat down side by side on a tree stump and smoked a cigarette, in what had become a daily ritual for the two men. After a short while, Sam broke the silence.
“Don’t take it personally. Hanna . . . she protects herself by staying silent, and I should tell you why. Not because you deserve an explanation, but because I think I might lose my mind if I don’t tell somebody what happened. We had managed to acquire forged papers, which cost a fortune, and no one in the village knew we were Jews—just city dwellers from Lyon who had decided to move out to the countryside. We led a quiet life, my wife and Hanna and I, discreet, just like everybody else. I always told Hanna, the best way to avoid being discovered was to stay hidden in plain sight.
“On the same day that the Resistance took over the post office, another group was out there tearing up train tracks. Now, there was this enemy convoy passing through, you know, motorcycle sidecars and all, not far from the tracks. So, the Resistance attacked, hitting the convoy with grenades from the embankments along the road. Boom! No survivors. The two efforts weren’t coordinated, but because they happened simultaneously, German command planned a brutal retaliation. An SS squadron marched into the village the next day, accompanied by local militiamen. They arrested villagers at random, killing some on the spot, slaughtering others in the middle of the schoolyard.
“My wife . . . had gone out to the farm next door in search of eggs. Eggs. They hanged her, along with ten others, and left them dangling from a telegraph pole. Hanna and I stayed home, with the doors locked. When the Germans left, those militia bastards, in their eminent kindness, allowed us to recover the bodies. Some of the sons of bitches went as far as to actually lend us a hand cutting them down. We buried Hanna’s mother. Members of the Resistance feared the Germans might strike again. That night, they came to get us out of there. We’ve been hiding here ever since.”
Sam was trembling. “Tell me about Baltimore,” he managed to get out as he lit another cigarette. “I’ve never been. Back in the thirties, we often traveled to New York. Hanna was obsessed with the Empire State Building. She was there even for the opening, at the tender age of three.”
“Unbelievable!” Robert exclaimed. “I was there myself, at the opening. My parents dragged me along. I guess I was maybe fifteen, sixteen years old? To think we could have run into each other. What brought you to New York? Are you in real estate?”
“Oh, no. I’m an art dealer. Or at least, I was. My clientele included some of the top American art collectors, most of whom are located in New York,” Sam explained, with more than a hint of pride. “Of course, the Depression hit everyone pretty hard, but I still managed to do business with galleries like the Findlay, the Wildenstein, and the Perl. On my last trip, in the summer of ’37, I sold a Monet to Mr. Rothschild himself. Wildenstein had made the introduction, and then I noticed a stunning piece by Edward Hopper that I simply had to purchase myself. Let me tell you, my boy: it cost an arm and a leg, but it was love at first sight. The painting is of a young woman, a girl really, sitting in a chair looking out the window. I always thought she looked so much like my Hanna. Soon as I got my hands on it, I promised myself I would never sell it. When the time comes, it will be handed down to my daughter so she can one day pass it on to her own children. It’s meant to always stay in our family. My legacy. The Hopper is something I know will be around long after I’m gone. To think how happy and proud I was about bringing it back here to France. So very stupid. Had I known, even for a second, what was coming . . . I’d have stayed in New York.”
“So, you were a rich art dealer.”
He nodded. “Were being the operative word.”
“What happened to your paintings? Did you still have them at the start of the war?”
“That’s another story for another day,” he said with a sigh. “I should get back; Hanna doesn’t like being left alone this long.”
Weeks passed. Robert at last found his place in the brigade. At times, he would even hop on a bicycle and ride across the countryside with important messages to deliver. One night, he filled in for a partisan who was missing and drove a pickup carrying two cases of grenades. Another night, he joined a small crew setting up runway lights for a makeshift landing strip. Two planes arrived that night, one carrying a Brit and the other an American. Shaking hands with a fellow American made Robert homesick, especially since they only had time for a few quick pleasantries. The American was promptly received by handlers Robert had never met, and then disappeared into the night. He remained in the dark about his compatriot’s mission.