The Last of the Stanfields(88)
“You didn’t consider finishing the book after his death?”
“In light of how he died—out with a bang, as they say, allegedly in the arms of his mistress—I did consider it. But beyond the grief that I felt at his loss, I was strictly prohibited from publishing anything. A clause in our agreement granted Robert the right to read the manuscript prior to release. I could do nothing without his consent. It wouldn’t have hurt the credibility of my Stanfield book, but the value of my word. A promise is a promise.”
“Tell me exactly what my mother overheard that she wasn’t supposed to,” I insisted.
The professor hesitated, sizing me up for a moment before continuing solemnly. “No, not before conditions have been agreed upon,” he said. “I will provide you with the means to find what you’re seeking, on the condition you grant your consent for my work to be published. Since a Stanfield heir has magically dropped from the sky, I daresay your consent would free me from my promise.”
With that, Morrison drew a key on a chain from his waistcoat pocket and unlocked a drawer in the cabinet against the wall. He pulled out a thick folder and laid it down before us.
“It’s all there, right in these pages. Read the chapters titled ‘1944,’ ‘1945,’ and ‘1946,’ then come see me, and I’ll fill you in on the rest.”
With that, he led us to the door and once more wished us luck.
I spent the rest of that day at the Johns Hopkins library, passionately poring over every last word of chapter “1944.” Every time I finished a page, I’d hand it straight to George-Harrison and he would read it himself. Through this odd ritual, we discovered the true circumstances that had swept Robert Stanfield out of Baltimore and into a hunting lodge deep in the wilderness of wartime France. We read of his friendship with Sam Goldstein, the clandestine operations with the Resistance, his torture at the hands of the enemy, his narrow escape, and how he heroically protected Hanna as they fled France and then Europe.
After reading late into the afternoon, I was no closer to understanding how Mum had come to hate a man of that caliber, the same man who had rushed to marry a young woman in a Madrid embassy to save her life. By all accounts, my grandfather had kept his word, whisking Sam Goldstein’s daughter away to America for a new life by his side.
I turned to the last chapter, eager to discover what befell my grandparents after they stepped off the ship.
33
ROBERT AND HANNA
July 1944 to March 1946, New York
With the war still raging across the ocean, Hanna and Robert watched from the deck of their ship as the Statue of Liberty emerged from the morning fog. While it wasn’t the first time either had laid eyes on Lady Liberty, the sight stirred powerful emotions in the newlyweds, sealing their union even more profoundly than their actual wedding day.
After passing through immigration, Robert and Hanna climbed into the back of a taxi that took them straight to The Carlyle, a venerable New York institution with stunning views of Central Park. The couple sat down in the hotel restaurant while their suite was being prepared. Robert ordered breakfast for two, then stepped away to call his parents. He had been unable to get through to them the whole time he was in Madrid, sending only a telegram to let them know he was still alive. Going from that to announcing that they had a new daughter-in-law would be quite a leap. But Robert knew he had to warn them that he’d be returning home with her by his side. He also needed them to wire funds to pay for the hotel and the trip back to Baltimore.
When Robert announced to the family butler that he was on his way home, the servant had no choice but to reveal the truth: Robert’s father had fled to Miami after squandering the last of the Stanfield fortune. What was worse, the family estate had been seized by creditors after they had missed too many mortgage payments. All that remained of the staff were one maid and the butler himself.
The news left Robert crushed and humiliated. With the small amount of cash Hanna had left, the couple couldn’t afford even the slightest luxury and were forced to leave The Carlyle for a tenement on the corner of Thirty-Seventh Street and Eighth Avenue. The apartment was crammed and shabby, located in the heart of Hell’s Kitchen, a poor, Irish neighborhood too dangerous to walk in after dark.
Hanna refused to consider staying there long. She spent her first week in New York combing the classified ads for a better apartment, something modest yet affordable. She found an enclave on the Upper West Side where many European Jews had settled after fleeing Germany in the thirties. There, the owner of a massive townhouse that had been converted into apartments agreed to rent them a ground-floor studio at a reasonable price with no security deposit. The move brought Hanna relief, however short-lived. At least now she had found a neighborhood where she could walk safely, even as far as the park, when time and weather permitted. When she walked past the extravagant buildings on Central Park West, the sight of the broad front gates and impeccable doormen reminded her of her childhood visits to New York. The Dakota stood out above all others. Hanna would gaze up at the windows and dream of the charmed lives of those living within.
As for Robert, he quickly grew disheartened by the harsh homecoming, as he was forced to swallow his pride and slog through one odd job after another. He would leave home early in the morning to make the rounds at the employment agencies, and was lucky if he managed to lock down even the most precarious short-term job. He picked up shifts on the docks or in the stockrooms of clothing stores, until he eventually landed a permanent position driving delivery trucks for a beverage company. He worked for a friendly man who expected hard work and long hours, yet still treated his employees with decency and respect.