The Last of the Stanfields(92)

“You don’t have to do this,” he said, as he turned off the lights. “We can make a future for ourselves. We’ll build a new life, one that will make our children proud.”

Hanna sat up in bed, deciding all at once it was time to share a secret that had been weighing on her for months now.

“Robert . . . if I haven’t gotten pregnant yet, after all the time we’ve been together . . . darling, I don’t think I can have children.”



Two weeks later, far sooner than she expected, an opportunity emerged for Hanna to carry out her plan. It came in the form of a major client from California, set to arrive in New York. Glover had been on his way to London to close another deal, but felt he should stay to greet the exacting California client personally. When Hanna offered to travel overseas in his place, the art dealer put her on a flight and set her secret plan into motion. It was the first time Hanna had ever flown. Although she had some initial jitters during takeoff, the rest of the trip was unforgettable. The view out the window and the idea of dining above the clouds filled Hanna with pure wonder.

After three days in London, Hanna had completed all her work duties. She called and asked Glover for a few days off, explaining that she was so close to France, it would be a shame not to visit her father’s grave. After Hanna’s role in closing two astronomical deals in one month, Glover was ready to offer her the moon on a silver platter. He went as far as to sponsor her entire trip, and changed her return ticket so she could fly back directly from Paris.

Hanna caught a train from London, then crossed the Channel by ferry and boarded another train to Paris. After a night at a hotel near the Gare de Lyon, where she left her suitcase, she took one last train to Montauban. The next leg of the journey Hanna covered by bus. She stopped at two different town halls near the hunting lodge until she had tracked down the address of a blacksmith by the name of Jorge. She hoped his memory would still be fresh. It had only been two years since his brother, Alberto, had perished with the others at the hunting lodge.

She recognized the man instantly as she entered the workshop. When Jorge caught sight of Hanna’s face, he dropped his hoof knife to the ground and swept her into his arms, his eyes full of tears.

“Oh, thank God in heaven, you’re alive! We looked for you everywhere,” the blacksmith gasped. “You made it!”

“Yes, I was one of the lucky ones,” Hanna said, doing her best to keep calm and not break down.

“I heard about your father. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“And I’m sorry for yours. I’m only alive today because of what your brother and the others did for me.”

For the second time, Hanna recounted the tale of that June afternoon in 1944, and all the horrors that unfolded in those woods just a few kilometers from where they now stood. Jorge gave her a ride out to the cemetery on the back of his motorcycle. He left her alone to pay her respects at her father’s grave, then returned and told Hanna all that had transpired following that fateful day at the lodge.

“The next day, around noon, a gendarme came to tell us we could come get the bodies of the dead. Raoul, Javier, Antoine, little Marcel, and my brother, Alberto . . . they’re all here,” said the blacksmith, gesturing out over the tombstones.

“Along with my father,” Hanna added.

“You know . . . they suspected me. They thought I was the one who sold everyone out because I managed to stay alive. Good-for-nothing gossips and their careless accusations. It was only because I had lost my own brother that they were convinced I wasn’t the rat. And the American, do you know what became of him?”

“Indeed, I do. He married me, as soon as we crossed the border into Spain,” Hanna explained. “And what about Titon? Did you see him again?”

“Never. Perhaps he was the one who turned on the others.”

“Perhaps nobody did,” Hanna replied. “It’s not the only time those butchers spilled blood out in these woods.”

“Of course, anything’s possible,” said Jorge.

“What about the hunting lodge?”

“It’s just sitting out there, abandoned. We cleared out the weapons, and I don’t believe anyone has set foot inside since. I’m not even sure I’d have the heart to go there myself. I walk by it often, and I always steer clear. The soil up there is still black with their blood. That place is worse than a graveyard.”

Hearing this, Hanna knew the next favor she had to ask Jorge would be difficult for him to grant. She wanted him to take her up to the lodge. She needed to set foot in the place where her father died. Only then would her mourning truly be complete.

“All right,” replied Jorge after a moment. “Perhaps it would do me good as well. Maybe going together will make us stronger.”

They rode his motorcycle to the trailhead, then climbed up the same rocky path that Hanna and Robert had used to flee in the dead of night just two years before. Several times, Hanna grew short of breath and had to stop, the memories making her weak. She would take a deep breath to stop her body from trembling, and then press on.

After what seemed like an eternity, the hunting lodge finally appeared at the top of the hill. No smoke rose from the old stone chimney now. Everything was calm, so much calmer than Hanna could have imagined.

Jorge was the first to cross the threshold. He stood in the exact spot where his brother died, kneeled, and made the sign of the cross. Hanna entered her old bedroom. The wardrobe had been reduced to a heap of rotting plywood, the box-spring mattress nothing but a tangle of rusty spirals. And yet, strangely enough, the chair in which Hanna had sat for hours on end had survived intact, just like Hanna herself. She sat in the chair once more, with her hands in her lap and her eyes drifting out the window into those woods just as she used to, what seemed like a lifetime ago . . .