War bonds a novel of wor.., p.33
War Bonds: A Novel of World War Two,
p.33
Gordon’s anger slipped into incredulousness as he studied her serious demeanor, her posture that lacked even a hint of the flirtatious manipulation that had once been her stock and trade. “I would imagine,” she continued, “that having known me as you did, you doubt my perspective could change so completely. The journey from Poland was impossibly difficult, but for some reason, it did not embitter me; it opened my eyes to what I’d done, what Reinhard and all of them had done. I remember what you and the men said as we drove near the compound at Auschwitz. I tried so desperately to not see the truth. But months in a camp with thousands of other displaced persons who told horrific stories of persecution—who lost loved ones and friends and neighbors—caused me to finally consider how, exactly, I had arrived at this place, this moment in my life. My parents and sister were killed by Allied bombs as they tried to escape Berlin. So, at the close of the war, I had nothing. I concluded, eventually, that I could remain angry and dedicated to the belief that I had been wronged—by you, by Reinhard, by all of Germany, really, or I could accept that I had been party to it all in staying silent, and could begin to make some small reparation. I have chosen the latter.”
As he appraised her, she gave a quick nod to emphasize she meant what she said. “I give a portion of my earnings to aid others who have struggled to find their footing after leaving their homelands. The children and I have worked with others at La Victoire synagogue to restore it after the damage the Nazis did to it. We prepare meals for elderly members of the congregation. Small things, I know, but good things for the children—for me—to do.”
“Who knows the truth,” Gordon asked, “besides the older children?”
“I know it, Gordon. I carry it with me every day. I have confessed at the cathedral, but the priests will not disclose it. There was a professor at the Conservatoire who seemed to remember me from my student days, but he has retired now, moved to the coast. I have told no one at the synagogue my whole story, although I’m sure there are those who suspect things. But I am not the only one with an uncertain background, eager to right wrongs. The rabbis do not judge me or ask questions. They are simply glad to have the help. I knew this day would come, but I had hoped Mila would be a little older, a bit more settled in her life. I did not imagine it would be you who exposed me, but there is justice in that, certainly. I had thought the housekeepers from Sagan would turn up one day and point the finger at me. I have dreamt of just that thing. I treated them dreadfully, I know. I was a child, petulant and selfish, something I have endeavored to prevent in my children. Over time, I’ve learned it will not be a German who turns me in because they are just as busy as I am trying not to draw attention. But here you are and if you wish to reveal this to the faculty at the Conservatoire, I cannot fault you. If I’ve a further price to pay, I shall pay it. I shall begin again.”
From a distance, Beryl watched the long conversation, the intensity and emotion of it, and recognized at once who this woman must be. Observing her husband, the forceful way he spoke to her and the way the woman leaned in to speak to him confirmed the deep familiarity between them, a closeness that had crossed boundaries Gordon normally observed with other women. The hall had emptied now, just the five of them left, so Beryl beckoned her son and Lisette to follow her to where Gordon stood.
“Gordon?” she asked questioningly as she approached, her discomfort evident.
“Yes, love, sorry. So sorry. We got… involved. I apologize. This is my wife, Beryl.”
Annalise extended one hand while the other went to her chest, something Gordon had seen her do when she wished to get her way with Reinhard, a gesture utterly contrived. But this time, Gordon believed it signaled a humility, a measure of regret, perhaps even an apology.
“Beryl,” she said. “Of course.”
“And my son, Colin, and his wife, Lisette.”
Annalise’s eye’s narrowed for a beat, calculating. “Your son? How glorious. I recall you’d always hoped to have a family.”
“And this is Annalise,” said Gordon before adding, slowly, “Annalise Stroński. I knew her in Poland. In the war.”
Beryl shot Gordon a confused look and he responded with a slight shake of his head, a quick closing of his eyes.
“A pleasure,” Beryl said woodenly, the unease she remembered from the late days of the war returning suddenly, threateningly.
“It is I who has the pleasure,” responded Annalise, “to finally see your family reunited. To meet the woman Gordon held at the center of his heart.” She looked Beryl hard in the eye. “And he always did. Always. I knew that. I treated him poorly for it. I’m aware of this. I apologize. To all of you.”
Her words were startling, words none of them had ever imagined they’d hear.
“Of course,” Beryl responded quickly, automatically, as if the apology were attached to something minor and insignificant, a careless faux pas. “But I must… I want to thank you for curing my husband of the typhus. For saving his life. We would obviously not be here now had you not done that.”
Annalise closed her eyes and gave her head the smallest shake, as if she didn’t deserve to hear Beryl’s gratitude. “So, there is at least one time that my selfishness did some good,” she said finally, “perhaps only one. Now, Gordon, the administrator of the school is often in his office after concerts so I can take you there, or give you his telephone number—whatever you prefer.” Annalise offered a contrite smile, seemingly prepared for whatever lay ahead of her. Beryl stood anchored by Colin, her arm linked through his. Gordon spoke.
“That’s not necessary. I have nothing to say to him. Your children are waiting, Annalise, so you best be off. We bid you goodnight. Please tell Ilsa once again her performance was exquisite.”
Annalise gave a disbelieving shake of her head, tears welling in her eyes. The group exchanged parting well-wishes, perfunctory but kind. As Gordon turned to go, Annalise reached for his hand and held it, saying simply, “Mila?”
“I leave that up to you. But I don’t believe introducing all this now would serve her. She seems well-adjusted, a confident, bright little girl.”
“She is. And loved deeply by her siblings.”
“Then raise her well, Annalise. I trust you to do that on my behalf. Goodbye, Annalise. I wish you well.”
“Goodbye, Lieutenant.” They smiled at this, in spite of the memories it evoked, her first time addressing him with his wartime rank with a tone of respect and deference. “Know that I am grateful. For everything.”
. . .
The moment they reached the street, Colin demanded to know who the woman was, why his mother was so anxious and his father had been so deadly serious with her.
They walked along the narrow sidewalk adjacent Rue La Boétie, heading toward the avenue des Champs-Élysées, Gordon taking a moment before formulating a mostly true response: “She worked with the Germans in Poland in the war, Colin. In some ways, she was very helpful to me. She made sure I was treated for typhus and that saved my life. But she took part in some awful things, as I’m sure you can imagine. I learned tonight the extent that she and her children have suffered, and that seems to have effected a genuine remorse in her. She has a sense of obligation to the world because of the people who helped her get back on her feet. Hers is a rather astonishing evolution, I must say. She even offered an apology to me—something I could never have imagined when last I saw her.”
“Wouldn’t the vicar have relished hearing this?” Colin mused. “He believed no one was beyond redemption. I can hear him reciting the verses from Saint Paul, how suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. In my hardest of moments, when I was growing up in Elsworth, he made sure we understood that hope was never lost, always reminding us to allow grace the time to do its work.”
“It’s done a mighty work with her,” said Gordon.
Beryl nodded. “With all of us, I’d say.”
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
To every friend who, year after year, graciously read my Christmas letter and said, “You should write a book” — well, okay. I did. Thanks for the push. And to the friends who refrained from eye-rolling when said I was doing it, my love and heartfelt thanks. I’m grateful beyond measure to earliest readers Karen Jordan and Linda Galle for the time they spent with my story and for their spirited debate about where the heart of a certain character truly lay. To intrepid readers Lenore Norsworthy and Julia Rogers: thank you for staying up well past your bedtimes to follow these characters home. Much love to book critic, par excellence, Joanna Pope, who asked to read WAR BONDS, then became a promoter, passing around a Xeroxed manuscript to others. To the Night Angels Book Group: thank you for bringing years of books to my bedside table—A Gentleman in Moscow, All the Light We Cannot See are two—that inspired me to begin a story of my own. Much love to Betty Obenshain and Deanie Quillian for their legal expertise and unfailing interest, constant support, and steady friendship. And to the dramamamas who were unfailingly supportive and always eager for an update.
Thank you, Black Rose Writing, for inviting me into this resourceful, smart, and warm writing family.
To my children who cheered me, my dogs who reminded me when it was time to stop writing and tend to other things, and to Gray, my poet-musician, writer-theologian, basketball playing World War Two aircraft-identifier, who brought the most perfect set of support skills to this project, and whose steadiness, kindness, and unflagging belief has anchored me my whole life long. I love you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Pamela Norsworthy applies the same tenacity she used as a writer with CNN Headline News to ensure every detail in her historical novels is accurate and illuminating. After a career in television and corporate communications, Pamela turned to fiction writing to share her love of history and politics and explore how decisions made by a powerful few can prove cataclysmic for everyday people caught in the crossfire. A graduate of the University of Virginia (2019 NCAA Men's Basketball Champions), Pamela lives with her husband and two very spoiled dogs in Atlanta, Georgia, all four of them loyal Atlanta Braves baseball fans.
NOTE FROM PAMELA NORSWORTHY
Thank you for reading! Please visit pamelanorsworthywrites.com to find book club questions, blogs that fill in some of the historical context, and a sign-up for my newsletter.
Word-of-mouth is crucial to an author’s success. If you enjoyed War Bonds, please leave an online review. Even a sentence or two makes all the difference.
With appreciation,
Pamela Norsworthy
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Pamela Norsworthy, War Bonds: A Novel of World War Two
