This made a nearby partisan snicker. “You hold it like this, by the magazine, old man, or all you’ll end up doing is shooting a bunch of holes in the ceiling,” he said. “That thing’s got a hair trigger, so hold on tight. You do so much as hiccup, you’ll set it off!”
They could hear the militiamen stalking through the forest outside, the sound of their footsteps marking their approach. The partisans were tightwire tense, barely even breathing as they waited to open fire on a pack of faceless enemies. Just then, the militiamen abruptly departed, and everyone sighed with relief. They had never even set foot on the path leading toward the hunting lodge.
Crisis averted, Sam and Robert went down to free Hanna from her hiding place. The girl immediately stormed up the stairs and disappeared into her room. Robert started to follow, but Sam stopped him with a hand on his arm. He dragged his American friend down into the dark tunnel, came to a sudden stop, and sparked up a lighter. Robert squinted as his eyes adjusted to the light.
“I got the idea from watching the partisans dig away down here, hiding their weapons,” the art dealer whispered. “See this wooden post?” he asked, running his hand over one of the thick beams holding up the tunnel. “I’ve used it as my very own hiding spot.”
In the glow of the flickering flame, Sam slid out part of the wooden beam and waved Robert in for a closer look. A deep hole had been dug into the wall behind, and Robert could make out some kind of a tube hidden within, the flames reflecting off its metal surface.
“I rolled them inside the cylinder and hid it here where they would be safe,” Sam said. “Whatever fate befalls the two of us, they must never get into German hands.”
Robert watched entranced as Sam slid the wooden beam back into place.
“Manet, Cézanne, Delacroix, Fragonard, Renoir, Ingres, Degas, Corot, Rembrandt. And of course, my precious Hopper. The ten most beautiful paintings from my entire collection . . . the spoils of a life’s work. Priceless masterpieces. Priceless. Enough to ensure Hanna’s entire future.”
“Who else knows about this?”
“Only you, my boy. Now, don’t you forget our little deal . . .”
19
ELEANOR-RIGBY
October 2016, en route to Baltimore
As the plane glided over Scotland, I gazed out of the window to where the coastline met the rolling waves, the rest of the land still hidden under the wing. I had kept the leather pouch in my lap since takeoff, clutching it tensely as though it were some sort of precious relic. The leather was cracked, and the cord slack and worn with age. I had explored every last inch of the pouch, putting off the most important part. I was terrified to actually read the letter.
I thought about Michel writing that note and slipping the pouch into my jacket, all in secret. It must have weighed very heavily on him. Strangely enough, it actually gave me hope to know that my brother had strayed—even the tiniest bit—from the straight and narrow. It was crazy to think that lying and sneaking around had actually brought him one step closer to “normal.”
As I finally took the letter from the pouch, I was struck by the scent of my mother’s unique perfume on the envelope. I had to wonder: Just how long did she hold on to this mysterious letter? Closing my eyes, I pictured my mother opening the envelope and reading the message within, just as I was doing now . . .
My darling Sally-Anne,
First, I must tell you that this will be my final letter, even if it’s the last thing I want. This annual tradition has been so important to me—a much-needed escape from the crushing loneliness of my daily life. But you don’t need me to tell you about loneliness.
I often ask myself: How could two people’s lives be so utterly destroyed by one single, tragic mistake? Do you believe that kind of rotten luck is passed down from one generation to the next, like a curse?