CATHERINE IS STANDING by the side of her bed. A suitcase lies open and Liam is picking out clothes to take to Denmark. “You are not taking that shirt,” she says. “It’s older than I am, and it has a hole in the back.”
“But it’s my favorite,” he protests. “It’s just a running shirt, and besides you won’t even know I’m wearing it.”
She wags her finger. “I’ll know. If you take it, you’ll wear it. I can’t have my husband running off to Europe with ratty clothes. Everyone will say, ‘How could your wife let you travel like that?’” She rips it out of the suitcase and hands him a new T-shirt. “What about your sport coat?”
He shrugs. “I’ll wear it on the plane.”
Catherine shakes her head. “No, you won’t. You’ll take it off, rumple it up and put it in the overhead compartment. And then other people will stuff their suitcases right on top of it and it will end up looking like an accordion. Give it to me and I’ll fold it for you to put in the suitcase.”
He leans over, kisses her on the forehead and smiles proudly. While she finishes packing, he says, “I’ve made a checklist of people and places I need to see. Professor Lundhill gave me some names; people who work in the museums and the archives. He knows the harbormaster at Copenhagen Harbor. He told me to check the names in the Bovrup Index for collaborators. It’s available through the Danish Genealogy Society.”
“I remember,” Catherine said. “You told me they compiled records of the Danish Nazi Party. You also told me it was online.”
“That’s partially true. A little more than five thousand Danish Nazis are named and published online. I’ve reviewed them, and neither Henryks nor Hendricksen is listed. But Dr. Lundhill said there were actually more than twenty-two thousand members of the Danish National Socialist Party, and he thought I might get better access to the Bovrup Index by talking to the society’s docent, an acquaintance of his.”
“Does Dr. Lundhill have records of the members of the Blue Shirt Club, the one Billy Hendricksen started? Britta said that Ole was a member.”
Liam shakes his head. “Not that I know of. I also asked him about the Blue Storm Club. He’s not aware of an index that mentions either one.”
A sigh escapes Catherine’s lips and she stands with her hands on her hips. “Are we kidding ourselves? Are we beating our heads against the wall here, Liam? We have only a few days left until our pleading deadline, we have nothing solid, and you’re running off to Copenhagen with nothing but a checklist and a torn shirt? And you don’t even speak Danish.”
“First of all, you took my torn shirt. Look, if there is something to find in Copenhagen, I will find it. Otherwise, let’s hope the wall is soft, ’cause my head is hard. By the way, I think I should call Chick Chaikin to guard the office while I’m gone.”
“That’s sweet, but we don’t need Chick. I don’t need bodyguards. We have Gladys. We’ll be fine.”
Their conversation is interrupted by the ring of the telephone and Catherine leaves to answer it. She quickly returns with a worried look on her face. “That was Emma. She would like to come over and talk to us. I told her it would be okay.”
“Did she tell you why? Did she give you any reason?”
Catherine shakes her head. “No, but I’ve come to recognize different inflections in her voice, and she sounds very troubled to me. I hope Britta is all right.”
“I’M SORRY TO bother you at home,” Emma says as she enters the foyer. “I had a few thoughts I wanted to share before Liam left for Denmark.”
“You could have told me on the phone,” Catherine says. “Is it something else; perhaps something more personal?”
Emma nods sheepishly. “It’s my grandmother. She’s not well. She doesn’t want you to know. We’ve been to the doctor three times since her arrest. Her blood pressure is out of control. This case is taking a toll on her, but she insists on going forward without taking a break. Her doctor has urged her to rest and take it easy.”
“That doesn’t sound like your grandmother.”
“I know. She’s struggling to finish her story and give you enough evidence to beat Henryks.”
Catherine smiles sympathetically and starts to speak, but Emma says, “I know what you’re thinking; why doesn’t she shorten it up, why do we need to know about Lukas and Grethe and Professor Koch?”
“We know why,” Catherine says. “It’s for your benefit. I take it she hasn’t told you her life’s story before.”
“Never. Oh, I’ve asked Bubbe about her life a hundred times, but she would always change the subject, or just say, ‘Not now.’ There’s pain there, Catherine, and she’s never wanted to confront it.”
Catherine invites Emma to follow her into the kitchen. “Would you care for a cup of coffee?”
With both hands around a warm cup, Emma speaks wistfully. “The whole time I was in school, my Bubbe lived with us. My mom worked long hours and so Bubbe really raised me.”
“Britta never told you that she wasn’t Isabel’s mother?”
Emma shakes her head. “You saw me; I was shocked when Bubbe said that Grethe gave birth to my mother. What happened through all those years?” She spreads her hands. “I still don’t know. Nobody ever told me, not even my mother, who died six years ago. I wonder now if my mother ever knew who her real parents were. I don’t think she did. I wonder if she knew about Lukas and Grethe. If she knew, she never told me. She probably thought Theodore and Britta were her parents.”
Emma raises her eyes to the ceiling. “As it turns out, Bubbe never had any children of her own. I confronted her earlier this evening. ‘Why haven’t you been honest with me all these years?’ I said.” Emma pauses and a tear rolls down her cheek. “I upset her, Catherine. She’s not healthy, I love her with all my heart, and I upset her tonight by accusing her of being dishonest. This is the woman who raised me.” Emma breaks into tears and leans forward onto the kitchen table. “I had to talk to someone. I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
“I’m not bothered, and I’m honored that you came to me. The fact is, she’s telling you the whole story now. Isn’t that all right?”
Emma nods. “I’m sure that it was the only way she could do it.” A slight chuckle erupts. “It’s like going through a joint therapy session, like family counseling, isn’t it? Life’s story bit by bit for my benefit. I know you and Liam have already come to that conclusion.”
Catherine smiles and raises her eyebrows. “A long time ago. We refer to it as her memoir.”
“But you have a court deadline to plead specific facts and you’re letting her proceed at her own pace. You’ve stuck by her. Is that wise for you?”
Catherine shrugs. “She’s the client. She knows the risks. If we don’t have proof of specific facts, her defense will be stricken, and the case will go to judgment. It wouldn’t be the end of the world. Britta will have passed along her oral history—her memoir—to you. She will have publicly exposed Henryks as a traitor, even though as yet unproven. And there will likely be a million-dollar judgment against her, which will remain uncollectible. I think she has that all figured out.”
“And you’re okay with that? All your time and hard work in a lost cause?”
Catherine shrugs. “I’m okay with part of what you said. I don’t intend to lose.”
Liam walks into the kitchen. “Cat, do you know where my brown loafers are?” He looks to the side. “Hi, Emma.”
“In your closet, on the floor, I’m pretty sure. Emma, meet the world’s greatest detective, who can’t find his clothes in front of his face. Nevertheless, he’s about to fly to Europe on a fact-finding mission. I’ve seen him do it a dozen times. He’s the best there is.”
Emma reaches into her purse and pulls out a piece of note paper. “There are a couple of matters I think would be worthwhile to explore. I jotted them down. Bubbe says that you should look into Margit Simmons and her father’s business. Bubbe was unaware that Ole had married Margit. Her father had a business that made a lot of money during the occupation. He could have only done that if the Nazis were buying. She says Ole may have worked there for a time. She also thinks that the picture, the one that’s on the tavern wall, where Ole and his father are standing in front of a boat, is significant. Bubbe says that Ole’s father was a day-worker. He would not have owned a big fishing boat like that. Bubbe thinks his story about transporting Jewish refugees to safety is a lie. Besides, Jews weren’t smuggled to Stockholm, Sweden; they were taken across the sound.”
Liam nods. “I know, I’ve been told that Stockholm would have been too far away. Does your grandmother know the identity of the third person in the picture, the young man standing next to Ole?”
“I don’t think she does. She says it’s not his brother, Billy.”
She hands a note to Liam, on which the words “Henning Brondum” are written. “Bubbe remembers that Henning was a friend of Ole’s, and he may have been involved in some organization that was sympathetic to Germany.”
“Could that be the young man in the picture?”
Emma shrugs. “Maybe, I don’t know. Bubbe didn’t recognize the third person. She remembers Brondum being a little older than Ole, and in her words, he was a ‘bad apple.’ That’s all I know.” She stands. “Thank you for listening to me. I better go back and make amends with my grandmother.” She smiles. “Or my great-aunt. Who knows?”