Stella stepped out of the front door of the Hotel Krasnapolsky and accepted an umbrella from the doorman, a young man she didn’t know well.
“Are you sure you don’t want a cab?” he asked, his face wreathed in concern.
She smiled up at him. “It’s my last night in the city. I’d rather walk and really see it.”
He looked out into the square with appreciative eyes. “We have a beautiful city. You will miss it?”
“Very much, but I must go to the station and check the schedules. There might be cancelations or delays with the situation as it is.”
“You don’t think the Nazis are interrupting the trains, do you?”
“No, but the government might need them for troop transport,” she said. “I wouldn’t want to arrive at the station with luggage and nowhere to go.”
“It is prudent to check,” he said.
“And it gives me a chance for one more walk.” Stella gave him a tip and walked out into the drizzle. She would go to the station but not for the reason she told the doorman.
Stella hurried over a couple of blocks and then jumped on the tram to the station. It was jammed with people and their luggage. All the talk was about if they would be bombed and how badly. Some denied it would happen at all, but those voices were now few and far between. The evening papers had been less optimistic and there were instructions on how to withstand a bombing. Basements existed, but they weren’t deep and the air raid shelters were above ground. Everyone seemed to think leaving the city was the only alternative and there was much talk of the London evacuations.
No one asked Stella anything and she was grateful. She was less optimistic than the papers and no one on that tram needed to hear how little hope she had. At the station stop, she jumped off with the others to join a queue of people heading into the station that was jam-packed. All she wanted to do was look at the schedule, not even buy a ticket, but it was a challenge between being short and so many heads in the way. With the help of a kindly man, she found the schedules for Westerbork, the town, not the camp, and Assen. Both towns had early milk trains, but she couldn’t look too eager, so it was probably better not to get there at the crack of dawn, but that was taking a chance. There were already some cancelations and the trains out of the country were sold out until tomorrow. A good excuse or at least a start of one.
Stella thanked the helpful man and squeezed her way out of the station and just started walking. There was nowhere to go. She and Oliver had parted with an understanding that she’d leave immediately. There were no arrangements to meet again, so she wouldn’t have to come clean about the situation. Her most immediate problem was staying. She’d made such a show of leaving at the hotel to change course was a problem. Instructions. New instructions. From New York.
She stopped suddenly and a couple ran into her, cursing her bad manners. She apologized and turned around, dashing back to the station and its crowds where she could be forgotten quickly.
The telegram office was hidden away in a corner, but plenty of people were waiting in a queue to contact family or ask for money. Stella waited patiently, working on the telegram in her head. What to say to get a telegram back immediately? She couldn’t give it away.
The harried clerk looked up at her with exhausted eyes. Behind him, the telegraph clicking sounded like a flock of woodpeckers. “Yes.”
“Telegram to New York, New York,” she said.
Usually that got some interest but not that night. The clerk wouldn’t have cared if she said Timbuktu. “Address?”
She gave him the address of B.L. Imports and he wrote it with a dull pencil in large block letters. Then he slid the paper to her. “Hurry. I’ve got a line.”
“Thank you.” She took the pencil and wrote in her own block letters.
LEAD ON FINE FURNITURE SET.
MAY SUIT NEW CLIENT. TIME TIGHT.
ADVISE IMMEDIATELY.
MICHELINE DUBOIS
HOTEL KRASNAPOLSKY
AMSTERDAM, THE NETHERLANDS
That should do it. Stella pushed the paper back to the clerk. He looked up from his cost chart and barely looked at the message. She paid him and asked, “How soon will it be sent? I’m in a rush.”
“Who isn’t?” He looked at her and sighed dramatically.
“What is going on there?” complained a woman behind her. “I have a train to catch.”
Stella glanced back. “I just have to pay. One moment.” Then she paid again and the clerk tucked the money away. In his pocket.
“It will go out immediately.” He went in the back room and handed an operator her message instead of putting it on the pile. “Have a good day.”
“Thank you and good evening.” Stella moved away and the woman behind her rushed up to ask prices. How much for ten words to Brussels? How much for ten to Paris? How much for London? Norwich? Stella doubted that the woman had a train to catch. If she did, she didn’t know where it was going.
Stella left the little office, almost getting run over by a bike messenger. They were doing a brisk business with all the telegrams flying around. If her little bribe worked as it should, she’d have an hour at most to kill. An hour in Amsterdam was easy to fill and she left the station to find a quaint café to waste it in.
“Did you enjoy your walk?” asked the doorman.
Stella smiled. “I did. Amsterdam is beautiful all the time, but I think I like it best in the rain. Very mysterious.”
He took the umbrella from her and glanced out at the square. “Mysterious?”
“All those quiet canals and silent boats going by,” she said. “Who knows what secrets they’re hiding.”
“I heard you were writing a book.”
“I’m thinking about it, but I can’t decide. A romantic novel or a tale of intrigue.”
“Intrigue with a beautiful girl in distress.” The doorman smiled and warmed to the subject. “She could be captured, held against her will, and your hero has to find her somewhere in the depths of Amsterdam.”
She laughed and elbowed him. “Maybe you should be writing the book.”
He ducked his head. “I have thought of it.”
“Well, you will have plenty of material if they come,” Stella said. “Lots of distress.”
The doorman opened the door for her. “And villains.”
“No shortage at all.”
The young man was grim, but she could see his mind working and it made her smile as she entered the lobby. Uncle Josiah was off to the left, lounging against a pillar and charming the socks off the feather-headed Marga. She was blushing and twisting her long hair around a finger as she batted her eyes at Stella’s uncle, who was never more endearing to her than he was at that moment. He played his part beautifully, once more enticing a beautiful young woman away from her duties and risking the wrath of Mr. De Jong who was trying and failing to conceal a frown as he looked on from the front desk. Anybody else would be thrown out after the trouble he’d caused and was still trying to cause for no other reason than he could.
Josiah Bled was always one to risk everything for practically nothing at all. He’d been arrested on four continents, thrown out of six countries, including his own, and had done jail time for breaking into Windsor Castle to steal a tea towel on a one quid bet. After drinking himself into a stupor during an economic meeting at the White House and throwing up in a spittoon that belonged to Andrew Jackson, Eleanor Roosevelt famously asked him, “Have you ever controlled yourself?” Uncle Josiah said, “I haven’t ever found a reason to.”
Now he had a reason and her name was Judith Wahle, the twenty-one-year-old daughter of Felix and Klara. He’d met her the first time he went to Hallstatt and had fallen for her “like a ton of bricks” as he put it. She was eighteen at the time and home after being told she couldn’t study at the University of Heidelberg anymore because she was a Jew.
“That’s the one thing I’d thank Hitler for before I shot him in the head,” said Uncle Josiah. “If he wasn’t such a racist bastard I’d never have met her.”
The revelation had stunned Stella into silence, not that Uncle Josiah noticed. He was talking about Judith and the world did not exist. If Stella hadn’t heard it from him, she wouldn’t have believed it possible. Josiah the family ne’er-do-well in love? Her grandmother had given up on the idea long ago. She’d told Stella once, “We can only hope he won’t ruin more than reputations.”
He probably had. No Bled had been invited back to the White House, for instance, but none of that mattered now. Josiah loved Judith and he would do anything to save her. Anything. That was clear from the start. Stella’s mission wasn’t important. She didn’t think he’d out her to save Judith, but it wasn’t too far out of the realm. Judith and her family would die if the Reich got ahold of them. Josiah was convinced. He’d seen Dachau and nobody who’d seen that misery could forget it. The Committee for Jewish Refugees was running Westerbork so the Wahles should be safe for the moment, but that fact didn’t soothe Uncle Josiah. Jewish control was temporary with the invasion imminent and to make matters worse, Stella had made the mistake of telling him about Ravensbrück, the camp for women, and he was properly terrified for Judith and her mother, Evangeline’s beloved Klara.
When he finished describing Judith’s many virtues, Stella finally got a word in edgewise. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“Felix and Klara wouldn’t agree to let us marry,” he said. “She was too young and I’m not Jewish.”
“That doesn’t mean you couldn’t tell us about her,” said Stella.
“No one would’ve taken me seriously.”
“I wonder why.” A smile crept onto her lips against her will.
“Don’t do that,” said Uncle Josiah. “You’re my partner in crime. If I can’t convince you, what hope is there?”
Not much, Stella had to admit. He had such a disastrous reputation and there had been others he’d been wild about, only to forget their very existence a few months later. “Do her parents believe you? I assume they know about you.”
“Yes,” he said. “I’ve won them over.”
“How?” Stella asked. “My parents had a hard time with Nicky and he wasn’t twenty years older and you know...crazy.”
“Seventeen years.”
Stella laughed for the benefit of whoever might be watching and then said, “Well, that makes all the difference.”
“Three years is three years.”
“You’re Josiah Bled. I’m shocked Felix didn’t chase you out of town with a shotgun. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
He looked her in the eyes, steady and open. “I said I’d convert.”
“Really?”
“Stella, I love her. How can I explain it better?”
“You never do anything by halves, I’ll give you that.”
His eyes grew merry and he laughed. “Miss Dubois, you are a card. Come out with us tonight. We’ll show you a good time.”
Ester was peeking at them again and Stella yawned. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Bled. I have to get to the station and find a train to catch.” She pushed back her chair and he got up to help her.
“Let me get your coat,” said Uncle Josiah.
“Thank you.”
Ester retreated into the kitchen and he helped her on with her coat. “You won’t leave?”
“No, of course not,” she said.
“What will you do?” he asked.
“I have no idea.” She put out her hand and they shook. “Thank you for an amusing afternoon, Mr. Bled. You are one for the record books.”
Dirk came in from the kitchen, sporting a huge grin. “He is, isn’t he? You enjoyed your coffee, Micheline?”
“Yes. Mr. Bled is good for a laugh. I hope you have a lot of fun tonight.”
The men wished her well and she headed out, hoping Uncle Josiah would behave himself while he waited for her to return.
Looking at him across the lobby with his rakish smile and Marga blushing furiously, it seemed like he had controlled himself, as much as Josiah Bled ever did. Marga was all for going out with him and his cronies and Ester was trying to horn in. It sounded like he was gathering quite a group for the night out. Typical Josiah.
Stella walked by them and went to the desk to smile at the night clerk, who was watching the group with longing. “Could you have a bellhop come to my room? I found a train.”
The clerk looked surprised. “Was it hard?”
“Very. Everything is full. The invasion, you know.”
“My father says it won’t happen,” she said.
Stella sighed. “I wish he would’ve told everyone at the station. It would’ve made my life easier.”
“When would you like him to come up?”
Stella’s palms began to sweat. No telegram. She checked her watch. “In an hour. I want to get there early.”
The clerk said she’d send someone up for her luggage and smiled sweetly. “Anything else? Dinner perhaps while you wait.”
“I don’t think so. Mr. Bled fed me plenty of pastry. I can wait. Were there any messages for me?”
“No. Were you expecting some?”
“I was just checking,” said Stella with a lump in her throat. She’d have to check out if New York didn’t get a move on. “Thank you. I nearly forgot. How is Michel? Has he gone to the hospital?”
“He’s fine, I think, but they sent him home.” She leaned over the desk. “I think it was indigestion. He’s a bit of a pig.”
Stella laughed and said she was relieved before going to wait for the elevator, trying to think of what to do. A new hotel? She could switch to Charlotte Sedgewick if she had to, but it wasn’t ideal. Her Micheline contacts like Elizabeth and Madam Milla would be lost to her.
The elevator doors opened and a new operator grinned at her. “I won’t pass out, Micheline,” said Max.
“Thank goodness. That was enough excitement for one day,” she said, stepping on with a heavy heart.
“Michel told you about Jan Bikker?”
“He did.”
“You should go. He’s not a nice man.”
“I am.”
I have to. Dammit.
Ludwik came running toward the elevator just as Max started to close the door. “Micheline! Micheline!”
Max pulled the doors back and Stella stepped off. “What’s wrong? Is it Michel?”
“No, no,” said Ludwik. “You have a telegram.” He said it loud enough for the whole lobby to hear and Stella was grateful. “It’s from New York.”
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
“Can you hold on for a moment, Max?” she asked.
“Of course,” Max said, looking curiously at the telegram in Ludwik’s hand.
She took it and said, “Let’s see what they have to say.”
“A raise?” Ludwik suggested and she smacked him with the envelope. “Just the thing. Cross your fingers,” she said.
“Crossing.”
Stella opened the telegram and read the message with a deepening frown.
NEW CLIENT. PURCHASE PREVIOUSLY MENTIONED FURNITURE SET. THOROUGH PROVENANCE DESIRED. MAY REQUIRE FURTHER PIECES IN SAME STYLE. ADVISE WHEN INITIAL PURCHASE COMPLETE.
JOSEPH O’CONNOR
B.L. IMPORTS
“Not a raise then?” Ludwik asked.
“No,” said Stella with a sigh. “Is my room still available or have you booked it?”
“No, it’s free. Are you staying?”
“I am. We have a new client and they want furniture.”
Ludwik glanced at the telegram held so he could see the contents. “You have some already in mind?”
“I told them about a set I saw. It was very good, but not my personal client’s style. It was an excellent buy though.”
“A new client for you then.”
“Perhaps.” She smiled. “Now I get to unpack.”
“Dinner in the dining room?”
“My room. I must dig through my books and see what else I can find for them. I have some ideas.” Stella got back on the elevator and chatted with Max about the baron’s party on her way up to her floor. He, like everyone else, was fascinated by extravagance.
“I don’t think I could go through fire or swing on that rope,” he said.
“Even for unlimited champagne?” Stella asked.
Max screwed up his mouth, opened the door for her, and then stepped back. “How much is unlimited?”
“I think people drank their body weight.”
“Did they have good Jenever?”
Stella thought of Cornelia covertly having sips of her spiked coffee throughout the night and giving Stella a wink. “It’s Amsterdam. What do you think?”
“I might risk it at that,” said Max.
She shook her head at him with a laugh and went down to her room, stopping with her hand on the doorknob. She looked back at Max, but he’d already closed the elevator door. Too late. Or maybe it was a good thing. Stella’s door was unlocked and slightly ajar. At least now she had a minute to think about what to do. If Max had noticed, the choice was gone and all might be revealed.
Stella took a breath and went in, reaching automatically for the light switch, but the light had been left on. She never wasted electricity. That alone would’ve tipped her off and, if by some miracle it didn’t, the rest of the room would’ve. She’d left her suitcases together on the floor next to the bed. Now they were on the bed with her little briefcase on top with its clasp open.
“Marga.”
No one else would’ve made such a mess of it. Certainly not Jan Bikker. Marga must’ve snuck up when Stella was in the café with Uncle Josiah. The girl really was as stupid as she seemed. Bikker would never pay her, unless it was with spite, and here she was trying to find names of other Jews for him, a man who fired her. Beyond stupid.
Stella opened the suitcases first and found her seals on the secret compartments were intact and nothing moved. The gorgeous sewing box was still on her dressing table and it was easily the most expensive item in her room, but Marga had stolen a ring out of the jewelry box she had for purchases. Luckily, the ring wasn’t from Francesqua’s list. She’d bought it simply to fill out her inventory in case someone asked to see what she had. It was genuine but oversized and gaudy with a flawed pear-shaped diamond surrounded in equally flawed and cloudy emeralds. The jeweler had bought it as a favor to a friend who’d fallen on hard times years before and sold it to Stella at a substantial discount just to get rid of it. The ring was the worst piece in the box, but it was also the showiest and largest. If Marga had been paying attention, she’d have noticed it was the only piece without a tag with names on it. The ring’s tag only said Apeldoorn and the jeweler’s shop with a tiny note of special provenance.
Stella found the ring’s tag in her trash bin on top of the crumpled tissues and some wig hair pulled out of her comb for realism. Stella’s real stray hair got flushed.
“Nitwit.” She sat on the bed and went through her briefcase. It looked like the whole thing had been dumped out and everything stuffed back inside without a care to how it looked originally. Marga had taken her copy of Der Totale Krieg out of her small suitcase and put it in the briefcase as if Stella wouldn’t notice. The girl had jammed it in so quickly, the pages were crushed by being shoved onto one of the ledgers. The book would never be the same, but it was intact.
Stella spread the ledgers and notebooks out, looking through each one. No papers were missing. She seriously doubted that Marga knew what she was looking at. Stella’s official ledgers were informative if you were an accountant. Dates, prices, places, and last names. Nothing to mark someone a Jew and the last names weren’t necessarily Jewish. Berger could be Jewish or just German and she had names from nine countries. What did Marga know about Danish names? And the real lists were hidden in the compartment where Marga hadn’t looked. What would the girl tell Bikker? There was a list? Both ledgers would have to be that list and they were thick. Park-Welles had them faked to look like Micheline Dubois had been working for B.L. Imports for years.
This was the last thing Stella needed and there was no way around it. Between the theft and Marga’s bungling, Stella couldn’t chance letting it go. She’d be in Amsterdam for a few more days and Jan Bikker knew the girl from his hotel. If he had two brain cells to rub together, the man would know that girl could not search a room cleanly. It wasn’t possible. She couldn’t remember to bring a menu. Stella had to report the break-in or risk Bikker realizing she didn’t because she had something to hide.
She kicked off her shoes and went to the window to look out onto the square. Everything was shiny and slick with the rain and lit up for Saturday night with couples and groups having a last hoorah before they came. She checked her watch. A few more minutes. Then below Stella’s window, a group left the hotel under wide black umbrellas. It was quite a big group with seven umbrellas and even through the glass, Stella could hear hints of raucous laughter. She watched them walk into the square and was rewarded when an umbrella turned and tipped up, revealing Uncle Josiah’s face searching for her. She waved and he saluted. The group looked back at her and there was Marga, silly Marga, waving with a flash of diamonds on her hand.
The umbrellas tipped back and the group headed toward a bar across the square. Uncle Josiah couldn’t just go straight to his destination. He’d have to have a fortifying shot for the journey. That, at least, hadn’t changed. Once the group had gone inside and were safely out of sight, Stella went to her telephone and dialed the front desk.
“This is Micheline Dubois. Someone has been in my room and robbed me.”