Stella knew the Basilica of St. Nicholas and had loved it from afar. It was close to the main train station and she’d often found reason to walk by to admire the big building shoehorned in between small insignificant ones. Its architecture and symmetry appealed to her in a time when nothing was so neat and tidy as two towers flanking a rose window with a beautiful dome behind. She’d never been inside, of course. Micheline Dubois was created a Protestant and had no reason to go there, except now she did.
She’d left Uncle Josiah jawing with Dirk in the café and had gone up to get her coat and hat. But instead of going out the front where Mussert might be waiting, she went out the service entrance that was nearly a half a block away from the square and went the long way around. No one followed her and if they had somehow managed to escape her notice, she’d lost them by jumping in a cab on a whim.
Unfortunately, there was no other choice but to have the driver drop her right in front of the basilica out in the open. Other churches in other cities had back and side entrances. Sometimes they were locked, but you could usually find one that wasn’t. Uncle Josiah had taught her that. Grandmother would keep a beady eye on the main doors, waiting for Uncle Josiah to show up for mass. Nine times out of ten, he didn’t, but occasionally, just to keep his mother on her toes, he’d turn up in the pews and she wouldn’t know how he got there. There was a back out-of-the-way door that was never locked and he’d just tell Grandmother that she was losing it. He’d been there the whole time.
St. Nicholas wasn’t like that. It butted up to a canal in the back and there wasn’t an inch of space on either side. She’d have to go in the front and the thought made her queasy. Micheline wasn’t well-known in Amsterdam, but she was known and it was taking a chance that had the potential to sink her.
The cab driver stopped and she paid him, stepping out onto the cobbled street. Across the way was the train station, busy by the sound of it, but Prins Hendrikkade was practically empty, making her all the more noticeable. Forcing herself to be calm, she stood on the sidewalk and checked her watch. Casual. No hurry. Then she walked over to the wrought iron fence and swung open the gate. Space was at a premium in Amsterdam, so she stepped from the gate right onto the steps up to the front doors of the basilica. They were nice doors, polished wood with six panels and iron grills at the top, nothing like the huge ornate doors of Venice. There were no knobs or door handles, so she was lucky that the third set on the right had been left open.
Stella walked inside and a rush of comfort came over her. The smell. The chill in the air. The gloom. The feeling of family that always accompanied the faint scent of incense. She went through the vestibule and opened the interior doors to see a magnificent interior that wasn’t particularly old but still beautiful in a combination of styles, mostly baroque and renaissance, her favorites. She indulged herself by walking down the nave to admire the rose window and the paintings. It was all dark and mysterious in jewel tones, made more beautiful by those knelt in prayer. There were quite a few parishioners for a weekday afternoon, but she could see the appeal. It felt safe in St. Nicholas’ and almost nowhere else did.
She looped around and went back down a side aisle to see the chapel devoted to Mary and then she found a small door tucked away. It wasn’t marked and she was hesitant to knock, but there had to be an office or meeting room somewhere.
“Hello?” a woman said behind her.
Stella turned and nearly gasped in surprise. The woman was a nun in full habit, but she’d rarely seen this type of garb. American Carmelite nuns wore the bandeau and veil, but this nun had something more like a large bonnet with a veil over the top. The habit itself was the same, but it seemed larger and stiffer, like the woman wearing it.
“Did I startle you? I’m sorry,” she said in a warm musical voice, nothing like her thin-lipped exterior.
“Yes, but I was thinking, worrying actually, so it’s not your fault.” Stella decided to be honest. That was best with nuns.
“This is the place to be if you are worried. You are one of the faithful?”
Please forgive me.
“I am a faithful Protestant. I’ve come to see Father Schoffelmeer. Is he in?”
Stella thought the nun frowned, but it was hard to tell her face was so far back in the bonnet. “He is. May I recommend you see Father Brandsma? He is visiting.”
“Well, I…”
“Did I hear my name?”
The woman turned and there was a man wearing the brown robes of a simple friar.
“Father Brandsma, this lady would like to speak with someone,” said the nun.
“Very good,” he said pleasantly. “This is not my parish, but I am happy to speak with you.”
Stella didn’t know what to say. It was a bit of a stroke of luck. She knew of Brandsma. He was virulently anti-Nazi and well-known for it. Several of Stella’s contacts had suggested reaching out to him, but she’d held off after hearing how outspoken he was. His was the kind of passion that wouldn’t end well and she thought it was better to let the earl think it over rather than act on her own.
“I was to speak with Father Schoffelmeer,” said Stella.
Brandsma definitely frowned. He had a high forehead under a crop of thick greying hair that was swept back and hid nothing. “I can help you.”
“Is there something wrong?” Stella asked.
They both shook their heads, a little too much. “No, no,” they said in unison.
“Father Schoffelmeer isn’t at his best at the moment,” said Father Brandsma.
“He’s ill?” Stella asked.
“He’s indisposed.”
What does that mean?
“Well, a friend of his sent me to speak to him, so perhaps I should just wait.”
Father Brandsma’s eyebrows went up a fraction of an inch and Stella thought she saw something in his eyes, a kind of understanding. “We wouldn’t want to disappoint his friend. If you were sent in search of Father Schoffelmeer, I will take you to him.”
“Father, I don’t know if you should,” said the nun. “He’s…”
“It will be fine, Sister Teresia.” He reached out for Stella’s arm and she went willingly, even though the nun looked as though she was going toward a firing squad.
“The Sister is a little nervous, my dear,” he said, opening the little door and ushering her through into a kind of wardrobe and then into some offices. None of the doors were labeled, but he stopped at one and turned to her. “May I ask who the friend is?”
Should she tell him or not? It was hard to say, but a friendship would be known, although it didn’t sound like friends were Father Schoffelmeer’s usual thing. “Her name is Elizabeth Keesing.”
“I know this name. The lady is very ill, I understand.”
“Yes, very ill.”
He placed his hands in the prayer position. “Is she in need of the last rites?”
“Not yet.”
“She told you about Father Schoffelmeer?”
“Told me what?” Sweat started to run down her sides. Why was this so difficult? She just wanted to see a priest.
“He is not always an easy man.”
She blew out a breath. “Oh, that. She told me. He’s crabby apparently.”
The priest chuckled. “You could put it that way. Are you sure I can’t help you?”
Stella bit her lip and then said, “You might be able to, but I must do as Elizabeth requests first.”
He nodded.
“I can hear you out there!” yelled a gruff voice from inside.
Father Brandsma winced. “Can I—”
“Are you coming in or do I have to drag you in?” yelled the voice.
Father Brandsma opened the door and the voice practically shouted, “Oh, it’s you. Go away. I don’t want any, Titus.”
“I know that, Max, and I’m not here for myself. You have a visitor.”
“I don’t want that either.”
“Be that as it may.” The priest waved Stella in, whispering, “Be patient.”
“I heard that,” bellowed the voice.
Stella swallowed hard and steeled herself for anything from thrown objects to spitting, but she didn’t need to worry. Father Schoffelmeer sat on an armchair in a small library with his feet up on a hassock. Books covered the walls top to bottom and other than a little lamp on a tiny side table and an electric heater in brown Bakelite, the room was empty.
“Who are you?” Father Schoffelmeer demanded.
“Please,” said Father Brandsma. “She’s come from your friend, Elizabeth.”
“Friend? I have no friends. She hasn’t visited in weeks and here I am, day after day. I might as well be dead for all she cares.” The priest glared at Stella and she was at a loss. She’d known plenty of priests and a couple had been quite frustrated with her. Stella wasn’t good at learning her catechisms, but none had yelled or complained about dying from neglect.
Father Brandsma took Stella’s arm and brought her in to stand by the heater. “The Father exaggerates. We are looking after him.”
The priest scowled. He had what should’ve been a jolly face, rounded with pink cheeks and a ring of fluffy white hair on his mostly bald head. “I asked for tea three hours ago. Do you see any tea? Do you?”
“It was thirteen minutes ago and I’m sure it’s coming.”
“Everyone is always sure. The doctors are sure. The papers are sure. The Holy Father is sure.”
Father Brandsma sighed. “You just have to rest.”
“I’ve been resting.” He whipped off the blanket over his feet and revealed his big toes and ankles swollen to epic proportions. “Does that look better to you?”
“Oh, my goodness,” Stella burst out. “She didn’t tell me you were sick.”
His face softened slightly. “What did the good Elizabeth tell you?”
Father Brandsma still stood by her side and the door was open, so Stella said, “That you were helpful and kind.”
He pointed at her. “Liar!”
She stomped her foot. “I was trying to be nice, but I can see there’s no point in it. She said you were crabby and difficult. Happy?”
To her surprise, he didn’t throw the book in his lap or launch a torrent of anger at her, he tilted his chin down and his lower lip poked out. “She said that?”
“She did indeed, but she sent me anyway because she also said that under it all you are kind and a thinker.”
Elizabeth didn’t say the thinker part, but Stella took a chance based on his book, The Social Contract by Rousseau. He fingered the spine of the well-thumbed book that had multiple bookmarks stuck in the pages and turned into a fat cat, very well pleased with himself. “She did, did she?”
“Yes, and you should know that she’s very ill,” said Stella with her own glare.
The lip poked out again. “You’ve seen her recently?”
“I have and the doctor was there.”
Suspicious, he asked, “Who’s the doctor?”
“Dr. Tulp.”
“What did he say?”
Father Brandsma touched her arm and said, “I’ll leave you now.” He turned to go and Sister Teresia glided in with a tray. “Here you are, Father.”
“Speculoos?” asked Father Schoffelmeer.
“The doctor said you can’t have sugar.”
“I like sugar.”
“We know.” The Sister put a cup and small pot on the tiny side table and tucked the tray under her arm. “What is happening here? Your poor feet.”
She covered his feet, chided him about his well-being, and then glided out.
“That’ll teach you,” said Father Brandsma cheerfully.
“No, it won’t,” said Father Schoffelmeer.
Father Brandsma sighed, but Stella laughed. She was so tired she wouldn’t have thought it possible. He was just so funny, sitting there with blankets up to his chin, unable to walk, and basically threatening everyone with his bluster.
“What’s so funny?” he demanded.
“You.” She wiped her eyes. “Oh, I did need that. Thank you.”
“You are not welcome. Why are you laughing at a sick old man?” He pointed at Father Brandsma. “Take her away.”
The priest crossed his arms. “I want to hear this.”
“I don’t.”
“Too bad.” Father Brandsma looked at Stella and asked, “Why do you think he’s funny? No one else does.”
“He reminds me of my grandfather. He gets so cranky when he’s ill, but he’s so adorable, we love him to bits.” She went over and planted a kiss on the crabby priest’s forehead. “So there. You won’t get rid of me. I like you.”
Completely undone, Father Schoffelmeer sputtered and fiddled with his book. “Ridiculous. I’ve never been adorable in my life.”
“I will leave you now.” Father Brandsma stepped out the door. “I can see you’re safe.”
He closed the door and Father Schoffelmeer burst out, “Safe from what? Me. I never heard anything so insulting in all my life. I’m a man of God.”
Stella turned away and examined the books on the shelves. It was quite a collection. He was a thinker. “Do you want to hear what I’ve come to say?”
“I already know,” he said. “Some child is in desperate straits and I’m to pull the strings to help, but I can’t. Truus is out of the country. There’s nothing I can do at the moment.”
“It’s not that.”
“No? Fundraising with the Jewish committee for that abomination Westerbork?”
“No.”
“Food drive for the Romani?”
Stella crossed her arms. “Shall I just tell you or would you like to play guessing games all day?”
“My you’re saucy for an older woman,” he said.
“Experience has led me to be so.”
He sniffed and said, “First, tell me what Tulp said.”
“She’s dying.”
“I know that.”
“Soon. She has a month or two, maybe less.”
The priest folded his hands in his lap on top of his book. “So, she’s taken a turn for the worse.”
“Yes, and she won’t recover. Rena is devastated,” said Stella.
He didn’t speak for a moment and then pulled his rosary out from under his blanket to run the beads through his fingers, a soothing gesture Stella’s grandmother did from time to time. “Is that what you came to say?”
“Do you know who I am?” Stella asked. “I wasn’t introduced and you didn’t ask.”
“Micheline Dubois. Elizabeth told me you were brisk and efficient.”
“That describes a lot of people in Amsterdam.”
“She also told me about the hair,” he said.
“Ah, the feature I can’t escape.”
He chuckled and rubbed his bald pate. “We all have our troubles.”
“Indeed, and it’s troubles I come about,” she said.
“So many to choose from.”
“I pick my battles.” Stella told him about the Milch family in Westerbork and the scowl came back, but he listened patiently to her plan before speaking.
“Do you have their papers?”
“I have their fake papers.”
He held out a hand and Stella got them out of the hidden compartment in her handbag for him. The priest looked them over twice. “The photos are accurate?”
“They are.”
“Are the ages and birthdates correct?”
“Yes.” They weren’t, but he didn’t need to know that.
Father Schoffelmeer used a finger to pry up Felix’s picture and glanced under it. “I will have to call in several favors to get it done so quickly. Are you certain they can’t just keep these identities for a while?”
“The camp committee knows they’re fake and so does the government.”
“Oh, right. You said.” He stared down at the face of Hans. “Truus could possibly take out the youngest two.”
“My company wants them all out.”
“Because of this client of yours?”
“Yes. I gather he’s very insistent. We don’t want to lose his business and honestly, it’s the right thing to do anyway,” Stella said.
“Very clever to say they are Jews.”
“I thought so, but now they’re stuck. Can you do it?”
“You have money to pay for the new papers?” he asked.
“I do. Money isn’t an object to my client.”
“So I’ve heard.” Father Schoffelmeer leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “I’m so tired and it hasn’t even begun yet.”
“It will shortly. We must hurry.”
He nodded, keeping his eyes closed. “I don’t know how we will do it.”
Stella’s heart twisted. He was her only plan. “Get the papers for them?”
“Help all the people who are going to need help. Our own people.”
“Catholics? Why would they need protection?” Stella had heard things secondhand. Priests sent to Dachau for preaching against fascism and Catholics that wouldn’t comply with the Nazis’ rules were punished, but nothing like the Jews. They weren’t killed and she never imagined they would be.
“I was thinking of our converts, the Catholic Jews.”
“Do you have many?”
“Several hundred and I fear for their safety,” he said, seeming to shrink down under his blanket with the weight of it all.
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“No one has, but we must protect them. There are priests and nuns in their number. I fear they will not fare well when they come.”
I can’t handle anymore. I have to do this. Just this thing right now.
“Will you help the Milch family, all of them?” she asked.
He opened his eyes. “Your company, will they continue to help after you’re gone?”
“I will find a way to continue,” she said.
“It wasn’t planned to continue?”
She had to be honest. The thinking man looking at her would know if she lied. “No, but I will put it to them.”
“You, yourself, won’t be back?”
“It depends on what happens,” said Stella.
“Yes, so much depends on that.”
“What do you think the church will do when they come? There are supporters here already, probably in your church, too.”
The priest stiffened and his eyes turned icy. “They will be excommunicated.”
Stella’s mouth dropped open. She hadn’t thought of that. “That’s severe, isn’t it?”
“The situation must be made clear. Our faith and fascism are not compatible.”
This was true, but she doubted anything could stop Hitler’s followers from doing his bidding.
“Are you all right?” Father Schoffelmeer asked.
Stella swayed and had to grab a shelf. “I’m very tired.”
He squinted up at her. “You don’t look well, even in this light. You should go home.”
“So everyone keeps telling me.”
The priest moved his legs off the hassock and tried to stand. “I will send a message to my friend. He will make the papers.”
“How soon?”
“A day or two.”
“So long?”
He chuckled. “This is not his profession. He learned to help me.”
She tried to push him back into his chair. “You can’t get up on those feet.”
“If you can go on, I can go on.”
“It’s not the same.”
“I’m not a weak old man!” he bellowed.
“You are an ill one.” She pushed him back and kissed his forehead again. “How about Father Brandsma?”
The priest scowled. “I don’t know him well enough and he is always giving his opinion.”
At least I got that right.
“How about Sister Teresia?” Stella asked.
He pulled the blanket back up to his chin. “She is sympathetic to your cause. She is one of them that I spoke of.”
“One of them?”
“A converted Jew,” he said. “Send her in with paper and envelopes but don’t you come back. I need my rest. You are very tiring.”
“But I’m so efficient.” She smiled down at him.
“Yes, yes, but troublesome is more like it. Asking for favors and from Americans, too, all fat, dumb, and happy without a care for what happens to the rest of us.”
“My company cares.”
“Yes, yes. Go away now.”
Stella tucked in his feet and hurried out, but she had to stop once she got out in the nave. Her vision was swimming and she wanted nothing more than to lie down in a pew and go to sleep.
“How was he?” Father Brandsma came up, looking at her with concern as she leaned on a black pillar.
“Fine, just fine.”
“You don’t look well though.”
“I’m fine, too, just tired. Thank you for your help.” She turned to go, but he laid a hand on her arm.
“Is there something I could do?” the priest asked. “I would like to be helpful. I heard that Elizabeth Keesing has done much good for the…community.”
Stella looked in his eyes to gauge his knowledge but couldn’t discern more than kind intentions. “I don’t think so. Father Schoffelmeer has it well in hand.”
“Does he?”
“I think so.”
The priest took her hand and said, “I will help, if needed.”
Stella decided to trust this kind priest and asked him to tell the nun to bring in papers and envelopes for Father Schoffelmeer.
“I will tell her,” he said with a gentle hand on her arm. “Are you feeling all right?”
Stella nodded, unable to say more. She had to go, if she didn’t she might just lie down on the floor. Movement was her only option to stop it happening.
She hurried out of the nave and through the vestibule to rush out the door into a cold drizzle that she hadn’t prepared for. No umbrella and a practically useless hat. The street was still empty, so no cab to help her.
“I can walk. I can do it,” she said, and she almost believed it.
An hour later, Stella arrived at the warehouse where the Wahles’ furniture was stored. She hadn’t walked long. Fifteen minutes at most to the tram, but it was enough to soak her flimsy hat and shoes. By the time she found her way to Prinsengracht, she had a tickle in her throat and felt unreasonably cold, but it was May. It wasn’t that cold out, but she’d have put on Anna Bikker’s hideous fur coat if she could’ve.
The warehouse was right on the canal in a business section close to the Westerkirk. The company itself was a silk importer, but somehow the committee had convinced them to store the Wahles’ furniture under Felix’s assumed name of Abraham Cohen instead of having it sent to some anonymous government warehouse where it might never have been seen again. It must’ve cost the Wahles a considerable amount, but the furniture was Felix’s parents and he was desperate to save something of them for his children.
The narrow building had three windows across and a door on the right. It was both the company office and warehouse. Since it was still light out, Stella expected someone to be there, but the door was locked. She banged on it for five minutes, but no one came to answer her. She leaned her forehead against the wood and coughed into her fist. She couldn’t go back and tell Uncle Josiah there was hardly any progress because she slept the day away. He might do something rash and they couldn’t have that.
She pounded on the door again, but no one came. Maybe a neighbor would know where to find the owners. She turned around and saw a man and two girls walking down the street under a large black umbrella. He had a businesslike air to him and she heard him say to the younger girl in German, “It will only take a minute. I will ask Miep and we can go.”
“You always say a minute and it is never a minute,” said the younger girl also in German. The girl was about eleven with large eyes and a crop of dark hair that couldn’t be controlled by the barrette trying to hold it in place. Her expression was one of extreme annoyance, making her look stubborn and difficult, despite her pretty face and blue coat with its Peter Pan collar.
The other girl took her hand and said, “I can take you.”
“I want Pim to go.”
The father shook his head as they passed and said, “You are quite the demanding little chatterbox.”
Stella smiled in spite of how she was feeling. Their accents said they were from Berlin and reminded her of Hanni and Irma and days of friendship before it all went bad. The family moved on and she went after them as fast as she could, coughing with the effort it took to catch them. “Excuse me!”
The man turned around and smiled. “Yes?”
She’d feared he’d be annoyed with somewhere to be and a complaining daughter, but his thin face with its narrow mustache and deep-set eyes showed nothing but curiosity.
“Can you tell me anything about that company?” Stella pointed at the warehouse. “I’m supposed to meet with the office manager, but no one is there.”
“Ah, yes,” he said, extending his umbrella over her. “They leave early. You must be here before three or they will be gone. Sometimes they do not come at all. It is a family business and they don’t have outside staff.”
“Their name is Fischer?” she asked.
“Pim.” The girl tugged her father’s hand.
“One minute, Anne.”
“You always say one minute and it is never a minute.”
The older girl who looked like a sister said, “You already said that.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“Girls, please.” The man looked at Stella and said, “The Fischers live in the Jodenbuurt, but I don’t have the address.” With the mention of the Jodenbuurt, his eyes became guarded and then his face blurred. Stella bumped into the lamppost and then he and the older girl had her by the arms.
“Ma’am, are you all right?” he asked.
She coughed and nodded. “I’m fine.”
“I’m sorry about the address.”
“It’s quite all right. I should’ve arranged a specific time.”
“Come with me to my office,” he said. “I will call you a cab.”
She shook her head. “It’s not necessary. I will take a tram.”
“On Westermarkt?”
“Yes.”
“We will walk with you,” he said, placing his hand on his dapper coat. “I am Otto Frank and these troublesome girls are my daughters, Margot and Annelies.”
The younger daughter crossed her arms and gave a coquettish toss of her head. “I am called Anne.”
“Well, I am called Micheline Dubois.”
“Are you Belgian?”
“I am. You have a good ear.”
“I’m very good at lessons.”
“I can tell,” said Stella.
The father smiled at his younger daughter in an unmistakable way, his favorite. “You must not brag, Anne?”
“I’m not bragging. It’s true.”
Margot said shyly, “I do well, too.”
“Then I admire you both,” said Stella. “I wasn’t a good student until I was much older than you, but then I did well. I’m in business.”
The father herded the now-chatty girls down the street toward the Westerkerk. “We must get along. She’s not well and this drizzle isn’t helping.”
Stella settled in beside Mr. Frank as the girls, mainly Anne, pelted her with questions.
“Slow down,” their father said.
“I’m a buyer for an American company in New York,” said Stella. “I buy antiques, paintings, and jewelry. Anything my clients want really.”
“Do you travel all over?” Margot asked shyly.
“I do, but it’s tiring. I’m ready to go home. The silk company was almost my last stop before I can.”
They chatted about Amsterdam and Stella learned that they were from Berlin. Otto said they had moved for a business opportunity, but she was pretty sure that they were Jewish. It was the strain around his eyes when he said it.
“I do love New York,” he said. “I went there to intern at Macy’s.”
“Really? I’ve been there. What a lovely store.”
“It is and that was a wonderful time in my life.” He stopped in front of a warehouse and shop with the name Opekta on the door. “Here we are. You don’t want me to walk with you the rest of the way?”
“No, I feel much better and I will go straight back to my hotel.” Normally, that would be a lie, but this time it was true. Stella couldn’t possibly go hunting around the Jodenbuurt. She might fall over and lose her wig.
“Here take my umbrella.” He tried to give her the enormous umbrella.
“I couldn’t possibly.” She turned to the girls. “Thank you for walking with me.”
The girls grinned at her and Anne went running to the office, bursting in to yell, “Miep! Miep!”
Stella said goodbye to Otto and Margot and headed off at a good clip, mostly for their benefit. She didn’t want Otto to think he had to run after her and she was past the Westerkerk and to the tram stop in good time. Her hat was dripping when she got on and started the ride to the square.
The cough was rattling her chest by the time she walked into the lobby and Ludwik was there to greet her with a beaming smile. That is, he was beaming until her cough nearly knocked her over.
“You are ill.” He helped her off with her coat and hat, tossing them to the front desk clerk with an order to have them dried out and cleaned. “Let me help you to your room.”
“That’s not necessary. It’s just a little cough.”
“Nonsense.” The look he gave her brooked no excuses and they went to the elevator where Michel was waiting with a curious look on his face.
Once on the elevator and the door closed, Ludwik and Michel both said, “How did you do it?”
“What? Get entirely soaked because I forgot an umbrella? It’s a talent of mine,” said Stella, leaning on the wall.
“Not that, although you are much too old to forget your umbrella.”
Not really.
“My mother would be very disappointed,” said Stella.
“How did you get Ester’s job back?” Michel asked and Ludwik gave him a jab with his elbow. “Oh, right, but it’s not Paulina yet. How did you get her job back?”
Stella grinned. “I appealed to Mr. Elek’s better nature.”
The men drew back and made faces.
“He’s a stickler, that Elek,” said Michel. “He wanted to dock my pay for having a heart attack.”
Ludwik rolled his eyes. “Heart attack, my foot. Now Micheline, how did you really do it?”
“I’ll never tell,” she said with a wink.
Michel stopped the elevator on her floor and she left the men disappointed, walking down to her room using the last vestiges of her energy.
“I’ll send up tea and soup,” called out Ludwik.
Stella nodded and went inside, collapsing on the bed in a fit of coughing. What a time to get sick.