The Beekeeper's Ball: Bella Vista Chronicles Book 2 (24 page)

Jamie took a quick sip of her water. “Um, yeah, about that.”

Isabel held her breath. The girl was really going to do it.

Shannon looked flustered. “Sorry, if it’s too personal....”

“Not at all.” Jamie brushed her hand down over her belly. “Everything’s good, I mean, with my health and the baby and all. And I’m actually glad you asked, because there’s something I want everyone to know. I’m not keeping it. The baby, I mean. It’s going to be adopted.” The words tumbled out in a rush, and she gulped the rest of the water as if it were a shot of grain alcohol. “That’s my plan, anyway.”

“Oh, Jamie.” Tess got up and gave the girl a hug. “I don’t know what to say.”

“That’s okay,” she said with a shaky laugh. “I told Isabel I didn’t want to have to explain every time somebody said congratulations or whatever. The doc and the social worker said I can change my mind anytime I want, but I’m not going to do that. I’m not going to change my mind.” Her expression seemed resolute.

“We all want to help in any way we can,” said Annelise. “Please, you mustn’t hesitate to ask for what you need. Anything, truly.”

Jamie held the old woman’s gaze for a moment. “Thank you. That means a lot. Anyway, I don’t want this to be a downer or anything. Just wanted to let everyone know.”

“I’d like to make a toast,” Magnus declared, lifting his glass. “To our newest member of the Bella Vista family, Miss Jamie Westfall. To your future, and to the future of the gift you will soon give to the world.”

A lump formed in Isabel’s throat. She was humbled by this girl’s bravery, and by the way Jamie was facing this monumental challenge. At the same time, Isabel felt proud of everyone here for the way they instantly rallied to offer support. This was exactly what Isabel wanted for Bella Vista, this sense of community, pulling people together and folding them in. It was a kind of magic, she thought. She wished Bubbie were here to witness it.

* * *

After dinner, Tess, Dominic and Shannon volunteered for clean-up duty. Annelise invited Jamie to the lounge room, saying she wanted to hear more about Jamie’s honey production. Knowing what she did now, Isabel suspected the old woman and the young girl might have other things to discuss, as well.

Isabel took Charlie out for his nightly run around the yard. The air had a pleasant, chilly edge to it, perfumed by the scent of night-blooming jasmine. The dog ran along a hedge and then doubled back, giving a
woof
of warning. Isabel swung around and spotted Mac, silhouetted by the light from the windows.

Charlie trotted over to Mac, gave him a sniff, and went back to racing around. “He likes to patrol,” Isabel said. “And I like that he keeps the critters away. Between Charlie and the cats, we’re practically critter-free around here.”

“Everybody has a job,” Mac said.

She smiled and pulled her light knitted shawl around her. “Everybody has a
purpose.
”

They were quiet for a few minutes, taking in the scents and sounds of the night. After a while, he said, “You arranged everything.”

She knew exactly what he was referring to. “I just...I feel lucky to be in a position to help Jamie. She seems so alone. What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You’re a good person, Isabel,” he said. “Always thinking of others. I like your big heart.”

His words startled her. “Really?” She didn’t know how to respond, and she was sure she was going to fumble it. “That might be one of the nicest things anyone’s ever said to me.”

“You’ve been hanging around the wrong people, then. It’s not such a stretch. You do have a big heart, and I
am
nice.”

“You are, huh?” She couldn’t keep from smiling. “Good to know.”

“Well, not as nice as you, but I’m definitely nice.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” She sighed and tilted her head back to look at the stars. “I worry about her. Is she going to stay? Will she go through with it?”

“Don’t buy other people’s worries. Jamie’s going to do what she’s going to do.”

“I get that, I do. From what she’s told me, she doesn’t have much in the way of family.”

“She does now,” he said.

“You
are
nice,” she said. “What’s your family like?”

“What do you think it’s like?”

“Well, with a sturdy Irish name like O’Neill, I’m picturing a big Irish American clan.”

“Shoot,” he said.

“What?”

“We’re a family of clichés.”

“What do you mean?”

“My life is littered with brothers. It’s me, Shane, Dillon, Finn, Ian and Declan. I’m the eldest. Also the smartest and best-looking. Not to mention the nicest.”

“All those boys. Your poor mother.”

“Hey, we treat her like a queen. Always have.”

He took out his phone and showed her a picture. “My mom. She’s awesome.”

The woman in the picture had her head thrown back in laughter, her arms spread wide as if to embrace the world.

“She does look awesome,” Isabel agreed.

“And here are my brothers.” He scrolled to another picture. It showed six men all in a row, each one as hulking and handsome as the next. They looked as if they had been packaged as a matched six pack.

“A family of six boys. Why am I hearing about this now?”

“You only just asked now.”

“Do I have to ask for everything? Don’t you ever simply offer something without being asked?”

“You mean like this?” He took hold of her bare arms, slid his hands up to her shoulders and gave her a firm, sexy kiss that nearly made her knees melt. This connection, this soft exploration, was something she had been wanting ever since she’d met him, but until this moment, she hadn’t realized it. Her fists curled into the fabric of his shirt as she savored every little bit of him—his smell and the way he tasted, the brush of his hair against her cheek, the strength of his arms as he held her.

And then she stepped back, nearly dizzy with disorientation. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Ah, come on, Isabel—”

“Charlie,” she called, and gave his special whistle, that one that always brought him running. “We’re going in.”

“Chicken.”

“I’m not...yes, okay, I am. And pretty soon, you’ll thank me for that.”

He slid his arm around her waist and brought her in against him, and then he leaned down so close she could feel the warmth of his breath in her ear. “Believe me, I’ve never thanked a woman for refusing to make out with me.”

She stood back, arms crossed in front of her. Ah, that kiss. He was very persuasive—enough to get her past her fears? Annelise had been brave, Jamie was brave; maybe it was time for Isabel to be brave. “You’re not that into me,” she said.

“What are you waiting for? A sign from the great beyond?”

She didn’t see the point of getting tangled up with this guy. “You have a job here, Mac, same as everyone else. Your purpose is to get the story down. You’re going to meet Ramon Maldonado tomorrow. You’re supposed to find out how my grandfather ended up here, and Annelise in San Francisco. How did they go on after what happened to them during the war?”

“How does anyone go on?” he asked, his posture stiff with frustration. “Some days, you put one foot in front of the other. Other days—” he took a step toward her, ran one finger over her shoulder, down her bare arm “—it’s like jumping off a cliff.”

She stepped back. “I don’t get what you want with me.”

“A chance, Isabel. How about we take a chance on each other?”

P
ART
S
EVEN

Organic flowering plants are the best source of raw nectar for bees. Honey in its raw form retains a healthful substance called propolis. This is tree sap mixed with bee secretions, which guards against bacteria, viruses and fungi. Propolis contains phytochemicals known to protect against germs and to prevent certain types of cancer.

Honey was considered a powerful element in the ancient world, cited in Vedic, Sumerian, Babylonian and biblical texts. A dream of honey was believed to portend an unanticipated triumph over adversity.

Vincotto

Vincotto
(Italian for
cooked wine
) is a tradition dating back to Roman times as a way to preserve wine. Its complex, sweet properties have recently attracted culinary interest as a condiment with many uses.

4-5 cups red wine—
Primitivo is a good choice

⅔ cup honey

3 cinnamon sticks

3 whole cloves

Combine everything in a heavy-bottomed saucepan and bring to a boil. Then simmer, stirring occasionally, for about 30 minutes, until the liquid is reduced to about a cup. Once it’s cool, remove the cinnamon sticks and cloves, and pour into a jar or cruet. It’s delicious drizzled over salads, cooked meats, grilled vegetables or ricotta cheese.

[Source: Traditional]

Chapter Seventeen

Copenhagen, 1943

Over the years of the occupation, Magnus had become adept at melting into the scenery around the city, whether it be slipping like a shadow along the numerous wharves, docks and landings, through the marketplace, the university or business district. Now that he had shot up in height, he could no longer pass for a schoolboy, so he sought other guises. Some days, he rode a delivery bicycle, delivering draftsmen’s plans to machine and repair shops around town. Other days, he followed in the footsteps of the late, great Teacher, and masqueraded as a simple street sweeper or mud lark. He had an aptitude for fixing small motors and engines, and by trading or bartering his skills, he was able to earn enough to keep from starving.

He had stopped letting himself miss his parents and grandfather. He didn’t cry himself to sleep at night anymore. His heart was like a small, tight fist in his chest, fiercely guarding itself from sentiment.

Every breath he took was focused on advancing the cause of the resistance.

As the war progressed, performing acts of sabotage became more and more risky. The suspicion of the Germans intensified, and rewards for information increased. Resistance cells were infiltrated or Danish collaborators ratted them out. Those who were arrested faced torture from the Nazis bent on extracting information.

Magnus’s existence was a lonely one. Whenever his mind wandered, he caught himself aching for human connection. But mindful of the risks in his line of work, he befriended no one in the organization. He didn’t want to make a friend only to lose him...or her.

But he discovered one day in late September that he couldn’t help himself. He showed up at a gathering in Golden Prince Park, the site of a traditionally fierce rivalry between two prominent football clubs. The game promised to be a ridiculously close match, and it attracted its usual big, boisterous crowd. While feigning interest in the game from the sidelines, agents could pass messages and make plans. Hiding in plain sight, out in the open, was often a good strategy for Magnus, who had perfected the art of looking ordinary and unremarkable.

He stood on the sidelines, watching the soccer ball as if it were his sole purpose in life. In reality, he was awaiting word about the Nazis’ latest atrocity—the roundup and deportation of the Jews in Denmark.

Thus far, there had been no formal deportation order. It had long been the case that many Jewish citizens had to close their businesses and some, like Sweet and Eva, had already gone into hiding. However, the majority of Jews had stayed in their homes, even attending the city’s one synagogue. Observing the tenacity of the worshipers, Magnus was coming to realize that, for some people, faith was a powerful force. And because it was so powerful, it was dangerous.

He himself spent little time pondering the vicissitudes of faith. He was too busy living by his wits from day to day. The air was filled with cheers and the aroma of roasting hazelnuts, dry fallen leaves and cheap beer.

From somewhere in the crowd came a trilling whistle, a sound any fan of the game might make, except that this one was repeated three times. Without seeming obvious, Magnus turned toward the source of the whistle. Spectators were waving scarves in the colors of their favored team—yellow for St. Alban’s and green with an owl emblem for the Akademisk Boldklub. He spotted a scarf with a yellow stripe down the middle—his contact.

And when he saw who it was, he froze for a moment, nearly giving himself away by staring in shock. Then, recovering himself, he made his way through the crowd.

“It’s been a while,” he said.

The girl called Annelise, whom he’d last seen the night they had sabotaged the badges, merely kept her scarf waving in the air. She didn’t look at him. “That’s not the code,” she said simply, her voice nearly drowned by the cheering crowd.

A year had passed since that night, and she looked very different.

We’ve all changed,
thought Magnus. But the differences in Annelise seemed somehow more profound. The bones of her face were harsh and prominent, her eyes narrowed in an expression of suspicion. He wondered what had befallen her, where she had been—in hiding? In one of the coastal towns along the water between Denmark and Sweden? Or had she been detained by the Germans? He kept flashing on images of her that night, growing smaller and smaller as she created a distraction while he and Ramon escaped.

“To hell with the code. I need to know—”

“What you need to know is that there’s an important message to be delivered. Do you recognize those two over there?”

He stole a look at a group of middle-aged men standing in a knot, their attention riveted on the game. They held flags in the green and gold of the Akademisk Boldklub. “No,” said Magnus. “Should I?”

“The one with the green neckerchief is Niels Bohr, a physics professor, and the tall one next to him is his brother.”

“That’s Harald Bohr?” Magnus was impressed. “He was on the Danish Olympic football team.”

She sniffed. “That’s all well and good, but it is the other brother who has a Nobel Prize. Which is probably the main reason they’re about to be arrested by the Nazis.”

“What?”

“Why should anything the Nazis do surprise you?” She handed him a football program.

Magnus could see an envelope and the thin yellow paper of a telegram peeking out from the program. “I’m to give this to them?”

“Yes, but be smart about it. We can’t be sure who the others are.”

During a break in the game, Magnus approached Harald Bohr. “Sir, can I get your autograph, please?” he asked, digging a pencil stub from his pocket.

“Certainly.” He took the program while Magnus watched him intently, hoping the silent communication would be enough.

Apparently it was, as Mr. Bohr scrawled his signature on the program and then handed it back, smoothly tucking the telegram and envelope into an inner pocket of his jacket. Magnus grinned and admired the signature. Next to it, he’d scribbled, “Understood. Good work.”

“Thank you, sir,” Magnus said. “It’s an honor.”

“You’re welcome, young man. Best of luck to you.”

Magnus rejoined Annelise. “That was simple enough.”

“One hopes so,” she said. “You’ve been advised about the meeting on Thursday evening? It must not be missed. There’s a drysalter shop in Bay Street, do you know it?”

“No, but I’ll find it. What time?”

“The usual.”

Twenty past eight in the evening—the time settled on in order to simplify communications.

“I’ll be there,” he said. “Will you?”

“Yes. Of course.”

He couldn’t keep himself from asking, “Are you all right?”

She stared at him. Her eyes were as hard as stone walls. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“It’s just that...I was wondering.”

“There’s no need.” She fell silent, and Magnus could detect a hardness in her manner that hadn’t been there before. He wanted to ask her what was wrong, if the pressures of the occupation were wearing on her, if she feared being caught and arrested. He wanted to say something that might ease the lines of worry in her face, the way he might have done for anyone he was concerned about. But he didn’t know how to be a friend to anyone these days. He was simply a machine, not even that; a cog in the wheel of the resistance. He had no business worrying about anyone but himself.

When the whistle blew to signal the halftime of the match, she dropped her scarf on the ground and walked away. Magnus picked up the scarf and let out a cheer, but he couldn’t focus on the game. He watched her go, moving slowly as though carrying a great weight on her shoulders. But he didn’t follow her. These days, he didn’t follow anything but orders.

* * *

At the meeting on the following Thursday, Magnus was still burning with questions. He arrived at the appointed time, slipping down an alleyway beside the Hørkramforretning—the drysalter shop where medicines were prepared. The basement door was marked with a charcoal smear. “Delivery for Mr. Christiansen,” he muttered, letting himself in. The code phrase was accepted, and he found himself ushered into a crowded room.

It was the biggest gathering he had ever attended, with at least three dozen people present. They were mostly men, but the group included a few women, including Annelise, who sat very still on a bench on the periphery of the room.

Magnus was shocked to recognize Mr. Knud Christiansen himself, a prominent citizen who hobnobbed with the Nazis. As handsome as any Aryan ideal, he was famous for his athletic prowess on the Danish Olympic rowing team. He lived in a fancy apartment in Havnegade alongside German officials, and as far as the Nazis knew, he was a loyal collaborator.

This, of course, made him a key asset for the resistance. He could move freely among the officials in charge, and he had cultivated their friendship so that they would speak freely in his presence. They would be shocked to see him tonight sitting shoulder to shoulder with Rabbi Melchior, head of the synagogue in Copenhagen.

“I can confirm the rumors,” said Mr. Christiansen. He paused, pinching the bridge of his nose. Then his jaw ticked as he gritted his teeth. “The maritime attaché, Mr. Duckwitz, has let it be known that the SS plans to initiate a mass roundup of the Jews on October the first. They’re to be deported, most probably to a camp called Theresienstadt in occupied Czechoslovakia.”

A chill rippled through the room like an ill wind. Everyone present understood what a “camp” was—a center where Jews and other “undesirables” were worked to death or murdered outright.

“Duckwitz is a Nazi. Why would he warn us?” someone asked.

“Apparently the man has a conscience.”

“I heard he went to Berlin to persuade the central authority to cancel the arrests,” said a man in a white cloth coat. “And when he was ignored, he went to Sweden to get assurance from the Prime Minister there that they’d be willing to receive refugees, same as they have all along.”

“But so many. There are thousands in the city and all up along the coast.”

They looked to Rabbi Melchior. “I shall tell everyone at services to go into hiding immediately. They’ll be instructed to spread the word to all their Jewish friends and relatives.”

“We can all go door to door,” said a man called Marius, whom Magnus recognized as one of the leaders of the resistance cell. “We can get on the telephone. We know who these people are, better than the Nazis do. They’re our neighbors, people we do business with.”

“It’s a risk, but what else can we do?”

“Some might not agree to leave,” one man pointed out. “They’re Danes, after all, even the immigrants who came from Eastern Europe seeking safety. They have their places in the community, their homes and families. Will they agree to leave everything behind?”

Magnus thought of Uncle Sweet and Eva, disappearing in the night with only a satchel of the most basic belongings. He made a silent vow to travel up the coast to Helsingør and find them before the deportations began.

“Is that going to be enough, to simply spread the word?”

“Of course not,” someone else said.

“He’s right. The one thing we can’t do is ignore the situation. People can only hide for so long. Eventually they’ll be found and taken.”

“Not if we can get them to Sweden.”

“Yes, they must go to Sweden.”

“They’re in jeopardy of being turned away. The Swedish government won’t accept them unless the Nazis approve the request.”

“The Nazis are ignoring the request. We’ll never hear from them.”

Ramon Maldonado arrived, dropping his messenger bag with a clatter. He was breathless as he handed something to Marius. “It’s a telegram. The one you’ve been waiting for.”

“Let me see that.” Mr. Christiansen looked at the ceiling. “Thank you, Professor Bohr.”

“Who’s that?” someone asked.

“Neils Bohr. A physicist at the university. He and his brother were nearly arrested, but they made it to Sweden with their families. According to this communique, he has the ear of the whole world, not just the Swedish authorities. He’s convinced the government there to make a general announcement that the borders and ports are open to refugees. It says here there will be Swedish radio broadcasts announcing that Sweden is offering asylum.”

“Just like a good Jewish boy.” Marius gave a satisfied nod. “His mother was Jewish.”

Ramon took a seat on a bench next to Magnus and nudged his elbow into Magnus’s ribs. “Good work,” he whispered. “You, too,” he added, leaning forward to include Annelise, who sat on Magnus’s other side.

“It’s not good to simply know what’s about to happen and to warn people,” she whispered back. “We have to do more.”

* * *

True to his word, Rabbi Melchior warned people attending early morning Rosh Hashanah services of the impending German action. He urged everyone to go into hiding, with an eye to making their way in secret to Sweden. No one knew how long the deportation order would stand or how long the war would last, so it was the safest course to take.

Other members of the Jewish community and of the resistance movement sent word through the underground telegraph system. Everyone tried to do their part, even little old ladies who stayed up all night going through the telephone directory, picking out the Jewish-sounding names and calling people to warn them of the roundup.

Magnus told Ramon and Annelise of his plan to find Sweet and Eva. “I need you to drive me,” he said to Ramon. “You have access to a Red Cross vehicle, yes?”

“I do. How far is it?”

“About forty kilometers. The trick will be to find the house where they’ve been staying. I don’t have the precise location.”

“Eva and her father have been living above a bake shop along the strand, not far from Kronborg Castle,” Annelise said quietly.

“You know them?” Magnus was amazed.

“Eva and I are friends. And I’m going with you,” Annelise announced.

* * *

The lovely seaside town of Helsingør, with its fairy-tale castle, its farms and fishing fleet, was the last place many Jews would ever feel the soil of Denmark beneath their feet. A few thousand meters across the sound lay Sweden...and safety. Officials who bothered to question the fishermen and ferrymen were told various tales about the hundreds of families hastily boarding the local boats. Some were going by water to attend their sewing club. Others to visit sick friends. Still others were braving the foul weather to cast their nets for the abundant herring.