Dark Rhapsody Read online

  Dark Rhapsody

  ALSO BY HELAINE MARIO

  The Lost Concerto

  Firebird

  Dark

  Rhapsody

  A NOVEL

  HELAINE MARIO

  Copyright © 2018 Helaine Mario

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, businesses, locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-1-60809-292-5

  Published in the United States of America by Oceanview Publishing Sarasota, Florida

  www.oceanviewpub.com

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  Contents

  Acknowledgement

  Part I: Mood Indigo

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Part II

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Part III

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Part IV

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Final Curtain

  Author’s Note

  For my parents, Helaine and Gerard Swarbrick, with love This one’s for you

  For my five beautiful grands, who fill my world with joy—Ellie and Tyler Danaceau Clair Violet, Declan, and Ian Mario Always remember where you came from (And, Darlings, don’t ever forget there’s magic!)

  And for RJ. More than you can imagine

  RHAPSODY

  “A musical composition of irregular form having an improvisatory character”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Once again, I want to acknowledge—and express my heartfelt appreciation for—our service men and women, and their families, for their remarkable patriotism, bravery, strength, and sacrifice. Colonel Beckett and Simon Sugarman could not have “come to life” without their stories and inspiration.

  I am most grateful to five people whose thoughtful comments, suggestions, and support made Dark Rhapsody so much better: William Rosner, MD, and Barbara Rosner; Deborah Schiff; Sue Kinsler; and, most especially, classical pianist Betty Bullock of Washington, DC, who so generously shared her knowledge, expertise, experiences, and emotions in the world of music. While any musical mistakes would be mine, Betty answered my countless questions with honesty and grace, enriching Maggie’s world as, chord by chord, Rachmaninoff’s Rhapsody became the heart of her story.

  A special thank-you, also, to Stella—a beautiful three-legged rescue dog in Georgia who was the inspiration for Shiloh.

  Finally, a very personal acknowledgement to Pat and Bob Gussin and their team at Oceanview Publishing for their remarkable publishing and writing skills, and love of books. Thank you for continuing to believe in Maggie’s story.

  Dark Rhapsody

  OPENING CHORDS

  MAY 1945

  THE AUSTRIAN ALPS

  THE REMOTE ALPINE lake framed in the loft window was long, narrow, and as still as black glass. Snow-topped mountains ringed the lake like guardians, their heavily wooded slopes rising steeply from the water’s edge, their jagged peaks etched against the cobalt sky.

  A slight, fair-haired girl gazed toward the lake, her cheek pressed against the cold glass of the barn’s window. Just below her, the courtyard where she’d hidden her bicycle in the juniper bushes was in deep shadow. If she tilted her head, she could see the front porch of her aunt’s steep-roofed home, nestled into the blackness of the forest. All the lights were off.

  Her eyes found the rutted track that twisted down through the pines to the lake. She knew how deep the lake was. How cold. She shivered beneath her heavy loden coat, her breath misting on the icy window as she reached for a tattered woolen blanket left on the warped wooden floor.

  Gathering the blanket around her shoulders, she looked down and saw that it had covered a pile of torn candy wrappers, a chipped mug, and a man’s forgotten glove. She remembered the story of a Yank who had spent two nights hiding here in March, on his way north to Berlin. She had asked her aunt about him once, but her aunt had held up a warning hand.

  Hush, Gisela, you must never speak of him again. It is too dangerous for all of us.

  Then her aunt had turned back to the stove and continued to stir her Rindsuppe.

  And now, just two months later, Berlin was burning. She’d heard it on her parents’ radio.

  Did the glove belong to the Yank? Something glinted beneath it, and she pushed the leather aside. A knife! Long, some fifteen centimeters, the span of her hand with her fingers spread. She held it up to the loft window. Sharp, and stained a dark, rusty red.

  Had the Yank killed a Nazi with this knife?

  Gisela tucked the blade into her belt and pulled the blanket more tightly around her. She would show it to Johann when he arrived.

  Below her, past the shaky wooden ladder, she could hear the huff and snorting of the workhorses, restless in their stalls.

  Almost eleven o’clock. Where was Johann?

  She had pedaled from the village, just over the hill, an hour ago. Had he forgotten? But they always met here on Friday nights, to plan their weekend adventures. She would climb out her window after her parents were asleep—well, she was ten, after all, she could take care of herself. And it was such fun to have a secret with Johann, two years older, more like a big brother than a friend. Sometimes, he would bring paper and chalks, and sketch her face—her hair pulled back with a ribbon, large dark eyes gazing at him. Or her profile by the window, the lake icy and shining behind her. He made her look … older, beautiful. Different.

  She gazed d
own at the silent, empty courtyard. Where are you, Johann?

  A sound. A soft rumble. Not a bicycle. Not Johann.

  She sat very still, chin raised, listening. The rumble grew louder.

  Thunder?

  No. Engines. Trucks.

  She peered out the window. Darkness. No headlamps.

  A sudden shaft of moonlight speared through the clouds, skimming across the black lake so that it shimmered like a silvered mirror. A convoy of three trucks pulled slowly into the courtyard.

  The murmur of worn brakes, engines turning off. Silence.

  Gisela pressed back against the wall, out of sight, fear welling in her throat.

  Doors opening and closing. Guttural voices, the stamp of boots. She inched toward the window once more, peered cautiously over the sill. Flashlight beams probed the air. She counted nine men, most of them tall, with long dark coats and capped hats.

  The light beams caught the trucks. She could see the fearsome letters, SS, and the double lightning strikes of the Nazis, emblazoned on the sides. What were they doing here, in this remote forest so high in the Alps?

  One of the men climbed the porch steps, pounded on the door. Panic iced down her spine. Don’t answer the door, Ida, she begged her cousin silently. Hide!

  More pounding, harder. “Aufwachen! Wake up! Open the door immediately!”

  A light came on upstairs.

  The man turned toward the barn, lifting his face just as the porch light winked on. In that moment, Gisela glimpsed the shine of his eyes under the cap. Even from a distance, they glinted like chips of ice caught in the light of the lamp. Blue ice, she imagined, cold as the lake.

  The front door of the house swung open and her cousin Ida, wrapped in her old pink robe, stepped into the light. Gisela held her breath. Questions, demands in German. Ida shaking her head, then nodding, pointing. Toward the barn!

  A sharp command, her cousin disappearing behind the door, the porch lights suddenly out.

  Gisela shrank back against the loft wall and closed her eyes.

  The barn door squealing open, a curse, the gleam of flashlights. Light through the broken floorboards touched her face. She pressed her hands against her mouth to keep from crying out.

  A scrape, a high whinny. The jingle of a bridle. The slow clip-clop of two horses being led from the barn.

  The creak of ancient wheels.

  The cart? They were taking the horse-drawn cart. For what?

  She waited. When she was sure they’d left the barn, she dared to look out the window once more.

  Two of the soldiers were hitching the horses to the wagon. Others had opened the rear doors of the trucks and were unloading boxes with swastikas and numbers painted on the sides. She squinted through the darkness. Most of the boxes looked to be metal—iron? A meter or more in length. Like small trunks. Or treasure chests. And heavy.

  Gold? She’d heard the rumors in the village. Gold and silver, secrets and treasures being hidden high in the Austrian Alps while Berlin burned.

  She watched the men load dozens of chests onto the cart. Then they pulled on the harness and the cart trundled down the winding track toward the lake.

  The lake, she thought. They are going to hide their gold in the lake.

  She watched as the cart turned the bend and disappeared into the forest. There were three old rowboats on the edge of the water, she remembered suddenly. The men would row out to the center of the lake, drop the boxes in the deepest water. Her aunt said it was over one hundred meters deep there. No one would ever find those chests.

  Almost all of the soldiers had gone with the horse cart—only one had stayed behind to guard the trucks. His tall silhouette wandered to the far side of the courtyard, turning toward the lake. She saw the bright red ember of his cigarette, arcing through the shadows.

  Hurry, she thought, get your bike, be gone before he returns to the trucks. She stood up, clambered down the ladder, and slipped quietly into the shadowed courtyard.

  Dozens of boxes were still piled on the ground by the trucks, waiting to be brought down to the lake. Dodging behind the first truck, she stopped, looked around.

  Gold.

  She could not resist. Cloaked by the darkness, she touched the lid of the closest box. Sealed. She grasped the handle, pulled. Too big. Too heavy.

  Another.

  Another.

  Then, behind them, she saw the smaller box, just over a meter in length. She reached for it. Not so heavy. She eased it toward her.

  High above the alpine peaks, the clouds blew open like a curtain, and she gazed down at the metal box, glinting silver now in shafts of pale moonlight. The lock felt cold beneath her fingers. Her eyes widened as she realized that the lock had not fully caught.

  And in that moment, she made a decision that would change the course of her life forever.

  She did not think about her cousin, her aunt, Johann, or even the danger to herself. She grasped the box, clutched it to her chest, and ran into the barn, setting it down in the back corner of the farthest stall.

  Very carefully, she eased off the lock.

  She would take just one bar of gold, for her mother. The soldiers would never miss it. Then she would return the box to the truck, and no one would ever know.

  Holding her breath, she raised the lid slowly, expecting the bright shine of precious metal. But the chest held only a long mahogany case and, beneath it, dozens of papers rolled up like her mother’s best hand-sewn pillowcases. She shook her head in fierce disappointment. But perhaps the treasure was in the case?

  Flicking the silver latch of the wooden case, she opened the lid and peered inside. A violin, nestled in soft gray velvet. Johann’s father was a musician, as she wanted to be. He gave her piano lessons after school and played in the village band on Friday nights—three men, two violins, and a cello.

  Where was the gold?

  She snapped the case closed, shifted it aside, and reached for one of the paper rolls. It was a bit longer than her Opa’s cane, thick and grainy, rough beneath her fingertips. Not paper. Canvas. Like the canvases Johann used when he painted the mountains.

  A shaft of moonlight fell through the stall's high window, and she saw words printed in Italian on the rolled canvas in her hand. Proprieta di Felix Hoffman Galleria, Firenze 1943. Firenze was … Florence?

  Florence, she thought, picturing sunlight on golden spires. Her mother had told her stories about Italy. Someday, I will visit Florence. Very slowly, she began to unroll the canvas.

  A tall window, filled with the shimmering dark blue of a night sky.

  Something unfamiliar stirred in her chest, and she exposed more of the painting. A woman, seated by the window, her long black hair falling like a curtain down one side of her face. Her eyes were closed. She was playing a cello, just like the one Johann’s father played in his band. A single candle flickered on the table beside the woman, casting golden light and deep shadow across her face.

  Gisela stared down at the hauntingly beautiful face. Who was she? What music was she playing? Gisela closed her eyes and listened, half expecting to hear the deep cello notes …

  The rumble of the empty cart. Coming back up the path!

  Panic seized her. Leave! No time to replace the box. She rolled up the canvas, shoved it back into the chest with the violin case, and pushed the chest under an old horse blanket.

  Then she ran outside. The moon was gone now, the courtyard in deep shadow. She wrenched her bike from the bushes.

  A footstep behind her. A hand, gripping her shoulder.

  She spun around and looked up into eyes of blue ice.

  PART I

  MOOD INDIGO

  “Music is the art which is most nigh to tears and memory.”

  — Oscar Wilde

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE PRESENT

  THE BLUE RIDGE MOUNTAINS, VIRGINIA

  OCTOBER 15

  THE CABIN PERCHED on the edge of the mountain, surrounded by tall whispering pines. A broad redw
ood deck cantilevered out over the steep hillside like the prow of a ship.

  Maggie O’Shea stood still as a statue against the railing, watching the geese fly south, high overhead. The last sunlight of the day slanted over the mountain peak in bright rays, lighting the tips of the high firs like candles and turning the wings of the geese to flame as they vanished beyond the blue mountain.

  Hurry, she told the wild birds. Already I feel the cold coming. Hurry …

  A new wave of exhaustion washed over her as her eyes searched the lake.

  Not far from the shore, an arched fishing pole flashed silver in the light. A man and a dog sat hunched in a gently rocking rowboat, stark silhouettes against the darkening sky.

  A deep tenderness for the man welled inside Maggie and she smiled, knowing by heart the words on the old baseball cap pulled low over his forehead: Fish Fear Me.

  Her eyes followed the steep wooden steps that wound down through the pines to the crescent of rocky beach. Her breath caught as she remembered the first time he’d led her up those stairs by the hand, just two weeks earlier, with his Golden Retriever ahead of them leading the way. A night as blue as this one, but softened by a curve of orange moonlight.

  “We’re home, Maggie,” he’d whispered against her hair.

  Despite his injuries, he had gathered her in his arms and carried her over the threshold like a bride. White lilacs had filled the room, their petals falling like snow on the carpet. They had made love for the first time on those petals, in front of the fire.

  Michael had known Chopin was her favorite composer, and had surprised her that night with a CD of the Piano Concerto No. 2. She had watched him come toward her as the opening chords filled the room, the hard planes of his face catching the firelight. Now that indescribably beautiful, impassioned music would always be linked in her mind with that first night in the mountains.

  She’d seen it in the silvery eyes, glinting down at her like stones. Heard it in his soft Virginian voice, felt it in his touch—the need to love her in a place that wouldn’t remind her of her husband.

  But the reminders still ambushed her. She looked down at the envelope in her hand. Her mail had been forwarded from her home in Boston and arrived an hour earlier. Bills, announcements, invitations to concerts, the Boston Symphony newsletter. And then—an envelope from a news organization addressed to her late husband, Johnny O’Shea. Almost one year after his death.