No Greater Love (2 page)

Janan scowled at him as she pulled one of his arms over her shoulder and put her arm around his waist to help him up the steps. “You could have told me that you were not well,” she said gruffly.”

As she pushed open the heavy front door, Carl called from his usual seat by the fireplace in the living room, his voice fretful, “Were you able to get the Jenever? I did so want to have some to offer the dear boy when he gets here.”

Before Janan could answer, Pieter took the bottle from his pocket and handed it to her. The sudden softening of her expression as she gazed inquiringly at him sent a wave of unfamiliar anticipation through him. Motioning her to go inside, he stepped back onto the porch to wait a few minutes before ringing the bell.

“
Pieter, my dear boy. It’s so good to see you.” The old man limped to the door to greet Pieter with the Dutch traditional ‘three kisses on the cheeks’ salute and then hugged him. “I got your letter and could hardly believe that you were coming. It seems like ages since I saw you. Come in, come in. Let me take your coat.”

As he stood in the tiny vestibule taking off his coat, Pieter studied the space opening off of it automatically comparing it to Dutch homes.
No dividing walls,
his mind registered.
An oak dining room table surrounded by six chairs took up the left side, and on the right, a living room area with a stone fireplace flanked by well-used Morris chairs fitted with brown tweed cushions and their matching ottomans
.
He let out a sigh.
If only I could sink into one of those chairs and never move,
he thought as he maneuvered around a Shaker-style cherry rocking chair and a tea table facing the fireplace.
The glow of the
old red Bokara rug supplied the only bright color in the room and he nodded in approval as he contrasted it in his mind with the muted pastel carpets in his mother’s home
. The house was larger than he had judged from the road,
he thought as he noted a
steep wooden stairway that hugged the wall behind the dining room and a narrow hall stretching to the back of the house
. The house was a gem of color and comfort and as clean and orderly as any Dutch home.

Carl called over his shoulder, “Janan, come. I want you to meet Pieter.” He beamed at her as she hurried from the kitchen to join him. “He’s traveled all the way from Amsterdam to see me. He was a pupil of mine long ago and now he’s my very dear friend.” He took her arm urging her forward toward Pieter. “And this is the delightful child who takes such good care of me.”

Pieter felt his pulse race as he studied the slender woman standing in front of him
. She was taller than he had first thought in the liquor store, probably five-foot-eight or so. The top of her head would come to his chin, and if she lifted her face, he could kiss those delicate lips without bending.
He drew himself erect.
Where had that thought come from?

“
Pieter Bentinck,” he said huskily. “I’m Pieter.”

“Janan Coers.” She extended her hand and lifted her eyes to meet his gaze. 

“The dear boy must stay with me, don’t you agree?”

“The bedroom at the top of the stairs on the right is ready,” she answered as she thought of the two rooms tucked under the eaves—a tiny room on the left that she used when Carl was ill or needed someone to stay with him and a larger one on the right. “He can use that one.”

“That’s very kind of you, Carl, but I have made a reservation at the Inn,” Pieter said.

“You wrote that you’re scheduled for some tests in Buffalo tomorrow.” Carl turned to Janan. ”You’ll drive him of course. The 400 section of the thruway can be treacherous this time of year.”

“Yes. I’ll be very happy to drive,” Janan answered calmly as she mentally rearranged her work schedule
. What tests? He was a young man but he had fainted after just a few minutes of snow-shoveling.
She ran through the causes of fainting in her mind—head injury, epilepsy, uncontrolled diabetes, cardiac problems, anemia.
But tests for those conditions could have been done in Amsterdam. Why had he come all this way to have them done here?

Carl took Pieter’s arm. “Come. Let’s sit by the fire and be comfortable,” he said, gesturing toward the chairs beside the fireplace. “We will have a glass of Jenever and pretend that we are in Amsterdam.” He looked over his shoulder at Janan. “You must join us.” He poured two glasses of golden Jenever and a small glass of sherry for Janan who had slipped into the rocking chair. “Now, tell me all the news of home,” Carl said eagerly as he settled into his chair and cradled his drink. “Your brother? Crispin? And his wife, Ann Marie, isn’t it?”

“Yes, they are both well. Very eager to start a family but no children so far. He is still in Utrecht.” Pieter thought of the last time he had seen his older brother and could almost hear his words, ‘It’s time you were married.’ He smiled at Carl. “He’s still teaching at the University.”

Carl turned to Janan. “Crispin teaches in the International Human Rights and Criminal Justice Program.” He turned back to Pieter. “It has been more than 70 years but I hope there is still interest in restoring property seized by the Germans to the rightful owners?”

“Yes. There’s renewed interest at the local level,” Pieter answered carefully. After a moment of hesitation, he added, “My mother is very active in that effort,”

“Of course it was not just the Germans who robbed us,” Carl said caustically. “Some of the
good neighbors
of the Dutch Jews took their belongings even as they were being herded to the trains.”

“There have been reports of success in locating stolen paintings and antique furniture.”

“Paintings.” Carl snorted. “What about the deposits in the Dutch and Swiss banks? What about money and bonds in banks’ safe deposit boxes?” Carl’s voice was bitter. “What about the life insurance benefits that were never paid to the survivors of those murdered in the concentration camps?”

“My mother says that it is going better.”

Rubbing his chin, Carl muttered, “Enough of that!” In a softer voice, he asked, “How is your mother?”

“She’s well. She sends her greetings.” Pieter felt no guilt about the small lie. He knew that she considered Carl to be a business client, definitely not on her social level.

Carl motioned to the Jenever bottle on the side table and, as Janan moved quickly across the room to get it, Pieter watched, fascinated by the graceful movements of her slim body partially concealed by black wool pants and a shapeless charcoal-gray sweater.
Not her colors,
he noted to himself.

Janan poured two-fingers of the golden liquid into Carl’s glass and then moved to Pieter’s chair. With her eyes downcast and a faint pink color staining her cheeks, she held out a hand that trembled slightly for Pieter’s glass.

A flush of pleasure spread through him as he noted her reaction.
I am not the only one who felt something out there in the snow.
Despite the urge to touch her again, Pieter forced himself to take care not to let his fingers graze her hand as he handed her his glass and murmured a soft, “Thank you.”

Carl nodded and turned to Janan. “Pieter’s grandfather was my grandfather’s solicitor, his father, my father’s solicitor, and now, his mother is my solicitor. So many gone.” He sighed and then asked sharply,

“And Maarten? Any news of him?”

“I don’t think I know him.” Pieter closed his eyes, trying to capture a fragment of a memory.

“He’s your grandfather’s older brother. He’d be your great-uncle.” Carl studied the glass in his hand and said softly, “A long time ago, he was kind to my parents.” He took a sip of Jenever and paused as the smooth, heat of the Dutch gin slid down his throat before settling back in his chair. “I’m almost afraid to ask about your younger brother. Is he still worrying your mother?”

“Perhaps a little less. Dirk seems to have found something that he really likes this time. He managed to get another post-doctoral fellowship and is working with an archeological team in Turkey.”

“Where?” It was the first time that Janan had taken part in the conversation. “Where in Turkey?”

“He is working at the Gobekli Tepe excavation. It’s about six miles from Sanliurfa, in Anatolia, the eastern part of Turkey. He’s very excited about the work. He says that it is Turkey’s Stonehenge, nearly 13,000 years old.” He studied her animated face. “Are you interested in archeology?”

“No. Not archeology.” She added quietly, “I’m interested in any news of Eastern Turkey.” She stood up quickly. “Excuse me. I must check on something.”

Pieter stood up courteously as she left the room and Carl called after her, “Hurry back.”

“I didn’t mean to upset her.”

“No, no. She’s always eager for news of that part of Turkey. Her family was killed in the 1992 earthquake in Erzincan, in Eastern Turkey.” Carl frowned. “She lost her mother, father, and twin brother.” He shook his head. “The thought of it still haunts me. An eight-year-old little girl pinned under concrete rubble during a frigid March night, imprisoned until rescuers dug her out with their hands in the morning.”

“What a horrible experience.” Pieter shivered as he visualized a young girl with luminous dark eyes and vibrant curls trapped among the dead through a long, cold night. “How on earth did she get from Erzincan to here?”

Chapter 2

“Ah, there you are, Janan. Come, move your chair over closer to me. Pieter wants to know how you got from Erzincan to this small village.”

“Well, it will be about ten minutes before dinner is ready. Can you tell him the story in that length of time?”

“I really mustn’t intrude on your hospitality for dinner.” Pieter stood up, flustered at the thought of imposing.

“Nonsense! Of course you will join us but I should warn you, our dinner is a simple meal. We’ll eat together and make our plans for tomorrow. Janan will pick you up at the Inn and drive you, but we need to fix a time.”

“I really don’t want to cause you any trouble. I can drive myself.”

“I’d worry too much if I let you do that. Janan is an excellent driver and she works near the Cancer Institute. She is familiar with the route.”

Pieter turned toward Janan. “I . . .”

Janan was stunned at Carl’s words. She had not considered the possibility of cancer.
He is too young,
she thought frantically. Grateful for the years of experience that helped her control her reaction, she said, “You may as well give up now. When Carl makes up his mind, it’s best to give in and save the time.”

“Now, where were we?” Carl swallowed the last of his Jenever. “Ah, yes. You wanted to know how Janan got here.” He smiled at Janan. “Where shall I start?”

“Start with how you came to be my honorary uncle.” She set her empty glass on the tea table and got up to spread a wool lap-robe over Carl’s thin legs before returning to her chair.

“Perhaps you already know? Did your mother happen to tell you how I came to the United States?”

“No. Does she know the story?”

Carl sighed. “She knows the story as my solicitor but she is scrupulous in her professional duties. I suppose she would not have told you.” He sat silently, lost in thought. “We have to go back in time, to a time of great fear.” He seemed to shrink in his chair. “In the fall of 1939, I was five years old and my brother, David, almost one. My father was a neurologist teaching at the University of Leiden and my mother, a painter. We lived in an old gray brick home on the Rapenberg Canal, the most beautiful canal in Leiden.” He frowned. “I vaguely remember my parents arguing about the possibility of war. Then suddenly one day, they sent me to live with my mother’s older brother, Henrick Coers. He had emigrated from Leiden to Western New York to work with the copper craftsmen at the Roycroft Institute. He and his wife did not have any children and they accepted me as part of their family. They helped me learn English so that I would not have trouble in school.”

He continued softly, “They were good people but they didn’t know what to do with a five-year-old boy.” He smiled mischievously. “Two years later they had a boy of their own, Roel, and I became an older brother again.”

“It must have been very hard for you to leave your mother and father, your home,” Pieter said, leaning forward in his chair.

“I always believed that I’d go home as soon as the war ended. I told myself that my parents would come for me and I would go back to that lovely old home on the Rapenberg Canal.” He sighed. “I waited and waited for them to come for me, to take me home.”

A dark, foreboding flooded Pieter. He could not ask the question that was burning in his mind.

“In time, I learned that my mother, my father, and my little brother had been taken from their home, deported out of Holland to a German concentration camp in Poland.” He drummed his fingers on the wooden arm of the old Morris chair. “Of the 107,000 Dutch Jews deported, 102,000 were killed. “My whole family was killed.” He stared at his empty glass. “You never give up wanting to go home, even when there is no family waiting for you.”

“You never give up wanting to go home even when there is no home and no family.” Janan knelt by Carl’s chair and put her arm around his shoulders. “And when you lose your language, you have lost the last bit of your identity.”

Pieter’s head snapped up at her words.
What must it be like to fear losing your identity? He was Dutch. He could trace his identity back for more than 500 years. Being Dutch was like the shell of a turtle—strong, protective, and irksomely restrictive at times.

He studied Janan’s face intently.
She had the rare beauty of the Circassian women who had been forced out of their villages in the Russian caucuses following the Crimean War with many of those who survived the purge settling in Eastern Turkey. She had lost the heritage of her Circassan homeland nearly 200 years ago and she had lost her Turkish homeland as an eight-year-old child. No wonder she feared losing her language, the last link to her identity
. He regarded her with wonder
. A little girl who had lost everything had grown up into a somber, exquisitely lovely woman who wanted to go home.
“Did you lose your language?” he asked hesitantly.