The Thief of Hearts Read online

  Shira held out her hand, and the woman took it. “Nice to meet you,” she said, except it wasn’t, was it? She didn’t want this to be the way she met people, on the deathbed of a lovely old woman.

  It was as if the last night had never happened. The only sign a celebration had taken place was the lingering smell of fried oil, and the menorah, unlit, in front of the window.

  A door she hadn’t noticed earlier stood open, and when Ruth gestured for her to go inside, Shira did.

  Dov and Yaphet were right. The change in Sarah was drastic and startling.

  The rosy-cheeked woman, who yesterday seemed the definition of health and vitality, had disappeared. Sitting propped by pillows, Sarah still held herself regally, but her posture seemed stiff, like it pained her to stay upright.

  “Let the girls talk a bit,” she said, her voice a little bit breathy.

  Dov and Yaphet waited behind her. “We’ll be in the living room,” Dov said.

  Sarah nodded, but gestured to Shira. “Come in. Close the door.”

  Yaphet touched her arm before he left. “Remember what I told you?”

  Overwhelmed, and lost, Shira assured him she did. Dov stared at her, and with a last, loaded glance at Yaphet whispered, “I hope Pascal was right.”

  The door closed behind them, and Shira was left alone with Sarah. “Sit down, sweetheart.”

  There was a comfy looking armchair with an afghan next to the bed. Shira sat on the edge, taking the woman’s hand. “You shouldn’t have gone to all that work last night,” she found herself saying, and winced. It was as if Shira’s grandmother had channeled herself into Shira and spoken through her lips.

  Sarah burst out laughing. “If I wasn’t sure you were Abigail’s granddaughter before, that would have clinched it.”

  “Guess so,” Shira agreed, but it felt good to smile. After all the mistakes she’d made, and all the wrong turns she’d taken, here she could just be.

  “I want to talk to you about my grandsons,” Sarah said. Her green eyes blazed. Though Ravi and Dov had inherited their color, the intensity was pure Pascal. “They’ll do anything for their family. Anything for me. Move across the ocean, quit their jobs, give up promotions. Anything.”

  “They’re wonderful,” Shira agreed. Dov had come to her rescue, Ravi soothed her, and Pascal inflamed her. Yaphet remained a mystery, and while he knew next to nothing about her, he’d trusted her with something when he’d sent her in here. She didn’t know what it was yet, but she got the sense it was big.

  “They are,” Sarah said, “but they are also a little bit impulsive. Like their grandfather. Lucky for them, they have girls like us, level-headed girls, to keep them on the right path.”

  “I don’t know, Sarah,” Shira answered automatically. “I think I may have made an epic mistake.”

  The woman smiled slyly. The grin spread from one side of her face to the other, and she wagged a finger at her. “Oh, I think I know what you’ve done. But trust my boys. They’ll figure it out. They know a good one when they meet one.” She let her hand fall to the blanket of the bed like it took too much energy to hold out anymore. “See the picture on my bureau, Shira? Could you get it for me?”

  Shira stood, walking to the lace covered furniture. A four-picture frame stood next to an old black and white photograph. Inside the frame, brightly colored school photographs pictured Ravi, Dov, Yaphet and Pascal as boys. Gap-toothed and tanned, they looked like trouble.

  “The old one,” Sarah clarified.

  Carefully, Shira lifted it from the bureau. While she brought it to Sarah, she studied it. “Is this you?” she asked. “And your husband?”

  “Yes.” The woman took it with shaking hands before lying it to rest in her lap. “That’s us on our wedding day. He’s so handsome, isn’t he?”

  Leaning over, Shira studied it. “He looks like Pascal and Yaphet.”

  Sarah laughed. “He was very much like Pascal. Took my breath away and made me lose my head.” Her finger traced the man’s face lovingly. “He was German, you know. Had an adorable accent. Turned me to mush. And the mustache.” Sarah winked. “Very dashing.”

  The man smiled at the camera, hand resting on top of Sarah’s. She stared at the wedding cake they were cutting. She was happy, laughing.

  Looking at the two of them, Shira could see bits and pieces of all the guys. There was Ravi’s dimple, and Yaphet’s je ne sais quois.

  “My husband went back to Germany after the war,” she said, quietly. “His father, though he never would have left his home, wasn’t blind to what was coming. He had a safe deposit box. It survived after the war.”

  Shira had a hard time looking away from the photograph. Perhaps it was her imagination, but she thought she saw a tinge of Ravi’s sadness in his grandfather’s smile.

  “Top drawer,” Sarah said, nudging Shira.

  If Sarah wanted to share the history of her family, Shira was happy to listen. Standing, she glanced toward the door. “Do you want the guys to hear these stories, too?” she asked.

  The wooden drawer had warped with age, and Shira had to wiggle it open. Inside was a large manilla envelope. Tucking it carefully under her arm, she wiggled the drawer shut again and returned to Sarah.

  “Open it,” their grandmother directed.

  Sliding her finger beneath the lip of the envelope, Shira hesitated.

  “Go ahead,” Sarah repeated. When Shira folded it back, she went on. “The boys know this story, but this is for you. You—like God heard my prayer and made you just for us—you’ll know what to do with it.”

  Glancing at her in confusion, Shira pulled out a pile of papers and photographs. Old sketches made on paper as thin as onion skins floated onto the bed. “What is this?” she asked, but she knew. As soon as she read the first words, written in loopy handwriting, she knew. They were provenances.

  “Will you take these?” Sarah asked. “And will you use them?”

  Shira studied them, reading quickly. “But where’s the artwork?” she asked. “The sculptures? The…” She read on and sucked in a breath. “The lamp?”

  Sarah relaxed into the pillows as if she’d deflated. Whatever energy had been buoying her disappeared. “I know it’s past sundown, Shira, but would you light the candles on the menorah for me?”

  Gesturing with her chin toward the window, Sarah’s gaze remained locked on Shira’s. With a steadying breath, Shira twisted in her seat.

  There. Aged bronze reflecting the warmth of electric light, was a perfectly made seventeenth century Hanukkah lamp. It held oil in its base, but also had eight drilled holes for eight candles. One for each night of Hanukkah.

  If Shira was to look closely, she’d see an etching of a menorah on its center.

  But she didn’t need to examine it to know it was there.

  Moment by moment, the entire situation fell into place: Director Lohse’s panic when she was unable to authenticate the provenances—of course she couldn’t, they were stolen. Not only were they stolen, they were stolen from the guys’ family by the Nazis during the war.

  Director Lohse knew exactly what these were. She remembered the conversation she’d overheard the day the pieces had arrived: “Get me the papers, Gottleib!” Those were the papers she was supposed to blindly authenticate. No wonder they’d chosen her to be curator. She was brand new to the art world. The perfect fall guy. Girl.

  And the mugging. Which one of the guys had done it? Who had thrust the gun against her ribs and told her to hand over her purse? Which one of them let her think she was about to die?

  Ravi’s apologies…now, they made sense. Over and over he’d said, “I didn’t mean for this to happen. I’m so sorry this happened.” The entire time, he’d known.

  “Why didn’t they tell me?” she asked, even to her ears, her voice sounded lost. Tears welled in their grandmother’s eyes, spilling down her cheeks. “No, don’t cry,” Shira begged. “I’m sorry.”

  “My boy. My Ravi. He’s all heart. Like
me. He wanted them for me. Even when he was a little boy, he’d tell his grandfather and me he’d find them. I think he wanted to give me a piece of my husband back before I left this world. Even though—” She sniffed. “This artwork was the part of my husband which made him the man I married. These were the paintings that hung in his home as a little boy. This was the lamp his grandmother lit on Hanukkah before the entire family gathered around their country table and feasted. They wanted to do right by me, but I need you to finish what they started. The right way,” she said. “Do you understand?”

  It was as if Yaphet spoke through her. Did she understand?

  Shira nodded, but her heart was breaking. “I understand.”

  That night, Shira sat with Sarah until she fell asleep. Then, when she was certain the old woman wouldn’t hear her, she stood up and placed the again-full envelope against her chest and under her coat. Quietly, she made her way to the lamp, said a quiet prayer, and lit each of the candles. She wasn’t wearing her watch, but she thought it was the sixth night. Six candles, and the shamash.

  The lamp was as beautiful as she imagined it would be. Buttoning her coat with one hand, Shira opened the door with the other.

  Dov and Yaphet sat on the couch. Yaphet’s arms were crossed over his chest, his head resting on the back pillow as he stared at the ceiling. Dov held an open file on his lap, and though his gaze was trained on it, Shira could tell he wasn’t reading.

  “She’s asleep,” Shira whispered, jolting them.

  Both stood and approached her warily. Above the sideboard, near the dining room table was a clock. It was nearly midnight.

  “Would someone bring me home?” she asked. “I need to go home.” Her voice trembled, and she bit her lip before she could give herself away.

  Dov and Yaphet exchanged a glance. “Of course,” Dov said. “Yaphet?”

  “I’ll stay,” he answered. “No problem.”

  Dov dropped the file on the couch. His coat was where he left it on a chair and he flung it across his arm. “Call me if anything changes.”

  “I will,” Yaphet answered, all the while staring at Shira as if he could see through her.

  Together, they went to the door, but before she stepped into the hallway, Shira thought of something and turned around. “Your grandmother wanted me to light the menorah in her room.” she said. “You’ll want to check the candles before you go to sleep.”

  7

  The Seventh Day

  Shira could feel Dov’s gaze on her as the elevator descended to the lobby, but he didn’t speak. For that, she was grateful.

  Her mind whirled, and the last thing she wanted was to say something she’d regret.

  To think that Dov and his brothers were not the men she thought they were, was too much.

  Dov opened the door to his car, waiting for Shira to get in. She slid inside and buckled, but he didn’t shut the door. From the corner of her eye, she saw him squat next to her. “Shira.” His voice was tortured.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked. “You came to the gallery. You saw the lamp and all your paintings. You should have just told me they were yours.”

  “We weren’t sure you didn’t already know,” he whispered. His words hurt more than she thought possible, and she sucked in a pained breath.

  Wrapping her arms around her chest, she nodded sharply.

  “Shira,” he began again.

  “What?” she asked. Her voice was sharp, but it was because she was breaking apart. “What else, Dov? More lies?”

  Abruptly, he stood. As Shira tracked him, he marched around the front of the car, but didn’t get in right away. Through the window, she saw him grip the roof, lean forward and shake his head. “Fuck!” He got in, slamming the door shut hard enough to shake the car. He jammed the key in the ignition, but paused after starting it. “Are you going to tell?” he asked. “I need to know so I can protect my brothers. If you’re going to call the police, I want you to tell them I stole the artwork. I'll take the blame."

  She was wrong, there was something that hurt more than them suspecting her of being complicit with Director Lohse’s plan. It was Dov believing she’d save her own skin by throwing his family under the bus. “Fine.” It was a non-answer. The truth was, she didn’t know what she was going to do.

  Did she blame the guys for what had happened to her? Yes. She blamed them for mugging her, and tricking her into thinking they cared about her.

  But the real criminal were the owners of Lohse and Gottleib House. They were the ones whose decisions had started this mess.

  Her answer apparently satisfied Dov though, because he pulled away from the curb.

  As they drove, she considered what she knew. “Where is it?” she asked. “I know the lamp is at your grandmother’s, where’s the rest?”

  “We didn’t take it all,” Dov answered. “The Beckman, the Pissarro, the lamp. The ones that were in the stories my grandfather told us. The ones we thought our grandmother would want to see.”

  If only they’d told their grandmother their plan. They would have understood that she’d never wanted them to put themselves at risk like that for her.

  “Where are they?” she asked again.

  “Storage locker in Queens,” he finally answered. “Paid for with cash through a series of people who have no connection to us.”

  “So you expected to be caught?” she asked. Headlights illuminated Dov’s face, highlighting the starkness of his features. His skin, usually a golden brown, was sallow, and his eyes were sunken.

  “I knew it was a possibility. But Ravi—but we—thought it was worth it. To give this to our grandmother before she died.”

  If he thought she’d ignore his slip-up, he was mistaken. “It was Ravi’s idea.” It wasn’t a question. This had all the marks of the man she had only started to know. Time and again, Ravi proved he walked around with his heart outside his chest. Of course, he’d be motivated to give his grandmother something he thought she’d want. Of course, he’d move heaven and earth to make it happen.

  The car stopped and Shira glanced out her window in surprise. The trip to her building had passed by so quickly, she hadn’t realized they were close. “Will you come up?” she asked.

  Dov whipped his head around. “Why?”

  “Please,” she asked. Not only did she have more questions, she wasn’t ready to say goodbye yet. For some reason, she didn’t want him to leave as things now stood between them.

  “Okay,” he answered.

  He shut off the engine and got out. Shira led the way into her building, unlocking the door and guiding him toward her apartment. Dov kept his eyes on the floor. Each time she glanced over at him, he stared at it as if he could see through it.

  His shame was palpable. Oh, he knew he’d messed up.

  Like you did earlier. A voice inside her wagged its transparent finger at her. The guys may have barreled into her life for all the wrong reasons, but could she concede that she’d made some mistakes where they were concerned as well?

  While she didn’t regret what she’d done with Pascal, she did regret the hurt she’d caused Ravi. And the hurt it may have done to his relationship with his brother.

  Sarah’s words echoed in her mind, but she pushed them away, stabbing her key into her apartment lock.

  “Do you want some tea?” she asked, as she shut the door behind them and threw the deadbolts.

  “No.” Dov answered. “No, thank you.”

  Shira unbuttoned her coat, letting it drop to the floor. Her apartment felt strange. Like she didn’t belong there anymore.

  The past week she’d kept crazy hours, had insane things happen to her. This apartment belonged to a girl who had changed so completely, so quickly, that it didn’t reflect her anymore.

  Dov stood awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot. “Why am I here, Shira?”

  She went to the kitchen and pulled out bottles of water from the fridge. She tossed Dov one, and opened the second, drinking deeply. A tri
ckle of water escaped her lips, and she swooped her sleeve over her mouth. “I want to understand. Can you explain it to me?” she asked.

  Emotions passed over his face, one after the other—surprise, annoyance, acceptance.

  She sat on the couch and patted the seat, waiting. Finally, he collapsed next to her. The bottle of water hung from his fingers and he moved it between his hands, rolling it back and forth. “Where do I start?”

  “How did you learn about the artwork?” she asked.

  “Yaphet,” he answered. “His work gives him access to information related to more—nefarious—groups. Anything related to Nazis or the Holocaust…”

  Shira understood immediately. “Mossad.” Yaphet worked for the Israeli Intelligence Agency. In the past, they’d tracked and assassinated Nazis who’d escaped justice.

  Dov didn’t answer. He didn’t give her any indication she was right, but merely held her gaze.

  “Why didn’t you—” She stopped, and tried again. “Why didn’t you use the resources available to him to get the artwork? Why all this?”

  “It would have taken too long,” he said simply.

  It struck her. Dov and his brothers had no idea about the provenances his grandmother had given her. The woman had held onto the documents that proved the pieces in the gallery belonged to her family. But because she assumed the artwork was lost, she’d never told her grandsons about it.

  By giving Shira the provenances, Sarah had been asking her for more than just keeping her grandsons from being arrested for art theft. She’d given Shira the means to find justice for her husband’s family.

  “I’m sorry,” Shira whispered. She knew what she had to do now.

  “I am, too,” Dov replied. His hand trembled as he reached for her, but his strong fingers grasped hers tightly. “I would have liked to know you better. From the moment I laid eyes on you,” he said. “I was captivated.”