Chapter 15 Ingrid #2
Ingrid looks back as Mr. Williams greets a remarkably attractive young man—Vince Hart, the renowned actor, Ada’s former beau.
“My, don’t you have famous friends?”
“Paul is lovely, isn’t he? You’re not going back to your hotel tonight,” Ada announces. “We’ll have fun, and I’ll give you
all the industry gossip: who has thrilling, unannounced roles, who plans to leave her husband, who’s having affairs with whom,
all of it. You’ll drink as much as you want, and you’ll stay here with me.”
As they step outdoors, Ingrid pushes aside the weight in her chest. Enough work for tonight. She’s in a stunning mansion attending
a ridiculously lavish party among Hollywood’s elite, for God’s sake. Might as well enjoy it.
Morning brings the splitting headache Ingrid hoped to avoid. Somehow conceding to a single refill of champagne led to another, then another, until she lost count. Ada can be quite persuasive.
Gordon left early to meet a friend for breakfast, so Ada makes omelets and buttered toast for two, then sits at the breakfast
table across from Ingrid.
“Come now, don’t be cross,” she says as Ingrid glares at her from over her water glass. “You had fun, and you needed it.”
She did, admittedly. Once the work was finished, it was nice to forget for one night. To not think so much about missing Lars
or telling her sister half-truths. The headache, however, is far from nice.
“Well, now I can count myself among those worthy of attending a Star Society gathering.”
“And I fully expect to see you at the next one.” Ada smears a generous portion of cherry jam across her toast.
Ingrid gingerly takes a bite of her omelet, testing the strength of her stomach after last night. “I’ll be there, although
I’ll need to go home eventually. And if I’m going to help you locate Gregor Dietrich, it will be much easier to do that from
home than to discuss it with my contacts over the telephone.”
At the mention of Dietrich, Ada clenches her jaw while her grip on her knife tightens, prompting Ingrid to set her own utensil
down.
“You promised to tell me more. I understand if it’s difficult, but if I’m going to help, I’ve got to know.”
She waits while Ada sips her coffee and seems to wrestle with her decision. At last she clears her throat.
“The day after you and Lars left, Mother invited company for dinner.”
“Dietrich?” When Ada nods, Ingrid leans closer. “Mother entertained the invaders?”
Ingrid shouldn’t be surprised—and, in a way, she isn’t. But the abject horror coursing through her veins leaves her unable to say more.
“Do you remember the work we started with Madame Bellamy, my ballet mistress at the Muziekschool? We continued performing
to raise money for the resistance, and since I was around Dietrich and his men so often, I communicated any information I
overheard, names of those who attended Mother’s dinners, whatever might help.”
A strange mixture of warmth and cold spreads over Ingrid—pride for her sister yet pity for everything she must have endured.
Fortunately, Ada has always been able to hold her tongue better than Ingrid. Ingrid never would have made it through one of
those dinners without telling Mother’s guests exactly what she thought of their politics. She places a hand over her sister’s,
but Ada rises from her chair.
“I dined with them, spoke with them, played the piano for them, over and over and over, all while feigning indifference to
the war and everything they were doing to our people and our country.” When her voice wavers, Ada presses her fingertips to
her eyes, resisting tears. Ingrid stands, wanting to pull her close, to reassure her. More than anything, she wants to change
everything about that night when she embraced her sister for the last time.
She and her new husband spent the war in America, happy and safe. Her sister lived through hell.
“Dietrich was the SS and Police Leader in Arnhem,” Ada continues, a distant look in her eyes. “He lived with us.”
“Lived with you? Meaning . . . ?”
“Meaning our mother was sleeping with him.” Ada sinks back into her chair. “I know what I saw, what she did—it was wrong,
of course it was wrong, but what if Mother was living a lie just as I was? When the war started in 1939, that’s what changed
her mind about fascism in the first place, remember? She told us herself.”
Ingrid remembers the renouncement well. At the time, it had brought her slight relief, even though she had spent too long witnessing her mother’s support of fascist ideology to easily forget, to move forward, to forgive.
Ada, on the other hand, had stepped into this new chapter of Mother’s reformed ways, eager and willing to pretend the old ways could stay behind them.
And although Mother claimed to have lost interest in politics, Ingrid had waited for something more, solid proof beyond Mother’s word, which was enough for Ada but not for Ingrid.
“She told me to trust her,” Ada says almost desperately, as if wanting so fiercely to believe it. “Before introducing me to
Dietrich. To trust her, to not ask questions, and that she loved us—you too, even though you weren’t there. What if she thought
it was the only way to protect me? Maybe she had no choice, or thought she had no choice . . . and I still hated her for it,
hated him. She brought that man into our home, a man whose job was to kill and torture . . .” She props her elbows on the table and
cradles her head as a single sob escapes. Ingrid stays where she is, unable to move.
If Dietrich was involved with the Gestapo and police forces, and if Mother was his mistress, Ada must be hunting him to hold
him accountable for every war crime she witnessed.
“I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry, Leidje.”
Such was the life Ada had known. For years. Ingrid had abandoned her sister to a fate neither of them could have imagined.
An apology is so meaningless, so trite, so powerless. It’s not enough. Nothing ever will be.
After the invasion brought the Reichsparteitag photograph back to their foyer in Arnhem, Ingrid had believed this feeling
now stirring inside her would never be rekindled. The truth is often just what it looks like. Even if it tries to hide. Even
if cause for speculation remains. Until the truth is professed with utmost clarity, it can’t be entirely known.
Still, for the first time in so long, Ingrid allows the possibility to linger.
She might be wrong about their mother’s ability to change, despite the appearances she kept up during the war.
Perhaps Ingrid has spent these last years judging Constance too harshly.
Sometimes a mother faces a choice that isn’t a choice at all.
When she calms, Ada stands. “Come with me.”
She leads Ingrid into the library. There she removes the little robin figurine from the shelf and pulls a stack of books aside.
Tucked behind them is a tattered copy of The Secret Garden, the one Ingrid remembers Ada reading countless times throughout their childhood. The distant look overcomes her again. As
if she’s back in Arnhem, reliving that time.
After a moment, she opens the book. “As the years went on, everything worsened. Starvation, the treatment of the Jews, the
crushing of the resistance. The Gestapo was relentless. Dietrich kept his work in Papa’s study, which was always locked.”
She pauses until Ingrid nods her encouragement. “I took some of his files.”
The weight in Ingrid’s chest lifts. Dear, brilliant Leidje. This is just what Ingrid needs. Without files, there’s little
she can do even if they locate Dietrich, unless the FBI uncovers evidence of his crimes. With files, she’s much closer to
having a legitimate case.
From inside the book, Ada pulls out a collection of photos, negatives, and folded papers and hands them to Ingrid.
“The pictures are from Papa’s study, which Dietrich decorated with Nazi propaganda and a plaque with his coat of arms. His family crest includes a .
. . a skeleton key.” Ada’s voice tightens.
Before Ingrid can determine why, she nods to the documents.
“I also photographed those same records. Lists of Jewish names in Mother’s handwriting, proving her involvement, even if under duress.
Jewish deportations and massacres. Police files of prisoners, most of them resistance.
Dietrich’s name is all over those pages, signing orders.
And if he survived, if I’m right about him being here and looking for me, I feel certain these crimes are not known to the public.
Otherwise I can’t understand why he would be allowed in America. ”
“Well done,” Ingrid says, returning the items. “We can use these once we find him.”
“And?” Ada prompts, because of course she knows there’s something Ingrid isn’t saying.
“And . . .” she continues slowly, “it might be enough. Or it might not.” When Ada opens her mouth, Ingrid holds up a hand.
“The FBI has brought former Nazis into service—blackmail, usually. Work for America against Communism and we’ll ignore your
war crimes; don’t and go to prison.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“You hear things in DC.” Ingrid’s own handler is one of those former Nazis brought into service, although she refrains from
saying so. “My point is, if Dietrich is in America, there is a chance he entered the country under similar terms, or could
use those terms to negotiate a deal, assuming your evidence exposes crimes he didn’t disclose. Even if we find him, I don’t
want you to get your hopes up.”
“Will it help if I testify? If that’s what it takes to convict him, I’ll do it.”
Ingrid fights an exasperated breath. Difficult to hear or not, her sister must be fully aware of what they’re facing. “That’s
what I’m trying to tell you. Even with evidence and a testimony, we might not win a case. Or if the government sees an opportunity
with Dietrich and wants him badly enough, they might make a deal with him.”
Ada shakes her head, pacing as the realization overtakes her. “No. No, they can’t make a deal! He doesn’t deserve a deal.”
“None of them do, but it’s a government decision, not ours. He might even deflect responsibility by arguing that he was acting
under a superior’s orders, so unless we have indisputable proof of—”
“I am the proof.”
Suddenly Ada begins undressing. First her blouse, then her brassiere, both coming off before Ingrid can ask why in God’s name she’s stripping off her clothes. Her lower body remains covered, though, then she indicates her bare right breast and a mark above her nipple.
There Ingrid notices a scar—except it’s no ordinary scar. It’s a horizontal image, perhaps five centimeters across. Distinct
slashes form an intricate bow featuring multiple interlocking circles, a barrel, a double-notched bit—not the result of a
heated iron, but of a blade. Someone carved this image, cut after meticulous cut, to form a skeleton key.
A symbol that is part of Dietrich’s family crest.
Ingrid presses a hand to her own chest, aching as if it bears a twin mark. Ada has been branded.