18
What secrets come in dreams of my beloved?
—A.
I
dreamed again of Heloise. She woke me up, touching my shoulder.
“Hush, child,” she said, her finger to her lips. “Follow me.”
I obeyed, rising from my bed and pulling on a robe against the chill. My room no longer had a lamp, or a plug, or even my suitcase or a mattress. Instead, a straw pallet sat on wooden platform. Moonlight shone into the room, illuminating Heloise. Her face was beautiful, unlined, her skin pale and luminous, her eyes bright and clear.
The floor, icy beneath my feet, woke me up fully. I shivered. This wasn’t a dream.
Heloise, dressed in a plain nightgown with a nightcap, tiptoed into the hallway and looked left and right. Then she carefully crept to the small chapel downstairs.
“Come,” she beckoned me.
I followed her, trying to keep up, terrified of the dark, because I could only follow the glow of her single candle as it appeared to dance like a ghost down the hall. I was afraid to look away from the apparition, and afraid that I was imagining it.
She stopped at a door far down the hall, then quietly pushed on it and slipped inside. Not wanting to be left alone in the darkness, I scurried to where she had just been, opened the door, heart thumping, and crept into the blackness.
I didn’t know where I was, but it felt like a tomb. The room was suffocatingly black, and I couldn’t see Heloise or the candlelight. I looked around, not even able to spy my own hand. But then I saw a flicker on a wall. She was back by an altar. I was in a chapel.
Barefoot, I padded down the center aisle until I reached the altar.
Heloise pointed at a statue. I crept closer. It was the Virgin Mary. But I could see Heloise pointed more insistently at a single stone.
Puzzled, I reached out to touch it. But then Heloise looked over her shoulder in fear. Out in the hallway I heard boots. Footsteps. Lots of them.
I hurriedly ran to the door and opened it a sliver. Nazis were everywhere. I heard them shouting, and their steps were loud and echoing and terrifying. I heard one of them coming, so I ducked in a pew, then hid underneath it, flattening myself to the cold floor. I was afraid to breathe. The Nazis raised lanterns. My heart pounded so hard, I thought its beating would give me away. A pair of black boots stopped by the bench. I swore I could see my own reflection in the shine of the boots. Praying, I whispered internally, “Please, don’t let them see me.”
I was grateful when the boots moved, retreated, and Heloise and I were in silence again.
I crept from my hiding spot and stood, aching from the cold floor.
“Heloise?” I called out. I couldn’t see her, or her candle.
Desperate to find my ghost again, I left the chapel and was still in darkness out in the hallway. From behind me, I heard a voice shout, “There! A girl! Stop!”
Nazis ran down the hall, and I turned and fled, my feet cold and scraped as I found the staircase, and tripped. I fell, and one of the soldiers grabbed my shoulder roughly.
“You!” He screamed at me.
And then, I woke up.
19
We lie forever, married for eternity.
—A.
I
sat up in bed. I was in my room. Gratefully, I flicked on the light. I look at my hands and saw they were trembling. When I shut my eyes, I could see the German soldier grabbing me. I could feel it. I was positive what had happened to me had been real, but there I was underneath the covers.
I looked at my watch. It was three A.M. I had to get into the chapel. I was certain that somehow the ghost of Heloise was telling me something. That statue? The stone? Something.
I climbed from bed. My bare feet on the stone reminded me of the dream. It was just as cold as it had been.
I fumbled through my bag for a pair of socks and pulled them on. Afraid of being caught, I opened my door just a crack. No on was in the hallway.
Because the monastery now operated as a retreat house, the hallways had small sconces lit for people needing to use the bathrooms at night. The lights were pale and flickering, but I could at least see.
Tiptoeing, I hurried down the hall, praying no one would be up and around. I knew the brothers woke early—before dawn—for prayer, but I thought that wouldn’t be for another hour or so.
I ran down the central staircase, a sweeping wide marble creation with a mahogany banister. At the bottom, I turned left and headed to the chapel.
I pressed on the door. Inside, it was pitch-black, so I fumbled on the wall for a light of some sort, found a switch, and flicked it. A wooden chandelier lit, casting illumination on the hard wooden pews, the simple altar, and the statue of Mary to the left of the altar—just as in my dream. It couldn’t be. I was positive that I had not been in this chapel before. Not even on the short tour we had been given.
I ran to the statue. The face of the Mary statue was serene, carved of marble, and white.
I crossed myself in a sign of deference. “I need to know what’s hidden here; I need to find Heloise’s book. Can you help me?” I beseeched the statue. “Please?”
Behind me, I heard someone at the door. I withdrew behind the statue—until I saw it was August.
“August! What are you doing here?” I whispered.
“Abelard . . . he came to me again. In a dream.”
“Heloise came to me in mine,” I whispered, feeling like a spider was crawling up my spine.
“He showed me something. Something hidden.”
“Was it here? Behind a stone, by the statue?”
“Yes, I think so. But it was dark . . . I don’t know.”
I looked around the statue’s base, but I didn’t see anything that made sense to me as far as a secret. The two of us ran our fingers along the marble, the folds of Mary’s dress soft—the marble perfectly smooth.
I knelt down. Heloise had pointed to a stone. I ran my fingers along the wall beneath the statue. I saw no special lettering, nothing that would mean anything in my search.
My heart still throbbed. There had to be something. The chapel was just as I had dreamed it. Heloise was trying to tell me something.
“Do you remember your dream?” I asked him.
“Like it was real. Really happening.”
“Let’s each of us just concentrate.”
I shut my eyes and relived the dream, scary as it was.
Then I remembered. A stone had seemed to glow.
I opened my eyes again, only this time, they gravitated toward one particular stone. I looked at August. He was pointing at the same stone.
We moved to it, hurriedly, frantically, touching it. Still nothing. Then I moved my fingers along the sides. One corner had a chip. I poked the edge of my finger into the chipped corner and could feel the stone shift slightly.
“Oh, Heloise,” I whispered aloud. I pulled on the stone. It came loose. And there, beneath the marble statue of Mary, I found a secret cache.
I reached my hand into the darkness, praying no rats were in there. My fingers felt along sandy gravel, and then stopped. I felt something solid. Grabbing it, I withdrew the box.
“Oh, God, August,” I breathed. “This could be it. Could be what our entire search was for.”
He swallowed. “The find of a lifetime.”
Pulling the box into the dim light, I saw it was covered with burlap cloth, and dusty. I blew on it. Unwrapping gingerly, the box was wooden and carved.
Heloise et Abelard
My mouth went completely dry.
My hands shook. “I can’t,” I whispered. “You do it.”
Carefully, he opened the tiny latch. And there, nestled on velvet, were two perfectly preserved leaves of manuscript.
Heloise and Abelard. The man with the harp, the woman with the halo.
Together for eternity.
20
You are lost to me, and each day I weep and gnash my teeth.
—A.
“
M
iss Calliope?” Abbé Bruno entered the chapel, eyes widening when he found me there, tears streaming down my face, hugging August.
“Look, Abbé! Look what we found.”
He rushed to my side, and as soon as he saw the pages, his eyes welled. “But how?”
In a rush of words, it all came tumbling out—the dream, the rock, the chipped corner, how it moved.
Abbé Bruno crossed himself three times and genuflected at the cross. When two brothers came into the chapel for morning prayers, Abbé Bruno instead sent them to get Harry and Etienne so we could share the good news.
Harry arrived first, running at full speed to the pages, which we had gingerly placed on the altar.
“I don’t believe it,” he whispered.
“I dreamed it was here, Harry. I
dreamed
it.”
“What?”
I repeated the story. He kept shaking his head. He looked from me, to August, to the hole in the stone wall, to me, to August again.
He leaned in close as Etienne arrived, and together they examined the edges.
“Look how clean the edge is here, where it would have been bound into the manuscript,” Harry said. “Someone cut it from the book. Perhaps they knew these were the most important pages. They wanted to make sure Heloise and Abelard were together.”
“But why not hide the whole book?” Etienne asked.
“Look at the hole,” I said. “It wouldn’t be large enough for the thickness of the manuscript. And maybe whoever it was hoped that if the Nazis had no idea of the importance of the Book of Hours, they would just . . . I don’t know . . . leave it alone.”
Harry could barely contain himself. “I need to call the director of the auction house immediately! I’m going outside where my phone will have better reception.”
“James Rose will never let it be auctioned off now,” I said. “He’ll pull it.”
Harry smiled. “It doesn’t matter. Now that there’s proof, the book will be returned to its rightful heirs. The monastery, the brothers.”
At that moment, I loved Uncle Harry so much. He’d lost his commission and was happy about it. It was about
history
for him, and not about money.
“I must call Miriam,” Etienne said.
“We’ll leave you to morning prayers, Abbé Bruno,” Harry said.
August and I walked the hall. “Can you explain to me what just happened?” I whispered.
“No.”
“It
did
just happen, though, right?”
“Yeah, but it makes no sense. It’s as if they really did come to us, to me and you, and chose us.”
We found Uncle Harry outside. He was on the phone and I paced and waited. He said, “All right, Gabe. Love you. Calliope sends love, too.”
I nodded in agreement. Then he hung up.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“August and I still can’t believe it. Do you believe in ghosts?”
“I do. But you know, I’ve always been a little weird that way. Maybe you two are reincarnated. Or maybe . . .” His voice trailed off.
“Maybe what?” I asked.
“Maybe you both needed to believe in the book more than anyone else. Maybe, in some way, you willed this whole miracle into being.”
“Can we go back to Paris now? We need to go to their tomb. We need to tell them.”
“Honey, we have to make arrangements for the pages. They need to be taken to New York, reunited with the manuscript, and then, if we can prove the Book of Hours was stolen by the Nazis, the monastery can get the book back. We have to cross the t’s and dot the i’s before this is all over. The Tome Raider . . . I bet you he was involved somehow.”
“Miriam loves the book, but you know, she’ll just be happy it’s where it’s supposed to be.”
“Exactly. So we’re going to be here for a little while yet. Try to relax. I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for how you found it.” He looked from August to me. “Or not.”
August and I walked out on the monastery grounds in silence. Maybe Harry was right. Maybe we needed the book more than anyone else.
21
When love is gone, a hollow remains, like the space in Adam’s ribs where Eve was formed.
—A.
O
n Saturday, we got ready to go to the cemetery. After telling Harry and Etienne our plans, we all worked on letters. I wrote mine, imagining Heloise standing like an angel over my shoulder, whispering her guidance.