Prologue
Holland, April 1921
Elegant white clouds floated in a perfect blue sky, casting shadows over fields of scarlet and gold tulips. A rippling wind moved through the fields, the only thing daring to intrude on perfect stillness. Its fearlessness caused the flowers to bob and weave like maids in a row. In the distance, along a well-worn path, an ancient windmill stood solemnly guarding the field. It towered above its budding subjects, its brown clapboard walls strong but worn, peeling and relentless against the passage of time. The red sails, now faded to time-worn pink, caught the wind and groaned a rhythmic chant as they creaked and toiled.
Bounding toward the windmill, a new bride ran ahead in playful chase away from her bridegroom through the rows of nodding tulips. Sarah, barely twenty-two, was already dressed for her honeymoon. A simple cream-colored cotton dress hung loosely from her delicate shoulders. Cream sandals emphasized her shapely ankles and her long legs, kissed generously by the early spring sun as she sprinted ahead of her husband.
Just a few short hours since exchanging vows, much of Sarah’s wedding finery had already been carefully packed away in sheets of soft, white tissue paper. The satin shoes that buckled at the ankle, along with her dropped-waist, calf-length, silk dress, had been reverently tucked and folded by elderly female relatives and young unmarried friends. It was all nestled now in her mahogany chest, ready to delight the expected stream of family brides ahead of her.
Everything put away except the one thing she couldn’t yet bear to surrender. Apart from the gold wedding band on her left hand, the only thing distinguishing her as a newly married woman streamed out behind her, waltzing on the wind—an antique lace veil, trimmed by her grandmother’s aged and gnarled fingers, the exquisite fabric a bouquet of intricate daisy-chain stitches and miniature cream pearls.
As she ran along the colorful path, the wind picked up, a foil in the young couple’s romp. All at once, a mischievous gust bridled her, tugging at the train and twisting it into a carefree, corkscrewed spiral that danced up into the sky. Josef caught up, through the lines of flowery guards, and leaped out in front of her. He was dressed in pleated linen trousers, and a blue linen shirt rolled to the elbows, exposing long, athletic forearms. His body was willowy but strong, and a shock of raven hair framed a face with piercing, expectant blue eyes.
He reached out, grabbing her around the waist, and pulled her toward him, playfully pinning her arms behind her back to gather her even closer. Her hot breath came in sharp, short gasps that warmed his cheek.
“Finally,” he said triumphantly.
Sarah responded by giggling and trying to wriggle free as Josef attempted to unpin her veil. “I’m not giving it up, Josef. I plan on wearing it through the whole of my first year of marriage!”
Josef’s eyes widened in amusement. “My mother would be horrified, since she already has plans to use it to trim our children’s baptismal gowns.”
“Children?” Sarah echoed. “We’ve only been married for four hours.”
“Well, then,” he said, in a decisive tone. “There is no time to lose!” Releasing her hand, he cupped her face, kissing her eyes, lips, and neck as she giggled in an attempt to squirm away from his advances.
“Not my neck, Josef. You know what that does to me.”
Flashing her an all-knowing smile, he wrapped his arms around her, his mouth finding hers in a passionate kiss. In the distance, a voice called for them.
Sarah grabbed Josef by his shirt collars and pulled him down into a dip among the tulips as the long veil, whipped up by the wind, entwined the pair of them.
“Shhh,” she whispered. “If we stay still and out of sight, Mama will not find us.”
“I’m not complaining,” Josef whispered, pulling down the billowing fabric that had encircled his face. He adjusted their position, laying an arm beneath her to protect her head from the stony earth.
They lay facing one another, waiting wordlessly for the footsteps to fade, their breath slowing into a unified rhythm. Deep in the heart of the field, the scent from the tulips was intoxicating. Sarah rose on one elbow and looked down at Josef with thoughtful eyes.
“I loved your father’s gift,” she whispered.
Josef shook his head and smiled. “My father is a romantic and always has been. He puts all his faith in the power of words of love.” Josef rolled onto his back and interlinked his hands behind his head, looking up toward the wispy clouds. “I can’t believe he read poems at our wedding. When I’m a mathematician! What do I need with such things? I think he holds out hope that one day, somehow, his precious poetry will find room in my heart. Even now at the age of twenty-eight.”
Sarah pressed her lips together and thrust out her chin. “How can you say that? What is life without art, music, or poetry? It helps us know how to feel, love, and live!” She rolled onto her back and focused on a cloud that looked like a cantering pony. Coyly, she added, “I started to fall a little bit in love with your father as I watched him reciting. The way he looked at your mother showed all the love they’d shared for so long.”
A look of real surprise crossed Josef’s face.
Sarah continued, sighing, “I’m not sure how long our love will last if you don’t know how to keep love alive like that. I can’t see mathematical equations making me feel quite the same way.”
Rolling toward her, he brushed aside an auburn curl from her heart-shaped face. “What do you mean? Mathematics can be beautiful. Euler’s Identity is said to be the most beautiful equation in the world.” He continued with intense romantic emphasis, “eiπ + 1 = 0.”
Sarah closed her eyes and wrinkled up her nose as she shook her head, flicking her copper curls to flash her displeasure.
He pulled her in close again and whispered into her ear, “How shall I keep my soul from touching yours? How shall I lift it out beyond you toward other things?”
Opening her eyes fully, Sarah broke into a broad smile as he continued to recite the poem “Love Song” by the contemporary poet, Rainer Maria Rilke. She showed her appreciation by covering his face with tiny birdlike kisses and then slowly unbuttoning his shirt.
He continued to whisper the words of the poem as he nuzzled her neck and caressed her body.
“All right,” she whispered, “you can have the veil. What shall we call our son?”
He looked deep into her eyes before answering. “Sarah.” He smiled assuredly. “It will be a daughter and we will call her Sarah.”
She started to protest before he silenced her by covering her mouth with a lingering kiss. As their lovemaking fell into a gentle rhythm, all that could be heard was the soft creaking of the windmill as its sails lifted toward the darkening sunset sky.
Part I
Chapter 1
His vision, from the constantly passing bars,
has grown so weary that it cannot hold
anything else. It seems to him there are
a thousand bars; and behind the bars, no world.
—Rainer Maria Rilke, “The Panther”
Amsterdam, February 1941
Relentless, biting snow fell in icy sheets upon the war-torn streets of occupied Holland, forging heaps of gritty gray slush, suffocating a town already stripped of its humanity. The steely mounds of snow were pockmarked by ugly splatters accumulated from a week of frigid temperatures, dirty roads, and ricocheting stones splayed by hapless drivers. Gray snow on gray streets smothered by a bilious sky of the same dispiriting color. To the Dutch, this bleak weather reflected a world that felt the same.