Who's sorry now?

 
     
    CHAPTER ONE
    Monday, April 17, 1933
     
    ROBERT BREWSTER WAS WAITING around the train station in Voorburg-on-Hudson for a box of books he’d ordered for his sister Lily’s next birthday. A week ago, he’d sneaked away to New York City with a list the comely town librarian had given him. Miss Philomena Exley knew Lily’s reading habits and favorite authors. He’d been told that two of the author choices she’d enjoyed had new books coming out the end of the week if he’d care to wait for just one package to be shipped by train to Voorburg.
    Since he was doing this much earlier than necessary, which was not the way he normally treated birthdays, Robert didn’t mind. Mostly, he frantically picked up some silly trinket at the last minute, and offered to pay Lily’s way to a talkie. But getting to speak at length with Miss Exley was a rare treat.
    Since there was no longer a post office in Voorburg because it burned down years ago, the incoming mail and packages were in bags at the train station and the residents had to rummage through the bags to fish out what they’d received.
    There was a porter who hung around the station, helping with luggage and living on the tips, which must have been meager in these hard times. Edwin McBride had been at the Bonus March and heard Jack Summer, the editor of the Voorburg Times, talk about Voorburg. It had sounded like a nice town so he’d settled there. ”A box for you, Mr. Brewster,” McBride said. ”Really heavy.”
    Robert tipped him fifty cents, which was probably more than McBride normally made in a week, and set the box down on a bench, to figure out where to hide it from Lily. As he was doing so, a familiar Voorburg resident stepped off the last car, which was for passengers. She was Sara Smithson, a young widow who had inherited a lot of rental property from her husband. She looked exhausted as she gestured for Mr. McBride to help her with her enormous suitcase, then a large trunk. The trunk was followed by an older man, who needed help down the steep steps.
    Robert approached her. ”May I help you and this gentleman?”
    ”Oh, Mr. Brewster, how nice of you. It’s been such a long hard trip.”
    ”From where?” Robert asked, not that it was any of his business.
    She didn’t mind telling him. ”Clear from Berlin, Germany.”
    She pushed back her hair, which was straggling loose from under her hat.
    ”I went to fetch my grandfather.” She put her hand on the old man’s arm and glanced at Robert. ”This nice man, Mr. Brewster, is going to help us with our belongings.”
    The old man took Robert’s hand, and introduced himself. ”Schneidermeister Kurtz.”
    ”Grandpa, say it in English,” Mrs. Smithson said with a hint of irritation. ”I’ve told you not many people here know German.”
    He patted his granddaughter’s arm and with a smile, said, ”Yes, you have, sweeting. I’m Master Tailor Kurtz. My granddaughter came to rescue me from the Nazis.” Robert was surprised at how well the old man spoke English. Only the faintest hint of German accent.
    ”Are you Jewish, then?” Robert asked.
    ”No, Catholic,” he said. ”But once I went with a friend to a Communist meeting. We all had to sign our names and addresses in a ledger so we’d get a notice of the time and place of the next meeting. The Nazis hate Communists as much as Jews. I feared someone would turn me in if they found the ledger.”
    It took both Robert and McBride to thrust Mr. Kurtz’s trunk and Mrs. Smithson’s big suitcase into the back of Robert’s butter-yellow Duesenberg.
    ”What a fine car this is,” Mr. Kurtz said. ”You must be very wealthy to have one.”
    ”Grandpa! That’s rude,” Mrs. Smithson said.
    ”I don’t mind at all,” Robert said. ”I inherited it from a great-uncle I didn’t even remember. My sister and I are as poor as everyone else in town. Mrs. Smithson, where am I taking you and your grandfather?”
    ”I live next door to Miss Jurgen. Do you know her house?”
    ”I do. My sister Lily takes sewing lessons from her.”
    ”I know. I take lessons at the same time she does. But it’s not sewing. It’s graphing patterns for embroidery and needlepoint. But we need to drop off Grandpa’s trunk first.”
    ”Where?”
    ”That little empty shop across from the courthouse that used to be a bookstore before the tenant and his family took off for California. My late husband owned it.”
    Robert pulled up in front of the building and