“And yet...” Tony’s coffee-dark eyes narrowed. The man had a reporter’s inquisitiveness and tenacity, combined with American nosiness.
Everything English inside him told him to deflect the attention. Yet Hugh always thought more clearly when talking to others, and he hadn’t told a soul what happened with Aleida. “It’s a woman, if you must know.”
“I must. She broke your heart?”
That would be far easier to bear. “I broke hers.”
Tony whistled. “What’d you do?” Compassion bent down the corners of his mouth.
In their short acquaintance, Hugh had found Tony to be a man of integrity. No one stood within ten feet of them. And Hugh’s exhaustion drained away the last of his reserve.
He lowered his voice. “She’s Dutch. When she was fleeing the Netherlands, her husband gave her little boy to a British couple bound for London.”
Tony groaned. “I saw a woman do that during the exodus. Almost tossed her kid through a car window. I wonder if she ever found him.”
“Precisely. Aleida’s husband was a dreadful man. He refused to give her the name or address of the British couple—then he was killed the next day. She came here looking for her son.”
“No name? No address? Talk about looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“Indeed.” A wind built from the tunnel as a train approached. “The only thing in her favor is that her son has a distinguishing feature, a hand deformity.”
Tony’s mouth dropped open. “A hand deformity?”
“Poor little chap is missing all the fingers on his right hand.”How many times had he heard Aleida describe Theo in her lilting accent?
“Missing ... all...”
The red Underground train entered the station with a flurry of air.
Hugh raised his voice above the noise. “It did help her find him.” Then he groaned. “Rather, she found the couple. However, she has no papers to prove he’s her child, not even a photograph. The husband didn’t believe her and refused to give up the child. That’s when I made my error.”
The train doors opened. Tony stood with his mouth hanging open.
“Come along.” Hugh nudged his friend on board. He needed to finish the story, although relating the embarrassing details in the confines of a train made him cringe. “I made the error of—”
“A Dutch boy, you said?” Tony grabbed a pole for support, and his gaze pierced. “How old?”
“He’s four now. He was three at the time.”
“Blond? His mother’s blond?”
“Well, yes.” Many Dutch were.
“Missing all his fingers like this?” He raised a fist, and the light in his eyes brightened.
“Yes.” Why was Tony acting so strangely?
“Collie!” Tony bumped Hugh’s arm with that fist. “I took their picture during the exodus.”
“Pardon?”
“It had to be them. I saw a woman and her son sitting under a tree. The contrast—the love and devotion between them—and in the background, the refugees traipsing by. I took a dozen shots, some of my best ever.”
The doors shut, the train pulled away, and Hugh wobbled, his brain spinning. He gripped the pole above Tony’s hand. It couldn’t be.
“Would have won me the Pulitzer if I could have published them.”
“You lost the film?”
