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discussed Helen’s research on the Third Reich and her interest in German-occupied Poland. Her intention was to write a book on the ghettos of Warsaw and Lodz and the death camps, primarily Auschwitz, Dachau, and Buchenwald.
    “I had planned to travel to Auschwitz with my father, for hands-on research, but then I shelved the book.”
    Cory munched her salad. “Was that when Chelsea died?”
    “No, years before her death. Solidarity and Lech Walesa were coming into power and the entire Eastern Bloc was experiencing dramatic change. Travel there wasn’t exactly safe.”
    “I’ve been to Poland,” Cory said as easily as another person would say they’d been to Philly. “It’s a remarkable country with a fantastic history. They have quite a love for their country. After the war, the old city of Warsaw was rebuilt through photographs and works of art.” Cory rattled on. “The Black Madonna…”
    Her remark surprised Helen. Nobody “goes” to Poland, and nobody says it’s a remarkable country with a fantastic history. Forever, Poland has taken the brunt of ethnic jokes.
    Helen wiped her mouth with the napkin and then placed it neatly on the table. Remembering the vastness of Cory’s residence and the fact that she’d seen no piano while she shuffled through, she felt uneasy. Who was this Chamberlain woman? She eyeballed her with suspicion.
    “Were you visiting the country?”
    “I traveled there for business first and then pleasure.” Cory stood and began clearing the table.
    Used by women. Secretive. She’s a spy. For us? For the KGB? She’s a Commie. A pinko. A sympathizer. Who else would infiltrate Poland on business and then pleasure? Sure, overthrow a country today, feast on its bounty tomorrow. The nerve. But where did the piano come in?
    “Wait,” Helen said. “There’s something I don’t understand. What exactly is it that you do?”
    “I travel,” she said. “A lot.”
    “So will you answer my question?”
    “Yes.” She sat quietly for a moment, almost as though she weighed her answer. “Come with me.” She took Helen by the hand. “I haven’t been totally up front with you, but it comes from my insecurities.” Cory led her into the living room and stopped in front of large oak double doors. “This is where I leave my vanity.”
    She opened the doors and Helen stepped inside. Cory stayed at the threshold, leaning against the door, her arms crossed. Helen slowly walked around the room.
    Framed posters occupied most of the white wall space. She read them aloud: “Chamberlain Plays Chopin. Two nights only.” It was from a recent Carnegie Hall date. Then, “Cory Pops With Boston,” a Boston Pops guest appearance. One poster displayed a photograph showing only Cory’s eyes, with the remaining features in shadow. Helen wanted to touch the poster but didn’t. She continued to read the placards that sent her around the world: London, Paris, Berlin, Rome, Warsaw.
    Cory rustled at the doorway and Helen continued her survey. Finally, she walked to a grand piano that faced a wall whose windows held no drapes. Cotton clouds and blue sky reflected clearly from the top of the ebony instrument. She touched the polished finish and noticed, in another corner, a life-size porcelain statue.
    “Apollo. The god of music,” she said.
    She attempted an abrupt about-face, but still another item on the wall stopped her. There, in a black frame, stood Cory and her delicious half-moon grin, shaking hands with Queen Elizabeth. Beside the photograph hung a framed program. Helen read the entire page. “By Royal command, in recognition of her outstanding contribution to the arts, Coryell Chamberlain performs Brahms and Borodin, in the presence of Queen Elizabeth II, at The Royal Albert Hall, eight p.m. on August twenty-first, nineteen ninety-four.”
    Helen completed her about-face and glared at Cory. “You were commanded by the Queen? Well, isn’t that special?” Helen scoffed. “Doesn’t that make