Brant’s words made Darby recognize small signs she’d never noticed in Grandma Celia. Though her grandmother had not survived a concentration camp, she escaped Austria while many of her friends and family had not. Darby remembered Grandma’s minor swings of depression over the years, especially during milestones such as the date of her wedding anniversary. Darby had known of these times, especially recalling occasional words that were out of place for the woman of strength and faith: “Have I done anything of importance with my life?” “I’ve never endured anything.”
Hearing Brant talk about the constant, often hidden, struggles of many survivors made her wonder how much her grandmother had held inside. She wished she’d known sooner, that Grandma Celia wouldn’t have had to bear her struggles alone.
As Brant moved to the next part of his talk, Darby fought against the stirring she felt inside every time he looked her way. He was more attractive than she remembered. He didn’t seem as uptight, but more at ease with himself and the crowd. Darby found herself watching his hands holding the edge of the podium, or his eyes that looked above the people in the classroom to his own memories of survivor stories.
His workshop moved to the survivor today. He stressed the importance of recording testimonies and of helping survivors and their families. Darby remembered the lists of people still seeking family and friends on the Internet site “Desperately Seeking.”
“A large number of survivors have spent years in silence, unwilling to share their experiences with even their closest friends and family. Now, in their final years, many seek closure or want to record the truth of what happened. History is often twisted to fit modem times. My organization wishes to preserve the facts and lives of the Holocaust victims and survivors so future generations cannot change the truth of what happened.”
A few people applauded. Brant paused awkwardly, then nodded.
“In my conclusion, I want to explain what I’ve only recently discovered. The Holocaust, or Shoah, was a horror unlike any humankind has seen. We must ensure that it does not happen again. We must uplift life by protecting those who cannot protect themselves, by rescuing and educating and loving both potential predator and victim. But since most of you here are educators, writers, journalists, politicians, or students aspiring to be one of these, I want to remind you of something I have missed until lately. Be sure to take the time to live your own life. The survivors have gone on with theirs to become statesmen, poets, diplomats, soldiers, film producers, and leaders in their communities. They have continued with life, marrying and having children.”
Brant looked down for a long moment, as if he were sharing a deep secret he was unsure how to tell. He looked specifically at Darby, then at the entire class of listeners.
“Steven Spielberg, the renowned American filmmaker, received an Oscar at the Hollywood Academy Awards for best director of Saving Private Ryan. As Mr. Spielberg received the award, he said this: ‘There is honor in looking back and respecting the past.’ That is a statement to be remembered. There is honor in looking back. We should respect the past. And yet, I must remind you, from personal experience, do not keep your eyes turned back so much that you miss your own today, and your own tomorrow. For we are each granted one life. Learn from yesterday. Heal the wounds of those around you—the pain is everywhere, in everyone. But also, live. . . . Thank you.”
The room was deathly quiet until an elderly woman stood and began to clap. Others followed until every chair was empty. Brant was unhooking the microphone when people moved forward to shake his hand and ask questions. His eyes met Darby’s, before the crowd blocked the way. She wanted to talk to him. His workshop had been powerful. Yet she could not deny her attraction toward this man who believed her grandmother a fraud. He had spoken with sincerity and depth in his voice. He had given the facts, but she could see how much he cared through his deep, brown eyes. He sought the crowd for understanding. Do you understand what these people have endured? his eyes seemed to ask. Don’t return to your life and forget this.
The line was long to speak with Brant, and Darby was unsure what to say. But it was clear he wasn’t the coldhearted man she’d first believed him to be. However, that fact didn’t change what he thought of her grandmother; and as yet, there was still no proof to change his mind. Darby didn’t even know what he thought of her. She left the classroom, pausing in the hallway to collect her thoughts before moving toward the luncheon where she’d planned to meet Professor Voss.
The afternoon passed rapidly with two more workshops. Darby had told Professor Voss about her interest in freelance photography for newspapers and magazines with some possible writing in the future, and he encouraged her to attend two workshops, “Holocaust in the Modern Press” and “Preserving the Images of Yesterday,” both taught by an international media giant. Darby found the classes provided headphones that translated the German into English, so Professor Voss didn’t have to translate the workshops for her. The information was invaluable, giving her a renewed passion for the work she’d almost given up on. She might make a living yet, and she might love that work in a way she never had before.
As Darby left her last workshop and headed toward the main auditorium for the closing speaker, she rounded a corner and almost bumped into Brant.
“Excuse me,” she said, awkward in his presence.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Good, and you?”
“Good.”
“I really enjoyed your workshop this morning.”
“Thank you.”
“Well—” they said at the same time, then stopped. They stood in the hall with people moving by and suddenly both smiled at once.
“Do you realize how much you surprised me when I was introducing my workshop?” Brant asked, shaking his head. “I nearly lost my entire train of thought. I thought you were in the States, and there you are, sitting next to Peter.”
“I was just as shocked to see you walk up there.” Darby couldn’t stop a giggle as she remembered his expression. “Now we’re even, since you made me cry and nearly burst with anger on the first day we met.”
“I don’t always bring out the worst in people.”
“No, just me.” Darby tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, aware of how close they stood.
“I really did feel bad about the crying thing.”
“You should have. I don’t cry easily.”
When Brant smiled, Darby noticed his smooth-shaved jaw and soft-looking lips.
“So you couldn’t stay away from Austria?”
“Somehow it lured me back,” she said.
“And . . .” Brant hesitated, as if contemplating whether to ask. “Have you found anything?”
“Herr Collins?” A young woman with a handful of papers nudged him from behind.
Brant turned to gather the papers from the petite girl. Darby was surprised she spoke in English.
“Can I do anything else to help you?” the girl asked, biting her lip.
“No, this is great. Thank you, Melissa.”
“Any time.” Melissa glanced back twice coyly as she walked down the hall, but only Darby noticed.
“They just surround you,” Darby said.
“What?” Brant looked confused.
“Still as gullible as ever.”
Brant appeared lost, then the light bulb turned on. “Not that again. She’s a student from the States.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t been snatched up by one of these Austrian ladies,” Darby said, then realized her joking had struck home, on a very personal note.
“I lose whatever charm I possess with my life revolving around work. Like I said today, I only recently learned the value of living. And look who’s talking. Why, Darby Evans, are you still unmarried?”
She gulped. Their joking had turned serious, and she didn’t like it ai
med her way. “I suppose, much the same reason. All work and no play—you know.” Darby consulted her watch. “But look at the time.” He grinned as she diverted their conversation.
“Time for the general session, just in time.” Brant shook his head. “I’ll see you later, Darby.”
“Remember me?” Richter said into the cell phone. He walked away from the bright sidewalk down a darkened pathway near the river. A group of tourists passed, chattering in the cold as they turned to cross the river into the Old City.
“What do you want?” the voice replied. “I thought you were never calling us again, never coming back. We’ve adjusted quite nicely.”
Richter clenched his fist. He needed to stay calm. He needed to get this right. “I just wanted to see how you and Mom are doing.”
“That’s a good one. I know you need money for your debts. But since you asked, your mom and I have never been better in the last two years. So don’t try coming back into our lives. It’s not going to happen.”
“I’ve cleaned up my life, Dad,” Richter said.
“I don’t care, Richter. Long ago I quit having a son, so don’t call again.”
“When did you ever have a son?” Richter slammed the phone against the railing again and again. He cursed and hurled the phone toward the dark waters, hearing a splash a second later.
Now what would he do? His father was his last chance. Yet when had his father ever shown him any love? Richter had been sent to boarding school all year and in the summer to Gunther and Ingrid’s. He was an only child, the one neither of his parents ever wanted. They had their life with rich friends and rich vacations, and a kid didn’t fit into what they wanted out of life.
He cursed again and pounded his fist against the railing. “Having problems again, Richter?” a voice said from behind. Richter turned slowly to face a large, older man rising from a bench behind him. He looked straight at the man whose unwavering stare brought a fearful churning in Richter’s stomach. His contact was not supposed to be this early, and it certainly wasn’t supposed to be this man. Richter had seen him once, but only in passing. Why would he take the risk to meet Richter in person? It wasn’t a good sign.
“Everything is great,” Richter said, forcing a smile.
“You were given your loan in good faith. Now I suppose you’re going to tell me you need more time—again.”
“I told Thom about the old Lange inheritance,” Richter brought up quickly. “Did he tell you?”
“It’s your ticket to wealth, I suppose.”
“I know it is. You don’t understand the worth of the brooch alone. And the coins—there may not be another set of this kind in the world. I’ll pay you back and have enough to loan you money.”
The man didn’t join in the joke.
“Anyway, the woman who could be my opportunity just came back to the city.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I have some plans, and you don’t have to worry, I make good on my debts. I always have before.”
“I’m more interested in the Lange inheritance. I’d also like to hear everything you know about this woman, Darby Evans.”
Richter frowned. How did the contact know her name? “Will some of this come off my tab?”
“Just keep me informed. Not through Thom, but straight to me. I’ll take care of everything else.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Frank Beck looked like any older man Darby would see at an early-bird breakfast at Denny’s or walking a miniature dog in the park. He lived in Florida, golfed with his friends, attended synagogue, and drove a motor home in the summer months to destinations with cooler weather—his favorite trip had been a six-week drive to Alaska. His wife of fifty-one years liked to knit booties for their new grandbabies and great-grandbabies and to play cards with her friends. The couple especially loved morning coffee with cream-cheese danishes on the balcony of their condo. But, too often, Frank Beck returned to his previous life, sometimes during the night or when driving past an industrial smokestack or when hearing the sound of a train rumbling on its tracks. Then Frank would find himself hungry, cold, and completely terrified even as he clenched the wheel of his silver Cadillac or sweated on his Serta Perfect Sleeper mattress.
Frank spoke in English, for like Grandma Celia, he vowed never to speak German again. Coming to a German-speaking country for this conference was most difficult.
Darby watched Frank as he spoke to the captive audience. He first told of his life today, then descended into the darkness of a history that lived with every beat of his heart. “It was my job to burn bodies in the ovens. I did my job—or I’d become like them. Very quickly you are numbed to the reality, the smell, and the faces you choose not to see. But one day, right before me, I recognized a face. It was my father. We’d been separated months earlier, and I had tried to find where he was taken. Then I found him right there. I could not think of it. I put my father into the oven to burn.” His words faltered.
“Some people do not understand why many survivors continue to seek compensation or the return of properties, heirlooms, and money. Yet the companies that profited from our labor continue to thrive. The banks and insurance companies that would not return monies have earned much interest and wealth from us. Imagine the insurance policy your father purchases and faithfully pays is then used to fund the Nazi regime that destroys your family and life. Then when you attempt to claim your father’s insurance after the war, you are rejected, though you hold the policy in your hand.” Frank held his fist in the air. “The policy the insurance company gave your father is in your hand after hiding beneath the floor of your barn for six years. There is the proof, but still you are rejected. Why? Because the Nazis didn’t issue death certificates when they murdered. Insurance policies require proof of death, not just an eyewitness who saw his father’s face before burning it.”
He shook his head and his voice lowered. “Yet people say it is long since past. ‘Frank, you have rebuilt your life. Leave it behind you.’ For my wife, myself, and many others, it cannot be left behind. It is forever part of us. We had every bit of humanity stolen from us. Yes, we survived, but there are pieces that can never be reclaimed.”
He paused, looking down at the podium. “And yet, I did not come here this weekend to emphasize such things. Instead, I want to be a reminder to those who will listen and take the message outward. Again and again, we say do not forget. Simon Weisenthal writes this in his book Justice Not Vengeance: ‘Hatred can be nurtured anywhere, idealism can be perverted into sadism anywhere. If hatred and sadism combine with modern technology, the inferno could erupt anew anywhere.’ I say to each one of you, tell the stories and remember us.”
With those simple words, Frank Beck left the stage. The auditorium echoed in serious applause, not a roar of jubilation, but with hands together in honor and respect. Darby could not clap, only watch the man descend the stairs.
The conference closed, and she walked slowly through the crowd toward the exit. She thought to tell Professor Voss good-bye, but he was in the midst of a crowd of colleagues. A blast of cold hit her face as she pushed open the university doors. The clouds churned in the late-afternoon sky, as if deciding whether to create a storm or move on.
She halted on the landing with her hands on the railing. A thousand sentences, words, and feelings from the seminar coursed through her mind, but what could she do with it all? One thing was clear: she’d never be the same. Her eyes had opened a little more. There was so much more to know and learn and understand, and suddenly she wanted to know so much and to pass it along to others. Perhaps her photographs would do that for others someday.
Addressing the gray-and-white clouds wrestling above the tops of the buildings, she vowed, I’m going to share stories. Like my grandmother before me, I will be a storyteller like I was designed to be. Whether through photographs or words, I
want to share with people who are like me—seeking light through the darkness.
And as Brant had said, she wanted to live her life with all the fullness she could find. God, I’ve lived my life without you for a long time and even now forget you all the time. But I know I need your help. I need you every day.
The door opened behind her, and several people left the building. Darby adjusted the strap on her satchel, waiting for them to pass. Then she headed back toward the city center. She had some photographs that needed to be taken.
“Darby! Wait!”
She turned to see Brant Collins jogging down the street from the university entrance. “Professor Voss asked me to walk you back to your hotel. He regrets he could not be here himself.”
“I think I can manage without help.” Darby knew what Professor Voss was up to, and she didn’t like it.
“I go this way, anyway,” he said, falling into step beside her. He pointed toward the sheer mountain cliff above the cathedral domes. “I live on the other side of Mönchsberg, through the tunnel.”
Darby looked toward the mountain. She’d never gone through the tunnel to the other side. The Old City had become like home, but the rest of Salzburg was still a mystery. “As long as I’m on the way.”
As they continued on, Darby remembered the first time they’d met and walked these same streets.
“What did you think of the conference?” Brant asked.
“Excellent, very moving. The last speaker was incredible.”
“It’s amazing to discover what man will do to man,” Brant said quietly.
“I can’t understand it.” Darby glanced at Brant. She wondered what those eyes had seen and ears had heard. No wonder he became lost in his work, forgetting how to live. “I don’t think I could hear those things all the time.”
“I think you could. You’d do it because it’s important to help them. It’s important to record their lives and try to understand, if even in the smallest sense. They deserve at least understanding. It’s amazing what takes us so long to see.”
Winter Passing Page 22