Winter Passing

by Cindy Martinusen-Coloma

Slipping gratefully beneath the cool sheets of her bed, Darby propped herself up and ate her food. The last bite of rich chocolate with the layer of apricot marmalade below the icing topped off her full stomach. She leaned against her pillow and flipped through channels, watching CNN and the BBC until she could move again. The quiet of the room brought thoughts of Brant. One part wished he could be with her at that very moment; another part believed it could never work. If Brant cared for her at all, why did he so easily let her go? Why did he hold so strongly to his facts on paper when she was in front of him, asking him to take a chance on her? And she didn’t think they had anything in common, except their tendency toward being workaholics. When Darby did know the truth and proved it to Brant, would they be able to put it all behind them? She didn’t think so. The ache inside was not as great as her anger. How could she ever care for a man who would not give her the benefit of the doubt, and over the most important thing in her life?

  But before she could address that future, she needed to have the proof. Not only for Brant, but for her original purpose of returning Tatianna’s name.

  Darby eased from the bed and found a phone book in the desk. She spread out her papers on Bruno Weiler and searched the directory. She’d never know what the future held or didn’t hold for her until she found the facts. The Ws produced no Weiler at all. Next she skimmed for the aunt under Heike Schumacher. There were many Schumacher names. Suddenly Darby sat up and stared at the name, comparing it to her notes. There it was: Heike F. Schumacher.

  Darby checked her watch. It was already nine o’clock at night, but she dialed the numbers on the telephone anyway. Some things couldn’t wait. Immediately, a young voice answered.

  “Hello,” Darby said. “Sprechen Sie Englisch?”

  “Ja. I do,” the woman’s voice said.

  “Good. My name is Darby Evans. I’m looking for a woman named Heike Schumacher who had a sister named Dorthe Schumacher Weiler. The woman would be quite old. Have I reached the correct residence?”

  “I do not know about sister of Frau Schumacher, but she is very old—one hundred years next month. She is asleep at this time.”

  “Are you her daughter?” Darby asked.

  “No, I care for Frau Schumacher.”

  Darby hesitated. Should she ask now or wait until she could speak directly to the older woman? She took the chance. “I’m actually looking for the nephew of Heike Schumacher. His name is Bruno Weiler. Do you know anything about him?”

  The woman hesitated. “I think you should instead speak to Frau Schumacher about such things. I give her your name and telephone and she call you back perhaps?”

  “Could you please have her call me? It is very important.” Darby gave the information and the woman said good-bye so quickly Darby wasn’t sure her name and phone number were actually written down.

  Darby listened to the dial tone and put the phone down. She may have just ruined her best chance to find Bruno Weiler.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Brant arrived at the home of Peter and Katrine Voss ready to tell them everything. His friend needed to know why Darby’s grandmother could not be Celia Müller and why he had kept the story of what he knew about the Lange inheritance to himself. But as Katrine welcomed him inside, he was first faced with the letters of Darby’s grandmother.

  “I am in the middle of translating a new set Darby brought from her grandmother’s house,” Professor Voss said. He handed Brant a pile of papers. As Brant sat at the table and examined them slowly, his entire body turned cold. He gasped when he found one paper with a copy of a ring on it.

  “What is this?” he asked, his voice straining to speak.

  “It is a diagram of Darby’s ring—or actually the engagement half of her grandmother’s wedding set.”

  Brant stared at the photograph. “Peter, we need to find Darby. Now.”

  Darby woke early to take a shower. She then waited, paced, and stared at the telephone, willing it to ring. Breakfast was room service again. Outside, the day was sunny and almost warm looking. Darby read about the Vienna sights in her Lonely Planet Guide, and finally at noon, dialed the number of Heike Schumacher again. No one answered.

  By afternoon, she decided she must go out or go crazy. She slid on her jeans and a wool sweater, gathering her hair into a ponytail. She had packed light for what was supposed to be a quick day trip to Hallstatt, and today was her last change of clean socks and underwear. She buttoned her leather jacket and met a cold afternoon despite the sunshine.

  Darby found that the Hapsburg Dynasty reign of six hundred years was evident throughout the capital. The beauty of the city displayed what it had once been—a cultural and political giant of an era gone by. Darby wanted to see everything and had enough mapped and planned for a week of sightseeing. But she barely made it through the courtyard of Hofburg, the Imperial palace, after taking a dozen photographs when the nagging wonder of a missed phone call made her decide to return to the Sacher. The wealth of shopping and the magnificence of the sights would have to wait for another day.

  She waited for a bus to pass and noticed a gray sedan parked across the street. It seemed like she’d seen that car before, maybe even several times. But there were cars zipping around everywhere, and dozens of gray sedans with tinted windows. Darby continued down the street and glanced back at the license plate. It was an Austrian plate, nothing unusual.

  She walked a few more blocks, down tree-lined streets to the turn of the Ringstraße. A gray sedan drove slowly by, the same license plate. When she came upon the car parked a few blocks up, on impulse, she pulled out her camera and began to click the shutter. The car sped away.

  Darby suddenly realized that no one knew where she was. She’d told Professor Voss she’d call, but she hadn’t yet. No one knew what hotel she was at, or that she’d made contact with the home of Heike Schumacher. Darby decided to go straight to the hotel.

  She let out a sigh when she saw the bright flags waving her to safety a block away. Then a woman with bleached white hair stepped from a doorway in front of her.

  “Excuse me,” Darby said, stepping around.

  “You seek information, do you not?” the woman said in English.

  Darby turned around. The woman leaned against the building with a cigarette held loosely between two long fingers. “Were you speaking to me?”

  Darby checked to see if the woman could be talking to someone else. But few pedestrians moved along the street. The woman barely gazed at her as she took a long drag from the cigarette.

  “If you want to know the answers you seek, come with me.” The woman walked around her and up the street. Darby didn’t know what to do. Who was she? Where did she come from?

  “Darby Evans, are you coming or not?” She waited impatiently.

  Darby tried not to look shocked. “How did you know my name?”

  The woman smiled, but there was no warmth in the expression. “Trust me.”

  Darby edged several steps closer. “What do you want?”

  “I want nothing—is it not you who seek answers?” The woman pointed down the alley. The gray sedan sat with the back door open. The engine was running. Through the tinted windshield, she could see a man in the driver’s seat.

  Darby took a step back, expecting anything. The woman dropped her cigarette and ground it into the sidewalk.

  “Are you going to get in? We won’t force you. But if you want answers, it will take a little cloak-and-dagger, as they say . . . but you will have your answers.”

  “How do you know me? Why have you been following me around the city?”

  The woman shrugged. “We are only messengers sent to take you where you can find answers. Does the name Tatianna mean anything to you?”

  “What do you know about Tatianna?”

  “I know nothing. But I know who does. But you mus
t choose to come.”

  Darby paused to consider the choice, her mind turning a million images. Her grandmother in her coffin, Professor Voss, Brant’s face the night of the Mozart concert, her mother as Darby promised to be careful. But her need to know what had happened overthrew any mental warnings. Darby quickly stepped to the side of the car where the open door invited her into the dark interior. The woman opened the passenger door and sat in the front seat.

  Darby leaned inside. “I need to tell someone where I am going.”

  “Get in or go your own way,” the woman said, barely looking over her shoulder. The man didn’t turn at all. “You have but one opportunity.”

  Darby sat on the leather seat. As soon as she closed the door, the sedan sped forward down Kärtnerstraße. She had been one block from her hotel. As they passed the waving flags of Hotel Sacher, Darby knew she’d made a terrible mistake.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Peter, have you heard from her?” Brant asked, pacing the room with telephone in hand.

  “No, she was supposed to call. We have not heard a word.”

  “It’s been all day. I really think we should try to find her.” Brant had heard the worry in Peter’s voice too. “She could be anywhere, but why don’t we start calling hotels?”

  “I think you are right. We need to find her. She does not have a car so would probably stay near the Ring.”

  “Okay, hotels along the Ring. You take three stars, I’ll go four. We’ll just move up till we find her. I know she was looking for authentic Austrian places, so no more Cozy Hotels.”

  Professor Voss chuckled, then sounded serious. “She is quite a lady, Brant.”

  “I know. I’ll call you in an hour.”

  Brant hung up the phone and searched for his Vienna hotel guide, hoping he wouldn’t have to run to the information office before starting to call. But he found the brochure soon enough and started circling hotels. He’d been ready to fly to Vienna last night to find her. Even with the facts firmly in his mind, Brant could hardly believe the truth. If he’d seen Gunther’s ring earlier, he’d have known.

  Brant picked up the phone. He must find her. But he also dreaded it. What would she think when she discovered her grandparents could have finally found each other, if only for a little while, if only Brant hadn’t stood in the way? Would she ever forgive him? Could he ever forgive himself?

  No one spoke as they moved from the city. Mile after mile, Darby’s panic grew. They drove south, passing signs for Graz and Klagenfurt. She knew in hours they could be in Slovenia, Italy, or Switzerland. These people could do anything to her, and she’d disappear without a trace. No amount of information was worth this. What had she been thinking? Darby decided that if they slowed, she’d try to get out. The doors were unlocked, the door handle beside her. Hours seemed to pass, though the road signs said far less.

  “Where are we going?” Darby’s voice sounded loud in her ears as it broke the quiet.

  “Where we need to go,” the woman responded without a backward glance.

  “I want to go back. I don’t want to know anything, I only want to go back.”

  The man and woman glanced at each other, but neither spoke. Darby didn’t know what to do. The sun dropped low behind them as the man flipped the headlights on. Darby knew the shadows would soon consume the day.

  After another half hour, the woman turned in her seat. “Time to lie down.”

  “You want me to lie down?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Why?”

  “You ask so many questions. Get down.” Her voice was stern. Darby did as she was told with her head toward the door and hand on the handle. The car slowed down an off-ramp, but not enough. They continued for more miles, more hours, it seemed.

  The engine wound down. This could be her chance. But where was she? From her view, she hadn’t seen buildings, only dense trees for a while. If she jumped now . . .

  Darby paused too long. The car moved without completely stopping and steadied faster again. Dusk turned to darkness. The car turned in switchbacks, ascending higher and deeper into the woods. She was a fool. She knew her curiosity may cost her life.

  “You can sit up.” Finally the car ground to a halt. The headlights illuminated a tall, iron gate connecting solid block walls. The gate opened, allowing the car through. Not only did Darby not know her whereabouts, now iron gates locked her within massive walls. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as they curved through the woods. The dense trees would provide many hiding places, but the snow on the ground wasn’t inviting. Around a bend, the trees opened, and a large, lit house stood in a clearing.

  She could still run. But would she survive the night in this cold? Darby had no idea what direction she’d go. What if she got lost in the Alps? Or perhaps they weren’t even in Austria. Darby knew she’d have to take her chances with whatever she was about to face.

  The man drove the car around a circular driveway with a small fountain in the center. A walkway led to imposing double doors at the entrance to the house. The flat-fronted, two-story house was not typical Austrian with flowered windowsills. It stood straight and tall, probably intended for elegance. But against the night sky, the windows were the eyes of a creature staring at her, the doors a giant mouth ready to consume her. Darby didn’t get out of the car until the driver opened her door. He propped himself against the car and lit a cigarette. Darby followed the woman toward the house.

  No one greeted their arrival. The woman closed the heavy door and made her way across the hardwood-floored entry. Down the hall, their footsteps echoed through the house and up a wide, curving stairway. At a doorway, the woman motioned Darby inside, then turned and left without a word. Footsteps on hardwood floors echoed away.

  Darby entered the room expecting someone or something. Only a fire crackled with long burnt logs and new wood piled crisscross above. The study had one dim lamp in the corner, and one wall was lined with books. Light danced on the volumes, a reflection from the rock fireplace on the opposite side of the room. Darby wondered where she should stand, or if she should sit in the chair in the corner or the one behind the large, wood desk. The fire beckoned, and she realized how cold she felt, from inside out.

  Soon footsteps returned. Darby waited, her back to the fire, near an iron poker. A young woman who looked a lot like the woman from the car entered with a silver tray—her sister perhaps? The girl glanced at Darby curiously and set a tray with teapot, two cups and saucers, and dainty pastries onto the desk.

  “Why am I here?” Darby asked the girl.

  The dark-haired, dark-eyed girl only smiled at Darby, then hurried out. Her footsteps drifted away.

  Darby peered suspiciously at the tray of food and drink. If they’re going to hurt me, I guess they want me comfortable first.

  A painting on the wall caught her eye. She recognized it from a book of Impressionist paintings at home. She moved closer and knew it was an original Edgar Degas painting. Whose home had she been delivered to?

  Heavy footsteps would be her answer. She moved to her position by the fire, near the only weapon she could find.

  He filled the doorway—large in height and weight with a presence that matched his size. Surely at least in his seventies, an old man in theory; still Darby knew instant fear. She had never seen him in her life, but she knew him to be a man of power. And her life rested in his hands.

  “I knew you would come.” He headed toward the tray. “Miss Darby Evans, in her persistence, could not resist.” He poured two cups of tea without looking at her. “Despite the danger, you would get into a car with strangers, with no one knowing where you are or where you are going. Tonight you could disappear, and no one would ever find you. Not your mother in California. Not Brant Collins in Salzburg. Have some tea.”

  Shocked by the man’s knowledge, Darby s
puttered, “What do you want from me?”

  “I have few wants from you. It is you who sought me.” He turned toward her. “First tell me, who am I?”

  The light from the fire lit his features: black eyes, thick face and lips. Darby knew. “You are Bruno Weiler.”

  “At one time, yes, that was my name. Good. Perhaps you should have been a detective instead of a photographer.” He moved behind the desk with his cup and sat in the wide leather chair.

  “How do you know so much about me?” Darby asked, not moving from her position by the fire. She glanced at the door and knew she could be out of the room before he could move from behind the desk. But what then? Who waited down the hall or outside? What would she do, and where would she go?

  “I make it my business to know people who are putting my previous name on the Internet and making contact with my aunt. It can be dangerous to resurrect names that were supposed to have disappeared.” He leaned forward with his elbows on the desk and motioned her to sit. “After all your seeking, tell me. Who killed the woman you seek?”

  Darby slowly seated herself in a chair, feeling the eyes of this man who had once been a Nazi camp guard, who had gone to prison for his crimes. She tried to stay calm and figure out what to do next. She stared into cold eyes and cleared her throat. “Who killed Tatianna?”

  “Yes. This is what I want from you. I want you to tell me who killed Tatianna Hoffman.”

  “I don’t . . . the Nazis.”

  “The Nazis? Your skills are not as sharp as I expected.”

  “The Nazis at Mauthausen.” Darby hoped that was the right answer.

  “But who killed her? Tell me. Who killed Tatianna Hoffman? Who killed her at Mauthausen Concentration Camp? Who lifted the gun? Who watched her look upward, already gone, before a trigger was pulled? Who pulled the trigger? Who killed Tatianna Hoffman while Celia Müller escaped to America?”

  Bruno Weiler stared hard into her eyes. Darby’s mouth went dry; her hands shook. Tears built on the edges of her eyes. “You did,” she whispered.