Winter Passing

by Cindy Martinusen-Coloma

  “You go first.”

  Brant opened the door, and Darby peered over his shoulder. The bed was covered with a blue bedspread, but no one was in it. Brant entered first and checked the small bathroom.

  “What does that mean?” Darby asked, her pulse pounding. “Is he all right?”

  “He was starting to get around last time I was here.” Brant checked his watch. “It’s too early for dinner. I’m sure he’s fine, or I’d have heard something.”

  They heard footsteps from the room next door. A cleaning woman entered, and Brant spoke to her in German.

  “She said he’s in the chapel.”

  The woman glanced at the wall clock and spoke again. “I guess chapel is over. He’s probably in the game area.”

  “I thought you said he wasn’t well.”

  “He’s been improving. And Gunther’s a fighter, that’s for sure.”

  Darby was about to leave the room when something caught her eye. A miniature rosebush on a small table in the corner of the room. It blossomed with yellow roses. She touched a petal the size of her fingernail.

  “Yes, this must be my grandfather’s room,” she said quietly.

  “I wanted you to find the memorial your grandfather made for Celia in Hallstatt. I hadn’t seen it in years and forgot that the nameplate is covered. You have to open it to see her name. But there is a rosebush growing at the base. It blossoms yellow roses.”

  “My grandmother’s favorite flower.”

  “At least once a year, under the cover of night, Gunther would take his own yellow roses from his garden to her grave. He never missed a year.”

  “And all the while, my grandmother was living and missing him on the other side of the world, tending her yellow roses.”

  Brant turned Darby toward him and drew her into his arms. “It’s going to be okay. Somehow, it’s going to be okay.”

  Darby rested against his chest for a minute, then slowly pulled away. “Let’s find him.”

  They left the room and headed back down the hall, turning right. Above the sound of their footsteps, Darby heard a deep, steady voice speaking as they reached the doorway.

  “That’s Gunther,” Brant said, sounding surprised as they stopped. “He sounds much better than just a week ago.” Darby’s eyes moved to a table with chess figures and two men sitting on opposite ends. The man speaking had his back to them.

  “Wait.” Darby grabbed Brant’s arm. She looked at the thick, peppered-gray hair, a little in need of a comb in the back where a fuzzy piece stood up. Her eyes caressed a wool sweater over his wide back. Her grandfather. His voice was only slightly slurred, but she caught a hint of laughter within. “What is he saying?”

  Brant whispered close to her ear. “He’s teasing the other guy, and, as typical for Gunther, is giving the man a Bible lesson. He said that when we take communion and say we partake of Jesus’ body and blood, we accept that we may face the sufferings and trials that Jesus faced. But God has conquered all things, and so we have nothing to fear. He just asked the man, ‘Have you partaken? Perhaps that is why you are losing?’ I can’t believe he’s talking so well.”

  “So what do we do?” Darby asked softly. “Perhaps we should have a doctor tell him. What if we set him back? What—what if . . . what if he doesn’t want a granddaughter after all these years?”

  “He wants you, Darby. Don’t be afraid of that. I don’t know what we’ll tell him or not tell him. Let’s meet him and go from there.” Brant slid his hand around hers reassuringly. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m with you, every step.” He led her forward. “Gunther?”

  “Brant.”

  Gunther turned slowly. A smile beamed from his face and Darby noticed light blue eyes that might resemble her mother’s, but there was no immediate recognition of other features. Gunther smiled at her, even raised an eyebrow at their hands, but nothing would have told them who they were to each other. She could have bumped into him anywhere and never known this man had some of her same blood.

  The two men spoke German, so Darby was only able to understand a word or two that indicated Brant’s surprise over Gunther’s health. Then Gunther turned his attention back to her, saying something and extending a hand.

  “American,” Darby heard from Brant in another round of German.

  “Ah, an A-American?” Gunther said, interested. “Bend down here.”

  He reached for her hands, and she wondered if he’d notice her trembling within his own unsteady fingers. Darby bent down and looked up at him, extending her hands.

  “You w-watch for this man. He very disturbed at times.” He winked and grinned up at Brant. Darby’s tears began to flow. “Is there something wrong, my child?”

  The words my child brought a surge of emotion. Darby saw her grandmother’s dreamy eyes as she spoke of this man. She remembered the letters of love, so deep and youthful and full of tomorrow. She saw her mother, waiting and searching the Times Square crowd, hoping, hoping that he’d appear. And the ghost who haunted their family was right in front of her—alive and breathing.

  A sob broke in her chest as she looked down at the floor. She heard Gunther’s chess partner wheel away in his chair, and she tried to force herself to stop crying, but the tears only flowed harder. The hand holding hers tightened, and she felt a gentle pat on her back. He spoke to Brant in German and waited for an answer.

  “Gunther,” Brant said tenderly, “this is Darby Evans. She is your granddaughter.”

  The hands pulled away, and Darby heard his gasp. Her tears stopped, but she could not look up.

  “Her grandmother’s name was Celia Müller.”

  Gunther spoke hoarsely in German. Brant began an explanation in Gunther’s native tongue. Brant knelt beside her, speaking upwardly, with his arm around her. Darby remained before him, unable to look up from the floor, like a child waiting for either stark rejection or arms of love. She heard Gunther exhale, long and deep like the final breath had left his lungs.

  A hand touched her hair as Brant stopped speaking. The shaking fingers lifted her chin. Their eyes met, both with tears.

  “My grandchild. I never had a child, never thought . . .”

  Gunther’s fingers touched her cheek, a strand of hair, her forehead.

  “When did she die?”

  “Four months ago.”

  Gunther’s mouth dropped, and his light eyes looked away. He put his hand upon his head and shook it slowly as if not able to believe his ears. He exhaled another long, deathly breath, and Darby could feel him shiver from deep within.

  “Gunther?” Brant asked. “Are you all right?”

  “No. This is worst, and best, of days.” His hands shook violently, and he clasped them together.

  “I think we should take you to your room.”

  Brant pushed the wheelchair. Gunther held Darby’s hand the entire way and glanced up often, as if to be sure she was still there.

  They entered behind a nurse who spoke to Gunther and examined him closely. Gunther disagreed with the woman. Darby wished she could understand them.

  “Are you sure?” Brant asked. “If you need rest, we can come back in a few hours. I don’t want you having a setback.”

  “I don’t want y-you to go. I want you here. I want her, Darby, here. My granddaughter. I w-waited my entire life to see her.”

  Brant helped Gunther into the bed and carefully removed the older man’s shoes. He pushed a button to elevate the bed to a sitting position, then covered Gunther’s legs with the blue bedspread. Gunther reached a hand toward her, and Darby moved a chair close.

  “I still cannot understand. How?”

  “Tatianna Hoffman died at Mauthausen. Somehow she took Grandma’s place. My grandmother was told you were dead, and when you never
came to your meeting place, she believed it.”

  “I believed she was dead,” Gunther said, shaking his head. Suddenly, he sat up straighter. “Oh, dear Lord. She didn’t. She could not have!”

  “What is it?” Brant asked.

  “Ingrid. Ingrid was with them.”

  “Who is Ingrid?” Darby asked.

  “My wife. Ingrid went with Tatianna and Celia to Swiss border. She was with them the night the Nazis met them. Ingrid knew everything.”

  Brant sat in the chair beside Darby. “Ingrid knew Celia escaped and Tatianna was taken by the Nazis? And she never told you?”

  “Never. She told me Ce-Celia was taken.”

  “What did she say happened to Tatianna?” Darby asked.

  “She say Tatianna was so close to border and after Nazis took Celia she decided to leave Austria.”

  “When did she tell you all of this?”

  “The night she beg me to marry her. The war had just ended, the c-country was mess, divided by A-Americans, British, Soviets. Ingrid’s children were Nazi babies, and she need protection. I had been in resistance, injured for the cause—a perfect c-cover for her. I a-asked everything about night of Celia’s capture. She could have said truth. I would have g-gone to America and found Celia.”

  “But she needed you for her own safety.” Brant stood up swiftly in anger.

  “You know what?” Darby sat forward. “Grandma’s letters. One was from a woman with ‘I’ initials. The letter was from 1942, three years before the war ended. She told Grandma Celia about Tatianna’s death and also that you had died. The woman told Celia to quit writing and get on with her life in America. The woman also said she had a Nazi friend she might marry.”

  Brant and Gunther eyed one another. “Ingrid,” Brant said.

  Gunther began to shake again. “I have tried my whole life to do good. How can this happen? How?” Tears burst from his eyes. He moaned and curled onto his side. Darby jumped up and leaned over him, wishing to protect him from all he must feel. All she could do was wait.

  His wide back continued to shake with years of lost sobs. Darby looked at Brant and saw the fear in his eyes.

  “It’s all right, Gunther,” Brant said, cradling the old man in his arms. He spoke softly in German. Darby couldn’t stop her own scattered tears and saw Brant wipe his face from time to time as he rocked his old mentor. Finally, Gunther’s sobs slowed, and she believed he was asleep until he reached for her hand. His thick hand held hers and stroked it gently.

  Brant opened a drawer on the nightstand and handed Gunther a handkerchief. The old man wiped his face and blew his nose like a trumpet sounding. He chuckled as he turned and sat up. “I m-meet my granddaughter for the fir-irst time and act like a blubbering fool. I a-apologize, my dear.”

  Darby sniffed. “Oh, don’t be sorry. You’ve lost her all over again. And you’ve been betrayed.”

  “Yes. And I could have gone to my grave without ever meeting you. See, I should be thankful.” His smile was weak but sincere. “Please. Will you tell me about her?”

  Darby smiled at the stranger she instantly loved. “She was absolutely amazing. Learned the computer before anyone in our household. She became an American citizen before I was born and never spoke German again.”

  “She had to leave this all behind, perhaps,” Gunther said.

  “On the outside, I know she did, except I grew up with tales of the Austrian Alps. So in a way, she contradicted herself. She did not speak of the difficult times to me. My mother had a long struggle, wanting her father—wanting you—so they quit speaking of you before I was born. Yet I know she didn’t leave you behind. She was a brave, independent woman who loved with a full heart.”

  “That sounds like Ce-Celia. Though I ne-ever considered her brave or in-independent.”

  “Oh, she was. She jogged in a senior citizen marathon and volunteered two days a week at the public-school kindergarten. Perhaps she had to become strong once she lost you. She also had a strong faith in God.”

  “Then it is God who saved us both—made us to be strong without each other.”

  “Yes,” Darby whispered. Her eyes found Brant’s dark, compassionate eyes. She could barely tear her gaze away from him as she continued to tell about her grandmother. Memories from childhood, Grandma Celia’s favorite American movies and books, her to-die-for New York cheesecake. Gunther took it in like a starving man tasting food once again. Darby talked, with Gunther asking questions, until night fell around them. “Grandma has a rose garden in our backyard. Her favorite flower bush in the center of the garden—”

  “Yellow roses,” Gunther finished. He looked far away and infinitely sad. “I’ve been placing those flowers on her memorial for sixty years—and all that time she lived and breathed.”

  “A few nights before she died, Grandma told me how much she loved you. She said you were her Prince Charming, and she never loved a man again. She wrote you letters, one every year. I have them with me.”

  Darby found her long, black purse and took out the packet they’d picked up from Peter Voss before arriving at the nursing home. “We were trying to find information in them. But the last one has not been opened. It was written September 15 of last year. She died October 3.”

  Gunther reached for the letter and held it against his chest. “October 3. W-what was I doing that day? Why did I not feel her, her spirit leave? Why did I not know she lived all these years?” Gunther caressed the neat cursive words on the envelope. “I would kn-know that writing anywhere.”

  The door to Gunther’s room opened, and the nurse appeared surprised to see them still there. Brant talked to her, with Gunther adding a few words before Brant and the nurse exited the room.

  “They think I’m old and need some rest,” Gunther said with a smile. “I don’t want you to leave yet.”

  “Brant will take care of it. But you could use some rest. And perhaps some time alone?” Darby motioned to the letters on the edge of the bed.

  Brant returned. “They gave permission for us to stay awhile longer, maybe even the night, but only if Gunther is able to rest. They want to prepare him for bed and to eat his dinner.” Gunther frowned, and long creases furrowed his forehead. “I promise to bring her back. We’ll be in the cafeteria.”

  Darby glanced back at Gunther before she walked out. He was already opening the letter from his bride.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  They made small talk as they picked up trays in the cafeteria. Both chose a meat stew with dumplings. Darby could tell something was bothering Brant. They carried their trays to a quiet, indoor garden room.

  Brant stirred his food and hardly ate. Darby gobbled hers down and ate both their breads. She asked him three times if he was feeling all right. After they had cleared their trays away, they walked to the end of the glass room. The stars twinkled above in the dark, cloudless sky.

  “I need to ask you, Darby,” Brant said, his eyes troubled, “can you ever forgive me?”

  “You have to know it wasn’t your fault. You didn’t lie to them. You were protecting Gunther. I’d have done the same thing.”

  “I’ve spent my career trying to help people subjected to the evils of others. And my one chance to help the person I love most . . . They could have had her last months together.”

  “They have eternity together.”

  Brant turned his head toward her. “Yes, they do. Thank you.”

  “No,” Darby whispered. “Thank you, for giving me my grandfather.”

  Darby stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. He gathered her in to his arms and she rested her face against his chest, hearing the steady beat of his heart.

  “Darby, I think I’m beginning to need you in my life.”

  “You do need me.”

  He pulled away slightly and saw her s
mile. “Oh, really?”

  “Yes. Because I think I’m beginning to need you too.”

  “You already need me. You need me terribly.”

  “Oh, really?” Inside, every part of her agreed with him. “One thing about this forgiveness . . . can I take it back the next time you infuriate me?”

  “You think you’ll keep seeing me in the future?”

  “Well, since we love the same man, I’m sure our paths will cross.”

  She laughed as he drew her close again.

  Someone cleared a throat, and Brant quickly dropped his arms from around Darby. A nurse stood, looking embarrassed, at the entrance to the indoor garden. Brant took Darby’s hand and led her toward the older woman. They discussed Gunther, and then the woman hurried away.

  “He’s ready for us. But we have strict instructions.”

  “As long as we can stay with him.”

  Gunther waited in the room lit with only a small lamp. His arms were folded over a sharp line of white sheet and blanket. Suddenly Darby wanted to take him away, far away—all the way back to Grandma’s home in California. He needed rest, and it showed in his eyes, though his smile was joyful at their return. But she hoped it would happen, that he could be in the house his wife had made into a home.

  “We can’t talk anymore, or they’ll kick me out,” Darby said as she grasped outstretched hands. “You must sleep, and I’ll be here when you awaken.”

  “I st-still find it hard to believe. My granddaughter.”

  “Yes, I almost fear I’ll wake up to find it untrue. But you must get strong. You have a daughter—what a wonderful surprise you will be to her. She waited and hoped until it destroyed a place within her. She needs you to be strong for her. And you have another granddaughter and some energetic twin great-granddaughters.”

  “The family I believed to be dead. I will rest and get strong for th-them.”

  “Yes, so sleep. Sleep.”

  “Will you?” Gunther patted the bed beside him and moved over. “I’ve never had my child so near.”