“Lara?”
“Hmm?”
“What did it feel like? Love, I mean.”
Lara smirked. Maybe her little sister wasn’t so young after all.
“Do you have someone in mind?”
“Just tell me, Lara.” Even through the dim light, Lara could tell her sister was blushing. Her answer came gently, after a pause of consideration.
“Well, at first it felt wonderful. Like the taste of the sweetest berries in the summertime. I had never experienced such a thing. It reminded me of all the times we studied classic art—you know, how each painting blended into the next with the same dull hues, until all at once you stumble upon a work bursting with bold color that awakens all your senses. It was kind of like that. So unexpected, and yet, it was as if I’d been waiting to discover it for years.”
Lena marveled at her older sister. “It sounds so magical,” she breathed.
“It felt pretty magical too. That is, until it wasn’t.” Lara paused in thought, then let her head fall down to the pillow. “I’m such a simple girl. How could I have thought it was all real?”
“I think real love is out there. Just look at Mother and Father.” Lena reached a hand out across the gap between their beds. Their fingers met mid-air. “Don’t give up on it, Lara. You’ll find it someday.”
Their fingers lightly locked together, the girls let the stillness of the room take over. Downstairs, the clock struck ten, and the house fell asleep.
Twenty-Seven
Markus Baumgartner gave a few sharp raps on the door of Hans Rainer’s office. Upon entering the military headquarters, he’d been shown to the second-floor suite by a pudgy junior officer whose sole job was to escort guests. The young soldier didn’t think twice when told that Herr Rainer was expecting a visitor. Surprised and relieved by the ease with which he was taken directly to Rainer, Markus wondered if the officer’s dim wit is what kept him in such a lackluster position.
As Gauleiter of Salzburg, a lofty position appointed by Hitler himself, Rainer was a powerful political figure with a particularly brutal reputation. He ruled under the thumb of fear and manipulation. Far from a daunting man, it was his tongue that wielded the power. With a word, he could make a man’s life miserable—or end it all together.
Markus despised Rainer—as most Austrian loyalists did—and he had to remind himself the reason he was there.
I’m doing this for my friends.
As he was led to Rainer’s office, Markus grew more and more disgusted. Nazi propaganda lined the walls of the hallways—posters of strong, able men and women with blonde hair and blue eyes: depictions of the chosen race. An illustration of the grim reaper, wiping out hordes of people who cowered at his feet hung next to the sketch of a long-nosed man in a top hat with a six-pointed star on his chest. The poster screamed in bold lettering: Der ist schuld am Kriege!
He is to blame!
The air of pure evil made Markus’s skin crawl.
He knocked again and the office door flew open. Hans Rainer stood in its gape, his salt-and-pepper hair slicked back from his forehead. He looked older than Markus remembered, the war having apparently aged Rainer’s sixty years quite noticeably.
“Herr Baumgartner,” Rainer said as a crisp greeting. “I must admit I was surprised to see your name on my list of visitors today. What is it I can do for you?” His mustache moved while he spoke, but his eyebrows, high and arched, remained raised in fixed curves.
Rainer ushered Markus into the room and gestured for him to sit. Centered on the wall above a leather couch hung an oversized flag of the Third Reich, bright red and emblazoned with a bold, black swastika. The sight sparked a memory for Markus: his friend, Gerald, ripping down a similar flag from the balcony of his villa. He’d torn it in half, damning the German nationalism efforts and vowing never to fly the symbol anywhere near his home.
Markus sat cautiously on the sofa. “Thank you for fitting me into your full schedule, Herr Rainer. I know you are a busy, busy man.” He eased in enough sarcasm to make Rainer uncomfortable, yet not enough to be thrown out. Rainer would not take too kindly to swipes at his intelligence.
Markus couldn’t risk being dismissed from this critical meeting due to mockery. Don’t get too cocky, he reminded himself.
“I have a proposition for you,” Markus continued. “A publicity project, if you will.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. A brilliant idea, if I do say so myself.”
Rainer rolled his eyes at his guest’s self-admiration. “Get to the point, Herr Baumgartner. I don’t have all day.”
“A television show—or more like, a documentary feature—highlighting some of your top men. I would interview them, dig deep, show the civil side of these officers. Think about it! The public never gets to see the inside of the Wehrmacht, the people behind the uniforms. I think it could be great promotion for your cause, Herr Rainer. A chance to spread the Führer’s agenda in a new way. Picture it: humanizing the Nazis. I can just see it now.”
Markus waved a hand in rainbow-like fashion, as he stared off into the distance, painting a picture with his alluring words. Spinning a story was one of his many talents. Markus knew at the core—the deepest roots—of Fascist Germany was arrogance. He just needed to tap into it and sell the scheme in the right way. Appealing to a narcissist should be easy.
“And who are you expecting will participate in this little project of yours?” Rainer asked.
“Why, you of course! We’re starting at the top. That is, unless you think the Führer himself would want to be included.” Markus chuckled, but quickly wiped the grin from his face when he saw Rainer was not amused.
“You flatter me, Baumgartner. I assume you have others in mind?”
“Yes. I’d like to sit down with a few of your most patriotic—the most loyal men, with the most passion will be best for the screen. I was thinking Himmler, Schneider, maybe a few others from the Schutzstaffel. But I’d also like to include younger voices, as well. You know, those rising through the ranks. There’s that promising officer, Rubin Pichler.”
He tried to sound casual in his suggestion, eyeing Rainer from the corner of his eye to gauge the man’s reaction. Rainer remained stone faced, but Markus could see the wheels turning.
“Pichler would be good,” Rainer finally said, tapping his chin. “Determined chap. Plus he’s got the looks for television. From what I hear, the girls can’t get enough of him.”
“Oh I’m sure,” Markus said, flatly. Then, clapping his hands: “Well, sounds perfect. That’s just what we need. So I’ll go ahead and write up the contract and we can get started on this right away. We’ll have it on air in no time.” He reached for his portfolio pad.
“Hold up a minute, Herr Baumgartner,” Rainer smirked. “Why should I trust you? It’s not like you’ve been a vocal supporter of the Third Reich. Something about this smells off.”
The hairs on the back of Markus’s neck stood on end. He was so close, he couldn’t let this plan crumble at the last moment. He crossed his leg and sat back into the deep leather cushions.
“My dear Herr Rainer, you know me too well,” he said, making his voice charming, smooth like syrup. “It’s true, I may not be shouting ‘Heil Hitler’ from the rooftops, but I know how to make a good buck when I see an opportunity. And this, this has the potential to be quite a money-making production. Plus, it doesn’t hurt to stay in your good graces, am I right?”
Seemingly satisfied, Rainer studied Markus for several seconds before announcing his decision.
“Alright. You may proceed with your film, or whatever it is. Just remember, Herr Baumgartner, I’ve got my eye on you.”
“Just where I like the eyes, my good sir, just where I like them.” Markus stood and extended a hand to shake on their agreement. Rainer didn’t move.
“Right.” Markus dropped his arm awkwardly. “I won’t bother you with setting up a location for our shoot. In fact, I’d like to speak with these men in their home
environments. More of a relatable approach, I think. I’ll just need addresses. And I’ll take care of the arrangements. One less thing to clutter your busy calendar.”
Rainer’s eyes narrowed at the comment. He stood and walked to his desk where he jotted down the names and addresses for six different Nazi officers. Markus clenched his fist at his side to keep it from trembling. Rainer passed him the list.
“Wonderful,” Markus said. “My deepest gratitude, Herr Rainer. I foresee this being a truly extraordinary project.”
Rainer nodded and opened the door, indicating their meeting had come to an end. Markus tipped his hat and sped through the door before Rainer had a chance to demand a customary salute. Rainer, ever so skeptical, watched Markus go, the heels of his shoes tapping on the floor as he went.
Shoving the paper into his jacket’s inside breast pocket, Markus made little eye contact with the passing guards as he returned to his car. His hands shook as he took the wheel and sped toward the abbey.
“A fine acting job, if I do say so myself.”
When the complex was out of sight behind him, he glanced in his rear-view mirror and, with a smirk, winked at his reflection.
Twenty-Eight
“Igot it!” Markus burst through the door to the small room where Gerald waited eagerly for his friend’s return. The Reverend Mother followed in his wake of excitement, shutting the door behind her so the three of them stood a foot apart, taking up much of the room’s space.
Pulling the folded paper from his coat like a golden ticket, Markus handed it to Gerald. He fervently scanned the names until he found the only one he needed: Rubin Pichler.
“Bingo,” Gerald said. “Markus, I knew you’d pull through.”
“Did you ever doubt?”
Gerald gave his friend a strong pat on the back. He reached for his hat and duffle.
“Hold on, you’re going now?” Markus said.
“What do you want me to do, Markus? Wait around another day? I need to find my grandson, and I’m not willing to waste another minute.”
“No, of course not. I just mean…I…well, I just hope you’re…”
“I’ll be fine, Markus.” He put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Thank you for what you did. You’re a loyal friend.”
“But of course. I’d do anything for you and Marlene. You know that.”
Gerald pinched his lips appreciatively, then turned to face the Mother Abbess.
“I can’t thank you enough, Reverend Mother.” He bowed. “We are once again indebted to you.”
“The Lord commands me to give shelter to those in need, my child. But you know your family will always hold a special place in my heart. May He keep you safe and see you through back to the arms of your loved ones.” She raised her right hand and made the sign of the cross through the air in front of him.
Gerald picked up his bag and started toward the door. But before he could leave, Markus grabbed his arm, stopping him in his tracks.
“Wait, Gerald,” he said discreetly from the corner of his mouth. “Here, take this.” He held out an object wrapped in a dark green cloth. Unfolding one side, he revealed the metal barrel of a handgun. “I keep it in my car. Never know when you’ll need one, right? Take it. Surely you’ll need it more than I would.”
Gerald stared at the weapon, then back to his friend, a mischievous look on his face. Slowly, he opened the top of his bag and tilted it toward Markus. Inside, the glint of a cool, silver pistol stood out against the soft folds of his clothes.
“No need, Markus. I’ve come prepared.”
Twenty-Nine
It turned out that Rubin’s apartment wasn’t far from the abbey at all. As Gerald drove toward the address, he realized the close proximity. Could his grandson have been this close the whole time?
He turned onto Schwarzstraße, an unassuming road lined with identical buildings that gave it a regimented feel. A group of Nazi officers marched down the other side of the street, their feet moving in robotic fashion, single arms extended in salute. They passed the window of Gerald’s car. Being only inches away from the soldiers made him feel dirty.
Gerald searched the stone buildings for numbers indicating his location. When the numbers neared his target, he slowed the car to a crawl.
The address alone was the only piece of information he had as to Rubin’s whereabouts. Lara, having been inside nearly the entire time, and then leaving in the dark, wasn’t much help. The only thing she had been able to recall about the location of Rubin’s phony apartment was that it was a tall, brick building with a cherry red door. But that didn’t matter anyway—Gerald was looking for a real apartment, not a fake one.
Looking around, Gerald saw nothing but stone the color of dried cement. No red door in sight.
“Bastard,” he whispered through clenched teeth.
He looked again at the address written on the paper and then back to the ordinary apartment building in front of him. They matched. Five stories high with rows of windows and little other ornamentation, the building was like the other hundred in the city—one you’d drive past indifferently, without thinking there was a kidnapped child inside.
This was it.
Or was it?
What if Rainer had seen right through Markus’s ploy? Could he have purposely given him a false address? Was Gerald about to walk straight into a trap?
He shook the thoughts from his mind. Focus, he thought, reminding himself he wouldn’t know anything for sure if he remained in the car.
The only parking was on the street, so Gerald positioned the car along the curb and made a beeline directly to the front door without looking around. It was unlocked, and for a split second Gerald wondered what he would have done if there would have been a doorman.
Hi. I’m looking for a kidnapped child?
He checked the note again. Flat 7, Rainer’s slanted script read. Gerald climbed the stairs two at a time until he reached a door on the third floor marked with “7” in chipped blue paint. A ceiling tile hung down in the distance.
This was not the type of apartment building that had a doorman.
It was clear Rubin was not living in the lap of luxury. He was just a dumb kid following a heinous crusade. The realization gave Gerald a twisted sense of pleasure. That is, until he remembered his grandson was likely behind the door.
The hallway was quiet and through the wall he heard the faint cry of a baby. Erich! Gerald’s heart jumped into his throat at the thought of the boy just feet away. Was he hurt? Was he scared? The urge to burst through the door overwhelmed him. A vein pulsed from his forehead.
Gerald was happy to hear any noise at all, even if it was crying. Having worried that perhaps Rubin had already fled with Erich to a new spot, or even out of the city altogether, he had no Plan B if he would have found the apartment cleared out. But it was a Saturday, and they were home. Gerald wondered what Rubin had done with Erich the past two days while he worked? Had the baby been left alone all day?
Stay calm, Gerald thought. He took a deep breath for composure. Concentrate.
First, he needed to determine how he would actually get into the apartment. It wasn't as though Rubin would open the door and welcome him in. And even if he did, then what? Grab Erich and run?
He didn’t have time to reason, let alone formulate an answer for each question that assaulted him. Another cry came from inside the apartment.
That’s it, enough thinking.
Standing a bit taller and puffing his chest, he knocked purposefully on the door.
“Coming!”
Gerald’s eyes widened in surprise. It was the voice of a woman, high pitched and frazzled, like the sound of a mother trying unsuccessfully to comfort a fussy child. For a second, he considered perhaps he was at the wrong apartment. Damnit! Rainer tricked me!
Another wail from the baby and instantly Gerald knew it was Erich. He could feel it in his gut; he knew that cry well. This was the correct flat—even if someone else lived there he wasn’t
expecting.
“I’m coming,” the woman’s voice called again, getting closer. The lock clicked and the door opened to reveal a petite woman wearing a pale blue house dress tied at the waist. Her light blonde hair was pulled into a low twist at the nape of her neck, revealing high cheekbones and eyes the color of robin’s eggs. She looked young; Gerald thought she couldn’t be more than eighteen.
She reminded him of Lara.
“May I help you?” she asked, smoothing the skirt of her dress and brushing a wisp of hair from her face. The baby cried out again, and the woman looked back over her shoulder then to Gerald with impatience.
“I’m looking for Herr Pichler,” he said, trying to remain cool and steady. “Is he home?”
“Yes, but I’m afraid it’s not a good time.”
“Oh, I won’t be long.” Gerald began to feel nervous that he would have to force himself past her. Despite the gun in his waistband, he didn’t want to have to get rough with anyone. “I’ve come a long way and would just like to say hello.”
She looked at him curiously. “I’m sorry, I missed your name. Who are you?”
“Oh, just an old friend.”
The crying stopped, and Gerald heard a faint shushing sound coming from inside the apartment.
“Okay,” the woman said after a moment’s pause, visibly annoyed by the surprise visit. “Come in. Rubin’s in the living room.”
He followed her through the doorway and with each step Gerald’s heart raced faster until he thought it might bolt right from his chest. The home was small yet comfortable—dishes on the counter and shoes stacked near the door gave it a lived-in feel. Gerald noticed a framed poster on one wall with a headshot of Adolf Hitler and an inscription that read “Blut und Ehre.” Blood and Honor.
The admiration made Gerald’s blood run cold.
“Who was it?” a harsh voice echoed from around the corner.
Before the woman could answer, she ushered Gerald into the living room. Rubin stood on the far side of the room bouncing a red-eyed Erich in his arms, clearly doing a poor job of consoling the child. The men locked eyes—Gerald’s angry, Rubin’s shocked.
All That Shines and Whispers Page 19