A Letter From Munich

by Meg Lelvis

  Soon everyone gathered around the table covered with embroidered white linen, rosebud china, gleaming silverware, linen napkins. A silver urn and fresh flower centerpiece completed the setting. All this for afternoon coffee?

  After his grandparents were seated, Sherk pulled out a chair. “You can sit here, Jack.”

  The conversation flowed, with Oma Ella passing plates, and Sherk’s mother, Greta, pouring coffee. Susi sat next to Jack. He handed her a serving of stollen that tasted like cardboard, but not everything can be wunderbar.

  Jack tried to rinse the pastry down with coffee. “So this is how you and Sherk grew up?”

  “Only when we visited Oma.” She laughed and turned to him. “You actually do look like that movie actor. I’m sure you get sick of people telling you that.”

  Jack shrugged. “You get used to it.” He seldom grew tired of the comparison; at least Neeson, fellow Irishman born the same year, was considered ruggedly handsome by some. Jack conveniently assumed this consideration also applied to him.

  Jack’s black hair, graduating to salty the past ten years, was still thick and shiny, his blue eyes darker than the Scherkenbachs’ lighter hue.

  Twenty minutes later sitting across from Sherk’s grandfather, whose polished cane leaned on his armrest, Jack felt like he’d been teleported into 1940’s Europe. Bookshelves of mahogany, Persian rugs, and a carved armoire displayed themselves with Old World ambience. The smell of coffee lingered in the air. Only thing missing were violinists playing Strauss waltzes.

  Listening to German conversation amongst Sherk’s relatives, Jack was a world away from Chicago. It struck him that these gracious, welcoming people were America’s former enemy. What would his old man think? His son drinking coffee with a former soldier of the Third Reich. Or possibly a bona fide Nazi.

  But then again, based on the letter, his father himself may have—

  Jack checked his thoughts. Focus on here and now.

  He glanced around at the jovial faces. How did this amiable family survive the war? They looked, dressed, acted like ordinary people. For the first time, Jack truly understood the wartime axiom of ‘brother against brother’. Hell, his old man could’ve fought against Sherk’s grandpa and great uncles.

  Immersed in a world of foreign tongues and genteel surroundings, Jack’s thoughts wandered back to the real reason he’d made this trip. He needed to tell Sherk about the letter.

  Soon.

  Chapter 3

  The next morning Jack and Sherk sat in the backyard garden polishing off a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs, Weisswurst, and toast with tart plum jam. Birds sang like an orchestra of flutes throughout vibrant green trees, the yard smelling of freshly cut grass.

  Jack took a bite of meat. “Never eaten white sausage before, but gotta admit it’s damn good.”

  “The best Bavaria has to offer,” Sherk said. “They process it by—”

  “Okay, I said I like the stuff. Don’t push it.” A pang of guilt struck him. Don’t be so short. Allow Sherk to strut his stuff. At least until I’ve told him about the letter.

  “Sorry, Sherk. Tell me about the process. I’m all ears.”

  Sherk spoke, but Jack paid no attention. Instead, he was lost in warm garden sunshine, with a lavender smell of flowers. Lily pads drifted atop a small pond with greenish water, a breeze whispered through willow and chestnut trees. A distant church bell chimed.

  Perhaps sensing Jack’s disinterest, Sherk wiped his mouth and put his napkin by his plate. “How about a visit to BMW headquarters? Then we’ll hit the Hofbräuhaus —”

  Jack started to rise, but hesitated. “Hold on, Sherk.” He sat back, gazing into his friend’s eyes. “There’s something I want to show you. Something I’ve been putting off.”

  Jack fished a small envelope from his pocket and glanced toward the back door. “Will we be alone for a while?”

  Sherk raised his eyebrows. “Sure. My folks should be gone until noon.”

  “Before you read this, I need to explain.” Jack eased the letter from its envelope, cleared his throat. “A few months ago, Ma uncovered an old box of my pa’s, full of stuff he’d saved from the war. She wanted us kids to go through it, see if anything interested us. Tommy had looked already, so I took the box just to humor her. Figured I didn’t need any of my old man’s crap.”

  Jack placed the letter on the table. He explained that he’d found it stuck inside a booklet, and almost missed it. “It was written mainly in German, so I got online and googled the translation. The woman used some English, probably so Pa could understand. Damn near fell off my chair when I read it.” He handed Sherk the letter.

  After reading the single page, Sherk pushed a blond strand from his forehead. “Gott im Himmel, what did you do?”

  “I called Tommy. He’d seen it and put it back. We couldn’t accept our old man had a fling with a Fräulein during the war. Doesn’t add up. If you’d been around him—” He let his voice trail off.

  “At first, we were gonna let it go. Keep the letter. Not tell Ma. We’re still not certain she’s in the dark about it. But why would she purposely hide it in a box instead of destroying it? Doesn’t make sense.” Jack shook his head.

  “Right,” Sherk agreed. “There’s enough English in it for her to get the gist of the message. It’s quite intense, about how true love is so painful. Especially at the end when—” Sherk scanned the letter. “Fräulein Schröder writes both she and your dad, John, were damaged, and she always would be.” He handed the letter back to Jack. “She sounds like a decent sort though, wishing him happiness. Für immer und ewig.”

  Sherk thought for a minute and pushed back his chair. “More coffee?”

  “Yeah. Got anything to add to it?”

  He apparently read Jack’s mind. “Sure, I’ll bring some good brandy for you. Asbach, truly top drawer. Not whisky, but better than Jameson.”

  “Fat chance of that, but it’ll do.”

  Jack and Sherk had been partners in Bridgeport PD, a division of the vast Chicago department. After years of wrestling PTSD-causing demons from his past, along with frustrations on the job, Jack had never regretted stomping off in a rage a couple months ago. He remained friends with Sherk, whose wife, undergoing ovarian cancer treatment, could not make their annual trip to Munich in June. She had convinced him to go without her, to invite Jack in her stead. After all, she was between treatments, doing fine, and her parents were with her to help care for the kids.

  Tommy had urged Jack to pursue the letter’s origin. “Look at it as a missing persons case, Jack. Track down this Ariana Schröder. She’s most likely dead by now, but give it a shot.”

  “You’re right. I gotta try.”

  Jack realized his brother’s need to understand sank deeper than the surface. As the oldest son, Tommy bore the brunt of his old man’s drunken rages, at times standing in harm’s way like a sentry protecting his younger brothers.

  “He’s always in my head,” Tommy had said over beers one night. “Never been able to forgive the bastard. Possibly the key to his fury is this woman. Something might have happened with her, may explain his outrage. Hell, I’m no shrink, but I wanna find out if we can.”

  At the time, Jack was hesitant. Should they dig up the past? Could the search backfire in some strange way?

  . . . . .

  Sherk returned with more coffee and a bottle of Asbach. Jack splashed a liberal amount into his cup, took a gulp. “Ahhh. Gotta admit, not bad.” He wouldn’t tell Sherk the stuff didn’t hold a candle to Jameson. Brandy or whisky? No comparison.

  “So, you want to try and get information on Ariana Schröder?”

  “Yeah
. Think you can spare some time to help? My German’s a little rusty”

  Sherk hesitated. His eyes looked to his right, then to the floor. “Yeah, I suppose.”

  Jack’s guess was Sherk felt slighted. Offended that he’d waited to spring the letter on him. “Sorry. I should’ve told you before. I just thought—and Tommy—” He told himself to shut up.

  Sherk’s lips were tightly pressed. He crossed his arms. “So that’s really why you came on the trip? To locate this woman?”

  Jack couldn’t tell if Sherk was pissed or just annoyed. “I can’t lie to you, man. Yeah, it was the main reason, but hey, I’m liking Munich and your relatives—”

  “Save it, Jack.” He cleared his throat. “It’s okay. I’m a little on edge. I’m more worried about Erica than I want to admit to you and the family.”

  Jack was relieved to find that out. Naturally, Sherk would be stressed about his wife. He took a drink of coffee. “No need to explain. We can let it go for now.”

  Sherk swiped at an insect on the table. They sat without speaking.

  . . . . .

  Sherk finished his last bite of sausage. “I wish you would’ve told me sooner about the letter. I think you duped me, Jack, but—”

  “No, wait, I didn’t mean—”

  “Let’s not talk any more about it.” Sherk put his fork down. “I’m ready to help you out.”

  “Okay, thanks.” He hadn’t seen his friend react like that before. Guess he should quit taking his good nature for granted.

  Jack finished his toast in silence. Before the trip, his mother instructed him to visit Dachau to see the site where John Bailey’s Infantry Division liberated the first Nazi concentration camp.

  You have to go, Jacky. You may be the only one in the family to ever see where your father ended up in the war. It would be a tribute to him to visit the place.

  He scoffed at the memory. His mother probably knew more than she admitted. Always covered up her husband’s drinking and bursts of violence, claiming it was the war that made him that way. Never his fault.

  Maybe he’d visit Dachau. Maybe not. Right now, he’d focus on the letter.

  Sherk was a good sport for helping in his search, although guilt persisted to nudge the edges of his mind. Jack poured himself more coffee and doctored it with a healthy splash of Asbach. He willed himself to relax and appreciate his friend’s good nature. “Let’s get to it. Where do we start?”

  Chapter 4

  Sherk seemed to perk up. He paused and drained his coffee. “The first thing we do is a public record search. Let’s go inside to use my laptop. Easier to see than the phone.”

  The men cleared the table and carried their dishes to the kitchen. Sherk loaded the dishwasher while Jack poured himself coffee.

  In the adjoining dining room, they settled at the table and Sherk powered up his laptop. The room was airy, spacious with the same neutral colors as the rest of the house. Everything tan, beige, white. Modern décor and leather furniture juxtaposed with the sedate, traditional furnishings of the elder Scherkenbachs’ home in Regensburg.

  Jack looked on as Sherk hunkered over the monitor, clicking, searching.

  “She doesn’t show up in the quick search. Too many Schröders to investigate. Let me detail it a little.” Sherk proceeded mumbling to himself, figuring aloud.

  Growing impatient, Jack stood. “Gonna get a sweet roll. Want anything?”

  Sherk declined, so Jack left to retrieve a pastry from a platter on the counter. He selected a strawberry tart, but passed on the stollen. That stuff was drier than a ten-year-old fruitcake used as a doorstop.

  He sat in the kitchen and ate. Didn’t want to get crumbs on the dining room table’s linen placemats.

  When he returned, Sherk didn’t look up. “We may end up going to Einwohnermeldeampt and see—”

  “Hold on, man. What in hell—”

  “Sorry, Jack. Keep forgetting. It’s the resident registration office. Every German citizen living legally in the country has to register at an address. I did their high-speed search, but it doesn’t indicate if she married, has another name, where her last—”

  “Yeah, I get the picture. I figured it was a long shot.”

  “Giving up already?” Sherk shook his head. “Come on, Jack, we have not yet begun to fight.”

  “A relief, man. Not your usual Shakespeare. Not Patrick Henry. An American general, right?”

  “John Paul Jones, captain of—”

  “Yeah, yeah. I remember. Not in the mood for a history lesson.” Damned if he could recall the circumstances of Jones, but he wasn’t about to admit it.

  “Give me a few more minutes while I try other leads.”

  Five minutes later, Sherk looked up. “That’s all I can turn up online. Let’s head for the Einwohner—sorry, the registration office. Not sure if they’ll give us details, but if we don’t luck out there, we’ll contact the German Red Cross Tracing Service. It’s been around since the Franco-German war back in—”

  “Look, I hate to be a prick, but can’t hack a lecture right now.” Jack hoped he wouldn’t regret requesting Sherk’s help, but he’d be lost with the language barrier. Guess he’d have to put up with the dissertations. Contrary to popular opinion, Jack soon realized many Germans don’t speak English. Particularly older folks. But no problem if you’re on a tour where the guides take you to popular tourist, English-friendly sites.

  Sherk studied the monitor. “Okay, the Red Cross traces displaced and missing persons from wartime, and it’s grown a lot since the second world war, as you can imagine. There’s an office here in Munich, so that’s a good start.”

  Jack’s heart thumped. Perhaps they’d luck out in the end. He wasn’t sure he wanted to find the woman, but too late now. He’d promised Tommy. What happened to his own determination?

  Sherk clicked on a map. “The Red Cross isn’t far from the registration office. Shouldn’t take more than half an hour to hit both places.” He looked up. “For our Ariana Schröder request, we need to state a reason for the search, like wanting to reconnect with a family member.”

  Jack thought a minute. “You mean we can’t just put in a name?”

  “Doesn’t work like that.” Sherk read the screen. “You need grounds for an investigation. Finding a family member is first, but there are other vague goals, like we’re hunting for a government official for something. It gets too complicated.” He shook his head and stood. “Even so, let’s go for it.”

  “Guess we dream up our own motive then.” Jack rose from the table and followed Sherk through the living room.

  “Right.” Sherk turned, furrowing his brow. “Why would you need to contact Ariana?”

  “Damned if I know,” Jack said. “I guess curiosity about my old man’s wartime fling won’t cut it?”

  “Highly doubtful. We’ll rack our brains harder.”

  Ten minutes later, Sherk pulled the Audi out of the narrow driveway. They drove past a canal of the Isar River that flows through Munich. Bright green trees lined boulevards.

  “Nice area. How did your parents find their house?”

  Sherk slowed down for a bus ahead. “The area is called Bogenhausen, and we grew up a few miles away. So they were familiar with the area, and could find their way around. They can walk to restaurants plus a fitness center nearby. Easy access to transportation so Dad doesn’t have to drive all over.”

  “Your folks ever consider moving back here permanently?”

  “Sometimes. They’d like to be near our grandparents and cousins, but they’ve got a good community in Chicago.”

  Jack gazed at a r
ow of bungalows, their window boxes overflowing with red and orange flowers. The Windy City couldn’t hold a candle to this charming European enclave. He almost said this aloud, but bit his tongue. “Yeah, probably hard to figure what’s best.”

  The traffic thinned as they headed down Oberföhringer Strasse and picked up 2R south.

  They passed tan concrete buildings, a mixture of high rises, apartments, condos, businesses. Oak and chestnut trees lined boulevards, men and women of all ages strolled or hurried along the sidewalks. Jack stared out the window. “Can’t get over how clean everything looks. No slums in Munich?”

  Sherk stopped at a light. “Sure, there are some seedy areas, but they’re easy to avoid.”

  “The Germans look a lot thinner than Americans. Must be all that walking. Never seen so many skinny broads wearing black.”

  “Haven’t you heard?” Sherk chuckled. “Black is the new black. Mum tells Susi she should wear more red, but my sis says she saves the bright colors for Chicago.” Sherk slowed down as the road narrowed into two lanes. “Looks like construction ahead. Should’ve checked traffic reports.”

  As vehicles slowed to a standstill, drivers honked, stretching their heads out car windows to check the holdup. “Crap. Don’t need this,” Jack muttered.

  “Shouldn’t be too long, but usually it’s not this bad,” Sherk said with his usual annoying upbeat attitude.

  Fifteen minutes and fifty yards later, Jack’s patience reached a boiling point.

  “Scheisse, man, isn’t there any other way to go?” Jack had learned the German vulgarity from Sherk’s father, who thankfully wasn’t as morally upright as his son.

  “Yeah, I’m contemplating changing plans. We’ll skip the Registration office for now and get out of this mess. Cross the river to Maximilianstrasse. The Red Cross office is in that area.”