by Meg Lelvis
“We gonna have to stop?” he said. “Can’t see for shit. I mean scheisse.”
“You’re starting to grasp the German language, at least the important parts.” Sherk grinned as he inched around a semi. “No, we don’t need to stop. I can still see the white line.”
“Can’t remember rain this bad. Pain in the ass.”
“It should let up soon.” Sherk, eternal optimist. Perhaps he’d be right this time.
“I’m gonna kick myself for opening my big mouth, but what’s the history of Weimar?”
“Fascinating, Jack. Goethe and Schiller spent much time there, along with artists like Klee, Kandinsky, and Liszt, the composer, just to name a few. The Weimar Republic was established after World War I and lasted fourteen years, ending in 1933, when Hitler took over.”
Sherk switched lanes to pass and escape the spray of another truck, visibility still poor, but tolerable. “Remember last week when we drank beer and walked around Odeonsplatz near the old Rathaus? I pointed out the monument with pillars and lions in front. That’s the Field Marshall’s Hall, and—”
“Oh yeah. The Beer Hall Putsch happened there. A bunch of Nazis were shot and killed and Hitler was arrested, then sent to prison. That’s where he wrote Mein Kampf.” Jack’s interest piqued in spite of himself.
“Proud of you, Jack. You’re smarter than you look.”
“Always the comedian. So, the Weimar bit lasted how long after the putsch? Ten years?”
“Right again, pal. When Hindenburg appointed Hitler as chancellor, the Nazi party gained control.”
“And the rest, is, how shall I put it delicately, bullshit.”
Sherk turned the wipers down a notch. “True. Munich has the regrettable distinction of being the birthplace of National Socialism.”
“In other words, Nazism. But why Munich? You’d figure it would’ve started in Berlin.”
Sherk shook his head. “Hitler found it fairly easy to get followers because of Munich’s circles of right-wing and anti-Semitic ideologies. The Munich Agreement of 1938 pretty much launched the war.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s when Chamberlain flew back and told the Brits he’d stopped another war?” Jack was proud of himself for remembering that detail.
“Right. Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain was truly naïve. Hitler pulled the wool over his eyes, but Churchill saw right through Hitler.” Sherk adjusted his glasses. “Isn’t this fascinating stuff, Jack?”
“Never thought I’d see the day I’d agree with ya, but yeah, gotta admit it ain’t bad.”
The rain turned into a lackluster patter, and dark clouds no longer hid welcome sunlight.
Jack stared out the window at clumps of fir trees along with occasional auto factories, the cleanest countryside he’d seen, except in Ireland twelve years ago. He willed himself not to brood about the deaths of Karen and Elizabeth. The struggle was constant. The day they were killed by that IRA car bombing in the center of that small town near Belfast would be forever etched on his brain.
Driving full speed again, Sherk said, “Okay. Now we’re rolling. Should get to Weimer in a couple hours. Getting hungry yet?”
“Nah. Let’s just drive.” Jack was ready to relax and close his eyes. Absorbing Sherk’s history lesson taxed his brain, but thoughts of Ariana elbowed their way into his mind. Was he doing the right thing by dredging up the past?
He told himself to just relax, quit ruminating. What’s the worst that could happen?
Chapter 7
Weimar
The dashboard clock showed twelve-thirty when Sherk turned onto the A4 toward Weimar.
“Almost there, Jack. It’s too early to check into the hotel, so how about lunch before we track down Ariana Schröder Gunther?” During the final part of his search, Sherk had discovered Ariana’s husband, Walter, died many years ago. They had one daughter.
Jack’s stomach grumbled. “Yeah, lets find a pub. I’m in the mood for some bratwurst and beer.”
Sherk agreed, so twenty minutes later, he turned north onto 85 and made his way into the city. The rain quit at last, and the sun teased, peeking around gray clouds.
“Another clean, green German town,” Jack said as he took in tidy houses and apartment buildings. Some homes were mansions, sprawling over lush, landscaped lawns. “Must rent rooms out in those places.”
“Some, but not all. Lots of old money around here.” Sherk veered off the road onto Berkaer Strasse, where pavements narrowed and neighborhoods became dense with trees.
“Looks like Lincoln Park,” Jack said. People, young and old alike, sauntered or jogged along winding paths. “Where’s our hotel?”
“It’s behind us a few blocks.” Sherk turned a corner. “We’ll eat lunch at the best place in town. Right in the center of Weimar across from the Stadtschloss. Another captivating story, Jack. The restaurant is Weimar’s oldest coffeehouse, and—”
“Hold on, man. Coffeehouse? I don’t need Starbucks. I need a real place that serves booze.”
Sherk scoffed. “Don’t worry. They have a great list of German brews, as well as a reputable wine offering.”
They drove around narrow streets, twisting and turning amongst ancient faded stone buildings. Young mothers pushed strollers along cobblestone sidewalks while bikers pedaled past with seeming purpose.
“Now that the sun’s out, we can sit on the terrace,” Sherk said.
They reached a bustling open market area filled with booths displaying flowers, crafts, grilled meats, and baked goods. Jack hoped Sherk wouldn’t suggest browsing the place. It reminded him of Karen, who had loved shopping. Their last day together in Ireland before—he forced his thoughts into the here and now.
Sherk parked along a shady street a couple blocks from the market place, and they made their way on cobbled sidewalks toward the restaurant.
As they turned onto Gruner Markt, Sherk pointed. “There it is. Residenze Café, built in the 1830’s, if memory serves.”
“Too fancy for me,” Jack grumbled.
“No worries. It’s more casual inside.”
A modern light gray façade overlooked an open terrace with large green striped umbrellas shading cloth-covered tables. The patio spilled over with diners eating and drinking. Waiters hustled about. Sherk pointed to a menu posted at the door.
“There’s everything from cream of asparagus with wild garlic pesto to Thuringian bratwurst.”
“Like I said, too fancy. Just gimme a beer and burger.”
Sherk shrugged off Jack’s comment and strode into the main room. A young waitress indicated they could sit anywhere. Sherk pointed to a booth alongside the front windows. “We’re lucky to find a space. It’s always crowded in summer.”
As they sat down, Jack said, “Smells good. Must be the sausage.” He eyed the shiny wood bar across the room. As if on cue, a pudgy middle-aged waiter appeared.
“Guten Tag.” He placed menus on the table and offered drink orders.
Sherk studied the wine list. “I’d recommend Schwarzbier, Jack. It’s a regional dark beer. Could be similar to Guinness. Sound good?”
“Right now I’ll take anything.”
“Okay, and I’m going to opt for red wine.” He looked at the waiter. “Ein Nordheimer Vögelein und Krombacher Dark, bitte.”
“Bitte schön.” The waiter plodded off.
After Sherk pointed out various elaborate dinners on the menu, Jack settled on Thuringian Bratwurst with hearty sauerkraut and fried potatoes.
“I’ll regret this, but what does ‘thur—whatever mean?”
“Weimar is in the Federal State
of Thuringia. Similar to our counties in the States.”
“You managed to answer a question in one sentence, Professor. Not bad.”
. . . . .
An hour later, stuffed with food and drink, the men left the restaurant and emerged into now-brilliant sunshine. People either meandered or scurried about; everything seemed to burst with yellows, reds, blues. Sherk pointed out the massive stone Stadtschloss and its adjoining museum across the street. “The old Gestapo headquarters were in the former royal stables off the courtyard.”
“That’s a kicker—former Gestapo place right amidst fancy shops, normal people walking around. Plus, look at the sun shining on the windows making it look like something out of a picture book. Seems bizarre.”
“It’s a real juxtaposition, all right,” Sherk agreed.
“Smart ass.”
Walking along, Jack realized he didn’t feel as far removed from the war since coming to Germany. It was closer, more personal than the distant battles he’d slept through during high school history class. He’d bet the old geezers milling about town would have plenty of grim stories to tell. But no doubt those words would remain locked in their vaults.
When they reached the car, Jack said, “I dunno, man. Having second thoughts. Nosing into someone’s past like we’re about to. What if Ariana doesn’t want to reveal anything?”
“We’ll find out soon enough. Be positive.”
“I am. I’m positive this ain’t gonna work out.”
“Well, then why are we here?” Sherk’s irritation palpable.
“Aw, chill out. It’s just me,” Jack scoffed. “After all these years, you know I’m full of hot air. And horseshit.”
Sherk ignored him, started the car, and made his way on a winding paved street that stopped at a crossroad. “If we turned north here, we’d head toward Buchenwald, about fifteen minutes away.” One thing about Sherk. He didn’t stay pissed for long.
“No shit. I didn’t know that was around here. Was it bigger than Dachau?”
“Yeah. One of the earliest camps built in Germany during the mid-thirties. Would you be interested in seeing it tomorrow?”
“Nah. Gonna see Dachau. That’ll be enough.”
“Right.” Sherk adjusted the visor. “Well, are you ready to meet Frau Schröder, or Gunther more precisely?”
“I guess. Can’t put it off much longer.” Aware of the heaviness in his gut, Jack regretted devouring every bite of sauerkraut and potatoes.
“If this works out, Jack, and we actually meet the woman, you need to decide what you want me to tell her. I’m sure she doesn’t speak English.”
Jack gazed out the window at tree-lined curbs and stately homes. “Can’t decide what to say.” Why was his chest hammering? As if he didn’t know.
“Let’s just see if she can have visitors,” Sherk said. “She may be bed-ridden, who can tell?”
“Yeah, we’ll wing it.”
They drove north and passed the picturesque Weimar Atrium. Sherk slowed down. “Almost there.”
Jack wiped his brow, took a deep breath. “Oh, God. Actually, this whole secret letter thing is more of a woman’s deal. What do I know about talking to little old ladies, except when they were witnesses back in my cop days?”
“Don’t chicken out now. We’ve come this far.”
The neighborhood was thick with trees and shrub-like fences surrounding pockets of open land. Sherk stopped the car and turned right onto a brick-paved circular driveway leading to a yellow five-story building with a one-level unit connected by a glassed-in walkway.
They circled around landscaped garden areas past the entrance and followed signs to a parking lot in the back. Passing familiar blood red anemones, radiant against dark shrubbery, Jack wondered how old the place was. Although it looked modern enough, its walls no doubt masked secrets from times of yore, as his mother would annoyingly say.
“Looks upscale for a nursing home,” Jack said. “The old woman must be loaded.”
Sherk chuckled. “Germany is very good to its senior citizens. Socialized health care strikes terror in the hearts of many Americans, but it works well here and in other European countries.”
“Not gonna get into politics.” Jack was aware of Sherk’s socialist leanings, but right now, was too distracted to give a damn.
A few minutes later, his legs wobbled as they walked through the entry into a large, open lobby area smacking of German sterility. A young brown-haired woman sat at her computer behind a circular desk. She looked up, her straight teeth shining.
“Guten Tag, kann ich Ihnen helfen?”
Jack stood aside and let Sherk take over. “Ja, wir—”
The rest of the words were the usual muddle of rapid German, but Jack recognized “Ariana Gunther” in the midst.
The receptionist’s upbeat expression faded as a frown appeared between her well-shaped eyebrows. She exchanged more conversation with Sherk. Although Jack couldn’t understand the words, he sensed something was wrong. At one point, both the woman and Sherk glanced at him.
A couple minutes later, Sherk pointed Jack to a leather sofa in the spacious waiting area. “We’ll sit over here and talk. There’s a slight problem.”
Chapter 8
Jack stared at him. “Why am I not surprised?”
“They won’t let anyone see Ariana except family. I explained that you have a connection with her from the States, but the receptionist wouldn’t budge; said it was against regulations to reveal anything, since we’re not family.”
Jack stared at Sherk. “Shit. Now what do we—”
“Hold on, there may be a solution. Turns out, the lady mentioned Ariana has a sister who lives in independent living unit. We could see her. Perhaps she knows what—”
“So, they have different units depending on how bad off you are.” Jack recalled an aunt in the same situation.
Sherk nodded. “Right. They have different levels of supervision, so my guess is Ariana needs constant physical care or she has some form of dementia. But her sister, Renate, is right here. It’ll only take minutes to walk there, and it’s not a problem visiting her.”
“Guess that’s the only choice we have. Sure to be a crap shoot. Who knows if her sister ever met Pa back in the war?”
“I’d say there’s a good chance, Jack. Sisters share secrets.” Sherk said. “Let’s go check it out.”
They returned to the front desk and signed in to visit Renate Hahn. The receptionist pointed them in the appropriate direction, saying she’d call Frau Hahn and tell her to expect visitors.
Walking down the hall, Jack had the urge to bolt. Meeting Ariana’s sister would be awkward. Thank God Sherk would do the talking. Definitely an advantage not speaking German.
“I dunno, Sherk, this is a long shot. I doubt she’ll be able to help us with—”
“Hey, at least pretend the glass is half full. Don’t give up. ‘Hope is the thing with feathers.’ “
“Not in the mood for Shakespeare.”
“Emily Dickinson. She uses a bird as a metaphor for—”
“Yeah, I’m sure she does.” Sherk was a pain in the ass sometimes. “Are we almost there?”
“Renate is in the adjoining wing across the way.”
They reached the glassed-in walkway and headed for the independent living unit across a garden of greenery and more scarlet anemones. For someone who scoffed at fate and superstition, why did he have a vibe of eeriness? He tried to shake off the feeling. Besides, the complex was well-planned and tidy. For a nursing facility, this was as good as it got. In appearance anyway.
T
hey entered a bright, open reception area, where Sherk approached an older man at a desk, who directed him to the location of Renate’s apartment. Jack followed Sherk down a wide corridor that smelled of potpourri and Lysol. He was sure the florescent lighting illuminated beads of sweat forming on his forehead. A couple silver-haired ladies greeted them with “Guten Tag” as they passed a living room where more white or bald heads bent over cards or board games at small round tables. Why was everything white? Or red? He was being mocked by a façade of innocence. Muffled conversation and occasional titters floated in the air.
“This place is rockin’.” Jack needed a little comic relief.
A door at the end of the hall was partially open. Sherk stopped. “This is it.”
He tapped lightly and waited.
“Einen Moment bitte,” a high, pleasant voice called out.
“Keine Eile,” Sherk answered.
A delicate, birdlike woman opened the door further and beamed at Sherk. “Bitte kommen Sie herein.” She beckoned the men to enter. As she glanced at Jack, her eyes narrowed, a hint of a frown between her eyebrows. He nodded at her in acknowledgment as she gave him a dove-like stare. Confused, he made an awkward step around her into the entry.
Sherk obviously noticed Renate Hahn’s gaze. He took her hand and spoke in German for a couple minutes, uttering mysterious words beyond Jack.
The woman giggled nervously, placing her hand on her heart.
Jack wasn’t sure how to react as he glanced around her uncluttered living room. He caught a whiff of gardenia and nostalgia in the air. A mahogany spinet piano sat in the corner with black and white photos in vintage silver frames atop its shiny surface.
Talking and smiling, Renate shooed them over to a plush burgundy sofa. Jack figured she had offered coffee or whatever was available. He could use a shot of Jameson about then.