A Letter From Munich

by Meg Lelvis

  “A little early to imbibe, but why not?”

  “Just opened one myself,” Jack lied. He picked up his neglected bottle and took a measured sip, room temperature now, but he didn’t let his distaste show.

  He strolled to the mini-bar. Handed a bottle to Sherk.

  Sherk raised the bottle. “Ho! Ho! Ho! To the bottle I go/ To heal my heart and drown my woe…”

  The scene struck Jack as pathetic, two grown men, with other things on their minds, engaging in a façade of beer-guzzling frat boy mentality. Still, he played along.

  “Finally, one of your Shakespeare quotes I can understand.” Jack took a swig.

  “J.R.R. Tolkien.”

  “Okay. Not a fan of that sci-fi crap.”

  “Actually, it’s fantasy, and some critics thought one part was an allegory for the atomic bomb, but the themes are open to—”

  “I’d love to listen to your dissertation, but I have more interesting things on my mind, no offense to J.R.R.” Jack nodded at the journal.

  “I’ll take that as a subtle hint I should depart.” Sherk started to rise.

  “I won’t take much longer to finish,” Jack said. “Then I want you to read it. I’ll have stuff to talk over afterwards.” Jack set his beer on the table. “By the way, do you reckon Renate would let me keep the journal, since I’m John’s son? I get she wants Ariana’s daughter to have it, but who would’ve dreamed I’d show up?”

  Sherk paused. “I’ll need to word it very carefully and see how serious Renate considers her agreement with Ariana. It’s like a death bed promise, except Ariana’s alive, even though she wouldn’t be the wiser.” He straightened his glasses. “I’m not sure her daughter knows about the affair, and possibly she’d be better off if it is a secret. Germans are tight-lipped about personal things like that.”

  “Okay, we’ll figure something out. See ya in an hour or two.” Sherk started for the door, carrying his beer.

  “Sherk.”

  Sherk turned.

  “Erica will be fine. She’s a strong woman.”

  Sherk gave a weak nod. Then he tipped his beer to Jack and let the door click as it closed behind him.

  Jack settled back with the journal and turned the pages until he found the beautiful girl hiding in a closet.

  Chapter 26

  Journal Entry—June 5, 1946

  Ariana, when I saw you in that closet, I froze. I didn’t move for a couple seconds, but it seemed longer. God, you were a living doll, Ariana. You reminded me of an American movie star. And you were so scared, scared of me. I wanted to take you in my arms where you’d be safe. This don’t doesn’t sound like me. I thought I was tougher than that.

  You’ve lost some memory about those few days, but I recall helping you up and out of the closet. You whimpered, and I saw faded purple bruises on your arms. You didn’t say anything at first, your eyes kept darting between me and my buddies. We stood in the bedroom, Bill telling you not to be afraid. You and your mother and sister clearly were scared and didn’t like us, but Hilda stood her ground, jabbering on like she had something important to tell us.

  Then she offered us coffee. We were surprised, but we looked at each other and shrugged. Fraternizing with the enemy was against the rules, but what the hell, we didn’t give a damn about anything then, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a decent cup of coffee.

  We sat at the kitchen table. Your mother tried to help Hilda with serving us, and dropped a saucer, so Hilda shooed her away. You and your sister just stood around acting nervous. You kept looking at me, and I couldn’t keep my eyes off you. There we sat, drinking coffee and eating cherry strudel like we were visiting our grandmothers back home.

  Hilda seemed to know why we were there, that we wanted people to come with us and witness the camp. Bill finally got her to stop talking so fast. We learned that you and Renate had been Red Cross nurses in Munich, and your brother Fritz had been sent to Switzerland. Hilda begged us not to make you ladies go see the camp.

  My two buddies and I debated about it, we decided to give you a pass. But the real reason we looked the other way was what Hilda said: a few months after Kristallnacht, your papa had been thrown in Dachau prison for being a Social Democrat. Then we realized you were good people, brave people who had tried to resist the Nazis. That was when I started to understand.

  We agreed that if anyone was curious, we’d claim you were all sick with what might be typhus. Hilda told us you all would pretend to be ill and not come outside for a week, in case their neighbors got suspicious.

  By this time other guys from the squad had taken groups of citizens away, and there were about ten people waiting in the street. I didn’t want to leave you, Ariana, so I took you aside. I’ll come back and see you tonight. I remember speaking those words, and you looked at me as if you understood what I said. I didn’t get at the time that you understood a little English. I was determined to see you again, not only because you were beautiful, but I sensed there was something inside of you that I wanted to find—oh, I can’t explain this very well, but you said later that you were attracted to me right away too.

  The day dragged on. Ariana, I was so relieved that you weren’t with us to witness the camp. Even children were forced to look at the piles of bodies, and a few days later, members of the Hitler Youth were brought in to see exactly what they’d been fighting for. I bet your brother Kurt got an eyeful.

  A week later when he turned up at your house, he denied seeing the camp, but you and I didn’t fall for it. He clammed up and wouldn’t talk about his involvement in the Youth the last years of the war. He didn’t want to upset your Mutti. Remember how she wouldn’t quit hugging him?

  You realized later how the townspeople reacted to the sights at the camp. Some got sick, almost everyone turned their heads away, some kept muttering they had no idea what had gone on. Even though I didn’t understand much German, I could tell what they meant. Most of them acted shocked.

  Since you and your family didn’t have to help bury the bodies, I will write about it because you wanted me to. Over two weeks after the Dachau liberation, burial of the dead began. By then a lot of the bodies were falling apart because they were rotting. You see, they had been left out in the open on purpose to show as many townsfolk and U.S. soldiers as they could, and also to take photographs, to have proof for all the world to see.

  I hate to write this, but the Americans forced some women citizens of Dachau to disinfect the boxcars of the death train. None of them were given any protection against typhus, no rubber gloves to handle the corpses. You can imagine what they had to put up with because of the decomposing bodies.

  The US Army demanded that the farmers parade their open wagons of bodies, circling through the town for the citizens to see again. Then they had to haul the dead inmates to a hill north of the camp and bury them in mass graves. I found out later that the corpses were added to bodies already buried in the graves from before, when the camp ran out of coal for the crematoriums. A buddy said he was struck at how the woods around the hill looked so green and pretty and peaceful. That’s what they call ironic.

  About what happened with the camp afterwards, besides giving medical care for the prisoners, it was used as a prison for German soldiers and also a displaced person center. It housed mostly eastern German refugees who were driven from their homes.

  I also need to write about your Papa because you wanted me to. After you told me his full name plus the month and year he was imprisoned, I took some time off and checked at the Administration offices, where a couple guys helped me go through files until we found him listed. I remember the night me and Bill told you and Renate that your Papa died of typhus in November of 1944. We hated to tell
you, but you begged us for information as to what happened to his body. Truth was, he may have been buried in the mass grave at Leitenberg Hill, since they ran out of coal around that time. Many political prisoners before him were cremated and the ashes were sent to the families. Maybe I shouldn’t write that, but at least your papa lived longer than a lot of others.

  You and Renate broke the news to your Mutti later. You said she wailed and carried on like she was crazy. At the end, you got her to settle down, and be grateful that at least the rest of the Schröders survived. Fritz was alive and would come home from Switzerland later in June, and Kurt had shown up thin, but unharmed. I want to write that Fritz was happy, and you thought he was treated in a good way at the place he was sent to. I liked it when you and me took him to the park for a picnic one time and a few times we played Sternhalma with him. It was like Chinese checkers and he was good at it and even sat still for a few minutes. Then he would get up and pace around. Anyway, he was always a good person.

  . . . . .

  Ariana, I’m coming to the end of this, and I don’t want to write about you and me together because it is our own private business. But I have some thoughts I want you to never forget.

  You and your parents and Renate are the opposite of people’s opinion of the Germans. A lot of people would blame you just for being born into a German family. The world will despise your country and its people for a long time, even though it’s unfair. Innocent people like you didn’t cause the war. But I guess that’s human nature, to blame a whole country.

  People say war makes a man out of you. In some ways, that’s true for me. Sometimes I feel like an old man who has seen the worst of people.

  But my buddy, Bill has said more than once, that he saw good people do bad things and bad people do good things. He’s a smart guy. He was in college in Oklahoma when he dropped out to enlist. He told me one important thing he will tell his children and grandchildren: he saw the strong become weak and the weak become strong. I should have found out exactly what he meant.

  So now we both wait for my orders. I may soon be discharged and shipped home like some guys in our division. I don’t want to leave, but family and duty wait for me in America. I can’t come up with words to describe this whole life with you, so I will close for now.

  Ariana, I will always remember you no matter what happens. I am a better man because of you.

  I’ll see you in every lovely summer’s day,

  Love,

  John

  P.S. I signed off with a line from our special song because as you know, I could never dream up words like that.

  Chapter 27

  Weimar

  Jack read the last page, his mood sinking. Why did he have a sense of disappointment after finishing his father’s story? He hadn’t been this mystified since he found the damn letter a few months ago in the cardboard box.

  He stood and stretched. The rumble in his stomach indicated he needed to eat, but he was too distracted to obsess over food. Walking to the window, he thought about his father as a young soldier, away from home, and the horrific effects of war on the innocent, not to mention destruction of land, buildings, homes. No doubt about it. War was hell.

  After gazing at the green lawn and landscaped purple flowers, Jack returned to the bed. He picked up the journal and read the first page again. “June 5,1946,” he said aloud. Sixty-six years ago. Since the journal stopped before John Bailey was shipped home, Jack would remind Tommy to check the discharge papers for the exact date.

  He still didn’t perceive much about his father’s relationship with Ariana, but their love was undeniable. In the journal, his dad described lots of terrible things he’d witnessed the last few months of the war, allowing Jack more insight into John Bailey’s character. More than that, though. Words escaped him, yet the whole experience and knowledge he’d gained was something beyond the norm. Something superior. Other-worldly. A new way of viewing life.

  He reached for another beer in the mini-bar, opened the cap, and took a drink.

  But how far did things go with Ariana? From the letter she’d written years ago, it sounded like they were hot and heavy. Also, his father wrote that he had duties at home, which indicated he resisted, or at least tried to resist, the temptation of forbidden love. Though he’d been a lapsed Catholic, still you always have some level of guilt taking up residence in your bones.

  Mulling over these questions, Jack aimlessly leafed through the rest of the blank pages of the journal. He almost reached the end when he stopped and stared at a page filled with handwritten German words. He recognized the handwriting from Ariana’s long-ago letter. He turned several more pages and came to the end.

  Rubbing the sandpaper stubble of his beard, Jack looked hard at the signature. He couldn’t tell what the word was, but the first letter looked like a D followed by an L.

  He punched in Sherk’s room number on the phone. “Come on over. Just walk in, the door’s unlocked.”

  Several seconds later, Sherk stepped in. “What’s up? Ready for an early dinner?”

  “Yeah, but I want you to translate this first.” Jack held out the journal. “Start here.”

  Sherk sat in the armchair and took the notebook, looking at the page Jack held open with his thumb. “Hmm. Looks like Ariana added a postscript in your dad’s journal.”

  “Can’t get much past you, Sherlock.” Jack plopped down on the bed. “What does it say?”

  “Give me a minute.” After reading silently, Sherk looked up. “A little personal in some parts, Jack. You sure you want to tune in to all this?”

  “How personal? Like graphic stuff?”

  Sherk cleared his throat. “No, not descriptive, except some intense emotions about their—ah—relationship.”

  Jack thought a moment. Did he want to dig into this? None of his business, but then, his old man was in his grave and Ariana’s mind wasn’t in the real world anyway. “I’m not sure, but I figure by now I’ve read about the war shit he saw, I should discover this too.”

  Jack gazed at the window. Ghastly terrors his father described had fostered a previously-missing respect for the man. How could you not respect someone who had seen the things he’d seen, and then be forced to live with ceaseless nightmares for decades? But this—affection or whatever his father shared with another woman—this could change all that.

  Chest pounding, he looked at Sherk, and words, like caution cast to the wind, escaped him. “Go ahead. Spit it out.”

  He took a deep breath. “I’ll grab you a beer to help things along.” He retrieved another Pilsner from the mini-bar, popped the cap, and handed Sherk the bottle.

  Sherk took a long drink. “The message will lose something in translation, but I’ll do what I can. Here goes.”

  Jack willed himself to relax. If things got too sappy, he’d tell Sherk to stop. He took a gulp of beer and listened to a woman’s long-ago words.

  “June 24, 1946,” Sherk began.

  “Dearest John,

  I am writing at the end of your diary because I want to always remember our time together. I will keep this in a safe place, and no one will see it except me.

  I have been so heartbroken since you left for America a week ago. Ah, how hard it is to understand my emotions and yours too. If only you were free. Then we could live our lives somewhere, I wouldn’t care where. Just as long as you were with me.

  But we know you must stay with your wife, until the day might come for us to meet again. Your words of love will always be in my soul. I will cherish my time with you, especially when our love reached the most beautiful moments in the world these past few months. My whole being aches for you every night.

  My h
eart is breaking, darling. I have never had such sorrow. I will always remember the special things, like finding the little Gasthaus in town where we snuck out at night to meet. We sat there drinking wine or beer at our little table by the back window as we held hands and listened to the song about always seeing each other when we looked at the moon. Bing Crosby sang it on the radio. You said the song was written just for us.

  I was so happy when you and Bill got transferred to Munich last fall and we could have more time together because by then I was working at the hospital again with Renate. After a few months we didn’t hide our courtship, since other American soldiers were seeing German girls. You said the officials gave up on the no-fraternizing rule, and we were so much in love, we didn’t care.

  You said my eyes were the color of the sky, and my skin was like peaches and cream. I remember I said, “Oh, John. That sounds so beautiful.” And you said, “Well, that’s what you are.” You were so tall and strong and handsome. I noticed your sharp blue eyes right away. I remember how afraid I was at first in the closet, but the way you looked at me, I was sure I was safe.

  Ah, the memories we made. You sang the song about sitting under the apple tree to me. You said you were off-key, but I loved your deep voice. You tried to tell me what the songs meant, like our song about seeing each other even when we were apart. It was so romantic and sad. You said, “I’m no Bing Crosby, but here goes.” Then you’d sing, and I would get tears in my eyes.

  You started to speak more German words, and I quickly learned many English words. I will go back to University and study more.

  This diary will forever be with me, hidden where no one can see. And in the back, I am placing the picture Bill took of you and me by the river where we were on a picnic one day when it wasn’t raining. It will be safe within these pages to be cherished forever.”