by Meg Lelvis
. . . . .
Jack leaned forward “Oh, let’s see the picture.”
Sherk looked up. “Jack, you’re spoiling the message here. It’s almost finished. Just wait.”
Jack rolled his eyes. “Sorry.”
. . . . .
Sherk continued the translation. “I hope and pray that someday we meet again, even though I could tell you did not think so. You said the war damaged part of you, but I said not the most important part. I hope you will be happy, and not worry about me, but I will never be the same either. Losing my Papa, afraid the bombs would kill us, people hungry and sick, and myself being damaged a short time before I met you.
I am going to end this letter to you my love, with the words to another song we loved because we were happy, even when it rained so much that summer.
Through my tears, I write these lines.
So keep on looking for a bluebird
And list’ning for his song
Whenever April showers come along
John, my darling, may we always see a bluebird.
My love, always and forever,
Your Sweetheart”
Chapter 28
Weimar
A lump arose in Jack’s throat. Was he getting soft? Possibly Ariana’s last words triggered a memory of Karen. Then it struck him. The word. Bluebird.
“My God, Sherk, she wrote ‘bluebird.’”
“Yeah, it hit me too. That’s what Ariana was speaking when she last saw you. Now it makes sense. And her bird pictures. The sound of your voice and perhaps your eyes sparked that memory.”
Jack shook his head. “Man, how unreal is that? How the brain works.”
“Yes, and I wonder if anyone will ever explain it.” Sherk looked at the journal, turned the page and then another. He hesitated before carefully removing a small, black-and-white photo, faintly yellowed around the edges. “Here, Jack.”
“Oh, great. The picture. Thanks.” Jack took the photo as if it were contaminated. He looked closely and saw a young couple, happy, arms around each other standing beside a tree. He turned the snapshot over and read aloud the words written on the back: “Ari und John, May 30, 1946.”
He turned the picture back and gazed at the young woman, her blond hair swept up on her forehead, waves behind her ears falling to her shoulders. She wore a polka dot short-sleeved dress tied with a ribbon around her waist, its tails streaming down the front. The soldier, in a long-sleeved Army shirt, a cigarette dangling between his fingers.
Jack held the photo out so Sherk could see. “That’s Pa all right. Must be a Chesterfield he’s holding. He smoked them till the day he died of lung cancer.”
“Seems like everyone smoked back then.” Sherk shook his head. “Yes, times have changed.”
Jack nodded. “Actually, it’s still hard to see the guy I recall from childhood as this happy soldier with a beautiful girl.”
“We all react that way about visualizing our parents as young people. Look at Ariana. She was quite the beauty. True, she does resemble Ms. Bergman.”
Jack studied the smiling face. “Here’s lookin’ at you, kid,”
“Not bad, Bogie.” Sherk placed the journal on the end table. “You’ve certainly learned more about your dad than most people ever register about their parents. I’m certainly well acquainted with John and Ariana too.”
“Yeah, I’m gonna give you the journal to read tonight, so you can get the whole story. I mean, that is, if you want to.”
“Sure thing. I’d like to read it if it isn’t too personal.” Sherk picked up the notebook.
“Hell.” Jack shrugged. “You just read the most personal part.” He looked Sherk in the eye with both a pang of guilt and the warmth of gratitude. “I’d appreciate you reading it. It’s gritty in places, but you’re already aware of a lot of it, like the atrocities in the camps.”
Jack tucked the photo in his shirt pocket. “I’m muddled about the whole thing, mainly about Ariana. I’m not sure I’m better off knowing that stuff.”
“Ignorance can be bliss, huh?” Sherk nodded. “It’ll take awhile to process. You’ve had lots of emotional information to absorb these last few days.”
“You sound like a shrink. I’ll need one after this.” Jack recalled his psychiatrists in Chicago and Texas when he needed help coping with his family trauma. He still walked around with the nuclear fallout of losing his wife and daughter in the car bombing all those years ago. Would he ever be able to put Karen to rest in order to find love, or at least companionship? Highly doubtful.
“I’ve always thought you could benefit from counseling, Jack.”
“Yeah, that’s a familiar song.” He stood and wiped his hand across his mouth. “Actually, I’m beat. Tired of all this. Tired of concentrating on it. I need food and a Jameson, not necessarily in that order.”
“Okay with me,” Sherk agreed. “It would do us good to get out in the fresh air and into a pub.”
Jack was relieved. Yes, it would be good to get out, out of the stuffy hotel room which unleashed family skeletons, forbidden photographs, and grown-ass men wallowing in too much booze.
. . . . .
Strolling down Belvedere Allee alongside the peaceful green park helped boost Jack’s mood. The air was cool, and the sun peeked from behind clouds draped across calm late afternoon skies.
After walking in silence for several minutes, Jack spotted a small restaurant called The Lion across the street surrounded by verdant bushes and trees.
“How ‘bout that place? Not many cars there. Hopefully not crowded,” Jack said.
Sherk stopped and looked. “I agree. And I don’t need to tell you, Unquiet meals make ill digestions.”
“I suppose you’re gonna tell me that’s not our pal Shakespeare.”
“Actually, it is, from Richard the Third, as he’s arriving—”
“Let’s go. Coast’s clear.” Jack took advantage of a convenient lapse in traffic, stepped off the curb, and headed across the street, Sherk close behind.
“Sorry to interrupt the King Richard lecture,” Jack called over his shoulder. “You can finish later.”
“Sure, Jack. I’ll try again after you imbibe a little palatable Bavarian whisky.”
They walked past a small parking lot to the entrance of The Lion, a light stone tavern with black trim, a golden bronze image of a lion above the door, keeping fierce vigil over the patrons entering through the portals.
The interior was dark, with understated décor. Wood paneled walls were bare, except a large poster hung beside the bar, proudly displaying a coat of arms, its menacing golden lions holding onto the iconic crest. A young couple with two small children, one in a highchair, sat at a table by the window. Jack glanced around, hoping to sit away from the yammering kids.
“Over here,” he said, pointing to a booth in a far corner. “We lucked out. Last thing I want to put up with are brats yakking, even though it’s less annoying when it’s in German.”
They slid into brown cushioned seats. Jack barely noticed the other diners, so with luck he’d eat and drink in peace. A man with wild, Einstein-like hair, his face mapped with wrinkles, appeared and handed them menus. Pouches under his eyes seemed to weigh down the corners of his mouth.
“Schön etwas zu trinken?”
Sherk ordered an Augustiner, checked with Jack, and ordered him a Slyrs and a glass of water. It didn’t hold a candle to Jameson, but you can’t have everything. He’d order a beer chaser with the next shot.
“I’ll bet that guy was in the war,” Jack said, indicating the waiter.
Sherk shrugged. “He may not be old enough to have fought in the war, yet no doubt can remember it. He seems to carry sorrow around like a yoke.”
Jack studied the menu. “Order me something that resembles a burger, or bratwurst would be okay.”
“Will do.” Sherk thumbed through the selections. “You ready to discuss seeing Renate tomorrow?”
Jack paused. “Yeah, the main thing is whether I can keep the journal. I hope she agrees to hand it over, but if not, I could make a copy. Wouldn’t be the same though.” The scent of smoked sausage drifted through the area as a young woman walked past with someone else’s steaming dinner. Jack’s mouth watered.
“I’m sure Renate would agree to a copy, but she may want to keep the last few pages that Ariana wrote.” Sherk pushed his corn-colored hair from his forehead.
“Sure, no problem, her daughter may want to read it. It’s not X-rated, more like a Hallmark card.”
“Yeah, though remember, Jack, Ariana was only about nineteen or twenty when she wrote that.” Sherk removed his glasses and cleaned them with a cloth. “You remember young love.”
“Like it was yesterday.”
Sherk scoffed. “Her daughter may not know about their affair, so the journal may be off-limits until Ariana dies.”
The waiter brought their drinks, and Sherk ordered dinner.
Jack knocked back his whisky. “Time flies. Three more days till we head for Chicago. No offense to your native land, but I’m ready to go home.”
“Yes, I’ll be relieved to get back to Erica and the kids. I hope she’s doing as well as she claims.” Sherk’s chin twitched.
“Yeah, me too. Any news about the tests she had?”
“No, but I’m expecting her to call tonight.” Sherk took a drink from his beer mug.
Reluctant to push the conversation, Jack hoped Erica would beat the cancer. He didn’t want to compare Sherk’s situation with the deaths of his wife and daughter. Not right then anyway.
Suddenly, a piercing shriek filled the air, turning their heads toward the family across the room. The kid in the highchair kept screaming and flailing his arms, his mother standing, ready to lift him up.
“Jeez, sounds like a wounded hyena, and he ain’t laughing,” Jack said.
Sherk shrugged his shoulders. “Yes, so much for Richard the Third’s unquiet meal.”
The kid bayed at an imaginary moon, and eventually shut up when the mother put him on her lap and stuffed something in his mouth.
“Thank God,” Jack said. “About the journal, I’ll be curious how Tommy will react, since the old man took his anger out on him the worst. I’m unsure about letting the other kids read it. But then, they should have a right to see their pa’s war side, even though they’ll find out about the affair with Ariana.”
“It’s always debatable what people have the right to know, above all in a family like yours.” Sherk frowned. “Since your other brothers and sister are adults, they’ll be able to handle the truth. But on the other hand, will the truth benefit them or hurt them? With your mum, she’s better off with the secret.”
“Right. Tommy didn’t want to tell her about the letter either. She may be interested in some of Pa’s war stuff he wrote about, but he writes Ariana’s name off and on, so that wouldn’t work.”
Sherk rubbed his chin. “Ah, yes. The pure and simple truth is rarely pure and never simple.”
“Couldn’t agree more with the Bard on that one.”
“Oscar Wilde.”
“Figures.” Jack took a gulp of water. “Anyway, I’m ready for another shot with a beer chaser. You wanna go see the barkeep, since he wouldn’t understand me.” Again, his lack of German language skills had served its purpose.
. . . . .
After finishing their food and drink, Jack offered to pay the tab. The thought of returning to Chicago with the journal gave him a lift, and Sherk deserved a medal for tolerating his shenanigans, another of his mother’s expressions.
They flung open the front door of The Lion and aimed themselves toward the hotel.
“Look at that, Jack.” Sherk pointed to the wooded area.
The sinking sun painted the western sky aglow with pinks and oranges, tree branches creating black silhouettes reaching for the stars.
“Looks like something in an art museum.” Was a tear welling in his eye? Karen’s love of art had penetrated Jack’s hard exterior, left him with a strange sensibility.
The night air was full of crispness, pine, and silence as they strolled toward the hotel and the promise of a night’s rest before their final visit to Renate.
Chapter 29
The next morning, Jack and Sherk ate a substantial breakfast at the hotel, then drove to Renate’s apartment. Mist dampened the air as Jack emerged from the car and breathed in the cool, green smell of leaves and moisture. He clutched the journal as if he didn’t want to let it go. Well, he didn’t.
“Guten Morgen,” Renate greeted them as she answered their knock. “Kommt herein, kommt herein.” She beamed, and led them to the sofa, offering the usual coffee and cake.
“Nein danke, wir haben gerade gefrühstückt,” Sherk declined, explaining they just ate breakfast.
Renate’s cheeks flushed pink, highlighting her azure eyes and rosy lips. She wore a dark green silky blouse over fitted white pants. She must’ve been a looker back in the war years.
She spoke with Sherk for a couple minutes as she eyed the journal on Jack’s lap. Sherk turned to him. “Renate wonders if your dad wrote a lot of personal things, or mainly about the war. I told her it was about the Dachau liberation more than anything else.”
Jack retrieved the photo from his pocket. “Should we show this to her?”
“Sure.” Sherk took the snapshot and handed it to Renate while speaking to her.
She held it close to her face, tears welling in her eyes. “Ah, meine Güte.” Renate touched her cheek with the photo. Then, without taking her eyes off the picture, she spoke in German, softly, transfixed.
Sherk leaned close to concentrate on Renate’s words. When she’d finished, he turned to Jack.
“She remembers Bill taking this picture. It was at a picnic one afternoon by the river. She has happy memories of those times, but many townswomen were put on rubble duty for weeks after the war. They had to help clean up streets and sidewalks by standing in lines and hauling away debris and wreckage from the bombings.”
Sherk paused while Renate continued. He looked at Jack. “Since she and Ariana were needed at the hospital, they weren’t recruited for the rubble brigade.”
“Does she want to keep the photo?” Jack glimpsed at her.
“No, she has a copy of it, but hadn’t seen it in years. Should I show her Ariana’s part of the journal now? I’d guess she hasn’t seen it, since she’d assume the whole thing was written in English by your dad.”
Jack looked at Renate. She still studied the photo, running her spindly finger across the edge. He saw the wonder in her eyes. This was her family history too. “Yeah,” Jack said. “But then try and convince her to let me keep it.”
“Right.” Sherk spoke to Renate, while Jack handed her the journal. She found Ariana’s pages and began reading.
They sat in silence until she closed the notebook and looked up. “Es macht mich traurig.” She pressed on speaking to Sherk.
Jack was getting cold feet. What if she refused to give up the journal? He could hardly tear the thing away from a tiny old lady.
Sherk turned to Jack. “She said she hadn’t read Ariana’s part before, and it makes her sad. She was aware of the relationship with your dad, since s
he and Ariana lived and worked together, and they’d always been close. Give me another minute while I see about you keeping the journal.”
Moving closer, Sherk placed his hand on Renate’s arm, speaking in quiet tones. Her brows furrowed, and her eyes darted between Jack and the journal still in her hands.
“Ah, ich weiss nicht—” she frowned as she went on, the journal clutched against her chest, her fingers white-knuckled.
Jack was like a deflated balloon. He pictured himself returning home with a stack of photocopies in a manila folder. Not good enough. He deserved the very pages his father had held in his hands. He deserved the original.
Renate’s phone rang on the end table beside her chair. She looked annoyed, as she checked the caller ID. “Ah.” Speaking to Sherk, she picked up the phone, smiled, and talked.
“It’s Ariana’s daughter from Stuttgart,” Sherk whispered.
Renate’s voice elevated to a near shrill; she seemed agitated.
After hanging up, she talked to Sherk. Jack thought he understood “Monika” mentioned in the conversation. A frown replaced her earlier smile. Jack figured she was upset, but he was no expert on women of any age.
“Looks like we’ll have company,” Sherk said. “Ariana’s daughter Monika is in town on business, and got out early from her meeting. She decided to pop in for a visit with her mother and Renate, who had to make up a reason why we’re here. Monika doesn’t know about your dad or the journal. So, for the record, we’re relatives of old friends of Renate’s husband, whose name was Ewald Hahn.”
“Right, I’m sure I’ll keep that straight.” Jack cleared his throat. “So, what about the journal?”
Sherk grimaced. “She’s balking at giving it up. She promised Ariana it would go to the daughter, but she gave way a little. She can understand why you’d want it.”