The Last Monument

by Michael C. Grumley

  Now the old, scrawny man lay silently on his bed, keeping to himself, lost in what few memories he still had left.

  Outside, an occasional resident peeked in to sneak a look, sometimes stopping to give their regards. Angela only recognized a few of them.

  “Looks like your grandfather loved history,” Rickards remarked, noting the dozens of old books squeezed into a corner of the room. Neatly packed like a Tetris game within a cheap bookcase, bulging slightly at the sides.

  “He’d taught at the community college since it was built,” Angela said, glancing at the bookcase. “I guess I caught the bug from him.”

  “You said you grew up with him?”

  “Yes.” She returned her attention to some papers on his desk.

  After a few moments, she handed Rickards a stack and moved to a new pile. They were all bills and magazines. The man evidently read a hell of a lot.

  After a full hour, Angela had gone through every stack and every drawer. Even the tiny dresser and closet housing his clothes. But there was no sign--not just of the letter, but anything else hinting at needing to leave. No notes, no messages. No indication at all of what he had been planning.

  Rickards noticed an elderly woman sneaking a brief look in before disappearing again.

  “Did he have belongings anywhere else?”

  “They have a small storage area in the basement, but he rarely used it.”

  “Any other ideas?”

  She remained quiet, thinking, tapping a card on the desk which had fallen out of one of the magazines. Slowly a faint smirk appeared on her face. “Maybe.”

  Rickards stood expectantly waiting.

  “Of all the people who have come by the room, there is one person I haven’t seen.” Angela looked up at him. “His girlfriend.”

  ***

  Lillian Porter looked to be in her mid-seventies and was still quite attractive for her age. With straight dark hair sporting streaks of gray, her demeanor struck Joe Rickards as almost regal. But what surprised him most was an almost complete lack of excitement at seeing Angela.

  She was, however, rather polite, inviting them both into her small room, despite her still red eyes.

  “Nice to see you, Angela.”

  “Thank you, Lillian. How are you?”

  “Not too well, I’m afraid. It’s been a hard day for all of us here. I’m sure you can imagine.”

  “I can.” Angela nodded. “This is Joe Rickards. He works for the National Transportation Safety Board. He’s investigating my grandfather’s accident.”

  Lillian smiled politely. “Mr. Rickards. I wish I had something to offer you, but we don’t have much in the way of amenities in these rooms.”

  “That’s quite all right.”

  The older woman looked back and forth between them. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  Angela’s grin held more than a trace of sarcasm. “I don’t know. Perhaps you can tell us why he did it?”

  Lillian’s eyes smiled politely, concealing her true reaction. She then allowed her smile to fade into a frown. “I’m afraid I don’t know. Gerald didn’t mention anything to me.”

  “He didn’t tell you he was going to sneak out in the middle of the night, into a snowstorm, and fly out of a tiny airport that was closed?”

  Next to her, Rickards remained silent, watching their cool exchange.

  “No,” Lillian replied. “He didn’t.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  The older woman shrugged. “I find it…disheartening.”

  “Were you two still courting?” Her grandfather’s term.

  “As a matter of fact, we were. And I cared about him. Deeply.”

  Angela ignored the insinuation. “And he didn’t tell you he might never see you again?”

  “I’m sure he intended to return.”

  The conversation was devolving. “Excuse me, Ms. Porter,” Rickards interrupted. “Your assistant director, Ms. Cannon, told me that Gerald appeared different lately. Would you know anything about that?”

  She smiled at him. “He seemed the same to me. I’m sure if anyone would have noticed, it would have been me.”

  “Of course. Ms. Cannon also mentioned something about a letter he’d recently received.”

  The woman thought for a moment and shook her head. “Not that I’m aware of.”

  There was a subtle shift in her expression. So faint that Angela appeared to miss it. But Rickards didn’t. He had interviewed thousands of people, more than enough to know when something was not right. Or when someone was withholding something.

  “When did you last see him?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. At lunch.”

  “I see. Do you think you were the last person to talk to him alive?”

  “I’m not sure. Possibly.”

  “And you don’t remember him mentioning anything related to the events of last night? Anything at all?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  Angela nodded, as though thinking. “That’s odd. One of the staff mentioned they’d seen him with you last night at dinner. Perhaps they got the meals mixed up.”

  “I’m sure they did.”

  She continued thoughtfully. “The staff said they believed it was about 6:15 p.m. Seems a strange mistake to make. The time, I mean. Six is much different than, say, noon.”

  “I know what you’re doing, Angela,” the older woman said dryly.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You’re trying to bait me.”

  “I’m just trying to understand where the misund—”

  “The bait only works if you’re right.” She crossed her arms. “Whether you believe me or not, I can assure you your grandfather told me nothing.” Lillian stared at them for a moment before casually glancing out through her door. She then moved forward to close it.

  For several seconds, Lillian’s gaze remained facing the dark wooden door before she finally turned with a sigh.

  She glared at Angela. “You should have been here.”

  Angela’s eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

  “Instead of abandoning him.”

  Angela’s expression instantly hardened. “Well, maybe if you had actually been there, all those years.”

  “He told me everything,” Lillian said, before turning her gaze to Rickards. “Gerald was a complicated man. Incessant. And naïve. But he loved her.”

  Angela’s eyes narrowed. “The problem wasn’t me.”

  The older woman didn’t respond. Instead, she silently moved past them to her bed, decorated perfectly in a bright yellow-flowered comforter and pillows.

  She bent down and pulled a metal box out from underneath. She opened it to retrieve a large manila envelope.

  She stood up and almost reluctantly handed it to Angela. “He didn’t tell me what he was going to do. But he did leave something with me. For you.”

  “The letter?”

  “Yes,” she sighed. “I knew about the letter. But I didn’t know why he gave this to me until I heard the news this morning.”

  12

  Angela remained frozen, holding the envelope between clenched fingers.

  As if reading her mind, Lillian added, “He said it was an insurance policy.”

  “Insurance policy? For what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Angela glanced at Rickards whose eyes were on the envelope.

  She turned it over, tracing it, before sliding a finger beneath the sealed flap at the top and ripping carefully.

  From inside, she withdrew two pieces of paper. Both were photocopies. The first was of a short handwritten note.

  It was the second time Joe Rickards had seen the blood drain from the young woman’s face today. This time it happened much faster.

  Am alive.

  Come quickly.

  Alerta, Peru.

  Almv10

  -R.R.

  Angela stood still, staring at the paper as if her body had suddenly petrified. Finally, she began to
waver ever so slightly, but enough for Rickards to notice and instinctively step forward with a stabilizing hand. He backed her up and lowered her onto the soft, neatly made bed. “You all right?”

  Angela didn’t respond. She merely stared at the paper with a look of bewilderment.

  “This can’t be what I think it is.”

  Behind Rickards, Lillian said nothing.

  “It’s…impossible.” The younger woman fumbled absently, separating both sheets to see the second was a copy of the envelope. Handwritten, with no postmark.

  She stopped at the bottom of the page. Another copy of some writing from another piece of paper. A single paragraph. Neatly printed in what appeared to be German.

  “When was this sent?”

  Lillian shook her head. “He didn’t know.”

  “Do you read German?” Rickards asked.

  Angela shook her head.

  “We have someone in the home that does.”

  “Did that person read it for my grandfather?”

  The woman nodded.

  Angela remained silent for a long time. “This…is impossible.”

  “What is?” Rickards asked, folding his arms.

  Angela shook her head, partly in disbelief and part denial. “R.R.,” she whispered.

  “Who was R.R.?”

  “His brother.” Angela’s eyes were back on the first page. “His older brother. My God.” When she finally tore her gaze away, it was to look at Rickards.

  “You were right with what you said in the car. It was desperation.”

  13

  “What do you mean?”

  Angela’s expression was still transfixed. “My God,” she mumbled. “My God!

  “I didn’t believe him,” she finally said. “I didn’t believe him.” Her eyes rose and found Lillian. “Did he tell you?!”

  “He told me it was from a friend. And that he wanted me to keep these copies for you. But wouldn’t tell me why.”

  “He didn’t tell you about his brother?”

  “Of course he did. When we first met. He said he died in the war.”

  Angela turned again toward Rickards. This time absently, as if she were speaking to herself. The words forming on her lips felt strange. Somehow hollow. Empty. “What if he was right?”

  “Right about what?”

  “But he was in Europe,” she whispered. “Not South America.”

  “Angela, what are you talking about?”

  “I didn’t believe him.”

  “Your grandfather?”

  She nodded, still on the bed. “I believed him when I was young. Along with my grandmother. But as I grew up…” She flashed them both a guilty look. “It was only her.”

  “Believed him about what?”

  “That his brother was still alive.” She held up the paper. “His older brother was named Roger Reed. He was killed in the war. Missing in Action during World War II. At least, that’s what the Army said.”

  “His brother was in World War II?”

  “Yes.”

  “And died.”

  “Yes.”

  “But now you’re saying he didn’t?”

  Lillian spoke up. “Gerald didn’t believe he’d died. That much he did say. He thought the Army was lying.”

  “Why?” asked Rickards.

  Lillian shrugged.

  “Because he thought they were covering something up,” said Angela.

  “So…you’re now saying that they were?” Rickards asked.

  “I don’t know.” She handed the second photocopy to him. “I don’t know how old this is, but there’s no way it was before the war. It had to have been sometime after the war. After the Army claimed his brother had died.”

  “Was he in a battle or something?”

  “No, that’s just it!” Angela exclaimed. “He was a Monuments Man.”

  Rickards frowned. “A what?”

  She took a deep breath and repeated, “A Monuments Man.”

  “What’s a monuments man?”

  Angela stood up from the bed. “Follow me.”

  Back in her grandfather’s room, Angela moved to the bulging bookcase in the corner, stopping in front and scanning the spines of the books, before removing one, worn and tattered, and flipping through the pages. Without a word, she handed it to Rickards.

  He read a few sentences from the open page and turned the front cover over to see the title. “What’s the Roberts Commission?”

  “One of two commissions appointed during World War II. The first had to do with Pearl Harbor. The second was appointed to help the U.S. Army protect cultural works of value in Allied-occupied Europe.” Angela continued searching through the rest of the books, turning several to see their spines. Finally, she removed another, less worn but resembling something more like a military manual or handbook.

  Rickards read the title of the second book aloud. “American Commission for the Protection and Salvage of Artistic and Historic Monuments in War Areas.” He gave her a confused look. “And what is that?”

  “That,” she said, “is what all this is about.” Angela glanced briefly at Lillian, who was standing quietly at the door. “This is what gave birth to the project my great-uncle, Roger Reed, was a part of.”

  “Your grandfather’s older brother was part of a secret war project?”

  “Not secret,” she corrected. “Just quiet.”

  “A quiet project to do what?” Rickards asked. “To save monuments?”

  “Not just monuments. To save the history of Western Culture itself!”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Culture, at its core, is the very embodiment of a society’s intellectual achievements. Of our identity. Of our existence! Records of culture portrayed and communicated throughout centuries in things such as art that tell us about history, of the values and beliefs that came before us. That kind of culture!”

  Rickards put a hand over one of his eyes. “I’m beginning to feel like I’m trapped in a riddle here.”

  “There was a lot going on in World War II,” she explained. “While millions were fighting in battles, others were fighting for something different--something arguably even more important. For our identity and our culture. And for the very history of who we are as a species.”

  “That doesn’t sound dramatic at all,” Rickards said, shaking his head. “So, that’s what your great-uncle was doing?”

  “That’s right. He was part of the Monuments, Fine Arts and Archives program. A group of men and women from different countries who were quietly fighting to save millions of pieces of Western culture taken by the Nazis.”

  “You mean like paintings.”

  “I mean like everything. Over five million items of historical significance. Paintings, sculptures, statues, scrolls, ancient texts, you name it. Items stolen from every place the Nazis conquered. All across Europe. Museums, personal collections, even stashes meant to keep them safe. They were all found and raided for Hitler and his Führermuseum.”

  “His what?”

  “His Führermuseum,” she repeated. “The giant museum he’d planned to construct in his hometown of Linz after the war. Didn’t you ever take a world history class?”

  Rickards frowned at her sarcastically. “Yeah, like twenty years ago. And I don’t remember covering Hitler’s personal dreams.”

  She ignored his response and moved on. “The group trying to save it all was called the Monuments, Fine Arts and Archives program. The M.F.A.A., or more commonly known as the Monuments Men. They made a movie about it, but it was only a glimpse of what the program really was.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning, there were actually several dozen soldiers involved in it from countries all across Europe, methodically tracking down and cataloging stash after stash hidden by the Nazis. Sometimes monuments were found in caves or salt mines, and others in castles or even jail cells. Anywhere the Nazis could hide them before fleeing.”

  “So, your great-uncle was one of the
people trying to find this art and save it? One of these Monuments Men?”

  “That’s right. He was one of them.”

  “And he supposedly died?”

  “That’s what the Army claimed. They said he was Missing in Action. They didn’t change that to Killed in Action until sometime in the 1970s.”

  “And how did one get to be part of this project?”

  “He was a college history professor. The Monuments Men were all museum curators or historians, often from universities. People who knew art better than almost anyone else on the planet.”

  Rickards nodded. “And wasn’t your grandfather also a professor?”

  “Yes. He’d followed in his brother’s footsteps. But he never joined the military. By then, the war was over.” Angela looked up at Lillian. “Nor did he ever believe the Army when they said his brother was dead.”

  14

  Rickards was finally beginning to understand. “And now, you’re saying this letter proves your great-uncle didn’t die?”

  “I’m not positive. But on the surface, that’s what it looks like. Which could also explain why my grandfather did what he did.”

  Angela reached out and pulled another, thicker book from the case. Opening it, she lowered a hand onto the thick red blanket of her grandfather’s bed and suddenly stopped. She looked down and gently ran her hand back and forth over the soft material. The same bed he had slept in just two nights before. And now he was gone. Forever. Without her ever having a chance to say goodbye. Or to explain. Or apologize.

  In that moment, it became clear how petty life was. How superficial most arguments really were. All just opinions and beliefs that in death simply disappeared into the ether, as though they never existed.

  She wondered how many pointless arguments, how many fights, had taken place throughout the lives of all humans who had ever lived.