With my limited understanding, I began skim reading as quickly as I could. I was glad that about a third of the way through the collection, the entries shifted to English—except for marginal notes written in what looked like a form of French shorthand. Slowing my pace, I was able to pursue my original plan to read her words with several specific topics in mind. While some of the entries were mere itineraries, others were a blend of gentle but poignant prose and poetry. I found that although she had spoken English with a soft lilt from her early years in Sweden, her passages of English prose displayed her mastery of the language’s artistry, as well as syntax.
Fortunately, she had drawn occasional sketches and although I might not understand the text of early entries, I recognized her cartoon-like interpretations of popular product advertisements and even book titles from the late forties and fifties. In addition, I found carefully inserted clippings from world publications that had impacted her. It was clear that much of what she offered in her journals was an abbreviated view of life in Europe and across the globe in the mid-twentieth century. At first, the headlines were linked to the hunting of Nazis who had escaped the Allies—and the spreading technology of atomic power and warfare. In later volumes, I found references to regional warfare and atrocities of many kinds, especially against women, children, and ethnic minorities.
Appreciating the essence of the woman Miriam grew to be, I gently turned the pages of each volume, being mindful to look for materials she might have inserted between the pages. Although I had missed being able to read about the specifics of day-to-day activities in her early life, Miriam occasionally referenced her childhood. Those entries, combined with the preliminary research I had done, provided me with an overall sense of her youth.
Growing up in Sweden during and after the Second World War, my life as a child provided little excitement. But, as Jews fleeing the horrors of Hitler’s Third Reich, my parents and I were grateful merely to be alive and to openly greet the sun each morning. Although disturbed by the continuing warfare when we first arrived, my family gleaned a positive perspective from the horror of newspaper photographs and blaring radio broadcasts. Unlike others with less personal involvement, we were very appreciative for the generosity of our host country and Jews in America who sent what money they could to help sustain our community. Of course, until I was an adult, I did not recognize the significance of the sacrifices so many had made for our benefit.
Having been home schooled during her early years, it was not surprising that most of Miriam’s reflections on her childhood centered on activity with her parents. The one thing I found surprising was the lack of any reference to searching for Reznik family members at the end of the war. This may have been because her parents already knew that none of their family was left alive. In discussions of her life following her mother’s death in 1948, Miriam sometimes mentioned her father, who had resumed his own academic career as a professor of classical languages until his death in 1952.
Throughout the post-war period, she occasionally referred to people who had been friends and colleagues of her parents. I did not recognize see any names I recognized, but I could sense the relief her family had felt at learning someone they cared about had survived, despite the millions who had not. Sometimes Miriam’s references seemed odd. There were stories of Allied soldiers and airmen who had miraculously escaped the Nazis for whom I could see no connection to the Reznik family. There were also scraps of newspaper articles about events in the Middle East that I imagined must somehow relate to people involved in the founding of Israel. And interspersed, were heroic sounding tales of women and children being saved from dire circumstances by shady sounding tales of women and children being saved from dire circumstances by shady sounding men of the Unione Corse who participated in the La Résistance Française.
From Miriam’s curriculum vitae, I knew she had begun her collegiate studies in European languages at La Sorbonne in Paris. She never mentioned why she had left La Sorbonne and moved to England. As I explored her university years in England during the 1950s, I found many parallels to my own college experience. While my IQ was not on par with hers, I too remembered enjoying the richness of the intellectual stimulation. And, although I am sure the dampness of Great Britain must have been far more biting than the dry cold of Sweden’s winters, the cold rain of Portland Oregon, was a shock to me after the warmth of California and Hawai`i. More importantly, for both of us, there had been the sense of being an outsider, with no family near to whom either of us could turn when challenged or disheartened.
* * * * *
In 1953, I was privileged to enter St. Anne’s College in Oxford, England, for my undergraduate studies. It was one of the first colleges open to women at Oxford, and I was glad their commitment included providing financial support to those needing it. Although thrilled to be in such an esteemed institution, I was uncertain about what the future would offer me—or anyone. With the doom and gloom atmosphere created by fear-mongering gun and flag-waving proponents of nuclear warfare, I had little faith that we could avoid another world war.
During my years at St. Anne’s, Mary Ogilvie was the Principal. Under her ambitious and creative tenure, the school grew in it its number of faculty, students, and physical structures. They were also noted for innovative measures, such as building a dining hall and instituting nursery services for its staff with young children. Despite her title and many personal and professional obligations, Lady Ogilvie was accessible to even foreign students like me who sought her advice.
Despite this supportive atmosphere, I struggled to find direction in my studies. Fortunately, I did not have to narrow my focus beyond the arts and science of Classical Studies in completing my baccalaureate. When I moved on to advanced studies at Bristol University, my tutor, I was informed that I had to commit myself to a specific course of study or face expulsion.
When I left his office that afternoon, I was still pondering the realities of my life. As I walked through the beautiful and peaceful commons, I again turned to an image that will remain with me to my dying day. It was nearing dawn and I was with my family in a small boat floating over the waters to freedom in Sweden. It was the fall of 1942, and although I was a small child, I knew that this was the day that would determine the rest of my life. Staring back toward the shore of Denmark, I thought about the last meal I had been given in the dark and mysterious basement of what I now know to have been a Lutheran church.
The women of the church had taken turns bringing the refugees who had sought shelter within their sacred space the food clothing and toys they could spare from their own homes. I now know that with its agricultural economic base, the people of Denmark did not suffer from a lack of food for the most part during World War II. But I had known hunger, for my parents, my baby brother and I had traveled from the Ukraine to Denmark by a circuitous route that I still do not understand. By the time we reached Denmark, my little brother had succumbed to death and I had known many days and nights of fear and hunger. After several weeks of hiding in attics and basements, my family was given the opportunity to escape to Sweden.
As I sat rocking in a boat watching the steel gray waves undulate around me, I thought of the kindness we had been shown by our Danish hosts, even during our last day in their country. We had enjoyed a meal of smorgasbord sandwiches and hot cocoa in the basement of the church where we were hidden during the daylight hours. Later, the man in leather cap and trousers who led us to a barn in the forest treated us to a delicious holiday rice porridge. It was he who placed me on the boat and wished me well on my journey across the waters. With my father on one side and my mother on the other, I felt, if not warm, at least as safe as I could be.
After a time, my mother leaned in across me to place her head against my father’s shoulder. Remaining vigilant to the insecurities surrounding us, my father looked constantly across the horizon. Like any child, after a short rest of my own, I began to look with interest ab
out me. On the seat in front of me, was another Jewish family. I believe that they were also Ashkenazi Jews, but I do not know for certain. As during our walk in the woods, the father of the family cradled the baby in his left arm, with his right hand placed over the baby’s face.
I have been told the journey would have been a short one. But to a young child, even that can be an eternity. Without the sound of a human voice, the incessant sound of the waves and the oars slapping against the water became almost unbearable. And then, in the distance, far off to the left, there came the sound of a puttering motor. While several of the people on our boat remained asleep, others anxiously looked to the source of the sound. With stern glances, the man who seemed to be in charge of our journey looked about with a finger to his lips and a shake of his head; clearly there was to be total silence.
I was old enough to understand the silent command and felt reassured by the gentle squeeze of my father’s arm. In rigid stillness, we all sat wondering if the sound of the motor would increase in volume, indicating a movement of the craft toward us. At that moment, the baby in front of me whimpered slightly. As all eyes turned toward him, the man rocked the bundle in his arms and pulled it toward his chest. When the distant motor began sputtering, the eyes of the people on our boat shifted toward it. At that moment I saw a struggle between the blanketed shape in front of me and the man who held it. The motor gave one final gasp and I saw that the movement of the father’s arms had ceased. As though he felt my eyes upon him, the man stared at me. With his mouth set in a straight line, the steel of his eyes uttered a stern command for me to maintain my silence.
Being a child, I was not certain what I had seen. After our boat reached Sweden, everything moved so quickly on the wharf that I did not have a chance to voice my concerns. And to whom would I have said anything? As quickly as we had arrived, the boat and its two-man crew departed. And, with the pressure of people greeting the boat, our fellow refugees quickly dispersed.
* * * * *
I was stunned. A shiver went through my body. I rubbed my arms and found I had actual goose bumps. I now realized that the dream vision I had had of the little Jewish girl crossing from Denmark to Sweden in wartime was of Miriam. The significance of the event was not in the danger she faced, but rather the impact it had in shaping her future life and career. For the renewal of her life had come at a very high price—the life of another child, sacrificed so that Miriam and the others in the boat could achieve personal freedom.
CHAPTER 14
Through every rift of discovery
some seeming anomaly drops out of the darkness,
and falls, as a golden link, into the great chain of order.
E. H. Chapin [1814-1880].
I was so disturbed by what I had read that I had to take a break. Rising, I walked to the windows so I could look down at the flowers whose beautiful fragrance I had been smelling. In a few minutes I was calm enough to return to reading Miriam’s journals.
* * * * *
The years of my life in Sweden were bland. My family had been taken in by successful Swedish Jews, who were able to offer us rooms that had been used previously by their housekeeper and chauffeur. My parents and I spent most of our days within the small apartment, for without proper work, there was no money for shopping, eating in restaurants or going to the cinema.
Although my father maintained some practice of his religion throughout his life, I noticed that after we arrived in Sweden there were changes. Being a child I could have been wrong, but it seemed like the intensity and depth of his observance had lessened. On high holidays and other special occasions, we would gather with other Jews who had found safe haven in Sweden. Sometimes I saw that father from the crossing and I watched his son grow up during the years that our families lived in Sweden. But never did I hear reference to the baby in the pink knitted hat that he had held in his arms during our journey. Perhaps she never existed in the consciousness of others, but what I observed has remained with me throughout my life.
When next I sat with my tutor, I decided what to do with the life granted me. I might never be able to shake the guilt I felt as a young adult for failing to speak of what I had seen in that morning’s dawn. But I did know I could, and would, explore the conditions that had brought about that tragedy. And so I began my exploration of the world of psychology.
* * * * *
Within a short span, I had found confirmation of my initial response to Miriam. She was definitely a person who lived life fully: She had put into practice her beliefs that the world could be a good place—if we would all invest ourselves in maximizing the opportunities we are given.
Although nothing I had read seemed connected to a motivation for killing Miriam, I was mentally and emotionally drained. Kneeling, I replaced the last journal I had analyzed horizontally to mark my place in the bottom bookshelf below the windows. Glancing around the room, I noted the shadows of trees in the garden had shifted and realized I must have been working for a couple of hours.
When I went down to the kitchen, I found Izzy preparing lunch and Joanne finishing a centerpiece she had made from cuttings in the yard. After I complimented her creativity, Joanne informed me she had received a call from Miriam’s attorney. Both she and Izzy would be meeting with him the next morning. In addition, I learned that Samantha was authorized to move back into the cottage later in the afternoon. Not knowing what Samantha might be doing, The Ladies said that if they were not home, I was to enter the cottage using the key John Dias had given me.
Declining an invitation to join them for lunch, I returned home and had a quick bite of leftovers. Next I called Nathan. He, like I, had found nothing in the journals relating to Miriam’s murder. However, in the most recent volumes, he had found that some pages had been carefully cut out. It appeared the removal covered a span of several months, indicating that Miriam may have self-edited. Since Samantha had been sleeping in Miriam’s bedroom at the time of the murder and my vision gave no indication that the man in the scuba suit had detoured upstairs, it was unlikely that anyone but Miriam had performed the removal of those pages.
When it comes to murder, there is no way to predict what might agitate someone enough to cause them to take another’s life. We were not through with the project. A motive of passion could still materialize from the pages of these journals. But in Miriam’s case, I felt that the time and the mechanism of her murder made it unlikely that it was a spontaneous crime of passion. Financial or other gain remained possible motives for hiring a hit man. The careful planning and precise delivery of murder by garroting made it look like a professional job to me.
Since neither Nathan nor I had found anything worthy of a personal show-and-tell, he decided he would continue with his analysis in his home office and have someone from Hale Malolo drop Samantha off at The Ladies’ cottage. With a clear afternoon, I expanded my notes on Miriam’s life. Then, inspired by her methodical selections of news items she found pertinent to her work, I returned to analyzing my own files of newspaper clippings. It seemed almost eerie that many of the stories that caught her attention were ones I remembered from news broadcasts in my youth.
Mid-afternoon, the Kia saleswoman called to announce my Optima had arrived on the island. I could pick it up in a couple of days after it had been detailed. I felt like a kid getting their first vehicle. Would it be as fun as promised by the advertising hype? Would it be too silent for people to hear me coming? Would it have any get-up-and-go, or would I feel like the grandma-aged person I was becoming?
Between organizational details after the move and Miriam’s death, I had not needed to do much driving since moving to Lanikai. But with the prospect of my new car at hand, I was determined to clear the decks on the home front. When Ariel died, I had great plans to put my legal affairs in order. With the passing of Auntie Carrie and the remodeling of her home, I had gotten side-tracked. The current discussion of Miriam’s estate made
it clear that it was time to make some end-of-life decisions for myself.
By the time Keoni arrived home, I had completed my personal filing chores, with the exception of a few projects that would require the attention of an attorney. In recent years, several of our family’s lawyers have died, and while Nathan and I know several members of the Bar, their specialties do not align with the tasks I had in mind. So, knowing Izzy and Joanne would be visiting with Miriam’s attorney in the morning, I thought I might follow up their meeting by inquiring whether they would recommend him.
With a pitcher of fresh sun tea, Keoni and I settled down on the back lānai for our nightly summation of our day’s events. Like many law enforcement personnel, Keoni tries to separate his professional life from his personal. However, since I have known him through several years of his career—and he is trying to be sensitive to my new position as his girlfriend—I have noticed him making a conscious effort to bridge his two worlds.
Our mutual brevity rendered our catching up a relatively short process. On his side, it looked like he would be servicing quite a number of new clients in downtown Honolulu, which meant he would need to stay at his home in Mānoa from time to time. Therefore, we were both glad he had completed the security system for White Sands Cottage.
I shared my initial analysis of Miriam’s journals and the news that The Ladies would be seeing Miriam’s attorney in the morning. Then I considered how to broach the topic that was foremost on my mind. “I know we’ve only been together a short while, Keoni. But with everything emerging about Miriam’s life, and the choices she made regarding her estate, I’ve been thinking it’s time I got organized in the end-of-life department.”
Murder on Mokulua Drive Page 17