Good thing the Nazi hunter was sitting, or he might have fallen and broken a hip. They spent the next moment in a stare-down. He searched her face for a lie, but the deep lines told an ugly story that couldn’t be hidden. She spoke the truth and he knew it
“But if you’re Jewish…”
“Then it’s the great ruse of history.”
As the Nazi hunter tried to wrap his mind around the bomb she just dropped, Ellen bit down on the glass vial she’d hidden behind her dentures.
The room turned hazy and began to spin. She never used drugs, so she finally was getting to experience the ’60s, a time her children were so enamored with.
The Nazi hunter screamed out in a whisper, “No!” But his voice seemed miles away. He was too late.
A beautiful painting filled the canvas of Ellen’s mind. She was back on her first date with her late husband, Harold Peterson—he’d taken her to Central Park for a picnic lunch. It was November and a stiff wind was blowing the fall foliage off of the surrounding trees. The leaves looked like a rainbow as they floated to earth.
She focused on one large oak tree with a stout trunk. The vision was so clear that she felt she could reach out and touch it. But slowly the picture turned blurry, as if she was looking at it through the steamed glass of a shower door.
She prayed to the god she found later in life. Not for herself—she knew her judgment would be harsh—but for understanding when it came to the actions of those she loved, like her father, and Heinrich. And she prayed for Josef and Harry Jr.—the innocent children who were handed burdens they couldn’t handle—along with her grandson, Frederick. All taken too soon.
But most of all, she prayed to give Maggie and Jamie the strength they’d need to end the cycle, and that the Nazi hunter would be able to guide them with his experienced eyes.
Her mind flashed back to the tree in the park. The stiff wind picked up, continuing to blow the leaves off the branches until they were almost bare. She watched them float downward in slow motion, and when the last leaf hit the ground, everything went dark.
Chapter 2
“Maggie, c’mon, you’re going to be late,” Monica Peterson shouted up the stairwell to her twelve-year-old daughter. She waited a moment, but still no reply.
But there was no time to dwell on it. She swooped into the kitchen and caught nine-year-old Jamie about to top-off his sister’s cereal with some jalapeño sauce. She grabbed the jar out of his stunned hands on her way to the toaster.
“Haven’t you poisoned enough food this week?” she asked, while hastily buttering a piece of toast.
Jamie smiled his “can’t be mad at me” smile. Her former husband used to say it was like Mariano Rivera’s cut-fastball—you knew it was coming, but it would still get you every time. She wasn’t a big baseball fan, but understood the power of Jamie’s smile. And it worried her.
“I’m sorry, Mom. I thought it was sugar. You know how Maggie likes sugar on her cereal … and with her project this morning…”
Yeah right.
The Maggie reference served as a reminder to check on her again. While Jamie was impossible to remain mad at, Maggie was quite the opposite. Monica was convinced that she thrived on it—acceptance was the enemy.
Maggie had worked so hard on her Heritage Paper, trekking over to her Oma’s place a couple times a week to interview her about the family history, or at least Ellen’s version of it. Monica was so proud of her effort, and thought she was finally starting to integrate into her new school, but on the day of the presentation she wouldn’t even get out of bed. She was such a mystery.
“Maggie—I’m not kidding,” Monica yelled again up the stairs. “It would be a shame for you to put all this work in and then not show up.”
No response.
All she could hear was Jamie crunching his cereal.
“What did I tell you about closing your mouth when you eat?” she asked on another walk by.
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
Yeah right.
She practically ran up the stairs to Maggie’s room. She stared at the unfamiliar door and plotted her next move. The house was a lot different than their apartment in the city. It’s not that Monica disliked it; it’s just what it represented.
She wanted to knock the door down like one of those TV cop shows, but she figured with her luck that she’d end up breaking her foot. And on top of that, Maggie never responded to threats. She perpetuated a stubbornness that always made Monica’s mother make snide comments about acorns falling near trees. There were some prevailing rumors about Monica having a similar stubborn streak during her youth.
She lightly knocked, then waited … nothing.
Maggie was likely playing her music too loudly through her headphones, in defiance of Monica’s warnings about teenage deafness. Maggie mentioned something about looking forward to it, since she could just turn off her hearing aid during Monica’s many lectures.
Passion for music was another handed-down trait, although their tastes differed greatly. Maggie had recently converted from bubblegum pop to a mishmash of loud and angry, which corresponded with her most recent personality twist. Monica preferred the classics. That is, if 1980s hair metal was considered to be classic.
Suddenly the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Her mother’s intuition began screaming that something was wrong. She twisted the door-handle, but it was locked. As panic set in, she ran to her room and found the master key buried in the bottom of a desk drawer. She dashed back and opened the door.
Maggie was nowhere in sight. Monica performed a quick reconnaissance mission, her focus settling on an art easel in the center of the room. Maggie was a talented artist—better than Monica ever was, even though she was no slouch with the brush.
It seemed like a different lifetime ago when Monica was the fresh-faced art history major at NYU, back before Frederick Peterson swallowed up her life. But now Frederick was dead, and she needed to find the old Monica.
She checked Maggie’s latest masterpiece, which was as angry as her music. A mother cradling a bloodied child as bombs burst around them in a war-type depiction. Was it concerning the loss of her father, the looming war, or maybe both?
Monica snapped back to reality. She couldn’t believe with her daughter “missing,” she slipped into a daze. As a single mother, she had to think for the three of them, but sometimes wondered if she could even care for herself.
She noticed the cracked window—the same one she once caught Maggie sneaking out once before, by shimmying down the gutter. She ran to it and felt immediate relief upon spotting her daughter. But what was she doing? Maggie, wearing her typical ponytail and Kingston for President T-shirt, was digging a hole in the backyard with a rusted shovel.
“What the…”
Monica bounded down the stairs and through the kitchen. “Jamie, leave the cat alone.”
“Mom, I was just…”
Yeah right.
Not fooled by the bright sun, Monica put on her down-coat and stepped out into the chilled November air. She headed toward her daughter and the likely confrontation that would spoil the morning. “Maggie, what are you doing?”
“I’m almost done,” she said without looking up.
“What did I tell you about burying bodies in the backyard?” she asked with a disarming smile.
“Jamie’s class will be so excited that he’s bringing his comedian mother for Career Day.”
The twenty hours of labor, the late night feedings, the trips to the emergency room for the asthma attacks … for this?
“Now that I’ve humored you, maybe you can return the favor by telling me why you’re digging up the backyard?”
Maggie let out an angst-filled sigh. “It’s part of the Heritage Paper project. We have to bury a time capsule that can’t be dug up for thirty years. Oma and I put it together.”
“My Bon Jovi shirt isn’t in there, is it?” Monica asked, still going with honey over vinegar. She checked her watch—they we
re getting late.
“That shirt is a dark family secret that should remain buried.”
Monica tried to keep a straight face, but couldn’t hold it. Either could Maggie, and she began to laugh at her own wittiness. It was one of those rare moments that made all the negotiations and mental gymnastics worth it. There hadn’t been a lot of laughs since Frederick died, but then again, there wasn’t a whole lot of sunshine at the end of his life, either.
Monica draped her coat over Maggie’s shoulders. “Your brother and I will be inside eating breakfast when you finish.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
A cease-fire. The day was looking up Monica, but she knew with two kids it could start going the other way at any moment.
Table of Contents
Part One -
Part Two-
Part Three -
Part Four-
Part Five-
Epilogue -
(2012) Officer Jones Page 32