It's You

by Jane Porter

  I’d seen the photo before but the caption didn’t mention Franz so I hadn’t paid it more attention. It’s a candid shot. The young officers are all smiling and relaxed.

  I’m disappointed I can’t see more of Franz but at least he is here, and he’s included. I lean closer, studying the lapel of his jacket, the line of jaw, the high cheekbone and wide brow. I can see a bit of fair hair combed neatly back. He’s not the tallest in the group, but not small, either. From the corner of his mouth, it seems as if he, too, was smiling. His arms are behind his back, possibly holding his hat. Franz. Edie’s Franz.

  The director tells me what I’ve already read, that after the July 20 assassination attempt, approximately seven thousand people were arrested by the Gestapo, with close to five thousand executed, even though very few of those were actually involved in the July 20 plot, carried out by Claus von Stauffenberg.

  The high ranking officers, and those who’d agreed to serve on the new government once Hitler was gone, were hanged at the prison on meat hooks. In all, two ambassadors, seven diplomats, the head of the Reich police, three secretaries of state, two field marshals, nineteen generals, twenty-six colonels, and an unknown number of lawyers, teachers, aristocrats, and intellectuals were executed.

  “Von Stauffenberg was executed here, the day after the attempt, in this very courtyard. This was once his building. His office. He was executed outside his own office.”

  The director accompanies me for the next fifteen minutes, telling me about the history of the memorial and why it took so long to get something organized for the Resistance. “It’s only become acceptable to talk about the Resistance in the last forty years. Until then, most Germans believed that the members of the Resistance were traitors.

  “Most Germans supported Hitler,” he adds. “And they struggled with guilt after the war. They felt shame. Shame that Germans followed Hitler, shame that Germans plunged the world into war, shame that there had been an alternative and they didn’t choose it. This code of silence is one of the reasons why widows of the executed Resistance members didn’t receive pensions until the 1960s. They were being punished . . . They were wives of traitors.”

  And isn’t this what Edie said?

  “In fact,” he adds, “there was no memorial, no tribute to the German Resistance until 1968.”

  I thank the director for his time and go outside to take more photos of the courtyard. I touch the ground with the bronze lines set into the cement.

  This is where Claus and the other officers were shot.

  This is where the men were lined up . . .

  This is where the soldiers stood to shoot them.

  I shudder and stop the thoughts by focusing on taking another half-dozen photographs to show Edie, and then leave as soon as I’m done.

  I have to walk several blocks until I can hail a cab. It’s another fifteen minutes until we reach Plötzensee Prison.

  My heart falls as the car pulls up in front of the redbrick building. I don’t want to do this anymore. I’ve had enough of the past, and the memories.

  I will just take a few pictures for Edie and then leave. It is my last day here. I want to do something else besides feel so much sadness and pain.

  I ask the driver to wait for me. He will but he’ll keep the meter running.

  I take pictures of the front of the prison. It’s still a prison today, but the back “shed” used for the thousands of executions during the Third Reich has been turned into a memorial.

  I don’t feel any need to go inside the prison’s memorial.

  I don’t need to see the meat hooks in the ceiling. They remind me too much of Andrew and his final moments.

  I try so hard not to remember Andrew that way. I try so hard not to go there . . . but every now and then, I can’t help myself.

  Was he calm at the end, or in agony?

  What was he thinking as he positioned the chair beneath the hall chandelier? Was he afraid as he wrapped the belt around his neck?

  Did he think of me?

  These are the thoughts that have haunted me late at night. These thoughts can still keep me from sleeping. And the only way I handle the thoughts is by believing Andrew was not alone at the end, that God was with him, and maybe an angel, whispering prayers, providing comfort.

  I pray that angels were with Franz and Adam and Claus and Peter and the rest.

  I pray that there is a reward for those who stand up and do the right thing. I pray that tortured souls get their peace.

  I reach into my bag for Edie’s diary, wanting to reread something she’d written about Franz here at Plötzensee, but when I dig for the diary, it isn’t there.

  I crouch down on the ground, and open my bag all the way up. I pull out my notebook, guidebook, map, wallet, everything. No diary.

  I go through everything again. But the leather diary is gone.

  I tell myself not to panic. There is no reason to panic. I must have left it in the hotel room. This morning I must have taken it out of my purse without knowing.

  I return to the cab, giving the driver the address for the Mani, impatiently counting the minutes until we reach the hotel. After paying him, I hurry upstairs to my room. My gaze sweeps the bed, the dresser, the tiny nightstands. Nothing.

  I go through my suitcase, search my carry-on bag. I look under the bed. I check my purse again. My heart is hammering now. I must go back to the restaurant where I ate dinner last night. Maybe I left it there. Maybe it fell out of my bag as I paid the bill. Maybe.

  • • •

  The restaurant doesn’t have the diary.

  I return to my hotel room. I search again, literally taking it apart—the bed, the sheets, the pillows, the shelves in the bathroom. I crawl around the tiny closet, patting every inch of floor.

  It’s not there.

  I go back out, retrace my steps to the restaurant, looking in the gutters, checking trash cans, asking at nearby businesses if anyone turned in an old leather book, a journal, with a dark brown cover.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  I’m supposed to fly home tomorrow. I’m supposed to be returning to Napa and work but I can’t get on the plane. Not without Edie’s diary.

  Desperate, distraught, I return to the hotel and the front desk helps me dial Craig’s number since I’m too upset to figure out the international codes.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Craig arrives in Berlin close to nine thirty, having caught a late-afternoon flight out of Pisa and then connecting in Frankfurt. He meets me at my hotel. He doesn’t look the least bit rumpled.

  I am waiting for him in the lobby when he arrives, pacing when I can’t stay still on the sofa. I jump up as he walks through the glass doors. “Thank you so much for coming!”

  He gives me a quick hug. “It’s going to be okay, Ali.”

  “We have to find it. I’m not leaving without it—”

  “We’ll go look together tonight, but you can’t miss your flight.”

  “I can’t return without it, Craig.”

  “Let’s take it a step at a time, okay?”

  He leaves his leather briefcase and blazer in my room and we set out walking, retracing our steps from the Mani to the restaurant. It’s a balmy Friday night and the streets are crowded, young people spilling out onto the streets with glasses of wine and beer. There is less traffic and noise on the narrower streets north of Torstrasse, and this is where I’d eaten last night, at one of the charming cafes with sidewalk tables beneath strings of light.

  Craig enters every restaurant and store on the quieter side streets, asking about the diary, leaving his business card, and offering a reward if the book is found. We go up and down street after street making a giant circle that takes over an hour.

  We do the same thing on all corners of Rosenthaler Platz before going down the stairs to the U-Bahn station below. Together Craig and I go through each of the garbage cans on the platform. The overhead light’s a blinding yellow that casts a glare off the ora
nge-tiled walls and columns.

  “This was a ghost station for years,” Craig tells me as we go through the trash filled with newspapers, discarded food, and worse. “The train wouldn’t stop here because this section was in East Berlin, and this station, which had been here since the 1930s, only opened back up in 1989.”

  We’re going through the last of the trash cans when a policeman descends to tell us we shouldn’t be doing this. People are complaining. Craig tells the policeman what we’re looking for, and the policeman is polite but insistent that we stop. We might be better off reporting the missing book to the nearest police station, and there is one not far from us, on Brunnenstrasse. He doesn’t recommend us going down now. It’s nearly eleven and the clerks for non-emergency reports have long since gone home. We should go home, or to our hotel, and file a report in the morning.

  At the hotel we wash up. Craig speaks to the young man at the Mani’s reception desk, telling him about the missing book. The young man promises to alert the hotel staff about the diary. Craig gives the young man his business card and says if it is found, there will be a substantial reward.

  Craig and I face each other in the lobby. It’s late. We’re both tired. I fight tears. I feel horrible. I’ve failed Edie. This diary, this is all she has left of Franz.

  “Don’t cry,” Craig tells me sternly. “It’s not going to help.”

  I nod but I’m heartsick. I shouldn’t have brought the diary. I shouldn’t have taken it from the hotel.

  “Let’s go find some dinner,” he says. “You’ll feel better.”

  “You think we’ll find something open now?”

  “This is Berlin, and Berliners love to stay out late. Lots of places will be open until two, three, even four.”

  We return to my favorite side street, the one where I ate last night, but we go to a different restaurant where we’re offered inside or outside seating. We choose outside, and have a corner table that’s tucked beneath long strings of rose-colored lights.

  “You obviously enjoy traveling,” I say. “Tell me where you’d visit again if you could.”

  “Budapest,” he says promptly. “And Ghent—”

  “Ghent?”

  “Belgium.”

  “Ah.”

  “Freiburg. Hamburg.” He ticks them off. “Gothenburg.”

  “All Germany?”

  “The first two are in Germany. Gothenburg is in Sweden.” He pauses, thinks. “Innsbruck.”

  “Austria,” I say.

  He smiles. “Cinque Terra.”

  I raise my brows.

  “Italy.” Craig leans back, watches as the waiter uncorks the bottle of white wine and then fills our glasses. “Porto.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Portugal. A beautiful little city, too.” He lifts his glass in a toast. “To Ali on her first visit to Berlin.”

  I lift my glass. “How about to Edie, since she inspired the trip?”

  “To Edie and Ali. Two of my favorite women.”

  We drink and talk and drink some more. Craig tells about the reality show he and his brother did for the Food Network several years ago. “We did it to grow our business, give us more exposure, and build our brand, and we did all that.”

  “So it was a good thing?” I ask, trying to relax, which means trying not to think about returning to Napa and telling Edie I’d lost her diary.

  “It helped our business, definitely. But it wasn’t good for Chad and me personally. Chad and I fought a lot more during the show. It strained our relationship and took a toll on our relationships with other people. But the winery prospered and we were able to step back after two years, and so that’s what we did.”

  “Knowing what you know now, would you do it again?”

  “Nope. No. And I’m pretty certain Chad feels the same way.”

  We order dinner and Craig orders a traditional Berlin appetizer called rollmops. I’m not sure I’m going to like them. The idea of pickled fish, even if it’s pickled trout, doesn’t sound appealing. Craig shows me how to eat it. He likes it without bread, some eat it with bread, and I try it (with bread) and it’s okay, not terrible, but I do think it must be an acquired taste. I wash it down with wine, and then some more wine, since that is excellent.

  I look up to find Craig smiling at me, as if amused.

  “So how have you been?” he asks.

  “I was great until I lost the diary.” Just saying the words makes me feel as if I’m on a free-falling elevator, and I’m heartsick all over again. I thought I was being so careful.

  “Shit happens,” he says kindly.

  “Not like this.” I turn my glass on the table and watch the wine swirl. “This is her past . . . her life . . . her story of Franz.” I glance back up. “Did you know his real name wasn’t Franz? His real name was Torsten?”

  “I actually know nothing about him, other than the fact that he was one of the German Resistance executed after July twentieth.”

  “You never wanted to know more?”

  “She never wanted to share more. I’m amazed that she’s told you what she has . . . It’s something she refused to discuss . . . even with my grandmother or mother.” He gives me another faint, crooked smile. “I guess she likes you.”

  “I wouldn’t say she likes me. I think she tolerates me.”

  “My great-aunt wouldn’t throw you a bon voyage party if she didn’t like you.”

  My chest grows tight. I swallow around the lump in my throat. “That was her idea?”

  “Yes.”

  And now I just want to cry.

  Edie, I blew it. I’m sorry.

  TWENTY-NINE

  I lie in bed in the dark, waiting for morning to come so I can get dressed and grab my bags and head to the airport.

  I don’t know why it’s taking so long for morning to come, but I lie on the edge of the bed, trying not to think, trying not to feel, doing my best to keep from acknowledging any of the crazy emotions bubbling inside of me.

  This wasn’t supposed to have happened.

  I don’t know how it happened.

  Fleetingly, I picture our dinner together, and at no point did I consciously want him. At no point did I think, “I want to sleep with this guy.” I wasn’t sexual. I didn’t feel romantic. I didn’t feel anything that should have made sex an option.

  Carefully, quietly I glance behind me to where Craig is sprawled asleep on his side of the bed.

  He looks content. Relaxed.

  I envy him. I would love to relax, and sleep. Instead I am quietly freaking out. I lie back down on my side, squeeze my eyes closed, my hands tucked beneath my chin, knees up to my chest.

  I’ve assumed a fetal position. Never a good sign.

  Eyes still closed, I see bits of our dinner and drinks flash through my mind. I try to analyze them without feeling . . . tricky. But without pulling it all apart, I can’t quite figure out how we ended up in bed.

  This wasn’t part of the plan.

  Craig wasn’t part of the plan.

  I’m angry with myself for letting things get so out of hand. It was one thing to call him after I lost the diary and allow him to fly in from Pisa and help me look for it—it was his great-aunt’s diary, after all—but it’s another to stay up until midnight and then cap it off with dinner and drinks and more drinks until I’ve lost my way completely.

  I blame the three (four?) glasses of excellent Rhine wine, I do.

  I blame the warm night and the bright sky and the easy conversation and laughter of those dining around us.

  If Craig hadn’t been such great company I would have wanted to return to my hotel room earlier . . . alone.

  If I’d been unhappy I would have wanted to be alone.

  I was upset about the diary, but I wasn’t deeply, darkly unhappy . . . not the deep, dark unhappy I’ve been since Andrew died.

  No, I was—if I let myself think about it long enough—exceptionally happy.

  Relaxed and content, mellow from the warm
night and crisp light wine. I could feel the warmth hum in my veins. It was the most lazy, indulgent of pleasures . . . a great meal, a balmy night, and the company of a man that was far too easy on the eyes.

  I do not think of myself as superficial. I’ve never been a sucker for a pretty face. But Craig Hallahan dazzled me with his broad shoulders, shaggy dark blond hair, piercing blue eyes.

  Yes, he is too handsome for his own good. Or more accurately, too handsome for my own good, because sometime between ordering dinner and finishing the bottle of wine, I wanted more of him than conversation.

  I remember sitting there after midnight obsessively thinking that I wanted to test—taste—the distinctly male energy that vibrates around him, a shimmering force field of virility. Possibility.

  I knew then the wine had gone to my head.

  I knew then that I shouldn’t want to test—taste—a man like Craig Hallahan. But I was too far gone.

  Too drunk.

  Too stirred.

  Too stimulated.

  Buzzed, and buzzing, I leaned across the table and kissed him.

  I kissed him.

  It shocked him. It shocked me. But it didn’t stop me from kissing him again, or stop us from returning to my hotel and making out for hours before we finally consummated the damn thing.

  I was no longer drunk by the time his hips settled against mine, his hard body urgent against me. I was quite aware of what we were doing. I had to be. He asked me several times, Ali, are you sure?

  I was sure. Because I wanted to know how it would be between us. I wanted to feel how it would feel with someone besides Andrew.

  And it felt good. Really good. It was actually . . . incredible. Probably the best sex I’ve ever had. But that was also a bad thing.

  Great sex with someone else means I’m not as frozen as I thought I was. Being able to feel good with another man makes it even harder to keep my vigil for Andrew. It means that at some point I’m going to have to move on.