Fury filled her veins and she cradled her still-flat stomach. ‘Never.’
‘You have to,’ he insisted. ‘I won’t jeopardize my career because you want to keep the bastard.’
‘You slimy heel.’
She slammed the phone down. Marty stirred on the couch, but kept sleeping.
Jenni slid to the floor and buried her head in her arms.
Dear God, what am I going to do?
CHAPTER TWO
The letter had come on a Monday, two days after New Year’s, 1944. When Jenni had seen the return address, some fancy street name in New Orleans, her heart had lurched. Maybe Rafe had changed his mind and decided he’d take care of her and the baby after all. But no. Not that louse. His words were short and to the point.
I will not be responsible. Get rid of it.
He’d enclosed a cheque for one hundred dollars, an obscene amount. Blood money. She’d promptly torn it up and mailed it back to him, then started a new short story, a scathing tale about a morally corrupt man and the havoc he caused in the lives he touched. She’d finished the rough draft in an hour, her fingers moving so quickly on the typewriter that she didn’t even notice the clock chime.
Usually she found writing cathartic, but it had been three days since she’d received the letter, and still the anger over Rafe’s incredible callousness burned deep. The holidays were over now though, and it was time to go back to work. That, at least, would offer a respite from dwelling on him and her stupid mistake.
Though she couldn’t call the life growing inside of her a mistake. She just couldn’t.
Jenni wound her scarf around her neck and pulled on her wool coat and gloves, actually glad to step out into the frigid January morning. Overcast skies and a biting wind made her hurry down the pavement, sidestepping sheets of black ice. A fresh coating of snow blanketed the ground and, yes, it looked pretty, but enough of the white stuff already, for heaven’s sake. She gazed longingly at the bare tree limbs, wishing for tiny green buds and orange-breasted robins singing outside her front window. Spring couldn’t come soon enough.
The three-block walk from her simple bungalow to the Tallulah Stanwick House took only five minutes, and she scurried up the back steps of the museum, eager for heat. Once inside, she sighed in relief and then inhaled the scent of old wood, pine-scented floors and sweet rose blossoms. Tallulah Stanwick had loved roses, and even though it was the middle of winter, the greenhouse on the south side of the house ensured they had fresh blooms all year long in vibrant shades of pink, red, white and even peach.
Jenni hung her coat, hat and scarf on the hook in the hallway, then slipped her overshoes off. Dizziness hit her and she gripped her coat, leaning into the soft wool as her head swam. Drat! Why couldn’t she be one of those women who sailed through their pregnancies, glowing with joy instead of feeling so wretched and miserable? But at least those with legitimate pregnancies could find commiseration with others. She had to keep hers a secret for as long as possible.
‘Jenni!’
She heard Celia’s footsteps running down the hall, but she couldn’t open her eyes, not yet, not when the world still spun.
‘Are you all right?’
Finally, the dizziness passed. She gave Celia a wan smile. ‘Yes, now I am.’
Celia Draper, her employer and best friend, didn’t look convinced and promptly marched her into the kitchen for a cup of tea and dessert. Jenni hadn’t had any nausea the past few days, so the warm, cinnamon-flavoured coffee cake tasted good. At least she didn’t have to pretend around Celia. The day after Christmas, Jenni had invited Celia over for coffee and spilled her dirty little secret. Celia had pulled her into a hug and told her not to worry, and then threatened to drive down to New Orleans and castrate Rafe. ‘That louse deserves it,’ Celia had said. On this, the two women agreed.
‘Have you been getting these dizzy spells often?’ Celia asked later while they washed dishes.
Jenni shook her head. ‘Mostly in the morning or if I move too fast. About another month and I’ll be past it.’
‘Gosh, seeing you go through all this makes me wonder if I have the gumption to have a baby.’
Jenni clutched Celia’s arm, heedless of the soap suds pressing through Celia’s blouse. ‘Don’t think like that. It’s worth it all, every little thing you go through. It’s worth it when you hold your baby for the first time.’
Celia studied her and then smiled. ‘You really amaze me sometimes.’
‘I’m sure I’ve amazed a lot of people over the years,’ Jenni muttered.
‘No, silly,’ Celia laughed. ‘You’re so strong. I know you’ll get through this.’
Jenni said thank you but only because it was the polite thing to do. Usually, she’d agree with Celia, say yes, she’d get through it because she was tough. Growing up on the farm had made her tough. Fending for herself against three brothers had made her tough. Living with short-tempered Danny had made her tough. But this… this was different. And because she didn’t want to talk about it, even to her best friend, she changed the subject.
‘I still can’t believe you got permission from the board to have Tallulah’s diary translated. After they took the vote at the meeting, I about fell over.’
Celia breezed easily into this new conversation. After all, she was the one who’d found the diary underneath the floorboards of the museum’s upstairs bedroom.
‘My little strategy had something to do with it,’ Celia said. ‘I let Avery Boon write a story on it before I even told the board so it was already out in public. Evan Lowe and his cronies had to agree or face a public relations crisis.’
Jenni folded her arms and leaned against the kitchen counter. ‘I don’t know. Something’s not right about it all. I still don’t understand why the board has gone to such lengths to keep Dietrich out of the museum. He was Tallulah’s son, for goodness sake!’
‘I know. I’m sure Tallulah probably mentions him in her diary. How could she not? Maybe they just want to forget about the way he died? So awful.’
‘And you know how this town is about that night.’ Jenni mimicked a zipper being shut across her mouth. ‘Zip yer lip or else!’
‘I know all too well.’ She grinned. ‘I think I might get one of those posters that says “Loose lips sink ships!” and hang it in the foyer.’
‘That’d be a riot! But I doubt they’d get the irony.’
The two spent a few moments laughing, and Jenni revelled in this simple pleasure. How fortunate she was to have such a good friend in Celia.
‘Oh!’ Celia said. ‘I almost forgot to tell you.’ She flung the towel over her shoulder and beamed like a schoolgirl. ‘I already found someone to translate the diary.’
‘You’re kidding. That fast?’
‘Yep. It’s almost fortuitous, in a way.’
‘How so?’
‘He’s a German refugee named Max Koenig. He escaped Germany before the war and he speaks fluent English. He also did translating work when he was a history professor at Berlin University. He’s currently on sabbatical from UNL, so it’s perfect timing.’
‘Impressive. When will he be here?’
‘In a few days. Avery Boon’s going to write an article about it for tomorrow’s paper and I also contacted the Omaha World-Herald and the Lincoln Star. Mrs Stanwick’s previous editor is putting something about it in the New York Times.’
‘My goodness. That will certainly bring more people to the museum.’ Jenni paused. ‘I’m just worried about how everyone will react to a real German coming here…’
Celia giggled. ‘A real German? As opposed to what… an ersatz German?’
Jenni stuck out her tongue. ‘You know what I mean, goofball. Heck, it would be the same if it was someone from Japan or Italy. Even Russia.’
‘Don’t forget Brooklyn,’ Celia said. ‘You would have thought I was from outer space the way they carried on.’
‘Precisely my point. If they treated you that way when you came here, a f
ull-blooded American, what are they going to do to someone who came from a country our boys are fighting?’
‘He isn’t a Nazi.’
‘They won’t make the distinction.’
‘Maybe not.’ Celia put the coffee mugs in the cupboard. ‘But I don’t think we’ll have any problems.’
‘You forget, I’ve lived here my entire life. I know how this town works.’
‘Everything will be just swell.’ Celia firmly closed the glass-front door. ‘I refuse to believe otherwise.’
God love her for her optimism, but Jenni knew better. ‘I wish I shared your confidence, sister. But I don’t think anybody is going to be happy about this.’
‘They’ll get over it.’
Something in Celia’s voice made Jenni frown. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing is wrong, exactly,’ Celia replied, though she evaded Jenni’s gaze. ‘But I did want to tell you that he is staying in the guest cottage.’
‘Well, why shouldn’t he?’
‘That doesn’t bother you? Him being a German, and all? And, well… the other thing.’
Jenni’s lips set in a grim line. The ‘other thing’ was the one and only night she’d visited Rafe in that guest cottage.
‘No, not at all. He was against Hitler and that’s good enough for me. As far as Rafe… I wish I’d never met that jerk,’ she muttered. ‘He sent me a cheque, you know. Wanted me to get rid of the baby.’
Celia gasped. ‘He didn’t.’
‘I tore it up and mailed it back to him. Maybe he’ll get the hint.’
‘He’d better. You don’t need that kind of help.’
Celia opened her mouth to say more, then snapped it shut, and Jenni folded her arms. ‘Better spill it. Something’s on your mind.’
Pink tinted Celia’s cheeks. ‘Sorry. I just don’t quite know how to say it.’ She took a deep breath, letting it whistle through her teeth. ‘All right. But feel free to tell me off if you want to.’
‘I’ll let you know.’
Celia laughed at that. ‘I can always count on you to be frank. So here it is: Professor Koenig is going to need a secretary of sorts to help him. He’ll translate the diary, but he needs someone to type it up and maybe fill him in on Tallulah’s history. Do you think you could do that?’
Jenni shrugged. ‘I don’t see why not, but how can I be in two places at once? I have to give tours too.’
‘Not necessarily. Look, I know you haven’t been feeling well and I thought this would give you a chance to rest more instead of being on your feet all the time.’
Suspicion made Jenni clench her jaw. ‘And I’d also be out of the public eye then, right? So no one would see my little weight gain?’
The cake pan Celia held came down on the counter with a bang. ‘Absolutely not. You know I don’t give two figs for what people think. I’m hurt you’d even consider it.’
When will I learn to keep my stupid tongue still?
‘Oh, fiddlesticks,’ Jenni murmured. ‘I’m sorry. Really I am. I shouldn’t have said it.’
‘It’s all right.’ Celia pulled her into a quick hug. ‘Let’s forget about it, okay? And if you don’t want to be Professor Koenig’s secretary, you don’t have to. I just thought you might enjoy it. You’ll get to read Tallulah’s diary before I do, at any rate, and you can also fill him in on the town’s history. Being a historian, he will probably find it fascinating.’
‘Or just plain scary.’
‘That, too.’
It might be a nice change of pace, Jenni considered. And resting more sure wouldn’t hurt. But stepping foot inside that cottage again… She shuddered. She’d had dreams about it, about that fateful night when she’d ignored common sense and let a devilishly handsome man kiss her, touch her like she hadn’t been touched in so long…
Stop. Don’t go there.
‘Of course I’ll do it,’ she said to Celia, forcing her lips into a smile. ‘I think I can handle a stuffy old history professor.’
* * *
After navigating twenty miles of icy roads between Lincoln and Meadow Hills, Max’s shoulder and neck muscles ached from tension, and he wasn’t even driving. He badly wanted a cigarette and held back only because he was in no mood to hear Bruce complain about the smoke.
But the headline blazed across the top of the Omaha World-Herald’s front page made his hands shake more than Bruce’s erratic driving. German History Professor to Translate Tallulah Stanwick Diary.
Bruce had been ecstatic to show it to him and told him Mrs Stanwick’s publisher had issued a press release all across the country. But all Max could think about was, So much for slipping into Meadow Hills quietly.
In Lincoln, he’d deliberately kept a low profile and everyone at the university – save for Goldberg – had accepted his nationality without a problem. He was a political refugee, after all, someone who’d had sense enough to flee Germany, a good German. At least, that’s what he’d told everyone.
And if they ever found out the truth…
Don’t go there. Don’t think about it. Bury it. Deep.
‘Say, you okay? You turned white there.’
Max forced a laugh. ‘It’s your driving. It terrifies me.’
‘Why? We’re still on the road, aren’t we?’ Bruce turned up the radio and Max continued reading the newspaper, if only so he wouldn’t have to stare at the long stretch of winding, snow-packed highway ahead of them, pondering just how easy it would be to skid off the edge.
The article didn’t say much about him, only that he’d been living in Germany until 1938 when he’d immigrated to America and begun teaching at the University of Nebraska, but was now on sabbatical.
How ridiculous. Being fired was certainly not the same as being on sabbatical! Fortunately, no nosy reporter had tried to contact him. But given Mrs Stanwick’s national popularity, it might only be a matter of time before they did. And, once more, he’d have to field questions about his past.
The university had questioned him almost reluctantly. Not so FBI Special Agent Williams. The agent had treated him like a Nazi saboteur, asking questions Max couldn’t possibly answer in an effort to trap him into a confession. In the end, Williams gave up simply because he didn’t have any evidence. Goldberg had erupted at this news, nearly landing himself in hospital with a heart attack.
Now, Max was voluntarily putting himself back in the spotlight. This was all a very bad idea.
An Artie Shaw tune came on the radio and Bruce sang along, doing a perfect job of assaulting Max’s ears. He had one meaty hand on the wheel, the other tapping on the door. The car swerved slightly and Max’s stomach lurched, but Bruce didn’t bat an eye.
‘Don’t you think you should slow down?’
Bruce’s grey, bushy eyebrows bristled. ‘You need to settle down, chum. You’ve lived here long enough to know what the winters are like. Roads like this are the norm. I’m an old pro at this.’
‘If you say so.’
He stared at the white world of eastern Nebraska. Snow-covered trees dotted the hilly landscape, and acres of corn stalks jutting up from the frozen ground offered a stark beauty he’d never seen before. One thing he couldn’t get used to was the amazing, open expanse of sky. A person could see for miles and miles, the view unhampered by trees or mountains. One could never feel claustrophobic here. But for him, the effect wasn’t a pleasant one. He felt exposed, vulnerable and profoundly unsafe.
He’d come to appreciate Nebraska’s gentle, rolling prairie, but it would never be equal to the thick woodlands of the Black Forest region, nor could the tall buildings of Lincoln compare to Berlin’s soaring architecture. Of course, there might not be anything left of Berlin after the Allies claimed victory…
He didn’t even want to think about Stuttgart and the family home.
When they finally entered town without running off the road, Max allowed himself to relax. But then he read the welcoming sign painted in red, white and blue – Welcome to Meadow Hills:
The Most Patriotic Town in Nebraska – and his tension returned. What kind of reception would he get from these people?
They passed quiet streets with neat two-storey Victorian homes, brick bungalows and modest Cape Cods. An empty lot housed the town’s scrap pile, and the heap looked like a bizarre sculpture with snow dusting haphazardly stacked pots and pans, old stoves, pieces of farm implements and other items. The Omaha World-Herald had created the Scrap Metal Drive contest in July 1942 and pitted county against county in Nebraska. Max could just imagine how this patriotic town must have responded. No doubt they’d finished near the top.
They drove down the main thoroughfare, waves of anxiety tearing through Max as he saw the explosion of red, white and blue on shop windows, signs and awnings. They passed by a café called the Stars and Stripes and even inside the car he could hear ‘Remember Pearl Harbor’ playing through a speaker near the entrance. Signs urging people to buy bonds adorned windows and buildings, and a giant bronze statue of George Washington stood in the town square, an American flag tucked into his hand.
It reminded him of Berlin, the swastika flags flying everywhere, posters proclaiming the Jewish menace, the headlines screaming about communist conspiracies and traitorous Germans, der Führer’s stern gaze watching them all at every turn, and his voice filling the streets through the loudspeakers.
‘Pretty amazing, isn’t it?’ Bruce said, turning into a residential area. ‘You can’t accuse this place of ignoring the war, that’s for sure.’
‘No,’ Max murmured.
Bruce must have sensed Max’s unease. ‘I don’t think you have anything to worry about,’ he said.
‘I don’t share your confidence.’
Bruce waved his hand. ‘Aww, quit worrying for once, Max, and relax. You’ve got a job and a place to stay. Hell, they didn’t even care if you brought Katya along.’
The dog lifted her head from the back seat and sat up on her haunches. Max ruffled her fur, but couldn’t shake an impending feeling of doom. Bruce had the luxury of being flippant. He didn’t know what it was like to be the outsider, the foreigner.
The Stranger From Berlin Page 2