After he’d left Germany, Hitler had officially categorized him and other refugees as criminals and revoked their German passports. The directive even stripped Max of his academic degree. He was officially a man with no country. To be a temporary outcast was one thing. But permanently? All these years in America, he’d wondered if he could ever go home.
But no doubt, even if he could, he’d be arrested the moment he set foot on German soil. Ilsa had high friends in very high places. His name was probably on every list, from the Gestapo to the Kripo.
‘Here we are,’ Bruce announced as they pulled up to an immaculate, two-storey Victorian-style home painted light blue with white trim. The wrap-around porch was swept free of snow and lights glowed in the windows. On the lawn, an ornate black iron sign with gold letters read: The Tallulah House: Home of Tallulah Elvira Stanwick.
‘The cottage is out back. Mrs Draper told me to meet her in the museum first.’
Once, meeting new people hadn’t bothered Max. He’d hobnobbed with diplomats and professors from all over Europe, not to mention the new crop of friends he and Ilsa had carefully cultivated. But too many years of looking over his shoulder had taken their toll, and his nerves twisted as he got out of the car.
It was so quiet compared to the city. Too quiet. He followed Bruce’s rotund frame up the pavement to the front steps and fought to keep from running like a coward back to the car and driving it as fast as he could back to the noisy city. They’d received several more inches of snow here in Meadow Hills than in Lincoln, and it muted everything, giving him an almost surreal feeling of being trapped in one of those snow globes he’d seen during his skiing trip to Bavaria.
The sign hanging on the museum’s front door said ‘Open’ so Max followed Bruce inside, his feet sinking into the carpeted floor runner as he took in the gleaming mahogany stairs, floral wallpaper and polished antique table.
Heels clicking on the wooden floor soon materialized into a striking redhead in a dark blue wool suit. ‘Good morning, gentlemen.’ She held out a hand. ‘You must be Professor Koenig and Professor Jeffries from the university. I’m Mrs Celia Draper, the museum director.’
At that moment, Bruce looked every inch the bumbling professor as he introduced himself, took her hand, shook it, then changed his mind and kissed it. Max bit his lip to keep from laughing and saw an answering gleam in Mrs Draper’s green eyes.
‘Professor Koenig,’ she said, ‘welcome to Meadow Hills. I hope you’ll enjoy your stay with us.’
Max inclined his head. ‘I am incredibly grateful for the opportunity.’
‘I’m just glad you could come on such short notice.’
He thought of the knife in the sink. ‘Yes. Your request came at the perfect time.’
She studied him for a moment and he wondered if she could somehow see the desperation. Did his fingers tremble, his eyes flicker?
‘I’ll take you out to the cottage and show you around, and then we can have lunch. Chilli and cinnamon rolls sound all right?’
Bruce patted his stomach. ‘It sounds swell. Perfect for this kind of weather.’
Once Celia had put on her coat, they went through the back door and Max winced as a blast of icy wind sliced through his eyes. He wanted to mumble a curse word, but that would mean opening his mouth and his lips were cracked enough as it was. He loathed Nebraska winters.
They walked through a narrow garden path shovelled clear, the snow on either side like giant slabs of frosting on a cake. Bruce listened to Celia’s every word while Max hung back, staring at the cottage ahead. It was a replica of the main house with light blue paint and white shutters, a covered porch in the back. He probably wouldn’t be here long enough to enjoy an evening on the porch in the springtime. Who knew where he’d be by then.
Celia gave them a quick tour of the one-bedroom cottage, a cosy, clean space with everything he’d need, including a nice bookshelf full of hardbound books and a console radio with a record player in the snug sitting room. Upon closer inspection, he saw that the books were mostly Mrs Stanwick’s novels.
‘I hope you’ll be comfortable here,’ Celia said, taking them into the quaint kitchen with a small stove, a table with two chairs, and an icebox. ‘We’ve stocked the pantry for you, so you shouldn’t have to worry about groceries for a while.’
He smiled. ‘That is very kind of you, especially considering rationing.’
‘We make do. You are our guest, so if there is anything you need, just let us know.’
He kept looking for signs of discomfort from her, something to show she wasn’t pleased to have a German so close, but so far, nothing.
‘I’ll bring the car around,’ Bruce said, ‘and you can unload your things.’
Celia went to check on lunch and, left alone, Max wandered into the sitting room and sank into the brown leather chair in front of the fireplace. The fire crackled and he warmed his hands. He had a place to stay, with food and a bed and, most importantly, work to do. He would be able to get through the next few months, at least, and then… well, he’d think about then later.
The front door opened and closed. Assuming it was Bruce, Max stayed where he was, but when a woman’s voice began humming, his heart rate skyrocketed and he sat bolt upright in the chair. Light footsteps crossed into the bedroom and he heard a sheet being snapped. Surely it couldn’t be Celia back so soon?
He should wait until the mystery woman left, but it felt like he was skulking in the wings. Better to announce his presence.
When he moved to stand in the bedroom doorway, his heart shuddered. The woman making the bed had silken golden brown hair like Ilsa, but as he watched her slim hands smooth the wrinkles in the crisp white sheet, the movement wasn’t cat-like, but natural, relaxed. Relief made him grip the door. Not Ilsa, then.
You’re truly losing it, old boy. Ilsa will never bother you again.
Max stared at her as she worked, knowing he should say something, but there was something mesmerizing in how her lithe legs bent and moved in her black slacks, how the light from the bedside lamp cast a shadow on her pretty face.
She was humming a tune he didn’t recognize, something upbeat, and he could imagine her moving on the dance floor, hair bouncing at her neck as she twirled and bowed and jumped.
Ilsa never danced that way. Ilsa thought American jazz undignified, made for the Negro and not for the superior Aryan race.
Inky darkness started creeping into his vision and he cleared his throat, needing this woman to see him there. ‘Excuse me.’
She gave a squeak of surprise, and he got the full blast of her striking eyes with their long lashes and dark blue irises.
‘I’m sorry to have startled you.’
She smiled easily. ‘Oh, that’s all right. It doesn’t take much with me.’
‘I’m Professor Koenig.’ It sounded too formal and he hastily inserted, ‘But please, call me Max.’
She scooted around the bed and held out her hand. ‘Jenni Fields. I’m a tour guide at the museum.’
Her fingers weren’t long and smooth, but short and delicate. Max took them briefly, then let them go, surprised at how cold they were.
Jenni laughed and rubbed her hands together. ‘Cold, aren’t they? But you know what they say.’
He didn’t, and when she saw him frown she laughed again. ‘Cold hands, warm heart. They don’t have that saying in Germany?’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard it before.’
Jenni pulled a blanket off a nearby chair and unfolded it over the bed. ‘I suppose there’s a lot of things we have here that you don’t in Germany. How long have you been in America?’
‘I came in November of 1938,’ he said, taking hold of one edge of the blanket and tucking it under the mattress. ‘But I still am not familiar with all of your customs.’
‘I bet.’ She nodded towards the bed. ‘Do you think this blanket plus a quilt will keep you warm enough? I can get another one if you need it.’
‘This s
hould be sufficient.’
Jenni grabbed the thick quilt, and he helped her spread it over the bed. When they finished, she plumped the pillows and turned to him.
‘Thanks for the help.’
‘It’s the least I can do.’
He followed her into the kitchen, feeling absurdly like a puppy tagging after its master. He didn’t know what to say. His tongue felt wrapped in glue.
‘Have you ever been to Meadow Hills before?’ Jenni asked, taking a rag and wiping down the sink.
‘No. I haven’t been out of Lincoln much since I came to America.’
She pushed back a thick clump of curls from her forehead. ‘Really? Don’t you get tired of being in the city?’
How to explain? There was anonymity in the city, plus a certain amount of safety in numbers. He could walk down the street and have no one take any notice of him. And, dare he say it, staying in the city also made him harder to find.
‘I’ve lived in a city my entire life,’ he said. ‘It’s where I’m most at home.’
‘Not me. I’ve lived on the farm and here in town, but that’s it. I hope I’ll get to go to the big cities someday, especially in Europe,’ Jenni said. ‘I’ve always wanted to see Paris, Venice, Rome…’
‘Berlin?’
Now why had he said that?
Jenni avoided his gaze and busied herself with meticulously folding the washcloth over the sink. ‘No, not Berlin.’
The dismissal in her voice made something inside him snap. ‘There’s probably nothing left to see anyway,’ he said, his voice clipped. ‘The Allies don’t care where they drop their bombs.’
She went very still, her hands gripping the edge of the countertop, but he only noticed it peripherally.
‘Hitler must be stopped, of course,’ he continued, ignoring his inner voice of caution, ‘but it is when civilians are killed that I question how this war is fought. Look at the catastrophe in London. Such destruction and loss of life. Air raids do not seem to be the answer, though I do not know what other choice they have—’
‘My husband died bombing Germany.’
It was as though she’d smacked him across the face. She stared at him now, eyes narrowed, cheeks bright red. He backed into the stove, hitting his hip on a protruding knob, the instant pain nothing compared to the chagrin washing over him.
‘I’m so very sorry.’ His mouth went dry. ‘I didn’t mean… that is, I certainly think military targets should be…’
He trailed off. The words sounded pathetic and hollow, and they both knew it. Why had he violated his one rule, of never discussing the war with strangers? But the answer was simple. He missed home, missed Mutter and Vater, missed his sister. Had this woman’s husband dropped bombs that might have killed his own family? He didn’t know, but thinking in such a way was dangerous.
And because a longing for home rose so fiercely inside of him, it was doubly dangerous that Jenni’s dark blue eyes, almost navy in colour, reminded him of twilight in the Black Forest at Opa and Oma’s farm.
The quiet yawned between them. Max stared at his scuffed shoes. This was perhaps one of the worst first impressions he’d ever had the misfortune to give. He wouldn’t blame her one bit if she disappeared into the museum and never stepped foot in here again.
‘Mrs Fields,’ he began quietly, ‘I hope you know that I am deeply sorry for your loss and for any pain my insensitive comments might have caused. I miss my home, and it is difficult to watch its destruction.’
Jenni folded her arms and nodded, not looking at him. ‘I can understand that.’
He wanted to say more, but she’d cut herself off from him, her body language warning him away. Yet he couldn’t leave it like this.
He opened his mouth to say something and then the door flew open. Bruce came inside, Katya at his heels, and the moment vanished as Max made hasty introductions and tried to heel in the rambunctious dog. Jenni smiled and acted like nothing was wrong, but he knew better.
When she slipped out of the door, he watched her walk down the pavement, arms folded across her chest, head bent. He wanted to call to her and somehow make amends. Instead, he let her go.
CHAPTER THREE
The invitation to dine at the Drapers’ the night after he arrived made Max sick to his stomach. They’d want to make conversation, of course, and he would be the main topic. He was an oddity, with his thick German accent and strange colloquialisms, a sideshow in the circus’s rear tent. Five years in America and still people found him alternately fascinating and ghoulish, a living link to the madness of Nazi Germany they saw replayed on the Movietone newsreels and read every week in LIFE magazine.
The Drapers would be no different, he thought, walking the five blocks to their house, scarf wrapped around his face, hat pulled low over his ears. They would ask him what it was like to see the Jews rounded up and be helpless to stop it because, naturally, if you could intervene without losing your life, why, most certainly you would.
But they didn’t know that the German people, with the exception of a few brave souls, had given their tacit consent to murdering those not of the superior Aryan race, either because they truly believed the drivel Hitler spouted or were too afraid to speak against it.
Max fell into the latter category. He hated Hitler’s anti-Semitic rhetoric, and worse, the saturation of Nazism into every level of society. Hitler and his goons had single-handedly transformed German culture, stripping it of dignity and honour, and replaced it with a twisted and warped facsimile gilded in a superficial layer of shiny gold.
And what had Max done about it? Not a bloody damn thing.
No one would understand why because he didn’t understand it himself. He could blame Ilsa for it, or the fear of having his fingernails ripped out by a sadistic Gestapo man, but neither of those excuses was true. Ilsa’s brother was a member of the SS. How many times had they all gone out together, Max drinking and carousing with a bunch of Nazi lunatics while those same Nazis persecuted his colleagues and friends? God, it made him sick.
By the time he arrived on the Drapers’ front doorstep and heard Tommy Dorsey playing on the wireless inside, he remembered what Mrs Draper had told him about her husband, Hank. He’d tangled with Rommel’s Afrika Korps in North Africa and almost lost his leg.
Hank Draper might not take too kindly to a German sitting at his table.
Max nearly vomited in the potted evergreen sitting by the front door and forced the sensation down only by sheer will.
Mrs Draper answered his knock with a welcoming smile and ushered him into a wood-panelled foyer very similar to the one at Tallulah House. She took his coat while her husband hovered behind her, leaning on a cane, his tousled dark hair and rumpled shirt at odds with his serious brown-eyed gaze. The two men watched each other uneasily, but then Hank put out his hand, said, ‘Nice to meet you,’ and they shook like civilized men the world over were wont to do.
On an ivory-cloth-covered dining-room table, Mrs Draper served baked ham, mashed potatoes and sweetcorn from last year’s garden on what looked like brand-new gold-rimmed china plates. Max’s mouth began to salivate, and he pushed past the nausea. After too many meals of tinned soup and baked beans, he craved homemade food. He scooped up a heaped serving of potatoes and slathered them in brown gravy, deciding not to care if the Drapers looked at him strangely.
‘Eat up, professor,’ Hank encouraged. ‘Celia and I have only been married for a month or so, but she’s got the hang of this cooking thing.’ He patted his stomach. ‘Keeps me satisfied, that’s for sure.’
He winked at his wife and she blushed. Max was envious of their easy relationship. He had seen how they finished each other’s sentences, and were completely relaxed in each other’s company. Such ease never existed in his relationship with Ilsa, and he wondered what it would be like.
‘So tell me, professor,’ Celia asked, and he instinctively cringed. Here came the questions. ‘Have you ever read any of Mrs Stanwick’s novels?’
; His shoulders relaxed. Good. This he could discuss.
‘Yes. After I found out about the job, I borrowed a few from the library in Lincoln. Moonlight Murder and Cardinal’s Feast. They were quite enjoyable.’
Despite his initial reluctance to read popular fiction, he’d liked them. They’d offered a brief escape from reality, and Lord knew he could certainly use it.
‘Those are two of her most popular, written during her later years,’ Celia replied. ‘Of course, as I’m sure you probably noticed, all of her novels are on the cottage bookshelves.’
He smiled. ‘I did notice. She was very prolific.’ His mind raced to come up with several different questions he wanted to ask to keep the conversation on topic. ‘But I was hoping to find out more about her life. I couldn’t find a biography of her anywhere. I checked with the state historical archives in Lincoln to see if they had any information on her, but they said they mostly had the Stanwick family history and some of her original manuscripts. No personal letters or anything of that nature.’
‘Mrs Stanwick was a bit of a mystery,’ Celia admitted. ‘We don’t know a whole lot about her personal life, which is why I was so excited to find the diary.’
‘When was it written?’
‘She started it in November 1918, and I believe it ends in 1919 or 1920. It’s not a daily record, quite sporadic, so it’s not very long. I don’t read any German at all, but from what I’ve been able to tell, it looks like she was writing it to her son.’ Celia took a sip of water and slowly set the glass down. ‘He died in October of 1918.’
‘In the war?’
‘No.’ Celia shook her head. ‘Here, in Meadow Hills. It was so tragic. He’d just finished seminary and was engaged to be married to a local girl, Rebecca Macintosh. They appointed him junior pastor at St Luke’s Lutheran Church. But during the church’s Oktoberfest celebration, a mob attacked the congregation. Dietrich died.’
A mob. The word conjured up crowds of drunken Sturmabteilungen and teenaged Hitler Youth roaming the streets of Berlin, smashing windows, setting fire to synagogues, hurling Jews into the street to beat them senseless.
The Stranger From Berlin Page 3