‘She’s real fragile, Jenni. Real fragile,’ Tony had told her earlier in the week. ‘Think she might break at any second. Try not to say anything about Danny.’
Jenni watched Sue lean her head back to check on Marty through the kitchen doorway. He was playing in the living room, lining up soldiers on the frayed carpet and dive-bombing them with his plane. She’d been worried the toy plane would somehow trigger a hysterical reaction in her mother-in-law, but Sue hadn’t said a word about it.
Marty sometimes told Jenni he didn’t want to visit Granny Sue and Grandpa Tony because ‘even the walls cried’. Even though a leaky roof was to blame for the wall’s ‘tears’, it couldn’t be blamed for the sorrow hanging like a black blanket around the Fields’ home.
‘Is the museum keeping you busy?’
Jenni took a sip of coffee and nodded. ‘It is.’
‘It’s good to keep busy,’ Sue murmured. ‘I’ve started taking in more sewing to keep my mind occupied.’
‘I suppose the “make do and mend” campaign is giving you more to do.’
‘And thankful I am for it.’
Sue’s black hair had turned completely grey in the past year, her rotund frame whittled reed-thin. Unsurprising since three boys still served. Two were safely on American soil, and the third battled the Japanese in the Pacific. Then, there was Danny.
Sitting here, in this apartment, the site of so many happy memories and some not so pleasant, Jenni had a hard time keeping the lump in her throat from exploding into full-blown tears.
‘Thanks for watching Marty. I appreciate it.’ Jenni finished her coffee and pushed the cup away from the half-empty pot. She wanted to go home and spend some time with Marty instead of staying here in this harbour of sadness.
‘I don’t mind. He’s such a good boy. I don’t have to do much.’
Jenni agreed, but privately, she worried about him. He was a quiet child and always had been, but sometimes she caught him in his bedroom, staring at the picture of his father in uniform, and there was such a deep sadness in his gaze that she could barely stand it.
‘I might be a little late picking him up next week,’ Jenni continued.
‘Why is that?’
Jenni hesitated. ‘Well, we have someone staying at the guest cottage. He’s translating Mrs Stanwick’s diary since it was written in German, and I’m going to help type things up for him, answer any questions, that sort of thing.’
Sue clicked the nails of her finger and thumb together, an irritating habit that always surfaced when she was upset.
‘Who is this man?’
‘A history professor.’ Jenni thought about not mentioning Max’s nationality, but thanks to Avery Boon, everyone in town knew. Sue didn’t read the papers anymore, but word would reach her eventually.
‘He’s from Germany,’ Jenni said. ‘He escaped there in 1938 and came to America.’
But it was as if Sue hadn’t heard the last part. Fury clouded her dark eyes and her hands turned into fists on the table.
‘You are going to work with a German? Have you forgotten what they did to Danny?’
Jenni cringed and wished she’d had sense enough to keep quiet. ‘Professor Koenig isn’t a Nazi. He is against Hitler, Sue. He didn’t have anything to do with Danny’s death.’
‘All of them are rotten, no-good monsters!’ her mother-in-law hissed. ‘They killed my boy.’
Jenni glanced into the living room, mortified to see Marty staring back at her, his eyes wide as he looked from his grandmother to Jenni.
‘Hush,’ she whispered. ‘Marty will hear you.’
‘And well he should. He needs to know that his mother is conspiring with the enemy.’
Jenni briefly closed her eyes. Somehow, she’d known this was coming.
‘I am not conspiring with the enemy,’ she said as calmly as she could. ‘He is not a Nazi. He is not fighting against America. He is not our enemy.’
‘How can you say that? He killed my Danny!’
Sue’s entire body began to shake, tremors coursing through her arms and hands. She knocked over a coffee cup and it fell off the table, bouncing off the rug and rolling onto the wooden floor.
Ignoring the spilled coffee, Jenni grabbed the woman’s hands and held them tight. ‘It’s all right, Sue. It’s all right.’
Marty ran into the room. ‘What’s wrong, Granny Sue?’
Not even the sound of her grandson’s voice had the power to penetrate Sue’s grief and she wandered into the living room, picking up Danny’s military picture from the end table. She hugged it to her chest, sobbing.
‘Mom?’ Marty tugged on her dress. ‘Can we go home? Please?’
Jenni crouched in front of her son and tried to smile. ‘In a moment. We need to fetch Grandpa Tony and have him come help Granny Sue.’
‘Okay.’ Marty cast a worried glance towards the wailing woman in the living room. ‘Is Gran sad about Dad?’
‘Yes, she is.’
‘But he’s in heaven, flying his plane with the angels. He’s all right. We just have to wait a little while till we can see him again.’
His quiet wisdom threatened to undo Jenni’s resolve, but he didn’t need two weeping women to contend with. So instead of giving in to the tight wad clogging her throat, Jenni smoothed the cowlick at the back of his head.
‘Can you do something important for me? Can you run down and get Grandpa Tony and tell him that Granny Sue needs him?’
Marty nodded and quietly slipped out of the room while Jenni turned to Sue, wishing she could do something to ease the woman’s pain. But there were no words that could bring her comfort, not anymore.
Jenni pulled Sue into a hug and winced when the corner of the photo frame jabbed her stomach. But the pain wasn’t as sharp as the guilt gnawing at her insides.
Sue could never find out the truth. In her state of mind, there was no telling what she’d do.
CHAPTER FOUR
Already here five days, and he’d not managed to translate a single page. The diary sat on the desk in the sitting room where he’d left it the night he returned from the Drapers. He couldn’t shake the sense of doom hovering over him like the sword of Damocles. Instead, he’d resorted to pretending as though he really was on sabbatical. He secluded himself in the warm cottage, took naps, listened to Beethoven, nibbled on toast and jam and read Mrs Stanwcyk’s novels. The stories offered a bit of respite from reality, and he found himself rather enjoying them. A few times he’d managed to even pinpoint the murderer before the great reveal.
This cold, frigid morning, Max barely glanced at the diary as he knuckled sleep from his eyes and wandered into the kitchen, Katya pattering after him. It was nearing eight, and he’d managed only three hours of sleep. Mrs Stanwyck’s novel, Grace In Death, had kept him up well past his bedtime, but the novel’s ending made it worth it.
While the coffee gurgled on the stove, he cracked a few eggs into a frying pan, laid a few bacon strips beside them and then popped a few pieces of bread in the toaster. Strangely, he’d found a jar of homemade chokecherry jam on his doorstep the other morning, and asked Celia who might be responsible. Just as perplexed as he was, she shrugged her shoulders, and told him to enjoy it. Which he did, immensely.
Having a well-stocked pantry made him feel safe and secure, especially since he’d nearly come close to scrounging for food in Lincoln. A far cry from the gluttony he’d enjoyed in pre-war Berlin. But he’d left Germany with nothing, and he made next to nothing as an untenured professor at UNL. Somehow, it seemed fitting. Penance, perhaps?
No doubt the museum had used some of their ration points to supply him with food. Guilt stirred in his stomach. He couldn’t keep avoiding the work they were paying him for. Better to just translate the darn thing, and then, as the American cowboy films liked to say, ‘get out of Dodge’.
Yawning, he wandered into the sitting room and picked up the diary. The task itself wouldn’t be difficult, he mused, thumbing through the pages.
Tallulah’s handwriting was neat and precise and she’d written most of it in proper German. Odd, considering she wrote everything else in English. It wasn’t terribly long, perhaps a hundred pages or so?
He randomly stopped at one page and began to read.
My dearest son, such terrible news today. Your friend Phillip was killed in battle. I am devastated. Alois and Gertrude are in shock. I had hoped to give them the letter you received from Phillip that you told me about along with the picture, but I cannot locate it. Since you always kept your correspondence meticulously organized, I am heartbroken not to find it. I can only think it was misplaced and will turn up, as they say, sooner rather than later. There is so much death everywhere with the war and this horrible influenza epidemic. I know I am not alone in my sorrow, but it is still too private to share. I miss you desperately. I cry every morning, and every night…
Unable to continue, Max closed the diary and replaced it on the desk. Immersing himself in a mother’s grief for the next few months would do his black mood no favours.
He returned to the kitchen and reached for his pack of cigarettes on the table. He scowled. One left. Well, he had a choice. Either quit smoking now and suffer the consequences or head downtown and buy a whole carton – which meant going out in public.
He’d rather hide.
Coward, he thought in disgust. Too afraid to walk into a store to buy cigarettes!
After downing two cups of black coffee and smoking his last cigarette, Max pulled on a warm sweater, wool trousers and thick socks. The radio announcer droned on about still colder temperatures and said, ‘We’ll be lucky to reach ten degrees today.’ Max muttered a curse. Ten degrees Fahrenheit was what… minus twelve Celsius! Not an ideal situation for riding a bike, but then again, he’d done it before.
Katya whined at the back door and he let her out, shivering when the cold air curled around his fingers. The dog hurried and did her business, then shot back inside, ending up at the end of Max’s bed, her head burrowed under the quilt.
‘That looks like a good idea, girl,’ he said, tying the scarf around his face and plopping his hat on his head before pulling on his gloves. He shut the door behind him, since Katya had the ability to get into mischief when he wasn’t around. He was quite sure he’d find her in the same spot when he returned. In fact, he just might join her for a nap. Thank goodness Mrs Fields wouldn’t be available for at least a few more days due to a huge increase in bookings for museum tours. He wasn’t sure he could handle trading barbs on such little sleep.
The dismal grey weather and gas rationing apparently hadn’t affected business at the museum; parked cars stretched around the block. The interest in Tallulah Stanwick obviously remained high.
The snow-packed streets weren’t easy to ride on his bicycle, but he managed, pushing his legs against the wind and cursing himself for relying so heavily on cigarettes to get him through the day. He’d once relied on booze, but one too many nights of blacking out had cured him of indulging too much, though he wasn’t sure the chronic morning cough he’d developed due to chain-smoking was any better.
It was only a few blocks downtown, but the passengers in the cars he passed all gave him curious looks. It was bloody cold out but with gas rationing he hadn’t expected to be the only dummkopf in town riding a bicycle.
Downtown barely moved. Only a few brave souls ducked into stores while others hurried back to their cars again. Max cycled over to the drugstore and leaned his bicycle against the brick building. A tall, skinny woman emerged and frowned at him for a moment before scurrying away, glancing back at him as she crossed the street.
Max took a deep breath, then let it out. The first snub. At least it was out of the way.
As he walked into the drugstore, he unpeeled his scarf from his face and savoured the blast of warm air. A few milling customers glanced up when he entered, their eyes lingering on him before they returned to their shopping. He picked out a carton of Lucky Strikes and a packet of gum and brought them to the counter.
The pretty brunette at the cash register stared at him with wide brown eyes then blurted, ‘You’re not from here.’
Behind her, the pharmacist up in the window looked down and scowled. ‘Betty, what did I tell you?’
Betty cringed and said, ‘Yes, Mr Landing.’ She smiled at Max. ‘Is this all for you today, sir?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
She gave him the total and he dug a bill out of his pocket, feeling her gaze on him as well as Mr Landing’s. While Betty made change, Mr Landing moved away from the pharmacy window and the girl said in a hushed tone, ‘Are you that professor from Germany?’
Max had the ridiculous urge to snap to attention, hold out his hand in the Hitler salute, and say, ‘Jawohl, mein fräulein!’ just to see the girl’s reaction. He didn’t, of course, because that would probably land him in jail.
‘I am,’ he said instead. He grinned, drawing for the first time in years on his old charm and hoping he still had some left.
It worked, for she gave him a shy smile in return and handed him his coins. ‘I hope you’ll come back and see us again.’
He took his purchase. ‘Danke.’
Betty looked ready to swoon, and it reminded him of the girls at the university when he’d first arrived. He’d been something new, a sort of enigma, a handsome foreigner. Plenty had tried to flirt with him, but they never made it very far. Max had barely noticed them; Ilsa’s pale face, brown curls framing her high cheekbones, would always swim into his vision and keep him from seeing any woman in front of him, young or old.
‘How do you say, “You are beautiful” in German?’ Betty asked, starry-eyed now.
Amused, Max said, ‘Sie sind schöne.’
Betty sighed. ‘It sounds so romantic.’
Though Max had never heard his guttural language described as ‘romantic’ before, he didn’t want to wipe the smile from her face, so he simply tipped his hat. When he turned around, a man blocked his path, frowning at him. The newcomer wore a well-tailored suit and a derby hat, his leather-gloved hands clenched. He looked like he belonged in a high-rise business office in New York instead of this small town.
‘So you are Professor Koenig,’ he said.
Max nodded. ‘I am.’
‘My name is Evan Lowe,’ the man said. ‘I’m the mayor of Meadow Hills.’
Max stuck out his hand, but the mayor just looked at it. Max drew back, mortified at the deliberate slight. ‘How do you do?’
‘We don’t speak German in this town, Mr Koenig. It’s against the law.’
‘It is against the law to speak German?’
‘It is. We speak American here. My son died fighting against you Huns in the Great War to keep it that way.’
Max winced as much at the word ‘Huns’ as he did over the man’s loss. ‘I am sorry.’
‘I want you to know I’m against you being here,’ Lowe continued. ‘In fact, I’m against translating the diary at all.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Because the past needs to stay just that. The past.’
This man reminded Max of too many Gestapo agents he’d met over the years, and he steeled himself. ‘I’m sorry you feel that way, but I am not here to cause any problems. My only job is to translate the diary. Nothing more.’
‘Hmph.’ The mayor’s gaze bore into him. ‘See that you keep it that way.’ He nodded towards Betty, who watched them in open-mouthed fascination. ‘And I’d advise you to stay away from impressionable young women.’
Stunned, Max watched the mayor walk away before forcing himself to move his suddenly wobbly legs. He didn’t look back at Betty or at any of the other customers. When he stepped out into the icy wind, he climbed onto his bike and pedalled off, trying to absorb this new, disturbing development.
He’d never thought he would be chastised for speaking his language, especially when he’d been asked to. And chastised by the mayor, no less!
A law against speaking German? Utte
rly preposterous!
What had he gotten himself into?
* * *
As Jenni took the latest tour group downstairs, she had to shrug off a sense of unease. The only male in the bunch, a short, intense man with wire-rimmed, thick-lensed spectacles and a beard, had done nothing wrong, yet she sensed his gaze on her almost the entire time. He asked no questions, and looked only half-heartedly around the house.
In fact, he didn’t appear the least interested in the tour. Then why was he here?
While in the greenhouse, Jenni pointed to the cottage outside, hoping that the professor wouldn’t choose to make an unscheduled appearance, though in truth, she’d not seen him in days. ‘That is the Rose Cottage,’ she said. ‘Mr Stanwick originally built it for his mother, but she died suddenly. We use it for special visitors to the museum now.’
A plump woman peered through the glass. ‘Why is there a light on? We need to conserve electricity, you know. There’s a war on!’
Jenni ignored this jab. ‘The professor translating Tallulah’s diary is staying there while he works.’
This announcement launched several new questions about what could possibly be included in the diary and how it might relate to Mrs Stanwick’s writing. Jenni answered as best she could, but as the women crowded around her, she saw the strange man drift away. She took the tourists into the dining room and concluded the tour, but the man had vanished. The knot of tension in Jenni’s chest dissolved. Good riddance. Whoever he was, he’d given her the willies.
Of course, it wasn’t the first time a tourist had made her uneasy, and she was certain it wouldn’t be the last. Now if she could only get over her own unease at helping Max Koenig out, why, she might not have this painful pit in the middle of her stomach.
She kept picturing him that day in the cottage, stumbling against the stove, searching for the right words to say, and fumbling them worse than a freshman quarterback fielding his first hike. She’d let him suffer, and for that, she still needed to apologize, a task she’d avoided so far. He’d made it quite easy by not so much as stepping foot outside, and he hadn’t asked for her assistance yet. Maybe he wanted to avoid her too.
The Stranger From Berlin Page 5