“As you know, this is conversational German. There will be some writing assignments, but most of our time will be spent talking, either here in the room, or out in the field.” He pointed out the open window to the sounds of the city. “We will be studying the formal usage of this language. Most of you are beginners to intermediate.”
Günther Christove! Exhilaration flooded Camille as her cheeks tingled with warmth.
He continued. “A few of you have been here before and are returning for a second or third term. I’ve assigned each of you a study partner so you won’t feel overwhelmed with your assignments.”
A beautiful young woman raised her hand.
“Stena?”
“Can I be your partner?”
Laughter erupted.
A brief smile pulled at the corner of his lips as if this was a well-known joke, then he continued without giving an answer.
“As I call your name, please stand and find your partner. Rearrange your seating so you will be in close proximity to each other. Verstehen Sie?”
All nodded in understanding.
“Gut. Now, Niclas und Lena,” he called out in a strong voice. “Timm und Maria.”
One by one, each student stood and found the person Herr Christove had assigned to them. “Mark und Stena. Konrad und Scott.” The young man beside her stood and moved away, leaving his seat empty. “Hanna und Angie. Camille und Branwell.”
Everyone began mingling, making their way to their new spot. Being in the front of the class had kept Camille from seeing the other students sitting behind her until now. She rose and looked back. All students had paired up, leaving one young man standing alone.
He was very tall.
Blond hair, cut razor short, hugged his exceptionally round head, accentuating its bowling-ball shape. His large, projecting forehead still looked intelligent, and shadowed a nose that was too small for his face.
Their eyes met in equal shock.
Locked in disbelief, neither could look away.
After several long moments, blood rushed to his face producing splotches of deep crimson on both of his cheeks. Out of all the people in Austria—they were destined to collide again.
Chapter Five
Oh, no. Not him. Camille’s mind screamed as the young man made his way to the front of the room and folded his large frame into the remaining seat next to her, making the chair look as if it were made for a child instead of an adult. Impeccably dressed, his countenance shouted authority and position. Without so much as a by-your-leave, he turned and hung his backpack on the back of his seat, ignoring her completely.
This couldn’t be happening. She struggled to think of something to say but nothing came to mind. Everyone else in the room chatted and exchanged information. She darted a quick look over to the two men seated to her left. She guessed one to be in his late thirties and the other closer to sixty. Oh, why couldn’t I have gotten one of them?
But she hadn’t—so she better just accept it. “Fate would have us meet again.” She held out her hand. “My name is Camille Ashland.”
He just sat there, looking at a schedule he’d pulled from his binder.
Herr Christove walked over to his desk and waited for the class to quiet down. “Now that you have met your study partner, we will begin with our first exercise. I’d like everyone to introduce themselves to their partner.”
Chattering erupted again.
He held up a hand. “Natürlich, auf Deutsch, bitte.”
Silence ensued.
“It is important to try. Do not to be afraid to make mistakes.”
One by one, students sputtered and laughed as dialogue in German began to flow.
Recognizing she was older than Branwell by quite a few years, she therefore was more mature. Somehow she would win him over, and they would become friends. The time for timidity was over. She would take control.
“Ich bin Camille Ashland. Ich komme aus Portland. Und Sie?”
He glanced at his watch, checked his phone for messages, then began texting.
When Herr Christove started in their direction, he slipped his phone back into his pocket turning to Camille.
“Ich heiße Branwell. Ich komme aus London.”
“Branwell,” Günther said to him as he approached. “Good to see you again. How have you been?”
“Very well, Herr Christove.”
“I was surprised to see your name on my attendance sheet again. This is your third term.” Smiling, Herr Christove looked between her and the young man. “But it’s always good to have you back in class.”
“Thank you. It’s good to be back in Vienna.”
“And you are Camille Ashland. The same Camille Ashland who has been studying through our online correspondence course all the way from Portland, Oregon?”
“Yes, that’s me.” A flurry of butterflies burst open inside her. “It’s nice to finally meet you in person, Herr Christove.”
“Likewise. But I am more than surprised that I didn’t know sooner that you were coming.”
Camille could feel the depth of study from his dark blue eyes.
“It was a quick decision. I barely had time to pull the whole thing together.” She wouldn’t go into the details of her heart attack here in front of Branwell.
“Well, I’m happy that you have come all the way from America to meet me in person. I think you will love Vienna. Perhaps, you will like it so much you will end up staying.”
He was kidding, of course, but Camille couldn’t help but respond with an inane display of schoolgirl shyness. To her horror, she giggled.
“Bei wem wohnen Sie?” he asked her slowly.
She shook her head, disappointed to have failed her first test.
“With whom are you staying?” he repeated in English.
“Die Eberstarks. Ich wohne bei den Eberstarks.” She corrected the response, putting it into a full sentence.
“Sehr gut.” He nodded his approval as he moved on to the next pair of students.
Two months of this? Forget killing Stephanie, she’d kiss her instead. It was wonderful to be here, and very exciting to be alive. She ran a shaky hand through her hair and realized she was almost relieved that he’d moved on to somebody else. She watched as he chatted and interacted with the next student, now giving him his undivided attention.
She turned back to Branwell, feeling ready to take him on. “Wie alt sind Sie, Herr Branwell?” She asked him his age knowing she had him over a barrel. Herr Christove was still within hearing distance.
“Zwanzig.” He said it as if the word was distasteful in his mouth.
“Twenty,” she responded in a low voice. “That’s considered an adult in America. I’m twenty-four years your senior, so I’d say you’d better shape up and show a little respect.”
His eyes bulged.
Her courage fortified, she continued. “Was ist ihr Nachname?”
“Rothshine-Millerman.”
“Rothshine-m-m-man.” She said, trying to get the long surname right. Even though she couldn’t say it, it sounded a little familiar.
He repeated it curtly.
He was so pompous she could hardly stand it. Still, she refused to let him ruin any more of her wonderfully exciting first day in class.
“I have some handouts,” Herr Christove said, “simple conversations that you are to memorize before tomorrow. There are also some stickers to put on your things where you are staying. All the host families know that this is an assignment and it won’t be a problem. Affix them to your alarm clock, mirror, bed, and anything else they pertain to. Even if you already know these words, it is a good review exercise. When you see them, say out loud. Wo ist der Wecker? Where is the alarm clock? Then answer yourself out loud, Dort ist der Wecker. And so on. For the next two months I want you to speak, think, and dream in German—not only when you are here in class, but everywhere.”
“Fräulein von Linné,” Günther said, as he held out a stack of handouts. He pulled his hand back q
uickly before she had a chance to brush his fingers with her own, and ignored the little pout on her lips.
Stena von Linné, twenty-four, was from Uppsala, a medium-sized town directly north of Stockholm. She was intelligent and quick. Attended the University of Uppsala. This was her second term in his class. She was classically Swedish, with pale blonde hair and cobalt eyes. Her voice was clear and soft, pleasing to the ear, made for laughter and singing, if nothing else. She moved with graceful actions, very well aware of her great allure to the opposite sex. Her willowy body would tempt the strongest of constitutions without the slightest effort, and she had men young and old falling at her feet, pleading for the slightest morsel of her attention. Her energy was inexhaustible and she was truly fun to be around, making other women like her too. He would have to be blind not to see that she had a huge crush on him, and although he wasn’t interested, he was flattered.
“Vielen Dank, Herr Christove,” Fräulein von Linné purred, her eyelids lowering suggestively as she took a packet of the papers and passed the others to her partner, Mark Marslino.
“Class, Fräulein von Linné is a language student working toward her doctorate degree. German is her fourth language.”
An “ahhh” of appreciation rippled through the class. “If you find yourself stuck and I am unavailable, I’m sure she could be of help to you.”
He went to his desk and sat down. This was going to be an interesting class. But then, he thought the same of every class, enjoying each for its uniqueness of individuals. Smaller by a handful, this group would be easier to take on field trips and outings and make it possible to get to know each student on a more personal level.
He remembered the American woman quite well from the assignments he’d overseen online, and considered her bright and determined. She’d work at something until she got it exactly right. Upon meeting her in person, she surprised him with her youthful zeal. He couldn’t help but smile as she tried to draw Branwell out of his self-absorbed shell.
Yes, Branwell was back. Again. Still the enigma. Günther hadn’t heard that his father, Herr Crawford Rothshine-Millerman, the prime minister of England, was sending his son for his third term. It was a mystery to Günther why, because Branwell’s conversational German was, on the whole, quite fluent. Perhaps fluent was not good enough, and the prime minister expected perfection in regard to his only son. The young man was studious and intelligent. But his aloof behavior, together with his strange looks, unfortunately kept him on the outside of most social circles in his class.
As promised by Helene, the day passed quickly. Soon three o’clock had arrived. As other students hurried by laughing and talking, Camille found herself standing alone at the top of the school’s wide flagstone steps. The air was chilly and the sun, barely peeping through a thin layer of low-hanging clouds, lit up the golden and silver hues of the many different architectural façades that encompassed the perimeter of the square.
The view overlooking Michaelerplatz was spectacular. She stood mesmerized, unable to draw her gaze away. How lucky she was to be here. How lucky she was to be alive.
A café with its green-and-white-striped umbrella-topped tables drew her attention. It was an exhilarating feeling—being free. She decided that it would be a nice welcome-to-Vienna treat to have a cup of coffee before heading back to the Eberstarks’.
The café was smoky, crowded, and lively. Every table was occupied and the overflow of people stood crammed into every nook and corner in animated conversation. No one seemed to notice her as she made her way up to the counter.
The man behind the bar turned. “Kann ich Ihnen helfen?”
“Kaffee, bitte.”
He looked at her for several seconds. Camille quickly held out her hands and formed a paper cup. “To go?”
He nodded. She felt triumphant. The barista promptly set about making her request as she dug through her backpack for the euros the Eberstarks had lent her until she got her money situation squared away. Moments later he handed her the drink, along with a little tray that held sugar, a spoon, and some sort of condensed milk. She gave him the money before doctoring her drink.
In the square again, Camille shaded her eyes and looked around. Opposite from where she stood was St. Michael’s Church, its bell tower standing majestically above the busy square in quiet survey. She assumed she must have passed it this morning but hadn’t noticed because of her conversation with Stephen Turner. That already felt like a lifetime ago.
She shouldered her backpack, feeling twenty years younger than her age. Sipping the rich, hot coffee, she made her way toward the church and rounded the corner. People were everywhere enjoying the nice afternoon and Camille felt overwhelmed to be a part of it. It wasn’t five seconds before she heard her name called. Totally expecting Stephen Turner again, she was entirely taken aback when she saw Günther Christove waving to get her attention. He had a backpack too and fit in nicely with his surroundings.
“Mrs. Ashland, over here.” He was on the side of the church in a narrow passageway.
Nervous and excited, she made her way over to where he waited. His smile warmed her insides so much she wondered if the barista hadn’t secretly slipped a little brandy into her drink.
“I was just wondering if you’d had a chance to see this. It’s amazing. I come here often to meditate.”
“What is it?” She looked at the sculptural drawing on the side of the church.
“Look more closely. You tell me.”
“Christ?”
“Yes, on the Mount of Olives. This relief dates back to 1480.”
Camille looked closer. The artwork was chiseled directly upon the side of the wall in earth tones, not immediately obvious. If one were not looking for it, they might walk by without notice. With closer inspection, the figure of Jesus, shrouded with his face unclear, was in a prayerful position.
“Fourteen eighty? That’s incredible.” She regarded Günther’s forthcoming countenance. “I can’t thank you enough for sharing this with me.”
They turned and began walking toward Michaelerplatz side by side.
“So tell me, how did you like your first day?”
“It was so much more than I expected,” Camille said. “And that’s a lot because I’ve been dreaming about doing this for a very long time.”
“I’m pleased again, to hear that. And you are staying with the Eberstarks. They’re a good family and host a student for the school each term. I’m glad that you’re there, for they will make you feel at home. Are you married?”
“Widowed,” she said, taking a sip of her coffee.
He tipped his head in sympathy. His gaze swept up to the church steeple, an odd longing written on his face. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Bret liked to live on the edge. But that’s another story entirely and was a long time ago. I have my teenage daughter, Kristin, and my mother, and my sister-in-law, Stephanie, to keep me busy. I’m not lonely. Actually,” she laughed, “I don’t have the time to be.”
Camille was astonished at the things she was sharing with Herr Christove. It was just so natural with him.
“And you work?”
“I have a business that keeps me running full speed. I started it four years ago. Chocolate Blossoms.”
He smiled at that.
“A silly name, I know,” she agreed, enjoying his nearness very much. “It’s a floral, chocolate, and perfume shop. Other than my daughter, it’s what I live for. Every investor told me it was retail suicide to specialize in only three items. They said I needed to diversify, and attract the interests of all. But I can be very stubborn when I set my heart on something.” Camille laughed and nervously took a sip of her coffee.
“And…” he prompted.
“Well, I kept my vision throughout. The run-of-the-mill, generic gift store was not in my business plan. Anyway, that’s where I was able to take the online course from your school. When it’s slow, either early in the morning or an hour or two before closing, I work
on my assignments. It’s perfect because it never interferes with my time at home with Kristin.”
He looked at her as if taking her measure. “It suits you.”
“Really?”
He nodded.
Laughing softly, Camille shook her head. “I can’t believe I just went on about all that.”
He shrugged, a most appealing look sparkling in his eyes. “And why are you here with us studying German?”
That was the million-dollar question. Everyone always wanted to know why she spent her time poring over books and listening to tapes and CDs. Any time in a bookstore was spent admiring all the new arrivals in the language department.
“My great-grandmother was from Germany, but—that’s not the reason. I’ve just always had an attraction to its language—fascinated by its sounds and combination of letters. But it wasn’t until I started my shop that I actually had time to start studying. I’m sorry, but it’s a mystery to me too. I can’t say.”
They were in the square now and it was time to part company.
“You don’t have to have a reason,” he told her. “Your desire alone is enough. I will be looking for you bright and early tomorrow. It is hard on the nerves, skidding into class at the last minute, yes?” He laughed at her surprised look. “Now watch the motorbikes on your way home. They stop for nothing.”
Chapter Six
Pfarrer Florian Christove sat at his desk staring at his computer monitor. The middle-aged priest was working on his sermon for the first Sunday of Lent, but his thoughts kept getting in the way. Absently, he pushed his reading glasses up the bridge of his nose and reread what he had already written.
His intercom buzzed, and after listening to his secretary’s question, he flipped open his appointment book and scanned his calendar.
“I’m not free that night. Have him call Pfarrer Schimke. He might be available. If he is not, I can do it the following weekend, or the one after that.”
“Danke, Herr Pfarrer.”
He placed the phone back in its cradle and returned to his computer.
Three and a Half Minutes Page 4
