Take your time. Discover who you are. My heart goes on this journey. A journey we should all make.
Forever,
Celia Rachel Lange Müller
Darby set the letter on the table.
“Whew.” Fred was the first to speak. “Celia is full of surprises today.”
Carole sat at the table with the coffee filter still in her hand. “It looks like I’m going to Austria,” Darby said. Her mother didn’t look her way.
Chapter Six
We have a problem.” Richter stretched back against the chair and put his feet on the table. He exhaled a stream of cigarette smoke into the night sky.
Ingrid wrapped her sweater tighter and half sat on the porch railing.
“We waited too long with the old man,” Richter said.
“There’s still Brant.” She turned toward him. “I know Gunther told him something. We need to find out exactly what that is.”
“And how do you suppose we’ll find anything out?”
“We’ll watch for an opportunity.”
“Waiting gets us nowhere, and I’m not a man of patience. We need action.”
“No, we must wait. Then we act.”
“What if Brant doesn’t know anything?”
“Brant may not be our last chance.”
Richter’s feet hit the ground as he faced Ingrid. “Another person who knows something?”
“Perhaps. Be patient. We’ll know what to do soon enough.”
“I’m leaving, on a jet plane.”
The tune hummed from Darby’s lips as she rolled her clothing into neat stacks and put them into her suitcase. As a child, she’d mapped her path through the Alps from Vienna to Switzerland. As an adult, she’d long since put the map away and left the dreams behind. Reality didn’t leave room for fairy tales. But the plane tickets, round-trip with three weeks between arrival and departure dates, were proof that Darby was at last going to Austria.
She carried her luggage toward the front door, pausing by Grandma’s room. Neither she nor her mother was ready to start boxing things up—it could wait. They had made the bed with Grandma’s white embroidered bedspread and dusted the dresser with its perfume bottles and jewelry boxes. Everything appeared normal, as if Grandma Celia had simply gone to the store or was in the backyard with her flowers. Darby hated the images that told her differently—the headstone that had arrived and the newspaper obituary on the refrigerator, the one with its possibly wrong birthplace.
When Carole had set the safe key on the kitchen table a few weeks before, Darby had been sure the shadows she felt every night would finally be vanquished by truth. But that didn’t happen. The documents, papers, and photographs only resurrected greater secrets. And with them came two paths—bury the past and concentrate on the present, or seek the answers from yesterday.
When faced with this decision at different stages of her childhood, Darby had turned away from the past. She had her own life of volleyball tryouts, new makeup, hairstyles, “What are we doing this weekend?” and “What do you want to do when you grow up?” Only once did Darby look toward the questions that sometimes arose.
She’d watched the TV miniseries War and Remembrance on her bedroom television. Before Darby’s eyes, the beautiful character Natalie, played by Jane Seymour, was reduced to a starving animal with fear alive in her eyes. Natalie endured a concentration camp. Darby knew that word. Part of her family had died in places like the one shown on the screen. Finally she asked her mother about it. But Carole was angry she’d stayed up late for the entire week, even grounding Darby from her bedroom television—that act alone showed something more in her mother’s anger. Darby was rarely grounded and never from the TV. Grandma Celia took her aside and told her it was good she now understood what family members had endured, but they would not speak of it again. Only the Austria of Grandma Celia’s childhood was told. The good, adventurous stories, not the terrifying ones that marched in time with Nazi boots. And so Darby discarded her questions, her curiosity abated. Something terrible had happened, but she didn’t want to know, didn’t need to know. She wasn’t any different than her friends. Tammy Dodd’s dad had fought in Vietnam. Michelle Ingalls had a grandpa who died in Korea.
In high school, Darby had received a C- on the Holocaust unit of history, though she usually received As and Bs. She’d forged her mother’s name on the report card and also performed her one and only act of skipping school the day her class watched a documentary with real footage of a concentration camp. Years later, when a friend invited her to watch Schindler’s List, Darby had other plans. It wasn’t exactly that she was avoiding the subject. But after the intense reaction from her mother and the silence of her grandmother over a television miniseries and simple questions, Darby had received the unconscious message that looking back was not good—until Grandma Celia’s letter.
So she picked up her luggage and said good-bye to Grandma’s empty room. She was leaving on a jet plane. And though Darby knew she’d be back in three weeks, the next line in the song kept echoing through her thoughts: “Don’t know when I’ll be back again.”
San Francisco International Airport was like a city in itself. She had to carefully follow the right exits and get in the correct lanes without being run over by a shuttle bus or taxi. Her mother gave advice as they looked for a parking place close to the international terminal and Lufthansa Airlines.
Darby had been there a few times to pick up friends, but she preferred the smaller airports in Redding and Sacramento for any trips that required air travel. The farthest she’d gone was New Mexico for a photography conference and Montana to visit a friend. Darby suddenly wondered about her old friend Tristie Grant in Columbia Falls, Montana. She’d received a nice sympathy card from the Grant family, and though distance in both miles and lifestyles had pulled their friendship apart, Darby knew she could always call her college friend and have a ready ear to listen. If only someone like Tristie was traveling with her, then perhaps the knot in her stomach wouldn’t be growing so quickly.
Darby’s mother listed everything to beware of as they entered the airport. Darby tried not to laugh as her mother handed her a list of “be carefuls.”
“Mom, did you write my name on my socks and underwear too?”
“I should have,” Carole said as they stopped at the baggage check-in.
“I can handle it from here. Thanks for coming down with me, Mom.”
Carole hugged Darby. “Okay, this is it, then.”
“I’ll be fine. It’s not like I’ve never traveled. I’ll call when I get there.”
Darby wanted to make a quick escape. Good-byes were hard enough without long hugs and her mother dabbing her eyes on a tissue.
“I’m praying for you and still trying to believe this is somehow the right thing. But I’m just going to leave now. Call me.”
Darby hugged her mother one more time. “See you later, Mom.”
As she left Carole behind, Darby began to feel the doubts growing. The last time she’d allowed any of her old Europe dreams was with her ex-boyfriend, Derek Hunt. He was an avid cyclist and wanted them to ride across the countryside. They’d made plans, checked airfares, and studied maps, but it never happened. None of the dreams she’d had with him ever happened. Life became cameras, good lights and flashes, appointments, and faces on 8 x 10s. Now she’d volunteered to rip herself away from what had become familiar—even safe. Why was she doing this again?
The doubts turned to pricks of fear after she boarded the plane and stowed her luggage in the overhead bin. She was really doing this, really going to Austria. But it didn’t feel like a magical and grand adventure. Suddenly Darby felt like she was clinging to the side of the swimming pool, and her fingers were being pried away. Would she sink or would she swim?
As the plane taxied away from familiar land, Darby wasn�
�t quite sure.
Chapter Seven
I’m alone. Alone, alone, Darby’s mind whispered as she followed a crowd of people toward the baggage area in Salzburg, Austria. For the first time, she understood being a stranger in a strange land. Sure, she took wealthy executives on backpacking expeditions, but that somehow seemed safer—back in the good old United States.
She paused in the smoky terminal, which bustled with noise and movement. She felt trapped, surrounded by people speaking different languages, and uncertain in a country she knew little about, beyond Grandma’s alpine trails and the smell of the trees. Would she get lost in the airport or once she stepped outside? Where exactly was customs, and would they rifle through her belongings like in the movies? Had she forgotten anything?
Darby touched her passport in the front zipper pocket of her purse for the third time since they landed. The line around the luggage wheel was packed. Finally, her two black suitcases arrived, and she squeezed in to grab them. Along with her camera case, carry-on duffel, and purse, it was a job organizing and carting everything toward the next checkpoint. Darby’s eyes burned, and suddenly she was thankful for California’s strict no-smoking laws. The customs sign was the next stop, and she moved to the Non-EU line for non-European citizens. She slid her passport to the young man behind a glass window.
“I’m sorry. Your passport is not valid,” the customs officer stated.
“What?”
“You have not signed your name,” he said with a large smile. He set a pen in front of her.
“Oh, sorry,” she said, not finding his humor funny. She quickly signed her name and watched him stamp a blank page. Darby continued through, realizing she’d just survived her first customs.
People hurried around her, some toward families for excited reunions. Other people waited near walls, eyes searching the crowd, with names written on papers. She thought of the six thousand miles separating her from anyone who would race to enter her arms.
The Austria of Grandma Celia’s romantic and adventurous stories was not the Austria she entered. Though she allowed little time to give it a fair chance, Darby felt a foreboding, down to her bones. Get on the next flight to the United States, back to English and baseball and apple pie—back to home, her mind said frantically. Why had she come in the first place? All her reasons were instantly blurred by the desire to go home.
Darby continued to follow lines of people and signs toward the airport exit. Rain poured upon the historic city of Salzburg. Taxis waited outside the airport doors, so Darby hopped into one and gave the driver the name of her hotel. Angry clouds and an annoying drizzle made it hard to see beyond the windows as the car shot from the parking space. But once she was in the taxi, she had no interest in the city except for surviving the ride. The cab lurched forward, then slammed on its brakes behind a truck, narrowly missing it, then jerked forward again. It reminded her of the New York cab stories, something she’d never cared to experience. The driver was friendly enough, greeting her with a hearty “Grüß Gott.” She wasn’t sure what that meant but said it back anyway.
“Zee,” he said, pointing to a tall church.
Darby barely glanced away from the road. The cabbie spoke what she thought was a history of the city, but his broken English was beyond her distinguishing except for a Mozart reference. She remembered that this cold, wet city had birthed the talent of the great musician, and probably every corner shop would have Mozart memorabilia as a marketing scheme to prove it.
“Here, your hotel.” The cab came to a hard stop. He hopped outside and opened her door. “Eighty schilling, bitte, uh, please.”
“Schillings?” How could she have been so stupid? Of course, she couldn’t pay in United States dollars. She’d meant to change some currency at the airport, but with the bustle of customs and getting her luggage and finding the exit, she’d forgotten. “I’m so sorry, I don’t have—”
The cabbie’s expression changed, becoming thunderous. “I have money, but it’s American dollars.”
“No, no American dollars,” he said, his face stern. “Eighty schilling, or you has euros?”
“No, I don’t have euros or schillings. Is there a bank or exchange or something?”
“There, you get schilling or euro.” He pointed to what appeared to be an ATM machine at the end of the block. Darby hurried toward it, checking behind her to make sure her luggage didn’t disappear from where the cabbie was stacking it at the doorway of the Salzburg Cozy Hotels International. The green-and-yellow cubby was an ATM. An English version helped, but how much should she get out? She punched in three thousand schillings since cab fare was eighty. With a few pushes of the button, Darby had Osterreich schillings from her United States bank, hoping she hadn’t just drained her account.
“Danke,” the cabbie said before hopping into the car and speeding off.
Darby wiped a wet strand of hair from her eyes as she picked up her bags on the hotel doorstep and walked inside. A young woman dressed in the traditional Austrian dirndl greeted her at the front desk. “Grüß Gott.”
“Grüß Gott,” Darby replied. “I have a reservation. My name is Darby Evans.”
“Yes, here you are. Breakfast is included, you know. Your room is number 14.” The woman smiled and handed Darby the room key and some papers. “Payment is when you check out, and please let us know if you need anything or if your room is not to your approval.”
“Thank you,” Darby said, relieved that the woman’s voice reminded her of the soft German accent Grandma Celia had tried to hide. It calmed her frazzled emotions—a little.
She balanced her luggage and peered around for a hallway to the first-floor rooms. The simple yet elegant lobby was connected to a restaurant and sitting room.
“You can take the lift to your room, if you like,” the woman continued.
Darby noticed the elevator, or “lift,” the woman pointed toward. Aware of the woman watching her, she thanked her again and entered the elevator. The doors closed, and Darby examined the buttons. When she pushed the 1 button, the door opened without the lift moving. She was still in the lobby. The woman saw her and smiled.
The doors closed again. Rechecking the room number on the card, Darby guessed that the first floor must actually be what was considered second floor in the United States. As the elevator rose, Darby realized how much she’d been assuming during what should have been a simple journey from airport to hotel. Europe was much different from what she’d expected, in the littlest ways that made her feel uncomfortable and shaken. If today has been a challenge, how will I ever get any information from this trip?
Darby hauled her luggage up several marble stairs, its weight seeming to increase with every step. She found room 14, yes, on the second floor. The room in the old building was neat and simple. There was no flowery wallpaper or brass fixtures like the Cozy Hotels she had stayed at in the United States. It was low on fluff, but high on efficiency. A white down comforter lay folded sideways at the bottom of the bed atop crisp, white sheets. A small mint sat in the crease of an extremely fluffy-looking pillow. She dropped her belongings in the entry, locked the door, and flopped across the inviting bed. “Safe at last.”
Streaks of dull sunshine filtered through the blinds as Darby’s head sank into the down pillow. She hadn’t slept on the plane. Too many thoughts had swirled inside her head. Every time her eyes closed, she’d thought of the enormous gravitational force pulling hard on the jumbo plane with the cold Atlantic waters waiting to swallow them up. She’d listened to every word of the flight attendant’s instructions—even checking for that life preserver under her seat. The person next to her mocked her inexperience with his smile. But Darby figured she’d be the one laughing when he sank to the bottom of the Atlantic while she floated.
The ten-hour flight from San Francisco had felt longer than she had anticipated. The book of essays a f
riend gave her, A Dose of Medicine for Travelers, had quickly bored her. She had already received A Dose of Medicine for Single Women and A Dose of Medicine for Photographers. There was only so much medicine a reader could take. Darby planned to read The Lonely Planet Austria guidebook she’d bought to be prepared for her arrival in Salzburg. But the international flight allowed only one carry-on bag, and she had accidentally checked in the bag with her in-case-your-luggage-gets-lost outfit and her travel guide.
Darby’s next airplane mistake was the two cups of coffee she’d drunk, then regretted when four times she had to hobble over three people to go to the bathroom. Later, she’d attempted to sleep right when turbulence began to jar the plane nearly into pieces—though more experienced travelers continued to sip drinks and tap on laptops. Right then Darby connected with the ominous feeling that had lingered the entire day. She made a plane switch in London and finally arrived in Austria. The flights distanced both time and miles. She had flown into the next day. While home prepared for bed, Austria was grumbling for lunch.
“If you want to beat jet lag, you have to stay awake, stay awake!” Clarise, her business partner, had instructed. “Get on your current time schedule, no matter how tired you become. Get on their schedule, get your work done, and get back to the studio.”
Clarise’s reminder opened her eyes. She dragged herself from the embrace of the down pillow and comforter. Her shirt stuck to her back and felt like she’d worn it for a month. Her hands cried out against the millions of germs they carried—airport germs, taxi germs, doorknob germs.
She went to the blue-and-white-tiled bathroom and washed her hands. What had happened to her childhood hours dreaming of Europe—hours that took more time than adult hours, for they held her hopes along with her dreams? That little girl had planned to explore every nook and cranny. She’d rent a moped and putt around, because at ten years of age, the idea of a driver’s license was more frightening than traveling to Europe. Grandma Celia’s Austrian stories had coincided with Darby’s first viewing of her favorite movie, The Wizard of Oz. Darby would change the few letters in her name to spell “Dorothy” as she imagined herself flying away to the magical land of Oz, the place somewhere over the rainbow where all her dreams would come true. Europe became that magical place with castles beside every alpine lake and kings and queens who would bow to her highness.
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