Winter Passing

by Cindy Martinusen-Coloma

  “Don’t you realize this is off-season, between summer and winter peak? And now after the break-in, I bet I could get them to drop forty dollars a night.”

  “No, thank you. After today, I’d rather leave well enough alone.” Darby glanced at Brant from the corner of her eye. Who did this guy think he was?

  “If you want the Austrian experience, stay in an Austrian hotel, Gasthaus, or Pension. You’ll pay maybe three times less a night. Or look for a sign that says Zimmer frei.”

  “A what?”

  “There are many varieties. Most often the owner of a private home rents out a room or two for a little extra cash. Almost all include breakfast, an Austrian breakfast. Some include dinner. What did you have this morning—American pancakes?”

  Darby didn’t answer.

  “Why travelers stay in a clone of the country they came from I’ll never understand.”

  Darby wanted to hit him. And this man had actually made her cry, something she very rarely did, and never in public.

  A drop of rain hit her on the head. Darby had left her umbrella in her room. More drops began to fall on the newly dried sidewalks.

  “Take my umbrella.”

  Up to then, she hadn’t noticed he carried an umbrella and satchel. He extended the umbrella.

  “I’m fine.” A drop hit her in the eye, and she blinked it away without looking at him.

  They continued to walk another half block as the drops increased.

  “Just take the umbrella.” He opened it. “I insist.”

  “No, thank you.”

  Brant stopped. “Look, I’m sorry about the hotel thing. I’ve been rude since I met you. But take the umbrella, will you? Please?”

  Darby sized him up. His dark eyes did look apologetic. And she’d either accept his offering or soon be drenched. “Okay.” She took the open umbrella and began walking.

  “Thank you,” they said in unison. Darby didn’t look his way.

  Pit, pat. As the rain increased against the umbrella roof, Darby noticed Brant’s dark hair was getting wet.

  “We could share it.” She lifted one side as an invitation.

  “I’m fine.”

  Stubborn man. He wiped a streak of rain from his cheek. The street was now slick with wetness as the rain pelted the ground.

  Darby stopped. “Just get under the umbrella, okay? Please.”

  Brant’s jaw clenched, then relaxed. “All right.”

  A couple passed, snuggled together under a shared umbrella. It made Darby feel all the more awkward as they both tried not to touch or get too close under one umbrella top.

  “Where are we going?” she asked to break the silence.

  “There’s a restaurant I like another few blocks away. Very authentic Austrian.”

  “Sounds good,” she said, trying to think of what else to ask or say. She’d forgotten the list of questions and comments she’d outlined in her room and nothing came to mind, or at least nothing that seemed appropriate beneath a shared umbrella.

  After several blocks along the narrow cobblestone street, Darby realized she’d undertaken her first trip out of the hotel. Their footsteps echoed up the walls of the tall, straight buildings.

  “Is this your first time in Austria or just Salzburg?”

  “My first time in Europe, actually.” My first time outside the United States.

  “Well, this is Kaigasse. Several streets over you’ll find Getreidegasse, a famous shopping street for many centuries. When you see straße at the end, like Franz Josef-straße, that means Franz-Josef Street. If the name ends with gasse, like this one, it means small street, often one-way since they’re so narrow.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m sounding like a tour guide.” Brant shook his head and smiled slightly. The rain bounced harder on the black cloth above their heads.

  The buildings opened to a square with cobblestone streets leading out from its corners. A large fountain bubbled at one end, and arched walkways led to another square on the other end. Darby tilted the umbrella to see the top of the church with its green domes. Raindrops hit their, faces, and the points of the umbrella poked Brant’s head.

  “Oh, sorry. Maybe you should hold it since you’re taller.” She knew he didn’t want to be under it with her, but it was raining harder.

  “We’re almost there,” Brant said, taking the umbrella from her. “I’ve taken the roundabout direction so you can see the city.”

  A sign on a building read Residenzplatz. The fountain gushed water from horses’ mouths and nostrils like bubbles of froth after a long, hard ride. Darby wondered about its history but didn’t ask. She suddenly saw beyond her fears of being in a foreign country and her hotel troubles to the wonder of Old Salzburg. The clouds hung low against the towering Mönchsberg mountain, where the Old City nestled beneath the fortress’s gaze.

  “That’s St. Peter’s Church,” Brant said. “It has a beautiful dome ceiling you’ll have to see from the inside.”

  “I will.” Darby felt drawn back in time. Salzburg certainly had charm with this old section ancient compared to her Californian heritage. It smelled of wet stone and breathed of age chiseled from hundreds of years of dreams, work, and sweat.

  They had found a comfortable pace beneath the umbrella, and though she disliked this man for his hard letter to her grandmother, it felt good to have someone with her, to not be alone for an hour or so. She just wanted to walk in the rain with him, even if she struggled with the thought that she might be betraying Grandma Celia. But her grandmother always gave people the benefit of the doubt.

  Brant had a look that told of his love for the city. Darby observed that he was good-looking in a quiet, withdrawn sort of way. Probably the kind to be careful of because you never really knew what he thought. She glanced down and didn’t see a ring on his finger, which figured. He was probably controlling and domineering. She already knew he was stubborn. Soon she’d strike hard and get the answers she sought, but for now the rain on an umbrella and a little companionship lured her questions away.

  They passed stone archways, a line of horses and carriages, and artists sitting with their Salzburg watercolors under the eaves of buildings. They arrived at a two-story restaurant that had white tables and chairs on the second-story balcony.

  “We’ll have to eat inside with this weather,” Brant said. “This is Cafe Tomaselli, probably Salzburg’s most famous restaurant.”

  Darby noticed the specials menu as they passed but didn’t recognize anything. Her stomach reminded her that she’d missed her breakfast, and it wasn’t happy at all.

  “Have you eaten?”

  “Almost, until the guy-in-my-room incident.” The cheery dining room was warm, and inviting smells surrounded them.

  “Hopefully it was a mistake.” Brant walked to a corner table for two and pulled out her chair.

  “I hope,” she said, grateful that he was a gentleman. “Guten Morgen.” The waitress handed them menus and spoke in rapid German.

  “Would you like coffee and some breakfast?” Brant asked.

  Darby suddenly wondered if this was supposed to be the meeting they’d missed. She had planned that encounter to be formal as she addressed his response to her questions. But right now, she was hungry and not prepared to interrogate her tour guide.

  Her eyes scanned the menu on the table and recognized only one thing. “I’ll take ham and eggs. And some hot chocolate sounds really good. Do they have that?”

  Brant asked the waitress, who nodded and smiled. They spoke a little back and forth, and then the young waitress smiled only for Brant, glancing back at him as she walked away.

  “What did you say to her?”

  “Nothing. She made a reference to you as my breakfast date, and I told her it was business.”

 
“Ah, I understand.” Darby chuckled.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I just wondered about her smile toward you, and that explains it.”

  “I missed something here.”

  “You say I’m a gullible traveler. You’re a bit naive, I’d say.”

  “I’m not naive.”

  “She was flirting with you. Couldn’t you see it?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, here she comes.”

  The waitress set the cups of hot chocolate on the table. As she stepped back a handful of napkins fell at Brant’s feet.

  He picked them up for her, and the woman smiled widely.

  “Danke.”

  “And so early in the morning,” Darby said as the girl walked away with a blush on her face.

  “What are you talking about? She dropped . . .”

  “Exactly. Oh, so gullible.”

  “She needed assistance.”

  “Gullible.”

  “Okay, okay. You got me back. Can we call a truce now?”

  Darby shook his outstretched hand and settled back in her chair. The bright room was cozy. Her eyes focused on Brant. He was handsome enough for a waitress to make an immediate pass at him, but Darby also measured him up as a rigid neat freak by the perfect crease in the collar, smooth wrinkle-free slacks, clean shave, and dark hair with only one place a bit messed up where she’d almost stabbed his head with the umbrella spike. His closets at home were probably as perfectly composed as he looked.

  But who was she to judge on appearance when she must look a fright? Her hair had been only half dry and uncurled when they left the hotel and now felt limp and flat from the weather. Her eyes were likely bloodshot from so little sleep. What would Brant think he knew about her by today’s appearance?

  Darby knew she should be more concerned that she was facing Brant Collins—the man she’d planned to interrogate, stand strong against, press for answers. But the room was warm, food was on the way, and two hot cocoas in short, wide cups were on the table. Now the idea of her great concern over the stranger in her room seemed a bit foolish. Her paranoia over being in a foreign country had gotten the best of her. But at present she was away and able to look at it objectively.

  Darby watched Brant take his first sip of the steaming cocoa. “I haven’t had this in years,” he said, wiping a drop of whipped cream from his upper lip. “Austria is a coffee country.”

  “You speak perfect English.”

  “I should. I was born in the States and have dual citizenship. My mother and I spent summers in Austria, so it was my second home. Now it’s my home.”

  “You’re an American?”

  “Yes. I was born in Portland, Oregon. My father was American, my mother Austrian. They compromised by living in the States except during summer.”

  “Portland is a beautiful city. I was there a few months ago at a photography conference.”

  “My father still lives there. We don’t see each other as often as we’d like.”

  Darby thought of her own father, the man without a face. In the sparse memories she had of him, his face was never there. “When did you settle in Europe?”

  “I attended two years of university here in Salzburg, then decided to stay.”

  “And what about your mother—still in Portland with your father?”

  “She died.” Brant took a quick sip of cocoa.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He met her eyes and for the slightest second Darby saw her own reflection.

  “Ham and eggs for you.” The waitress stood in front of them. They leaned back as she set the steaming platters in front of them. The eggs sizzled above a layer of ham on the hot plates.

  “Danke,” they replied in unison.

  “Enjoy,” the waitress said, looking only at Brant.

  The eggs weren’t completely done, but as Darby moved them around the sizzling platter they quickly cooked through. As they ate, she searched words for more small talk. She could mention the weather or ask about the sights in the area. Brant certainly liked the tour guide role. Then Darby recalled the last image of Grandma Celia, eyes closed, hands stilled in her coffin. Sure, Grandma gave people the benefit of the doubt, but could she so easily ignore the fact that this man she chatted so amiably with was the same person who had accused her grandmother of being an imposter? That was a pretty strong charge. Yet here she was chatting and eating ham and eggs with him. Darby couldn’t eat the last bites.

  “We were meeting to talk about my grandmother.”

  Something changed in Brant’s expression, as if he too suddenly realized their roles and the fact that they had crossed an invisible line. He crumpled the napkin in his hand.

  “That’s right. We’ve wandered from the intended topic.” He glanced at his watch. “The lure of a Salzburger morning . . .”

  “We can reschedule.”

  Brant seemed to reconsider. “No, this is fine. Let me just check my phone for a second.” He reached into his black satchel beneath the table. Darby noticed his frown as he stood up. “My secretary called three times. Please excuse me for a minute.”

  “Of course.” Darby watched him walk out of the restaurant. At least Brant wasn’t the type to chat in a restaurant on his cell phone—that always annoyed her. She drank the last chocolate-rich sip in her coffee cup, then looked toward the doorway, wishing she’d insisted they reschedule. Darby could barely remember the questions she’d prepared and all at once felt like crawling back beneath the down comforter in her hotel. The cozy ambiance of the restaurant didn’t blend well with the type of meeting she’d envisioned. Perhaps she’d meet him at his office the next day.

  Brant returned moments later and sat back down.

  “Is something wrong? If you need to go, I’d rather . . .”

  “No. I have someone at my office waiting for me, but—well, it’s someone I’d rather avoid. Let’s talk about your grandmother.” He rubbed his chin, waiting.

  Darby realized she needed to collect her thoughts, and quickly.

  Brant leaned back in his chair. “We’ve taken a bizarre trip around our meeting. But let’s get back to the subject. I assume you are here because your grandmother continues to claim to be Celia Müller.”

  Something in the way he said her grandmother’s name and “continues to claim to be” stirred her anger.

  “My grandmother is Celia Müller, or rather, she was.”

  “Was?”

  “She passed away last month.”

  An expression flickered across Brant’s face. His tense jaw relaxed as he stared down at his plate. Both were silent for a minute.

  “What I’m wondering is why you don’t believe my grandmother is Celia Müller, and why she wrote to you in the first place.”

  “She didn’t write to me, in particular. She wrote to the Holocaust Survivors’ Organization I work for. Our Salzburg office is not large. In fact, I run two businesses from the same office. Your grandmother wrote us last summer. I brought the letter with me for our meeting.”

  “You did?”

  “I keep records of all correspondence, whether we believe the claim or not.” He reached into the black satchel and pulled out an envelope. He looked at it once, then handed it to Darby.

  The letter was basic and formal, and thankfully in English.

  My name is Celia Rachel Lange Müller. My father and brother, Simon Lange and Warner Lange, and aunt, Milda Lange Bergmann, were taken by the Nazis and all sent to KZ Dachau and/or later KZ Mauthausen and Mauthausen/ Gusen, where they perished. I alone escaped Austria. I am writing in regard to a family inheritance that was lost during the Nazi occupation. It consists of two coins and a priceless sapphire brooch. I hoped that you could have possible information on how I can seek these items or what would be the nex
t step in my search. I believe that the Nazis stole these items from my family after I escaped the country. Please call, fax, write, or e-mail me with any information you need or how I should proceed next.

  Thank you for your time and work. I eagerly look forward to your response.

  Sincerely,

  Celia Müller

  Darby read the “eagerly look forward to your response” twice. “That’s a pretty basic letter. Your response was pretty harsh.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t recall.”

  “I have the letter with me.” Darby opened her pack and handed Brant the letter. He read it, then handed it back with a frown on his face. “I imagine if this was to my grandmother, I would think the letter harsh. But you have to take it from our viewpoint. My organization helps Holocaust survivors. If you knew these people, saw their faces—you can only imagine the horror these people endured. It’s a miracle anyone survived. But then after liberation, when they should have had freedom and time to rebuild their lives, they received instead another slap in the face. Their homes, property, assets were unavailable for redemption. For example, a bank account in Switzerland or a life insurance policy—the recipients were turned down because there were no death certificates for family members, no proof of their death. How do you prove or disprove that a relative died at a particular camp? We may have a record of them being sent, but did they arrive? Did they really die there? That’s what makes our job difficult. So our organization and other groups try to help, but only in the last ten to twenty years. These people have been brutalized again and again and have come to the end of their lives. Groups such as ours try to offer them and their families hope—or at least a bit of closure before their deaths. So when someone attempts to cash in on that suffering, it provokes some anger. I did respond to your grandmother in this manner.”

  “I can understand your strong emotion toward fraudulent claims.”

  “And unfortunately, there are many.”

  “But what I don’t understand is why you believe my grandmother is not Celia Müller.”