“Are you sure? You didn’t have lunch either.” Frau Halder looked concerned.
“I’m sure, but thank you. Have a good evening.”
“You too,” Frau Halder called as she exited.
When Brant’s stomach rumbled, he realized he was hungry. But the thought of eating sickened him. He imagined what it would feel like to be actually starving. The faces he’d seen today knew that feeling. They knew true coldness, survival, and death.
Brant heard Frau Halder’s laughter outside his closed door. Someone knocked twice, and the door opened before he responded.
“Hey, there’s the man. Working late, as usual.” Richter glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll catch you later, Frau Halder.” He walked into Brant’s office and shut the door.
“What brings you to Salzburg again?” Brant asked, peeved at the interruption.
“Some business for Grandma. And what are you up to?” Richter rounded his desk and stared at the frozen image of David Weisman on the computer screen. “A survivor, I assume.”
“That’s right.”
“What stories those people have to tell us.” Richter shook his head as he sat on the edge of the desk.
Brant didn’t respond but resented Richter’s flippant attitude.
“I’m finding how important it is to discover the stories from our past. I’ve had Grandma Ingrid tell me quite a bit—what a time that woman had. It kind of explains why she’s the way she is now, don’t you think?”
“What do you mean?”
“I always thought of her as a cold, grouchy person. My parents hate her, and if I didn’t hate them, perhaps I’d be more on their side. But in the last few years since my parents and I have been noncommunicating and I’ve gotten to know Ingrid, I’ve found out she’s not so bad. Been through hell, that woman has. Used by the Nazis, doing whatever it took to survive and build a decent home for her boys, then they grow up and don’t have any gratitude at all. I feel sorry for the old bat.”
Brant thought of Ingrid. She didn’t have it as difficult as Richter said. The Nazis took good care of her with parties, nice clothes, and jewelry—until the Allies shoved them out and Ingrid had to revise her story. She certainly hadn’t experienced even a taste of what people like David Weisman had endured.
“It’s a good thing Ingrid found Gunther,” Brant said, closing the files on his computer.
“I don’t know. That wasn’t exactly a marriage full of love.”
“Well, at least she was safe and had security. She never wanted for anything.”
“But imagine not feeling love from your own husband. I’ve seen photos of Ingrid, and she was a good-looking lady. Wonder why Gunther never fell for her . . . what’s his story behind it all?”
Although Richter sat relaxed in his chair, behaving as if this were a light conversation, Brant saw red lights flashing.
“You never asked Gunther about his past?” Brant asked.
“Not really. I knew he was married before Ingrid and that he was involved in the underground. But I don’t know much more. I’m sure you asked. You always loved to hear those old stories, while I thought they were boring. Until now. Age is taking the playboy out of me, and I’m seeing a wider view of life.”
Brant wondered about the validity of that—Richter no longer a playboy? Richter interested in history? The history of Gunther and his first wife in particular? “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got several more hours of work tonight. Did you need something?”
“Not in particular. Thought I’d stop by and see what you were doing—knew you’d be working late, as usual. Hey, we could catch a bite to eat. You could invite that good-looking American to come along.” Richter adopted his most charming smile.
“Losing the playboy for history, I see.”
Richter laughed. “No, I wouldn’t move in on your prospect.”
“She’s not my prospect. I haven’t seen her since the day you met her.” Brant thought Darby probably now knew the truth about her grandmother—that she could not be Celia Lange Müller. She would have found the evidence at the cemetery and know. He wondered how she had taken the news, and whether he’d ever see her again.
“What? I expected great reports after I gave you the tickets. Saw a blooming relationship there.”
“Not even close. I gave the tickets to Frau Halder.”
“Ah, Brant, Brant. You have some lessons to learn. So you missed out on a great opportunity—you haven’t even spoken to her since?”
“I don’t even know if she’s still in Salzburg. I believe she was going down to Hallstatt.”
“Too bad. But I’ll have to set you up with some women who won’t let you go so easily. You need a social life. What’s that old American movie say? ‘All work and no play makes Johnny, or Brant, a dull boy.’ Come on, take a break, live a little. Let’s get something to eat. Frau Halder told me you haven’t eaten all day.”
Brant opened his mouth to decline.
“I insist.” Richter picked up Brant’s coat from the coat tree and handed it to him. Brant was hungry but wary. Richter liked to portray the best pals image, but Brant still wasn’t buying it.
“You are doing a great job, Darby,” Professor Peter Voss said over the telephone.
“It doesn’t feel like it.” She closed the phone booth door behind her. Darby had stayed in her room most of the day after her encounter with Frau Gerringer that morning, finally venturing out in the evening to call the professor at the phone booth. Her room at the old house didn’t have a phone, so she found one along Seestraße. Only locals and a few cars moved along the cold street after the sun dropped behind the Alps. “From the information I gained from Frau Gerringer, I wondered if perhaps my grandparents moved to Salzburg after they married so my grandfather could attend the university there. Do they have an archaeology department?”
“Actually, the university was not open then. The school closed down for a period of time.”
“During the war?”
“Actually, for one hundred and fifty years.”
“What?”
“Amazing, yes. We have an interesting history starting in 1617, but then it disbanded in the early 1800s until 1964. So your grandfather would not have attended here.”
“Then that’s a dead end.”
“I will check and see if a Tatianna Hoffman was enrolled at the Mozarteum.”
“Yes, I forgot about that. I’m glad you’re listening.”
“I think you have done excellent work. I am amazed the old woman would confess so much to you. Most people are very closemouthed, even with their own families. There are many adults who would be surprised at the Nazi past they have in their family. After the war, it was not often information passed to the children.”
“I haven’t talked to any of the Gerringer family since the grandmother gave me a good chewing out about being American and stupid. She probably would never have spoken if I didn’t insult her with my swastika-covered book.”
“You have a difficult job. You see, the people you wish to speak with lived in a time when America did not abide so abundantly here.”
“What do you mean?”
“A colleague of mine has done intensive studies on the Americanization of Europe, particularly Austria, since World War II. You cannot imagine how much World War II was a catalyst toward changing Old European culture—much of that due to Coca-Cola, rock and roll, and Hollywood. As you have seen, English is becoming the neutral language in most of Europe. But prior to wars, especially the first World War, Europe was the greatest influence on the world. And the Austro-Hungarian empire was one of the greatest in Europe. So the elderly were raised with their parents’ pride and patriotism for their great nation. The young people today live very much like Americans. Yet it is the elderly who will help you in your quest. Few will
know the language. Few will trust you.”
“I’m seeing that.”
“The older generations feel their traditions are attacked by conquering Americans—no longer with troops, but with music and culture. And it is true. Imagine a foreign culture surrounding your children and grandchildren as you cling to the old ways.”
“I can understand a little. In California, people protest schools that fly both the United States and Mexican flags. Others complain about the foreign cars on the highways and the influx of Asian and Hispanic people with Spanish often spoken more than English in certain counties.”
“Imagine turning on the radio and having 80 to 90 percent of your popular music be German songs, sung in German. Also the majority of your movies and television shows are produced by Germans with dubbed-in English. Then two-thirds of computer software is in German, not English.”
“I’m getting the picture. So what do I do?”
“Be sensitive. Respect their beliefs.”
Darby thought of how she’d read the Nazi book at the breakfast table. That wasn’t exactly respectful of Austrian feelings.
“It can be difficult for Americans to understand. Austria is an old place. Your America is a new land. Our heritage has been war and changing hands. In my parents’ generation, this nation had been taken over, torn apart by differing beliefs, taken over again by the Allies, who were Soviets, British, and Americans, and divided among them, then given our freedom again. America is a land of discovery and settlement that has never been occupied by anyone other than itself. Unless you are Native American, you can find it hard to understand.”
“I’ve been quite in the dark about all of this,” Darby said regretfully.
“You are learning quickly. Are you returning to Salzburg soon?”
“Not for a few days or even a week, though I’m running out of time. There’s much to look for—time has become my enemy.”
“The secrets are not going anywhere, unless they are in human form. And then, yes, time is our enemy. What is your next move?”
“I may drive to Linz and maybe the concentration camp at Mauthausen. It wouldn’t hurt to check records in these places after I look here in Hallstatt.”
“Did you remember that I leave for a conference in Dublin in several days?”
“I didn’t. How long will you be gone?”
“Until 17 November.”
“I return to the States on the sixteenth. Unless I stay longer.”
“That is unfortunate. But if you return to your home, I will not stop looking. You have e-mail?”
“Yes, at my office. I’ll call or write you.”
“Katrine will be coming with me to this conference. I am sorry, but you are back on your own for a while.”
“And just when I was getting used to you two.”
“I know. I want to tell you—to find the answers you seek, think with an Austrian mind, not an American. You must discover what we are like, what we have endured. War had split our country. Evil triumphed, not for a short time but seemingly for an eternity. We have been hurt because of that, scarred forever.”
Darby paused, feeling the impact of his words. “I think that’s exactly what my grandmother would have wanted.”
Her luggage waited by the door. Darby stood on the balcony and said good-bye to Hallstattersee. As she turned away, she spotted something white upon the dark waters. A large swan floated along the edge with curved neck and pure white feathers glowing in the morning light. She hoped it was a message from above, telling her that everything would work out. The administration office had been helpful, proving that Celia Lange had been born in Hallstatt. There were other records that could be found at the church about family members who were either buried there or now the residents of the bone house. But Darby didn’t want to know that information. It was time to leave, to seek the next piece in the fragmented puzzle. She was hopeful, for she was finding some pieces, though the puzzle grew larger with every discovery.
Darby hauled her luggage down the stairs and rang the desk bell to check out. Sophie hurried toward her with a large smile on her face.
“I am so happy to see you. My grandmother told me something for you today.”
“She did?”
“Yes, she very thoughtful all yesterday and this morning she ask if you here still. When I say yes, she tell me some things.”
“What?” Darby didn’t know if she wanted to hear any more from the old woman.
“My grandmother saw your grandmother one more time after Anschluß, after the other Jews were gone from village. Your grandmother and Tatianna Hoffman came to Hallstatt. My grandmother not know why she come. Her family was gone and house occupied by different family. My grandmother was married and had a child already, and she did not talk to Celia. But they stay only one night in the village and came by train. But when they leave, a young woman pick them up in her car and they go with her.”
“Did your grandmother know the woman?”
“No. This last time she see your grandmother, but she hear that all family went to Mauthausen and not returned.”
“That gives me more to wonder about, but tell her I said thank you very much.”
“One more thing. She say one man might have information, but not know if he still alive.”
“Who is he?”
“He was a boy lived here in Hallstatt. He joined Nazis and was guard at Mauthausen.”
Darby grabbed a pen and paper from her purse.
“My grandmother say this man maybe know about Lange people who died there.”
“A man who knew Celia and Tatianna and was a guard at Mauthausen.”
“His name is Bruno Weiler.”
Darby drove from the village south around the lake. Had her grandmother taken the same route so many years ago? While Darby turned back toward Linz in Upper Austria, Celia had turned the opposite way, deeper into the Alps and Tirol region toward Switzerland. But in fleeing her homeland with Tatianna beside her, Celia had made a quick stop at her childhood village. Perhaps she had said good-bye to the place of her innocence, the place of first love.
Darby envisioned the girls fleeing the sleepy village with eyes turned in fear that someone followed. The sound of Nazi boots hid behind every crevice, in every corner. Would they make it out alive? Would they see each other again? Did they have any idea that these were their last moments together?
And who was the other woman? Perhaps the one who had written and told Grandma Celia of Tatianna and Gunther’s deaths. Darby also wondered why Gunther had chosen another route to escape—through the Sudetenland, which was now the Czech Republic. A completely different route.
Darby spent the morning driving winding roads through mountains and hidden lakeside villages. Ebensee was a lakeside village that had been a subcamp of Mauthausen. Traunkirchen. Gunskirchen. Traunsee. Darby had heard these names from her grandmother and tried to recall the stories.
By early afternoon, she entered the Autobahn highway, expecting masses of cars driving over a hundred miles per hour. Yet, though cars sped along, it felt like a comfortable rate. She was never quite sure how many miles per hour she drove on her way toward the industrial city of Linz with the speedometer in kilometers per hour, not miles. Sophie Gerringer had helped her find a place to stay in Linz and had told her a brief history of Austria’s second-largest city. Hitler had spent his childhood in Linz—a fact that surprised her. She hadn’t realized the German Führer was a native Austrian. Unlike Mozart mania, however, Hitler was not a claim to fame for the country. Perhaps if he had won the war there would be Adolf candies and delicacies. When Hitler returned to his hometown with his German storm troopers, he already had great visions for Linz: to recreate it as the Jewel of the Danube. He’d hoped to retire here, if permanent retirement hadn’t been forced upon him.
Da
rby followed the directions to the hotel and drove into the parking lot. The rural hotel sat on a green hillside with a view of the famous blue Danube River.
Only a few miles of bends downriver was Mauthausen Concentration Camp and its subcamps, Gusen I, II, and III.
Suddenly, as if struck in the face, Darby realized where she was going. Her carefully planned list with its connections and leads included the name of Mauthausen. And not just any concentration camp, but the one that had held and stolen the lives of members of her family, and most likely Tatianna’s life also. Number eight on her to-do list had once been a place of hell beyond hell, and for people with her same blood.
KZ Mauthausen. A place that stole tomorrows. Darby would be there tomorrow.
Chapter Seventeen
Brant jumped awake. His chest and back were beaded with sweat, and the sheets were damp and twisted beneath him. The screams from the nightmare continued to echo in his ears. He saw the images that tormented his sleep—black figures with children and babies clutched within their grasp. A monotone voice spoke above the carnage.
“My baby had dark hair and brilliant green eyes. He would smile and laugh when he looked at me. As I patted his back and rocked him at bedtime, he patted mine and snuggled close to my chest until sleep overtook him. My baby was torn from my chest by a soldier. They threw him into the air and used him like a clay pigeon. I embraced death to escape insanity. But by another evil, I lived. After the war, I married again and had two more children. But never do I stop hearing my first baby’s cry.”
Brant tried to shake the story from his mind. But unlike a nightmare his own mind concocted, this was a true story. One of the many he’d witnessed on tape. Brant had always been haunted by the stories, but evermore he was becoming consumed. It seemed his future was to be forever crippled with the sufferings of others. No one understood, except those who survived. Yet Brant did not belong with them either, for he had not lived through it—only witnessed their stories.
How Brant wished to talk to Gunther. How Brant wished things hadn’t changed. In other downtimes, the old man had words to help Brant through, to allow him to see the value of life and living once again. He tried to resurrect the words, but the sound of Gunther’s voice eluded him. He could only hear the cry of children.
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