by Dan Walsh
“Really? He mentioned me personally.”
“Oh yeah. You’re the writer, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I hope to be.”
“Well, he said he’d prayed and thought long and hard about it. Felt you were the one he was supposed to set all this up for. I asked him if he wanted me to call you after I heard he’d passed and he said no. Said he was sure you’d figure it out, even figure out the part about calling me.”
I shook my head.
“You don’t think too highly of yourself, do you?”
The question took me aback. “Why? I don’t know—”
“He said you didn’t see yourself the way he saw you, or the way God does. Not yet. Those were his exact words. Part of the reason he did all this was to help you begin to see yourself in a new light.” Vic leaned forward and said, “He was very proud of you, Michael. By the look of things, seems he had good reason.”
I found myself blinking back tears.
“And he brought me a package to give to you that day. A box. He said, ‘Give this to Michael when he comes. He’ll know what to do with it.’ And he said there was a note he wrote inside it for you. I asked him what was I supposed to do with it if I kicked the bucket before you got here. You know, you get my age, it’s a big deal each morning you open your eyes and still see the ceiling.”
I laughed.
“He said to put it in my will, so it would get to you then. So I’m glad you came, Michael. Because I forgot all about that until this moment. I never did change my will. Now you saved me the trouble.”
We sat there for a few moments. It looked like he was about to nod off. “So . . . where is this box?”
“Oh, shoot. I guess it’s time for my nap, or else you just got real boring.” He laughed. “I’m kidding, I’m just tired.” He stood up. “Let’s go get that thing. I’ve got it out on my bed.”
21
I was back at our fancy hotel room with Jenn.
Vic had brought out the box my grandfather had given him for me. I’d opened it there on his dining room table. It contained three things. An old photo album, an old scrapbook, and a sealed envelope with my name on it, written in my grandfather’s hand.
“That’s a letter he wrote for you,” Vic had said. “The photo album’s full of old pictures from the Richards side of the family. The scrapbook’s a collection of the coded newspaper ads they’d used back in the forties and fifties, to communicate back and forth.”
I couldn’t wait to dive in to both, but especially to read the letter. I hadn’t wanted to do it there and Vic had completely understood. We shook hands, though I had a strong desire to hug the man. I told him he had to let me stay in touch. He said he’d like that but said it would have to be by phone. “Don’t do any of that internet nonsense,” he’d said.
I’d driven the ten minutes back to our hotel to find Jenn still out on the balcony, flipping manuscript pages at the speed of light. It was a little breezy up there, so she used her cell phone as a paperweight. We’d talked a few moments. She wanted to hear everything about my time with Vic but asked me to hold off until she’d reached a “stopping place.” I told her she wouldn’t find any, but that I’d wait just the same.
We agreed I’d stay inside, read Gramps’s letter, and maybe by then, she could take a break. Picking up my glass of iced tea, I walked back to a plush chair in the bedroom suite. The hand holding the letter was shaking, which was ridiculous. “Okay, Gramps, here goes.”
I sat down and began to read.
Michael,
Well, I’m guessing that about now you know the whole story. I hope you don’t mind the madness of my methods, but I thought as a fellow writer, if anyone would understand it’d be you. I’m writing this at my desk—your desk now . . . your office now (don’t be so conflicted about this, I meant for you to have it all). I’m not sure where you’re reading this letter, but I’m guessing if you got it from Vic, you wouldn’t wait to get all the way back to Charleston to open it up (hope the old geezer lived long enough to give it to you personally, I really want you to meet him).
It’s up to you what you do with this manuscript, my journal, and the two albums in this box. You need to know, I didn’t write this story intending to publish it. I wrote it for the family. If you all decide you want to go public with it, I’m fine. My only request is that you agree, as a family, on whatever path you decide.
Oh . . . one big thing: if you do go public, better change Vic and Nate’s names (sure don’t want to create any trouble for these wonderful men).
Michael, I hope you and the family can forgive me for keeping this secret from you all our lives. But I had no choice. I am grateful for all that God did to allow your grandmother and me to live such an extraordinary life together. More than any fame or fortune we acquired, our children and grandchildren have meant everything to us. I was a young man without a family, without a country, without friends, but God has given me a rich heritage. Michael, you have everything. A true faith in God, a beautiful wife, a lovely home.
Michael, you are a gifted writer. It would sadden me to think of you trying to live in my shadow. I’ve been listening and watching you for some time now. And I’m convinced, God has made you different from me. I love the way you see things, the thoughts you come up with all on your own. So write like that. Not as Michael Warner, the grandson of a bestseller. Write as Michael Warner, an author with his own stories to tell. It may take longer, may take years. But I think the world is waiting to hear what you have to say.
I know I would be, if I could be there.
Well, I keep thinking I should have some famous last words to tell you, since I know this will be the last time you’ll “hear” my voice. I’m a writer, for crying out loud, I should be able to come up with something witty or wise at a moment like this.
But all I’m thinking about and aware of is this . . . I love you, Michael. Can’t wait till I see you again and hear about all the things you’ve done with your life.
Gramps
“I love you, Gramps. Can’t wait till I—”
The tears just flowed. Couldn’t stop them. I sat there with my eyes closed, I don’t know for how long.
“Oh, Michael.” I heard Jenn’s voice speaking softly behind me. She bent down and put her arms around me. “Are you okay?”
“He was just so wonderful, Jenn. I miss him so much.”
“Here.” She handed me some tissues. “Do you need a little more time? We can go out later.”
I stood up. “No, let’s go. I need some fresh air . . . and some mahimahi.” I set the letter on the end table.
“When do I get to read it?” she said.
I took her in my arms. “You can read it now, if you want, or after dinner. But I think you should wait until after you finish the manuscript. It’ll mean more then.”
“Then I’ll wait.”
She picked up her purse and we walked out into the living area, holding hands. We stopped to take in the view. “Will we ever get used to this, Michael? This new life your grandfather gave us?”
“I hope not, Jenn.”
Three days later, Jenn and I were back in our new home in Charleston. She’d read the manuscript and my grandfather’s letter, and we spent the better part of a day looking through the Richards family photo album and the old “secret code” news clippings they’d shared with Gramps and Nan. Gramps had typed out a sheet of instructions for us on how to interpret the code. At the bottom he’d written a note by hand: “Memorize then destroy.” Beside that, a little smiley face.
I’d already called Rick Samson, thanked him for his interest in putting my grandfather’s biography together, but informed him I had decided to pass on the project. I quickly added “at least for a few months.” Didn’t think I’d change my mind then but knew it would buy me some time to follow through on some of the things my grandfather had suggested.
Jenn and I had decided on a plan to inform the entire family. But we both agreed, one person in the fa
mily deserved to hear all about this first.
From me.
I sat in my office, looking out through the beautiful Charleston nine-by-nine windows into the gorgeous shaded courtyard and those lovely Adirondack chairs, and picked up the phone.
It rang three or four times.
“Hello, Marilyn? It’s Michael. I found something here at the house, and I’ve got an incredible story to tell you. It’s about Gramps.”
Author’s Note
The Discovery is entirely a work of fiction, and all the main characters are products of my imagination. But the setting and backdrop for the story are based on a number of fascinating historical facts. My inspiration for the book came as I thought about them and contemplated a “what if” scenario.
For example, everything I wrote about the original set of eight Nazi saboteurs who were rounded up by the FBI in June 1942 after landing onshore in Florida and Long Island, is based on historical fact. Their ringleader, George Dasch, wasn’t a Nazi at heart. He actually despised the Nazis and used this “sabotage” mission as a means of getting back to the country he loved. He had no intention of following through. Shortly after he got here, he turned himself in to the FBI and told them everything he knew about the conspiracy. He not only wanted to stop the mission from succeeding, he wanted to continue afterward to help our government fight the Nazis, divulging everything he’d learned while in Germany.
Without his help, it is doubtful the FBI would have ever known who the saboteurs were and what they were planning. Sadly, FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover broke his promise to Dasch and lumped him in with all the others. He wanted the FBI to get full credit for exposing the conspiracy and arresting the saboteurs. He then hoped to silence Dasch forever through a military trial and quick execution. You can read all about this amazing piece of American history in Saboteurs: The Nazi Raid on America by Michael Dobbs (Alfred A. Knopf, New York, 2004) or the book Betrayal (Hippocrene Books, New York, 2007) by David Alan Johnson.
One other historical work fueled my imagination: a scene from the HBO miniseries Band of Brothers. In one episode, shortly after D-Day began, members of the 101st Airborne are walking along a road toward a rendezvous point when they see several German POWs under armed guard. They mock them as they walk by. One of the German soldiers asks an American for a cigarette in perfect English. The American is startled and stops to chat.
He finds out the German was born in the US, even grew up there, not far from where this GI had lived. He said his parents dragged him off to Germany in the thirties, responding to Hitler’s call for all good Germans to return to the Fatherland.
I found that fascinating.
I wondered how horrible it would be if that had happened to me. I think I would have done anything to get back to the US, especially when I learned the truth about the Nazis’ agenda. The combination of these two scenarios became the foundation for Ben’s story. Things began to snowball in my head from there. How would I handle the challenges and obstacles created by circumstances like these?
Such as . . . finding and falling in love with the woman I’d want to spend the rest of my life with.
A woman like Claire.
Acknowledgments
My esteem for my team continues to grow with the addition of this book. Starting with my wife, Cindi, who has grown to become quite the editor. She provides so much more than love, support, and encouragement. Her input into my work has become indispensable.
I’d also like to thank Andrea Doering, my editor at Revell. With each book my appreciation for you grows. Thanks for your insights and wise counsel, and for your friendship. And now it’s clear I’m not alone in my assessments; congratulations on being named “Editor of the Year” by the American Christian Fiction Writers (ACFW) for 2011.
Thanks also to my much-loved agent, Karen Solem, with Spencerhill Associates. You have been with me from the beginning and every step along the way. Cindi and I feel we could not possibly be in better hands.
And to the management and staff at Revell who work so hard behind the scenes to get the book ready for the shelves, then into the readers’ hands. Special thanks to Twila Bennett and Michele Misiak, and to Kristin Kornoelje for your keen eye with all the details.
Lastly, I’d like to thank the staff at the Halifax Historical Society in downtown Daytona Beach for their invaluable help with my research for this book. They helped me “see” the city as it was during the World War II years. If you visit the Daytona area, make sure you stop in and check out this museum on Beach Street.
Dan Walsh is the award-winning author of The Unfinished Gift, The Homecoming, The Deepest Waters, and Remembering Christmas. A member of American Christian Fiction Writers, Dan served as a pastor for twenty-five years. He lives with his family in the Daytona Beach area, where he’s busy researching and writing his next novel.
www.danwalshbooks.com
Books by Dan Walsh
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The Unfinished Gift
The Homecoming
The Deepest Waters
Remembering Christmas
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