by R. R. Irvine
He laced his hands behind his head and leaned back against the immaculate sofa. “When we docked in Boston, we were told to think of ourselves as guests of the United States government. Imagine that. What came next is even more incredible. Instead of loading us into boxcars the way soldiers traveled in Germany, we were put aboard Pullman coaches.
“We couldn’t believe it. We thought it propaganda at first. That we’d soon fall on hard times. But they never came. Even when we reached our permanent camp in Tremonton, up the road from where we sit here in Brigham City, they continued to treat us well. They gave us new uniforms and three meals a day.”
He smiled. “I probably wouldn’t have survived the war if I hadn’t been captured by the Americans.”
“What about Karl Falke?” Traveler prompted.
“We must have met when they sent us to Cowdery Junction, where we were needed for the sugar beet harvest.”
“What was life there like?” Traveler said.
“Damned hard work, I can tell you. We were in the fields by dawn and didn’t leave again till dusk. We each had a quota, half an acre of sugar beets, thinned and weeded. Without us prisoners, your farmers wouldn’t have gotten their crop in that year.”
Klebe shook his head. “Hitler told us we’d be in the United States by 1945, but he didn’t say anything about sugar beets.”
Klebe stood; his hands went to the small of his back. “What I remember most was the constant backache from stooping over in the fields. The pain was always with us and we were always exhausted. The weather was a killer, too, that summer. Over a hundred degrees for days at a time. Naturally, the farmers knew better than to work out in that kind of sun, but we didn’t have the option. Some of the locals were kind, though. They felt sorry for us and brought cold milk and homemade bread. God, I remember how good that tasted, not like the stuff you buy in stores today.”
He moved to the fireplace and leaned his back against a hearth that showed no soot. For the first time, Traveler realized the house was cool, probably not much higher than the sixty-degree temperature outside.
“One of the farmers said we Germans worked harder than their Mexicans. I know for sure we did twice the work the Italians did. Hell sakes, the farmers wanted us to stay on through the 1946 harvest. You couldn’t blame them, since their own sons weren’t back from the war yet.”
He stared at one of the silver frames for a moment. “Do you like old photographs?” he asked Traveler.
“My father collects them.”
“It’s an old man’s hobby, all right. It’s how I finally placed Karl Falke in my mind, through some old camp photos. He wasn’t actually in them, but his face came back to me just the same. He was older than I was by several years. I don’t think we spoke more than a few times. Of course, I was a lowly Fusilier, a private. Falke was a Sanitatsunterfeldwebel. That’s a sergeant in the medical corps. I have a vague memory that he grew up on a farm and that his family was ambitious enough to send him away to the university before the war. As for me, the army grabbed me the day I turned seventeen.”
“So you’re saying you weren’t a friend of his?” Traveler asked.
“In those days, you had to be damned careful who you picked for a friend. There were Nazis in camp, hard-liners, who kept order and took down names for reprisal after the war.”
“Was Falke a Nazi?”
Klebe shrugged. “Weren’t we all? Still, who can remember that long ago? It’s been nearly half a century, and there aren’t that many of us left alive. One thing’s for sure. It was never a good idea to commit yourself one way or the other.”
“What were your politics then?” Traveler asked.
“I was a patriot. Who isn’t at that age? I’d been indoctrinated, for God’s sake. I’d been told Germany would win the war. We all thought we’d be marching up Pennsylvania Avenue one day just like Hitler promised.”
“What did Falke think?” Martin said.
“Like I told you, he was older. He probably knew better. I did, too, by 1945. That’s when I fell in love with this country. I vowed I’d return after the war was over and find myself a wife. By God, I did, too.”
Klebe snatched up one of the framed photographs and thrust it at Traveler. It showed a woman in coveralls with her hair tied back with a bandanna. “That’s my Norma working for the war effort. She was a patriot, too, one of those Rosie the Riveters in a defense plant.”
“Let’s get back to the Nazis,” Traveler said. “Did they ever do anything more drastic than take down names?”
“I told you before. I was young. I don’t think the noncoms trusted me.” He turned away to replace his wife’s photograph. “I do remember when Falke went missing. There’d been several unexplained deaths around that time. Most of us in camp blamed the Americans, though some thought the Nazis were settling old scores while there was still time.”
“Are you saying he was murdered?” Martin asked.
“It’s possible.”
Martin shook his head. “How would they have hidden the body?”
“We were doing farm work at the time. The guards weren’t with us every minute. The way I figure it, a group of prisoners working together could have buried someone in one of those beet fields.”
Martin ran a finger around the helix of his ear. “Tell us more about Falke’s background.”
“I have the impression that he came from Munich. But I can’t be sure after all these years. Like I said, we weren’t close.”
“Can you think of anything else that might help us?” Martin asked.
Klebe started to shake his head, then turned the gesture into a nod. “Come to think of it, you might want to talk to my brother-in-law, Grant Hansen. He was an American officer at the camp. Naturally, your army used only the dregs to man their POW camps. Men who weren’t fit for anything else. Even so, you might get something out of the old boy.”
“Where can we find him?” Martin said.
“My brother-in-law works for me now, at my subsidiary plant in Kearns. He’s past retirement age, but I keep him on for sentimental reasons.” Klebe smiled. “You know how it is.”
Traveler guessed Klebe to be a good five years beyond retirement himself.
“I came to this country with nothing,” Klebe added. “Look at me now. You see before you one German who won the war.”
As Traveler rose to leave, he saw Norma Klebe standing in the doorway. The look on her face said her war was far from over.
11
THE IDLE Isle Cafe on Brigham City’s Main Street had been a tradition since Traveler was a boy. Each time he returned to the small town, he held his breath, expecting change.
A sigh of relief escaped him as he crossed the threshold. The marble soda fountain was still intact, the homemade candy still on display in old-fashioned glass cases.
Martin grunted appreciatively as he swung onto the counter stool next to his son. They both ordered the same thing they’d been having for decades, hamburgers and chocolate egg malts. By the time they topped off the meal by splitting a piece of homemade pie, a light spring rain was falling.
On the drive back, the rain followed them as far as Bountiful. After that, it was sunshine all the way to the Chester Building.
Barney Chester was waiting for them just inside the bronze, art deco revolving door. He plucked Traveler by the sleeve and tugged him across the lobby to the relative privacy of the cigar stand. Martin followed.
Once behind the counter, Chester glanced toward the elevator where Nephi Bates was lost to everything but the cassette-driven sound inside his earphones.
“Bill’s been arrested,” Chester whispered.
“What for?” Traveler said.
“He calls it tithing.” Chester’s voice had risen back to normal but Bates didn’t seem to be paying any attention. “But it’s still shoplifting.”
“We gave him plenty of money.”
Chester stuck a cigar between his teeth but didn’t light it. “I heard Charlie say som
ething about renting tuxedos for the night.”
“There’s no problem, then,” Martin said. “Bill can plead insanity and get away with it.”
“Where was Bill tithing?” Traveler asked.
“The usual,” Chester said. “The Era Antiques.”
“I’ve got a deal with the owner,” Traveler said. “I pick up the tab after each of their pilgrimages.”
“Lael’s involved this time,” Martin said. “That changes the rules.”
Chester thrust his cigar into the eternal flame and blew smoke toward the ceiling fresco.
“I warned you about that woman,” Martin said. “I—”
A cracking sound in the lobby interrupted him. A moment later, Charlie Redwine came trotting around the corner. A hunk of his plywood sandwich board was missing.
“I got caught in the swinging door,” he said. He ran a palm over his proclamation, which remained intact: GOD SAVE OUR PROPHET.
“Tell us about Bill,” Traveler said.
Charlie slipped his head out of the harness and leaned the board against the cigar counter. Without being asked, Chester filled a cup with coffee and handed it to the Indian, who added a sprinkle from his medicine bag. He held the cup under his nose and breathed deeply.
“My prophet is being persecuted for his vision. He always knew it would come to this, that they would find some way to crucify him.” For Charlie, it was a long speech.
“The Era Antiques never complained before,” Traveler said.
“The church is behind it.”
“What did Bill steal?” Martin asked.
The Navajo tilted his head and drained his coffee. “An old piece of crockery, nothing worth getting excited about. A posy pot, Bill called it.”
“I don’t think so,” Chester put in. “They’ve set bail at twenty-five thousand dollars.”
Traveler started to reach for Charlie, then thought better of it. “I gave you money for Lael’s dinner last night.”
Charlie touched the medicine bag beneath his shirt. “She has gone to her uncle for bail.”
“I don’t think the prophet will get involved.”
“If one prophet refuses to save another, that’s proof of conspiracy.” Charlie folded his arms over his chest.
“We’ll have to come up with the money,” Martin said. “Either that or leave Bill in the can.”
Chester grimaced. “My vacancy rate is high enough as it is without word getting around that I’m financing criminals. The next thing you know, I’ll have bail bondsmen wanting to open up shop here. I can see their neon signs now.” Chester waved his cigar. “Thieves and cutthroats apply here.”
Traveler laid a hand on his father’s shoulder. “We’ve got twenty-five hundred in the kitty upstairs. That’s ten percent, enough for a bond.”
“We’ve spent a little,” Martin said.
“Christ!” Chester handed over his wallet.
“You and Martin go get Bill,” Traveler said. “I’ll talk to the man at Era Antiques.”
******
Rather than move the Jeep, Traveler decided to walk, north past Brigham Young’s statue, then south on State Street. At 251, the sign said ERA ANTIQUES SINCE 1924. The owner, Garner Davis, was a big man, nearly Traveler’s size, and somewhere in his thirties. When he saw Traveler looking at the sign, he said, “My father sold his first antique back in ‘24. He didn’t actually have a shop at the time, but that’s how far back we go.”
“You must know why I’m here,” Traveler said.
“I tried to get hold of you before I called the police.”
“I was out of town most of the day.”
Davis removed a painting from the seat of a worn velvet Victorian chair. “The legs are a little wobbly, but it ought to hold you.”
Once Traveler was settled, Davis moved behind an inlaid walnut desk piled with reference books and receipts.
“I know you’ve made good for Bill in the past, but this time it’s different,” the antique dealer said. “A lot of money’s involved. The piece wasn’t mine, either. It was here on consignment.”
“What are we talking about exactly?”
“A brown glazed earthenware pot about so high.” The dealer held his hands a foot and a half apart. “It’s called Mormon pottery and dates from about 1875. What makes this piece special is the signature. Eardley Bros, Seventh Ward.”
“How much was it worth?” Traveler asked.
“The owner wants four thousand dollars. I was asking five. Not a bad price, really. I’ve had interest from the church museum.”
“Was anybody else in the shop at the time?” Traveler asked.
“I was with a customer in the back, but I still had a good view of Bill and Charlie. I always try to keep an eye on them, since they insist on tithing me, as they call it.”
“Did you actually see them take the pot?”
“I saw Bill slip something under his sandwich board. When I went to see what was missing, the Eardley was gone. I figured they thought it was just another piece of crockery. But they denied taking it when the police caught up with them.”
“What does the owner say?”
“She won’t press charges if we get it back.”
12
“BILL REFUSES bail,” Charlie Redwine said the moment Traveler came through the Chester Building’s revolving door.
Behind Charlie, Barney Chester nodded as if he’d been expecting that development all along. Behind Chester stood Nephi Bates, his earphones hanging loosely around his neck.
“Our Sandwich Prophet intends to become a martyr,” Chester said. “His word, martyr. He blames the church, of course, not his shoplifting.”
Traveler grabbed the Indian by the arm. “Talk to me. What are you and Bill up to?”
Charlie pulled free of Traveler’s grasp. “To us, the Era is our way of counting coup against the white man.”
Traveler stared at the Indian, who usually answered with single words or grunts.
Charlie raised an eyebrow. “In my prophet’s absence, I speak for him.”
Bates’s lips moved silently as if he were trying to memorize every word.
“Go ahead, Charlie,” Chester said. “We’ve been waiting a long time to hear you speak for yourself.”
The Indian unbuttoned the two top buttons of his checkered shirt, reached inside, and pulled out his peyote bag. “I saw Bill in my dreams last night. You also, Traveler.”
“And?” Chester prompted.
Charlie folded his arms, closed his eyes, and began nodding rhythmically.
“I understand,” Chester said. “Charlie’s a shaman in his own right. He intends to work magic to get Bill out of jail.” Chester rolled his eyes at Bates. “I can’t interpret more at the moment.”
“You’re starting to sound like Bill,” Traveler said. “Run me upstairs, Nephi. I don’t feel like walking.”
Bates glared but headed for the elevator. Once inside it, he replaced his earphones and turned up the volume until “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam” leaked out.
Traveler hummed along, carrying the tune all the way to his office, where his father was talking to Lael Woolley. She picked up the phone and began punching in numbers the moment Traveler sat opposite her in his own client’s chair.
“She’s calling the LDS mission in Germany,” Martin explained.
She started to smile, then broke it off to speak into the receiver. “This is Lael Woolley. I’m calling for a genealogy check on a German citizen, Karl Falke. We believe he lived in Munich before World War Two.”
Since no one on the other end questioned her identity, Traveler assumed she’d taken care of that in advance. No doubt the present phone call was meant for show only.
“I’d like that report as soon as possible, and any other information you can get me on the Falke family. If you can’t reach me at home, pass on whatever you get to Mr. Willis Tanner.”
Out of Lael’s field of vision, Martin raised an eyebrow.
She cradled
the phone, leaned forward as far as the desk allowed, and peered into Traveler’s eyes. “You see the kind of power you could tap into if you joined us.”
With a grunt, Traveler slipped out of his client’s chair and into his father’s. “What Bill calls a posy pot turns out to be Mormon pottery. If we don’t get it back, someone’s going to have to come up with four thousand dollars.”
“My uncle would probably consider that a sound investment for raising a fallen angel named Moroni,” Lael said.
Martin sighed. “Bill told me it was a donation to his Church of the True Prophet. As such, he said he had every right to sell it.”
Lael tugged at her bulky sweater until the fabric clung to her ripe breasts. “ ‘God ministered unto him by an holy angel, whose countenance was as lightning, and whose garments were pure and white above all other whiteness.’ ”
Traveler ignored the quotation. “Did Bill tell you who bought it?”
“One of the faithful, was all he would say.”
“ ‘Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels.’ ” With that, she came around the desk toward Traveler. There wasn’t room enough to get out of her way, so he stayed put. She bent over his chair and kissed him on the cheek. “I have faith in my Moroni.”
She left the office while he was still wiping off her lipstick.
“Her calling the mission wasn’t my idea,” Martin said as soon as the door closed behind her. “She volunteered.”
“I don’t want her doing us favors,” Traveler said.
“I’ll pay it back if it comes to that.”
“I don’t think that’s what she has in mind.”
“Some women go for older men,” Martin said.
“We’re both older than she is.”
“The Traveler Curse, that’s what I call it. Handed down from father to son. ‘He that looketh on a woman to lust after her, or if any shall commit adultery in their hearts, they shall not have the Spirit, but shall deny the faith and shall fear.’ ”
Traveler was about to dredge up a comeback from Sunday school when the phone rang.
