Legacy of Silence

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  Dr. Vinny appeared behind Miranda and scooped up MacDougal. He signed, Cute kid.

  Miranda nodded. “How does one sign want to kidnap all in a good cause?” she asked.

  “I get it,” he replied. “Willow is not the first foster mother I’ve seen dragging in here because she doesn’t want to lose that monthly payout. Jesse’s social worker told me that the Department of Human Resources is looking for another home for him and it can’t be too soon. In all honesty, I’m always amazed that some of these people pass whatever qualifications are required to become a foster in the first place. She’s probably fine, but there doesn’t seem to be much bonding going on between those two.”

  “It breaks my heart to see a child, hearing or non-hearing, in a situation where there’s little affection.”

  “Agreed. So, Ms. Nolan, do you mind if I ask why you’re taking the class?”

  “I have a friend—” she pursed her lips “—well, that’s not quite true... I’m not sure what to call him...”

  Dr. Vinny chuckled. “Your face is already starting to match your hair. No signing or lip-reading required to understand you’ve got growing feelings.”

  She smiled and signed, Good! then explained the situation regarding Russ and the estate.

  “Well, we’re glad to have you, Miranda, no matter the reason. If you’d like, I’ll make sure you and Jesse stay partners for the next two weekends. There’s a clear affinity between you. It should help both of you progress even faster.”

  She signed, Yes. I like.

  Dr. Vinny scooped up MacDougal and carried him back to the classroom and Miranda headed out to the parking lot. She was proud at having mastered a bit of signing and frustrated that Jesse would be going home to a lonely, silent world.

  Once she arrived at her dad’s house, Miranda avoided stressing about Jesse’s family life by focusing on Phoebe and teaching her some advanced commands. She’d already mastered sit, stay and roll over the day Miranda had rescued her during their wait in the vet’s office. Miranda had spent some time setting up an obstacle course in the large backyard and she’d been playing Frisbee with the dog on a daily basis, even though Phoebe was a far better catcher than Miranda was a thrower.

  After Phoebe made it clear she was ready for a nap, Miranda spent a few hours doing online research regarding Benjamin Auttenberg. She found a site devoted to the paintings he’d sold before his internment at Terezin, then dug deeper into the blogs for any information about possible works he’d finished while at the camp.

  She hit gold when she found a photo of a piece simply titled Performance which depicted the children of Terezin frozen in a moment from the theatrical production that had been designed to convince the International Red Cross that Terezin was a cultural mecca rather than a residence of death. The blogger was light on explanations as to how he’d managed to snap a picture of the painting, but while Miranda was no art expert she felt certain the work was similar enough to Auttenberg’s earlier pieces to be genuine. Even the poor quality of the photo couldn’t conceal the emotion and the strength of the work.

  A few sites appeared to be nothing but discussions of estimated prices for any of Auttenberg’s undiscovered works. Miranda’s friend Jason had been correct. An original Auttenberg could send one’s children, grandchildren and great-grandkids to Ivy League colleges.

  She skimmed one or two limited biographies of Benjamin Auttenberg, but was disappointed that none of the websites revealed much apart from basic facts. He’d been born in Czechoslovakia in 1917, married (no name for his wife and no wedding date provided), had a child (also no name and no date of birth provided) who died May 3, 1944, after the family had been at Terezin for three years. Benjamin Auttenberg died on May 3, 1945; a year to the day after his only child. Miranda’s throat tightened. Virginia had been a young mother, around age twenty-five when her child had been murdered in a concentration camp. “No wonder she wanted to hide,” she told Phoebe, who perked up from a sound sleep upon hearing Miranda’s voice.

  Some of the online forums were filled with nothing but wild theories as to how Auttenberg’s widow had smuggled his work into America after the war and where at least two paintings, with no titles, might have been hidden. One blogger claimed to know for certain that Mrs. Auttenberg calmly walked out of Terezin with a suitcase filled with artwork while another raised the bizarre scenario of Mrs. Auttenberg tucking them away in some desolate castle near Prague then coming back and uncovering them forty years later.

  Miranda could have spent the next two weeks digging for information but was practical enough to realize online sources were productive to some extent and extremely addictive, but not always the most reliable.

  She finally shut the computer down and shook her head.

  “That’s it. I’m exhausted. Miss Virginia?” she called softly. “Please know that I intend to keep your possessions safe. But I refuse to turn into a crazed treasure seeker. I only hope one of your journals provides an answer because I’d dearly love to find even a single piece created by the man you loved and lost.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  MIRANDA HAD ALWAYS enjoyed going to the Trussville Fair with her dad, an outing that had turned into an annual event for the pair since the day Miranda had been old enough to walk by Tim’s side. They’d spent their time divided between Tim’s beloved model-train exhibits and the local artists’ tent and finished up the day with slices of homemade cake and tall glasses of iced tea.

  This year, as soon as Miranda stepped onto the grounds, she knew she’d made a mistake. She was resentful that Farrah was with them and embarrassed at that resentment.

  Just as Miranda had resigned herself to a long morning checking out expensive kitchenware, she spotted the tent that housed the artwork. Feeling slightly contrite at wanting to desert Tim and Farrah as soon as they’d stopped at the first booth Miranda said, “Dad. Farrah. Why don’t I meet y’all by that funky little antique-dolls stall in about an hour? I’d like to see what Jefferson and Shelby counties’ finest artists have produced.”

  “Don’t give me that lame excuse, young lady. You’re heading for the only place with the good A/C. We now feel officially dumped.” Tim grinned at his daughter. “Seriously, no problem. But let’s meet at the model-train booth instead and give us an extra half hour. Farrah is indulging me in my favorite hobby.” He hugged his wife, who beamed with delight. “Of course, I’ll escort her to the kitchen exhibit first so she can burrow through the mass of fluted baking pans and something called a spring-form pan.”

  Farrah nodded and said, “Would you like me to get one for you? They’re perfect for baking cheesecake.”

  Miranda smiled. “Nah, that’s okay. I’d never use them. When I get the craving I tend to head for the nearest deli.”

  “I’d be glad to teach you. Really.”

  Miranda’s smile remained intact even as she inwardly screamed, Do you not get the fact that I hate to cook and I have no desire to learn? I’m not domestic. Never have been. Don’t want to be. Give me a stage. Give me a song. Give me tap shoes. Give me takeout and delivery.

  “I appreciate the offer, but I think finishing the inventory at Miss Virginia’s and teaching children’s theater will have me hopping for the next two weeks. Then I’ll be in Manhattan shooting the film 24/7 and it’ll be back to food-service tables on set and takeout at home.”

  Tim winked at Miranda as he gently steered Farrah toward the kitchen-supplies booths. “Ninety minutes then and we’ll meet you at the model trains. Enjoy the artwork.”

  Miranda ducked inside the tent and sighed with pleasure as the silence and, yes, the cool air hit her. A young man was seated behind a makeshift desk, dressed in a conservative gray pin-striped suit that would have been more at home in Dave Brennan’s law firm than a booth at the Trussville Fair. He nodded at Miranda, waved her over and quietly said, “If you need
some help with anything, let me know. Not everything is for sale. If there’s no tag, it’s exhibition only.”

  She thanked him and surveyed the surroundings for a long moment, mapping out how much time she could spend in front of each piece. She totally forgot that plan when her focus was drawn to a black-and-white illustration depicting what appeared to be a Middle Eastern city. There was a loneliness about the work that was unexpected and arresting.

  She allowed herself to indulge in the time it took to notice each small detail. The artist had sketched modern buildings and escalators in new malls trying to exist alongside rusted lanterns, empty benches and ruins dating back a thousand years. There were no people. The effect was not only that of loneliness but of sadness, yet there was a tranquil ease that permeated the drawing.

  Someone tapped her shoulder. Miranda turned and looked up into the hazel eyes of Russ Gerik. A shiver cascaded down her spine that had nothing to do with the air-conditioning.

  “What do you think about this one?” he asked.

  She answered as best she could, using lip action mixed with the signing she’d learned at the Cooper School and a few gestures. “It makes me want to cry. But...it’s solitary and abandoned and oddly cold for somewhere in the Middle East. Yet the overall effect, to me anyway, is peaceful. I love it. Which is weird.”

  A dark eyebrow lifted. “You’re very perceptive.” He paused. “You’re also signing a little. When did this happen?”

  “Oh.” She signed, I’m taking some weekend workshops. First was yesterday.

  Russ stared at her for a very long moment. “Why?”

  Because I wanted to have a real conversation with you. Miranda couldn’t say that aloud. She couldn’t sign it or mime it, either. She desperately tried to think of an answer that wouldn’t scream, I like you! Good grief. She had just nailed a role in a major motion picture largely through her skills in improvisation. She even intended to work in some improv with her theater kids to loosen them up during the first class. Camp. Children’s theater. She had it. Again mixing mime with signing she explained, “I’m going to be teaching dance at Masquerade Children’s Theater starting tomorrow. Their summer camp. I wanted to be able to sign a little for any kids who were non-hearing.”

  It wasn’t a complete lie. She had suddenly been hit with the brilliant idea to persuade Willow Terence to let Jesse take some classes. It would impress the fool out of Willow’s social workers, and Bonnie Hamil had told Miranda the theater liked to include as many new children as they could. Adding children with hearing or visual impairments might also help with grant money for the theater. She made a mental note to call Bonnie as soon as she got home to see what they could do, including setting up transportation. Something Miranda was willing to provide if necessary.

  Miranda couldn’t tell if Russ believed her or had even caught half of what she’d said, but he didn’t challenge her. He merely used her own fallback word. “Ah.”

  She quickly leaned down to make out the artist’s inscription on the illustration she liked so much—K. Durani. I don’t know the name. I guess he’s local?

  “Was local.” He paused. “He was one of my students.” Russ closed his eyes for a moment before opening them and saying, “He’s dead.”

  “What? You knew him? And he died? That’s so sad.”

  Russ’s eyes reflected a pain that was fresh.

  “He was more than a student. He was a friend.”

  Miranda sensed he wanted, even needed, to say more. Tell me? Please? What was his first name?

  “The K stands for Kamyar. Kamyar Yusuf Durani. His family emigrated from Afghanistan before he was born. He was a good linguist and an amazingly gifted artist. He joined the army and was sent to Kabul.”

  Miranda pointed and signed, Is that where he made this?

  Russ nodded. “This particular piece was his dream of how the city might look one day—free and calm, with the modern world living peacefully alongside the ancient. I don’t know if you’ve checked the bottom, but he called it Silent Sunlight after the old Cat Stevens song. I always felt like it was the perfect choice.”

  Miranda instinctively knew the answer to her next question but she couldn’t let it go unasked. To do so seemed disrespectful. What happened?

  “He died in the same blast that took my hearing and the lives of twelve good men. He was twenty-three years old. In one of life’s supreme ironies, he’d sent Silent Sunlight, along with several other of his works, to his family days earlier.” Russ reached out and gently traced the wooden frame. He closed his eyes and let his hand drop, then turned back to Miranda. “It’s always been my favorite. Kam’s father agreed to loan it out to the festival, but the Durani family doesn’t want to sell it. Maybe they’ll donate it to a museum one day. It’s good enough and it ought to be seen.”

  Miranda nodded and signed, It is that good. I agree.

  The pair stood in silence for a few moments. Miranda finally touched Russ’s hand to get his attention and tried to mix signing and gestures in with her speech. “I don’t want to sound nosy or bring up bad memories, but how did you happen to be working as a translator in Kabul? Were you in the military?”

  He frowned. “Slow down. Please. Sign more if you think you know enough words. What are you asking?”

  “Sorry.” She repeated her question about his work and avoided extra comments, mentally embracing Dr. Vinny for the fast-track class.

  “Oh. I was an interpreter—an independent contractor. The military hires folks who can speak the language, especially those who also understand and speak the local dialects. I was too old to fight, but I wanted to do my part. And by the way, I didn’t work as a translator most of the time. There is a difference.”

  I didn’t know that, Miranda signed.

  “Most people don’t,” Russ said. “An interpreter hears the spoken word. A translator reads and well—translates—the written word. I primarily acted as an interpreter, although I had to dig through and translate written documents on plenty of occasions.”

  Miranda motioned for Russ to wait while she dug into her purse for her small organizer, then quickly scribbled, “So you obviously speak Pashto.”

  “And Farsi. Along with several other languages.”

  “I’m impressed. So the Army snapped you up?”

  “Smart outfit, right?” he smiled. “It helped that I have a doctorate in Cultural Anthropology and that I was familiar with the local culture. I also earned undergrad degrees in Middle Eastern Languages and Anthro from Ohio State. Totally useless for any halfway normal career but perfect for spending a couple of years in Afghanistan chatting with tribal leaders who don’t trust anyone outside of their own villages.”

  Since Russ seemed somewhat amenable to talking about his life, Miranda dared to take her questions a step further. You actually wanted to go over there?

  “Yeah. I believe in what we’re doing to try and free those people.”

  Miranda winced but declined to voice her objections to “what we’re doing.” This was no time to debate U.S. foreign policy. Instead she signed, What were you doing before you hired on as an interpreter?

  “Teaching. Cultural anthropology over at Samford University. That’s how I met Miss Virginia, remember? Her temple had invited several members of the Samford faculty to do a series of lectures and I was one of the guest speakers. The formal title that particular day was ‘Linguistics in the Modern World.’ And, Curious Girl, before you ask—” he flashed a brief smile “—I was in Afghanistan for about eight months before that suicide bomber decided to destroy the lives of a bunch of young soldiers and one thirty-five-year-old interpreter. That was two years ago last month. I haven’t taught for more than three years now.” He stared at the tent’s dirt floor for a long moment.

  Miranda hurriedly wrote, “If I express sympathy for his death will you bite my head
off like you did the day I met you? Since I wasn’t the one who caused the explosion?” She hoped he wouldn’t think she was being rude.

  His eyes opened wide. So did his smile. “I did do that, didn’t I? Bite your head off...” Russ said wryly. “I guess it’s my turn to apologize.”

  Miranda smiled back. “What was that old song by Elton John? ‘Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word.’”

  He seemed confused, so Miranda put her hands over her heart. “The meaning of the word sorry. We say ‘I’m sorry’ for so many things. Sometimes for things that aren’t our fault. Or we use a tone that’s sarcastic.” She tried to frown and wrinkle her nose to express sarcasm, then held up her hand. “Wait. This needs to be written. Otherwise it makes no sense.”

  She wrote, “How does one express that our hearts are feeling sympathy for something we had no part in causing?”

  Russ patiently waited for her to finish. He read her words then stared at her. “Would you like to know what’s one of the worst things about being deaf?”

  Miranda signed, Yes. Please tell me.

  “I’m unable to hear the tone in someone’s voice. It’s easy to lip-read ‘I’m sorry,’ but it’s much harder to tell if it’s being said with sincerity. I do have partial hearing in my right ear, but the only thing that comes through is muted sounds—almost like vibrations from a stompin’ bass guitar—or sirens. I can hear trace sounds of sirens. Something I’d prefer never to hear again. Anyway, I can’t hear words. So having even that slight bit of hearing doesn’t help when it comes to conversations and the intent behind certain words.”

  “What about sign language? For emotions?” Miranda switched back to writing. “The crash lesson I took focused on basics or emergencies. Nothing emotional past ‘I like you.’” She handed the notebook to Russ.