Legacy of Silence

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  “Hey, Miranda. I see that you have caller ID. I’m impressed.”

  “It’s standard, Darci, as you well know. So, you’re calling—why?”

  “Because I’ve had to change the dates for the Durani showing. It’s not cancelled or anything; just postponed.”

  “Anything wrong?”

  “No, no,” Darci said. “It’s just that I need to reschedule until late fall. Turns out I’m going to be out of town for a few weeks and I don’t want to have this one be a rush job. It deserves more and, really, autumn is better for exhibitions. Everyone’s bored after summer vacays and they’re ready to take the time to actually look at the works presented.”

  “Well, autumn is a better time for me since I should be done with the movie shoot, but I’m not the one who needs to give the okay. Have you checked with the Duranis?”

  “Yeah. I called them a few minutes ago. They’re good with the new dates. I was about to call Russ but thought it’d be easier if you deal with him.”

  “He’s right here. I’ll tell him about the proposed change.”

  “He’s there.... How interesting,” Darci said, chuckling softly. “Are y’all on a date?”

  “If taking a seven-year-old boy out for dinner can be considered a date, then yes.”

  “Who’s the boy?”

  “One of my kids from the children’s theater. I’m playing foster mom for the weekend.”

  Darci snickered. “Russ playing dad, huh? I’ll reserve any comments so you’ll remain civil toward me. I’ll merely say good luck.”

  “He and Jesse are getting along famously,” Miranda said.

  “Well, lovely.... Aren’t you going to ask why I’ll be out of town?”

  Miranda was puzzled. “I didn’t think I knew you well enough to be that nosy.”

  Darci chortled. “Girl, I dove into your business five minutes after meeting you. You’re simply more polite. But you might find my reason interesting.”

  “Okay then, I’ll bite. Why do you have to leave town?”

  “Because an Auttenberg painting showed up in some little town in Upstate New York called Jamesville. I’m off to see if I can snag it for the gallery.”

  Miranda’s eyes opened wide. “Now that is interesting. Are you sure it’s authentic?”

  “Yep. Been verified by experts and all that jazz. There’s some question as to how the painting made it from Europe to the U.S. but apparently the man who owns it, one Noah Mandler, is the son of the folks who helped Virginia Auttenberg get to America. That family was quite close to Mrs. Auttenberg and I’m hoping Mandler might have some information on where Benjamin’s other works might be hidden.”

  “Wow! That’s more than just interesting—it’s fantastic!” Miranda paused, then added, “It’s also a rather spooky coincidence that this painting turns up just when Russ and I are searching for clues about any Auttenbergs that might have been hidden at Virginia’s.”

  “Not really. To be honest, y’all piqued my interest about his works and, as a very conscientious gallery owner, I did some digging and calling, which was how I learned about this particular piece in Jamesburg.”

  “Hmm. Maybe I should hand over a diary or two to you? With your investigative skills you might be able to figure out a clue that’s eluded Russ and me.”

  Darci laughed. “Something tells me if there really is an Auttenberg to be found, y’all will be the ones to find it.”

  “You’ll be the first dealer we call.”

  Darci was silent for so long Miranda thought they’d lost the connection. Finally Darci quietly said, “Miranda, you’ll never believe which Auttenberg it is.”

  “I haven’t actually heard of many.”

  “Well, you’ve heard of this one. It’s Performance. The piece we know was definitely painted at Terezin.”

  Miranda was thunderstruck. “Really? This is amazing.”

  “Yeah, my words exactly. I can’t wait to put it in a prime spot at the gallery.”

  “Well, I sincerely hope it all works out. I think Virginia would be pleased to know that her husband’s work will be shown to folks who appreciate not only the art but the feeling behind the piece’s creation.”

  “Agreed. Uh oh. My other line is buzzing. Catch ya later.” Darci hung up.

  Russ and Jesse were both demolishing cheese biscuits. Russ stopped buttering and placed his knife back on his plate. He pointed to the phone. “Darci?”

  “Yeah. With some very unexpected news.”

  “Tell me.”

  She told him about the change in the Durani exhibition and the Auttenberg piece Performance showing up in Jamesville.

  Russ looked a bit perturbed. “Doesn’t it seem odd and a bit too coincidental that this piece shows up in the middle of our search? Think there’s a connection to the break-ins?”

  “I thought the same thing at first. But that would make Darci our burglar and I doubt that’s the case unless she knew all about Virginia before we told her. She just said her interest was sparked by all the talk of Virginia’s journals so she set out to find an Auttenberg—and did.”

  “Well, when Darci puts her mind to something, she generally succeeds—even if she has to fly to New York.” He shook his head. “Auttenberg’s Performance. In a word—fantastic.”

  “I can’t wait to see it! But as to the Birmingham connection, I still think the diaries hold the key. We simply need the time to read them.” Miranda smiled at Jesse, who was rubbing his eyes. “Maybe every day after my classes?”

  “Unfortunately, that poses a problem.”

  “Which is?”

  “I’m booked solid this week with deliveries for Rocky Ridge.”

  “No big deal. We’ll put another hold on it. They’ve been unread for seventy years. They can wait a bit longer.”

  He nodded. “Meantime, let’s get Jesse home before he falls asleep on the table.” He signaled to the waitress. “Three desserts to go.”

  * * *

  JESSE WAS SLEEPING long before Miranda knocked on Bonnie’s door. Bonnie opened it quietly and let Russ carry Jesse inside while Miranda motioned to both dogs to refrain from jumping onto Russ and Jesse in excitement. Phoebe and Spero followed Russ back to the guest room at a sedate pace, apparently making sure he turned down the covers correctly. Miranda brought up the rear of the small parade and tucked Jesse securely under the down comforter. Phoebe promptly hopped up on the bed and resumed her place at Jesse’s side before Miranda whispered, “Not yet, muttlet. You and your buddy need to go out.”

  Phoebe knew the word out, and she slid quietly off the bed.

  Thirty minutes later the dogs were taken care of, Phoebe was back on the bed and Miranda was saying good-night to Russ and Spero, who appeared disappointed he couldn’t spend the night with Jesse.

  Thank you, she signed.

  “I should be thanking you. Great day. Great kid. I’m definitely up for more of this.”

  Before she could respond, Miranda was interrupted. “Miss Randi!”

  “Uh-oh. Looks like Jesse needs me.”

  Russ nodded. “Go,” he said, then signed, He’s not the only one.

  Russ headed toward his car, motioning for Spero to follow.

  Miranda closed the door and stared around Bonnie’s living room, stunned and in a haze of confusion and hope.

  Outside Bonnie’s house, Russ turned back just before he reached his car. He stood for several moments in front of the door, hand raised, mirroring Miranda’s confusion—and her hope.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  MIRANDA SPENT THE next five days trying to concentrate on her teaching. In between perfecting the Most Extraordinary Super-duper Unbelievably Amazing Kick Line in the Universe for the upcoming show and explaining the intricacies of a heel ball change questions w
ere bouncing through her mind.

  Had Russ really signed, He’s not the only one, as he was leaving? If Miranda’s ASL translation was correct, what had Russ meant? Was he referring to the kids at the theater? To the dogs? To Bonnie trying to deal with social workers and police to get Jesse into a better home? Was there the slightest chance this was a roundabout way of telling her he cared about her? That their relationship had shifted from adversaries to acquaintances to friends to...what exactly? What if Russ was playing her—manipulating her into giving up the inheritance? Miranda dismissed that thought in a hurry. She was the actor, not Russ, and she felt certain he was honest, albeit not always the most communicative in any language.

  By the following weekend, Miranda had worked herself into a frenzy of angst, wonder and tingling anticipation. She and Russ hadn’t arranged any inventory sessions and she hadn’t tried to text him so she felt nervous after a week’s absence. Saturday afternoon, she and Russ arrived at Virginia’s at the same time and Miranda began blushing and perspiring the moment she saw him. The immediate arrival of the day’s keeper-of-the-keys forestalled an awkward greeting. Russ waited until the woman had left before exclaiming, “I have had an amazing morning!”

  Doing? she signed.

  “Teaching ASL to Spanish speakers at The Cooper School.”

  Oh! That’s right. That started today, Miranda signed. She waited while Russ removed the Dragon from his backpack.

  He nodded. “It did indeed and I want to extend my appreciation to you, Ms. Nolan, for making me get in touch with Dr. Vinny. He’s smart, obviously cares about his students and I was immediately impressed.”

  Russ told her all about the class while they watched the dogs run around the yard. “Honestly? Within about five minutes I’d started seriously considering your other suggestion—about me applying for a position at a community or state college. I’d forgotten how much I liked teaching and I didn’t even feel the need to hide under the desk. Of course, all my students at Cooper are deaf, too, which made it easier to teach again.”

  Miranda grinned. “Toe in the water, Gerik. Toe in the water. Then you add stepping into the sunlight.”

  He laughed. “Working on it, Nolan, working on it. Speaking of work, are you ready? Or are you too pooped? I assume you had your dance classes today?”

  It was clear that Russ wasn’t going to bring up anything personal. I’m fine, she signed.

  Inside Virginia’s living room, Russ headed for a large box Miranda had labeled odds and ends. Miranda sank down onto the floor by the piano and dumped out the contents of a smaller box. Phoebe curled up on her feet, fell asleep and began emitting soft doggie snores. Miranda was grateful for Phoebe’s comforting presence when she opened a journal at random. It appeared to be the first one Virginia had written in America. Within seconds Miranda realized it might be the most tragic. She patted Phoebe as she began to sift through the horror that had been Virginia Radinski’s early life in Terezin.

  The journal, written in the broken English of someone still struggling with a new language, was dated 1951, six years after Virginia and the other survivors had been liberated from Terezin. A short enough time to write about the events in detail, long enough so that the pain wasn’t fresh, even though that pain was clearly evident in each word.

  I write this in English, the language of my new country. I will always love Czechoslovakia but I have too many bad memories. I hurt when I think of my lost country and I am thinking if I write in English, maybe it lessen my hurt?

  Today is May 3, 1951. Benjamin was buried six years ago today. If one calls act of a bulldozer spreading dirt over bodies a burial. The bullies who guarded us were scared. Word had spread that German troops had surrendered to Soviet forces earlier that week. Red Cross workers, they come to Terezin along with Soviet troops. Guards wanted to get rid all of evidence of their maltreatment and cruelty and shove our dead into large ditch. Benjamin, too. I feel anger still over no proper burial. We could not sit shivah. The bodies were burned in defiance of traditions. I can dwell no more on this. Benjamin has been gone for more than six years. My son longer. My new Christian friends in the United States believe in heaven and resurrection. I hope this becomes true. I want to see my family when I die.

  Miranda sat straight up, stunned and sickened. She forced herself to read a little more, allowing herself one small pat on Phoebe’s furry head, again thankful to be in the presence of a sweet, breathing creature incapable of hate. The words blurred on the page, partly from Virginia’s spidery European penmanship and partly from the tears Miranda barely realized had been falling from her own eyes. Virginia had spared herself and the reader nothing. She wrote of daily atrocities in Terezin, a camp that had been considered better than places like Dachau and Auschwitz and Buchenwald until long after the war when the truth was revealed.

  Miranda had already done her research on Terezin. The camp had imprisoned enough musicians to create two very fine orchestras. Composers, actors and painters had called Terezin their place of residence and their prison since the day it was first created. Virginia and Benjamin Auttenberg had been brought there in 1941. Four years later Benjamin was murdered and shoved into a mass grave...only a few days before the Soviets arrived. Two young composers—friends of Virginia and Benjamin—had also been killed. Miranda recognized one of the names—Franz Rosenberg—from the first journal she’d read where Virginia had described running into Franz’s widow in Birmingham. Miranda forced herself to continue reading.

  Benjamin and Franz heard in odd communication that flows like river between prisoners that the beautiful children—our babies—who performed for the Red Cross when the Nazis pretend to outsiders Terezin is cultural—those children were killed at Auschwitz. Thousands murdered. Thousands! Many of our people wanted to sit shivah to honor their memories. Benjamin and Franz and Izzak said they would sit shiva alone. They understood people were frightened.

  I write “heard” but is not true. Benjamin and Franz can not hear more than muffled sounds. The butchers experimented on them. They sealed them into chambers with high altitudes. They do this and the men lose hearing but regain maybe a week later? One evil man who claimed he was scientist delights in stealing hearing from musicians, from composers. I believe if Benjamin lived this man would experiment to destroy sight from an artist’s eyes and Benjamin would be blind.

  The guards scream at Benjamin and Franz and Izzak. Izzak still can hear and he falls to the ground. Benjamin and Franz are reciting the blessing with the Keriah, the rending of garments. I know the name of the guard. Ernst Konig. I see his face in nightmares. He shot Benjamin in front of us all. I became hysterical. I was screaming. Konig did not understand my words but he saw the meaning. Why he did not shoot me I do not know. My friend Abram Sabatka picked me up and carried me like some rag doll from Benjamin’s body. Konig laughed and laughed. He allow us to pass like we mean nothing.

  Miranda stopped. She thought she knew her World War Two history. She’d stage-managed a production of The Diary of Anne Frank in college and researched the Franks and the Gies family who had hid them. She’d learned everything she could about the atmosphere surrounding the Jews in Holland and had been horrified that so little had been done to try to help so many souls in anguish. Now, seeing the story through Virginia’s eyes created a racking, physical force within her. She could feel Virginia’s anguish and her fear. She could hear the screams of the women who watched their men murdered as they stood by—helpless.

  “I can’t take more of this today,” she whispered. Phoebe perked up her ears.

  Russ glanced at her and immediately noticed all was not well. “What’s wrong?”

  Miranda tried to smile but her mouth felt frozen. Instead, she crouched down and hugged Phoebe until the dog squirmed away. She motioned to Russ to bring the Dragon, gave him the diary and stayed silent while he read through it.

  Russ flinched. When
he finished the sections Miranda had just read, he handed it back to her and said, “This makes Dante’s version of hell appear tame.”

  Miranda nodded. “I always thought I was fairly tough. I made it through my childhood without a mom from age five. My dad was so broken by her death he shut himself off for years. I went to New York when I was twenty and lived by myself like a big, brave girl. I even kicked a mugger one time on the subway platform when he was too stupid to realize my bag only held scripts and music and a pass for dance classes. But this? Virginia faced death on a daily basis. She saw her son and her husband and her friends murdered. She knew hundreds of children who were killed. Somehow, she survived. I can’t bear to read another word and yet this was her life for years. No wonder she would allow only the neighborhood children to visit.”

  She glanced up at Russ. “I’m surprised she allowed you into her life. Wait. That isn’t going to read right on the Dragon. I meant I’m surprised that she allowed any adult into her life. You must have found a way to make her feel safe.”

  “I tried. I knew she was a Holocaust survivor, but I never knew exactly what had happened. I refrained from asking. I was sure it would cause a lot of pain.”

  Miranda couldn’t hold back her tears any longer. She let them flow freely down her face, not caring whether streaks of mascara flowed with them. Finally, she wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

  “I’m sorry. It’s just...the past few weeks have been stressful, and reading this—I think my emotional quota in angst and sorrow has been reached for the decade. Maybe I’ll go into hiding. Or maybe we should just give these diaries to a Holocaust museum and never open one again.”

  She took a deep breath. “You know what else? This sounds awful but Virginia piled a ton of guilt on my head. I was her lifeline for twenty years. What kind of burden is that to give to another person? That’s the other harsh reality about hiding. It’s ultimately selfish. I loved this woman dearly but the fact that I was her sole purpose for living from the time I was seven on is almost frightening. How do I deal with that?”