Mrs. Graber poured hot tea into a china cup on the polished coffee table in front of Gus. Then she smiled sadly and sat opposite him in an identical chair.
"Of course we will see you, Constable,” she said. “Whatever help we can be, we will be. What a shame! Poor Elisa. I feel so responsible. It was my Ludwig and I who encouraged her and Henry to come here, to America, to Long Island. To get away from the ghosts and the horrors of all that happened to us. During the war, I mean."
Gus nodded and sipped at his tea.
"Hmm,” he said, indicating the cup of tea, “this is very good. Thank you. And, of course, I understand your feelings, but you must believe me when I say there is no blame to be placed. Not on you folks, anyway. Just on whoever did this."
She nodded solemnly. “Yes,” she said simply.
At that, Ludwig Graber stood suddenly. Gus lifted his gaze and looked into the man's steely gray eyes.
"Forgive me,” Graber said, his voice formal and, like that of his wife, accent free. “But I am late to work. If I thought I could add anything to what Hilda will tell you, I would perhaps stay. But, since I cannot see where I would be of assistance, I prefer not to miss my work. I'm sure you understand."
Gus set the teacup down gently and rose. He offered his hand. Graber shook with a firm, dry grasp.
"I understand, sir,” Gus said. “Perhaps just a quick question or two."
Graber smiled. “I will save you a moment. In nineteen thirty-nine, I was twenty-nine years old. When Germany invaded Poland, I was subject to conscription, what Americans called ‘the draft.’ In order to avoid the Wehrmacht, I enlisted in the Austrian Mountain Guard. There I served until the end of the war. I saw combat only once, against the American Tenth Mountain Division."
Here the man's eyes grew colder. “As I have explained over the years, I was not a Nazi. The American army cleared us both for our visas, and I am now an American citizen. I trust your ‘question or two’ has been answered, Constable."
Gus smiled formally. “No,” he said, “they haven't. I intended only to ask about your relationship with and knowledge of the Strausses."
Graber glanced at the Timex on his wrist. “In that case,” he said, “it is Hilda you need to speak to, and not I. She was much closer to them both. They are older than we and from a small, rural town. Hilda and I were city people and younger, with little in common with them. And now, you must excuse me. Perhaps, if you feel it is necessary, you can return at a more convenient time. Good day."
The man turned and bent to kiss the offered cheek of his wife. Then he strode purposefully from the room. A moment later, Gus heard the front door close.
"Forgive him, Mr. Oliver,” Hilda Graber said. “He is a very conscientious worker and a very private man."
"I understand,” Gus replied, sitting and taking up his teacup once more. “Perhaps another time."
She smiled demurely. Gus continued.
"Now, Mrs. Graber,” he said, his voice growing more formal. “As I explained, I'm a retired constable. And even though I am here with the authorization of the Islin police chief, I am, strictly speaking, not a police official. But I would like to be of help, and that means I have to ask some questions. If you don't mind."
She straightened herself in her chair and folded her hands in her lap. “Of course. Ask me anything you like. I want to be of assistance."
"Can you tell me, Mrs. Graber, where and when, and under what circumstances, you first met the Strausses?"
"That would be nineteen forty-five,” she answered. “In Germany. Ludwig and I are from Linz, in Austria. It is a big city. Perhaps you know of it?"
Gus smiled. “My geography isn't what it should be, I'm afraid,” he said.
She continued. “Well, it was very late in the war. Rumors were all around us. Fear was all around us. People said the Russians were going to take Czechoslovakia, Hungary, everything. And we feared Austria would be next. Even though Austria never fell to them, at the time it seemed likely. So Ludwig and I, we took what money we had, sold what we could, and fled. We left everything behind. Our friends. Our family. Our home."
She sat silent for a moment and lowered her eyes. When she raised them to again meet his, they were moist with tears.
"We were very afraid of the Russians,” she said softly.
Gus smiled with kind eyes. “Aren't we all,” he said.
She shook her head and willed her tears away. “Anyway,” she continued, “we knew the Americans were moving through Germany. We knew the war would end soon. So we crossed into Germany. We ran towards the Americans.” Here she smiled a warm, proud smile. “That was the kind of enemy the Americans were. The kind you run towards and not away from. And now, I, too, am an American."
Gus was warmed by her pride.
"Welcome,” he said.
She smiled her gratitude, then continued.
"Eventually, we wound up in a refugee camp just outside of Munich. We were fed, clothed, housed. They had us examined by doctors. The Red Cross gave us amenities and magazines. We couldn't believe it. Our country was in shambles, all of Europe was starving. But the Americans provided us with everything we needed. Two years I was in that camp. That is where Elisa and I met. She arrived there about the same time I did, she and her brother, Henry. Her two other brothers had been machinists in Lambach, but the Nazis had forced them to relocate to Germany, to Frankfurt, to work on ball-bearing production. They were both killed in a bombing raid.” She sighed. “Ghosts, Mr. Oliver. We were all running from ghosts."
He nodded. Her interesting tale had taken hold of Gus's imagination, and he fought off the distraction it caused.
"Did you say Lambach?” he asked, to refocus himself.
She cocked her head. “You have heard of it? It is a very small town, much smaller than Linz—like Bay Shore."
"Henry Strauss mentioned it. He said they were from Lambach."
"Yes, Elisa lived there her whole life."
"But you only met her in nineteen forty-five, in Germany, not Austria. How do you know where she lived her whole life?"
"Mr. Oliver, we were together every day for nearly two years and with not much to occupy us. I know more about Elisa than I know about my Ludwig. We would talk and talk and talk. For hours.” She smiled. “We were refugees, yes, but we were still women. The Americans provided the coffee, we provided the gossip."
Gus chuckled. “I see,” he said.
Now she frowned. “But why do you ask this? Is it significant?"
"No,” Gus said with an absentminded shake of his head. “Please go on."
"Anyway, Ludwig and I were cleared by the American army and then given visas. We left for New York in March of ninteen forty-seven. By nineteen fifty, we were here, in this house, my Ludwig an auto mechanic. At Bay Shore Buick.” She smiled again. “We are Americans,” she added, her credentials as such validated by the connection to General Motors.
Again Gus chuckled. “Well, you sure are,” he said.
"And Elisa and I—she was Ellie in America, but I still think of her as Elisa—we stayed in touch over the years. Finally, just months ago, December of nineteen fifty-eight, she and Henry arrived. Now, six months later ... and all is changed."
She looked down again, and when she returned her gaze to meet Gus's eyes, he once again saw the tears.
"You can run from the ghosts, Mr. Oliver. But I guess you can never escape them."
* * * *
Gus sped the Edsel eastward on the East Montauk Highway, driving the familiar route towards Central Islin as though on autopilot. He reflected on his forty minutes with Hilda Graber. She had been adamant: The murdered woman had known no one in the United States other than the Grabers. There was no one hunting her or with any reason to kill her. It was, Mrs. Graber believed, just a senseless and random crime.
The usual channels of investigation were leading him nowhere. He glanced up at the rearview mirror and caught sight of his sharp blue eyes reflecting back at him.
&n
bsp; "Gus, ol’ boy,” he said to those eyes. “Either Dal Thomas is a stone-cold killer, or you've got to start lookin’ outside the channels to find out who is."
* * * *
At the northwest corner of Central Islin, to the left and rear of the railroad station's small parking lot, stood two small buildings. The structures were separated by a bluestone gravel driveway: The one closest to the station now housed the newly created Islin Police Department, the other, a two-room post office.
"Use my office, Gus,” Bill Carters said. He stood just inside the front screen door of the police station, dressed in the blue and gray of the department. “I was just on my way out."
"Why, thank you, Chief,” Gus said with a smile.
Carters chuckled. “Guess you can find your way, being it was your office for a bunch of years."
Gus smiled and waved a goodbye. When he entered the office and turned to close the door, his eyes fell on Officer Bobby DeVay seated at a gunmetal desk near the east window and eyeing him suspiciously. Gus closed the door gently and moved to sit behind Chief Carters’ desk.
He quickly placed a call through to the Criminal Investigations Bureau of the United States Immigration Service at the county seat in Riverhead. In moments, he had the appropriate special agent on the line.
"I can get this out to you in a day or so, Deputy Chief,” the agent said. “That soon enough?"
Gus smiled. His little white lie and self-awarded appointment as deputy police chief had, as he knew it would, opened the right door for him.
"Why that would be just fine, Special Agent Harris. Anything the Islin PD can ever do for you, you give Chief Carters a call, you hear?"
He let himself out and stopped in next-door at the post office. Donald Winkler, the postmaster, was an old friend.
"Okay, Gus,” the man said. “Not a problem. I see an envelope from Immigration, I'll call you. ‘Course, I got to deliver it to the police station if that's where it's addressed, but I can sure call you to let you know it's in."
Gus nodded and shook the man's hand. “Thank you, Don, that's all I ask."
And with that, Gus drove back out to his farm. For the next few days, he'd turn his attention from murder and mayhem to potatoes, tomatoes, and hay.
* * * *
It wasn't until the following Monday, nine days after the murder, that Gus got the call from Postmaster Winkler. The package from Immigration had arrived. It would be at the police building by eight that morning.
"Mind if I open this up, Jimmy?” Gus asked Officer Jimmy Duke, the only on-duty officer that morning. Duke looked casually at the thick manila envelope.
"Well, I'll be damned,” he said with a smile. “I see it's addressed to Deputy Chief Oliver. Guess I didn't get the memo."
Gus chuckled. “Just a little something I may have let on to Immigration, just to sort of speed things along. Mind if I look at it?"
The man shrugged. “It's got your name on it, I don't see any problem."
"Thanks, Jimmy,” Gus said.
Gus crossed the room and took a seat at the unused desk that stood outside the single jail cell against the west wall. He opened the envelope.
Twenty minutes later, he sat stiffly in the living room of the Strauss home. Seventy-five-year-old Henry Strauss, beaten and tired-looking, sat mutely on the sofa across from Gus. The delicatessen had remained closed since the murder, the fresh food purchased in bulk at a discounted price by the county to avoid spoilage. It had been distributed to needy families.
"Mr. Strauss,” Gus said, gently but with a clear edge of formal authority. “It's time to tell me the truth."
The old man looked at the blurry Photostat Gus had given him. It was a copy of the original visa application completed and signed by his sister, Elisa Austa Strauss.
The man gently placed it down on the sofa beside him.
"Yes,” he said. “The truth."
"You're not from Lambach. You and your sister lived your entire lives in Braunau, until you both fled into Germany in nineteen forty-five to escape what you feared would be a Russian invasion. From your first day in that refugee camp near Munich, you and your sister told everyone you were both from Lambach. Had lived there your whole lives. Even lied to your new friends, the Grabers.” Gus leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Why? Why, Mr. Strauss? What possible difference could it make? Why would it be so important that even here, in the United States, and in the middle of your sister's murder investigation, you continued the charade? The only place you couldn't lie, or were afraid to, was on your applications for entry to the U. S. of A. Why?"
Henry Strauss sighed. Gus saw a sudden defeat and depression wash over the old man.
"Vat difference is it now?” Strauss said, more to himself than to Gus. “Ve swore an oath to each other ve vould never tell anyone. And it is all foolishness now. So important to us once. And now—foolishness."
Gus stood and crossed the room. Standing next to the man, he laid a gentle hand on the thin shoulder beneath the heavy cotton shirt.
"Tell me,” he said softly.
The old man looked up with teary, red-rimmed eyes. When he spoke, it was in a fragile, exhausted voice.
"Because of him,” he said. “Ve vere ashamed. Always ashamed. Ve hated the Nazis. They ruined our country, our families, our lives."
"Because of who?” Gus asked softly. “Ashamed of what?"
The man's voice gained strength when he spoke once again.
"Hitler,” he said, spitting out the word. “Hitler made us ashamed. He vas born in Braunau, as I vas, as Elisa vas, as my brothers and father and grandfathers vere. As a child, he lived a block from our bakery. Ve knew him, ve gave him cake, our parents sold his mother bread to nourish him! Vhen ve left that place, ve pledged never to tell a soul vhere ve vere born. Cursed, damned Braunau! Home to the devil!"
The man began to sob. Gus sat down gently beside him and draped a comforting hand around the frail shoulders. And as he did so, he wondered.
Just what the hell was going on?
* * * *
It had almost been an afterthought. And even as he had done it, Gus had wondered why. But he had continued, searching methodically through the sad remnants of Elisa Strauss's small bedroom at the rear of the Cape Cod-style home.
Now, sitting on the edge of the still neatly made bed, he looked down at the grainy black-and-white photograph he had found in the small, gunmetal-gray fire box.
"My dear God,” he whispered aloud.
Standing, he slipped the photo into his shirt pocket and left the room, closing the door gently on the ashes of the life of Elisa Austa Strauss, native of Braunau, Austria.
* * * *
The nearest public library to Central Islin was located in the small town of Lake Ronkonkomo. Gus ignored the posted speed limit on Nichols Road and covered the eight miles in no time at all, the big V-8 enjoying the workout.
He entered the library and stopped to speak to the librarian. Then he made his way to the Encyclopedia Britannica. He removed the volume marked GREEL-HORTH and sat at an empty table. He slipped the photograph from his pocket, turned it gently in his hand, and reread the faded, fountain-pen inscription written in a feminine hand on the graying back of the photographic paper: “A.H., J.H., und ich.” The picture was dated in the European style: 23/9/25—September 23, 1925.
Gus turned the photo over once again. Using a magnifying glass borrowed from the helpful and pleasant librarian, he began to examine it very carefully.
It showed three people, full figure and centered. They were standing before a long, glass-empaneled display case. Pastries, cakes, and thick, heavily crusted black breads could be seen inside the case.
On the left of the photo, a young, attractive woman, appearing to be in her mid twenties, smiled into the lens. She was dressed in the simple smock of a cook or baker. On the right of the frame stood a young, fair-haired boy, also smiling. He appeared to be perhaps fourteen or so, baby-faced and with handsome features. He was dresse
d in period European garb appropriate to an adolescent.
In the center, dominating the photo and making it his own, a man appearing to be in his mid thirties stood erect, his eyes riveted to and boring into the camera's lens. While the two others in the photo were smiling gaily, he was not. He wore a light-colored double-breasted suit, a dark polka-dot tie knotted against a white shirt which glared brightly, as though the photo had been taken that very morning and not thirty-four years earlier. The man's arms were crooked at the elbows, each hand thrust in a side pocket of his suit jacket, the thumbs exposed and cocked powerfully against the pale material. His hair was flat and shiny, brushed deliberately to the left side of the skull. A small black moustache appeared to be seared to his upper lip and trimmed evenly to the edges of the nostrils above.
Gus peered through the magnifying glass and into the eyes. They were flat, dull, almost inanimate. He fought a strong urge to look away, but he held the gaze, and then somehow irrationally fearing it, broke away suddenly, lowering the glass. He felt both relieved and foolish at once.
The man in the photograph was Adolf Hitler.
The young woman, Gus knew, was Elisa Strauss.
And with a certainty he did not fully comprehend, the boy in the photo, Gus knew, was a murderer.
Elisa Strauss's murderer.
* * * *
The encyclopedia told Gus that Adolf Hitler had been released from prison in 1924 after serving nine months for a failed attempt to seize control of the Bavarian government. In 1925, the year of the photo that Gus now carried in his breast pocket, Hitler had been very busy extending the reach of the Nazi party throughout Germany and Austria. Apparently, at some point, he had found time to stop by his old Braunau neighborhood and visit the bakery where Henry and Elisa's parents had once given him cake.
And now his specter haunted Central Islin. Central Islin, U.S.A.
Gus left the library and, his mind reeling, pointed the Edsel towards the town of Patchogue and the South Island Camera and Photography Shop. He had only one more thing to do before hurrying back to the little farm he suddenly missed very badly.
* * * *
EQMM, August 2009 Page 3
