Parker stepped over to the tackle box, where Frank had a tape measure along with a scale.
“And bring my camera, please,” Layla added.
Parker grabbed the backpack and laid it at Layla’s feet. He started to take the rod from Layla, but she resisted.
“It’s okay,” Parker reassured her. “You can let go of the death grip on the rod. You’ve caught the fish.”
“Sorry.” Layla handed him the rod. “My hand is cramping.”
Frank brought the fish into the boat. Parker dislodged the hook from the fish’s lower jaw, attached the scale, and held up the fish while they all peered at the number.
“Six pounds seven ounces,” Parker announced. “Awesome.”
Layla snapped pictures. The fish was twenty-four inches long.
“She’s chunky,” Parker said.
“So if it’s fat, it’s a female?” Layla asked.
“No, but it is a female,” Frank said. “They’re called hens.”
“Hens?”
“That’s the term for a female trout.”
“And a male is a rooster?”
Parker chuckled. “No, a male is called a jack or a buck. Give me the camera so we can forever record your first speckled hen trout. You started off with a trophy fish.”
“Do I have to touch it?” Layla asked.
“Yes, and look into her eyes and imagine what she’s thinking. It will add depth and emotion to the photo.”
Frank handed her the fish and spoke in German.
“What did he say?” Parker asked.
“He told me I’d better squeeze her tight like I love her,” Layla replied.
Parker took a succession of rapid-fire pictures. Layla’s face revealed nothing about either love or imagination. All he saw was a desire to get this over with as soon as possible.
“Okay, let’s release her,” he said, lowering the camera.
Layla handed the fish to Frank, who stepped to the rear of the boat and slowly lowered the fish into the water. He held her so that she faced the slow current.
“What are you doing?” Layla asked.
“Letting the water flow over her gills to revive her. She’s exhausted and out of breath.”
“That’s amazing,” Layla said as the fish calmly stayed in Frank’s hands. “She almost seems tame.”
After a few moments, the fish slowly moved out of Frank’s hands and swam away.
CHAPTER 22
Frank guided the skiff into Oriental. The clusters of sailboat masts at the town’s six marinas made it look like an aspen thicket in winter. Frank drove slowly. Layla stood in the bow taking photos. The sun was directly overhead, and the corners of her floppy hat moved slightly in the breeze as she pointed the camera toward one of the marinas. They found two fishing vessels, neither as well maintained as the Aare in her prime. Frank and Parker stood beside each other in the stern by the wheel.
“I like her,” Frank said to his grandson.
“I know why.”
“Tell me.”
“Because she speaks German.”
Frank smiled but didn’t respond. It had been a good day. His love of being on the water wasn’t new, but there was a lightness in his spirit since going to church. The sun sparkled more brightly off the water, and the salt tinge in the breeze was fresher. Nothing had ever felt more alive to him than holding Layla’s fish in the water waiting for it to catch its watery breath. Parker stepped to the front of the boat, and spoke to Layla.
“Head toward that vintage two-master!” he called out to Frank. “She wants a close-up.”
Frank was familiar with the boat, an antique yawl formerly used as a commercial fishing vessel. The boat had a small mizzen sail aft of the rudderpost. The purpose of the secondary sail was to keep the boat steady when hauling in nets. Now it was a luxury craft with shiny wood accents and gleaming brass. Frank had always been curious about the interior restoration of the vessel. He throttled back, and they came to a rocking stop as Layla took pictures. A man in his fifties came up from belowdecks on the sailboat and saw them.
“I love your boat,” Layla called out.
“Would you like to come aboard for a tour?” the man asked.
Layla glanced back at Frank, who nodded. He eased his boat closer, and Parker tossed a line to the man, who secured the skiff snug against a pair of protective bumpers. Frank cut the engine.
“Bring your whole crew,” the man said.
They spent the next thirty minutes receiving a guided tour of the boat from one end to the other. Frank especially enjoyed the parts of the craft that hinted at its commercial fishing heritage. When they finished, Layla left with the owner’s card and a promise to send him a computer disc containing a photo gallery of his vessel. They returned to Frank’s skiff and cast off.
“That was fascinating,” Parker said. “And we wouldn’t have gotten a personal tour without Layla’s help.”
“That’s not true,” she replied.
“It is. For the same reason you received extra attention from the clerk who sold you a fishing license.”
Layla smiled without answering. They pulled up to a marine fuel station.
“How many gallons do I need to buy to tie up for a couple of hours?” Frank asked the attendant who came out of a tiny shed at their approach.
Because the boat was designed to venture into the ocean for day trips, it had an extra-large-capacity gas tank. Frank bought enough fuel so there wouldn’t be a charge to leave the boat in one of four short-term slips. He refused Parker’s offer to pay for the gas.
It was a short walk along the water to a commercial dock where fishermen off-loaded their catches. Layla was taking so many pictures that Frank was worried she’d miss a step and spill into the water. He walked between her and the river as a safety buffer. They entered a small building where freshly caught fish rested on beds of ice.
“Let’s avoid the speckled trout,” Frank said. “It will be at least a week before Layla wants to face a trout on her plate.”
Frank spotted some flounder and showed them to Parker and Layla.
“You pick ’em, Opa,” Parker said. “You know the best size to grill.”
Frank selected three flounder that the owner put in a clear plastic bag.
“All right,” Frank said. “I’ll clean the fish on the boat while you and Layla take everything else to the park.”
Frank’s knife skills remained undiminished by age, and he sliced uniform fillets of flounder and then threw them into a bag containing a soy sauce and sesame oil–based marinade. The fish would soak in the seasoning while the coals in a tiny homemade grill heated up. Frank hummed an old German folk song as he worked. When he reached the chorus, he stopped. The song took him back to a place he’d not visited in a long time.
NORTHERN ITALY, 1943
Late one night General Berg summoned Franz to a meeting in the general’s quarters. Franz, who had already taken off his dress uniform, got ready as quickly as he could. He had a queasy feeling in his stomach as he arrived at the hotel that had been commandeered by the general. A guard snapped to attention before opening the door to an enormous second-floor suite. Inside, General Berg and an officer Franz didn’t recognize were listening to a gramophone recording of “Ich hab die Nacht geträumet,” a famous folk song. When the other officer stood, Franz saw from his insignia that he was a generaloberst, which meant he outranked a senior-division commander like General Berg, who was a generalleutnant. General Berg turned off the gramophone.
“Hauptmann Haus, this is General Krieger. He arrived earlier this evening from Berlin.”
Surprisingly young, Krieger was handsome, trim, and athletic, with blond hair and chiseled features appropriate for a poster promoting Aryan supremacy. Franz guessed Krieger’s career had been artificially accelerated by someone very powerful.
“General Krieger has a keen interest in the Medici period,” General Berg said as he poured a glass of wine.
“Or any period in wh
ich there was an appreciation for fine art,” Krieger added. “Especially if it involves fine workmanship in gold. Gold has the unique ability to maintain its worth, whether in raw form or shaped into something independently beautiful.”
Since he’d been in Italy, Franz had learned a little about the House of Medici and its patronage of famous artists like Botticelli and Michelangelo.
“I’m not an art expert, sir,” Franz replied nervously.
“But I told the general you might be able to suggest where he could find some objects of interest to him,” Berg replied, sipping his wine. “You’ve had time to explore the area since we’ve been here, haven’t you?”
“Yes, sir. Those were your orders.”
“Give the matter consideration and let me know if you have any suggestions for the location of items of interest to the general,” Berg said. “You’re dismissed.”
“That’s it?” Krieger asked General Berg sharply.
“Yes, Herr General. Hauptmann Haus will get back to us. Remember what I told you about his strategic assistance when we broke through the French sector in southern Belgium. I call him my Aryan Eagle.”
Franz shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He suspected General Berg had already had too much to drink, which might explain his uncharacteristic boasting to General Krieger about Franz’s ability to witness the future.
Krieger raised his voice. “This is absurd!”
“You’re going to be here for a couple of days,” Berg replied with a strained calm. “Let’s see what develops.”
Krieger turned his back on Franz.
“You may leave now, Hauptmann,” Berg said.
Franz saluted, gave as emphatic a “Heil Hitler” as he could summon, and walked toward the door. When he had his hand on the knob, he stopped and didn’t open it. He turned around.
“Herr General?” he said to Berg, who was now standing by the gramophone preparing to resume the recording.
“Yes, Hauptmann.”
“There is a house on the Piazza del Campo in Siena. It might be worth looking there for art objects of interest to the general.”
“Do you know the place?” Berg asked, his face lighting up.
“I will recognize it,” Franz replied. “It has a cream-colored stone front that is different from other houses on the street.”
“Items may have been moved there to get them out of Florence,” Berg said to Krieger, who, wide-eyed, was now staring at Franz as if he had two heads.
“What do you suggest?” Krieger asked Berg.
“Send Hauptmann Haus with a detail of ten or so men to check it out.”
“I wouldn’t know exactly what we’re searching for,” Franz said.
“That’s fine,” Berg replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Oberst Adler, who is on General Krieger’s staff, will be in charge. You just point out the house. He’ll do the rest.”
“I’ll go as well,” Krieger said, his eyes boring holes into Franz. “To verify the accuracy of the information.”
“Certainly.” Berg held up a full glass of wine. “And thank you, Herr General, for this excellent wine. Let’s drink to a successful venture.”
“This is not a joint business arrangement,” Krieger replied, keeping his own glass lowered.
Berg’s face suddenly became serious. “Of course not. I simply want to toast your success. A simple soldier like me can enjoy a good bottle of wine, but I lack the ability to appreciate art. I have no desire to be a collector.”
Franz’s palms were sweaty and his mouth was dry.
“Oberst Adler will let you know when to leave in the morning,” Berg said to him. “Good night, Hauptmann.”
Franz left the room. He now suspected General Berg’s nonchalant attitude and apparent intoxication were feigned. His commander was afraid of Krieger and, for some unknown reason, desperate to curry the senior officer’s favor. Franz paused at the top of a marble staircase. Failure to satisfy Krieger’s expectations would likely have far worse consequences for Franz than for General Berg.
Parker had the fire going when Frank arrived with the fish. A red-and-white-checked cloth was draped over the concrete picnic table. Frank shook the bag of fish so the marinade could swirl around.
“The coals will be ready in about five minutes,” Parker said.
“Where’s Layla?” Frank asked.
“Looking for a Pulitzer Prize–winning photograph.”
“I’m not sure she’ll find a topic that serious in Oriental.”
“But she’ll try.”
Frank placed the bag of fish on one of the benches for the table. “What do you know about Layla’s background?” he asked Parker.
“Not a lot. She’s divorced, and her father is a big-time trial lawyer.”
“Where did she learn to speak such excellent German?”
“Why don’t you ask her?” Parker replied, pointing toward Layla, who was approaching across the green grass. “In German, of course.”
“I’m starving!” Layla said as she came up to them. “I’ve been taking pictures of people fixing food and eating here in the park, and my stomach just told my brain to ditch the camera and grab a fork.”
Frank took the flounder from the bag and laid them on the grill. “In a few minutes we can satisfy your hunger,” he said.
While Frank cooked the fish, Layla stood between him and Parker so they could see some of the pictures she’d taken since they left the dock.
“I’ve deleted a bunch already,” Layla said as she scrolled through them. “If you see any you like, I can give you copies.”
“I want a bunch of them,” Parker replied. “Why don’t you organize the best?”
“Three-by-fives are fine with me,” Frank said, poking the fish with tongs. “I don’t need any big ones.”
Several minutes later Frank watched Layla savor her third bite of hot flounder.
“This is better than cake,” she said. “The fish is so delicate, and the marinade is subtle. You didn’t overseason it.”
“I would have,” Frank answered. “It didn’t marinate as long as I prefer.”
“This is perfect,” Layla replied. “Just like today.”
CHAPTER 23
During the drive back to New Bern, Parker thought about telling Layla that Greg had associated her father as cocounsel in a big case, but he really didn’t want to talk about the law. They crossed the bridge over Neuse River.
“Opa asked me where you learned to speak German,” Parker said, settling on a safer subject. “I’ve never seen him enjoy talking with someone so much before.”
“I didn’t have a choice,” she replied. “It wasn’t an option with my father.”
“Why?”
“Family history, which, as you know, is a huge deal to him. I’d want to forget about that sort of thing after settling in a new country, but my father is fascinated by anything that has to do with our German heritage. He forced me to go to meetings of German American groups when I was a kid. I even had a private tutor who taught me German from age six on up.”
“That’s intense.”
“But not unusual for us. Your grandfather told me he immigrated to the US from Switzerland after World War II.”
“That’s right.”
“What did he do during the war?”
“He’s never talked much about it,” Parker answered. “But his entire family was wiped out during an air raid on Dresden.”
“That’s terrible.”
To Parker’s relief, Layla didn’t press for more information. He pulled into the parking lot for her apartment.
“Will you have plenty of time to prepare for your engagement shoot?” he asked.
“Yes, and I had a great time on the boat. I’m glad your grandfather invited himself to come along too. I really like him.”
“And he likes you. He’s never shown much interest—” Parker stopped.
“In the girls you date?” Layla finished the sentence with a smile. “I’m
not sure we’ve actually gone out on a date.”
Parker turned off the car’s engine. “Would you like to?” he asked.
Layla nodded her head. “Yes, I would.”
The following morning Frank stood beside Layla at the church. He’d left his suit and tie at home and put on navy slacks and a white short-sleeved shirt. He enjoyed the sound of the voices singing but didn’t try to join in the unfamiliar songs. Eric preached a message designed to encourage a person in their twenties or thirties to use their gifts and abilities for God instead of wasting them on worldly ambitions or burying them in the sand. The minister’s text was the parable of the talents in the book of Matthew. To the young adults in the crowd, it was a spiritual pep talk. For Frank, it uncovered a layer of guilt he didn’t know existed.
He’d thought his sins fit snugly within the basket of things he’d done to harm people without considering that what he’d failed to do in life might also be a wrong requiring repentance. At Frank’s age, it was a message devoid of hope, and he regretted making the effort to drive into town to attend the meeting. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Layla, who was taking notes, didn’t seem to notice.
Then, as Eric wrapped up the message, he turned to an earlier chapter in Matthew and read the parable of the workers in the vineyard. Frank followed along as the words from Scripture appeared on a screen at the front of the room: “For the kingdom of heaven is like a landowner who went out early in the morning to hire workers for his vineyard. He agreed to pay them a denarius for the day and sent them into his vineyard.”
Frank didn’t know the story. More and more workers went to work in the vineyard. Frank was intrigued by why, at five in the afternoon, the owner of the vineyard hired a last batch of laborers who would work for only one hour. When he operated his fishing boat, Frank never would have considered hiring a man who wasn’t willing and available to put in a full day’s work.
When evening came, the owner of the vineyard said to his foreman, “Call the workers and pay them their wages, beginning with the last ones hired and going on to the first.” The workers who were hired about five in the afternoon came and each received a denarius. So when those came who were hired first, they expected to receive more. But each one of them also received a denarius. When they received it, they began to grumble against the landowner. “These who were hired last worked only one hour,” they said, “and you have made them equal to us who have borne the burden of the work and the heat of the day.” But he answered one of them, “I am not being unfair to you, friend. Didn’t you agree to work for a denarius? Take your pay and go. I want to give the one who was hired last the same as I gave you. Don’t I have the right to do what I want with my own money? Or are you envious because I am generous?”
The Witnesses Page 18
