The Stranger From Berlin
Page 14
After removing the garments, which amounted to perhaps three shirts and a pair of pants, Jenni pointed into the trunk. ‘Look, Max. These trunks are full of books. German books.’
The foreboding fled, replaced instead by a spark of excitement. ‘Truly?’
Jenni crouched beside one of the containers and pulled out a leather-bound volume. ‘Yes. Just look at them. They’re old and probably very valuable. I bet you anything they used to be in the library downstairs when Mrs Stanwick was alive. When she passed, the Tallulah Foundation members moved a bunch of stuff up here that they didn’t want for the museum.’
‘And got rid of anything German while they were at it?’
‘It looks that way.’
‘Then how did these escape their notice?’
Jenni shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. But someone knew enough to hide them under Dietrich’s things. His name is so taboo around here that probably no one wanted to look through his things.’
Dropping to his knees beside the first trunk, Max carefully began sorting through the books. Most were first editions and undoubtedly rare. But they were beautiful works of art in themselves, with gold-inlaid engravings and tooled leather spines. He found a copy of Goethe’s Faust. An elaborate picture of Faust’s nemesis, the Devil, decorated the cover. Inside, the copyright page read, 1864, Stuttgart and the entire manuscript had been printed using old German script. He ran his fingers over the pages, loving the slight smell of mustiness clinging to them. This had come from his home. That, combined with the smell of an old book greeting him like a long-lost friend, made his longing for Germany explode.
‘I think we should put them back in the library,’ Jenni blurted.
He muffled a laugh. ‘You are a brave one.’
She didn’t deny it. ‘It’s a crime to leave such gorgeous books in an old trunk. And this is a writer’s museum, isn’t it? The library has plenty of room for them.’ She got to her feet. ‘Let’s take them downstairs.’
What an impetuous creature. But, sometimes, impetuousness got you in trouble. And he had no intention of seeking out more trouble. He had enough to contend with already.
‘I think we should wait. Celia will probably want to know before we just put them back on the shelves.’
‘Oh, she won’t have a problem with it.’
Already Jenni was gathering books into her arms and he watched, torn between throwing them all back into the trunk and grabbing books himself.
‘Jenni, I think we should wait.’
She eyed him over a copy of what looked like Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet before she abruptly turned and began navigating through the maze of boxes again. ‘They’re just books, Max,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘They’re not going to jump up and bite anyone. They’ll sit on a shelf where they belong.’
And because he had no rebuttal to her argument, Max scooped up several books and went after her. Mein Gott, but the girl had… what did the Americans call it? Gumption.
They deposited the books in the library, then went back for more. They were making their last trip when Max heard voices coming down the hallway. Panic made him want to turn around and flee, but Jenni didn’t falter and he kept step beside her.
‘What’s going on?’
It was Celia. Behind her stood a man and a woman, staring at him in what he could only deem disapproval. The man’s expensive, well-tailored wool suit and the woman’s beige silk dress and perfectly coiffed hair spoke of wealth and privilege.
Sweat broke out under his arms. Standing there as he was, holding what felt like sticks of dynamite, Max had never felt more out of place in his life, and he certainly didn’t feel up to the task of meeting two people who obviously didn’t want him there.
But why in the hell was he worried about getting caught putting books in a library? Ludicrous!
‘I found these in the attic,’ Jenni said, sounding remarkably calm. He saw the woman’s gaze widen and then seize on the stack of books in Jenni’s arms.
‘I thought I’d put them in the library,’ Jenni continued, ‘and I asked the professor to help me.’ She nodded to the couple. ‘Hello, Mr and Mrs Macintosh. This is Professor Max Koenig.’
He inclined his head. ‘An honour to meet you.’
Mr Macintosh returned his nod, and his wife clutched the single amber locket at her throat and murmured, ‘A pleasure, I’m sure.’
Max tried not to flinch at the distinct venom in her voice, but Celia heard it and, bless her, smiled brightly in an attempt to change the mood. ‘Mr and Mrs Macintosh are on the museum’s board. We have a meeting tonight.’
‘Oh, I’d forgotten about that,’ Jenni said. ‘We’re almost done and then I can help you.’
Celia peered at the books. ‘These look very old. Where did you find them?’
‘In Dietrich’s trunks.’
It was then that he saw it – the flash of fear in Mrs Macintosh’s gaze. Her hand reached back and gripped her husband’s arm.
‘Really?’ Celia didn’t appear to notice the Macintoshes’ sudden unease and she took a book from Jenni. ‘Why, these are remarkable. Very rare too. And it looks like…’ Her voice trailed off. She’d just realized what she was holding. Were German books banned in this town under the same law that outlawed the German language?
‘These are getting heavy,’ Jenni said, and without another word, she brushed past Celia and the Macintoshes and headed for the library. Not knowing what else to do, Max followed, feeling the heat of Mrs Macintosh’s gaze all but searing a hole through his back.
Once in the library, Jenni deposited her books on the desk, then quickly shut the door. Max watched her sink into a nearby chair, looking suddenly exhausted.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘No… yes. I mean, I’m fine. It’s just…’ She grimaced. ‘That couldn’t have happened at a worse time.’
‘What?’
‘You, meeting the Macintoshes.’
He began placing the books on the empty shelves. ‘They didn’t look overjoyed to see me.’
‘Both of them are such snobs,’ she muttered. ‘Mrs Macintosh is the mayor’s sister.’
‘No wonder she was so friendly,’ he said sardonically. Jenni didn’t respond and he noticed her rubbing her stomach, her brow pinched as if she were in pain.
‘Jenni, are you sure you’re all right?’
Jenni looked down at her hands, then all but jumped up from the chair. ‘Yes, yes of course I’m fine. Just… tired, is all.’
‘Did you hurt yourself carrying the books?’
‘No, no.’ She glanced at her wristwatch. ‘But I should probably go help Celia get ready for the board meeting tonight.’ She waved her hand at the books. ‘Don’t worry about these. I thought maybe you could catalogue them and sort them tomorrow, if you’d like. It will give you something to do if you’ve finished with Celia’s to-do list.’
He grinned. ‘She keeps adding to it. But I’m sure she won’t mind if I work on the books. That is… if she allows them to stay.’
‘Celia isn’t the problem in this.’ Jenni pushed back the ever-prevalent stray curl from her forehead. ‘It’s the museum board. Did you see the Macintoshes’ reaction? They know exactly what those books are. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had something to do with hiding them. Celia will have a fight on her hands.’
‘Then instead of cataloguing them, perhaps I should put them back.’
‘No.’ Jenni’s voice was adamant. ‘There is nothing wrong with those books. They were Tallulah’s or her son’s, and that means they belong here in the museum’s library, not stashed away like contraband. We owe it to her to portray her life as accurately as possible. And that includes her books.’
There was something to be said for a woman unafraid to stand up for what was right. If only he’d met Jenni before he’d ever met Ilsa – then he would have known what true bravery looked like. And perhaps he wouldn’t have fallen so far from his moral compass.
For a moment, they stood there, the soft light from the library’s lamps wrapping them in warmth. There was so much about her that he wanted to know, so many questions he wanted to ask. She fascinated him, frustrated him and always, always made him look at the world differently.
‘Thank you, Max.’ She gave him a small smile. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
* * *
He went home that night clutching a copy of Goethe’s The Sorrows of Young Werther. It had been too long since he’d indulged in reading a book in the German language and, right now, he needed that connection with his culture, no matter how small. Mrs Macintosh’s suspicious gaze had burned itself into his memory.
How odd it was to be so openly regarded in such a manner. When he’d boarded the ocean liner to come to America, not once had he thought he’d encounter such an attitude here. And for the most part, he hadn’t. His colleagues at the university had treated him with respect, or had, until Goldberg stirred the pot.
But this small-town paranoia was something new, and he still didn’t know how to handle it.
After he let Katya out for her evening ritual, he ate a sandwich and took a shower before settling into the comfortable easy chair in the living room with a pot of tea and Beethoven playing on the record player. Tonight, he was going to celebrate his German culture and not apologize for it.
The book itself was a handsome volume, bound in blue leather, with silver embossed lettering on the spine and the cover. He casually flipped through the pages, remembering the last time he’d read this book. Goethe had been a favourite of his ever since he was a boy, and he felt an affinity with young Werther who loved the beautiful Lotte from afar.
He turned the page and stopped when he saw an envelope, edged with age, tucked between the pages. He flipped it over to look at the address and his stomach dropped. Dietrich Stanwick, 1425 Dodge Street, Meadow Hills, Nebraska. The postmark read 1918.
Unease crawled up the back of his neck. Though the envelope had been opened, it didn’t seem right, somehow, that he was holding what must have been a private letter to the man who used to live in this cottage and undoubtedly used to sit in this very spot.
He shouldn’t read it. Instead, he should wait, give it to Jenni or Celia. But as he held the faded envelope, something inside him stirred back to life, something that he thought had been crushed: his love for the past. Now here he was, holding a document from the last world war, and he could no more not read it than he could stop his heart beating.
When he opened the letter, a faded photo fell out: a young soldier with his arm slung around the neck of a statue, hamming it up for the camera. The words, ‘One of the Buccaneers in action! London 1918’ were written on the back in dark black ink.
London, August 22, 1918
Dear Dietrich,
As the postmark will no doubt tell you, I am in ol’ Blighty, recovering from pneumonia. Nothing so glorious as a shrapnel wound! After I recover I’m sure they’ll send me back. But in the meantime, I don’t have much to do to pass the time except write. Like the picture? It’s of me in London when I first arrived. Does this letter smell of scent? I bribed a lovely nurse to post it in the letter box down the street. That way the military censors won’t see what I have to tell you. She’s such a pretty gel. My more romantic notions have me hoping that she and I could make a life for ourselves someday. But when you have lived in the trenches, happy endings don’t make sense any longer. I do hope you’ve popped the question to Rebecca, though having the Macintoshes as in-laws might be a bit daunting.
Mother tells me she and Father are getting along fine, though she says many Germans are being bullied. Ridiculous, isn’t it? You and I, growing up speaking German, and now we are fighting the land of our parents’ ancestors. It is bizarre at times to hear snatches of German conversation and know what they’re saying. I blame my parents for insisting I learn their language, though to be fair, it rather shows me how the German boys are just like the rest of us lot – stuck in the mud because some politician somewhere said so. Though I’d rather know that they were evil yellow bellies. It would make them easier to kill.
What a dismal chap I’ve become (and apparently I’ve been hanging around the Brits too long. Chap?). But I have good reason to indulge in melancholy, though what I have to tell you will undoubtedly shake your foundations in man’s goodness. I know that you, as a man of the cloth, think man is redeemable, but my news may shock even you.
You remember that Benjamin Lowe left Meadow Hills to join the war even before America was a part of it? He said he was going to join the French in their fight against the Hun and be a real Buccaneer. Well, I saw him at Château-Thierry. Only he was not wearing a French uniform or an American uniform. No. He was wearing a German uniform and commanding a division of Huns. I saw him fall. A bullet to the temple. Death was instant.
You may think me delusional or the victim of too much trench warfare. I assure you that is not the case. I could not keep the news to myself. Someone needs to know the truth. Isn’t it funny – the Three Buccaneers and one of us turned traitor. Does Ben’s father know, I wonder? Can you imagine his reaction? Evan Lowe always did put more pressure on Ben since he was the only boy and, well, those last few years I confess to wondering about Ben’s obsession with Hun history. I figured he simply wanted to connect with his heritage on his mother’s side. But that does not appear to be the case. He fooled us all and turned against his country. There are no other words to describe it: he was a traitor.
I leave it to you whether or not to share this information. We all know how well I keep secrets.
Do write me back and let me know how life as a ‘padre’ is suiting you. I imagine your mother is quite pleased to have you nearby again.
Dutifully yours,
Phillip Janssen
The Beethoven record had stopped playing, leaving an eerie silence in the room broken only by Katya’s quiet snoring. This was the letter Tallulah had referred to in her diary, the one she couldn’t find. Now he knew why Dietrich had hidden it!
Max tucked the picture back into the letter and replaced it in the envelope. The odds were immensely good that the same Evan Lowe mentioned in this letter was the current mayor of Meadow Hills. And Max distinctly remembered the day in the drugstore when Mayor Lowe had told him his son had fought and died in the Great War. He almost certainly didn’t know about his son’s change of loyalty. Max would bet his last penny Dietrich had told no one.
A weight settled on his chest and he pulled on the front of his shirt, desperate to relieve some of the pressure. He’d been handed a devastating secret, one that could do irrevocable harm.
Ilsa’s voice whispered in his mind. You are thinking too small, mein Liebling. You must be ruthless. Destroy those who would seek to destroy you. Survive.
Max reached for a cigarette. He could do it. He could use this information to blackmail Lowe, to get enough money to leave, to run away from a mess he still saw no way out of…
No. He crushed the cigarette in his hand, smearing his fingers with tobacco. Ilsa didn’t control him anymore. He would not become that man again, and there was no way in hell he would run.
But one man in this town knew all about secrets. Time to pay him another visit.
CHAPTER NINE
‘Do you have any idea what kind of fix you put me in last night?’
Jenni had never heard so much anger and frustration in Celia’s tone. All of this over books, for heaven’s sake!
They sat in Celia’s office with the door closed. Good thing too, or else Georgie might hear the normally imperturbable Celia lose her marbles.
Jenni took a deep breath and tried to remain calm. ‘If I’d known I was going to run into the Macintoshes, believe me, I never would have brought the dumb things down in the first place.’
Celia threw up her hands and fell back against her desk chair. ‘You shouldn’t have brought them do
wn at all, Jenni. You should have asked me first.’
‘I know, I know. But gosh. They’re only books.’
‘They’re German books. That doesn’t make them only books. That makes them evil or… or shameful or… hells bells!’ Celia finished in aggravation. ‘I don’t know what it makes them. All I know is that we have to put them back.’
‘Is that what the board said?’
‘They brought it to a vote.’
Jenni gasped. ‘A vote? You’ve got to be joking!’
‘Mayor Lowe brought up the motion. Mrs Macintosh seconded it.’
‘Well, now that I believe. So how did the vote go?’
‘Six in favour. One opposed.
‘Who was the one opposed?’
‘John, of course.’
John being the man who’d brought Celia from Brooklyn to take over the museum and seemingly the only sane person on the board.
‘I’m surprised John didn’t get through to them. He can usually make them see reason.’
‘He tried, believe me. But Mrs Macintosh and Mayor Lowe were adamant. I’ve never seen them so worked up.’
Jenni remembered the panic on Mrs Macintosh’s face yesterday. Was the prospect of having German books on the shelf really so horrifying? Or was it something else?
And why did she need to worry about this? Hadn’t she made her decision to leave? In fact, she’d been hoping to ask Celia today if she could contact her former boss in New York and ask if he had any job openings. But then she’d gone and made things worse for the one person who had stood by her through everything.
Shame swirled in her chest. ‘I am so sorry, Celia. I never should have removed those books without your permission. Not only are you my boss, you’re my friend. Max and I will put them back today.’