Max stamped out his cigarette in the ashtray. Before, he’d not really cared about the diary’s contents. But if Mayor Lowe wanted to pay to get it back, why, what could Mrs Stanwick possibly have written?
* * *
On Thursday, Celia called Jenni into her office. She leaned against the edge of her desk, arms folded, lips turned in a sad smile.
‘I have some good news for you,’ she said. ‘There is a job opening at Mrs Stanwick’s publishing company in New York. In fact, it’s my old job, the one I first had when I went there.’
Excitement and dread clashed simultaneously inside Jenni, and she wasn’t sure which one was stronger. So soon! Yet it fit well into her plans. When she’d finally asked Celia about the possibility of a job in New York, Celia had immediately tried to talk her out of it, telling her that she and Hank would help with the baby. But Jenni had refused, resolute in her decision. She had to be. So, in the end, Celia had agreed to call New York.
‘You mean a job as Frank’s assistant?’
Celia nodded. ‘Yes. And there’s more. Frank and his wife insist that you and Marty live with them until you get on your feet. New York City is going to be a big change for you both, and they want to offer as much support as they can until the baby’s born. They have six children of their own, so Frank’s wife will be quite helpful.’
Jenni tamped down her fear and allowed a wave of relief to hit her. Thank God. It was going to be all right. She and Marty and the baby would be all right.
‘Oh, Celia,’ she said, her throat closing, ‘thank you. Thank you so much.’
Celia pulled her into a hug. ‘You’re welcome,’ she whispered. ‘But I wish you would stay. I’m going to miss you.’
Jenni clung to her best friend and wished she could change it all with a snap of her fingers. She thought of Mom and Dad, how they would react to her leaving, how she couldn’t tell them the truth because she couldn’t handle the censure in their eyes and their disappointment… oh, the disappointment.
‘It will only be for a little while,’ she sniffed, reaching for a tissue on Celia’s desk. ‘I’ll come back.’
‘Maybe, maybe not,’ Celia said. ‘You’re a talented writer, Jenni. This could be your opportunity to make something of yourself, to live your dream.’
Jenni nodded, but inside, the swirl of emotions nearly undid her. What good was living one’s dream when you couldn’t share it with the people you loved?
When she went home that night, for the first time in days, she forgot about the diary, about the people in Meadow Hills, and the bizarre situation they were all in. A new adventure awaited. New York City! Though she would miss the stunning Nebraska sunsets and peaceful, sloping prairie, the opportunity to work at a publishing house, to be in the hub of that world, thrilled her. Perhaps she’d meet magazine editors, connect with other writers, be around people who understood her call to write and supported her. Not like here.
She’d tell Marty when the time was right. She’d explain to him why they had to go… and that would be the hardest part.
But that night, when she brought Marty’s clean laundry into his room and saw him lying on the floor, reading his Captain America comics, Max’s face swirled in her head. She’d have to break her promise to him, abandon him to the wolves of Meadow Hills.
Oh drat. Calling them wolves was a bit melodramatic, perhaps. But then she remembered the menacing gleam in Mayor Lowe’s eyes the other day. No. It was an apt metaphor.
Why, she should be happy to get away from this mess! Except…
Except Max was her friend. She’d grown to care about him.
The sudden slash of guilt tore into her sharper than any grappling hook. After she left, he would be alone in his fight, and he wouldn’t win, even if they did find that he hadn’t taken the diary. Somehow, they’d blame him and make his life a living hell. No one would stand up for him.
It’s not your problem anymore…
Jenni scowled. If she repeated it enough, she might start to believe it.
She’d just finished doing the dishes when the doorbell rang. She glanced at the clock. Nearly seven. Who could that be?
When she opened the door, her heart jumped. ‘Max!’
There he stood on the front steps, snow piling on his grey wool coat and hat, holding a package to his chest.
‘Good evening, Jenni. I’ve finished reading your story. And I have brought a present for Marty.’ He held up a brown paper sack from the Five and Dime downtown.
Oh Lord. Now she felt worse than ever.
Once inside, he kept his feet planted on the welcome mat. ‘I’ll only be a minute.’ He grimaced and lowered his voice. ‘I think it is best if I am not here very long. It appears that my presence here the other evening did not go unnoticed. While I was at the store this afternoon, a clerk made a snide comment about it.’
Rats! Darn Mabel and her blabbing mouth.
‘No, it didn’t. But that’s a small town for you. They’ll talk no matter what you do.’
At least she wouldn’t have to worry about that in New York City. But she didn’t have any intention of inviting men into her home there.
‘Which is why I won’t stay,’ Max continued. ‘I don’t want to cause any more trouble for you.’
‘Stop.’ She laid a hand on his arm. ‘You’re not causing me trouble, all right? I want you to know that.’
In that moment, as she looked steadily into his earnest, comforting gaze, she regretted that she must leave him behind. She’d miss him, and it had nothing to do with his strong shoulders or the way he always mussed his black hair with agitated fingers. No, it was his kindness, his lack of guile, his sincerity. She may not know all his secrets, but she didn’t need to know them to understand he was a good man.
He covered her hand with his own. ‘Thank you, Jenni.’
Marty bounded into the room and Jenni stepped back, hoping her son had not seen the brief interplay of emotions between the two adults. She wouldn’t be able to explain it to him because she didn’t know how to explain it herself.
‘Hey, professor! Guess what! I started writing a letter to the guy who writes Captain America.’
Max crouched until he was eye level with Marty. ‘You did? What are you writing to him about?’
‘I’m going to ask him to write a character who is a hero like my dad. Y’know, one that doesn’t need any super powers because he’s brave already just by himself.’
Jenni turned her head, unable to look at the shining idealism in her son’s face. Would she tarnish it when she told him the truth about the child she carried? She didn’t think she could stand to do so.
When she looked back, she saw Max patting the boy’s shoulder. ‘I think that’s a fine idea. Or you could even write your own comic.’
Marty’s eyes grew wide. ‘I never thought of that!’
‘This might give you some inspiration too.’
Max handed the sack to Marty, and Jenni held her breath as her son reached inside.
‘Captain America’s shield!’ Marty said in awe, staring at the bright red, white and blue stripes, the vivid white stars on a blue background edging the top. Then he gave a huge ‘whoop!’ and flung his arms around Max.
‘Thanks a bunch, professor!’
And off he ran.
‘That was very sweet of you,’ Jenni said, amazed she hadn’t broken down into a puddle at the scene. There weren’t many things in this world that could sway her, make her break. But seeing kindness shown to her child was one of them.
‘You’re welcome.’ He handed her the pages of her short story. ‘I was very impressed with your work. I wrote my thoughts on another piece of paper. I hope you can read my handwriting. It’s rather atrocious, I’m afraid.’ He pulled his gloves on. ‘I’d best be going.’
‘Wait.’ She took the papers from him and smiled. ‘Come into the kitchen for some hot chocolate. I would rather you tell me your thoughts on my story instead of reading them. Call it my writer’s ego.
Besides, it’s the least I can do.’
She saw the conflict play out on his face, and she finally took his elbow. ‘I insist.’
* * *
Max sat on the edge of the kitchen chair, wishing he could relax, wishing he didn’t have to feel like every eye in the neighbourhood was zeroing in on the kitchen window. The curtains would block anyone’s view, but it didn’t matter. They’d be staring at their clocks, wondering how long he planned to stay, and worse, what he might be doing.
‘Stop worrying,’ Jenni said, handing him a cup of hot chocolate, the sweet smell reminding him of gingerbread and pine trees and crackling logs. ‘It doesn’t matter what you do in this town. Someone will find fault with it.’
‘Perhaps.’ He took a drink and grinned as he heard Marty playing in the background, his ‘Zoom! Pop! Smash!’ punctuating the atmosphere like tiny firecrackers. Good. The boy needed some happiness.
‘So you liked the story?’ Jenni asked, sitting across from him. ‘I was thinking of changing the ending.’
Bless her for trying to put him at ease. He’d thought to tell her about the Janssen picture or about Goldberg, or Lowe’s surprise visit, but it was a relief to, for once, discuss something else besides his problems.
‘No, I rather like the ending,’ he said. ‘In fact, I think you tie things up nicely.’
She grimaced. ‘That was what I was trying to avoid, actually. Life doesn’t normally end like that, with everything tied up in a nice little bow.’
‘But isn’t that why people read fiction, to escape the realities of life?’
‘I suppose many people do.’
‘Then again, you must stay true to your writing style and not write what you think people want to read. You must be honest.’
She regarded him strangely for a moment. Had he said the wrong thing? What, after all, did he know about writing fiction? Nothing, nothing at all. But one of his early professors had given him the same advice about his research papers.
‘Honesty, Herr Koenig, is just as important in the telling of history as it is in living your life. Your writing must reflect your honest interpretations and not what you think others in your field want to hear.’
Jenni crossed her arms on the table and he was distracted at how small her wrists were. So tiny, so delicate. Words he did not associate with Jenni.
‘You are the first person to tell me that, about being honest in my writing,’ she said.
‘Am I? Did your teachers not encourage you to write in that way?’
She laughed. ‘My teachers were not the encouraging type. They didn’t exactly approve of my storytelling skills, nor did my mother or even my husband.’
‘That is a shame.’
She shrugged. ‘For me, writing is the only way I can make sense of this world sometimes.’
Once, he had felt such zeal for his profession that studying history was the only way to properly understand the past and prepare for the future. But then Hitler and his Nazis had swarmed into the universities like locusts, tossing out the history department’s proud tradition of scholarship and reducing it to nothing more than a mouthpiece for their propaganda.
The majority of professors had left. Some fought back. Some eagerly morphed into the kind of professors the Nazis would tolerate either because they actually believed the lies Hitler sold or because they wanted to save their own skin. Others did nothing. They did not take a side, but went along with it all, hoping it would all go away.
Like them, he’d not made his position known. His one saving grace had been his determination to keep the current political climate out of his lectures. More than once a student had challenged him on it; but for every one that challenged him, another thanked him for sticking to the academic truth.
The battle had worn him down though. When he’d arrived in Nebraska and begun lecturing at the university, his passion for history lay hidden among layers of sludge and sediment. Breaking through it required the strength of a sledgehammer; he had yet to do it.
‘Max? Are you all right?’
He looked up and realized he’d been lost in memories, a dangerous act. ‘Ja… yes. I am fine. I am sorry.’
Jenni cradled her mug. ‘Are you sure? You looked so… sad.’
Her observation ripped into his gut and he ducked his head to keep her from seeing the agony he knew must be etched into his face. Sadness did not come close to describing how he felt. To lose his passion for his career, to lose his family, his country, his soul…
‘The Germans have many words to express sadness,’ he murmured, shocked to hear himself saying this, that Jenni had cracked open a door inside him that he’d kept sealed for years. ‘Sturm und Drang, storm and stress. Weltschmerz, thinking the world causes sadness. Sehnsucht, a longing or yearning. But none quite capture how I feel.’
He stopped. He was standing on a precipice, and once he took the next step, there would be no rescue. He would fall. Into the past. Into the guilt. Into the agony.
Cold, comforting fingers – cold hands, warm heart – took his hand and held it. ‘And how do you feel, Max?’
He stared at their clasped hands. How badly he wanted this, to confess his soul and finally have someone who might listen and understand.
But not now. He had no right to burden her.
So instead he squeezed her fingers and then let them go. He made his voice bright. ‘I feel thankful to be here where it is safe. That is enough.’
Silence fell. She studied him, saying nothing, but he saw the truth in her eyes.
You haven’t fooled me.
They heard a crash in the living room followed immediately by Marty shouting, ‘Sorry, Mom!’
Jenni jumped to her feet and rushed off to investigate, but Max couldn’t move. So close. He’d come so close to letting go of some of the torment of the past five years. He’d never done that with anyone else.
While he sat here, the diary, the FBI agent, the mayor, and all the rest of it receded into the distance, overwhelmed by the ordinary: Jenni’s stern voice disciplining Marty; plaster fruit hanging on the kitchen walls; scratches and dents in the white oven; a pair of fuzzy peach slippers carelessly kicked off by the door. He was encased in a cocoon of dreams, and he never wanted to leave.
Jenni returned to the kitchen and fell into the chair. ‘That boy!’ she huffed, pushing back an errant curl.
‘Is he all right?’
‘Fine, though I can’t say the same for the lamp.’
‘Broken?’
She nodded, staring at her fingernails, and Max realized that more than the lamp had been broken. So had the moment between them.
‘Max, I have something to tell you.’
The mood in the air instantly changed. He braced himself.
‘Go on.’
‘I’m going to be leaving next month.’
Whatever he’d thought she was going to say, it wasn’t this. The room shrank, and his shallow breaths echoed in his ears, making his fingers curl around the edge of the table. The person who believed in him the most, who’d been by his side throughout it all, was leaving.
Somehow he found his voice. ‘Where are you going?’
‘New York. I have a job with Mrs Stanwick’s publisher.’ She took several swallows of her drink, then crossed her legs, jiggling her foot. Agitated. Edgy.
Something was wrong.
Her words spilled out. ‘I – I think I’ll have a better shot at getting my writing published if I work in the industry, and with my husband gone and all, well… it’s just time for a fresh start.’
This was for the best. With the FBI looming over him, and everything that had happened in Berlin still coiled like a snake waiting to strike, this was a blessing in disguise.
Except it wasn’t a blessing, but a curse.
He wanted to accuse her of abandoning him, but he had no right to hurl such invective. Her life came first, not some German immigrant who was caught up in a mess not of her making. She owed him nothing. Absolutely nothin
g. This was her life. Damn it, he would be happy for her.
‘It sounds like a very good opportunity.’ His mouth went dry and he forced the next sentence out. ‘I’m happy for you.’
She flashed him a quick, though possibly fake, smile. ‘Thanks. I – I just wanted to tell you now. I’m sorry I haven’t been much help. I’ve been a little distracted with everything.’
He wanted to tell her not to bother, to forget about him and the diary, that it would be easier that way.
‘I appreciate it.’
The heavy silence blanketed them, so much in contrast to the easy conversation they’d shared not five minutes ago.
It’s better this way.
He was glad he’d not opened himself up to her. Yet, at the same time, he regretted that he wouldn’t have the chance to get to know her better. Now he must face the town alone.
The metallic taste of fear filled his mouth and he took a sip of his drink, trying to erase it, but it wouldn’t be diminished. Tingles ran up and down his hands and he searched in his inner pocket for his cigarettes, but then realized he’d left them at the cottage.
He got to his feet. ‘I must be going. Thank you for the drink.’ His lips hurt when he smiled. ‘It will keep me warm on the walk home.’
Before she could see him out, he hastened through the living room, glad Marty wasn’t there. Once outside, he stood on the steps for a minute, his hand still on the door knob.
That had been rude, fleeing like a skittish squirrel. Necessary, though.
He went down the stairs, nearly slipping on a patch of ice hidden by the new snowfall. He shivered and pulled his coat closer. They were deep in the bowels of winter with no end in sight. The prospect of enduring the next few months until spring without Jenni only made him hate winter even more.
The Stranger From Berlin Page 18
