‘Max, I don’t know what to say. You’re the first to actually think I’m strong when I speak my mind.’
He peered at her. ‘Your husband did not?’
Now it was her turn to laugh. ‘Oh, he hated it. Said I needed to shut my mouth.’
Irritation flashed in his eyes, and he pressed the pencil down so hard on the paper that the tip broke.
‘That is reprehensible.’
‘I didn’t make the smart choice in marrying him. He used to love my spunk, as he used to call it, when we were in high school, but after we married, things changed.’ She thought about the fights, the screams, the times she’d slammed the bedroom door and collapsed on her bed with tears clogging her throat. How many times would she tell herself, ‘Just get through this. Things will go back to the way they were. He’ll do what he promised to do. He’ll quit drinking. He’ll stop yelling at me.’ And every time, things did return to normal…
Until the next time came around.
But she didn’t want to go down that road. It hurt too much to think of the endless cycle.
‘We had problems. But I don’t regret marrying him. He gave me Marty.’
‘You raised a fine son.’
‘We did.’ She cleared her throat. ‘All right. Tell me what was in the letter.’
Max told her about the letter’s contents, about Lowe’s son, and described the picture to her. She knew Phillip’s parents, both gentle souls who stayed pretty much to themselves, but supported the museum and all its events. They often attended the school’s football and basketball games, and whenever she saw them, they always managed to greet her with a smile.
‘That raises several questions. Does Lowe know his son turned traitor? Did Phillip tell his parents? Did Dietrich tell his mother?’
‘All valid questions, and ones I do not have answers to. But in the short time I’ve been here, Lowe has quite pointedly told me about his son’s sacrifice during the Great War. He must believe what everyone else does – that Benjamin Lowe died serving his country.’
‘But if he does know the truth, it would certainly explain why he doesn’t want anyone translating the diary. If Dietrich told his mother and she wrote about it, why, he would be humiliated.’
Max rubbed his forehead. ‘This is growing complicated. Have you found Dietrich’s other correspondence?’
‘A few letters to his mother while he was in seminary, and a letter from his sweetheart at the time, Rebecca Macintosh, but nothing else.’
‘Yes, Phillip mentioned Rebecca in the letter. Does she live here? I imagine she could shed a great deal of light on Dietrich’s life.’
‘No. From what I understand, she left a few months after Dietrich’s death and hasn’t ever returned.’
‘I can only assume, then, that he must have hidden the letter in that particular book, and perhaps I was the first to see it after all these years.’
It made sense. However, it didn’t explain why the other board members resisted having the diary translated. Could it be as simple as feeling ashamed of what they’d done in the fire’s aftermath? After all, not all of Meadow Hills’s residents claimed German heritage. Had they persecuted their German neighbours and friends? No one would want that exposed, especially to a regional and national audience. Even before Tallulah’s death, the town’s economy depended a great deal upon tourists venturing to see her home. Who would want to visit if the diary uncovered terrible truths about the town’s residents? That considerably widened the list of suspects.
When she said as much to Max, he agreed. ‘Of course none of this will occur to Thompson or the FBI agent in their investigation.’
‘I don’t think they’re conducting any type of investigation,’ Jenni said. ‘And I think whoever stole the diary is using the vandalism to keep the finger pointed at you.’
‘Very possible.’ Max stared at the pad of paper. ‘We need to start somewhere. Tomorrow morning, I intend to pay a visit to Mrs Macintosh and ask her a few questions.’
* * *
Because he was once again out of cigarettes, and because Jenni was craving something salty, Max rode downtown later that afternoon, girding himself for the stares and hostility sure to come. He’d donned a pair of dark glasses, hoping they’d make him less visible, but doing so made him feel like a Gestapo agent.
His decision to visit Mrs Macintosh later that day fought against his every instinct to keep a low profile and not draw attention to himself. Jenni thought him mad to try to talk to her, but he needed to know why the woman had blanched at the sight of Dietrich’s books.
As he walked his bicycle down the road, he noticed red and pink hearts taped to business windows along with cute posters of cherubs and smiling children. Ah. Valentine’s Day, that quintessentially American holiday requiring lovers and children to exchange cards and gifts. Maybe he should select a card for Jenni, but the grocery store cashier would undoubtedly know the card’s recipient, and as the gossip spread, everyone would think the two were betrothed by the end of the day.
Betrothed.
He winced. The word came with too many painful memories. How many times had he asked Ilsa to marry him? Numerous. She’d always said no, and being an idiot, he’d kept asking.
He leaned his bicycle against the grocery store’s brick wall, remembering Jenni’s tired yet cheerful face this morning. If things were different, they would be good for each other. Her bright zest for life obliterated the darkness surrounding him. With her, he felt at peace.
And of course, he wouldn’t be at all adverse to kissing those saucy lips of hers either.
Max walked into the modest store, tucking his glasses into his coat pocket. Thinking about impossible things was foolish. The probability of him and Jenni making a life together was about as likely as Hitler signing a peace treaty while dancing the jitterbug.
He grabbed a basket, ignoring how the conversations around him suddenly ceased, and gazed up at the labelled signs hanging above each aisle. His shoes squeaked on the white tiled floor as he made his way to the pet section, drawing the attention of the box boy who glanced up, met Max’s gaze and ducked his head. Max laughed softly. Oh, wouldn’t a relationship with Jenni put this town in an absolute uproar, the likes of which they probably hadn’t seen since that night in 1918.
Max wandered the aisles, and put a few cans of dog food, a package of crackers and a tin of peanuts in his basket before heading to the cereal section for another box of Rice Krispies. At breakfast that morning, Marty had demonstrated for Max how his cereal ‘popped’ when he poured milk on it, explaining that tiny elf-like characters gave the cereal its distinctive sound. Max smiled, thinking of how Marty had waved goodbye to him before heading inside the school earlier. He only hoped his classmates would treat him kindly.
An older woman walked into the aisle, bundled in a wool coat and wearing black rubber overshoes with metal buckles. Tufts of white hair peeked from underneath her red knit cap and two faded blue eyes blinked from her heavily wrinkled face. She glanced at Max before taking a canister of oats from the shelf.
She was a tiny woman, standing a good foot shorter than Max, and her slow, deliberate movements reminded him of his grandmother. He opened his mouth to say good morning, but stopped. His greeting probably wouldn’t be welcome.
The produce boy appeared, holding a bulb of garlic. ‘Here you go, Mrs Janssen. I found some in the back.’
‘Thank you, Timmy. Mr Janssen will enjoy his spaghetti even more tonight.’
Max’s eyes widened at the name. Janssen. Could this be Phillip Janssen’s mother?
She must have felt his gaze on her because she turned and looked at him, then hurried off. Making a split-second decision, Max followed.
He found her in the frozen food section selecting a can of orange juice, and he approached carefully.
‘Good morning,’ he said.
She glanced up at him, clearly apprehensive. ‘Good morning,’ she murmured, before turning back to the chest freezer.
>
Max swallowed his trepidation and forged on. ‘I don’t wish to disturb you, but is your name Mrs Gertrude Janssen?’
‘It is.’
She continued to ignore him and studied the orange juice label. If he were smart, he’d leave her alone.
‘Was your son’s name Phillip?’
She dropped the can and it landed in the freezer with a thud. ‘My son is dead.’
He flinched at the grief in her voice. He should offer his condolences and walk away now before she drew attention. But he couldn’t. She reminded him too much of his Oma…
‘Mrs Janssen, I am very sorry for your loss. But I have something that I think you would like to have.’
She took a step away from him. ‘I don’t think you have anything that I want. I must go.’
He heard the barest hint of a German accent, and he knew he couldn’t let her go.
‘Wait, please.’ He stopped just short of putting his hand on her arm. ‘My name is Max Koenig. I found a picture of your son in the Stanwick cottage. I would very much like to give it to you.’
Shock made her grip the side of the freezer. ‘A – a picture? But how?’
If only he could give her the letter. But he didn’t know what she would do with the information. And, as Kooky had said, it wasn’t his to give.
‘I believe he must have sent it to Dietrich Stanwick during the war. If you would permit me, I should like to stop by your house and give it to you.’
She considered him for a moment and then another woman came around the corner, eyeing them both suspiciously. Without another word, Mrs Janssen hurried away.
He stared after her, his hands gripping the basket so tightly it hurt. Apparently even talking to him was verboten! Utterly maddening. But what could he do? Force Mrs Janssen to listen to him?
Max finished up his shopping and ignored the open stares of the cashier and the other customers in line. Damn them all, gazing at him with their suspicion and fear, seeing him as a pariah, unfit to be in the same company as decent men and women.
The customer in front of him, a middle-aged man in bib overalls and a stocking cap, suddenly turned around and glared at him, his bushy eyebrows bristling. ‘Get back, Kraut, or else I’ll punch out your lights.’
‘My apologies.’ Gritting his teeth, Max took a step back, putting some space between them. But he felt the mood of the room change from mere irritation to outright menace. In the other line, a little boy standing beside his mother, pointed his hand at him in the shape of a gun and said, ‘Bang, bang, bang! You’re dead, you dirty German!’ His mother tried to hush him, but the others around him laughed and flung more insults Max’s way. He ignored them, held his head high, but inside he trembled. This was what it was like to be on the receiving end of jeers and taunts. Hadn’t he watched Ernst and his fellow thugs do the same to Berlin’s Jews?
A few minutes more and he was finally outside, away from the crowd, and he breathed in the cold, icy air. Scheiβe. He’d have to be more careful from now on or he just might find himself the town punching bag.
He dropped the paper bag into the bicycle basket, then yanked on his sunglasses. But while he adjusted his gloves, he saw Mrs Janssen hurrying towards him. She kept her gaze forwards, not saying a word to him, and then, to his utter shock, she surreptitiously stuffed a note into his grocery sack, and then crossed the street, not giving him a backwards glance.
It took a great deal of control not to grab the note then and there, but Max waited until he’d pedalled out of the downtown area. Then he stopped in a vacant lot and reached into the sack, pulling out the crumpled paper.
Come to my house Friday night. Back door. Do not let anyone see you.
Beneath the note was a scribbled address.
Hope swelled in his soul. Perhaps all was not lost. Maybe, if Mrs Janssen was willing to talk to him, Mrs Macintosh might be too. With renewed energy, he climbed onto the bicycle and headed towards the edge of town.
* * *
The Macintoshes’ house was a two-storey brick Georgian with black shutters and a matching attached garage. White pillars framed the front stone steps, and an American flag hung next to the bright red door. Snow covered the roof and the bushes lining the front of the house, but not a single patch of ice or snow blemished the circular brick driveway.
The home exuded wealth and status. Though it may have intimidated the people of Meadow Hills, to Max it meant nothing. Growing up, he’d mingled with the wealthiest of Stuttgart thanks to Vater’s business. He owned the most prestigious department store in the city, with other stores in Munich, Frankfurt and Nuremberg. His clientele had included the richest, most influential people in southern Germany. Helmut Koenig’s wealth far had surpassed the Macintoshes’, affording Max and Trudy the best that life had to offer. Max had enjoyed his privileged upbringing, sometimes a little too much, and Mutter had brought him crashing down to earth more than once. Wealth and material goods could be taken from you in an instant, she’d told him repeatedly, and only when he’d escaped Germany and landed in Lincoln did he understand the full extent of her lesson.
At another time, and in another place, Mrs Macintosh would likely twist herself into knots to be invited to an event held at the Koenig residence in Stuttgart, a regal stone building several times the size of her home.
Max lifted the door knocker and tapped it three times. Within a few seconds, the door opened and there stood Mrs Macintosh. She wore a well-tailored floral print dress with a strand of pearls around her neck, her grey hair artfully swept into a distinguished French twist. She visibly recoiled at his presence.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Good morning, Mrs Macintosh. Do you have a few moments?’
‘Absolutely not. Go away.’
She started shutting the door, but he placed a hand on it. ‘Please. All I ask is a few minutes. It’s about Dietrich Stanwick.’
Fear widened her eyes, and she asked, ‘What about him?’
How to proceed? He needed time to gain her trust, and that would not be accomplished on the front steps. Perhaps a white lie?
‘I understand your daughter, Rebecca, and Dietrich were close. I wondered if I might ask her some questions about him to help me understand him better. One of my research interests is the clergy of the Lutheran church.’
‘What sorts of questions?’
‘I am curious about his childhood and if he had any defining moments that propelled him toward wanting to serve the church. Perhaps you’d be more comfortable discussing it inside?’
A moment’s hesitation, and then, her eyes scanning the surrounding area – ridiculous considering her closest neighbour lived at least a mile away – she opened the door wider and motioned him inside.
In the foyer, sunlight streamed through a curved window above the door, twinkling in the massive glass chandelier overhead and throwing rainbows on the cream-coloured walls. Max followed Mrs Macintosh into the parlour, passing through a hallway full of Rococo art prints and potted plants. Once in the parlour, his feet sank into the plush, mauve carpet, and Mrs Macintosh indicated he sit on a white-upholstered settee. She sat in a matching armchair and stared at him.
‘Now. What sorts of questions would you like to ask my daughter?’
‘Would it be possible for me to talk to her in person?’
‘No. She lives in California. I can pass along your questions if you’d like.’
Max cleared his throat. He must proceed with caution.
‘I presume you knew Dietrich?’
Her nostrils flared. ‘I did. Not well.’
‘Surely you must have been close to your future son-in law.’
‘Hardly. My husband and I didn’t approve of the match. Rebecca is much better off with her current husband. He makes a great deal of money in the defence industry in California, as opposed to a penniless minister.’
Such a cruel thing to say, but not surprising considering the opulence of this house.
‘I would like
to think Dietrich went into the seminary to help people instead of becoming rich. Did he ever discuss it with you?’
‘I can’t remember.’
He abandoned that particular line of enquiry as it would get him nowhere. ‘Dietrich appeared to be a very avid reader. Perhaps Rebecca or you would happen to know his favourite author? It would help me to understand his mindset better. I also think Mrs Draper wanted to feature a few of his books in her exhibit on him.’
Her back straightened. ‘Those are not to be featured in any display. The board forbade it.’
‘Why? Because they are in German?’
‘Yes!’
‘Books cannot hurt you, Mrs Macintosh.’
She shot to her feet. ‘It is time for you to leave.’
Max refused to move. ‘When you saw Mrs Fields and me with Dietrich’s books, you reacted in a most peculiar manner. Why?’
‘I said it is time for you to leave, Mr Koenig.’
He was treading on dangerous ground now. He wouldn’t put it past her to call the police to come throw him out, or worse, arrest him for harassment. But he needed to know.
Time to take a chance.
‘Mrs Macintosh,’ he began, his tone as earnest as he could make it, ‘please. I just wish to understand why my language, my nationality, so offends the people of this town.’
‘Because we are at war with you people!’
You people. It was almost fitting that he, who’d witnessed the rejection and persecution of Jews, socialists, communists and every other ‘undesirable’ in Germany and done nothing to stop it, now bore the same stained existence. Could he ever atone for his behaviour?
Suddenly very tired, and no longer much caring if he ever discovered the root of Mrs Macintosh’s connection to Dietrich and the diary’s disappearance, he got to his feet.
‘Mrs Macintosh, I am not a Nazi. I do not wish harm upon you or anyone else. Hitler has destroyed my country. I do not know if my parents or my sister are alive, or any of my other family or friends. I want so badly to believe in the ideals of America, that this country believes in equality and justice, and fights against intolerance and hatred, and welcomes those who wish to seek a better life. I hope with all my heart that America defeats Hitler and saves my country.’
The Stranger From Berlin Page 21
