Edited for Death (8 page)

He translated for the oceans of Displaced Persons, the thousands of Poles, French, Hungarians, Czechs, Slovaks, Austrians and Germans uprooted by the war. They were many nationalities, but most were held together by the commonality of being Jewish, that thing which had meant a death penalty and now meant homelessness.

He traveled throughout Germany during what free time he had looking for family. He also watched and listened to the German people, trying to understand what happened, trying to absorb how an entire culture and nation had been conned into following a madman. What flaw existed in the German collective unconsciousness that could have allowed catastrophe on such a scale? There were many answers and no answers. All he could do was work to put back together as many lives and families as he could.

Like much of Germany, Nuremberg in the winter of 1946 was devastated and desolate. The city that had nurtured the Meistersinger and Albrecht Durer had also seen the Nazi rallies, torchlight processions of ranks of black and red designed to incite the bloodlust. Because of that, the Allies had taken special care to pound the place of Hitler’s triumphs to piles of bricks and leafless trees lining streets of slick and icy mud.

Even the Palace of Justice, where the war crimes trials were now in full swing, was a bulwark of stone in a sea of rubble. On November 20, 1945, 21 Nazi defendants filed into the dock to stand trial for war crimes. Henry wasn’t part of the trial, his office wasn’t even in the Palace of Justice, but he occasionally tried to sit in for a few minutes. He’d read Associate United States Supreme Court Justice Robert Jackson’s opening remarks to the International Military Tribunal sitting in judgment.

"The privilege of opening the first trial in history for crimes against the peace of the world imposes a great responsibility. The four great nations flushed with victory and stung with injury, stay the hand of vengeance and voluntarily submit their captive enemies to the judgment of the law.

"The crimes which we seek to condemn and punish have been so calculated, so malignant and so devastating, that civilization cannot tolerate their being ignored, because it cannot survive their being repeated," Jackson wrote.

Henry copied down the words and kept them with him as he searched the German records. Finally, after close to two years in Nuremberg, Henry wangled a month of leave. He still had what money he’d earned with Rabbi Morgenthal and he’d saved much of his Army pay, using it to buy cartons of American cigarettes. He hitched a ride on a convoy headed north and reached Berlin just before the Russians sealed it off from the rest of the West.

With his language skills, his knowledge of German documentation and bureaucratic structure, the last letter from his mother and his supply of American dollars and cigarettes, Henry hit the black and gray markets of Berlin. He talked to whomever he could find who knew about records.

When he was down to four days on his pass, he met a German woman who worked in a lawyer’s office during the war, typing up transportation orders and lists. She took him to what was left of a basement under the lawyer’s building, and let him spend a few hours. He dug through the files until he found his parents’ names on a list of people titled “Shipped East.” When he demanded what that meant, the woman shrugged and said she didn’t know. No one told her what she was typing or why, and she didn’t ask.

When he got back to his unit, Henry shared his information with some of the senior officers and they agreed that it wasn’t good news. They would put the word out to the troops who were still working with survivors of Bergen-Belsen, Auschwitz and other death camps, but if his parents hadn’t turned up by now the chances were almost nil that they were alive.

If he couldn’t find his parents, Henry resolved to find his home and possessions. He particularly wanted to find his father’s favorite piece of art, a small sketch of horses by da Vinci. When his hitch in the Army was up, he stayed on in Germany through the 1950s, using his contacts to find some of the art, jewelry and other precious objects that his family had collected over the centuries. He realized that he’d been somewhat lucky. Because his family’s home was large and sumptuous, the Nazis used it for the headquarters of a unit that was packing up and stealing. They stole vast quantities of rare and expensive objects and paintings—anything that was valuable and portable—and moved them by the boxcar load into abandoned salt tunnels in the heart of Bavaria and Austria.

By recovering and judiciously selling selected pieces of his family’s possessions, Henry was able to stay on in Europe and dedicate his life to quietly making sure that the crimes would never be forgotten so that they could never be repeated.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“I know your grandfather was a war hero,” Clarice says, glancing around as though looking for ghosts. “I can’t see what this had to do with you buying the hotel.”

“It’s what happened after the Senator and my uncle got home.”

It seems funny to hear him talk about his grandfather in the third person, but I’ve never had a relative with a title.

“He’s not really my uncle,” Royce continues, “he was my grand-uncle. It’s a small family. My great-grandparents only had two children, William and Robert. They were both in the war. William was older. He finished college and was an officer. Robert joined after high school. He was a wild kid, nothing serious but petty stuff...drinking, bashed a couple of mailboxes.

“But he’s the one who ended up a hero.”

Royce points down the hallway. My eyes are adjusting to the dim light and I see frames and a glass case.

“Because he was a war hero, my grandfather was a shoo-in for the Senate. After he got elected, his folks sold the hotel. Their other son, William, lived in the Bay Area so no one was left here. When Robert knew he was dying, he insisted that I buy the hotel back.”

“So you bought it with others in your family?” Clarice pulls out her notebook and pen.

“I only have one cousin—well second cousin, I guess—living. It’s William’s son, Stewart and he’s here at the hotel. Is this an interview?”

Royce is looking pale again, and I don’t know if this is anger or something else, so I say, “We just want some background. Is that a problem?”

“I guess not. You’ll probably find it out anyway. Stewart has a drinking problem. Actually, Stewart is an alcoholic and I agreed to let him live here as part of his probation for a DUI. I bought the hotel myself. I had to sell my house in Cupertino and I still have a mortgage here, plus the bundle it’s costing to renovate it. See why I need the publicity?”

Royce is looking like he needs to sit down. He has a bucket of worries and is acting like he’s drowning in them. I don’t want to dump anything else on him, but I’m not duty-bound to give him any ink, either.

“I’m not sure what we might plan for a story on the hotel,” I say. “Can we have a tour?”

“Sure, sure, I forgot all the stuff the PR class taught me.” He’s rueful now, probably thinking he aired too much of the family’s problems.

“Over here,” he gestures to a door where I hear silverware clashing, “we’ve finished the dining room. Come on in.”

Clarice and I follow him through the door and into a large space that updates Victorian opulence. Dark blue carpet and drapes mute the sound and the light. He’s installed small spots overhead that shine a cone of light in the center of each table, a trick that allows plenty of light to read a menu by but not enough to shake the overall gloom.

“For breakfast and lunch, we open the drapes,” he says. “It’s not much of a view, just the side streets. I’m planning to extend the dining room to the back of the hotel and open up the rear wall to make patios for warm weather. I’m also in the middle of plans to put in a garden back there, maybe some wisteria. This phase is going to have to wait until business picks up, though.”

I’m impressed by the thought and work he’s put in. “Sheriff Dodson commented on your chef and kitchen staff,” I say.

“I’m serious when I say that I want this to be a destination,” he says. “We can have year-round guests like the Awhanee Hotel in Yosemite or the Elderberry House in Oakhurst. These are five-star places with accommodations and restaurants.”

“It’s across the hall. Joe Baldwin’s body was found just behind the bar, yes,” says Royce. “The lounge isn’t quite finished yet. We’ve got the bar in, and tables and chairs, but the back bar is still covered by plastic sheeting. I’m trying to decide about mirrors and how I want the liquor displayed. Bars and drinks are making a comeback and I’d like to be on the leading edge. Might even call the bartender a ‘cocktailian’,” he says with a grin.

He’s right, the bar has an uncompleted feel. Probably because an opaque sheet of plastic is tacked floor-to-ceiling the length of the room. The same baby spots as the dining room are placed down the length of the bar itself and scattered in the rest of the room’s ceiling. Despite the plastic, it has a warm and welcoming feel. Royce has good instincts.

As we come back into the hall, a man appears on the stairs.

“Oh, here’s Stewart,” Royce says cheerily.

Stewart is an older, fuzzier version of Royce, but underneath the layers of life’s bad choices I can see the Calvert outlines in the bones. As Royce introduces Clarice and me, I’m watching Stewart’s eyes. They’re like an old dog who’s been mistreated but is still trying to please.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he says. “Are you going to be running a story on the hotel? Royce is doing an excellent job on restoring this place. Probably beyond its former glory.” His laugh is deprecating.

“Maybe. I understand that you’re a historian, like your father,” I say, steering away from any promises. “I spent some time at the library reading up on you family.”

It’s a small bone, but Stewart jumps at it. “You might be interested in some of the family things I’ve found in the attics,” he says. “I’ve even found several generations of diaries. I’m researching to write a book about the Senator.”

There it is again, this family in the third person.

“I might. I don’t have time today, but if I come up again, I’ll call first and set up some time to spend with you.”

I turn to Clarice who’s looking over the memorabilia. “We need to go. I have a bunch of copy to read and you need to finish your story.”

She gives me the fisheye again and starts to argue then realizes I’m trying to get us out of here. “OK, I have all I need,” she says.

Once in the car, Clarice says, “Well, did I tell you something’s fishy, or what? It’s just kinda creepy—all the drapes closed, a live-in alcoholic, everybody living off the past.” She gives a shudder.

“You’re partially right,” I say, but I’m not giving in to the ghost stories. “One of the things I’m wondering about is Joe Baldwin.”

“You’re the one who told me not to put too much into him,” Clarice says. “To quote you, ‘It’s sad when a no-body dies,’ blah, blah, blah...”

“It’s not that he dies, it’s where they found his body,” I say.

“They found it in the bar, where else would a drunk be?”

“But that’s the point,” I’m patient, waiting for her to catch up. “Royce just said he slept in the lobby. Besides, if he was a well-known drunk...”

“They would have locked the bar!” Clarice says, her eyes growing round. “Royce sure wouldn’t have left the door to the bar open for a drunk, not to mention keeping Stewart out at night. So, where was he killed? I need to talk to Dodson more.”

“Royce has a plausible explanation for everything but there are ghosts there. I wonder if he hasn’t finished the bar because Stewart’s an alcoholic and it’s too much temptation. And did you notice the ‘attics?’ Most places have only one.”

“That didn’t bother me,” Clarice says, buckling herself in as though I’m driving a Grand Prix course. “That building has so many additions and redos that there are probably attics on top of attics. I think Royce is deluding himself with his vast plans. I sure wouldn’t come up to spend time at the Marshalltown Hotel.”

I’m quiet. Maybe Clarice has something. I’m planning to see Phil this weekend. If things go well, maybe I’ll invite him up to the hotel for a payback weekend and get his impressions of the Royce/Stewart/Senator/hotel muddle.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“It just doesn’t feel right, Phil. There’s nothing solid, no facts, but the hair on the back of my neck stands up when I think about it.”

“I don’t doubt your intuition, Amy, I just haven’t come up with much on the Calverts you don’t have. My offer still stands. A weekend in San Francisco may not pay off but you can relax, have a couple good meals, see some sights in great company…”

I roll my eyes. “OK, OK, I get it. It’s a wonderful offer for a rest and I’m taking you up on it. I’ll be at your house at about 7:30?”

“Good. I’m looking forward to seeing you.”

I shake my head and punch off. A weekend in San Francisco with Phil is a treat, but I haven’t been hanging around with anyone since Brandon took off. I still have a vast pit of inadequacy fears and anger where men are concerned. My recovery is coming along and I don’t need to have any distractions. Phil is too nice, too good a friend. I don’t want to jeopardize this so I’m going to be careful and keep some distance.