The Heritage Paper (42 page)

She wanted to believe the Ellen view of nurture. That a mother could guide the child through the events that shape their life for the better or worse, and send them down the right path. It was an empowering viewpoint. Even if according to some, this made her a narcissist.

Flavia believed that neither nature nor nurture shaped children. While providing a good home and values might be helpful, in the end it’s up to the individual to make the correct decisions on their actions. And there can be no predictive analysis of what those decisions will be when presented with the unpredictable choices life will present.

And it wasn’t just Flavia who believed this. Veronica again thought of Anne Frank, who wrote:
The final forming of a person’s character lies in their own hands.

A car pulled up the driveway, stealing Veronica’s gaze.

Zach and TJ.

TJ gave Veronica the abrupt hello of a twelve-year-old, then did a beeline to Maggie and Jamie. He dove into the leaf pile like it was the town pool.

Zach approached her with a big grin. “So, did you do anything interesting last week, Ms. Peterson?”

She smiled back at him. “I didn’t think you’d have time for us common folk anymore, Mr. Big Shot. What’s next—anchoring the national news?”

He maintained his contented smile. “No, I’m happy where I’m at. Once you hit the bottom you realize how silly all that stuff is.”

He handed Veronica a bound document. “What’s this?” she asked.

“It’s a printed copy of Ellen’s memoir. I erased the copy in the safe-deposit box.”

“Why’d you do that? I figured you were going to publish it. You have my blessing as long as Maggie and Jamie aren’t mentioned.” She smiled, before adding, “And that you take us to the Rainforest Café with some of the royalties you earn, of course.”

Zach shook his head. “All that would do is cause more burden for your kids that they didn’t ask for.” His face saddened as he looked out at TJ. “If anyone has learned about putting burdens on children, it’s Sara and me.”

He pulled out the tape Youkelstein gave him, and asked, “Do you think I’m a good reporter?”

“The best.”

“Well, not as good as Maggie, because she asked the most important question in this whole thing—
why was he chosen?
And when I arrived at the farmhouse, I overheard the back-end of your conversation with Youkelstein. The part where he was outlining his motivation for what he was doing. I think he answered the question. In fact, I think Ellen already answered it for you on that video she left you—the one that died at the tip of your boot.”

Veronica didn’t say anything.

“I’m right, aren’t I?”

She remained silent.

“A simple shake of the head will do. Or you can extend your arm and give me the heil sign.”

She turned to him. “You can’t say anything.”

He tossed her the tape with a grin. “It’s your secret. Nobody will ever know but you, me, and Grandpa Adolf.”

Veronica looked out at her kids. Maggie and TJ were burying Jamie alive under the leaves, and he seemed to be enjoying it. She had explained to Maggie and Jamie that Youkelstein’s words at the farm were just the desperate rants of a sick old man. Jamie didn’t really understand any of it, while Maggie was predictably skeptical of anything her mother said.

Zach read the dread in her face. “It’s probably not true, anyway.”

“How can you say that? Why would he have taken her in if she wasn’t his daughter?”

“Most people crave to have children, perhaps even the worst ones, so maybe he wanted to believe she was. And while it was true that Corporal Hitler was in Munich in late 1916 and early 1917 while recovering from a battle wound, making an encounter with Ellen’s mother possible, the fact is, she was a prostitute who was likely with numerous men, and it’s not like they were doing DNA testing back then. And while it’s not scientific, I don’t see any outward resemblance to Ellen or any of your children.” He thought for a second, before adding, “Although, I once saw Maggie with a chocolate milk mustache after serving her and TJ lunch, and now that I think about it …”

She tapped him playfully on the shoulder. “Not funny.”

“And remember that battle injury I mentioned? Well, it has been long rumored that it was a shot to the groin, and he lost one of his friends down there, which left him impotent. So it might not even have been physically possible.”

“But everything else Ellen said turned out to be true.”

“Even if it is, I think they’re going to turn out great.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“There’s a precedent.”

“Which is?”

“Luke Skywalker was Darth Vader’s kid and he seemed to turn out okay.”

The comment drew a smile from Veronica. That wasn’t any easy accomplishment when it came to this topic. “That’s true, but he did have a strange sexual tension with his sister.”

“Yes, but if I recall correctly, Luke and Leia did end up saving the universe—sound familiar?”

As usual, it was the right words and the right tone. “So now that you’re kind of a big deal, I hope you’re not afraid to get your hands dirty—why don’t you pick up a rake?”

His smile left. “I’d love to, but TJ and I have to get going. We’re late for a visit with his mother.”

Veronica put on her tough face and gave him a hug. “Thank you for everything—I hope it all works out for you.”

After watching Zach and TJ drive away, Veronica’s children began calling, “C’mon, Mom—come and play in the leaves!” Jamie yelled.

She looked at them and filled with the hope for the future that children so often bring out in adults. Once more, she thought of Anne Frank, who never got the opportunity to play in the leaves with her mother because of the Nazis. Her words flowed through Veronica’s head as she approached the leaf pile.
This is not the end. It’s not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.

“Kids against adults!” Jamie announced. He threw a colorful collage of leaves at Veronica that glanced off her face.

She picked up a handful and fired them right back at Jamie. Then Maggie turned on her brother and dumped a bundle of leaves over his head. It was girls against the boy.

A full-scale leaf war broke out. Leaves filled the air, as did their laughter. After a few spirited minutes, Veronica rushed her children and tackled them into the leaf pile. She hugged them as hard as she could. She would have held them forever, but Jamie squirmed away.

He picked up a pile of leaves and tossed them as high as he could into the air. “Look—it’s snowing leaves!” he shouted gleefully.

Veronica watched the leaves, as they seemed to fall to the earth in slow motion. As they did, she heard Anne Frank’s words whistling through the wind:
Think of all the beauty around you and be happy.

Veronica fixated on the leaves raining down upon the beauty that was surrounding her—her children—and when the final leaf hit the ground, she was …

Happy.

Thank you for reading The Heritage Paper. If you enjoyed the book, I hope that you will leave a rating or review for it.
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Also by Derek Ciccone:

Painless

The Truant Officer

The Trials of Max Q

Officer Jones

Kristmas Collins

The Heritage Paper was the trickiest story I’ve ever written, due to its use of real life historical references. At the end of the day, it’s a work of fiction meant to entertain, and certainly not a history book or official record, but I do think it’s important to be as accurate as possible with these facts and historical figures. And I hope that was achieved.

The story is also loaded with conspiracy theories, many which are well known. While they are used as a vehicle to tell the story, in no way does it mean that I am endorsing them as true. I’ll leave that up to you. My take on conspiracy theories in general, is that there’s probably a 99.9% chance that they’re
not
true. But it’s that 0.1% possibility that makes them so enticing when it comes to fiction, and that small dose of possibility can draw us in and make for a fun ride.

Many of the referenced events in the book from World War II to 9/11 to potential conflict in the Middle East all have touched people in a real way in the non-fiction world we live in. And of course, the terror of Nazi Germany and the Holocaust, which is at the center of the story. So I’d like to thank everyone who provided feedback to me on those subjects, so that I could be sure that those events were referenced with the proper sensibility.

And I’d like to extend a special thanks to Jeff Finkelstein, for reading the manuscript, and provided me with a Jewish perspective of the story. Jeff is the president of the award-winning Customer Paradigm marketing firm, and a key contributor in the Adventure Rabbi program, which was founded by his wife, and best-selling author, Rabbi Jamie Korngold.

There is no shortage of theories and literature out there on the many war criminals that were mentioned throughout the book, as to what their true fate was. But if Ben Youkelstein existed in real life, much of his thinking and theories would be considered Thomasian, based on W. Hugh Thomas. Thomas is a forensic surgeon who wrote books questioning the deaths of Himmler, Rudolf Hess, and Adolf Hitler. His book on Hess “The Tale of Two Murders” led to the opening of a Scotland Yard investigation on the subject. Like I mentioned earlier, it’s up to you to make up your mind on these sort of theories, so if you want to read Thomas’ writings on the subject, his books can be found at Amazon and most online booksellers.

And a big thank you to the usual suspects who make up the best team any author can have. Carl Graves with another great cover, Curt Ciccone with his formatting expertise, and Sandra Simpson for her eagle eyes spotting my many mistakes. Christina Wickson typed the original manuscript, as she has with most of my stories, and I think deserves a medal of honor for being able to read my handwriting.

And last but never least, to my grandmother, Harriet Mays, who showed me that a person over the age of ninety can be as vibrant and curious as those half their age. Without knowing her, I would never have thought to create characters over ninety who displayed such energy and passion as they led the charge, and considered them realistic. Love you, Grams!

Christmas in Connecticut—

Was the name of a campy 1940’s comedy starring Barbara Stanwyck. But there was nothing funny about the modern version I was living out this afternoon—a horror film that made me want to return to the safety of prison.

My cab passed through the electronic gates and drove up the Belgian-block lined driveway. We passed rolling, snow-covered lawns before coming to a stop in a circular drop-off area in front of the ivy-draped English manor. I was here for the Wainwright holiday party, held every year on the Sunday prior to Christmas. I hadn’t been able to attend for the last three years, and I would have pushed the streak to four if not for some business that needed attending to.

I secured the envelopes that contained my gifts, placing them in the pocket of my suit coat, and grabbed the pastry dish that I’d purchased at a bakery along the way. I then stepped out into the late afternoon—the sky was a dreary gray, and a light snow had begun to fall.

I was met by a portly man in an elf costume. I didn’t recognize this particular greeter/security-guard from my previous times on the property, going back to when I used to live here with my former wife, Libby, during our first years of marriage. This surprised me, since the Wainwrights always made it a point to surround themselves with a group of loyal soldiers, even if loyalty had never been a two-way street for them. Perhaps they’d added extra security this year since a convicted felon was on the guest list—their favorite former son-in-law.

I started to walk in the opposite direction. This predictably upset Buddy the Elf. “Sir, the party’s this way,” he commanded in a stern Brooklyn accent.

“I’m going to take a shortcut,” I replied without looking at him.

I braced, expecting to be wrestled to the ground and kicked with the curled up tips of his elf shoes. But as luck would have it, I noticed a longtime Wainwright security guard named Lonnie—windbreaker, winter hat, no elf costume—who nodded at Buddy, instructing him to back off. Lonnie knew from firsthand experience that Kris Collins was capable of creating a scene on a moment’s notice, and the last thing the Wainwrights wanted to do was to call attention to my presence.

I ventured over a slate path, lined with sculpted boxwood and ornamental trees that were decorated for the season. In the summer, the formal landscape of the estate was quite breathtaking, filled with magnolia trees and kiwifruit arbors. But for the party it had been transformed into a Christmas fantasy.