Winter Passing (13 page)

The mother and daughter again conversed in German.

“I will ask her, but must translate if she say yes. She refuse to learn English. But remember I tell you about her and that she not like outsiders.”

Darby listened to every creak in the wooden floor after Sophie and her mother left, expecting them to return from somewhere down the hall. After fifteen minutes, she heard a door open and footsteps. If she claimed to be Celia’s granddaughter, would she receive a similar response to Brant’s? Would this woman also believe Celia had died in the war? If she did, she’d probably not believe Darby or give any information.

“She will see you,” Sophie said as they returned. “But she not happy. Are you certain?”

“Yes.”

Darby followed Sophie down the hall. How could this old woman be that bad? As soon as she walked into the room, Darby knew. Grandmother Gerringer sat in a chair by the window with a scowl carved like marble into her face. Darby wondered if a smile had ever broken through the frown lines. The older woman sized her up in a glance and
hmmped
with disdainful satisfaction.
Yes, my perception of an American woman is correct
, she seemed to say. For the first time in her life, Darby faced a tiny glimpse of what a minority felt against the eyes of a racist. But her race wasn’t in question—only her homeland.

“
Guten Morgen
,” Darby said softly, as if she were a schoolgirl sent to the principal’s office. “
Danke
for speaking to me.” Sophie translated as they spoke.

“My family is from Hallstatt. The Lange family?”

The old woman hmmped again, shaking her head.

“Did you know them?”

Sophie translated Grandmother’s answer. “She said, yes, she knew them, but they are all gone now. Said they were part Jewish family.”

“Yes. Did she also know a young woman named Tatianna Hoffman?”

“She did,” Sophie said.

“Could you tell me about them?”

The woman burst out in a torrent of harsh words.

“She wonder why she tell you anything.” Sophie looked at Darby apologetically.

Darby swallowed and continued. “Before my grandmother died, she asked me to seek our family past.”

Frau Gerringer responded angrily. Sophie tried to slow her down, speaking with her rapidly. “She is not happy with questions from yesterday. She say that everyone want to know what happened with their family after the war. Too much time passed for it now.”

“Tell her that I have been raised as an American, but now I want to learn more about being Austrian.”

“She say you still American, not Austrian.”

“I am American and Austrian and others.”

The old woman spoke only to Sophie, then turned her face away.

“I am sorry. She will not talk any longer to you.” Sophie shook her head. “Please wait for me outside, and I will speak with her alone.”

Darby told the grandmother thank you and left. She wandered the hallway that connected bedrooms and a private kitchen and living room, eventually making her way to the garden in the backyard. Wet leaves stuck to the walkway as she found a bench in the sun. It felt like the longest time before Sophie found her.

“She is sleeping now. I again must apologize for her. My grandmother is a very good woman, but the past is not good for her. She not want to talk to you, but this she told me. The Lange father, your great-grandfather, digged for ruins here.”

“Yes, he was an archaeologist.”

“And then, the girl, Celia, your grandmother, she was age of my grandmother, but a little younger. They went to the school here and at Bad Goisern—you go to grades one to eight here, then to the larger school in Bad Goisern or Bad Ischl. Our grandmothers were not good friends, but she say your grandmother was younger and had friend for many years.”

“Tatianna Hoffman.”

“
Ja,
that her. Grandma Gerringer say that Celia married a young Austrian boy, not Jewish. She say the girl and young man married and moved away—she thought Salzburg or Vienna. The friend, too, go away to school for her violin in Salzburg at the Mozarteum.”

“Tatianna was a violinist?”

“That what my grandmother say.”

“And what about the family?”

“Gone—before the war. She say all family left before Anschluß—when Hitler came to Austria.”

“And does she know what happened to Tatianna Hoffman and her family?”

“All gone, she say. Tatianna have only mother; her father die long before in salt mine. That all she told me.”

“I wish she would talk to me, but I don’t want to upset her. Thank you for your help, Sophie.”

“I hope you find what you seek,” Sophie said earnestly. Darby looked at the woman who seemed to understand her struggle. “I hope so too.”

The next morning, Darby watched the figure skim across Hallstattersee in his black boat. It looked like the head of the Loch Ness monster with its smooth wake trailing behind. She rested against the balcony railing, fascinated, as if this same man had been there for a thousand years, pushing gently through the water, dropping his net in search of his morning meal.

Darby found herself ready for breakfast and decided on the way down the wooden stairway that she could live in this village for the rest of her life. But first, she must answer the questions that would not let her make serious plans for a future.

She carried down a thick paperback,
Hitler’s Austria
, that she’d brought from home, though she had yet to crack its cover. Sophie brought coffee and a morning greeting as Darby set the book down along with a plate of food. She was about to bite into a warm roll when a voice interrupted. Grandmother Gerringer sat in a dark corner. Her German was decidedly unfriendly.

“I’m sorry, I don’t speak German.
No sprechen Deutsche
.”

The woman continued in a low voice, shaking her head with contempt.

Sophie reentered the room with a plate of sliced tomatoes and almost dropped it when she heard Grandma Gerringer. She turned quickly and spoke to her in German. But the old woman wouldn’t be quieted.

“What is she saying?” Darby asked Sophie.

“Forgive us. I will take her to her room.”

“No, I want to know what she’s saying.” Darby stood and entered the dark corner, sitting across from Grandma Gerringer. “Tell me.”

“No, she offends you.”

“I want to know, Sophie.”

“She is an old woman and does not mean her words.” Sophie set the plate down and hurried to the table.

“I think by her tone she does. Please.”

Sophie sat at the table and covered her grandmother’s hand with her own. She spoke to the older woman, whose words quickly flowed back. Sophie hesitated; Darby waited. “She say you are like all other Americans.”

“Why?”

“She say Americans are arrogant. They come to foreign soil and demand answers when they not understand what they asking. She say, ‘What would you do?’”

“What would I do?”

“Yes.” Sophie translated as the old woman spoke. “She say you live in your home with only few Jews here. One is your neighbor, someone you know your whole life. We say we are Nazi for work and better Austria, then someone write and ask about Jews in village. We write and say yes, a few, but this is a good friend in Linz, and we think nothing of it. Later, another letter come and say all Jews must go to Linz. My husband know what happened and Jewish neighbor is his friend. He want to help, but I do not. We have own family to protect. Own family is first responsibility. It is not your own life you risk—it is your children. It is your elderly grandparents who live with you. Would you put them in danger, place them in death’s grasp to save your neighbor?”

By the way Sophie was responding to her grandmother, Darby knew Sophie was hearing this for the first time.

“She say that none of us can understand. We only hear stories in books today. But she lived that time. One friend in Linz she knew hid Jewish children. Her old grandfather and grandmother were beaten with a club until dead. The rest of the family sent away and never return. She say there was no choice. It was suicide.”

The old woman continued. “She ask you what you would do. What you do now? Do you have beliefs and not follow them? Do you see wrong in your government and say nothing? She say then you too guilty. As guilty as us who sat and did nothing. Do not judge me. I did not kill your family. They were gone by that time. Her neighbor she could not help when they came for him. She had to turn away or kill her family. Would you have done anything different?”

Frau Gerringer glared, and Sophie looked away. Darby needed an answer but didn’t have one. She could see into the old woman’s narrowed eyes. For her entire life Darby had had a set idea of what a Nazi was or had been. She’d see skinhead rallies on the nightly news, with their messages of hatred. Grandma Celia’s family was murdered by the evil Nazis. Darby didn’t want to sympathize or understand or even consider anything different than the image she had. The SS and Gestapo were men of evil and hatred. The Germans and many Austrians were pathetic in their attempts to protect themselves and not help the innocents. Right?

“She’s right. I
am
an arrogant American. I have not understood.” Darby stopped to face Frau Gerringer, then hurried toward the stairs as Sophie’s soft voice told the old woman her words.

Darby rushed to her room and locked the door behind her. She didn’t want to know these things, to feel sympathy or understanding for those who allowed the terrors of the Nazis. Grandmother Gerringer taught her what she didn’t expect. In a flash she also realized there were probably many Nazi sympathizers, Nazis themselves, still alive and well in this beautiful land. Of course, how could she be so naive not to know? Many would not like the sins of the past resurrected—even and especially for the sake of truth. And here Darby had come with her swastika-covered
Hitler’s Austria
book under her arm, practically proclaiming an attitude against these people.

I have judged people like that all my life without even knowing it until now. Yet, how different are we today?

The old woman’s words frightened her. Darby had opinions and beliefs, but yes, she only did what was convenient for her own life. And did she do anything to help anyone else? She’d barely kept her trust in Grandma Celia when faced with the idea that the woman could be someone else.

Darby fell into bed, dragging a pillow over her head. This was a search for the past, not a digging into her own life. The shadows were stronger in this place, even stronger than the ones who had laughed from her grandmother’s deathbed. And they wouldn’t be satisfied until they took all of Darby with them.

Brant rested his head against his hands. He rubbed his eyes and looked at the door, wishing he could leave his office and never, ever return. Why had his work affected him so profoundly lately? He’d seen a hundred taped interviews of survivors. Yet now they came upon him like demons possessing his soul. He had several reviews to complete for the computerized Holocaust Survivor Library. But after today, Brant considered cutting reviews from his job description. It was taking too much from him, and he had plenty of other work he could do. He’d never enjoyed watching the tapes, though the work was preserving something essential for the future. But now it was all he could do to let the survivors’ words enter his mind. He felt like an old, old man who had too much knowledge of the world’s terrors.

Or perhaps it was because of Gunther. Because of Gunther’s waning health, Brant couldn’t simply run to his mentor at every turn or theological challenge. It wasn’t that easy anymore.

Brant tried to focus on the computer screen. The man on the frozen frame had an almost apologetic smile on his face. Brant clicked off the Pause button, determined not to let himself get too wrapped up in this.

David Weisman spoke, looking from the screen right into Brant’s eyes.

“My brother, Henri, and I were liberated from Buchenwald. We were the only survivors in our family of eight children. I was sixteen and my brother fourteen. We were still very thin, under one hundred pounds, when we decided to make our way from the refugee camp toward our home. Our hope was to find any relatives or friends in our hometown. We were at a railway station in Poland waiting for our train when two Polish officers approached us. They began to ask us many questions. ‘Who are you? Show us your papers.’ We were surprised and showed our ID cards. My brother, though younger than me, had more bravery—I had lost mine long before. He said, ‘We are Polish and survivors from the camps. We are going to our home.’ This did not change their attitude toward us. We were ordered to go with them. My brother said, ‘We will miss our train.’ The officers did not care. We were naive, believing there was nothing to fear because Hitler and his evil men had been destroyed. We were only upset to miss our train. But we believed that the world was better and would take care of us after we had endured so much.

“The officers led us away from the crowds and down streets that were dark and deserted. Our suitcases and belongings from the Red Cross quickly tired us, for we were still very weak. My brother asked how long it would take. ‘Our train,’ he said. ‘It won’t take long,’ one replied.

“We turned a corner and it was a dead-end alley. I heard the sound of a trigger being cocked. We turned and faced the cold eyes of the officers, the same look I had seen so often at the camps. They both had guns pointed at us. One hit my brother on the side of the head, and the blow knocked him to the ground. ‘You stupid Jews. Why couldn’t you die in the camps? Now we have this job of killing when the job should have been done by the Germans. I am tired of this work.’

“My brother and I were stunned. After all we’d endured, how could we not have seen this? I could not move, I could not cry or run or yell out. It seemed inconceivable that we’d survived the most horrid of conditions and endured the worst of man’s evils to die in this empty alley.

“‘Please, please, why would you do this to us?’ my brother asked. I noticed the blood running down his face after he spoke. ‘We are Polish like you and have suffered so much as we know you have. The Nazis were both of our enemies, not one another. See my blood—it is red like your own.’

“As they moved us against the wall, my brother continued to plead. I believe he wanted them to feel some human touch, to see us as people. I could not speak, only accepted that I was now dead. I was resigned to it. The SS and Gestapo I escaped, but my own people I would not. But somehow my brother’s pleas made the officers waver. He spoke about being my younger brother and how we helped one another live through the war. Perhaps these officers were brothers, for this seemed to have the greatest effect. I know Henri sensed this, for he continued to speak about the two of us. He put his arm around me and pleaded, ‘My brother is the only person I have left. We want to go home, to the place we grew up.’

“At last the officers looked at each other. ‘They are only boys. Not worth our time,’ one said. They put their guns away. Before they left us alone in the darkness, one turned back and said, ‘You better get to your home. There are many like us, and we don’t let people like you live. You are the first of many.’

“We were saved by my brother. But the hit to his head had been harder than I thought. We were so weak that we had great difficulty returning to the train station and abandoned our belongings. Our train had left, but we crept onto another. It was very cold that night, and Henri and I warmed each other. But in the morning, Henri was dead.

“This was our welcome home.”

Brant clicked off the video. He sat back in his chair with a sigh and noticed evening shadows had moved into the room. He’d been reviewing the stories for hours without thought of time or reality.

A quick knock rapped against his door. “Come in,” he said, clearing his throat. The sound of his voice was amplified in the room.

“Mr. Collins, I’m leaving for the night.” His secretary peered into the room. “Would you like me to order you something to eat?”

“No, I’m not hungry.”

“Are you sure? You didn’t have lunch either.” Frau Halder looked concerned.

“I’m sure, but thank you. Have a good evening.”

“You too,” Frau Halder called as she exited.

When Brant’s stomach rumbled, he realized he was hungry. But the thought of eating sickened him. He imagined what it would feel like to be actually starving. The faces he’d seen today knew that feeling. They knew true coldness, survival, and death.

Brant heard Frau Halder’s laughter outside his closed door. Someone knocked twice, and the door opened before he responded.

“Hey, there’s the man. Working late, as usual.” Richter glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll catch you later, Frau Halder.” He walked into Brant’s office and shut the door.

“What brings you to Salzburg again?” Brant asked, peeved at the interruption.

“Some business for Grandma. And what are you up to?” Richter rounded his desk and stared at the frozen image of David Weisman on the computer screen. “A survivor, I assume.”

“That’s right.”

“What stories those people have to tell us.” Richter shook his head as he sat on the edge of the desk.

Brant didn’t respond but resented Richter’s flippant attitude.

“I’m finding how important it is to discover the stories from our past. I’ve had Grandma Ingrid tell me quite a bit—what a time that woman had. It kind of explains why she’s the way she is now, don’t you think?”

“What do you mean?”

“I always thought of her as a cold, grouchy person. My parents hate her, and if I didn’t hate them, perhaps I’d be more on their side. But in the last few years since my parents and I have been noncommunicating and I’ve gotten to know Ingrid, I’ve found out she’s not so bad. Been through hell, that woman has. Used by the Nazis, doing whatever it took to survive and build a decent home for her boys, then they grow up and don’t have any gratitude at all. I feel sorry for the old bat.”

Brant thought of Ingrid. She didn’t have it as difficult as Richter said. The Nazis took good care of her with parties, nice clothes, and jewelry—until the Allies shoved them out and Ingrid had to revise her story. She certainly hadn’t experienced even a taste of what people like David Weisman had endured.

“It’s a good thing Ingrid found Gunther,” Brant said, closing the files on his computer.

“I don’t know. That wasn’t exactly a marriage full of love.”

“Well, at least she was safe and had security. She never wanted for anything.”

“But imagine not feeling love from your own husband. I’ve seen photos of Ingrid, and she was a good-looking lady. Wonder why Gunther never fell for her . . . what’s his story behind it all?”

Although Richter sat relaxed in his chair, behaving as if this were a light conversation, Brant saw red lights flashing.

“You never asked Gunther about his past?” Brant asked.

“Not really. I knew he was married before Ingrid and that he was involved in the underground. But I don’t know much more. I’m sure you asked. You always loved to hear those old stories, while I thought they were boring. Until now. Age is taking the playboy out of me, and I’m seeing a wider view of life.”

Brant wondered about the validity of that—Richter no longer a playboy? Richter interested in history? The history of Gunther and his first wife in particular? “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got several more hours of work tonight. Did you need something?”

“Not in particular. Thought I’d stop by and see what you were doing—knew you’d be working late, as usual. Hey, we could catch a bite to eat. You could invite that good-looking American to come along.” Richter adopted his most charming smile.

“Losing the playboy for history, I see.”

Richter laughed. “No, I wouldn’t move in on your prospect.”

“She’s not my prospect. I haven’t seen her since the day you met her.” Brant thought Darby probably now knew the truth about her grandmother—that she could not be Celia Lange Müller. She would have found the evidence at the cemetery and know. He wondered how she had taken the news, and whether he’d ever see her again.

“What? I expected great reports after I gave you the tickets. Saw a blooming relationship there.”

“Not even close. I gave the tickets to Frau Halder.”

“Ah, Brant, Brant. You have some lessons to learn. So you missed out on a great opportunity—you haven’t even spoken to her since?”

“I don’t even know if she’s still in Salzburg. I believe she was going down to Hallstatt.”

“Too bad. But I’ll have to set you up with some women who won’t let you go so easily. You need a social life. What’s that old American movie say? ‘All work and no play makes Johnny, or Brant, a dull boy.’ Come on, take a break, live a little. Let’s get something to eat. Frau Halder told me you haven’t eaten all day.”

Brant opened his mouth to decline.

“I insist.” Richter picked up Brant’s coat from the coat tree and handed it to him. Brant was hungry but wary. Richter liked to portray the best pals image, but Brant still wasn’t buying it.

“You are doing a great job, Darby,” Professor Peter Voss said over the telephone.

“It doesn’t feel like it.” She closed the phone booth door behind her. Darby had stayed in her room most of the day after her encounter with Frau Gerringer that morning, finally venturing out in the evening to call the professor at the phone booth. Her room at the old house didn’t have a phone, so she found one along Seestraße. Only locals and a few cars moved along the cold street after the sun dropped behind the Alps. “From the information I gained from Frau Gerringer, I wondered if perhaps my grandparents moved to Salzburg after they married so my grandfather could attend the university there. Do they have an archaeology department?”

“Actually, the university was not open then. The school closed down for a period of time.”

“During the war?”

“Actually, for one hundred and fifty years.”

“What?”

“Amazing, yes. We have an interesting history starting in 1617, but then it disbanded in the early 1800s until 1964. So your grandfather would not have attended here.”

“Then that’s a dead end.”

“I will check and see if a Tatianna Hoffman was enrolled at the Mozarteum.”

“Yes, I forgot about that. I’m glad you’re listening.”

“I think you have done excellent work. I am amazed the old woman would confess so much to you. Most people are very closemouthed, even with their own families. There are many adults who would be surprised at the Nazi past they have in their family. After the war, it was not often information passed to the children.”

“I haven’t talked to any of the Gerringer family since the grandmother gave me a good chewing out about being American and stupid. She probably would never have spoken if I didn’t insult her with my swastika-covered book.”

“You have a difficult job. You see, the people you wish to speak with lived in a time when America did not abide so abundantly here.”

“What do you mean?”

“A colleague of mine has done intensive studies on the Americanization of Europe, particularly Austria, since World War II. You cannot imagine how much World War II was a catalyst toward changing Old European culture—much of that due to Coca-Cola, rock and roll, and Hollywood. As you have seen, English is becoming the neutral language in most of Europe. But prior to wars, especially the first World War, Europe was the greatest influence on the world. And the Austro-Hungarian empire was one of the greatest in Europe. So the elderly were raised with their parents’ pride and patriotism for their great nation. The young people today live very much like Americans. Yet it is the elderly who will help you in your quest. Few will know the language. Few will trust you.”

“I’m seeing that.”

“The older generations feel their traditions are attacked by conquering Americans—no longer with troops, but with music and culture. And it is true. Imagine a foreign culture surrounding your children and grandchildren as you cling to the old ways.”

“I can understand a little. In California, people protest schools that fly both the United States and Mexican flags. Others complain about the foreign cars on the highways and the influx of Asian and Hispanic people with Spanish often spoken more than English in certain counties.”

“Imagine turning on the radio and having 80 to 90 percent of your popular music be German songs, sung in German. Also the majority of your movies and television shows are produced by Germans with dubbed-in English. Then two-thirds of computer software is in German, not English.”

“I’m getting the picture. So what do I do?”

“Be sensitive. Respect their beliefs.”

Darby thought of how she’d read the Nazi book at the breakfast table. That wasn’t exactly respectful of Austrian feelings.