Winter Passing (19 page)

The line was long to speak with Brant, and Darby was unsure what to say. But it was clear he wasn’t the coldhearted man she’d first believed him to be. However, that fact didn’t change what he thought of her grandmother; and as yet, there was still no proof to change his mind. Darby didn’t even know what he thought of
her
. She left the classroom, pausing in the hallway to collect her thoughts before moving toward the luncheon where she’d planned to meet Professor Voss.

The afternoon passed rapidly with two more workshops. Darby had told Professor Voss about her interest in freelance photography for newspapers and magazines with some possible writing in the future, and he encouraged her to attend two workshops, “Holocaust in the Modern Press” and “Preserving the Images of Yesterday,” both taught by an international media giant. Darby found the classes provided headphones that translated the German into English, so Professor Voss didn’t have to translate the workshops for her. The information was invaluable, giving her a renewed passion for the work she’d almost given up on. She might make a living yet, and she might love that work in a way she never had before.

As Darby left her last workshop and headed toward the main auditorium for the closing speaker, she rounded a corner and almost bumped into Brant.

“Excuse me,” she said, awkward in his presence.

“How are you?” he asked.

“Good, and you?”

“Good.”

“I really enjoyed your workshop this morning.”

“Thank you.”

“Well—” they said at the same time, then stopped. They stood in the hall with people moving by and suddenly both smiled at once.

“Do you realize how much you surprised me when I was introducing my workshop?” Brant asked, shaking his head. “I nearly lost my entire train of thought. I thought you were in the States, and there you are, sitting next to Peter.”

“I was just as shocked to see
you
walk up there.” Darby couldn’t stop a giggle as she remembered his expression. “Now we’re even, since you made me cry and nearly burst with anger on the first day we met.”

“I don’t always bring out the worst in people.”

“No, just me.” Darby tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, aware of how close they stood.

“I really did feel bad about the crying thing.”

“You should have. I don’t cry easily.”

When Brant smiled, Darby noticed his smooth-shaved jaw and soft-looking lips.

“So you couldn’t stay away from Austria?”

“Somehow it lured me back,” she said.

“And . . .” Brant hesitated, as if contemplating whether to ask. “Have you found anything?”

“Herr Collins?” A young woman with a handful of papers nudged him from behind.

Brant turned to gather the papers from the petite girl. Darby was surprised she spoke in English.

“Can I do anything else to help you?” the girl asked, biting her lip.

“No, this is great. Thank you, Melissa.”

“Any time.” Melissa glanced back twice coyly as she walked down the hall, but only Darby noticed.

“They just surround you,” Darby said.

“What?” Brant looked confused.

“Still as gullible as ever.”

Brant appeared lost, then the light bulb turned on. “Not that again. She’s a student from the States.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t been snatched up by one of these Austrian ladies,” Darby said, then realized her joking had struck home, on a very personal note.

“I lose whatever charm I possess with my life revolving around work. Like I said today, I only recently learned the value of living. And look who’s talking. Why, Darby Evans, are you still unmarried?”

She gulped. Their joking had turned serious, and she didn’t like it aimed her way. “I suppose, much the same reason. All work and no play—you know.” Darby consulted her watch. “But look at the time.” He grinned as she diverted their conversation.

“Time for the general session, just in time.” Brant shook his head. “I’ll see you later, Darby.”

“Remember me?” Richter said into the cell phone. He walked away from the bright sidewalk down a darkened pathway near the river. A group of tourists passed, chattering in the cold as they turned to cross the river into the Old City.

“What do you want?” the voice replied. “I thought you were never calling us again, never coming back. We’ve adjusted quite nicely.”

Richter clenched his fist. He needed to stay calm. He needed to get this right. “I just wanted to see how you and Mom are doing.”

“That’s a good one. I know you need money for your debts. But since you asked, your mom and I have never been better in the last two years. So don’t try coming back into our lives. It’s not going to happen.”

“I’ve cleaned up my life, Dad,” Richter said.

“I don’t care, Richter. Long ago I quit having a son, so don’t call again.”

“When did you ever have a son?” Richter slammed the phone against the railing again and again. He cursed and hurled the phone toward the dark waters, hearing a splash a second later.

Now what would he do? His father was his last chance. Yet when had his father ever shown him any love? Richter had been sent to boarding school all year and in the summer to Gunther and Ingrid’s. He was an only child, the one neither of his parents ever wanted. They had their life with rich friends and rich vacations, and a kid didn’t fit into what they wanted out of life.

He cursed again and pounded his fist against the railing. “Having problems again, Richter?” a voice said from behind. Richter turned slowly to face a large, older man rising from a bench behind him. He looked straight at the man whose unwavering stare brought a fearful churning in Richter’s stomach. His contact was not supposed to be this early, and it certainly wasn’t supposed to be this man. Richter had seen him once, but only in passing. Why would he take the risk to meet Richter in person? It wasn’t a good sign.

“Everything is great,” Richter said, forcing a smile.

“You were given your loan in good faith. Now I suppose you’re going to tell me you need more time—again.”

“I told Thom about the old Lange inheritance,” Richter brought up quickly. “Did he tell you?”

“It’s your ticket to wealth, I suppose.”

“I know it is. You don’t understand the worth of the brooch alone. And the coins—there may not be another set of this kind in the world. I’ll pay you back and have enough to loan you money.”

The man didn’t join in the joke.

“Anyway, the woman who could be my opportunity just came back to the city.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I have some plans, and you don’t have to worry, I make good on my debts. I always have before.”

“I’m more interested in the Lange inheritance. I’d also like to hear everything you know about this woman, Darby Evans.”

Richter frowned. How did the contact know her name? “Will some of this come off my tab?”

“Just keep me informed. Not through Thom, but straight to me. I’ll take care of everything else.”

Frank Beck looked like any older man Darby would see at an early-bird breakfast at Denny’s or walking a miniature dog in the park. He lived in Florida, golfed with his friends, attended synagogue, and drove a motor home in the summer months to destinations with cooler weather—his favorite trip had been a six-week drive to Alaska. His wife of fifty-one years liked to knit booties for their new grandbabies and great-grandbabies and to play cards with her friends. The couple especially loved morning coffee with cream-cheese danishes on the balcony of their condo. But, too often, Frank Beck returned to his previous life, sometimes during the night or when driving past an industrial smokestack or when hearing the sound of a train rumbling on its tracks. Then Frank would find himself hungry, cold, and completely terrified even as he clenched the wheel of his silver Cadillac or sweated on his Serta Perfect Sleeper mattress.

Frank spoke in English, for like Grandma Celia, he vowed never to speak German again. Coming to a German-speaking country for this conference was most difficult.

Darby watched Frank as he spoke to the captive audience. He first told of his life today, then descended into the darkness of a history that lived with every beat of his heart. “It was my job to burn bodies in the ovens. I did my job—or I’d become like them. Very quickly you are numbed to the reality, the smell, and the faces you choose not to see. But one day, right before me, I recognized a face. It was my father. We’d been separated months earlier, and I had tried to find where he was taken. Then I found him right there. I could not think of it. I put my father into the oven to burn.” His words faltered.

“Some people do not understand why many survivors continue to seek compensation or the return of properties, heirlooms, and money. Yet the companies that profited from our labor continue to thrive. The banks and insurance companies that would not return monies have earned much interest and wealth from us. Imagine the insurance policy your father purchases and faithfully pays is then used to fund the Nazi regime that destroys your family and life. Then when you attempt to claim your father’s insurance after the war, you are rejected, though you hold the policy in your hand.” Frank held his fist in the air. “The policy the insurance company gave your father is in your hand after hiding beneath the floor of your barn for six years. There is the proof, but still you are rejected. Why? Because the Nazis didn’t issue death certificates when they murdered. Insurance policies require proof of death, not just an eyewitness who saw his father’s face before burning it.”

He shook his head and his voice lowered. “Yet people say it is long since past. ‘Frank, you have rebuilt your life. Leave it behind you.’ For my wife, myself, and many others, it cannot be left behind. It is forever part of us. We had every bit of humanity stolen from us. Yes, we survived, but there are pieces that can never be reclaimed.”

He paused, looking down at the podium. “And yet, I did not come here this weekend to emphasize such things. Instead, I want to be a reminder to those who will listen and take the message outward. Again and again, we say do not forget. Simon Weisenthal writes this in his book
Justice Not Vengeance
: ‘Hatred can be nurtured anywhere, idealism can be perverted into sadism anywhere. If hatred and sadism combine with modern technology, the inferno could erupt anew anywhere.’ I say to each one of you, tell the stories and remember us.”

With those simple words, Frank Beck left the stage. The auditorium echoed in serious applause, not a roar of jubilation, but with hands together in honor and respect. Darby could not clap, only watch the man descend the stairs.

The conference closed, and she walked slowly through the crowd toward the exit. She thought to tell Professor Voss good-bye, but he was in the midst of a crowd of colleagues. A blast of cold hit her face as she pushed open the university doors. The clouds churned in the late-afternoon sky, as if deciding whether to create a storm or move on.

She halted on the landing with her hands on the railing. A thousand sentences, words, and feelings from the seminar coursed through her mind, but what could she do with it all? One thing was clear: she’d never be the same. Her eyes had opened a little more. There was so much more to know and learn and understand, and suddenly she wanted to know so much and to pass it along to others. Perhaps her photographs would do that for others someday.

Addressing the gray-and-white clouds wrestling above the tops of the buildings, she vowed,
I’m going to share stories. Like my grandmother before me, I will be a storyteller like I was designed to be. Whether through photographs or words, I want to share with people who are like me—seeking light through the darkness.

And as Brant had said, she wanted to live her life with all the fullness she could find.
God, I’ve lived my life without you for a long time and even now forget you all the time. But I know I need your help. I need you every day.

The door opened behind her, and several people left the building. Darby adjusted the strap on her satchel, waiting for them to pass. Then she headed back toward the city center. She had some photographs that needed to be taken.

“Darby! Wait!”

She turned to see Brant Collins jogging down the street from the university entrance. “Professor Voss asked me to walk you back to your hotel. He regrets he could not be here himself.”

“I think I can manage without help.” Darby knew what Professor Voss was up to, and she didn’t like it.

“I go this way, anyway,” he said, falling into step beside her. He pointed toward the sheer mountain cliff above the cathedral domes. “I live on the other side of Mönchsberg, through the tunnel.”

Darby looked toward the mountain. She’d never gone through the tunnel to the other side. The Old City had become like home, but the rest of Salzburg was still a mystery. “As long as I’m on the way.”

As they continued on, Darby remembered the first time they’d met and walked these same streets.

“What did you think of the conference?” Brant asked.

“Excellent, very moving. The last speaker was incredible.”

“It’s amazing to discover what man will do to man,” Brant said quietly.

“I can’t understand it.” Darby glanced at Brant. She wondered what those eyes had seen and ears had heard. No wonder he became lost in his work, forgetting how to live. “I don’t think I could hear those things all the time.”

“I think you could. You’d do it because it’s important to help them. It’s important to record their lives and try to understand, if even in the smallest sense. They deserve at least understanding. It’s amazing what takes us so long to see.”

“What do you mean?” Darby asked.

“Here I am in my thirties and finally starting to see what life is supposed to be about. Not just work or myself, but well, the big picture.”

Darby weighed her next words. “You mean the big, big picture. As in, God?”

She saw him hesitate, then plow forward.

“I guess I am. Here we walk with the religion of Christianity influencing most everything in this city. But to get past religion and history and look at it for yourself, the real meaning of God, Christ even, and then accept it for yourself . . . Well, I guess you didn’t need to hear this.”

Darby almost didn’t want to admit that she understood what he meant. “Actually, I know exactly what you mean. Kind of scary, isn’t it?”

Brant stopped. “You too?”

Darby could only nod. She was just discovering God on her own and couldn’t quite explain without referring to the influences of Tatianna and Celia in her life. She and Brant would start talking about God and end up arguing about who her grandmother was or wasn’t. But Darby did wonder, as they continued a thoughtful pace, how two people who had such obstacles between them also had reached the same place in their lives, and they seemed to be moving in the same direction.

They passed through Mozartplatz with its tall statue of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, then turned toward the river.

“I’m this way,” she said, motioning straight ahead.

“No Cozy Hotel?”

Darby caught the raised eyebrow and small grin. “I’m at the Zur Goldenen Ente on Goldgasse.”

Brant smiled. “Staying a bit more Austrian, I see.”

“I try not to be too gullible,” she said, lifting her head a bit.

He laughed softly as they stepped toward Residenzplatz beside a string of shops and restaurants. The streets were busier with window shoppers and strollers crowding the sidewalks. They walked until the block of buildings opened to Goldgasse, with its gold sign fluttering above. The breeze was calm in the street that seemed more like a mysterious passageway. A single car could squeeze down the first third of the street, then it narrowed more tightly and only pedestrians could fit all the way through.

“Here I am,” Darby announced when they reached the yellow Hotel Zur Goldenen Ente. A wreath of decorations lined the doorway and windows. Tables were folded against one side of the building since it was too cold even for the outdoors-loving Austrians to eat on the street.

“So here you are.” Brant shuffled his feet, as if he wanted to say something. He glanced at the five-story hotel connected as one with the other buildings on the block. “I was wondering. . . . I thought I’d ask though it’s kind of late notice.”

Surprised to see that calm, cool, collected Brant Collins was acting nervous, Darby queried, “You thought you’d ask what?”

“An elderly couple in my last workshop gave me tickets to a dinner concert.” His eyes roamed the ground, the opposite building, her shoulder, but didn’t look directly at her. Suddenly, she thought she knew. Could Brant Collins be asking her for a
date
?

“I guess the couple bought the tickets but have to leave the city tonight. It’s at the St. Peter Stiftkeller, a nice restaurant. You might find it interesting if you like Mozart. It’s very Austrian.”

“I like Mozart,” she said, confused about his intentions again. “Are you giving me the tickets, or are you . . .”

“Well, yes, I could give you the tickets,” he said, stumbling over his words. “They’re here in my pocket.” He fumbled in his black coat, pulled out the two tickets, and handed them to her.

“Or were you asking me to go with you?” she interrupted. Brant shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. You take them and enjoy.”

Darby smiled. Seeing him squirm for once was quite nice. “Why don’t you take one, and we’ll both go? I can meet you in front, or we don’t even have to sit together, unless it’s reserved seating.”

Brant seemed to relax. “No, it’s not. But since it’s easier for me to go on foot than try to find parking, I could come by and walk with you. . . . If you want me to.”

“Sure,” she said, trying to sound casual and unaffected by the thought of an evening together.

“I’ll be by at seven-fifteen. It starts at eight, but I’d like to get there early.”

“I’ll see you then.” Darby’s mind ran in a million directions—what should she wear, what was she doing?

Brant left so quickly that she wondered if he had similar misgivings, similar butterflies. She hurried upstairs after checking her watch. What would they talk about? How could they possibly go somewhere together without bringing up the obstacle that kept them apart?

Darby heard the elevator doors open but waited the appropriate five seconds before opening the door to Brant’s knock.

“Hello,” she said, uncomfortable with her clothes and hair and shoes and everything she’d tried on and tossed and done in the last two hours. She wondered why she’d chosen the long, black skirt. Would she be able to walk in her black dress shoes? The black shirt with burgundy-and-black scarf suddenly seemed tight, and her face felt hot. She’d curled her straight hair with hot rollers and sprayed them till they barely moved. Did it look too fluffy and unlike her?

“Ready?” she said, hoping he didn’t notice her blush.

“You look really great,” Brant said with a smile.

That’s when she noticed how good he looked, also dressed in black with turtleneck, jacket, and slacks. Her grandmother would say, “Dashing!”

“You do too—look great, I mean.” Darby hurried to get her key and purse before he noticed the pile of clothing stuffed on the other side of the bed.

Salzburg was cold and the sky dark as they walked, but as usual, the city had yet to fall asleep. Beacons of light shone on the fortress above and on cathedral towers, around fountains, and from street lamps. Patches of snow glowed on Mönchsberg, but she’d been told that the city hadn’t had snow in weeks. Through archways and plazas, they arrived at St. Peter Stiftkeller, nestled against Mönchsberg’s sheer rock. As they entered an open-air courtyard in the center, Darby noticed the netting above that hopefully stopped any loose rocks from hitting the building. High above and beyond view, Hohensalzburg kept a watchful eye over the Old City. Dried vines hung from the sides of the netting, probably lush and beautiful in the spring and a wonderful place to eat with the open sky above for those seeking love. Darby liked the dark, wooded restaurant, but it wasn’t what she’d anticipated for a Mozart dinner concert. She followed Brant’s lead up a stairway and down a long hall. They put their coats in a small room, then entered a beautiful hall. Darby paused in the doorway. This was more than she’d hoped for. The baroque decor, chandeliers, wood floors, and tables laden with flowers and china gave the effect of stepping back into the eighteenth century. The waiters wore red jackets with white ruffled shirts, and waitresses moved around tables in full skirts and aprons.

Brant stood beside her in the doorway. “The St. Peter Stiftkeller was first mentioned by Alkuin, a court scribe, during a visit by Emperor Charlemagne in the first century. It’s considered the oldest restaurant in Central Europe.” He extended his arm. “Shall, we, my lady?”

Darby put her arm through his. “Yes, we shall.”

The tables were already filling, and they found two seats at a round table near the front of a small stage. Darby sat and scooted herself up just as she noticed that Brant had tried to push her in.