Winter Passing (28 page)

“Don’t say a word.” Richter held the gun aimed at Darby as he let her go and crept toward the door. He was thinking, trying to decide what to do. “It’s probably a priest, but maybe . . . if you call out, I’ll have to kill him, and you.”

Darby wrapped her arms around her chest. “I won’t say a word.”

“I’ll be back.” Richter took off his jacket, put the metal box of coins under his arm, and tucked the gun into his waistband. He shone the flashlight in her face and opened the creaking door. He stepped out and ran as the door closed her in, dooming her to complete darkness. Her heart pounded, and her eyes strained to find even a shred of light. There was none. She put her ear to the door and heard Richter’s footsteps but no voices. Her eyes jumped around to see anything, but could only feel the hundreds of eyes looking her way. There was no sound beyond, no sound within. And no escape anywhere.

Sudden noises outside made Darby scurry backward. She hit the stacks of bones hard. Skulls fell from the shelving, rolling onto the floor. She screamed as one landed in her lap.

Then the door opened, and she saw a lighter darkness from the crack. Her hand found the shovel nearby. She waited in the corner, heart convulsing, eyes frozen on the doorway, waiting. No one entered.

On hands and knees, still clutching the hand shovel, she moved toward the side of the door. Any second she expected Richter to jump inside. She heard more noises—muffled voices that seemed to disappear among the headstones outside. Minutes later, car doors slammed—perhaps a trunk, too. Then tires screeched away.

It crossed her mind that perhaps someone had gotten Richter. The police? Brant? But why hadn’t they called out to her? Seconds were hours. At last she pulled the door inward and carefully peered outside. If she could make it to the hillside behind the white tower, she could hide there. She took a few breaths, said a quick prayer, and dashed from the building. No one stopped her. She ran in blindness, red candle eyes staring as her legs scraped against concrete graves. The dark shadows against the mountain would give her safe harbor. Almost there. Then her feet hit something and she sprawled forward. Gravel cut into her hands and chin. She’d tripped over the metal box and scattered the coins. Her hands wildly gathered the coins, picked up the box, and she moved on. She jumped over a stone fence and up the steep incline of forest above. Her feet stumbled. Silent noises and spirits were behind each step. Not until she had buried herself deep into branches and forest did she pause. No one had followed. No one was there.

Through the trees and down below, she saw lights and heard noises. Then footsteps moved toward her. Darby was near the wooden stairway that went up the mountain, and the footsteps were coming up. She crouched against a tree trunk, feeling as if her body must be illuminated in the darkness. Her legs felt too long, her breath too visible, and she wondered which way to bend her head. The footsteps stopped nearby. Darby held her breath.
God, help me. If you don’t want me to die, help me live—truly live!

Voices shouted below and lights danced around the cemetery. The footsteps sounded again, moving up and past her. Wooden stairs creaked as the figure climbed higher; then the weight transferred to the earthen pathway and disappeared.

“Darby!”

She froze in place in shock, wishing to close the gap between herself and the voice calling her name.

“Darby! Darby! Where are you?”

“Brant,” she whispered. “Brant.” Her voice wouldn’t reach him. “Brant!”

A light sifted the mountainside. She got up and began to push toward its source. The light swiveled toward her.

“Darby!” He jumped the small fence and ran through brush and branches. “Thank you, God!” He drew her into a swift and gentle embrace. The flashlight fell and rolled down the hill as he held her in his arms.

As Brant picked her up, her head fell against his chest. His heartbeat became her lullaby. She was safe.

Darby didn’t need an English translation to know that Brant was growing angry with the Austrian officers. She didn’t have any more answers. Richter was not to be found, though the police were sure he wasn’t the man Darby had heard run up the mountain. They’d traced Richter’s footprints back down the mountain. Even more amazing, he’d left the coins behind.

Darby told the police about the sound of a car and voices. Yet Richter’s car was still in the parking lot, and Ingrid had been found still in Gosau—alone. It almost seemed like someone had taken Richter and left the coins behind for Darby—but who, and especially, why?

Darby sat on the cold picnic table, a blanket around her shoulders, as morning began to shine over the tall mountain. Darby could tell the pieces she knew—Richter’s plans and motives. But no citizen came forward to tell what had happened. Muddy footprints had been found on the wooden steps, but the trail ended through the woods and back at the parking lot.

“I’m taking you home.” Brant touched her forehead tenderly. “The police can talk to you more this afternoon.” He gathered the blanket more tightly around her shoulders. “I’ll tell them we’re leaving.”

A single tear slid down Darby’s cheek. Brant’s finger caught it as he hugged her and pressed his lips against her forehead.

“You’re safe now,” he said.

Her gaze lifted over Brant’s shoulder toward a hunched old man watching the scene. It was the elderly man with the rake. As he turned away and took painful steps back toward his home, Darby saw a generation limping away with the stories and memories departing with them. Grandma Celia had told her much, but left out even more. It would all be lost soon. The pages closed. The book shelved. Darby wanted to keep it alive as much as she could. To tell the story as she knew it, and keep the words of life alive.

Brant kissed her forehead again before crossing the street to a group of officers. Darby’s eyes closed in utter exhaustion, though a peace grew in her soul. God wasn’t ready for her to leave quite yet. And she was ready to truly live for him.

A vehicle passed, and the police angrily motioned it to continue. She glanced up. The gray sedan moved by, then stopped. Darby stood up. A man emerged from the crowd of curious onlookers and walked to the car. Before opening the passenger door, he stared directly at Darby. He looked familiar somehow. As he ducked inside the car, she noticed mud caked on his shoes. Darby’s own feet felt frozen in place. She knew the car was the same one that had taken her to Bruno Weiler. Had the man who took Tatianna’s life now saved hers?

Brant walked toward her and stopped when he saw her expression. The tinted glass made it impossible to see in, but as the car started past, the backseat window rolled down.

“Is everything okay, Darby?”

A puff of smoke streamed from the window, and then Darby saw Bruno Weiler.

“What is he doing in Hallstatt?” Brant asked.

“You know who he is?”

“Of course. He’s Minister Johansen—one of the most powerful men in Austria.”

Darby glanced up at Brant, then back to the car.

Bruno tipped his hat at them, and the gray sedan pulled away.

Darby sat wedged between Aunt Helen and Uncle Marc as the New York cabbie drove through traffic.

“Slow down,” Aunt Helen squawked. “You’ll kill us all.”

Darby smiled as they pulled to the curb. She’d become quite accustomed to crazy taxi drivers. Her mother hesitated in the front seat before getting out. The noise of the city surrounded them as the doors opened. Another cab halted behind them, and the door burst open.

“Auntie Darby,” her niece called and hurried toward them. “Kallie’s Baby Alive wet Daddy’s leg.” She covered her mouth as she laughed.

Darby saw her sister’s family fuss inside the cab as Kallie slowly got out, and Maureen looked for baby wipes. Darby then noticed her mother. She stood on the sidewalk, oblivious to the cars zipping past or the flashing lights and signs of downtown New York. Waiting like a frightened child, her eyes searched the crowd. Darby walked close with camera bag and tripod in one arm and put the other arm around her mother.

“What if he doesn’t show up?” Carole asked.

“He will.”

“I’ve done this before. I’ve waited here—many times. Right in this noisy place, I’ve searched the crowd. He never came on the promised date.”

“He didn’t know. He knows now.”

Darby looked at the elongated triangle of Times Square. It was nothing like the quaint European plazas. It bustled with traffic zooming around what she’d have thought to be a large road divider. Tourism had come to Times Square with shops, Disney stores, Good Morning America, and billboard advertisements flashing from tall buildings. It smelled like city streets and some other smell coming from the hot dog vendors—not the scent of a juicy dog, but the stringent smell of a warming element inside the vendor machine. That smell with exhaust fumes was Times Square. Not the place for a romantic meeting as Celia and Gunther had imagined, but Gunther had told his young bride to meet him at the only place in America he had heard of in 1939, except for Ellis Island. So this had been the designated place. Over sixty years later, the reunion would finally take place—on the April 3 wedding anniversary of Gunther and Celia.

Darby had spoken with Brant the night before while he was still in London waiting for his delayed plane to take off. They’d take the red-eye and be here as scheduled. Darby prayed it would be true, especially as she looked again at her mother’s face.

Kallie and Kellie ran to Darby and hung on her jacket. “Auntie Darby, Kellie said I’ll have to leave Baby Alive at home now because of what happened on Dad’s leg.”

“Girls, come here and stay close,” Maureen called. They scurried to their mother, who bent down and whispered in their ears. John was still wiping at his leg.

“Let’s make a deal,” Darby said to her mother. “You look at that giant TV screen, and I’ll search the crowd. I told them to meet near the ticket booth. They’ll come. But I’ll tell you when I see them, and then you can look.”

“That might be best. My heart jumps at every young man I see, thinking it could be your Brant.”

Maureen now walked up to Darby. “John is taking the twins to get a hot dog, and Aunt Helen and Uncle Marc are joining them. So where are they?” She bit her fingernail.

“They’ll be here,” Darby said. She gave her sister’s hand a reassuring squeeze, though her own anxiety began to rise. What if, what if, what if. Then, across the square, she saw them. In flashes through the crowds, she saw Brant’s dark hair. He was pushing Gunther in a wheelchair through the people.

“Mom,” Darby said. Gunther searched the crowd, and suddenly their eyes locked. He put up his hand and Brant stopped. Then Gunther struggled to rise from the chair.

Carole gasped, her hands over her mouth. Instant tears streamed down her cheek as she took a few steps forward. Darby and Maureen waited behind.

They moved toward each other as if in slow motion, then stopped a foot away. Darby felt wetness on her own cheeks as Gunther reached out and gathered Carole into his arms. At last, father and daughter were meeting for the first time.

Maureen wiped away tears too. “This is their moment. I’ll go find John and the girls and be back in a little while.”

“Are you sure?” Darby asked, seeing the emotional struggle in her sister’s face.

Maureen nodded and backed away.

Brant helped Gunther onto a park bench, then headed toward Darby.

“You made it,” she said softly. In the busyness of plans and her return to America, they’d found little time to be alone in weeks. Now they were closing one chapter of their lives. What would the next one bring?

“We couldn’t miss this day.” Brant extracted an envelope from his coat. “I brought a letter from the museum in Hallstatt. They wanted to thank your family for donating the coins. I also have the final papers on the memorial for Tatianna at Mauthausen.”

“All in German, I suppose?”

“Of course. You know, it’s time you start learning your own German.”

“I was waiting to see where I lived before I enrolled in classes.”

“Professor Voss and Katrine already found a course in Salzburg for you. They are anxious for your return.”

Darby smiled. “It’s something we’ll have to discuss.”

“Among other things.” Brant reached his fingers around hers.

“So what do you think happened to Empress Sissi’s brooch?” Darby asked.

“You’re very good at changing the subject,” Brant said, shaking his head. “If Gunther never had the brooch, it could be anywhere. Perhaps some Swiss bank or vault in Argentina. Guess that’s for another day. Right now, there’s only one mystery I’m concerned about.”

“And what is that?”

Brant turned her toward him and held both hands. “What happens tomorrow, and the day after that.”

Darby’s eyes swiveled toward her mother and Gunther. They were in a world alone, unknowing of what occurred around them. They talked with heads close and tears flowing. Darby wiped her own cheek again. Then, through the noise and bustle, Darby sensed a presence like a lost memory recalled.

She couldn’t see her face, but instantly knew—Tatianna. The girl waited in a jail cell—one of the ones Darby had seen in Mauthausen. She stared at the morning light growing through her cell window. Then, Tatianna stood as the door opened, and took the long walk between guards across cobblestone roads, past barracks and fearful eyes. They led her to a line of others. Her eyes saw a man beside her, a man with nail holes through his bare feet. She looked upward and saw a bird conquer the sky with outstretched wings.

Darby turned back to Brant and smiled. “We may even have the day after that.”

Summer 1999

The trail was steep and the air crisp as I hiked toward the empty wooden bench above Hallstatt, Austria. I’d been there only five months earlier, wondering if I’d ever return. After all, it had taken eighteen years of European dreams to get me there the first time.

I can still see the map on the floor as my cousin and I plotted our someday Europe trip. I was ten; she was fourteen. Later, in French class, my friends and I researched foreign exchange programs that would make our dreams come true. After I got married, I bought a
Europe on $50 a Day
, certain we’d go in a year or two. But it took longer than my plans. And through the waiting I discovered that dreams are never truly fulfilled on your own.

My husband and I at last touched European soil when I was researching
Winter Passing
, my first novel. We flew to Amsterdam, then headed to Austria via train. Every day passed in a flurry of wonder. We walked Vienna streets and palaces at midnight and wore mining clothes during a salt mine tour. Suddenly we were home again, and I wondered if I’d conjured the story during a long sleep.

Austria haunted me as I worked on
Winter Passing
. Just as Darby had to return, I felt I must also. But was that my dream, or God’s plan? And then, amazingly, I was in Austria again.

This time three friends from high school—Katie, Jenna, and Shelley—stopped their lives to explore Austria with me. They waited below in a cafe as I climbed the steps above Hallstatt and found that bench as evening shadows descended. It was Easter Sunday. I’d recalled this view so often in the past months that it felt as familiar as an old friend. I took it in, breathed the memory, and realized clearly how God was working in the smallest details of my life.

On this trip, I glimpsed God’s view again . . . in an elderly man raking leaves in Hallstatt, an elderly couple watering flowers in the cemetery, and a woman telling of her Nazi grandfather who saved his best friend’s Jewish wife from almost-certain death, going to prison himself instead. I stood with three friends in Salzburg as midnight bells boomed the glory of God. My feet walked Mauthausen and Dachau—where people like me had seen the ashes of their dreams destroyed, along with their lives. I wondered how to live with their stories and sorrow breathing within me as I left those towers behind.

I’m home again, in Northern California. But in my mind’s eye, I often look out my window and see green hillsides and sharp peaks. I see cobblestone pathways and hear church bells ring. While I know where my home is, and I get glimpses of trails ahead, I also have an empty wooden bench thousands of miles away that holds special words just for me. For that place in Hallstatt was more than a bench along a trail. It’s a place I recall now as I continue my upward climb. I look back and remember what I engraved in memory:
Cindy, you glimpsed God’s face today. Don’t forget this when you leave it behind.

And as for you, my stranger-friends who read this book, I wonder who you are. I wonder about your times of winter and your long-held dreams. I prayed for you that day on my bench. My prayer then, and now, is that God will give you a view you’ve never seen—whether it’s from your back porch, a rock by the sea, or perhaps even in Hallstatt, Austria.

Seasons of change, busyness, joy, and fear come as surely as the autumn leaves next October. But we can continue upward when our breath has been stolen by the steepness of the climb. We discover God’s strength through a winter and find ourselves more closely linked to him as springtime comes. And along the way God fulfills dreams—some we didn’t even know to consider. And as we journey together with him, we find he is the true dream, holding the smaller ones in his hand. That’s what our benchmarks truly tell us.

I hope we carry our benchmark words together. And we return there often.

July 2012

Over a decade separates these words infused with Austrian dreams to where I sit today in a little coffeehouse in Northern California. Since that time, I’ve walked again in Hallstatt and Salzburg as well as have traveled other places throughout Europe, Southeast Asia, and around the United States. I’ve written many more stories, each with a special place in my heart and pieces of myself shared within the words. Many seasons have passed, and I’ve experienced the joys and sorrows of each one of them.

My life is much different now in many respects, and yet there are truths that remain despite new pathways, a marriage ending, friendships changing, and the rebirth of love and the surprise treasure of a new child in my arms when I’d believed my baby days were long behind me. One truth that I hold close is that God truly does not fail us, and that despite the harshness of winter there are special wonders within the season as in every season, and the rebirth of springtime is sweeter because of it.

Returning to
Winter Passing
has been a homecoming. A full circle. A launching point for a new season.

I hope you enjoy it, and I pray God’s unfailing love be known to you in whatever season you travel.