Winter Passing (8 page)

“We were meeting to talk about my grandmother.”

Something changed in Brant’s expression, as if he too suddenly realized their roles and the fact that they had crossed an invisible line. He crumpled the napkin in his hand.

“That’s right. We’ve wandered from the intended topic.” He glanced at his watch. “The lure of a Salzburger morning . . .”

“We can reschedule.”

Brant seemed to reconsider. “No, this is fine. Let me just check my phone for a second.” He reached into his black satchel beneath the table. Darby noticed his frown as he stood up. “My secretary called three times. Please excuse me for a minute.”

“Of course.” Darby watched him walk out of the restaurant. At least Brant wasn’t the type to chat in a restaurant on his cell phone—that always annoyed her. She drank the last chocolate-rich sip in her coffee cup, then looked toward the doorway, wishing she’d insisted they reschedule. Darby could barely remember the questions she’d prepared and all at once felt like crawling back beneath the down comforter in her hotel. The cozy ambiance of the restaurant didn’t blend well with the type of meeting she’d envisioned. Perhaps she’d meet him at his office the next day.

Brant returned moments later and sat back down.

“Is something wrong? If you need to go, I’d rather . . .”

“No. I have someone at my office waiting for me, but—well, it’s someone I’d rather avoid. Let’s talk about your grandmother.” He rubbed his chin, waiting.

Darby realized she needed to collect her thoughts, and quickly.

Brant leaned back in his chair. “We’ve taken a bizarre trip around our meeting. But let’s get back to the subject. I assume you are here because your grandmother continues to claim to be Celia Müller.”

Something in the way he said her grandmother’s name and “continues to claim to be” stirred her anger.

“My grandmother
is
Celia Müller, or rather, she was.”

“Was?”

“She passed away last month.”

An expression flickered across Brant’s face. His tense jaw relaxed as he stared down at his plate. Both were silent for a minute.

“What I’m wondering is why you don’t believe my grandmother is Celia Müller, and why she wrote to you in the first place.”

“She didn’t write to me, in particular. She wrote to the Holocaust Survivors’ Organization I work for. Our Salzburg office is not large. In fact, I run two businesses from the same office. Your grandmother wrote us last summer. I brought the letter with me for our meeting.”

“You did?”

“I keep records of all correspondence, whether we believe the claim or not.” He reached into the black satchel and pulled out an envelope. He looked at it once, then handed it to Darby.

The letter was basic and formal, and thankfully in English.

My name is Celia Rachel Lange Müller. My father and brother, Simon Lange and Warner Lange, and aunt, Milda Lange Bergmann, were taken by the Nazis and all sent to KZ Dachau and/or later KZ Mauthausen and Mauthausen/ Gusen, where they perished. I alone escaped Austria. I am writing in regard to a family inheritance that was lost during the Nazi occupation. It consists of two coins and a priceless sapphire brooch. I hoped that you could have possible information on how I can seek these items or what would be the next step in my search. I believe that the Nazis stole these items from my family after I escaped the country. Please call, fax, write, or e-mail me with any information you need or how I should proceed next.

Thank you for your time and work. I eagerly look forward to your response.

Sincerely,

Celia Müller

Darby read the “eagerly look forward to your response” twice. “That’s a pretty basic letter. Your response was pretty harsh.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t recall.”

“I have the letter with me.” Darby opened her pack and handed Brant the letter. He read it, then handed it back with a frown on his face. “I imagine if this was to my grandmother, I would think the letter harsh. But you have to take it from our viewpoint. My organization helps Holocaust survivors. If you knew these people, saw their faces—you can only imagine the horror these people endured. It’s a miracle anyone survived. But then after liberation, when they should have had freedom and time to rebuild their lives, they received instead another slap in the face. Their homes, property, assets were unavailable for redemption. For example, a bank account in Switzerland or a life insurance policy—the recipients were turned down because there were no death certificates for family members, no proof of their death. How do you prove or disprove that a relative died at a particular camp? We may have a record of them being sent, but did they arrive? Did they really die there? That’s what makes our job difficult. So our organization and other groups try to help, but only in the last ten to twenty years. These people have been brutalized again and again and have come to the end of their lives. Groups such as ours try to offer them and their families hope—or at least a bit of closure before their deaths. So when someone attempts to cash in on that suffering, it provokes some anger. I did respond to your grandmother in this manner.”

“I can understand your strong emotion toward fraudulent claims.”

“And unfortunately, there are many.”

“But what I don’t understand is
why
you believe my grandmother is not Celia Müller.”

“I look into each claim. And I know the town of Hallstatt quite well. That’s where Celia Lange Müller was born.”

Darby’s thoughts went back to the day of the funeral and Maisie’s insistence that Celia was born in Hallstatt, not Vienna as her papers said.

“My mother’s summer home was in Gosau, just over the mountain from Hallstatt. I learned to scuba dive in Hallstattersee—Hallstatt Lake. It’s not that big of a town. I check out all claims such as the one your grandmother sent. And the papers were very clear, unlike others I’ve dealt with. I had the birth record and found the death records at the camp she was sent to. Now I don’t know you, Ms. Evans. You seem to genuinely believe your grandmother. But understand my position. I have a hard time believing anyone when I have hard facts stating otherwise.”

“So what you’re implying is that perhaps I’m an imposter also?”

“I didn’t say that. But really, I’m not sure what to think about this. What I do know is, Celia Lange Müller died in 1941. She was born in Hallstatt and died at Mauthausen Concentration Camp.”

“Mauthausen? You have information that Celia Müller died at Mauthausen? My grandmother told me we had family members who died there, like the letter said. It’s a camp here in Austria, right?”

“Yes, it’s near Linz. Mauthausen was the largest Austrian camp and ran the many satellite camps here.”

“Maybe the records show another Lange, but not Celia. Or perhaps a relative with that same first name?”

“No. I’m certain.”

“You can’t be. I know who my grandmother was. I know she lived many years in Hallstatt, where her father was an archaeologist in the Celtic diggings there. She met and married a man named Gunther Müller.”

Brant jerked his head up and stared hard at her.

“She escaped from Austria in late 1939.”

“No,” Brant said firmly. “Celia Müller died in 1941 at Mauthausen. I’m not saying that your grandmother was a bad person. Perhaps she really believed she was Celia Müller. The war did strange and horrible things to people’s minds. In that era people didn’t seek psychological help like practically half the world does now. I don’t know about your grandmother, but I know for certain that Celia Müller died a long time ago.”

Darby shook her head. Brant thought Grandma Celia was insane or mentally warped? But then, if she saw the facts on paper and didn’t know her grandmother personally, perhaps she’d feel differently too. “Can I see these records?”

“My records are confidential. But you could try Hallstatt or Mauthausen. Many camps are establishing on-site records with victim lists.”

Darby wondered how she could convince this man, and if she really needed to at all. She had her answers and understood his letter to her grandmother—she didn’t need him to believe Grandma Celia. But she wanted him to, and she wanted him to believe her.

“You’ve come a long way for me to tell you that.”

“It’s not like that at all. I knew my grandmother. I know what she believed in and who she was. She wasn’t a liar.”

“So then, you’ll take up your grandmother’s cause to find the Lange family inheritance?”

“What do you know about the inheritance?”

“Nothing.” Brant took a bite of his ham. “It was in your grandmother’s letter. I know it adds to the motive of your grandmother seeking a claim that wasn’t hers.”

“Well, the Lange inheritance is the least of my concerns. I’m not here to get rich or find some items I’m not even sure existed. My grandmother had some last wishes. . . .” Darby wondered if she should mention Tatianna. Brant seemed to have his mind made up, but she decided to risk it, in case he’d know how to get information. “My grandmother had a friend. Her name was Tatianna Hoffman. I’m actually here searching for what happened to her—that was one of my grandmother’s final requests. Grandma asked that I give Tatianna her name back.”

Brant’s eyebrows lowered as he leaned forward across the table. “What does that mean?”

She wished she hadn’t said it, for the words sounded strange. Even she didn’t understand. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t quite know yet. You are the first person I’ve sought because of the letter you sent her. But I didn’t contact you to pursue the Lange inheritance.”

“Tatianna Hoffman? Your grandmother sent you here, searching for this other woman, but she was also interested in the Lange inheritance?”

“And you find that suspicious.”

“I find most everything suspicious. Unfortunately, in my profession I’ve become low on trust.”

“That’s too bad.” Darby looked at his hands on the table. “I don’t understand you. In all your work, you know how rumors and mistakes abounded during the war. Why is it completely out of the question that my grandmother could be Celia Müller? People thought to have escaped were killed and people believed to be killed actually escaped. I remember hearing that about the Anne Frank story. Neighbors and friends believed the Franks had escaped from the Nazis years before, while all the time they were hiding in their attic. How can you be so sure this didn’t happen to my grandmother?”

“I’m well aware of the Anne Frank story. I know hundreds of stories as tragic as that one. But I have documents that prove Celia Müller died at Mauthausen Concentration Camp. I’m sure this isn’t easy for you to accept. I can understand that. But, if you need proof . . .” Brant rested his head on his hand as if considering something. “Go to Hallstatt and look in the cemetery. Go to Mauthausen and see the ovens. Then you’ll have your answers.”

“You certainly think you know a lot about Celia Müller,” Darby mumbled, more to herself than to him.

“It’s my job. It’s what I do.” He crinkled the napkin into a smaller ball. “I looked up Celia Müller’s information when your grandmother wrote.” He paused for a long time, and Darby could see his mind working. “This friend of your grandmother’s. Did you say Tatianna Hoffman? Have you ever considered that perhaps your grandmother is Tatianna?”

She stared at Brant. The idea should have angered her. But Brant’s words were the spoken fear Darby had tried to reject every night since she’d found Tatianna’s documents in the safe—while the records of her grandmother’s immigration to the United States were not found.

Could Grandma Celia actually be Tatianna Hoffman?

Where would you get the ridiculous idea that my grandmother could be Tatianna Hoffman?”

“For many reasons. It seems strange your grandmother, who has searched for the Lange inheritance, abandoned her search before she died, and instead asked you to give Tatianna her name back. Perhaps your grandmother spoke of herself.”

“My grandmother was Celia Lange Müller.”

“Darby, she wasn’t. If you need further proof, go to Hallstatt. Go to the cemetery and see if that doesn’t change your mind.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just go see for yourself.”

Darby was ready to leave. “I guess that’s all I wanted to know. Perhaps, if you have time, you could look up Tatianna Hoffman’s name in your accurate files and see if any information appears on her also.”

“I’ll do that—”

A man stopped in front of their table.

“Richter.” Brant’s voice didn’t seem happy to see this man.

Richter raised one eyebrow. “
Guten Morgen
.”

“Speak English, Richter.”

“Do we have an Englishwoman among us?”

“No, an American. I told Frau Halder I was in a meeting and I’d catch up with you later.”

Richter portrayed a mock expression of hurt. “Is this the welcome I receive? You are a difficult man to track down, and this doesn’t exactly look like a meeting. More like pleasure.” He smiled at Darby, then spoke to Brant without taking his gaze off her. “I get no introduction to your beautiful friend, only accusations. I came into Salzburg to see you, have been waiting for hours for this meeting to adjourn—but I now see why it takes so long.”

“What did you need?”

“It’s not what I need, but what I give. I have two extra tickets to a ballet at the Landestheater and wanted to give them to you. You work too hard and date too little. This is my gift to give you a life back. Perhaps you and your American friend . . . I still have yet to be introduced.”

“Darby Evans, Richter Hauer.”

She reached for Richter’s extended hand. Both men were handsome in completely different ways. Brant might not turn heads at first glance, but Richter exuded a savvy charm that was noticeable at once. He seemed confident, even extremely conceited. He reminded her of a college classmate who liked to use Rhett Butler lines while seeking the affections of Darby and her friends, all at the same time.

“Nice to meet you.” Darby noticed how Richter held her hand longer than necessary, while evaluating her with hard, gray eyes.

“So, an American.” He added another chair to the table. “The two of you are then perfect for a night together—two Americans in Salzburg. What songs are written about. Or if Brant will not take you, perhaps I’ll take you myself.”

“I have not come to Salzburg to have songs written about me,” Darby said insistently.

Seeming surprised, Richter replied, “Brant, this woman is not easily charmed. Good for you, but good luck also.” He winked at Darby.

“Here are the tickets.” He set them on the table. “I will leave the two of you alone. Brant, I’ll catch up with you later. And Ms. Darby Evans, it has been a pleasure.”

Both Brant and Darby watched Richter’s departure. “You don’t like him, do you?” Darby said.

“I don’t trust him.” He studied Darby.

“You don’t trust many people, do you, Mr. Collins?”

“A habit learned through experience, unfortunately. But I do apologize for Richter. He—there’s no one quite like him.”

Brant looked at the tickets. “We don’t have to go.”

“Of course we wouldn’t.”

Darby insisted on paying the bill since she had the right currency and had originally initiated the appointment. But Brant paid the tip. Darby noted that he gave the extra money to the waitress instead of leaving it on the table like at home. That detail would come in handy for future dining.

The rain had stopped, though dark clouds continued to hang low over the city. Darby drew her coat tightly around her and tasted snow in the air as they stepped from the restaurant. She turned to say good-bye, hoping she could find her way back through the labyrinth of streets.

“I’ll walk you back.”

“It’s not necessary.”

“I don’t mind. I won’t allow a fellow American to get lost.”

“It’s not far.”

“Really, allow me.”

“If you insist.”

Again silence walked with them. Darby didn’t feel compelled to think of small talk. Instead, she listened to the sound of their footsteps on the pavement. Cyclists on old bikes with wire baskets jingled past. It was a favorite mode of transportation, she noticed. They passed a vendor selling something that tantalized the air with a warm, nutty smell.

“Have you tried
Maroni
?” Brant asked, stopping at the end of the line behind the vendor.

“No, what is it?”

“Roasted chestnuts.”

“I’ve heard the Christmas song—‘chestnuts roasting on an open fire.’” She chuckled, then felt foolish. “But no, I’ve never had them.”

“You can’t experience autumn in Salzburg without
Maroni
.” He waited in line and bought a paper bag of the round, dark nuts. He offered Darby one, then showed her how to open the shell.

The meaty texture reminded Darby of the acorns she’d peeled and mashed as a child with the neighbor kids. She hesitated before taking a bite, remembering how she’d accepted the dare to try an acorn and immediately spit out the bitter nut to the laughter of her friends. She took a breath and popped the white meat into her mouth, determined not to spit it out, whatever it tasted like. To her surprise, the warm nut wasn’t bitter, but had a subtle taste that somehow reminded her of autumn woods. “Wonderful.”

“My favorite this time of year.”

They walked, sharing the bag of chestnuts until they reached the Cozy Hotel. Darby noticed as they passed other hotels how Americanized this one appeared.

She stopped in front of the door. “Here we are. You didn’t lose a fellow American.”

“Good thing. I don’t need anything more on my conscience.” He smiled, a nice smile, but Darby wondered about the words. She almost asked what things bothered him—perhaps writing angry letters to old people?—but she held her tongue.

“I do know someone who may help you. A professor at the university, a short distance away. He may be a good source if you need more research.”

“That would be great.” Darby wrestled a pen and paper from her purse and handed them to Brant.

“His name is Professor Peter Voss, and here’s his phone number.” Brant handed her the paper. “And I’ll check for a Tatianna Hoffman.”

“Suddenly so helpful?” Darby grinned.

Brant examined her thoughtfully. “I do hope you find what you’re searching for, and that the truth doesn’t hurt too much.”

Darby shook her head. He didn’t understand and couldn’t believe. If their roles were reversed, what would she believe? What did she believe now?

“We better just leave it at that so we don’t start arguing.”

Brant smiled. “Good idea.”

Darby extended her hand. “Good-bye, Mr. Collins.”

“Can we forget the proper names?”

“Sure. Good-bye, Brant.”

“Good-bye, Darby.”

He held open the door as she walked in. At the stairwell, Darby looked back. He waved, then disappeared. She watched for a minute, then looked at the phone number and hurried upstairs. Brant could not be right. She hoped.

Frau Halder had a stack of messages when Brant finally returned to the office. He had returned slowly, taking back streets and strolling along the river before arriving at the second-story office.

“You missed your friend,” Frau Halder said as Brant arrived.

“What friend?” Brant picked up his messages. “Do you mean Richter?”

“Yes. He waited and waited. Such a nice young man he is.”

Brant glanced at his secretary as he flipped through the messages. “Actually, I did see him.”

“Really? I’m glad.” She smiled. “You know, he thinks of you like a brother. The two of you should do more things together.”

“Is that what he said?”

“Oh yes. We talked for quite a while. He worries about you, just like I do. We think you need to work less and have more fun.” Frau Halder gave him her classic mother-hen look.

“When did Richter get here?” Brant asked.

“Right after you left. I told him you had an appointment, so he just sat down and chatted with me for a while. Then he got hungry and went to breakfast, even brought me back a pastry. Such a nice young man.”

Brant wondered why Richter had come and gone and come again. Frau Halder was a kind woman, though not always the most astute. But she’d always been caring and concerned toward Brant. On his walk to the office, he had planned to make sure Frau Halder never revealed the location of another meeting to Richter again. But as he stood before her, Brant knew she had no idea she’d done that. He sighed and glanced through the mail basket.

“Thank you for covering while I was gone so long,” Brant said.

“I’m going to lunch now, if you don’t mind. I’m meeting my grandchildren at the park if the rain holds off.”

“Tell the boys to call me, and we’ll play soccer again.”

“They’ve been practicing the moves you taught them. I’ll tell them you’re ready to play.” Frau Halder went into the back room and returned with a lunch basket.

Brant watched her leave. How good it must feel to have lunch with children. To not wonder about every person’s motives. How freeing to simply live life. To meet a pretty woman and actually have romantic thoughts about her, instead of questioning who she was.

He closed the door of his office and thought about Darby. He found her interesting, intelligent, beautiful—especially when she tried her stubborn act. He almost laughed, remembering the expression on her face when she refused to use the umbrella of the enemy. She was too stubborn to even wipe the raindrop that hit her forehead. But she also could make him laugh, something Brant rarely did anymore. It felt good to be with Darby Evans, perhaps because she reminded him of the States—his other home. A few years ago, perhaps even six months ago, Brant might have pursued her. But now he felt rusty, not knowing what to say or how to act. And still, he battled the motives of every person around him—especially of someone who claimed to be the granddaughter of Celia Müller.

Brant set the messages on his desk. It would take the afternoon and evening to get back on schedule, but first he wrote down the name of Tatianna Hoffman. He had promised he’d check. What Brant did know beyond a doubt was that Celia Lange Müller died long ago in Mauthausen Concentration Camp. Gunther hadn’t spent sixty years mourning his wife for nothing.

Brant wondered how Darby would handle the truth about her grandmother. It had hurt him to discover the Aldrich deception, but the betrayal of a loved one would be even worse. He couldn’t imagine the pain he was forcing Darby to face.

Darby shut her door, locked it, and rested her head against the wall. She closed her eyes, then turned to look around the room, remembering that a stranger had been here. The stranger’s fingerprints seemed to glow around the room.

She considered changing rooms, but would that help? Darby went through her luggage and investigated her belongings closely. Her hands felt dirty after touching her suitcase. Someone had picked up her black suitcase and unzipped it. How long had he looked inside? What clothing had he touched? She organized her clothes and hygiene supplies and slowly began to reclaim the room and her things as her own. The man had made a mistake—there was absolutely no other explanation.

The white curtains swayed slightly from the window she’d cracked open, and the cloudy sky outside brought a soft light that drew her weariness deeper. Tired through every part of her body, Darby wished to roll up in a ball beneath the down comforter for a year or two until her strength returned. There inside her feather womb she wouldn’t feel the presence of a stranger or hear the words that had haunted her since her meeting with Brant:
Could Grandma Celia actually be Tatianna Hoffman?

Instead of the escape into sleep she desired, Darby forced herself to focus on her strategy. Rest would not come with the upset of her questions. She organized her information into neat stacks on the desk: letters in one pile, information on the Lange inheritance in another, photographs and miscellaneous papers in another. Brant, her first contact, had yielded three more leads: Professor Voss, Hallstatt, and Mauthausen. Darby found Hallstatt on her Austria map and marked the highway route, then continued it on to the Linz region in Upper Austria near the Czech border. She’d rent a car and go there in a few days, but first attempt a meeting with Professor Peter Voss.

As Darby made her list and plans, she noticed the Austrian passport. The yellowed pages worked to form doubts in her mind. Inside, the name said
Tatianna Hoffman
. Place of birth:
Vienna, Austria
—the same city Grandma Celia’s records indicated, though Maisie insisted all family members were born in the village of Hallstatt. Though Darby had defended her grandmother to Brant, now her inklings of doubt turned to fear. A scenario grew. Tatianna Hoffman and Celia Müller were best friends when Tatianna escaped from Austria. She came to America, changed her name to Celia Müller since she knew her friend had been sent to a camp, then moved in with Uncle Marc and Aunt Helen, who’d never seen her or the real Celia before. Uncle Marc was Grandma Celia’s brother, Darby’s great-uncle, though only a few years older than Celia. He had moved to the United States when they were children, and though they wrote for years, the two never met until Celia’s immigration. When her grandmother said Tatianna needed her name, perhaps she
was
speaking of herself as Brant suggested. Perhaps Darby’s grandma couldn’t admit the truth in life and wanted Darby to discover it. Maybe that was why Celia wrote in her letter how Darby’s own future would change as she found the truth.

The more Darby thought of it, the more she believed in the possibility. Didn’t everyone know how a small lie could wrap itself around an entire life? Could this have happened to Grandma Celia—or was it Grandma Tatianna?