Winter Passing (17 page)

“It’s really good to see you,” Derek said.

“It’s good to see you too.”

“So it’s Dorothy home from Oz.”

Darby’s mouth dropped. “I’ve been thinking that for weeks. How did you remember my love of yellow brick roads?”

“I remember everything.”

“And you were the Scarecrow, right?”

“Hey, I was the lions, tigers, and bears. Remember?” He wiggled one eyebrow and smiled the grin Darby had once thought irresistible.

“I have no recollection.” She held up her hands but couldn’t help smiling. “Except what about Scarecrow in need of my tutoring help and a few brains?”

“This is getting too nasty for me.” His laugh made her feel warm and comfortable while emphasizing her lack of companionship even more. All her close friends were married or pursuing their own careers, and even Grandma Celia with her ever-ready ear had left her. Darby missed having someone to talk to, laugh with, and tease. She’d had that with Derek. They’d put their heads close while discussing ideas, thoughts, and dreams. Even when they were “only” friends, they’d attacked the world with passion—she with her photography and Derek with his dreams of travel and exploration. Now he worked on the ladder of success with some company he didn’t have much interest in.

Darby sat back against the cushion. She’d changed since their college days, and so had he. But Darby didn’t need that youthful passion now. She only wanted someone to sit close to while watching TV. She longed to play foot wars in fluffy socks and lose herself in warm kisses. At the rate she was going, it would never happen.

Then a picture of Brant Collins flashed into her mind. Did he too wish for companionship and love? What was he doing right now? She glanced at her watch and calculated the time. He’d be either at his office working late or at home, perhaps with some Austrian woman, watching TV or playing foot wars.

“Do you have somewhere to be?” Derek studied her with an expression she’d once loved, his head tilted to the side, one eyebrow up in question. “The food hasn’t even come yet.”

“No, just checking the time. Clarise will have a heart attack if I’m gone from the office for long.”

“Then you better start talking, ’cause I want to hear all about your trip.”

Someone really wants to listen? Not because he had his own motive or agenda for my life, but because he really wants to know?

Darby opened her mouth and the words seemed to tumble out—her lonely arrival in Austria, the old man with the rake—everything. Their food arrived, and they ate between discussion and story.

Derek leaned forward in rapt attention as she told about Mauthausen and the interchangeable faces of SS and victims. They discussed what drove one man to hate and another to mercy.

“I never would have thought this before my trip, but I believe every person on earth is capable of incredible hatred or incredible love. We choose what degree we’ll live at.”

“Are you saying we’re all capable of what the Nazis did?”

“I think we are. There were evils beyond Hitler at work, and those evils remain. When we dabble in hatred, selfish pursuits, pride, and contempt for others, our minds can descend without us totally aware, until our actions mirror our mind. I think there were some seriously sick individuals who lusted and relished the evil within them, but I also think there were mostly average people—men and women—who because of many reasons, from fear to self-preservation, were swept into the rush and performed, partook, or turned away from what they normally never would have considered.”

“Scary thought, indeed. We are all capable of evil?”

“We are all capable of horrible things; we see it still today. But I think, perhaps, we are also capable of great acts of love. It must be what we put into our lives.”

Derek twisted his fork around a last bite of pasta. “So do you think that the things we dabble in or experiment with, be it feelings or thoughts, be it good or bad, will most likely lead to the action and result?”

“Grandma Celia would say you reap what you sow. Are you still on the subject of the demise of man, or are you speaking personally?”

“When you someday get married, Darby, marry your best friend.”

“What? Where did that come from?” She laughed, but then noticed the sorrow in his eyes. He touched the tips of her fingers.

“I love Rochella, but I miss my best friend. Rochella’s perfect on the outside, a showcase. But we don’t laugh like you and I did. We don’t jump in the car and go skiing or cycling. We don’t do much of anything. When you get married, make sure it’s to your best friend. You were mine, and I let you go.”

In shock, Darby withdrew her hand. “Derek, you can’t be serious.”

“I am. I really miss you.”

Even a year ago, her heart would have pounded at his touch. “Make Rochella your best friend.”

“We have nothing in common.”

Darby looked at the face she thought she would always miss and desire. But she knew him as not her own. Perhaps something or someone was out there for her, but Derek wasn’t it. Instantly Darby clearly understood that, and she almost smiled with the relief. “Let’s see, you have three children in common, marriage vows, and how many years together? This is a marriage slump. Derek, you need to love her, even if your heart isn’t fully on fire, or the fire goes out.” She paused, thinking of Grandma Celia, her husband Gunther, and Tatianna. “Love is a gift that can be lost when you don’t pay attention or keep it alive.”

“Is this from experience?” Derek’s expression turned grim.

“No, from observing. It’s pretty funny coming from me, the loser at love. But I’ve seen my grandmother and what she lost. I’m learning to cling tightly to the love we’re granted. Whether you have one year or a lifetime, don’t forget that love is a gift. A gift to be appreciated and nurtured—for better or worse.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“What if Rochella were taken from you right now? Let’s say she was killed or kidnapped or separated from you by a war. How would you feel about her then? You’d fight for her. You’d miss her. You’d remember the million perfect moments you’ve had together.”

Derek was silent. His eyes seemed far away, scanning images and thoughts beyond them.

“You’re right.” Derek leaned against his hands. “But it doesn’t help with today.”

“Love her like tomorrow is your last day with her.”

Derek slowly smiled. “Here I am, making a pass at you, and you lead me back to my wife. You probably think I’m a jerk.”

“No, I thought that long ago.” Darby chuckled.

“You can be such a brat.” He sighed. “So when are you going back?”

Darby looked at her watch. “I should have been back forty-five minutes ago.”

“No, I mean back to Austria.”

“Why do you think I’m going back?” she asked, startled.

He gave a boyish grin. “Because I know you. And I know that look in your eyes whenever you talk about it. You seem surprised, as if you don’t realize it. I can’t believe this. Darby Evans is in love and doesn’t even know it.”

“What are you talking about?” An image of Brant came to mind. “There is no way I’m in love.”

“Don’t give me that. I’ve watched you as you talked about the trip. ‘When I was in Austria . . .’ or ‘This great place in Austria . . .’ You left your heart there. The Alps won you over,” he said with half smirk and half accusation.

“You think so?”

“I know so. I don’t know whether to be more jealous over you getting to go back or the Alps getting to have you. You really are a good friend, despite my wayward intentions.”

“It’s not just the Alps. It’s Salzburg too. The Old City nestled against Mönchsberg with the fortress above. Cobblestone streets with musicians and outdoor cafes and markets teeming with people. You should be jealous,” she teased.

“Where are the photos?”

Darby’s smile left her.

“You don’t have them with you at all times?” Derek said with a laugh.

“Actually, I didn’t take any pictures.”

“What? You forgot Nikki at home?”

“No.”

Derek leaned forward. “What’s going on, Darby? You always take Nikki everywhere. You’d drive everyone crazy with all the pictures you’d sneak in. Why wouldn’t you take pictures of this place you fell in love with?”

“I don’t know. It just didn’t seem right for me.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“There’s not much to say. My grandmother talked to me before she died. She said I needed to stop hiding behind my camera and really see the world. Then, when I went to Austria, it didn’t feel right for me to shoot it. Maybe I needed some time to simply be me.”

“So when are you going back?”

Darby took a long breath. She bit the inside of her cheek. “I am going back, aren’t I?”

“I think it’ll be soon.”

The last night before she returned to her mother’s house for Christmas, Darby locked the doors to the studio and paused. She peered back through the windows into the front showroom. Christmas decorations wrapped around displays of their framed work on the walls—weddings, family portraits, and children with full smiles and bright eyes. She remembered painting those walls and hanging the portraits. Their grand opening had been one of the best moments of her life—at that point. Could she leave it all behind? Her eyes trailed upward into the night sky. Beckoning stars told her to keep looking up; she’d find the right way.

As Darby entered the driveway, she noticed the lack of Christmas lights on the eaves of the yellow-and-white house and a Nativity scene on the green lawn. Grandma Celia had loved the Christmas season and lived for tradition with baking, decorating, hot cocoa instead of morning coffee, and fresh pine boughs to bring the mountain feel into the home. It worried Darby that it was only two days before Christmas and the little yellow house wasn’t decorated.

“I’m home,” she called, setting down her luggage in the entry.

“Darby!” Her mother hurried down the hall with outstretched arms.

“Is everything all right, Mom?”

“Oh yes. I just filled my life too full of activity, especially at the church. I’ve avoided a bit of this decorating, but I did start going through Grandma’s room.” Her mother did look better than Darby had seen her in months. “I’m going to get all the food Grandma stored in her room and give it to the church missionary cupboard.”

“Food she kept stored?” Darby glanced down the hall. “In her room?”

“Oh, yes. Grandma’s kept food and supplies stored in the garage and in her room for years. ‘Just in case,’ she’d always say.”

“I knew she hid money, but not food too.”

“I also found letters, newspaper clippings, old birthday and Christmas cards from years and years ago. In fact, I thought you might want to take the letters . . . if you go back. They’re written in German.”

Darby stared in disbelief at her mother. “If I go back?”

“I’ve been doing some heavy praying. If God wants you to return, then I’ll support you.”

“I don’t know what God wants. I don’t even know what I want anymore.”

“You know what God wants.” Carole put her hand on Darby’s arm. “He wants you, Darby.”

Darby felt uncomfortable beneath her mother’s gentle gaze. “You
are
too busy at church, Mom,” she said, trying to lighten the mood as she walked down the hall and into Grandma Celia’s room. Looking around the room, she finally spotted the cross-stitched picture. It hung near the door where someone sitting in bed could read it easily, but anyone entering or standing would hardly notice. Darby stopped suddenly, reading the words.

Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.

—John 15:13

Her mother stood in the entry. “What’s wrong?”

“Grandma thought I knew before I went to Austria.”

“Knew what?”

“Grandma wanted me to read that verse before the trip. I’ve speculated that Grandma Celia escaped from Austria to America using Tatianna’s papers. And I believe Tatianna died impersonating Grandma Celia. She died instead of Grandma Celia. It has to be the truth.”

Her mother turned to stare at the picture on the wall. “Wait here a minute.”

Darby had wondered why Grandma had left so many vague trails for her instead of simply revealing more truths. But Grandma had expected her to know that Tatianna did die at Mauthausen under the name of Celia Müller because of this verse. The speculation gone, Darby could have concentrated earlier on finding the facts.

“I was going to give this to you for Christmas,” her mother said as she returned to the room. “I think I should give it to you now.”

Darby looked away from the words in the picture to see her mother holding out a wrapped package. “What is it?”

“Open it.”

Darby sat on the edge of her grandmother’s bed and carefully unwrapped the green-and-gold paper to find a thin box. From inside the box she lifted out a worn leather-bound Bible. It had been white leather at one time, but the years and use had worn the gold leaf from the edges and made the cover a dull gray. She ran her hand over the top and lifted it to her nose to breathe in the scent of the past. “Grandma’s old Bible. I forgot about this.”

“While I was cleaning in here, I found it in her bedside table.” Carole sat beside her. “Grandma had several Bibles, but I remember looking at the words all in German as a child, wondering what they said. But look inside.”

“Oh, Mom,” Darby whispered. In faded lettering was written
Celia Rachel Lange Müller
. Below it read
Tatianna Elise Hoffman.

“Yes. It was given to Celia by Tatianna,” her mother said. “Tatianna gave Celia even more than her life. I think she may have given her faith as well.”

Darby couldn’t take her eyes from the Bible. All those years, Tatianna was in their lives, unknown to everyone but Grandma Celia. And had her grandmother’s great faith been born from a young girl’s sacrifice?

“You need to go back, don’t you?” Her mother put her hand over Darby’s. “When you do, know that I will support you as best I can. This is bigger than us, Darby. It’s God’s work still in progress after all these years.”

Darby felt as if she were slowly awakening from a very long sleep. Her eyes were barely glimpsing images and distinguishing light from shadow, but still there was a lot of sleep in her eyes, drawing her back into darkness. But she was ready to awaken, finally willing to see and face what she’d long hidden from.

That night Darby talked for hours with her mother as they decorated the house “to make Grandma proud,” drank hot cocoa, and watched their annual
The Grinch Who Stole Christmas
movie. She couldn’t remember enjoying her mother more. And she was finally able to share all her thoughts with someone. But another part of her, the awakening part, still waited—as if she stood on a precipice, waiting for the perfect time to jump.

Brant drove through the darkness on freshly plowed roads north of Salzburg into the town of Oberndorf. He was not alone in his Christmas Eve journey, though he didn’t know any of the fellow pilgrims who crowded the streets and searched for parking places. Their license plates were from many European nations, and he was sure he’d find many more nationalities walking the icy roadways. He got out of his car and knew he was in for a long haul on the frosty night—but that’s what he wanted. Time to think, time to breathe the frozen air, time to believe in Christmas again.

Brant parked on the outskirts of town and walked back toward the river. The night was hushed above the crunching of his boots on the packed snow. He crossed the bridge over the Salzach and stopped to look into the familiar waters. Maybe next time he’d drop a wooden boat from the bridge at Salzburg before driving downstream to Oberndorf. That would be a fun activity to do with Frau Halder’s grandchildren instead of the soccer practice that left his shins bruised.

He crossed the river and heard a whistle blow at the train station as a bright red locomotive chugged to a stop. The cars would undoubtedly be teeming with more people who, like Brant, searched for one thing—a silent night.

Brant had never visited the birthplace of the world’s most-loved Christmas carol. He’d heard “Silent Night” first at home in America. His mother would sing it every evening during the month of December as she tucked him into bed at home in Portland. First she’d sing in German, then in English. Every night he remembered asking her to tell the story behind the song.

On this Christmas Eve, he was in the place where it began. The lullaby with its message of heavenly peace would be sung in all corners of the world tonight in more than two hundred languages. The song would be heard by carolers in America, through cathedral organs in Europe, inside thatched huts in South America, and at candlelight concerts in Australia. Brant followed the growing groups of people until he arrived in front of the Silent Night Memorial Chapel, where the original church of St. Nicholas once stood. Groups of people milled quietly, almost in expectation. If they stood very still, they might find teacher Franz Xaver Grüber and priest Josef Mohr discussing what to do with a broken church organ with Christmas Eve approaching. They might then hear the strum of a guitar that commenced a chorus of “Silent Night” as on that first night in 1818.

Brant watched the people. Some closed their eyes and tilted their heads upward to the clear, dark sky. The small, white chapel could hold only a fraction of the crowd outside. On a higher section of town, the church that housed the original altars and pulpit would recreate the moment when the song was first performed along with a midnight mass. But Brant wanted to be in the place where it began.

He, too, found his eyes moving from the simple chapel into the sky of diamonds on black velvet. He imagined a heavenly host just beyond the sight of his human eyes.

God, you know I’m not good at praying. So I’m just going to talk and hope you understand.
His eyes found constellations and the long spill of the Milky Way. God was here and there, he felt, and whispered from his heart.
I want to thank you for a million things, but mainly for showing me how to live the life you’ve given me. Thank you for Gunther being part of my life—I don’t know what I’d have done without him. And thank you for second chances, and thirds and fourths. Right now, you know what Richter is doing, why he comes to Salzburg regularly now and asks to stay with me. You know his motives. So help me know what to do.

I also keep thinking of Darby Evans. I don’t know where she is right now or what’s happening in her life, but I hope she is well and that she can find you as I’m finding you.

And also I must remember all those who have lived through hell on earth—give them your peace tonight.

I don’t know if that’s how I should pray, but amen.

From one side of the street, Brant heard a soft chorus. A gentle wave of voices joined around him, singing in more than one language the hymn that bound them all together.

Brant’s voice joined the chorus, first in German, then in English.

“Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright.”

In a flurry of hugs and noise, Maureen, John, and the five-year-old twins arrived. Any minutes of sorrow could not hold for long with the twins ready to keep everyone busy. It seemed as if a year had passed since Darby had seen them, though it had only been a few months since Grandma’s funeral.

“Auntie Darby, I hope I have a Baby Alive under the tree,” Kallie said as they carried presents from the car to the house. “Do you think I do?”

“Well, I don’t know.”

“I hope, I hope, Auntie Darby.” Kallie stopped to look at the presents overflowing the tree skirt. “I weally, weally want a Baby Alive that will wet her diaper.”

“Kallie,” Maureen scolded as she carried a load of presents from the car. “Don’t pester your aunt, and come help Daddy bring in your suitcases.”

Darby grabbed the girls as they walked by and whispered, “Maybe you can open one present after the candlelight service tonight.”

Two sets of eyes grew as large as silver coins. They giggled and whispered to each other out to the car.

The lights were turned low in the auditorium as they entered in silence. Darby suddenly longed for Grandma Celia’s hand that always reached for hers sometime during the service. The candles were lit one by one to the soft song, “What Child Is This?” Mary walked down the center aisle and the Christ child was placed in the little manger on stage.

Who were you really, little child?
Darby wondered.
Who are you now?

Instantly, it was as if Tatianna had sent a message directly through the years. It was simply the act of an old Bible that now rested in Darby’s hands. Tatianna dies for her friend. Tatianna gives the legacy of life and a faith to pass down. Tatianna was pointing the way to another one who died, not for one person or family—but for all mankind.

Music rose through the sanctuary as angels entered the stage, some lowered from above, others surging from offstage. Their glittery robes sparkled in the darkness as voices raised a chorus. “O come, all ye faithful . . .” The wise men brought their gifts and laid them at the foot of the manger. Then other people moved forward. A businessman with briefcase in hand, a woman dressed like a housewife, a young child, and a college-aged girl dressed in tight pants with several earrings in one ear. More people came of different ages, races, and professions. All walked forward and knelt before the child.

At that moment, Darby knew she didn’t want to miss what God had to offer. She wanted to be part of it all, the intricate design created with the same care as life, land, wind, and rain.

Her eyes watched the infant asleep in the manger. God as man. God on earth by humble means. God dying a humiliating death. Like Tatianna’s gift.

As the pastor prayed, Darby whispered her own wish.
I want the Creator of what my eyes find in the mountains. And I will give you my life. Forgive me and my wandering ways. I don’t really know what this means for tomorrow, but I’m trying to believe. I think I do believe.

The service closed with the gentle “Silent Night.”