Winter Passing (18 page)

When she checked the computer files, Darby hoped to find more answers. All she found was the trail of Grandma Celia’s search for the Lange inheritance. Her letters were to Holocaust organizations, Austrian officials. Darby even found the letter to Brant Collins saved on the hard drive. One surprise was the discovery that Grandma Celia had organized putting up the Lange memorial plaque at Mauthausen Concentration Camp. Darby had wondered why it was written in English. The letter to the camp said she wanted something her grandchildren and great-grandchildren could read to remember their heritage.

Grandma Celia would have called it a leap of faith. Darby returned to Redding after the holiday and confronted Clarise with her idea to either sell off her half of the photo lab or become an uninvolved partner. Clarise actually looked relieved.

“Two people from Creative Designs wanted to join in the partnership, and I didn’t know how it would work with all of us.”

“Really? Then it will work out perfectly,” Darby said, feeling a weight lift. Several days of worry had been for nothing. “Let’s get something worked up on paper.”

While Darby knew she was taking the right step in selling off her old dream, she wondered what her future in photography would be. Derek had mentioned Darby should call their college friend Tracey Rivens. Tracey had worked her way up to an editorial position in
Travel Today
, a competitive travel destination magazine. She looked in an old issue for their company’s number.

Tracey was her same friendly self, but the business was straightforward. “Read back issues, know our photos, then send me some samples.”

Darby spent two days carefully studying and making notes on the back issues of the
Travel Today
magazines she’d stored in a cupboard at the studio. She noted angles and lighting, landscapes versus action, until she was ready to search her own files. The hiking and mountaineering shots comprised most of what she boxed up and FedEx-ed to Tracey.

On New Year’s Eve, as Darby watched the ball drop over Times Square in New York, she leaned close to the TV screen to see what the area looked like. This had been the designated meeting place for her grandmother and grandfather—only her grandfather had never arrived. The square currently was covered with people cheering and dancing, but once, a long time ago, a young woman had searched the crowd with hopes of finding the man she loved. And later, another young woman, her mother, had searched for the father she wanted to know.

Darby welcomed in the new year, wondering what the next twelve months held. A year earlier, she had written her usual resolutions—exercise consistently, organize the back closets at the studio, do more advertising, get a pet. This year she was selling her half of the partnership with Clarise, and Hanrey and Evans was about to be no more. The world stretched out, with no way to predict what would happen.

She flipped off the cheering crowds on the television and sat in darkness. On a long, gold chain around her neck, she wore Grandma’s ring. Her fingers felt along the edges as she considered the near future. Once in Austria again, she hoped to prove Tatianna, not Celia Müller, died in Mauthausen. She hoped to start a new career. She hoped to find out what had happened to her family inheritance. But for once, Darby knew her life wasn’t in her hands. It was both exciting and frightening at the same time.

For better or worse, by late February, Darby was finally checking in her luggage at San Francisco International Airport and hugging her mother good-bye, for the second time in a year. Her belongings were in a storage unit in Sebastopol, her dream of a photography studio sold off. Darby found her plane on the Departures screen and breathed a sigh. “I hope I’m doing the right thing,” she said aloud.

At 11:30
P
.
M
. her old time, Darby’s plane bounced and touched down at 9:30
A
.
M
. in Munchen—Munich, Germany. Soon she’d catch the connecting flight to Salzburg, Austria. She couldn’t keep her eyes from the green fields of Germany as the plane slowed. She made a vow to herself:
Whatever I do or don’t discover, I hope to tell my children and someday their children about this journey. You were right, Grandma. This is my story now.

The gray sky spit wet snow against the window of the taxi. The cold wrapped around Darby’s legs as she paid the driver and tugged her luggage toward the Hotel Zur Goldenen Ente on Goldgasse in the heart of the Old City. After she settled in, Darby picked up her umbrella before the urge to plop onto the bed outweighed her new travel smarts.

Snow began a soft descent, but mittens, a hat, and scarf kept her warm. She stood in the center of Domplatz and watched the long fall of snowflakes down to the cobblestone streets. Her breath froze in the air as she breathed in the good and familiar scent of aged stone. The church bells began to boom, roaring and echoing off the walls of the enclosed courtyards and streets. Darby stood transfixed by the sound, closing her eyes and then opening them again to see if it was truly real.

I’m here. I’m really here again.

Salzburg was like returning to a friend.

The Mr. Bubble Darby’s mother had sent along awaited her in a hot bath that evening. With skin turned pink and fingers pruned, she bundled up in her robe and dialed the Voss home. Somehow the three months had slipped away from her, and she had not called or e-mailed the professor or Katrine even once.

“Professor Voss, this is Darby Evans.”

“Hello! How are you?”

Darby smiled at the enthusiasm in his voice. “I’m very good, especially since I’m in Salzburg.”

“Right now? You are back?”

“Yes.” Darby felt the joy throughout her entire being. Yes, she was back.

“How wonderful that you return! With the mysteries from yesterday, you could not stay away?”

“No, I couldn’t.” She wrapped the robe more tightly and stretched across the bed. “I believe I’ll find part of myself in some of these mysteries, if we’re able to solve them.”

“You are correct. We always find more of ourselves when we look to the past, especially our family past. And Darby, you come with great timing. I am attending a conference this weekend at the university. You can come with me, if you like.”

“What kind of conference, and is there an English version?” Darby asked a bit wearily. “Or will you be translating for me the entire day?” she teased.

“Possibly translating, though there are some workshops in English. The seminar is called ‘Holocaust Awareness in the New Millennium.’”

“It sounds great, and I’m honored to be invited. Tell me when and where, and I’ll be there. And if you have time, I have more letters for you or Katrine to translate.”

“With pleasure. Then, after the conference, we must meet and see what information to seek. Do you have anything new?”

“Actually, yes. Do you remember Bruno Weiler—I mentioned him in our last conversation before you left for Dublin?”

“
Ja
, the SS guard. I wanted to contact you.” Professor Voss’s voice sounded excited. “I intended many times to call or e-mail because I found some information about a Bruno Weiler.”

“You did?” Darby reached beside the bed into the brown leather satchel she’d bought for her return to Europe. She extracted the file labeled
B. Weiler
. “While I was at home, I found information about a trial and some prison time after the war.”

“That is important news. That was after the war? I found enrollment records of a Bruno Weiler in Vienna in the late 1950s. He was attending university there. I wonder if it was the same person.”

“My information said he was released in 1957. If it is the same as your Bruno Weiler, we have his next location. Was there any other information? Did he graduate?”

“He was taking graduate courses but dropped out midterm. That is all I could find from the admissions office there. But this is good work. We have become like Sherlock Holmes and his sidekick—what was his name?”

Darby laughed. “I have no idea. I was a Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys fan myself.”

“Now it will bother me all night until I remember.” Darby heard him sigh as she finished writing Professor Voss’s information in her file. “Sherlock Holmes and . . . it has left my mind.”

“I’ll bring the letters when we meet for the conference. Please tell Katrine hello for me.”

“Yes, and Katrine will be very pleased you returned. Before you leave, I am sure she will want some time with you. ‘Girls’ night out’—is that correct? How long are you staying?”

“Actually, I can stay as long as I want. I’m a free woman.”

“Wonderful. Perhaps Austria is your future?”

“Perhaps.”

“Watson, that is it!” he shouted.

“Excuse me?” Darby held the phone away from her ear.

“Elementary, my dear Watson. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. That was his name.” Professor Voss chuckled as if he were embarrassed by his outburst. “I am really living up to an ‘absent-minded professor’ image, am I not?”

“I didn’t know how much I’d missed you until now, Peter. I’ll see you Saturday at the university, right?”

Professor Voss laughed heartily. “9:00
A
.
M
.”

The auditorium was crowded with conference attendees. As Darby searched for a seat, she recognized several languages in conversations surrounding her—French, German, and possibly Yiddish.

“Darby Evans!” a voice called from behind. Before she could turn, she felt a hearty pat on the back. People looked their way as Darby and Professor Voss had their reunion in the aisle. “It is so good to see you again.” His hazel eyes sparkled.

“And you also, Dr. Watson,” Darby said with a smile.

“Excuse me, but I am Sherlock and you are my sidekick.”

“Really?” They laughed together like people who’d known each other for years.

“I have a little something from America for you.” Darby handed him a small, wrapped box.

“For me?” He acted like a child as he ripped open the paper. “A new Slinky! And just in time. My old one is a tangle of bent wire beyond further restoration.”

“I expect a lot of help now that you have new inspiration.”

“You will have it! Did you know the Slinky was invented by a man named Richard James in 1945? In fact, his wife conceived the name. Since that time it has sold over 250 million.” Professor Voss opened the box and held the Slinky in his hands, passing it back and forth. “It takes over eighty feet of wire to make it.”

“Very interesting. Only you would know the history of the Slinky.”

“Come now, I have seats up closer. Remember, I may need to translate everything into your ear, except for the workshops in English.”

“I remember. So I am the sidekick after all.”

They found the seats reserved by Professor Voss’s coat and beaten briefcase. They had just sat down when the conference commenced. An older professor took the stage, speaking solely in German. People laughed several times at what Darby expected to be the usual speaker jokes while Professor Voss tried to give her an overall translation of what would take place in the one-day conference. Darby decided she definitely needed some German classes, and soon. Each workshop teacher stood and gave an overview of his class. Then it was Brant Collins who rose from the front row to stand before the podium.

Brant had been in her thoughts almost daily since she’d returned to Salzburg. On one of her walks through Salzburg, she’d looked up his office, only eight blocks from her hotel. But what could she say to the man until she had some hard evidence to prove who her grandmother really was? Now here he was, standing before her.

He spoke first in German, then in English. Suddenly his eyes turned and met hers. He stumbled over his wording for a moment, then continued without glancing her way again. Brant announced that he was leading the English-speaking workshops.

Darby addressed the professor, who acted suspiciously preoccupied. “Peter, did you know Brant Collins would be here and that he’d be leading the English-speaking classes?”

“Of course I did,” he said back with an innocent smile.

“Why are you smiling?”

“Me? Well, it would hurt nothing for the two of you to talk.”

Darby’s eyebrows lowered. “You aren’t doing what I think you’re doing?” She couldn’t believe it, but his sly smile revealed his matchmaking intentions. “Remember that we have some major issues keeping us from being even acquaintances. Have you spoken with him at all while I’ve been gone?”

“No, but I think if you could tell him everything you have told me . . .”

“Is this why you invited me to the conference?” Darby whispered loudly as the room applauded the next workshop leader.

“Of course not. It just worked out that Brant was teaching all the English workshops. I thought you would find it very interesting and helpful in your quest into your past.”

“My quest into my past. You make me sound so fascinating, like Jacques Cousteau searching the ocean for lost treasure.”

“If you do discover the Lange inheritance, it will be as amazing as the Frenchman’s discoveries.”

“We have a long way to go before that happens.”

Applause rippled again, and people began to rise from their seats.

“We now break into our workshops until the afternoon speaker. He is a survivor of Bergen-Belsen,” Professor Voss said, standing. He winked and patted her shoulder. “I hope you enjoy your workshop.”

Darby sat near the back of the classroom. The room filled quickly with mostly foreign attendees who would know the common language of English. Darby picked up a neat outline of Brant’s workshop, “A Survivor’s Continued Nightmare.”

Brant entered the room, talking to a young man who took the last seat in the front row. Darby squirmed in her chair, wishing she could slide beneath it. Brant hooked a microphone to his shirt and turned the tape machine on before beginning his lecture. His face was tan with a very slight line along his temple toward the dark hair by his ears. Darby would get a similar sunglasses tan when she went snow-skiing often. Something in the way he moved sent a nervous jitter through her entire body.

Before he spoke, his deep brown eyes met Darby’s. He nodded a greeting, then began to talk. The talk focused first on the lasting effects the Holocaust had on individual lives. He discussed the intense guilt many survivors felt over living while so many had died.

Brant’s words made Darby recognize small signs she’d never noticed in Grandma Celia. Though her grandmother had not survived a concentration camp, she escaped Austria while many of her friends and family had not. Darby remembered Grandma’s minor swings of depression over the years, especially during milestones such as the date of her wedding anniversary. Darby had known of these times, especially recalling occasional words that were out of place for the woman of strength and faith: “Have I done anything of importance with my life?” “I’ve never endured anything.”

Hearing Brant talk about the constant, often hidden, struggles of many survivors made her wonder how much her grandmother had held inside. She wished she’d known sooner, that Grandma Celia wouldn’t have had to bear her struggles alone.

As Brant moved to the next part of his talk, Darby fought against the stirring she felt inside every time he looked her way. He was more attractive than she remembered. He didn’t seem as uptight, but more at ease with himself and the crowd. Darby found herself watching his hands holding the edge of the podium, or his eyes that looked above the people in the classroom to his own memories of survivor stories.

His workshop moved to the survivor today. He stressed the importance of recording testimonies and of helping survivors and their families. Darby remembered the lists of people still seeking family and friends on the Internet site “Desperately Seeking.”

“A large number of survivors have spent years in silence, unwilling to share their experiences with even their closest friends and family. Now, in their final years, many seek closure or want to record the truth of what happened. History is often twisted to fit modem times. My organization wishes to preserve the facts and lives of the Holocaust victims and survivors so future generations cannot change the truth of what happened.”

A few people applauded. Brant paused awkwardly, then nodded.

“In my conclusion, I want to explain what I’ve only recently discovered. The Holocaust, or
Shoah
, was a horror unlike any humankind has seen. We must ensure that it does not happen again. We must uplift life by protecting those who cannot protect themselves, by rescuing and educating and loving both potential predator and victim. But since most of you here are educators, writers, journalists, politicians, or students aspiring to be one of these, I want to remind you of something I have missed until lately. Be sure to take the time to live your own life. The survivors have gone on with theirs to become statesmen, poets, diplomats, soldiers, film producers, and leaders in their communities. They have continued with life, marrying and having children.”

Brant looked down for a long moment, as if he were sharing a deep secret he was unsure how to tell. He looked specifically at Darby, then at the entire class of listeners.

“Steven Spielberg, the renowned American filmmaker, received an Oscar at the Hollywood Academy Awards for best director of
Saving Private Ryan
. As Mr. Spielberg received the award, he said this: ‘There is honor in looking back and respecting the past.’ That is a statement to be remembered. There is honor in looking back. We should respect the past. And yet, I must remind you, from personal experience, do not keep your eyes turned back so much that you miss your own today, and your own tomorrow. For we are each granted one life. Learn from yesterday. Heal the wounds of those around you—the pain is everywhere, in everyone. But also, live. . . . Thank you.”

The room was deathly quiet until an elderly woman stood and began to clap. Others followed until every chair was empty. Brant was unhooking the microphone when people moved forward to shake his hand and ask questions. His eyes met Darby’s, before the crowd blocked the way. She wanted to talk to him. His workshop had been powerful. Yet she could not deny her attraction toward this man who believed her grandmother a fraud. He had spoken with sincerity and depth in his voice. He had given the facts, but she could see how much he cared through his deep, brown eyes. He sought the crowd for understanding.
Do you understand what these people have endured?
his eyes seemed to ask.
Don’t return to your life and forget this.