Winter Passing (2 page)

He tried to keep his steps quiet as he trudged along the narrow lakeside road. At the end of a cement wall, he found familiar steps leading up the darkened mountain. Higher, through blind turns and covered walkways, he headed toward the church spire that was silhouetted against the moonless night sky. He was almost there. His chest grew tight with the raspy breaths that fought the frozen air. The last turns up the mountain, the steps he once could run up with stealth, now stole his strength. He rested at the wooden gate, leaning heavily against his cane. When he pushed the gate open, its familiar creak welcomed him to the sentry of headstones and soft red candles that lit his way.

He moved forward, past names he didn’t need to read. He knew them all by heart. With great care, he climbed the steps to the upper level of the cemetery and plodded toward a large, white structure. The graveyard and church were cut into the mountainside just like the village below. When autumn leaves crunched beneath his boots, he stopped abruptly and bent before the grave, looking for any weeds. None. He’d made sure the rectangular patch would be well cared for in his absence. He sat on the edge of the concrete border and laid his cane on the ground.

“I—” His voice caught, and he cleared his throat. “I’ve come again.”

He examined his work and smiled. Such passion of youth had stirred him to spend hours on the wrought-iron headstone. Other headstones were iron or wood, but he could not purchase her marker. He had to do it himself, to feel the metal turn in his hands, to sweat, to cut his hands and bleed as she had—though so much less than she had. He’d needed to carry the finished work on his back—his cross to bear forever. Though friends believed the war had turned him crazy, he’d needed the work to survive the day and the day after that, until he stood here now all these years later. For his work was more than a headstone; it was his memorial to his young wife. It was the closest thing he could have of her. For no, she wasn’t here. Her body didn’t rest beneath the earth. That had tormented him in the beginning. For there was nowhere he could go to find it, except to take a bit of ground from the place where she’d died. That was all he had left of her and so he brought only dirt to where he could visit and feel close to her again.

The old man removed his tweed hat and set it on the edge of the cement. He strained to rise and limped toward a stone faucet capped into a mountain spring. He turned the handle, and water gushed loudly into the tin watering can. He closed the valve and carried the can to the grave.

“Let’s give those flowers some water,” he said to himself, glad that the pansies and fall daffodils appeared healthy. The man reached to yank some dead petals from the rosebush that grew around the base of her headstone, and a thorn pricked his gnarled finger. He opened the iron cover plate to see her name. His fingers traced the neat letters on the metal, leaving a smear of blood around the curve of the
C
.

“I feel this could be my last visit,” he told her tenderly. “No, it’s not our anniversary already. I just needed to come tonight. You’ve been in my thoughts so often lately. But it won’t be much longer until I can’t hike this trail. I won’t have to wonder and fear. I’ll know everything for certain. And we’ll be together—at last. And, my dearest, I’m very ready to be with you again.”

In the red candlelit night, the man studied the last blooming rose on the bush. Its petals were perfect. The pale yellow roses continued to blossom well in the early autumn days. It seemed they knew this would be the last chance for him to see them grace her grave. So for one last time, he’d see his final offering of love.

The man bent to place his lips upon the cold metal nameplate. Just one more look at her name before he closed the cover. That name he loved so well, even after all these years. If he suspected correctly, soon he’d speak her name, and they’d be together again. Forever.

The window shade jolted upward and morning pierced the room.

“Wake up, honey.”

Darby groaned and squinted in the brightness. “Mom, I just closed my eyes. Do I have to go to school today?” She grinned with her hands shielding her eyes.

“You probably did just go to sleep. I didn’t want to wake you. . . .” Her mother’s features came into focus. “But Grandma’s having an exceptional morning, and I knew you’d want to talk to her.”

Darby kicked off the quilt. “Can I see her now?”

“She’s waiting.”

Darby hurried from her old bedroom back into Grandma’s down the hall.

“My Darby. Finally, you are here.” Grandma Celia sat up slowly. Daylight heightened the sallow coloring of her skin. “You’ve kept an old woman from her grave so you could traipse the mountains for weeks at a time.”

Darby smiled. This was the Grandma Celia she knew, though the name Tatianna still echoed in her mind. Grandma’s lively expression kept away her questions. At least for now.

Darby moved to the chair beside the bed. “Who hooked me on the mountains with years and years of her Austrian Alp tales?”

“Not me.” Celia looked at her innocently. Darby always loved the woman’s soft German accent, though Grandma Celia denied she even had one, saying, “I w-worked too hard to sound American.” Darby would try not to laugh. Grandma sometimes tried so hard to sound American with her proper English, emphasizing slangs and especially accentuating the Ws in an effort not to pronounce a V sound, that she actually sounded more foreign in her efforts.

“You’re just jealous that I found a way to make money hiking among the pine-scented forests.” Darby reached for her grandmother’s hand. “And what’s this about keeping you from the grave? It looks like you have enough spunk to chase the Grim Reaper away for the rest of eternity!”

“W-well, let me tell you.” Grandma pointed a trembling finger at Darby. “Mr. Reaper and I have developed a nice relationship. You know, he’s been misunderstood over the years. I’ve found him a pleasant fella once you get to know him.”

“Are you giving my daughter a hard time this morning?” Carole entered the room with a bottle of pills and a glass of water.

“I wouldn’t want to disappoint
my
granddaughter.” Grandma winked. Darby, who was watching her carefully, perceived an underlying weakness in her tone.

“It’s time for your medicine!” Carole said loudly, putting two pills in her hand.

“I’ve told you before, Daughter, I may be dying, but my hearing is just fine!”

“Oh, hush, and open your mouth.”

Darby watched her mother hold two tablets and a glass of water before Grandma’s mouth.

“I’m not a child either. I can take medicine all by myself, thank you.” Grandma Celia grabbed the pills and swished them down with the water.

“Grandma, you’re as feisty as ever.”

“What did you expect? That I would get docile in my last days? Goodness, no! I’m ready to march up to those pearly gates and give Jesus the biggest w-whomping kiss he’s had in the last millennium.”

“You mean
whopping
. Here, give me the glass.” Carole took the cup and walked out.

“No, a w-whomping kiss,” Grandma Celia called after her, then turned back toward Darby. “I like the sound of that better—no matter what it means.”

“Well, Jesus can wait awhile longer for whatever kind of kiss you give him,” Darby said, crossing her arms. “You aren’t leaving us yet.”

“Quit that nonsense talk, my dear. Look at me. I’m as thin as a pencil.”

Darby didn’t want to look at the arms she had stared at the night before.

“You young whippersnappers believe you must pretend life on earth does not end. But it does, and that’s certainly the way it is. A time to be born and a time to die.” Grandma Celia patted Darby’s hand and sighed. “But I must say it’s an odd place to be, on the threshold of death’s door. You look back and see it all, your whole life. The mistakes, sorrow, joys, triumphs. Then you look ahead and wonder what’s really on the other side.”

Darby leaned closer in surprise. “Grandma, are you doubting?”

“Mercy, no! God has w-worked enough in my life for me to know that he is real. But I think it’ll be more, so much more w-what’s the w-word?—immense or spectacular, than I ever imagined. It’s very exciting, with maybe a hint of scariness mixed in.”

Darby wished she could argue with her grandmother. She wished she could promise a longer life, but Grandma Celia spoke the truth. Celia
was
dying. But how could her grandmother speak so casually about death and seem almost excited about the prospect? Even with Grandma’s body waning before her eyes, Darby could not imagine life without her.

Grandma fumbled with the pillow, and Darby noted how even such small movements caused her breathing to labor. Grandma Celia squirmed into a comfortable position, took another long breath, and addressed Darby again.

“Tell me all about your latest work. Not the boring stuff you do in town, pictures of weddings and snooty-nosed children. I want to hear the mountain adventures! Did the group go to the Trinity Alps like you suggested?”

“Yes, and it was wonderful!” Darby exclaimed.

Grandma Celia reached over to move a few brown tendrils of hair behind Darby’s ears, just as she’d done for years. That touch and the excited light in her grandmother’s eyes caressed Darby’s entire being.

“You remember it was that same hiking club from San Francisco? They told me the photographs have been all the rage in the office of the hiking club’s president. He’s the CEO of a San Francisco insurance company and a hiker in his spare time.”

“Is he married?”

“Yes, Grandma. His wife came along and is a wonderful lady. I’ve told you, the good ones are taken.”

“Oh no. Your man’s out there waiting. He’s a nice fellow, too. I pray for him all the time. He’s sick of you hiding beneath your work and ready for you to meet him.”

“And who is this man?” Darby tapped her finger against her cheek.

“I’m not certain. But I know he’s out there.”

“Anyway, let’s stick with my story. The club wanted more photos this year and chose a more adventurous expedition with eight days and a forty-mile trip with some face climbing. It’s a good thing I joined the gym over the summer. The elevation is over eleven thousand feet.” Seeing her grandmother’s smile, Darby tried to conjure up the vivid storytelling that her grandmother always used. “The best part of this trip was this one total city boy.”

“This isn’t the CEO guy?”

“No. This guy is in insurance also, but you could tell he only did the trip to get some photos in his office. He wanted me to take his picture like he was hanging from a rock when really his feet were on the ground!”

Grandma’s laughter brought a smile to Darby’s own face. She felt like a little girl, telling her grandmother about her day’s woes or adventures. After she told her story, Grandma always had a similar tale or story of encouragement. Darby remembered being more enthralled with these stories than with her favorite television shows like
Scooby-Doo
or
The Bloodhound Gang
. Nothing compared to Grandma’s vivid tales of the Austrian Alps. Those mountain tellings had bred Darby’s own love for the wilderness and a desire to see the towering peaks of her grandmother’s childhood. Darby had never made it to Europe, probably never would, but the scent of pines and the crisp mountain air tugged at something within her. It was a feeling she could never quite explain—because of the stories. Grandma’s stories lived within Darby now. Yet in all those countless tales, Grandma Celia had never mentioned the name Tatianna.

“Oh, I wish I could have been there!” Grandma’s laughter broke into a low, rasping cough. “I’d—have pulled a few pranks on that city fella!”

“Well, just wait till you hear the rest!” Darby continued with a chuckle. She ignored her grandmother’s condition and pretended she was telling just another story on just another day. “We reached the crest of Siligo Peak, overlooking Deer Creek Canyon hundreds of feet below, when something catches my eye.”

“City Boy?”

“Yes! He’s clinging to this rock, scared to death, with his eyes shut! So, since I was assigned to take pictures . . .”

“Oh, you naughty, naughty girl! Did he even know you took pictures of him?”

“Oh, yes! He heard the camera clicking and opened one eye. Then he starts yelling at me to stop. Of course, I didn’t. For the rest of the trip, this guy was begging to buy that roll of film from me.”

“I’ve never been so proud of you!” Although Grandma’s tone was light, her eyes appeared glassy, and Darby wondered if it was from the laughter or the coughing.

She continued to describe her trip but noticed her grandmother’s eyes blinking heavily. Grandma sagged back against her pillow and squirmed deeper under the covers.

“Well, I can see my stories just don’t hold your interest anymore.”

“It’s this horrible medication. I can’t stay awake for long with it, but it pains me too much to live without it. We have a real love—” Grandma burst into another coughing fit—“hate relationship.” Darby propped her forward as her body was racked with uncontrollable spasms. “W-wa-ter,” she sputtered. Darby grabbed the glass and placed it to her grandmother’s lips. Droplets flew across the quilt as Grandma Celia struggled to drink. Finally the cough subsided, and Grandma leaned back. She closed her eyes, then her smile came in slow motion. “I’ve got to hear the rest of your story, my dear. You know it’s not fair I got stuck in this hilly country. You’re lucky to be in the real north of Northern California near all those mountains.”

Darby stared at her grandmother for a minute. How she loved this woman. She didn’t want to be part of this game of telling stories, joking while disease consumed her grandmother before her eyes. But she swallowed the tears that threatened—there would be plenty of time for crying later. These last moments needed smiles, stories, and joy. And below it all remained the unanswered questions.

“I guess you’ll have to wait to hear about the cricket in City Boy’s sleeping bag. I’ll let you rest.” Darby forced a smile and rose to leave.

“Wait.” Grandma Celia grasped Darby’s hand. “I need to talk to you about something.”

“Okay. How about as soon as you wake up?”

Grandma Celia’s grip tightened around Darby’s hand. The intensity in the older woman’s gaze startled her.

“Yes, it’ll have to wait. But it’s very important.”

Darby could feel her heart beat faster. Maybe she’d discover the secret the shadows held. She had fought the desire to ask, fearing, like her mother, what the mention of that name would do to her grandmother. Darby wanted the real Grandma Celia this morning.

“What’s it about?”

“I couldn’t explain it to your mother. She w-worries, and she couldn’t do anything. Besides, it’s something you should do. I’ve known that for a long time.”

“What do you want me to do?”

Grandma Celia’s eyes were shut for so long that Darby thought the older woman had fallen asleep. But when Darby drew closer, a second later, Grandma’s eyes fluttered half open.

“I need you to do what I can’t do.”

“Anything. What is it?”

“I need you to make things right with Tatianna.”

“Who is Tatianna?”

As Grandma Celia gazed toward the ceiling, an age-old weariness poured into her features. “Tatianna was my best friend.”

Sensing their time together was short, Darby wanted to hurry her, to ask question after question, but she held her tongue to give her grandmother space to open at will.

“I have a small safe that Fred is keeping for me.”

“Fred Bishop, your lawyer?”

“Yes . . . you’ll find some answers in there. I’ll tell you more when I wake up. But Darby—” Celia held her granddaughter’s arm with two hands. “You must make things right. Make them right for me, please.”

“Make what right?”

“You’ll know when you get there.”

“Where?”

Grandma’s eyes flickered shut, then opened slightly. “Tatianna needs her name. I’ll tell you later. I need some rest first.”

“Her name? What do you mean?” Darby asked, startled. Grandma’s hand motioned
not now, not now
, then she fell asleep.

The rain slapping Brant Collins’s face was neither felt nor acknowledged. The drops streamed like tears from his jaw, nose, and chin. His legs walked without direction across wet streets. He even crossed a busy intersection without looking. A loud horn and the
whoosh
of a bus focused his thoughts. He stepped onto the bridge and finally stopped at the crest.

Resting against the railing, Brant glared into the gray fingers of the Salzach River below. He noticed the newspaper clenched in his hand. It had long ago turned limp and now dripped like a leaky faucet. He wiped rain from his face and unrolled the paper where much of the black ink had worn off against his wet hand. The faces in the photo were now contorted images, quite suitable for the people they represented. The man had been captured with his eyes toward the ground, but the woman stared straight from the page into Brant’s eyes. Her smile was a twisted sneer—the person she really was. Her eyes still met his defiantly beneath the headline: C
OUPLE
A
CCUSED
IN
H
OLOCAUST
S
URVIVOR
F
RAUD
.

Brant had given much of the past year to the Aldrichs. The woman had begged his help to find her family’s lost paintings. They were the last link to her father, who had not escaped the Nazis. More than oil and canvas, they were the only portraits of her childhood. “Please help,” she’d pleaded. “I want to die with those paintings on my wall.” So, of course Brant had helped—that was what his work was all about. More than papers and research and digging into the past, his work at the Austrian Holocaust Survivors’ Organization was for people—for making a difference in the individual lives that had been tormented by war, incarcerated in camps, and tortured. He longed to see Frau Aldrich’s expression when he told her they’d recovered her dream.