Each Shining Hour (26 page)

Time Capsule

T
he first document we found was a birth certificate written in German. It should have been no surprise to me that Connie could read that language well enough to interpret.

“The name on this is Oscar Wilhelm Fuchs, born in Wiesbaden, Germany, on November 17, 1913.” She grinned. “Well, isn't that clever.
Fuchs
is German for ‘fox.' Looks like Oscar Americanized his name.”

“So he really was German?” I exclaimed.

“Apparently so.”

“But how could he speak English so well that no one picked up on an accent?”

“Maybe the rest of this will tell us.”

We dug further.

I found an old black-and-white picture of Oscar standing with a woman in front of a bakery. All the signs were in German and an inscription was penciled on the back.

Connie interpreted. “My mother's shop, Wiesbaden, 1923.”

“This picture was taken when Oscar was nine,” I added. “His
mother must have owned a bakeshop and that's where Oscar learned the business.”

“Listen to this,” said Connie. She had been reading a letter to Oscar from his father dated March 12, 1924. The envelope had a Wiesbaden address but had been sent from New York. “My German is a little sketchy, but it appears that Oscar's parents had gotten divorced and his father had moved to America. The letter discusses arrangements for Oscar to come visit him in New York.”

We had spread the documents across the table and I was next drawn to one written in English. “And look here. This is a diploma from Dartmouth College, dated 1935. Oscar graduated with a degree in finance.”

Connie and Estelle found other documents and mementos from Oscar's youth, including a receipt for a transatlantic passage on the liner
Berengaria
, report cards from his years in
Mittelschule
, and ticket stubs from New York Yankees baseball games. From what we gathered, it appeared that Oscar went to middle and secondary school in Germany but spent his summers in New York with his father. Ultimately, he attended college in America; among other things, we found pictures of him on the Dartmouth track team and programs to plays with him listed in the cast.

I stared at Connie and Estelle in amazement. “You know what this is telling us? Growing up, Oscar Fox led a dual life. That's how he learned to speak English so fluently. He wanted to fit in. Looks like at Dartmouth he had a heavy interest in drama. And why wouldn't he? He'd probably been acting all his life.”

The business papers we found told of Oscar's career. He had worked for the Lamerslint-Jorg Diamond Company out of Frankfurt, Germany. He was their North American sales rep with company offices based out of New York. Oscar was a German citizen,
working in America on a visa. Some of the final documents we found told the most interesting part of his story.

“My, my, my,” exclaimed Estelle as she was reading through a typed list of names. “Looks like Oscar did some time at Montreat.”

“What's Montreat?” I inquired.

“The Presbyterian Assembly Grounds. You know, in North Carolina.”

“I don't think I understand.”

“Well, when I was at Vanderbilt, a girlfriend of mine taught in the history department. She was the cutest thing and always wore the most wonderful shoes.”

Connie abruptly interrupted. “Montreat, sweetie, Montreat. Focus now.”

“Anyway, she loved to talk about twentieth-century American history. When the U.S. entered the war in 1941, German businessmen and diplomats were rounded up and interned for deportation. Many of them were held at the Montreat assembly grounds. This document is a housing assignment. It looks like Oscar was sent there and later, somehow, escaped.”

The three of us stood quietly, trying to fit together the pieces. Connie broke the silence. “If he spoke English without an accent, I guess it would be pretty easy for him to pose as an everyday person.”

“Looks like that's what he did when he came here,” I said.

We all nodded in agreement and spent the next half hour poring over the other documents, including a few letters, some odd photos, and a family Bible.

All the while, I was thinking about Oscar and the incredible journey his life had taken. He had arrived here on the train in
flight from being incarcerated and almost deported. I imagined that Oscar probably never intended to live permanently in Watervalley. But somewhere along the way he fell in love with Elise Chastain and decided to stay and build a new life. It was easy to surmise that Oscar must have had some money with him, whether in cash or in diamonds, as had been so widely rumored. I remembered Frank Sanderson's notes stating that Oscar made frequent trips to Nashville. Perhaps he had a safety-deposit box there where he kept his secret finances. It was impossible to know. That much of his story was buried in the dust and forgotten memories of decades past.

“My, my, my,” exclaimed Connie. “All these years and this has been right under our feet.”

I told them about what I had read in Frank Sanderson's report, about the missing autopsy report on Oscar Fox and my conjecture that he had actually been the one to act in self-defense.

Connie placed her hand on the stack of documents. “Estelle, honey. I know we own this place, but these documents belong to Louise Fox.”

“Sweetie, I couldn't agree more,” Estelle replied. “But don't you think the sheriff is going to want to see them?”

“I doubt it,” I injected.

Connie looked puzzled. “Really? Why not?”

“He's probably curious like all of us. But I'm pretty sure he'll say it's not a police matter. We talked about it after the briefcase was found at the bandstand. The statute of limitations has run out on the case. He'd probably say this is no different than if we came across Oscar's high school annual. It's interesting to know the truth about Oscar's past, but it really doesn't change anything.”

They both nodded their understanding. Then Connie added,
“The local newspaper is going to want to know about all this, Luke. I'm not sure Oscar being a German is going to help his reputation.”

“You may be right. But I agree with you two. This box and its contents belong to Louise Fox. What she tells the newspaper is her business.”

We talked for several more minutes and decided that I would take the box with me to give to Louise. I would discuss everything with her and let her decide whom else to tell. Even as we all departed, we stared at each other wide-eyed. It had been an unbelievable discovery.

As I drove home, I called Christine to tell her everything. She too was fascinated. I apologized for our disrupted time together the previous afternoon. She dismissed it as unimportant, but something in her voice told me otherwise. We made plans for the evening, but before she hung up, she had a question for me.

“Have you talked to my uncle recently?”

“Come to think of it, no. Is something wrong?”

“Momma has been trying to call him for the last several days, but he doesn't answer his cell phone or his answering machine. Uncle John can be kind of a loner, but this is odd.”

“I'll take a drive up later this afternoon and check on him. He'd probably like to hear about this Oscar Fox story anyway.”

There could be any number of reasons why no one had heard from John. Still, his lack of response was unsettling.

I spent the next hour with Louise and Will, telling them the whole story. They were captivated, especially Will, and they looked through the documents with great absorption. The discoveries seemed to lighten their spirits, but I knew in reality it was a distraction. It did little to alleviate their desperate financial situation.
To my surprise, Louise politely asked me to keep everything at my house for now, not wanting the attention she thought it would bring. I agreed and carried it back with me.

I called Sheriff Thurman on his cell phone to tell him of the box. His response confirmed my earlier suspicions.

“Doc, as interesting as all this is, it's really not a police matter.”

“What about the newspaper? Should Louise contact Luther Whitmore?”

“Louise can tell him as much or as little as she wants. It's her business. But realize this, Doc. This is Saturday, and the next edition of the paper comes out Tuesday. Everybody in town will know about it long before that. The main thing the paper does is separate the fact from the rumors. Luther is an ornery jackass, but he does have a penchant for printing the truth. That may have some benefit.”

I thanked him and hung up, unsure of what to advise Louise. I decided to stew on it. Moments later, I headed up to the hills.

Every Branch That Bears Fruit

I
arrived at John's house shortly before four o'clock and there was no answer to my repeated knocks on the door. A peek in the garage window revealed that all of his vehicles were there. This didn't bode well and a small voice of concern began to nag at me, suggesting various explanations, none of them good. I walked around back and shouted his name but got no response. I could think of only one other possibility.

I found John in the apple orchard that spread across the sloping hillside down from the high landing of the house and yard. He was sitting on the ground next to his ladder, staring absently into the distance. His demeanor and posture were the definition of total exhaustion, a consuming surrender of mind, body, and spirit.

I called out to him as I approached. He heard my voice, but only glanced sideways at me—no more than if I were a passing bird whose motion happened to catch his eye. I walked up and sat down next to him. I was well accustomed to John's reflective and brooding nature. But that was normally precipitated by long dives into a Scotch bottle. Different forces were at work here. A long
silence ensued. In time, he spoke without ever changing his focused gaze into the far distance.

“I've been pruning trees nonstop for days. Pruning and pruning and pruning. Now I don't think I can remember my life before pruning. I pruned for so long that I began talking to myself. Eventually, I got tired of listening. So I started to talk to God about pruning, thinking he wouldn't get tired of hearing about it. But I was wrong. After a while he said he had a meeting and would get back with me. A few hours ago, I found myself randomly clipping branches. I came out of a trance and realized I was pruning the oak tree in the corner of the grove.”

This was something of a surreal moment for me, producing both amusement and concern. For some reason, John had driven himself to the edge of his endurance. What I was seeing was the last sparks of his clever wit, struggling to find mastery over his defeated state.

In time he looked over at me and extended his hand. “Help me up, sawbones.”

I pulled him to his feet, but he stood awkwardly, hunched over from the stiffness in his back.

“Come on, Johnny Appleseed,” I said. “Let's get you back to the house.”

He exhaled with a low resolve. “Lead the way.”

We walked back up the steep rise with John making occasional comments about the orchard and the casualties of the previous winter. In the kitchen he retrieved a couple of waters and we retreated back outside to the Adirondack chairs. Once seated, John seemed to regain some of his vigor. I told him about the morning's discoveries. He listened patiently, and when I finished, he turned and looked at me for a studied moment.

“Sawbones, that is a hell of a story.”

I went on to tell him about the old case file and my belief that Oscar Fox was acting in self-defense. I outlined my conspiracy theory.

When I finished, John said, “I doubt you'll ever be able to prove anything about the conspiracy trio and any diamonds. Does make you wonder, though. If Oscar Fox—or Fuchs, as it were—had a stash of diamonds, seems like they would have been discovered by now.”

I nodded in agreement. There seemed to be little more to understand about the matter.

“By the way, your relatives have been trying to get in touch with you for a few days,” I said.

“Yeah, I know. I saw the calls.”

“What gives, Professor? That's a little unsociable, don't you think?”

“Ah, I've just had a lot on my mind lately, wanted time to think. Tell them I'm fine.”

“By all means, allow me to rudely pry into your personal life. What's eating you?”

John grinned. “You want a beer?”

“No, I'm good.”

“Be right back.” He ambled up to the house, but when he returned, it was with a Scotch bottle and a glass. He was notably silent. For much of our friendship, John had been remote and complicated, resolute in his opinions. But this was different. He was struggling, baffled and uncertain.

“Well, John, looks like you and hooch are still on good terms.”

“Sawbones, I like you. I really do. But if all you're going to do is give me a lecture about drinking, then you might want to do the hokey pokey and turn your ass around.”

I laughed. “Oh, well, don't mind me, John. No need to
approach your problems with maturity when alcohol is so readily available.” He grunted an amused laugh. I spoke again. “The ‘what's eating you' question still stands.”

Slowly, a derisive smile inched across John's face. “How do you do it, sawbones?”

“Do . . . what?”

“Get along with everybody so well.”

“I generally tend to like people, that's all. Why do you ask?”

John exhaled a deep sigh. “In case you haven't noticed, I don't have the all-embracing affection for my fellow humans that you seem to come by so naturally. My talents are much better suited for pissing people off.”

“Anyone in particular?”

“Yeah, a certain nurse.”

“Oh.” John and Ann had been seeing each other regularly, but I knew few details beyond that. “Any problem in particular?”

“Yeah, she thinks I drink too much. Who knew?”

John was poking fun at himself. Even still, his frustration was real. “So, I take it you like her. Otherwise, this wouldn't be a problem.”

John rubbed his chin and smiled. “I do like her. And I didn't think I would like anybody after Molly. Ann's cute, smart, has a lot of spunk. She's not the problem.”

“Then what is the problem?”

John's words came slowly. “I'm the problem. For the past couple of years I've been trying to box with God. But I finally figured out my arms aren't long enough. Even though I've always harbored a certain resentment toward the Church, I guess the old instructions from pew and altar are still with me. I think I'm just tired of trying to make all the rules. Now I just want to live by them, be at peace.”

He took a sip of his drink. “On the surface, it would seem that all things are coming together. The bandstand's being renovated, fulfilling Molly's last dream. The in-laws and I are back on good terms. Now Ann comes along. I don't know her extremely well, but what I do know I like.”

I spoke cautiously. “So, what's below the surface?”

“I've lived for the longest time with my anger and grief. I've gotten comfortable with them, understood them. But now I realize that that part of me needs pruning. I never expected that somehow everything would eventually be redeemed and made whole again. I guess I've just needed a few days to come to terms with that, to figure out how to change.”

“Change how?”

“How? Stop drinking, that's how. At least, the hard stuff anyway.”

I scrutinized John's glass and bottle, a gesture that did not go unnoticed.

“It's not what you think.”

“How so?”

“It's tea. Laugh all you want, I like it better if I keep it in a Scotch bottle. Here, smell it.”

I laughed and refused. “Well, isn't that just a cute little parlor trick?”

John's mood lightened. “Yeah, isn't it, though? I still miss the Scotch a little, but I try to focus on the upsides.”

“Which are?”

“For starters, being more of a teetotaler ought to be good for some kind of heavenly upgrade. Besides, with all this good behavior, I might just get lucky.”

“Okay. One I doubt; the other I don't want to know about.”

John laughed, proud of his ability to cajole me.

After a long silence I turned to him. “John, you need to know something. You're a good man and a good friend. You've had your share of pain, and pain takes time to process. But what you're doing with the bandstand, what you did for Connie at the bank, and all those years of service to the town, those are some pretty selfless things. And I suspect that's only a fraction of what you're capable of. So, Scotch or no Scotch, you're still my friend and someone I greatly admire. But if you are coming to terms with your drinking, I can only say I'm happy for you.”

John glanced sideways toward me and rubbed his chin. His voice was contemplative. “Yeah, well, thanks, sawbones.” His gaze tightened. “As far as the bank situation goes, there's only one remaining item on the checklist.”

“Meaning?”

“Simmons. He's going to be fired and I'd say by now he knows it.”

“Have you told Connie?”

“Yes. But I'm taking the lead on it. Exacting a little justice in that situation has been long overdue.”

I nodded. “Well, so be it.”

I rose from my chair. “Okay, fellow. Time to go. I have promises to keep. I'll report to your adoring fans that you are alive and well.”

John walked with me back to my car. “Thanks for coming up, Luke. Pretty fascinating stuff about the big Oscar Fox discovery.”

“Yeah, it's quite a story. I met with Louise and Will this afternoon and told them all about it. I think it was a nice diversion for them. Louise asked me to hold on to the box for now. They're getting the house ready for auction. It's a pretty grim situation.”

John nodded thoughtfully, adding nothing further on the topic. Then he said, “You know, I almost mentioned this before,
but years ago, my dad told me that Oscar Fox would occasionally mail packages overseas to Switzerland. He remembered because he always had to figure out postage and it was difficult during the war to know if parcels would get through. People mailed things to the front all the time, but he always thought it was odd to mail packages to Switzerland.”

I nodded, finding this curious but not sure if it meant anything. The next day, I would have my
answer.