The Things We Cherished (6 page)

Out of sight of the hotel, he opened his hand, half fearing that the bills would have disintegrated into dust, a figment of his imagination. But they were still there, one hundred and twenty marks, more money than he had ever seen at one time. It was enough to
buy better passage on the ship, to get Rebecca out of steerage and into a real room where she could rest peacefully and look at the water. She would never let him spend it on that of course; despite her upbringing, she was exceedingly frugal and would insist that they save the money, pointing out the additional expenses they might encounter along the way, the unknown cost of living in America. They could argue about that on the train. He tucked the money back into his pocket and glanced furtively in each direction as if he expected to be accused of some wrongdoing, then hurried onto the road that led out of town before the stranger could change his mind and come after him.

An hour later he emerged on the far side of the forest. The sun was high in the late-morning sky now, warming the grass. He thought of the clock. Where was the man taking it? He imagined a home with a mantelpiece, tried to envision the people who would look at and admire it and take from it the cadence of their day. A piece of himself, going places he would never see.

As Johann reached the final hill, his gait grew light. He and Rebecca could move to America, away from the ghosts that haunted him here, from the hatred that seemed to lurk around every corner. He climbed the gentle slope, his stomach knotting with anticipation as it always did just before he saw his wife. Rebecca would be up, refreshed from sleep, hanging wash or working in the garden. Perhaps he would lure her from her morning chores back to the bed, celebrate by making love to her once more.

He reached the crest, surveying the house and gardens nestled in the dell below, but Rebecca was nowhere to be seen. In the house, surely. Maybe she had even begun to pack.

He opened the door to the cottage, smelling the smoke from the previous night’s fire that still lingered in the air. Rebecca had been up for some time, he could tell, from the way the freshly polished
table gleamed, and from the basket of folded wash that had not been on the chair when he left.
“Liebchen,”
he called, but only the echo of his own voice rang back at him. He walked through to the bedroom, which was empty and still, the duvet pulled tight and neat. His heart skipped a little in a way he could not quite understand as he retraced his steps through the cottage and stepped outside, closing the door behind him. He made his way around the back of the house to the barn, where she must be watering the mule. “Rebecca, you’ll never guess what—”

It was not until he reached the fence that he saw her, lying on the muddy ground of the chicken coop, body twisted, legs folded awkwardly in the wrong direction beneath her. A scream he did not recognize came from his throat as he tore open the gate and raced to her side, kneeling.

When he lifted her onto his lap, he first saw the blood, great puddles of it seeping through the back of her dress, mixing with the dirt. Had she fallen and hurt herself or had something broken inside her that caused her to collapse? “Rebecca …” He shook her as if to wake her from deep sleep, and her eyes rolled upward and her mouth opened, a fine thread of spittle running from cheek to chin. He lowered his hand but even before it reached her belly, he knew that it would be still, the gentle kicks he’d felt in recent weeks now gone.

He should not have left her alone, he berated himself. If he’d been here, he could have helped her, or perhaps prevented whatever had befallen her altogether. A great sob of grief tore through him then and he lay down on the sodden earth beside her as though it were their marriage bed, burying his nose in her sun-warmed hair, pressing against the growing coolness of her cheek. He followed her lifeless gaze to the sky as though searching for answers, wondering what to do.

MUNICH
,
2009

At eight-thirty Wednesday morning, Charlotte stepped into the terminal at Franz Josef Strauss Airport. As she looked around the gleaming glass and chrome concourse, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she wondered for the hundredth time what she was doing here. Alone.

Twelve hours earlier, Charlotte had stood by the Lufthansa ticket desk at Newark Airport, holding the boarding pass that had been waiting for her at the counter. Damn Brian, she swore, as she peered through the crowds. She was doing him a favor and his making her wait seemed an affront. She had pulled out her BlackBerry and dialed the number on his business card, but it went directly to voicemail.

A minute later, her phone vibrated. Finally, she thought as she raised it to her ear, preparing to convey her annoyance. But there was only a text message.
Unavoidably delayed
, it read.
Go on without me. Rooms are at the Sofitel. Appointment tomorrow at eleven with Dykmans’ attys at 42 Bayerstrasse. I’ll catch the later flight and meet you there
.

Charlotte stared at the text message in disbelief. Brian had asked, no, begged her to go with him—and now he was standing her up?

She lowered the phone, fighting against the tide of emotions that rose up inside her. Brian wasn’t going to show. Suddenly, it was as if he was rejecting her all over again. He’s just missing the flight, she reminded herself. But the thought gave her little comfort.

I can just go home, Charlotte realized, suddenly set free. This isn’t my case and if he’s too busy to make the flight, then maybe I am too. But she was still curious—what was the story behind the Dykmans affair? Was Roger guilty? Why would he refuse to aid in his own defense? She glanced down at the boarding pass in her hand, and the lure of Europe called out to her like an old friend. It had been years since she’d strolled Munich’s wide thoroughfares, sipped a beer at the Hofbräuhaus. She could practically taste the tortes. At worst it would be a free vacation.

So she’d pushed her doubts aside and boarded the plane. Somewhere over the Atlantic, as she reclined in the comfort of first class, an unexpected wave of gratitude washed over her: she was glad for the empty space beside her, thankful not to have to sleep in such close proximity to Brian. To hear his breathing, see his hair tousled in the way it used to be when he awoke, would have been unbearable.

Now, as she made her way through immigration and customs, her misgivings bubbled up anew. Perhaps she should wait at the airport for Brian to make sure he actually showed. But she had no idea which airline he might be taking or what time his flight would arrive. And he wouldn’t really send her all the way to Europe just to stand her up, would he? She withdrew some euros from a cash machine before stepping outside and hailing a cab.

As the taxi merged onto the autobahn toward the city a few minutes later, it picked up speed, traveling with greater ease than might have been expected on the traffic-choked motorway. Charlotte
leaned back, staring out the window at the thick pine forest that flanked either side of the road, rising against a hillside, tree-tops shrouded in morning fog.

She drew her coat closer, trying to decide if it was the chill or the circumstances that made her shiver. Her reaction to Germany as a country had always been conflicted. Over Winnie’s objections, she’d taken German in high school because it fit her schedule, and on a class exchange trip to Heidelberg she had found the modern country so far removed from the grainy wartime images as to seem a different planet. It wasn’t until later, when she lived in Europe, that she’d noticed the subtle things—how a gruff customs officer on the train demanding a passport could make her cringe, the way she woke in a cold sweat if she heard sirens in the middle of the night, as if she had gone back in time and they were coming for her. Now she was actually here because of a case involving the Nazis. She shuddered. Despite the modern trappings, the historical context was too evident to ignore.

Twenty minutes later, traffic slowed and a sea of red-tiled roofs and Baroque cathedral spires unfurled before them. It had always struck her on her earlier visits to Munich that the reconstructed city was almost too perfect, as if nothing had happened here, and the Dachau concentration camp was not about ten miles away.

The taxi turned onto one of the wide royal thoroughfares, lined seamlessly with imperial government buildings. A minute later, they stopped in front of the Sofitel as she had requested. As she emerged from the cab, she paused, looking down at her khakis and black sweater, wishing she had time to shower and change. But knowing it was too early to check in, she left her suitcase with the bellhop before climbing back in the car with the large leather tote that served as both her handbag and briefcase.

She gave the driver the second address and was surprised when the taxi stopped a moment later just around the corner. “Here?” she asked. The driver nodded. Close enough to walk, she realized, paying him more than was necessary out of embarrassment. She stepped out onto the pavement, peering in both directions at the generic office buildings, indistinguishable from those found in the business districts of Vienna or Zurich. She patted down her hair and entered the office building.

Once inside the imposing lobby, she hesitated, wondering how far behind Brian was, whether she should wait here for him. But the guard behind the security desk held out his hand. “
Guten Tag …
?” And so she had no choice but to step forward. I don’t know who I’m supposed to ask for, she thought, anxiety rising as she handed her passport across the counter. But the guard tapped on the keyboard, then gave it back to her without asking. “Eighteenth floor,” he said.

Charlotte passed through the metal detector. A minute later, she stepped off the elevator and approached the receptionist’s desk. The young woman with short dark hair glanced up from her keyboard. “
Ja
?”

“Guten Morgen.”
She faltered, trying to recall some usable German beyond that and failing. “Charlotte Gold. I’m here for a meeting and not sure who I’m supposed to see,” she said, feeling foolish. “But my colleague will be joining us too so I can just wait …”

“Herr Warrington called a few minutes ago,” the receptionist replied coolly, cutting her off with clipped English. “He’s been unavoidably detained and urged you to go on and have the meeting without him.”

Have the meeting without him
. Charlotte did not reply but stepped back from the desk, her anger rising. Brian had abandoned her—again. And he hadn’t even had the decency to call her directly. Of course not; he was too afraid of her reaction to tell her himself.
He’d always been like that, a ruthless litigator in the courtroom who would do whatever he could to avoid confrontation in his own life.

As she looked around the elegant reception area, her doubts rose: how could she possibly take the meeting alone? She knew nothing about the case, not even the name of the person she was supposed to see. I need to excuse myself, she thought, figure out what to do next.

But the receptionist was already opening a door and motioning for Charlotte to follow. The woman led her down a hallway, their footsteps muffled by the plush beige carpet. The office, silent except for low voices behind closed doors, was a sharp contrast to Charlotte’s own chaotic work atmosphere at the defenders’ office. A wave of homesickness washed over her.

They reached the end of the hall and the receptionist ushered her into an office, then retreated wordlessly. Charlotte scanned the corner suite with its floor-to-ceiling glass windows offering a panoramic view of the city. The walls were bare except for a nondescript watercolor of the Alps, none of the usual photographs and diplomas that might have offered a clue about the person with whom she was to meet. Piles of paper and half-drunk cardboard cups of coffee littered the mahogany conference table. Her eyes dropped to the edge of the massive desk and, as they came to rest on the nameplate, widened. She knew then why Brian had been delayed. Why, in fact, he was not going to show at all.

The office belonged to Jack Warrington, Brian’s brother.

So that was why Brian had bailed. He and Jack had never gotten along well—Jack, a Yale Law grad two years their senior, was as quiet and intellectual as his brother was brash and athletic. “He’s brilliant,” Brian had conceded, describing Jack before Charlotte had met him. “If only he’d come out of his own head
and live in the real world.” But despite the criticism, Brian’s tone betrayed begrudging admiration, even a hint of envy. She wondered later if he hadn’t gone to law school in part to keep up with his brother.