The Gasthaus sat just east of the square, set back from the shops on either side, the centerpiece of the nicest street in town. Laborers stayed at the dingy boardinghouse by the depot, but the wealthiest visitors all made their way to Hoffel’s, with its dozen or so bedrooms and stately garden beneath.
Johann walked up the steps, taking care to kick the dried mud from his boots before entering. “Entschuldigen Sie bitte,” he managed, excusing himself to the young woman in the vestibule, whom he recognized as one of the Hoffel daughters. She looked up from the register she’d been studying with annoyance. She was clad in a yellow silk dress he dearly wished he could afford for Rebecca, but she had a hawkish nose and harsh chin that no amount of money could soften. “Ist hier Herr Hoffel?” The girl eyed him incredulously, as though the notion he might have business with her father was unfathomable, then disappeared without speaking.
He peered around the dining room at the cloth-covered tables, not daring to sit on the finely upholstered chairs. The mantelpiece above the stone fireplace was crowded with porcelain figurines clad in the traditional Bavarian dirndl and lederhosen. A savory smell, fresh roast and Kartoffeln cooking for the midday meal, tickled his nose and caused his stomach to rumble. It would be nearly lunchtime when he returned home and he hoped Rebecca might have warmed some of the dumplings from last night’s supper for him.
A moment later Herr Hoffel burst into the dining room. “Johann!”
“Guten Morgen, Herr Hoffel,” he managed as the older man wiped his hands on his pants, not daring to reciprocate with the same familiarity. Johann set the clock on the table where Herr Hoffel indicated, then stood motionless as the portly innkeeper studied the clock, trying not to cringe as he ran his fat fingers across the glass, smudging the pristine surface.
Herr Hoffel pulled at his graying beard, not speaking for several minutes. “Hmm,” he said finally, equal parts murmur and snort. Johann held his breath. “It is nice.”
Johann bristled inwardly at the word. Nice described the cheaply made clocks that sat in the department store windows, one the same as the next. His stomach twisted. Was Herr Hoffel being coy, acting unimpressed as a bargaining technique? Johann wished again that he had asked for a deposit up front or even a higher price, but he had not known how dear the parts would be, how long it would take. No, he could not afford to negotiate, to go any lower than what he had asked, and still cover the money they needed for their passage.
“The face is porcelain,” he offered, but Herr Hoffel’s expression did not change. The man was not haggling over the price, Johann realized suddenly. He simply did not have the eye to appreciate the workmanship, the difference between this treasure and the cheaply made clocks produced by the factories for the department stores. To him, it was just another commodity, like the cloths that covered his tables or the meat he purchased from the butcher for that night’s stew.
“When we spoke last year, you said a hundred marks,” Johann offered, reminding the innkeeper of his promise.
Herr Hoffel whistled through his teeth, pushing stale air through his pipe-stained mustache. “Ja, ja,” he replied, but his tone was more protest than agreement. “I had no idea it would take so long, though.” Neither had he, Johann conceded to himself. He had not known that it would take months to save for the materials, or that the work would be so painstaking. “Business is slow,” Herr Hoffel continued, gesturing around as if to persuade Johann that the empty dining room at mid-morning was indicative of a lack of boarders. “And Frau Hoffel bought these during our last trip to Munich.” He waved in the direction of the mantel, where the row of figurines stared down.
Anger rose within Johann. Comparing his masterpiece to those trinkets was an insult. He fought the urge to pick up the clock and walk from the inn. “I suppose I could still take it, but I couldn’t afford to pay more than forty for it.”
Forty. Johann’s stomach dropped. Forty, though more than he otherwise might see in months, would barely get them to Rotterdam. Herr Hoffel rubbed at a mark on the floor with his foot and suddenly it seemed to Johann that all of his dreams were being ground to dust beneath the innkeeper’s boot. His dream for a better life for Rebecca and their child could not possibly come true now.
Looking out through the thick-paned glass of the front window to the street, Johann’s vision burned white. The older man was playing him, using his wealth and power to take advantage. But what other choice did he have than to accept the meager offer? Herr Hoffel was the only man in town with the money to buy the clock. But then he turned back to the table and as he looked at the work of art into which he’d poured his sweat and soul, Johann’s spine stiffened. He would not part with it for a figure so far short of its worth. He would take the clock to the city, try to sell it to one of the merchants there, before he would let Herr Hoffel steal it from him at such a price.
Unless, of course, Herr Hoffel could be swayed. He took a deep breath, prepared to try again. “Herr Hoffel, forty is less than half our agreed price,” he began, struggling not to stammer. The innkeeper’s eyes widened in fury at the unexpected challenge, but Johann had gone too far to stop now. “I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly …”
“That clock is extraordinary.” A voice behind him interrupted the exchange. Johann and the innkeeper turned toward it. A man whom Johann did not recognize from town stood behind them. “May I?”
Johann and the innkeeper stepped back, parting to allow the stranger access to the clock. Older than Herr Hoffel, the man had a wide girth that bespoke muscle in his earlier years and a mass of silver-gray beard that seemed to swallow his face. His eyes were a curious pale blue that Johann had seen only once before in the eggshells of a robin’s nest, formed in the eaves of the barn.
“Which clockmaker?” the man asked. His German, Johann could tell, was not quite native to the region but from the north, somewhere urban and cosmopolitan.
“Me,” Johann blurted. “That is, I made it myself.”
The stranger considered Johann for several seconds, not speaking, and Johann realized he had been expecting the name of one of the finer clockmaking houses. An odd expression crossed the man’s face, as if he doubted the truth of Johann’s words. Then he reached out, grazing the top of the clock with considerably more care than Herr Hoffel had done. Though his clothes were dusty from the road, his nails were trimmed and a band of solid gold marked the fourth finger of his right hand. But beneath were calluses that no amount of grooming could mask. Not a laborer’s hands, but hands that had known honest work. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” the man murmured, more to himself than to the others.
“It’s called an anniversary clock,” Johann offered, the confidence and strength in his voice growing. “A new design from America. It only needs to be wound about every four hundred days.”
“How much?” the stranger asked.
Johann hesitated, resisting the temptation to raise his original price, lest Herr Hoffel think he was gouging his guests. “One hundred.”
“Now wait a minute,” Herr Hoffel interjected, his interest piqued by the competition.
The stranger turned to him. “Are you buying it?”
“I don’t—” Herr Hoffel faltered. “That is, the price—”
“The question is a simple one: yes or no?” Anger flicked across Herr Hoffel’s face at the audacity of the stranger using such a tone with him in his own inn, and for a moment Johann thought he would confront the man. But travelers were Hoffel’s stock in trade and word got around—an innkeeper reputed as rude would soon find his rooms empty.
“One hundred, then,” Herr Hoffel said, reaching for the till.
But the stranger was not finished. “One ten.” His eyes glinted, a seasoned trader bargaining for wares.
“One fifteen,” Herr Hoffel replied evenly. To him, the clock was still just a commodity. “Not a penny more.”
The stranger delivered the final blow. “One twenty.” A hand squeezed Johann’s throat, making it impossible t
o breathe. Did the man really mean to pay him such a sum?
There was a moment of hesitation. Would Herr Hoffel bid again in spite of himself? But the innkeeper’s shoulders slumped in defeat. The stranger reached into his jacket and pulled out a billfold, producing one hundred twenty marks. “You could have asked several times that,” he said, as he handed the money to Johann. “Never undersell yourself.”
Johann’s eyes darted to Herr Hoffel, wondering if he would protest, but the innkeeper shrugged and turned to the counter, busying himself with the ledger. Without another word, the stranger picked up the clock and carried it carefully from the room. Johann watched, feeling as though a part of himself was leaving too.
“Who was that?” he asked the innkeeper.
Herr Hoffel did not look up. “Just a boarder. Checked in last night, leaving today. Name is Rosenberg. Don’t know where he’s from. Hamburg maybe, or Berlin.”
Johann was seized with the urge to run after the stranger, find out where the man would be taking his clock. But it didn’t matter—he had his money. Without speaking further, he walked from the inn onto the street, making his way through the wagons and merchants.
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.
Three
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, t
rying 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.