Winter Passing (9 page)

Darby remembered decades of little moments with the woman she knew as Grandma Celia: Band-Aids, gardening lessons, bicycle races, marshmallow roastings, and late-night stories. Darby shook her head. If her grandmother’s name wasn’t Celia Müller, but Tatianna Hoffman, she was still the woman who loved Darby, and whom Darby loved back.

She put the passport in one of the piles and found a picture of her grandmother in the photograph pile. It had been taken when Maureen had the twins. Darby gazed at the face she knew so well. This woman was the truest, kindest, most sincere person Darby had ever met. This woman could not be a fraud or an imposter. That would shatter everything Darby believed in.

“I believe her. I believe she was Celia Rachel Lange Müller, just like she signed her name in her letter. She didn’t sign simply ‘Grandma.’ Wouldn’t she do that if she weren’t really Celia?”

If her grandmother was Tatianna, Darby would confront it when she had solid proof. But no matter what name her grandmother went by, Darby knew who the woman had been.

The streets of Salzburg drew Darby from her hotel that evening. After an afternoon nap, she’d made a quick call to Professor Peter Voss. He’d agreed to meet her at his university office the next day.

Hunger and curiosity alike escorted Darby along the city streets. The main roads bustled with taxis, electric buses, and cars as she made her way back into the heart of the Old City. Here only a few cars wound their way around pedestrians and cyclists with baskets on the front or back of creaky bikes. Darby noticed that both residents and tourists were drawn outside while the rain was held within the dark clouds above. Though most of the shops were closed, people were everywhere. They walked at leisurely paces—elderly couples, a group of teens, people of all ages and races. The outdoor cafes brimmed with lively customers who laughed, smoked, and ate platefuls of food that made Darby’s mouth water. She walked past a musician playing his saxophone beneath a stone archway and an artist drawing a beautiful chalk mural on the sidewalk. She wound down cobblestone streets that opened into different squares, finding Getreidegasse, the famous shopping street Brant had told her about. There she looked up at one of the tall, flat-fronted buildings to see Mozart’s birthplace. Her hands reached for her camera—her faithful manual Nikon—that usually hung around her neck. “Old Nikki” had gone on every trip Darby had taken since Grandma Celia and her mother had presented her with the gift for high school graduation. Though she’d bought new equipment, her Nikki camera forever stayed her favorite. But so far on this trip, her camera had been safe in the tan case, well hidden in her room. For the first time in her adulthood, she was completely without it. So as she walked, Darby simply enjoyed what she saw instead of clicking away at it with her camera covering her eyes.

Darby continued down the skinny street, peering in the windows of perfume, shoe, and specialty shops. The buildings towered above and were connected in rows a block long. Ahead she could see the end where sheer rock rose above a church steeple. Darby bet she could have walked here hundreds of years ago and found the place exactly the same—until she spotted the golden arches of McDonald’s. Her hunger drew her toward the quaint building that suddenly transformed into an American fast-food restaurant as she opened the door. Though it was fun paying sixty-three schillings for a meal, Darby felt a little guilty buying a Big Mac when she should instead try Austrian cuisine.

The street was still lined by late-night strollers when Darby found her way back to her hotel. The palm of the bed cradled her into a long, deep sleep without dreams or interruptions.

Morning shone above the buildings and through the window coverings that Darby had forgotten to close. She awoke refreshed but wary about the day ahead—the day she’d meet another man who would most likely not believe her story. But Saturday lifted sunshine above the mountains onto a freshly cleaned city, a sign of better things, she hoped.

She pulled on a cream-colored wool sweater before leaving the hotel. Once outside, she discovered that Salzburg awakened early on the weekend. A family in traditional Austrian attire pedaled past on squeaky bikes as she wandered the damp streets. An intense blue sky grew brighter as the sun awakened behind the mountain fortress. The sunrise brought contrasts of light that caught her photographic eye. Darby saw a picture in a woman carrying a bundle that smelled of warm rolls into a hotel, and another in a man reclining on a bench with a plume of cigarette smoke rising in the morning air. But her Nikki had been left in the room once again.

She continued to explore Salzburg’s streets with her cheeks stinging in the morning chill and hands rubbed together from time to time. Around a corner, Darby was certain she’d stepped back in time. An open market stretched through a narrow
platz
beyond the stone archway of a building. People carried baskets and bags while waiting in lines before vendors who sold baguettes and rolls, meats and cheeses, arts and crafts, and giant pretzels in barrels. The only evidence of the twenty-first century, besides a few people in modern clothing, was a soda vendor selling Coca-Cola—America comes to Austria.

Instead of returning to the hotel for breakfast, Darby waited in a line and bought a warm, round roll from a vendor. She walked away feeling proud of herself. She’d said the greeting, “
Grüß Gott
,” bought the food, and left with a “
Danke
” and “
Auf Wiedersehen
” like any resident of the city.

After checking her watch, she followed the signs toward the university building. A whistling song nearly slipped to her lips, but she caught it with a smile. Pigeons flew from the shoulders of Mozart’s violin, fluttering into the friendly sky, as she walked past.

The lights were out when Darby pushed open the door to the university building. Her walking boots echoed loudly on the marble floor as she tried to walk lightly up to the second story. The entire building seemed deserted as she squinted at room numbers. She turned a corner and noticed a doorway with light shining from within. Darby hesitated. Was she prepared for another rejection? If Brant did not believe her, why would this man?

She slowed her steps and heard the scrape of chair wheels on the tile floor.

“Is that Darby Evans?” A head poked from the doorway.

“Yes.”

“Oh, so sorry I forgot to turn lights on for you. We are the only ones here. Come on in.”

Professor Peter Voss met her with hand outstretched. He was younger than she had expected. A man in his early fifties, he was handsome and smiled easily. Darby instantly felt at ease in his presence—not at all like some of the professors she remembered from college who seemed to enjoy a self-proclaimed sense of power.

“Welcome. I am happy to meet you. This is my humble and not always so organized office.”

Initially, the room appeared like any history professor’s office at any university: stacks of papers around the desk, a couch, and bookshelves bursting from two walls. But small objects gave it remarkable uniqueness—an odd sculpture that resembled hands reaching upward sat on the corner of his desk, a bright finger painting on a bulletin board, and a framed yellowing newspaper on the only bare wall with a headline reading:
GERMANY
QUITS
. Darby walked closer to see the American paper announcing the end of the war. The professor chuckled as she noticed a box of toys and a child’s easel behind the door.

“They are my daughter’s, I promise. Sara enjoys coming to the university when my wife has to work weekends. But I will admit, I sometimes find myself playing with the Slinky—what a great invention. Please do not run from the office, thinking I am a crazy professor.”

Darby laughed. “I’ve been known to enjoy a Slinky myself.”

“Then we will get along just fine. Here, have a seat.” His smile invited while his eyes sought hers curiously. Darby instantly perceived something about Professor Voss. He was one of those people who found everything fascinating because everything had something to teach. While Darby’s mind looked for photographs, this man’s sought knowledge.

The professor motioned toward a vinyl chair. She sat down, noticing how the window framed the fortress on Mönchsberg. “Great view you have.”

“Ah, yes. Between the Slinky and my wonderful window view, I should be inspired toward great things—at least that is what you would think.” Professor Voss chuckled, showing laugh lines around his hazel eyes.

“Sometimes great things can distract instead of inspire.”

Now he grinned. “Yes, we will get along just fine. Now, tell me a little about yourself before we get started.”

“Well, there isn’t a lot to tell.”

“Oh, come now. Do not be humble.”

Darby laughed. “Believe me, I’m not. But let’s see . . . I’m a photographer, and I live in California. I don’t have a cat, dog, or children—not that I include children in with the others.”

“Oh, but at times you can,” the professor said with the grin that came easily to his lips. He sat in the chair behind the desk. “Go on.”

“I’m pretty much a typical person—nothing extraordinary. No Pulitzers for photography, but I take pictures at the studio I co-own.”

“That sounds interesting.”

“It can be. I much prefer my occasional work outdoors. I go on expeditions with groups—hiking clubs, mountaineers, things like that, to get in action photos. But I’m just establishing myself in that area. Now tell me about yourself.”

“Nothing as exciting as that, I must say. I am an indoor man most of the time. I teach several history courses here at the university and sometimes teach at conferences in other countries. I am married and have an eight-year-old daughter, so my traveling is not as exciting as it once was. I miss home when I am gone.” Professor Voss rubbed his chin. “Now on the telephone, you said your grandmother was from Austria and you were searching for information about her.”

Darby took in a breath.
Here we go
. “Actually, my main focus is for information about my grandmother’s best friend.”

“If you are searching for people, Brant could give you the names and telephone numbers of several organizations, or he could possibly help you himself. Why did he direct you toward me?”

“Brant is looking for information about my grandmother’s best friend, Tatianna Hoffman. But . . .” Darby hesitated. “But Brant isn’t giving me help in the area of my grandmother because he doesn’t believe she was the person she claimed to be.”

“What do you mean?”

Darby focused her eyes downward, toward the desk. “Brant believes my grandmother was attempting to impersonate someone else to claim a family inheritance.”

“Really?” Darby saw immediate suspicion in the professor’s eyes. “And how does this connect with your search for . . . did you say, your grandmother’s best friend?” The professor extracted a pen and pad of paper from inside the desk. “Let us have some names also.”

“My grandmother, Celia Lange Müller, wrote to Brant before she died, asking for information about her family inheritance. He wrote back claiming she was an imposter—I have that letter if you want to see it.”

“Perhaps. First continue.”

“I’ll start from the beginning.”

“That is always the best place.” His open expression encouraged her to continue.

“My grandmother began searching for her family inheritance in the last few years, after she saw the Swiss banks opening and artwork being returned to the original owners. I never believed in the existence of a family inheritance in the first place, though I wondered about it when I saw my grandmother’s determination. But I lived several hours away and my photography kept me busy, so I never helped or found any real facts. Those are lousy excuses, I know, especially when she found out she had cancer and . . . well, I’m getting off the subject.”

“That is fine.”

“My grandmother was diagnosed with cancer, and it had progressed too far to save her. For a long time, it seemed she didn’t have it because her energy didn’t lag. During that time, she wrote to many organizations looking for information. Last summer, she wrote to Brant, and that’s when he answered the letter.”

“Why did Brant not believe her claim?”

“He says he researched and found the real Celia Lange Müller with records of her death at Mauthausen Concentration Camp.”

“But you do not believe him.”

“I don’t believe the records.”

“So you are searching for the inheritance and the best friend?”

“I’m searching for the best friend. Confusing, I know. I only contacted Brant because of his letter to my grandmother. I hoped he’d perhaps give me some lead into finding Tatianna, the best friend. As of now, I’m not interested in the family inheritance like my grandmother was. Perhaps I will be later—but at this point, my main objective is to find Tatianna.”

“Why?”

“Before my grandmother’s death, she asked that I give Tatianna her name.”

“You give Tatianna her name?” The professor set his pen down. “What does that mean?”

“I’m not sure, but that was my grandmother’s dying request. She didn’t mention that I pursue the inheritance, simply that I give Tatianna her name. Since I don’t know how to do that, or what that entails, I’m first attempting to find Tatianna or some evidence of her. Then I’ll go from there.”

“So Tatianna is the key to everything.”

“Yes. If I can trace her, then perhaps I can figure out what my grandmother meant. But I’ve wondered if Tatianna may actually be in the United States.”

“Why would you think that?”

Darby opened her black bag and brought out her folders. She set one folder on the desk. “I hesitate to show you this, for it’s actually evidence against my grandmother. After seeing this, my only true defense is that I have faith in her. She was a woman of her word and believed strongly in God, truth, honesty, and morality.”

The professor didn’t respond, but opened the folder and riffled through the documents. “These are United States immigration papers and an Austrian passport from 1939. Where did you get these items?”

“I found them in my grandmother’s safe.”

“Did you find your grandmother’s immigration papers and passport?”

“No.”

“These are Tatianna Hoffman’s.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Yet you do not believe your grandmother was Tatianna Hoffman?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I believed her. She told me who she was. Her last letter to me was signed with her full name. I know it sounds unbelievable, but there has to be another explanation. Why would Celia ask me to give Tatianna her name, if she was Tatianna?”

“Did you show these papers to Brant?”

“No, because they would only confirm his belief. And he was very unwilling to discuss any possibility that Celia Müller was alive—he was very adamant.”

Professor Voss strummed his pen on the paper. “Grant’s response is not surprising. He encounters many attempts at fraud. We have been friends for many years, though we see each other only a few times a year. But only a month or so ago, some clients he had invested a lot of time and faith in were discovered to be frauds. Brant believed the story and risked his reputation by pushing the claim. Then the entire case fell apart. I have not spoken with Brant since it occurred, but I am sure it has been devastating. Brant is a fine man who gives himself completely to his work. So do not take his suspicions personally. You learn to be careful once you have been burned.”