“It’s two hundred grand more than you were going to sell it for.”
I’m about to say “uh” again, but I’m able to get more out. “Why?”
“Why would you sell?” Dad laughs. “Because that’s a ridiculous sum of money for that old place. Take it.”
“No. Why would someone pay that much over assessed value?” There’s nothing around the house that would constitute that kind of offer. “This is crazy.”
“People with money, like that fellow obviously is there.” He points at the paper. “Well, sometimes they don’t have sense and all they can think to do with their money is buy creaky old houses.”
“No, Dad. That makes absolutely zero sense.” I read the letter again. “Who is this Joseph Feinster?”
“Do that thing on your computer. Look him up, Velma Lou.”
Great idea. Setting the letter down, carefully, I reach for my laptop and look him up on the internet. When the search ends, I can’t help noticing there’s not a lot out there. There are several pages about Joseph Feinster, but when I click on the first link, it’s an obituary.
“He died.” I quickly read the first paragraph. “Two months ago. He was ninety-seven years old.”
“Wow. Good for him.” Dad steps closer to read over my shoulder. “It says he was Joseph Feinster Jr.”
That’s right. “The one who wants to buy the place is the third, not junior.” I read on. “It says here he leaves behind a son, same name.”
“So, Joe the Third wants to buy the place?” Dad steps back and moves to sit down.
“Apparently.” I select another link and I must look shocked because Dad stands up again. “Junior was a World War II veteran.”
“What?” My father steps behind me and begins to read over my shoulder.
I point to the article. “The dead guy fought in World War II.”
“Mm-hmm.” Dad’s looking at my computer again.
As I read more, it becomes more and more interesting. “Listen to this, Dad.” Clearing my throat, I read:
“Joseph Feinster Junior of Dayton, Ohio, was found not guilty of war crimes related to suspicion of looting while serving in Germany.”
“Looting? What he’d take?”
“Apparently, he was suspected of stealing a treasure.”
“A treasure? From where? What kind of treasure?”
I giggle because my father is now leaning over me so far, his ear is next to my ear. I turn the computer around and point to the chair next to me. “Sit. We can read more about it together.”
He does. And what we discover is fascinating. It’s a tale of a young American soldier who, after V-E Day in May of 1945, was assigned the job of searching for German soldiers who fled and went into hiding after the Americans invaded Germany. With the help of a German POW who spoke some English, he and Feinster searched in and around Schneeberg, Germany.
“According to the German soldier who helped Feinster, many soldiers used caves as hideouts, so in the course of their search, the duo came upon a treasure hidden in one of those caves. Feinster promised half of the treasure to the German soldier if he kept the discovery quiet. However, by the time the German soldier was released by the US military, Feinster was long gone—back to the States.”
Dad has stopped trying to read the computer screen. Instead, he’s leaning in closer to me as I read aloud.
“Then, the German guy ended up back in the United States because he told the US Army about Feinster. The government wanted him as their star witness against Junior.”
We read on until my dad says, shocked, “He wasn’t convicted?” My dad is completely engrossed in the story. I’ve got to admit, I am too.
Shaking my head, I read on. “Feinster’s lawyer convinced the jury that the German soldier made the whole thing up so he could get a free ride to the United States.”
“And they believed him?”
“Apparently.”
