Small teams, perhaps, are my forte.
A white-tailed deer leaps across the asphalt, followed by a fawn. When the deer stops to look at me, the fawn stops as well and waits for his mother’s cue. Danger, in this fawn’s eyes, is only danger if she signals to him. He has complete trust in this doe that cares for him.
Trust, I think, is the greatest gift someone can give.
I cycle past a cornfield, the green stalks already several feet taller than the coveted knee-high by the Fourth of July, and turn left at a cross path that leads into Gambier, an exclusive college town built of clapboard and stone.
Distracted, I’ve taken the wrong turn off the trail; I realize it the moment I see a sandstone chapel beside the road instead of the college buildings. I bicycle often into Gambier, but I haven’t been on this country road, visited this chapel, since Scott and I rehearsed our wedding vows.
Initially I look away from the old church, trying to avoid the memory of the man I trusted completely, the man I thought loved me for exactly who I was. He didn’t love me, at least not for a lifetime. I helped him pass the time. Kathleen stole his heart.
I stop in front of the chapel, every stone in its walls excavated from a nearby quarry and laid by the masons who relocated from England in the 1800s to build Kenyon College. A revival swept through the college, stirring students and town residents alike, and together they built this place of worship that has lasted for a hundred and fifty years.
Maybe it’s finally time to leave my memories behind, the ones that seem to keep me chained to the past, and start on a new journey. Build something new.
My phone flashes, notifying me of an email, and I tap the screen to read a note from the bookseller in Boise.
Dear Ms. Randall,
Thank you for your purchase ofBambi: A Life in the Woods. This book was from an estate sale near Sandpoint.
I’m sorry that I’m not able to provide you with moreinformation. Unless something of a criticalnatureisfound ina book, it’s our policy to keep our clientnames confidential.
Sincerely,
Leah Lowe
Annika’s notes are more intriguing than critical, I suppose, but if the list recorded some sort of treasure hidden by the Nazis... Ms. Lowe might consider that critical.
A quick search on my phone reveals that Sandpoint is a small town in the mountains of Idaho, on the shore of Lake Pend Oreille—pronouncedPond Ah-Rayaccording to the website. Ihunt for someone with the surname of Knopf in the area, but no results are shown.
Perhaps it’s just wishful thinking, but I want to believe that whoever sold this book might have known Annika. Or at least known about her.
The meaning of this list might have been family lore, passed down through her relatives in Idaho. Answers easily resolved if only I can find the right person to ask.
Ms. Lowe, I hope, is one of those booksellers who can’t resist a good story.
CHAPTER 18
VIENNA, AUSTRIA
AUGUST 1938
Max spooned the soup into his mouth, but he barely tasted the white asparagus or cream. Hans, a friend from school, had stopped by an hour ago to collect the money needed to purchase an official, albeit forged, marriage certificate for Maximilian Dornbach and Luzia Weiss along with a baptismal certificate into the Catholic Church for Luzia Weiss.
It had cost Max the sale of his motorbike, but Hans promised he could obtain these papers in the next two weeks. And with the certificates, Max would apply for Aryan visas into Switzerland or France for a honeymoon.
He hadn’t returned to Luzi’s flat for the past month, butyesterday Dr. Weiss had knocked on the door while Max’s parents were gone. Frau Weiss didn’t know he’d come, but he asked Max to obtain these papers and escort Luzi out of Austria as soon as possible. With Max and Luzi established in the new country, the rest of the family would be able to follow, he said.
Max gladly complied.
A canary serenaded their tense family meal from the floor above, the song spilling through the vent from Max’s room. Dr. Weiss had brought the bird with him when he visited, the prized pet of a former patient who’d obtained a visa to Shanghai. His canary, a rare bronze-colored bird he’d named Beethoven, had to stay behind as well as the bag of jewels hidden in a compartment at the base of his cage. The jewels Max would bury when his family returned to Schloss Schwansee in the morning. The owner asked that Beethoven be released into the wild.
He and his father hadn’t spoken beyond occasional formalities since Max had informed him that he wouldn’t be joining the Wehrmacht. When Hans obtained the certificates, Max would be leaving Austria for good.
“That bird has to find another home,” his father said, glaring at Max as if he and the bird were collaborating to disrupt his meal.
“I’m going to release him at the lake tomorrow.” Max took another spoonful of his soup, trying to calm his voice in spite of the racing in his mind.
