Fear—I pray it doesn’t plague Ella like it has me. Sometimes it seems like I am afraid of almost everything, including the man right in front of me. “She won’t be afraid, not with you there to tell her that she doesn’t have to worry. That she can leap over every roadblock in her path.”
“Except when you don’t. Because, sometimes, you won’t.”Dr. Seuss was right on that account, but just this morning, I wish he would stop speaking to me.
I dip my hand back into the frigid water and fling the droplets away. “If for some reason she can’t leap over those roadblocks, you’ll tell her that you love her no matter what.”
“Did your father tell you that?” he asks.
I feel the ice creeping up inside me, no bucket challengeneeded. I’ve talked too much, exposed the brokenness of my heart, the pieces that were supposed to be neatly swept under the shell.
“We’re almost there,” I say.
Even with the mist, I see the indisputableKein Durchgang—No Entry—on the dock, but my gaze quickly wanders to the medieval Schloss behind it. Online pictures don’t do the castle justice, at least not with the mist circled around the turrets and hovering over the slate roof. Or perhaps it’s smoke. The smell from a woodstove wafts down the bank.
A stone retaining wall stretches in front of the main house and the five outbuildings on the estate, the rocks protecting the shoreline but also, I suspect, keeping away unwelcome visitors. Like us.
Undeterred, Josh motors toward the forest on the east side and pulls his boat up through the tall weeds, beaching it between the pine trees.
“Wegefreiheit,”he says as he eyes the wall of trees in front of us.
“What does that word mean?”
“An Austrian’s universal freedom to roam around.”
That thought makes me smile. “I suspect that doesn’t apply to private property.”
“No. Locals are rather strict about keeping tourists off their land.”
I wrap my arms across my chest. “Then why are we here?”
“Because it’s the only way to find information about Annika. Now that my dive is done—”
“We’re still trespassing.”
“We’ll simply knock,” he says. “Herr Stadler will either invite us into his home or he’ll ask us to leave. We won’t stick around if we’re not welcome.”
My desire for information wins out over my reluctance. Togetherwe cross through the forest, past the remains of a small house, the wood and stone blackened, the roof caved in. Then the forest breaks into field, and before us are several gardens, ablaze with flowers.
Someone cares well for this land.
A barn stands close to the water, a small fortress made of stucco and stone. Inside the doorway is a middle-aged man dressed in brown trousers and a white T-shirt, his graying hair tucked partly under a cap, a milk pail in hand. He doesn’t appear to be very pleased about having guests.
“This property is private,” he says in German.
“Ja,”Josh replies. “We are looking for someone who once lived here. Do you speak English?”
Irritation flares on the man’s face. “This is my home. Not an attraction.”
“My name is Josh,” he says. “My uncle stayed here in 1945, right after the war ended.”
“An Allied soldier, I presume?” the man asks with a mixture of German and English.
Josh nods.
“Most people here want to forget about the war.”
“In the United States, we want to remember. So it never happens again.”
“With the remembering, the stories can get twisted,ja?”
