LeGarde Mysteries Box Set, page 65
part #1 of LeGarde Mystery Series
I sighed with relief and turned off the Mercedes. We’d made it.
Our host bounded toward us and opened my car door. “Eberhardt Hirsch, here. Hello and welcome!” He vigorously shook my hand before I’d even stood up. “Sorry about the subterfuge, but we believe it would be best if your visit is kept secret, considering all the news coverage.”
Camille got out, stretched, and came around to my side, holding out a hand to Eberhardt.
He opened his arms and gave her a warm embrace. “Welcome to our home, Mrs. LeGarde. We are so pleased to have you here.”
Camille’s face bloomed in a smile. “Oh, no, please. We’re the ones who are thankful. I don’t think poor Siegfried could have made the long flight home. He’s in a great deal of pain.”
While they exchanged pleasantries, I got out and opened Siegfried’s door, helping him unfold from the confines of the back seat. He leaned on the car and smiled weakly at Eberhardt, who rushed to his side and eased a shoulder under the big man’s arm.
“My dear Siegfried, welcome to our home. Here, please let me help you.” With me on the other side, he gently guided Sig toward the house.
We helped him limp through the back door into the kitchen, and then set the ailing giant on an embroidered armchair in the corner of the room.
Eberhardt bent down close to Siegfried’s pale face, taking one massive hand in his own. “I am Eberhardt Hirsch. Frieda, your mother’s aunt, is my grandmother. I believe they would call us second cousins? It is such a pleasure to know you.”
“Vielen Dank, Herr Hirsch.” Siegfried muttered, slumping sideways. Without warning, his eyes rolled back in his head.
Alarmed, Eberhardt grabbed him and called into the next room, “Hilde! Come here, bitte!
A brunette in a nurse’s uniform swished around the corner. Before we could say a word, she backed a wheelchair out of the corner and scooted it up to Siegfried’s side. “Herr Hirsch! What are you doing? My patient needs this wheelchair.” She glared with disapproval at Eberhardt, who cowered before her authoritarian manner.
“I’m sorry. I forgot about the wheelchair in all the excitement, Fräulein. Let’s move our guest into his room, shall we?”
Between the three of us, we maneuvered the nearly comatose Siegfried into the chair and wheeled him through a corridor to a brightly lit, clean room. The wooden floor shone from fresh polishing. A hospital bed was set up in the middle of the room, and an IV and various other pieces of monitoring equipment stood ready and waiting.
“This is wonderful, Eberhardt. Very impressive,” I said.
“Ah. It is the least we can do for family. After all, we have waited to see Brigit’s son for a very long time. And your Doctor Daneau was quite specific. He requested all of this.” He waved his arms briskly. “He faxed orders for medicine to our attending physician. Nurse Hilde has her instructions and the medications are ready for Siegfried. Rest assured, he will receive the very best of care.”
Camille entered the bedroom, rolling Siegfried’s suitcase behind her. Eberhardt took over and placed the bag on a trunk near the dresser, then introduced Camille to Hilde.
She shook hands with the competent young woman, said a few words, and then walked over to Siegfried. Leaning over him, she gently pulling his long blond hair away from his face. “You gonna be okay, Sig?”
He gave her a frail smile through tired blue eyes. “Ja.”
Nurse Hilde quickly took over and skillfully hooked up the IV. She spoke in German to Siegfried with a soothing, melodic voice. I relaxed, realizing he was in good hands. As the medication kicked in, Siegfried’s pain eased and he soon fell asleep.
When we left the room, Hilde said goodbye and dashed up a steep set of stairs to the right of the kitchen.
“Frieda is upstairs,” explained Eberhardt, motioning toward the stairway. “Tomorrow you will meet her. Hilde will care for both patients. Frieda is able to walk, but will come downstairs only for special occasions. Right now she is resting.”
I sensed a deep well of sadness behind his words. “We were so sorry to hear of Frieda’s illness,” I said. “This must be hard for you.”
“It is not easy, as you have guessed, but we have a very good nurse, and that makes all the difference.”
“And the rest of the family?” I asked.
He looked pained, and I instantly felt bad for asking.
“My wife is gone now. We lost her five years ago to lung cancer.”
Camille and I offered our condolences and said the trite words you say that mean so little, but are intended to console someone who, in truth, probably can’t be comforted. I knew how that felt, having lost all of my grandparents, my parents, and Elsbeth in the last decade. It was horrible. It still hurt. And no sweet platitudes anyone offered made a difference, although I always appreciated the kindness behind them.
He thanked us and looked into the distance, pulling himself together. “It’s just Frieda—we call her Oma—and my son now. But he’s away at University for a time. He’s been a bit of a trouble for me, so I—” He stopped abruptly, seemed to realize he’d been rambling, then wrung his hands and walked us back out to the car. “Let’s get you settled in your room, shall we? You’ll be downstairs, and I am in the upstairs apartment with Frieda. We used to rent the downstairs, but haven’t done so for many years now.”
Camille went inside to make a long distance phone call to Shelby and to unpack, and I wandered around the backyard some more with Eberhardt.
I answered his questions about my family and our life in East Goodland, New York. I complimented his garden, told him a little about my own plantings, and he quickly brightened when he discovered that I loved to work the soil just like he did.
He hadn’t wasted a square centimeter of soil, using raised beds to grow nearly as many vegetables as I did in ten times the space. Climbing vines of ivy, trumpet vine, honeysuckle and roses covered the seven-foot-high brick walls surrounding the garden. He’d created an idyllic oasis. Shielded from all angles, it included a small water garden graced with a rustic wooden bench. I felt completely at home, and told him so.
He put his arm around my shoulders. “Gut. Now. Let us go inside and eat, shall we?”
Chapter 31
The next morning dawned cool and clear. Stirring under a thick eiderdown comforter, Camille and I woke to the smell of fresh bread and coffee. Her eyes shimmered with pleasure. She closed them again and stretched torpidly, her white nightgown whispering under the crisp white sheets.
In spite of my throbbing knee, swollen fingers, cuts and contusions, I ached for her once again. I slid closer, running my hand lightly along her cheek and onto her shoulders.
She smiled; eyes still closed, and snuggled close to me. “Honey, everyone’s up already. We can’t.”
I knew she was right, but now that the flooding waters had breached the dam, so to speak, I was physically invigorated to the point of perpetual desire. It had been so long, I had pushed down the needs so habitually, that my body’s response when unleashed was overwhelming. I bore an uncanny resemblance to a prurient nineteen-year-old. In spite of our mutual injuries, the night had been filled with passion.
Smiling, I whispered against her ear. “I’m really disappointed, but I guess I can wait.” I didn’t play fair. I kissed the rim of her ear and nibbled her neck.
She groaned, stretched, and started to arch her back.
“You’re sure we can’t?” I asked.
She shook her head and pushed back from me. “Rain check for tonight?”
With a giggle, she folded down the covers and ran to the bathroom adjoining our room. The shower ran for ten minutes, and within fifteen, she emerged fully dressed and ready to go. I followed her example, cut the shower to six minutes, shaved, brushed my teeth, and dressed in dark green gabardine slacks and a white cotton shirt. I slid into my old scuffed shoes, bemoaning the loss of the new pair in the Catacombs.
In the kitchen, the round table groaned beneath platters of sliced cheese, bread, and wurst. A deep bowl of plain yogurt mixed with fruit cocktail sat next to a dish of granola. Triangular wedges of cheese spreads and jellies spilled out of a wicker basket. Oranges and bananas filled a glass bowl. Ceramic pitchers, decorated with brown and white smiling cows and full to the brim with whole milk and orange juice, sat on the side of the buffet. Sparkling drinking glasses, napkins, and silverware lined up neatly beside them.
Eberhardt turned from the counter and held out two coffee mugs. “Kaffee oder Tee?” he asked.
Camille and I answered in unison. “Coffee, please.”
Eberhardt bustled around the kitchen with excitement and I wondered how long it had been since he’d entertained guests. He set two mugs of steaming coffee on the table, explaining the traditional German breakfast. “Please. Eat. Or, if you would prefer a more American breakfast, I have cold cereal or eggs.”
Camille flashed a brilliant smile and leaned forward to examine the feast. Her creamy complexion shone, complemented by the deep apricot-colored blouse she wore with her faded jeans. She turned to Eberhardt. “Please sit and join us. It looks scrumptious. And you’ve gone to so much trouble. You really shouldn’t have.”
We each took a plate and chose dishes from the spread. Eberhardt beamed at us, and we dug in. It seemed as if the question of what to feed American visitors for breakfast troubled him more than the fact that he housed a man who was currently being hunted by neo-Nazi terrorists.
I sliced open a roll. The steaming aroma of fresh yeast rose from its soft center and the flaky crust broke apart. I spread soft cheese on it and layered several varieties of cheese and meats inside.
I took a huge bite.
Damn the cholesterol, this is fantastic.
Eberhardt sat with us and filled a bowl with yogurt. “Siegfried ate a good breakfast. It seems his appetite is returning. Hilde spent the night on a cot in his room and reports he rested very deeply. She is encouraged by his progress and feels a visit with his great aunt today would be acceptable. Oma asked for some time just before dinner, around five o’clock. She would like to join us in Siegfried’s room, and then, if she still has strength, we will dine together.”
As if on cue, Siegfried’s door opened and Hilde emerged with a breakfast tray. Her glossy dark hair was pulled back in a thick ponytail beneath her nurse’s cap. The no-nonsense expression from the day before had softened. She smiled through deep green eyes and deposited the tray on the counter. “Mein Gott!” she gushed. “Can that man eat! If he eats like that when he’s sick, I wonder how he eats when he’s well?”
“Siegfried’s always had a good appetite,” I said with a chuckle. I rose to refill my coffee from the pot on the kitchen countertop. “How’s he doing this morning?”
She joined us at the table and reached for a roll, speaking with a superb command of English and a vocabulary indicative of a high level of education. “He is stable and the night’s rest has done wonders. I plan to change the dressings shortly. The sooner he is out of bed, the better, of course. For a few days, we will keep him confined to the bed, and eventually we will move him to the wheelchair. By the end of the week, I expect he will be sitting in the garden.”
I drained a tall glass of orange juice. “Is it okay to see him now?”
“Of course. We are not a hospital, Professor LeGarde. You may see him any time he is awake.” She turned to Camille and began an animated conversation about American film stars.
I wandered into Siegfried’s room. His blond hair, freshly brushed, was pulled back into his usual ponytail. A faint flush of color spread across his cheeks and his blue eyes sparkled. The bruising on his jaw had subsided slightly. It looked less grotesque and colorful than the day before. A clean pair of pajamas lay on the side of the bed, ready to wear after his dressings were changed.
“Guten Morgen,” he said, smiling.
I was thrilled that his voice seemed stronger and his eyes appeared less clouded. “Well, well, well.” I dragged a chair to his bedside. “Look at you. You seem better today. Must’ve been that big breakfast, huh? Or, maybe the pretty nurse?” I teased, grateful to be able to joke again with my friend.
To my surprise, Siegfried blushed. “She is very nice, Professor. So kind to me. Her name is Hilde.” A wide smile spread across his face. “We speak auf Deutsch,” he said contentedly. “It reminds me of my mother and father, how we used to talk in the language of our homeland. I understand everything she says.”
“I’m glad to hear it, Sig. Must feel good to speak German again, huh?”
“Ja.” He nodded, and that same sweet smile lingered on his face.
I wandered over to the window, admiring the view of the garden. Birds splashed in a birdbath beneath hanging feeders, twittering happily. I cranked the European style window latches and opened the window wide. There were no screens on it, and a cool, fresh breeze blew into the room, filling the air with scents of spicy roses and fresh earth.
“We’re meeting with Frieda this afternoon. She’s coming downstairs to speak with us. Are you up for the visit?”
“Ja, of course,” he said, snuggling deep under his comforter, seeming to enjoy the breeze that blew across his skin. “I am very happy to meet with Frieda. I have waited a long time for this day, Professor. Almost my whole life.”
I turned back to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. “I know, my friend. It will be a big day for you.”
“I will rest first,” he said, his drowsy voice barely forming the words. “Just a little while.”
I watched as his face grew slack and his breathing steadied. He was asleep in two minutes.
Chapter 32
After a day filled with exhaustive talking, a review of family photo albums, and plenty of nervous laughter, five o’clock finally arrived. Frieda was due to visit us so she could share her family secrets—secrets we’d only speculated about.
What was this priceless object she was going to give to Siegfried, reportedly from his mother? Why hadn’t she sent it to him earlier in his life, instead of waiting until she was about to die? And why was it so important?
We sat in Siegfried’s room on chairs Eberhardt had moved in from the kitchen. He also dragged in a stuffed chair for Frieda and placed it near the window. The late afternoon sun poured into the room and sparkled on silver picture frames of family portraits adorning the top of the highboy. An old hand-painted wooden chest sat on a table next to Frieda’s chair. From its crude wood and trapezoidal profile, I figured it was over a hundred years old. Maybe even older.
We glanced up expectantly when the stairs began to creak and Frieda limped down to the first floor, leaning heavily on a cane with Eberhardt’s assistance.
The old woman entered on his arm, looking fragile and tiny. She was no taller than four foot eleven, but stood ramrod straight.
Smoothing her lavender housedress with arthritic hands, she searched the room for Siegfried. When she found him, she turned a bright smile in his direction. “Oh, Siegfried.” Moving forward with a few halting steps, she touched his face with one trembling hand. “My poor, dear Siegfried. What they have done to you?”
She spoke in German, so Eberhardt quietly translated for us.
Sig took her hand in his. Tears pooled in his eyes. He tried to speak, but seemed to be too overcome with emotion to form the words.
“Call me Oma,” she said. “It will be easier.”
“Oma,” he said with a catch in his voice. “I am glad to see you again.”
Although they spoke in rapid German, Eberhardt kept up with the conversation, rapidly whispering the English words to us.
Frieda released her hand and patted the side of his face once more. “You look just like your father, Siegfried. See.” She hobbled to one of the silver-framed photos on the bureau and handed it to him. “Here you are just before you left for America. See how much you resemble him now? You and Elsbeth were just four years old.”
Siegfried studied the photo. His eyes watered again.
Frieda shuffled to the armchair. She stopped along the way to greet each of us. I understood some of the German, but the dialect and accent were confusing, so I was grateful for Eberhardt’s help.
After a few more conventional niceties, Frieda began to tell her story in a soft, low voice. “When Brigit moved to America, Elsbeth and Siegfried were so little, it didn’t occur to me that I would never see Elsbeth again. She was actually the one for whom this chest was saved.” She pointed to the old chest on the table. “The chest and its contents, and the story that goes with it have been passed down to each surviving female member of our family since 1831. But now, my dear Siegfried, it must go to you. When you marry and have a daughter, you must pass the story on to her.”
Siegfried looked up, confused. “But there is another girl. I have a niece, Oma. She is Elsbeth’s daughter.”
Frieda turned to me with wide eyes. “What is this? Elsbeth had a child?”
Ashamed that we hadn’t kept in touch with her over the years, I croaked out the answer. “Um, yes, Frieda. Elsbeth and I had a little girl. Well, not so little now. She’s a grown woman with three children of her own. She has a boy, three years old, and twin baby girls, born last fall. Her name is Frederica.”
“I did not know this.” Frieda’s face crumpled and she burst into tears, weeping into a handkerchief she pulled from her sleeve.
Camille and I exchanged puzzled glances and turned to Eberhardt for an explanation. He held his hand in the air momentarily and waited for his grandmother to collect herself.
“I am sorry.” She wiped the tears from her cheeks and sniffled. “I didn’t realize. Of course. Elsbeth followed the tradition, she named her daughter Frederica.”
She looked at each of us in turn. “Please forgive me. Time is short for me. You must promise to tell this story to Frederica. It’s important the custom be followed.”
