The Things We Cherished (18 page)

“But that’s impossible …” His voice rose, then trailed off.

She met his gaze, held it. “It’s true though, isn’t it?” A jolt of energy surged through her. This was where she was at her best, getting inside of a witness.

He sat back, resigned, still clutching the letter. “Yes,” he confessed weakly. Charlotte glanced upward at Jack, signaling the significance of the admission. “We were close.”

An affair with his brother’s wife that caused him to risk everything. “Close” was a gross understatement. But he would not be more explicit, Charlotte knew, and dishonor the memory of the woman he loved. “What happened?”

“When I was a student at the university in Breslau, I stayed with my brother and his wife. But Hans was traveling most of the time for his work and Magda and I became close. She disappeared one
day, taken by the Nazis. I was never able to find out what became of her.”

“She was Jewish?” Jack asked, confirming what they already knew.

“Yes. When the Nazis started rounding up the Jews in Breslau, I went to Hans and begged him to help her. Even though Magda’s heritage was not well known, and being Hans’s wife offered her some degree of protection, I was concerned that the Germans would stop at nothing, that it was only a matter of time. But Hans said he couldn’t do anything without jeopardizing the fate of thousands.” Roger bit his lip, angry at the memory. “My brother was very principled that way. I wanted to help her myself, but I was just a student; there was nothing that I could do. Then one day she was gone.”

“What happened to her?”

His shoulders slumped. “I honestly don’t know. I’ve tried for years to find out, searching through records from Berlin to Moscow. I had fresh hope, after the Cold War ended and the archives that had been buried in the former Soviet Union became available for the first time, that I might discover additional information.”

A light dawned in Charlotte’s mind. “Herr Dykmans, is that why you kept returning to Poland?”

He nodded slightly. “Yes. But I never found anything.”

“What did you do? Afterward, I mean?” Jack asked.

“Soon after Magda disappeared, I received word that my brother had been arrested too.” Charlotte held her breath. Embedded in that very statement were the answers they needed to know. How had the Nazis come to seize Hans? Had Roger had something to do with it, and if so, why? She leaned forward, willing him to say more.

“I thought I might be in danger too, so I headed east,” Roger continued, treading just shy of the heart of the matter. “I tried to make contact with some of Hans’s partisan allies.” To do what,
exactly—try to make amends for betraying his brother, or to warn the others before it was too late? “But I was unsuccessful.” A guilty look washed across his face and Charlotte could not help but wonder what he had really done. Roger was not Hans, did not share his bravery or his strength. “I couldn’t bear to return to the house in Breslau after Magda was gone, and I didn’t want to risk going back to my mother’s house for fear of putting her at risk. So I lived in different places until the war was over, not staying in any one location for very long.”

“You didn’t flee to the West,” Jack observed.

“No, not until a few years later.” Until, Charlotte realized, he had finished turning over every lead. He could have fled to a non-extradition country in South America or elsewhere. But he hadn’t. He had stayed behind in Europe, at great peril to himself, in hopes of still finding information about Magda—or perhaps even Magda herself.

What had he done in the years between then and now? she wanted to ask. Not for a living—they already knew, and knew that he hadn’t married. But had he loved again? It seemed unlikely. Perhaps he tried and found it impossible, or maybe after Magda he had simply given up. She studied Roger’s face as she often did with her juvenile clients as if reading a map, looking for signs of the places he’d been and things he had seen. But his expression was impassive and unyielding. Maybe that explained the absence of lines—he hadn’t allowed himself to laugh and live and do the things that wore impressions on the faces of others, like water coursing endlessly through a canyon over time.

“Did you look for information on Hans also?” Jack asked.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Roger replied hastily. “But with Hans, we soon knew what had happened. The Polish government had notified my mother of his death in a Nazi prison and they returned
some personal effects that seemed to leave little doubt as to the truth of their explanation.”

Whereas with Magda, Charlotte reflected, Roger had nothing. No information about her whereabouts, the fate that had ultimately befallen her. “We’re sorry about Magda,” she said gently. Roger’s mouth tilted faintly upward, the first time she had seen him attempt anything remotely approximating a smile.

“Our priority, though, must still be defending you against these very serious allegations,” Jack interjected. Charlotte cringed at his brusque tone. “Can you tell us anything that might help?”

Roger hesitated, staring down at his fingers. Then he seemed to relent slightly. “When I returned east, in addition to restoring the house and trying to learn about Magda, I was also looking for something.”

“Something?” Jack repeated, struggling to keep the frustration from his voice.

Charlotte reviewed the contents of the attic in her mind. “Was it a letter?” Roger shook his head. “A photograph?”

He pressed his lips together. “A clock.”

She considered his response. Then, remembering the photograph of Hans and Magda, she reached in her bag. She leapt up, thrusting the picture at the old man so abruptly that he reared back. “Sorry.” She pointed to the clock on the mantelpiece in the background. “Is this the one?”

A pained look crossed his face as he studied the image of the couple. Was it grief, Charlotte wondered, or jealousy, even after all of these years? “Yes.”

Charlotte and Jack exchanged looks above his head and she knew he was picturing all of the boxes that remained in the attic. “Would it have been at your family home?” she asked.

“No, it was in Wroclaw.” He spoke more freely now—it was as if
once they knew about the affair, he had little reason to be silent. Had his refusal to cooperate in his defense come from his loyalty to Magda, his unwillingness to tarnish her name? “I went to my brother’s former house, but the new owners knew nothing of it,” he added.

“How does the clock relate to the allegations against you?” Jack pressed.

“I’ve tracked down a possible lead to a clock shop in Salzburg,” Roger added, ignoring the question. “I was about to travel there when—” He held up his shackled ankles.

“What does the clock have to do with the case?” She could hear the exasperation rising in Jack’s voice, close below the surface now.

“It contains proof that I—” He faltered. “It helps to explain what happened with Hans.”

She leaned forward. “Does the clock have something to do with Magda?”

“Charley, can I speak with you for a second?” Jack asked before the older man could answer. “Privately?” He pulled her into the hall. “Do you think that’s wise? Pushing Roger on Magda, I mean. I guess I’m just not sure where you’re going, and with so little time left we need to focus on the charges against him.”

“I’m not the one that told the court we could prove this case in a week,” she retorted.

“I had no choice on that, and you know it.”

She brushed her hair from her forehead impatiently. “Anyway, Magda’s a soft spot for Roger, a way to possibly win his trust.”

“But we need to keep him focused.”

Her frustration exploded. “Dammit, Jack, I’m the one who’s good with witnesses, remember?”

“And I’m not?” She could hear the irritation in his voice.

“I’m just saying that’s why Brian brought me in.” Jack’s jaw clenched. “You think that was a mistake?” she pressed.

“Not at all,” he replied quickly.

But she was not mollified.

“You never liked me, or thought I was very good.”

“That’s not it at all,” he protested. “But it isn’t Brian’s call. Or yours. This is my case.”

Charlotte felt as though she’d been slapped. All the while she’d been thinking of the two of them as a team, Jack had perceived her involvement as an intrusion on his turf. “Well, I’m here now, so why don’t you let me do my job?”

“Because you seem to be going off on all sorts of tangents. First the trip to Poland for the house …”

“Which proved to be a good lead.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “It provided some anecdotal information about Roger’s personal life, nothing more.”

The information about Roger’s affair, she thought, was considerably more than an anecdote. But before she could disagree, he continued. “And now this clock. You want to go to Salzburg, too?”

“Actually, I do.”

He threw up his hands. “This isn’t a goddamn Eurorail trip!”

He was treating her like some kind of novice. Charlotte’s rage seared white hot. “Or maybe it’s not about that at all,” Jack added, throwing fuel on the fire.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” But even as she asked the question, she knew.

“I’m just saying that coming halfway around the world on a moment’s notice …” He looked at her levelly. “Well, that’s not something one would do for just anyone, is it?”

He was implying, of course, that she was here because of her
feelings for Brian. “How dare you? If you think you can do better on your own, then be my guest.” Not waiting for a response, she turned and walked from the prison.

Outside she paused, inhaling the fresh cool air, trying to compose herself. Fighting with Jack felt wrong somehow. She wasn’t even sure what their disagreement was really about. And it certainly wasn’t helping their case. But he could be so infuriating. She paused, wondering whether to go back inside and make amends.

Then she spotted the car waiting at the edge of the parking lot. She approached the driver, who leaned on the bumper, smoking a cigarette. “Can you take me back to the hotel?” she asked.

He looked puzzled. “
Und
Herr Warrington?”

“He’s staying for a while.”

A few minutes later, she sat back in the car, still seething. Jack’s words replayed in her mind:
not something one would do for just anyone
. Had he been goading her? She recalled his expression as he said it, which bore no sign of sarcasm or malice. No, he genuinely thought she had gotten on a plane and traveled thousands of miles because she still had feelings for his brother. Had she? No, she decided quickly. It wasn’t like that, not anymore.

At the hotel, Charlotte dropped onto the crisply made bed. The jet lag and nonstop travel of the past few days seemed to finally be catching up to her. She pulled out her cell phone and for a moment considered calling Jack. To say what, exactly? It wasn’t as if she had something to apologize for, and if he was still in the prison with Roger, his phone would be turned off anyway. No, best to let things cool off for a while.

Her thoughts turned to the information they had learned in Wadowice, the picture made more complete by Roger’s reluctant admissions. His one true love had been his brother’s wife. What
had become of Magda? Perhaps if she could learn some of the truth, the information might help to give Roger some comfort and win his trust. But how?

Charlotte mentally ran through her list of contacts who worked in the Holocaust area, most of whom she’d lost touch with over the years. There was a Polish woman, Alicja Recka, who had worked at the Auschwitz-Birkenau site and had been very helpful to Charlotte in her research. Charlotte recalled reading several years later that Recka had become the research director for the Jewish Historical Institute in Warsaw. Of course, the information was years old now; there was no telling if Recka had moved on. But it was worth a try.

Charlotte accessed the Internet on her phone and found the Jewish Historical Institute. She dialed the main number. “Alicja Recka,
prosze
,” she requested when the operator answered. There was a moment of silence, then a click as she was connected to another line. Charlotte’s hopes rose, then fell again, as the phone rang four times before dropping her into voicemail.

“Hello, Alicja,” she said when the prerecorded greeting had ended. Recka’s English was good enough that she did not bother to leave the message in Polish. “This is Charlotte Gold. I don’t know if you remember me but you helped me on some Holocaust research at Oświecim many years ago.” She spoke faster now, not wanting to run out of recording space. “I’m trying to find out the fate of a woman who was interned in the camps, name of Magda Dykmans. Any information you could provide would be greatly appreciated.” She finished by leaving both her cell phone number and e-mail address.

Setting down the phone, she lay back on top of the duvet, closed her eyes. It was a long shot, the odds of finding information on Magda slim to none. Roger said he had looked everywhere and he undoubtedly had the benefit of additional information, such as Magda’s date of birth and maiden name. But she had to try.

Suddenly, there was a loud knock at the door. She stood up groggily. How much time had passed? The heavy closed curtains shrouded the room in semidarkness, making the hour impossible to gauge. She opened the door. Standing there, juggling an armful of files, was Jack.

She braced herself, expecting a continuation of their earlier argument or at least a comment about the fact that she had stalked out. “Roger was feeling tired and asked to excuse himself,” he said, as if that explained everything. “We can get more time with him tomorrow.”

So they were done for the day. Then what was he doing here? He shifted his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. “Can I come in?”

“Sure.” She stepped aside, watching him as he set the files on the edge of the now-rumpled bed.

He turned back to her, bit his lip. “I don’t want to fight anymore.” Neither, Charlotte realized, did she. But he had not apologized. In that way at least, the Warrington brothers were alike. “It’s been a long day,” he added.

Charlotte’s mind reeled back and suddenly it seemed impossible that just this morning they were in the attic, searching the boxes—and waking up beside each other.