you.”
She found it strange that her father should have put up such an old man in a cabin far away from town. What if he needed medical assistance? What if he had an emergency? And his old legs surely couldn’t have found the steps to that porch easy to climb.
Still, she bid her farewell to Mr. Stoffler and drove off. But the seeds of disquiet were planted.
*
She did not confront her father about it. But she decided to investigate on her own. So she went back to the cabin to spy on Mr. Stoffler. She knew the lay of the land in and out – where to hide comfortably and where not to be noticed.
The old man, she noted, could not be confined for too long in the house. Due to sheer boredom, he took walks. For such an octogenarian – or older – he was relatively healthy. Abby waited till he was out of the house and gone for a while through the trees before making her move.
She had the key to the cabin, of course. She sprinted lightly up the steps. Her hands were trembling as she fumbled with the key. She almost dropped it, but caught it in time. Then she let herself in. The door opened with a whine. Too loud, she thought. But the old man did not appear, and she closed the door behind her and locked it.
Her heart was beating painfully against her ribs.
What exactly was she looking for? She didn’t know, but she had a hunch. She could not see any of his belongings in the lounge, and so she went to the bedroom. The cabin had two bedrooms on the same floor, and Mr. Stoffler occupied the larger one.
His suitcase was on the floor. She saw boxes of medicines being spread across the table. Naturally, he would have a lot of diseases having lived to that age, or at least require a flotilla of pills to keep him alive. A n open briefcase lay on the bed, and it was this she rifled through. She was careful to note the position of the documents.
She caught sight of a black-and- white photograph midway into the pile.
Her face turned ashen as she picked it up to study it. The photo was yellowed and extremely dated. A row of Nazi officers posed in front of the camera with the Swastika hung on a wall behind them.
Her grandfather, as a young man, was seated in the first row – handsome, probably all of twenty years old, and smiling.
She wouldn’t recognize Mr. Stoffler when he was younger, but she was willing to bet he was one of the men in the photograph. She turned the photo and read the faint pen marks on the back. The writing was in German, and she saw the names of the officers written there. As she suspected, Stoffler was among them.
As was her grandfather’s real name: Holter.
The truth dawned on her. She was from a family of former Nazis. And her father was hiding a probable Nazi war criminal.
HOME
Devon takes two steps at a bound up the staircase to his apartment. He can only hope and pray Abby hasn’t left.
The front door is deceptively closed. Of course. He doesn’t expect her to fling it wide open to welcome him with open arms, does he now? He rings the doorbell, and he can hear the buzzer inside humming away. It was strange to be ringing the doorbell to his own apartment, but he doesn’t want to startle her too much.
It is only after she doesn’t reply for a while that he inserts his own key into the l ock and opens the door.
The lamps are all on at full blast.
“Abby?” he calls, striding inside.
She is not in the lounge and she is not in the bedroom either. Nor is she in the bathroom. He looks around. Her jacket is gone, and so is her purse. He walks to the closet and yanks the doors open. Her clothes are still hanging on the rack and her underwear neatly folded in the closet space he gave her. So she hasn’t packed. Naturally, she doesn’t have a suitcase.
He checks the top shelf for his battered old suitcase, the one he packed all his stuff in when he first ran away from home and his mother and came to New York City. It’s still there, so Abby hasn’t taken it either.
Cursing,
She found it strange that her father should have put up such an old man in a cabin far away from town. What if he needed medical assistance? What if he had an emergency? And his old legs surely couldn’t have found the steps to that porch easy to climb.
Still, she bid her farewell to Mr. Stoffler and drove off. But the seeds of disquiet were planted.
*
She did not confront her father about it. But she decided to investigate on her own. So she went back to the cabin to spy on Mr. Stoffler. She knew the lay of the land in and out – where to hide comfortably and where not to be noticed.
The old man, she noted, could not be confined for too long in the house. Due to sheer boredom, he took walks. For such an octogenarian – or older – he was relatively healthy. Abby waited till he was out of the house and gone for a while through the trees before making her move.
She had the key to the cabin, of course. She sprinted lightly up the steps. Her hands were trembling as she fumbled with the key. She almost dropped it, but caught it in time. Then she let herself in. The door opened with a whine. Too loud, she thought. But the old man did not appear, and she closed the door behind her and locked it.
Her heart was beating painfully against her ribs.
What exactly was she looking for? She didn’t know, but she had a hunch. She could not see any of his belongings in the lounge, and so she went to the bedroom. The cabin had two bedrooms on the same floor, and Mr. Stoffler occupied the larger one.
His suitcase was on the floor. She saw boxes of medicines being spread across the table. Naturally, he would have a lot of diseases having lived to that age, or at least require a flotilla of pills to keep him alive. A n open briefcase lay on the bed, and it was this she rifled through. She was careful to note the position of the documents.
She caught sight of a black-and- white photograph midway into the pile.
Her face turned ashen as she picked it up to study it. The photo was yellowed and extremely dated. A row of Nazi officers posed in front of the camera with the Swastika hung on a wall behind them.
Her grandfather, as a young man, was seated in the first row – handsome, probably all of twenty years old, and smiling.
She wouldn’t recognize Mr. Stoffler when he was younger, but she was willing to bet he was one of the men in the photograph. She turned the photo and read the faint pen marks on the back. The writing was in German, and she saw the names of the officers written there. As she suspected, Stoffler was among them.
As was her grandfather’s real name: Holter.
The truth dawned on her. She was from a family of former Nazis. And her father was hiding a probable Nazi war criminal.
HOME
Devon takes two steps at a bound up the staircase to his apartment. He can only hope and pray Abby hasn’t left.
The front door is deceptively closed. Of course. He doesn’t expect her to fling it wide open to welcome him with open arms, does he now? He rings the doorbell, and he can hear the buzzer inside humming away. It was strange to be ringing the doorbell to his own apartment, but he doesn’t want to startle her too much.
It is only after she doesn’t reply for a while that he inserts his own key into the l ock and opens the door.
The lamps are all on at full blast.
“Abby?” he calls, striding inside.
She is not in the lounge and she is not in the bedroom either. Nor is she in the bathroom. He looks around. Her jacket is gone, and so is her purse. He walks to the closet and yanks the doors open. Her clothes are still hanging on the rack and her underwear neatly folded in the closet space he gave her. So she hasn’t packed. Naturally, she doesn’t have a suitcase.
He checks the top shelf for his battered old suitcase, the one he packed all his stuff in when he first ran away from home and his mother and came to New York City. It’s still there, so Abby hasn’t taken it either.
Cursing,
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