Read Online The Diaries - 01 by Chuck Driskell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Chuck Driskell
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destination was far less prominent,
one of thousands just like it in Germany. He shuffled to a stop, glancing through a plate glass window littered
with hand painted letters, advertising cheap Internet access in German and
Arabic.
He entered the
long, narrow Internet café and quickly shed his coat. It was too warm inside, possibly made more
intense because Gage was nearly frozen from the two kilometer walk in the stiff
wind. He paid two euro in advance and
walked around a bit, warming himself and casually looking at the three other
computer users. On the train, Gage
decided, concretely, to treat this as if Jean suspected something. As he had stared at the rolling hills of the
middle state of Hessen from the 2 nd -class car, Gage thought about the
long delay in the board room and the noises he would have made during his two
trips; his actions would most certainly arouse some sort of suspicion if the
DGSE had been listening.
And why wouldn’t
they be listening?
Gage pulled his
cell phone from his pocket—it was silenced. Jean had yet to call him. But Monika
had.
He sat at the
rearmost computer station and called her. She slept late. Saturday had been
a full day of customers, and then she had studied until after three in the
morning.
“So around six?”
she asked, now fully awake and her tone playful.
“Yes, but I’ll
call you with someplace to meet.”
Monika
paused. “Everything okay?”
“I just want to treat
you to a nice meal, that’s all.”
The mutual
excitement about their date was palpable, brightening Gage’s day considerably.
After hanging up, he
ordered one of the Internet café’s unbelievably strong coffees—he liked robust
coffee, but this was a cousin to the tarry chicory he’d once had in New
Orleans. Gage added some powdered
creamer to lessen the blow and began to navigate the web. He didn’t log in to any email accounts
because a savvy operator could pinpoint an Internet protocol address within
seconds of a sign-in. Email was not why
Gage Hartline was here.
From his pack he
removed the diary. Careful not to damage
its brittle pages, Gage had marked sections with single pieces of bathroom
tissue. The first, at the front of the
diary in the upper corner, was the name Greta Dreisbach . He punched the name into Google, scanning the
results. There was nothing conclusive
other than Facebook addresses of women by that same name. Somehow he didn’t think they were alive in
1938.
Gage began to use
combinations, such as the name combined with 1938, or Frankfurt, or
Morgenstern, which was the Jewish family’s name on the stumble-stone in front
of the house.
He opened the
diary to the second piece of tissue. Greta had written a gut-wrenching passage about being pregnant, afraid
to tell her lover, a man named Aldo:
…Aldo returned this morning. Without any kind word of greeting, he locked
the door and took me roughly on the sofa. It was cold, distant, animalistic. Afterward, he was indirect, speaking only about his trip. His phrases were clipped and he seemed
irritable. I felt so very compelled to
tell him about my pregnancy, but it’s as if my mouth was paralyzed. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. He was at first concerned by my silence but
soon became quite callous. He sent me to
quarters, telling me to straighten up or find another job.
I don’t know what to do. I miss Papa so much. He would be so sad, so disappointed in me,
but he would know…he would know what to do.
Gage massaged the
bridge of his nose as he turned to the next marked entry. This was the one which had disturbed him so
the night before:
Aldo held his hand over a candle, scorching the
skin in the center of his palm. He stared
at me, his eyes watering as his hand trembled. Horrible black smoke came from his hand, the most acrid smell to ever touch
my nostrils. I could hear his skin
bubbling! He made
one of thousands just like it in Germany. He shuffled to a stop, glancing through a plate glass window littered
with hand painted letters, advertising cheap Internet access in German and
Arabic.
He entered the
long, narrow Internet café and quickly shed his coat. It was too warm inside, possibly made more
intense because Gage was nearly frozen from the two kilometer walk in the stiff
wind. He paid two euro in advance and
walked around a bit, warming himself and casually looking at the three other
computer users. On the train, Gage
decided, concretely, to treat this as if Jean suspected something. As he had stared at the rolling hills of the
middle state of Hessen from the 2 nd -class car, Gage thought about the
long delay in the board room and the noises he would have made during his two
trips; his actions would most certainly arouse some sort of suspicion if the
DGSE had been listening.
And why wouldn’t
they be listening?
Gage pulled his
cell phone from his pocket—it was silenced. Jean had yet to call him. But Monika
had.
He sat at the
rearmost computer station and called her. She slept late. Saturday had been
a full day of customers, and then she had studied until after three in the
morning.
“So around six?”
she asked, now fully awake and her tone playful.
“Yes, but I’ll
call you with someplace to meet.”
Monika
paused. “Everything okay?”
“I just want to treat
you to a nice meal, that’s all.”
The mutual
excitement about their date was palpable, brightening Gage’s day considerably.
After hanging up, he
ordered one of the Internet café’s unbelievably strong coffees—he liked robust
coffee, but this was a cousin to the tarry chicory he’d once had in New
Orleans. Gage added some powdered
creamer to lessen the blow and began to navigate the web. He didn’t log in to any email accounts
because a savvy operator could pinpoint an Internet protocol address within
seconds of a sign-in. Email was not why
Gage Hartline was here.
From his pack he
removed the diary. Careful not to damage
its brittle pages, Gage had marked sections with single pieces of bathroom
tissue. The first, at the front of the
diary in the upper corner, was the name Greta Dreisbach . He punched the name into Google, scanning the
results. There was nothing conclusive
other than Facebook addresses of women by that same name. Somehow he didn’t think they were alive in
1938.
Gage began to use
combinations, such as the name combined with 1938, or Frankfurt, or
Morgenstern, which was the Jewish family’s name on the stumble-stone in front
of the house.
He opened the
diary to the second piece of tissue. Greta had written a gut-wrenching passage about being pregnant, afraid
to tell her lover, a man named Aldo:
…Aldo returned this morning. Without any kind word of greeting, he locked
the door and took me roughly on the sofa. It was cold, distant, animalistic. Afterward, he was indirect, speaking only about his trip. His phrases were clipped and he seemed
irritable. I felt so very compelled to
tell him about my pregnancy, but it’s as if my mouth was paralyzed. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. He was at first concerned by my silence but
soon became quite callous. He sent me to
quarters, telling me to straighten up or find another job.
I don’t know what to do. I miss Papa so much. He would be so sad, so disappointed in me,
but he would know…he would know what to do.
Gage massaged the
bridge of his nose as he turned to the next marked entry. This was the one which had disturbed him so
the night before:
Aldo held his hand over a candle, scorching the
skin in the center of his palm. He stared
at me, his eyes watering as his hand trembled. Horrible black smoke came from his hand, the most acrid smell to ever touch
my nostrils. I could hear his skin
bubbling! He made
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