Street Dreams

40

The coast of Californiais God’s kissed countryside from San Diego to the Oregon border-blue iridescent seas on one side, towering verdant mountain majesty on the other. Traveling north from Santa Barbara on 101, Decker couldn’t have asked for lovelier weather. It was in the low 70s with the sun playing peekaboo behind woolen tufts of crystalline clouds. As he turned east onto 234, going deep into the Santa Ynez Valley, the Porsche began to climb between granite walls of imperial rock and twist seamlessly through the winding canyons. The temperature dropped and a fine mist hovered above.

“Spectacular,” Rina whispered.

“Hannah’s getting bigger,” Decker answered. “We should really do this more often.”

“Yes, we should.” Rina adjusted the baseball cap on her head, enjoying the wind and sun on her face. “It’s nice to feel young.”

“Free,” Decker said. “We never had much of this.”

“I know. Instant family when we married. Poor you.”

“Not poor me,” Decker told her. “Rich me. I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Still, you’ve got to find a balance. We shouldn’t have to use a project as an excuse to get away for a weekend. But since we did come up with a purpose, what is the game plan here?”

“I have a couple of questions about the murder, but if I don’t get to ask them, I’ll be fine.” Rina took in a deep breath and let it out. “It’s really all about my mother’s childhood. I don’t even care about the murder anymore. That was just the catalyst.”

“I’m thrilled to hear you say that. Basically, I think we should just let the ladies talk.” Decker took in a lung’s worth of pine-scented air. A minute later, they were off the freeway, the exit for Solvang putting them onto Mission Avenue, a two-way boulevard lined with imposing cedars, regal in size and wide in girth. For a few miles, they passed farm country and orchards, patches of foot-high baby avocado trees dotting the earth like plugs in a hair transplant. A hundred yards later, they drove by an ostrich ranch. No sign of the big beasts, but coming up from L.A., they had seen a genuine llama ranch, so Decker was sure the flightless birds were somewhere near.

Soon they drove by the official green sign welcoming the visitor to Solvang-population 5,332.

Danish Disneyland.

The little tourist town really had an amusement-park feel to it, down to the street names-Vester, Aarhus, Nykobing, Midten-using Hof and Sted instead of street, avenue, or lane.

Lifted right out of a fairy tale: picture-perfect cottages with mullion-paned windows, dozens of gables, and multipeaked roofs topped with special tiles evoking thatched straw. Cute little bungalows of sparkling white stucco and red brick, overwhelmed with gingerbread, set on lots with meticulously planted flower gardens. Almost all the dwellings had exterior walls deluged with Tudor-style trim-stripes and triangles and squares of brightly painted wood appliqué, light blue being the most common color for the decorative beams. But some of the owners had chosen brown or green or in some cases bright red. There were lots of white picket fences and many second-story balconies ringed with white dowel railings. Two of the motels on Mission Avenue had life-size windmills, another had a clock tower with a weather vane.

Decker had never seen streets so clean, as if they were washed daily.

The business district, also on Mission, was a couple of miles long with architecture that was nearly identical to the residences. The shops and restaurants andbacariswere owned by individuals with names like Mortensen, Petersen, and Olsen. And the names weren’t just for atmosphere. Both he and Rina agreed that they had never seen so many white-haired, pink-complexioned elderly people in such a small geographical area. When they drove past the local school-across the street from a Lutheran Church-it was all fair skin and light hair, except for a clique of Native American children.

Anika Lubke lived in a bright yellow one-story house, the door surrounded by two bay windows and the sides trimmed with blue wood beams. Set into a pole was a Danish flag guarding the entryway; the hand-painted address numbers were red on blue-and-white delft tiles. The front yard was a pallet of color, a profusion of wildflowers. Someone had plunked a stuffed Nordic seaman, complete with beard and cap, smack in the middle of a daisy bush-the Danes’ answer to a scarecrow. Decker parked the Porsche and checked his watch. Ten-forty: They were twenty minutes early.

“What do you think?” he asked Rina.

“I don’t think they’d mind. But if you’d feel uncomfortable, we can walk around for a few minutes.”

Before they could decide, the door opened. The woman who came out was tall and thin, wearing a housecoat printed with calla lilies. Her white hair was tied into a long ponytail, her complexion fair with rosy cheeks. “You are Lieutenant and Mrs. Decker?”

“Hi,” Rina said from the curb. “We’re a little early.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” Her accent was light and crisp. “Come in, please.”

The pathway to the front was narrow. Decker told Rina to go first. The woman introduced herself as Anika, then stepped aside, allowing them to walk into a compact living room with blond hardwood floors and yellow washed walls. The furniture was simple in design and made by someone with a utilitarian eye. The couch and chairs were straight backed and upholstered in tiny blue checks, holding a couple of rudimentary pillows. The coffee table was a trunk, with hand-painted flowers and swirls, which looked to be genuinely old. The walls were hung with oil still lifes, mostly florals: original paintings but not very good. There were also a couple of sketches and a map of Denmark. No family photos. Maybe she kept them in the bedroom.

The air was heavy with the smell of cabbage.

“Lunch is not ready.” Anika flailed birdlike arms. “I do apologize.”

Rina smiled. “It’s not a problem.” Up close, Anika was wrinkled, her face furrowed and drooping with fatless skin. But her blue eyes sparkled, as did her teeth, though Rina suspected they were dentures. “The food smells wonderful, Miss Lubke, but unfortunately we can’t eat it. We’re kosher-”

“Ach!But of course.”

“I insist that you eat when it’s ready.” Rina inhaled deeply. “I’m sure it’s my loss. What is it?”

“Hvidkälsrouletter-cabbage roll with meat. I can make up some vegetarian.”

“No, no, no,” Rina said. “Please don’t bother. If you want to serve us anything, I wouldn’t mind some tea.”

“And you, Lieutenant Decker?”

“Tea is fine.”

“Kommt sofort!Right away.” She moved with a sprightly walk. A minute later, she returned from the unseen kitchen. “I put the water up to boil. Marta is in church. We were odd-Lutherans in Bavaria. The state is very Catholic, their churches rococo in style because it is near Italy. Also, there were many Russian aristocrats in Bavaria, so the churches have that onion-dome Russian architecture. Inside, they are filled with marble and gold, with angels and cherubs floating in a sky that is painted on the ceiling. It is not my idea of Heaven.”

Her speech had the singsong inflections of those who spoke Nordic languages.

“Anyway, Marta will return soon. Ah, the kettle boils. I’ll be back.”

After she left, Rina whispered, “How old is she?”

“Eighty-four or -five. Maybe even closer to ninety.”

“The woman has energy.”

“So does your mother. They must have grown them strong in the Old Country.”

Rina tapped her toe. Neither she nor Peter had sat down. Anika came back with a tray. “Sit, sit. Please.”

Decker sat. The sofa was as uncomfortable as it looked, with its stiff back and no lumbar support. By using pillows, Rina managed to ease herself into a decent position. Anika poured tea, then perched on the edge of a chair, her spine ramrod straight.

Maybe discomfort was a cultural thing.

Rina sipped tea. “Thank you for seeing us.”

“Thank you for contacting us. I must say I was very shocked. Who thinks to hear from seventy-year-old ghosts? That’s how long it has been since your mother I’ve seen.”

“I can understand how surprised you must have felt.”

“Very.” She poured herself a mug of tea and sipped slowly. “It brought back memories very hidden. I don’t remember your grandmother’s death individually, but the deaths as a group I remember. I think that they scared my mother. Soon after your mother moves away, we move… to Hamburg.”

“You told me you married an Englishman,” Decker said. “How’d that happen?”

“Ach,such a long andtraurigstory.”

“ ‘Traurig’ is sad,” Rina said.

Decker said, “I didn’t mean to pry.”

Anika smiled. “But you didn’t. I wrote to you in my e-mail that I married an Englishman.” She thought a moment. “The people are all dead. I’ll tell it to you. In Hamburg, I met my husband when I was seventeen.”

“The Englishman,” Rina said.

“No, no, a German man. We got married. It was not happily ever after like theBrudersGrimm. Right after the wedding, it is 1933 and Germany elects Hitler, who brings us into war. No excuses, Germany deserved what it got because our parents elected the demagogue.”

She shook her head.

“If you asked any German people after World War Two if they voted for Hitler, they all say no. No, no, no, we didn’t vote for him. Nobody voted for him! No one knows how he got power!”

She waved her hand disgustedly in the air.

“My husband was drafted and captured as a POW. He was astaatsbeamte-a civil servant-but because his title contained the word ‘staats,’ the English thought he was some important state official. In a camp, they put him with others that hadstaatsin their title. They played cards and talked philosophy the entire time. Meanwhile, from him I don’t hear… maybe a year. I am young and stupid, and after the British invaded the North, I get younger and stupider and fall for an Englishman because he wears the winning uniform. I blame my parents. If they had not moved, I would have probably fallen in love with an American soldier. I would have been better off.”

Rina smiled and nodded, but Decker shrugged confusion.

“Toward the end of the war,” Rina explained, “Germany was being blitzed from three fronts: the British in the North, the Russians in the East, and the Americans in the South. That’s why the Russians liberated Auschwitz and the Americans liberated Dachau. So she’s saying that if she had stayed in Munich, which is in the South, she would have met an American.”

“Ah, I see,” Decker said.

Anika sighed. “I get a divorce from my poor German husband, who can’t believe that his young wife runs off with the enemy.” A sigh. “I hurt Hans very bad. Later, I hear a very nice girl he remarries. They have four children. He is very happy… much happier than me. Serves me right. Where was I in the story?”

“You just divorced your German husband,” Decker reminded her.

“Ah, yes. I marry Cyril Emerson and moved to a small town in Devonshire. You can think how much the English working class loves a German girl. I was miserable. So then we move back to Hamburg, and he is miserable. Finally, we reach a compromise. Hamburg is not so far from Denmark. So we move to Copenhagen and we’re both miserable. Still, we live in Denmark for thirty years. I birth two sons who move to America. So at fifty-six, I divorce Cyril, return to the name Lubke, and off to America I move. To St. Louis because Marta is living there.”

“How did Marta wind up in St. Louis?”

“Her husband was an executive in Anheuser-Busch. Marta loves St. Louis. I don’t like St. Louis. It is searing hot in the summer and bitter cold in the winter. Snow is nice, but the city has no mountains except the Ozarks… very sorry mountains. Ten years ago, I came to Solvang for a visit. After being in Copenhagen so long, it was very familiar for me. I loved the cooler temperature. I love the real mountains. Here, a home I found. Twice a year, I visit Marta. Twice a year, Marta visits me. She gets the good deal.”

Rina laughed. “I think so.”

“Would you like more tea?”

“I’d love some more tea,” Rina said.

Anika picked up the teapot and disappeared into the kitchen.

Rina held in a laugh. “What a character!”

“She has a personality,” Decker said.

She came back several minutes later with scalding hot tea. “Ah, the steam, the aroma… only thing English do well is tea.” She poured three refills. “I try to think back that far, Mrs. Decker, to the time of the deaths. It was a very peculiar time.”

“How so?” Rina asked.

“All of Germany was imploding. Munich was no exception. The city was in terrible chaos, and the deaths made even more chaos. München held much militaristic presence, of uniforms and armies and parades. It was the birth home of the Nazis, yes, but they were not the only political party. There were many and every group has its own flag, its own identity. Every party is color coded. Brown for Nazis, the Social Democrats are green, Communists are red or black shirt with red bow ties. Then there are the royalists. The Bavarian monarchs were expelled by the Communists in 1918, but many relatives remained and dressed in oldBayerischenroyal uniform for every parade on every occasion. There were always demonstrations in Konigsplatz… in every public square. I go to a school in Turkenstrasse-”

“My mother’sschule,” Rina said.

“Yes, your mother’sschule,too. Next door was the seat of the Nazi newspaperVolkischer Beobachter.We used to see the Brown Shirts goose-step. A few times Hitler, too. It was all part of the show. Looking back as an adult, I was very frightened, I think, because these groups used to come to theschuleand talk. They ask about our parents-what they did, who they knew, what newspapers were at home. The newspapers in Europe are different than newspapers in America. They are political-party papers, so by asking about the newspapers, the groups know the parents’ party affiliation. So when the deaths happen, like your grandmother, Mrs. Decker, the talk is that maybe your Omah was on the wrong side politically.”

“Do you think her murder was political?”

“After the first one is found, everyone says that yes, it must be political. Everything in Munich was political. There were several other murders of young women that were political, one very famous-a farm girl named Amalie Sandmeyer who was murdered by theFememord,a very secret right-wing group. Everyone is afraid of theFememord.”

“Why was Amalie Sandmeyer murdered?” Decker asked. “Was she a spy?”

“On the contrary. She was a working girl and was too naive to realize what was happening. Weapons at the time were illegal in München. If you find weapons from World War One, to the police you must bring them. But all the groups have secret caches. Amalie found a secret cache of weapons, and like the dumb good girl she was, she reported it to authorities. The problem was she found a Nazi cache and the police had many members in the National Socialist German Workers Party. Everyone knew her murder was political.”

Anika drank her tea and appeared to collect her thoughts.

“But then another is found dead. Then it was your grandmother. By then, mothers tell their daughters never to walk the streets alone. That there are madmen other than Hitler.”

“I found my grandmother’smordakte-her homicide file,” Rina said.

“Mein Gott,how did you find?”

“It’s a long story. But her file was found with those of the two others murdered before her. The cases were all packaged together in one big box apparently. I was sent a copy, not the original.”

“What was in your grandmother’s file?”

“Not much,” Decker said. “A pathology report, interviews, witnesses, crime scene report. Comparison of her murder to those of the two other women-Marlena Durer and Anna Gross. From what I could tell, the police investigation was pretty primitive. Do you remember any other murders?”

“There were two more after your grandmother, Mrs. Decker. Then we move. But the last I remember well because it was a young girl who lived near me in Schwabing. Her name was Johanna, a little older than I was but close enough in age to truly frighten.Ach,it was terrible murders in a terrible time that only got more terrible before it got better.”

The woman had turned red and was panting hard.

Rina said, “Thank goodness it’s in the past, Anika.”

“Yes…” The old woman took a few moments to steady her breathing. “Yes, it is all in the past and every day I walk past mountains, sky, and beauty.” She exhaled loudly. “Your grandfather did a good deed when he moved your mother away. The other families stayed, the motherless children receiving not pity but suspicion: ‘What did your mother do to deserve her death?’ If you want my opinion, Mrs. Decker, I say your grandmother was murdered by the same hand, even if the women were different. Thinking about it… it was all so much the same.”

“Any idea who might have done it?”

“Ach,no, sorry. A madman, a political man, a man who was both mad and political. You choose.” Anika clenched her jaw. “There was one investigator… he talked to us. I remember him well-strong, blue eyes, and black curly hair. He had… I don’t know… a swagger in his step… a charisma. He spoke softly but with much intensity. If we see anything, if we hear anything, we must tell him. He was terrifying and appealing at the same time. I don’t remember his name.”

“Heinreich Messersmit?” Decker tried.

She shrugged.

“Rudolf Kalmer?” Decker paused. “Axel Berg?”

“Maybe that was it. I wonder what happened to him?” She waved a bony hand in the air. “Now he’s dead. They’re all dead. I should be dead.”

“God forbid!” Rina said.

Anika smiled. “I was glad when we moved. Hamburg was different-a free state, a port city, more international, less Bavarian. And the beer in Hamburg is stronger.” She looked at an empty wrist.

Decker said, “It’s twelve-ten.”

“Marta should be here soon,” Anika repeated. “Maybe we take a walk?”

But just then, the door opened.

Marta was definitely Anika’s sister, having the same wrinkled face, same long jawline, and white hair, except she had it tied into a bun. She wore a fitted blue suit but had orthopedic shoes on her feet. She met Rina’s eyes, then clamped a hand over her mouth. “Oh mein Gott,it is Marta Gottlieb!” Tears welled in her blue eyes. “I can’t believe…”

She started to cry. Anika said, “My sister is emotional.”

Rina held out her hand. “I do look like my mother.”

But Marta was weeping too hard to respond. Anika hit her shoulder. “Stop!”

“You stop!” Marta choked back. Finally, she took Rina’s hand and clasped it. “How is your mother?”

“Mama is fine. Very fine and very well.”

Marta exhaled. “We were very good friends once. A lifetime came between us.”

“I know.”

“She was in Auschwitz?”

“Yes.”

“Ach… terrible, terrible.” She brought her hand to her chest. “Such a strong woman. If anyone could survive, it would be Marta. I would have surely died.” She wiped her eyes. “It smells good, Anika. I am hungry.”

“They can’t eat. They are kosher,” Anika explained.

“Yes, yes… I should have thought of that.”

“It’s really fine,” Rina said. “Peter and I have to start heading back. We still have a young child at home. How long are you staying in town, Mrs. Wallek?”

“Marta, please. This time, I stay through August. A long time. I must see your mother. Please. It would do well for me. I think it would do well for her, too.”

Rina nodded. “I’ll ask her. But I have one favor-no more talk about the murders. It should be only pleasant recollections.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Marta said. “So many bad memories.” A sigh. “It is bad to be senile,ja?But not so bad to forget some things.”

“Selective repression,” Rina said.

“Exactly,” Marta said. “Our lives now are very short. It is not a time to dwell on the past.” She squeezed Rina’s hand. “We can come to Los Angeles.”

“We can?” Anika said.

“Yes, we can,” Marta insisted. “I can drive.”

That thought was truly terrifying. Decker said, “How about if I arrange to have you driven down? Arrive in style.”

“No, I wouldn’t accept!”

“As a present to Rina’s mother,” Decker insisted. “It would be my pleasure.”

“He doesn’t want you to drive,” Anika told her sister.

“I want you two to be comfortable,” Decker said. “Let us talk to Magda-Rina’s mother-and I’ll e-mail you some dates.”

Again Marta brought her hand to her chest. Again, her eyes watered. “That would be wonderful. Thank you so much.” She kissed Rina’s left cheek, then the right one. The tears came streaming down. “I am so sorry!”

“Please, Marta-”

“All the pain and suffering that we did to your people!”

“Marta, it’s a new world.” Rina squeezed her hand and sighed. “Hopefully.”

“Yes, hopefully.” She smiled. “That’s all we have… hope.”

As soon as they hit the freeway, Rina said, “I wonder how Mama will react when we tell her we’ve found Marta Lubke.”

“We?”

“I was hoping you’d help me out. Give me a logical reason for why we’d be looking up Marta.”

“That’s easy. Tell your mother that talking about her past made you curious.”

Rina nodded. “I think that will work just fine, you devious devil you.”

“I take exception,” Decker said. “You’re just as devious as I am. I’m just better at it than you.”

“More practice.”

“That’s true enough.” Decker stroked her cheek. “Are you really all right with the outcome? Having your grandmother’s murder remain an open file?”

“Honestly, yes. Like I said, it wasn’t about the murder, it was about my mother’s childhood.” She felt her eyes mist. “I have only known my mother as a burdened woman. I think I needed to know that once she was a little girl.” She put her hand on Peter’s knee. “Areyouokay with not knowing the specifics?”

“Doesn’t bother me at all.” He let his thoughts go for a moment. “Besides, we both know a little more now than we did going into it.”

“You think it was a political thing?”

“Maybe. But it also could have been a serial killer who used politics to mask his murders. We really don’t need the gruesome details.”

“I agree.” Rina felt her eyes closing. “Do you mind if I take a nap?”

“No, of course not. Do you mind if I listen to a CD?”

“No. As a matter of fact, the background noise will help me sleep.”

Decker turned on the L.A. Quartet-four guitarists, four virtuosos. A beautiful woman by his side, superb weather, great music… soon he was flying at eighty plus, ready to take on the big, bad world.

Eyes still closed, Rina said, “Serial killers have this sameness to them.”

“Man, you are right about that. Cut from the same mold.”

“Why is that?”

“I don’t know,” Decker answered. “But I’m sure if the German police ever found this psycho and interviewed his neighbors, they’d say what an ordinary guy he was-although he tended to keep to himself.”