A Letter From Munich Read online

  A Letter From Munich

  A Jack Bailey Novel

  Meg Lelvis

  © Copyright Meg Lelvis 2020

  Black Rose Writing | Texas

  © 2020 by Meg Lelvis

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

  The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author.

  First digital version

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Print ISBN: 978-1-68433-447-6

  PUBLISHED BY BLACK ROSE WRITING

  www.blackrosewriting.com

  Print edition produced in the United States of America

  Thank you so much for checking out one of our Crime Fiction novels.

  If you enjoy our book, please check out our recommended title for your next great read!

  Bailey’s Law by Meg Lelvis

  “An intelligent, immersive police procedural that will leave you pining for another Jack Bailey novel.” –BEST THRILLERS

  For my sister, Carole

  &

  In loving memory of our mother, Renate

  Acknowledgments

  Special Thanks to:

  Reagan Rothe and his staff at Black Rose Writing

  David King, Design Director at Black Rose Writing

  Mark Pople, Editor

  Danielle Hartman Acee, Tech Assistant

  Houston Writers critique friends: Roger Paulding, Lynne Gregg, Jim Murtha, Carolyn Thorman, Bill Ottinger, Barbara Andrews, Fern Brady, Landy Reed, Connie Gillen, Raul Herrera

  & Melanie Ormand

  As always, Carole and Myrna

  Susanne Wagner for help with German usage

  My family, Gary, Kristy, Rebecca, Cate, Nolan, and Teddy

  Also, many thanks to my relatives in Bavaria who inspired

  some of the characters in this book.

  Further resources:

  MacDonough, Giles. After the Reich. Basic Books, 2007.

  Sunstein, Cass R. “It Can Happen Here.” The New York Review 28

  June 2018: pp.64-65. Print.

  Munich Documentation Center for the History of National

  Socialism. Munich, Germany.

  Other books by Meg Lelvis:

  Bailey’s Law

  Blind Eye

  More than kisses letters mingle souls.

  ~John Donne~

  Letters are among the most significant memorial

  a person can leave behind them.

  ~Johann Wolfgang von Goethe~

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Recommended Reading

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Other Books by Meg Lelvis

  Quotes

  Today

  Germany 1930's

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  About the Author

  Note from the Author

  BRW Info

  Today

  Without the letter they never would have known. The letter discovered by accident. Or was it meant to be found?

  Addressed to their father, delicate vellum, crinkled, musty. Postmarked München 14.7.46. Stuffed in the frayed cardboard box, hidden within long-forgotten war relics. Did he forget to destroy it so many years ago?

  Pale blue, nearly white, scalloped edges, translucent. Flowery script with sufficient English words so he could understand.

  Who can answer the questions of fairness, decency, good faith? Better to unravel the truth and hurt some? Or lock the truth in your soul and deny others a right to know?

  Then again……. ‘No legacy is so rich as honesty.’

  And it was all about the legacy, wasn’t it?

  Germany, 1930s

  The horror crept toward us slowly, stealthily. Unnoticed, it emerged through shadows of green forests, lakes, even lilacs. Soon it transformed from beauty, health, strength, power. Campfires, songs, but most of all pride. Only Papa knew. He knew, and it cost him his life

  At first our awareness began with him. Then our friends. Then the schools. Then the girls camp. We lived under a deepening shadow. But we didn’t know.

  We were the Schröders, an ordinary German family, two boys, two girls, Papa a dentist. We lived near Munich in the peaceful village of Dachau.

  Flowers bloomed in every yard on our street. Oh, the blue cornflowers were exquisite. And the lilacs. Their perfume filled the air.

  . . . . .

  I am Renate. I was only five when it began. My best friend, Judith, lived down the block in a big two-story home. We played with our dolls, went on picnics, swam, and rowed in her father’s boat on Karlsfelder See. Her dolls were nicer than mine. My sister, Ariana and I had one Kestner porcelain doll. Judith had five.

  Judith’s father was our doctor until one day Papa said we had to find a new one. But why can’t we keep going to Dr. Friedman? Papa didn’t answer. After that we had to go to Dr. Schmidt, whose office was farther away past our school and across Meer bridge. But we still played with Judith, so I didn’t think much about it.

  Until later.

  Chapter 1

  Munich, June 2012

  Jack Bailey did not believe in fate, but the invitation to visit Germany could be an omen. A silent voice niggled at his brain. You must investigate the letter. The letter he thought would remain a secret he and his brother would take to their grave.

  He arrived in Munich with his friend, Karl Scherkenbach, nicknamed Sherk, whose extended family lived in the area. Jack h
ad jumped at the chance to accompany him on his yearly trip overseas to visit his relatives. He would tell Sherk the real reason later.

  The next evening, Jack had recovered from jet lag and was settling in for the night. Cool summer air floated through an open window of the comfortable guest room in Sherk’s family vacation home. After he popped a couple Ambien to avoid insomnia that plagued him for years, he lay on the bed’s overly firm mattress staring at stark white walls offset by two Georgia O’Keeffe-type large prints of purple and yellow flowers. Colors blurred as he let his thoughts drift back in time.

  . . . . .

  Two months ago, Jack had abruptly quit his job as a detective with Chicago’s Police Department, after coping with a difficult sergeant and frustrating, never-ending bureaucracy. However, he could well afford the Germany trip, thanks to a recent windfall from his former father-in-law’s estate. Do him good to get away. Besides, Sherk had been his loyal partner in the department for two years, a burden not everyone could bear. Jack, described by many as a rugged Liam Neeson look-alike, had not mellowed with age. He’d often overheard co-workers mumbling to Sherk. Don’t know how you put up with Bailey, man.

  Last month Jack phoned his older brother, Tommy. “I’m going to Munich with Sherk. We leave in June for a couple weeks.”

  Tommy had nodded, paused. “You gotta do it, Jack. As long as you’ll be in Munich, take the letter. It may be our only chance.”

  Now the time had come. He was counting on Sherk’s fluent German to help unravel the decades-old question posed in the letter. But he’d have to tell him about it first.

  Chapter 2

  The next day Jack was ready to meet Sherk’s grandparents. His curiosity had piqued when Sherk told him about his grandfather, a veteran of the Wehrmacht. Had Herr Scherkenbach joined the Nazi party, or just signed the required allegiance to the Führer? How did that work back then? He didn’t want to make Sherk uncomfortable or suspicious by badgering him with too many questions.

  Early afternoon, Jack and Sherk left his parents’ vacation house to visit the elder Scherkenbachs in Regensburg. Famous for its iconic medieval structures, the city rests at the confluence of the Danube, Naab, and Regen rivers about sixty-seven miles northeast of Munich.

  Sherk drove north on the Autobahn in his dad’s white Audi, Jack beside him gazing out the window at rolling hills, patches of woods, clean, tidy farms bathed in sunlight. Jack thought more about the grandfather.

  As if reading his mind, Sherk said, “I just want to remind you not to question anything about my grandparents’ war years, even though I’d have to translate.”

  “Gimme a little credit. I get the war’s a touchy subject with you Germans.” Jack glanced at the dashboard. “You’re really barreling along, Sherk. How fast are you going?”

  “Close to a hundred thirty kilometers. That’s eighty miles an hour. Smooth road, right?” Just then a Mercedes whizzed by, leaving them in the dust.

  “Good God, that guy must be doing over ninety. What’s the speed limit?”

  Sherk chuckled. “This is the Autobahn, Jack. No limit out here.”

  “I’ll be damned. Maybe I’ll move here. Get me a new Beemer.” He paused. “Second thought, I’m too old to learn German.” He continued taking in the scenery.

  “Nice of your folks to let me stay with them.” Jack preferred a hotel, but Sherk wouldn’t agree. Every summer his parents rented the large house, which, as Sherk had promised, provided ample guest rooms for visitors. A lush backyard garden boasted comfortable patio furniture for socializing and meals, not to mention beer.

  “They’d be insulted if you’d even tried to book a hotel. Mum loves feeding and fussing over guests.”

  “No kiddin’ — been stuffed since we got here.”

  Sherk laughed. “Wait till you meet Oma this afternoon. At least we’re only going for coffee.” They planned to join Sherk’s sister, Susi, who was staying with their parents until late June.

  “Yeah, I remember what ‘just coffee’ means. Three kinds of sweets to go with it. My Irish relatives, same thing, but at least they speak English.”

  “Don’t worry, Jack. Plenty of people to translate, but you’ll hear mostly German since that’s all Oma and Opa speak.”

  Sherk was ten when his parents immigrated to Chicago in the late seventies and settled in Lakeview on the north side. Since he and his sister had been immersed in English at a young age, they spoke with no accent.

  As they approached Regensburg, Jack turned toward what Sherk identified as “the landmark thirteenth century Dom St. Peter Cathedral.”

  “Whoa, Sherk. We back in the Middle Ages?” The church’s brown stone facade with twin Gothic steeples dominated the skyline. Its ornate pointed arches and stained-glass windows proved a mighty fortress indeed.

  “Nothing looks rebuilt from the war. Was a lot of Regensburg bombed?”

  “Not in city center,” Sherk said. “Most ancient buildings here were safe. There were heavy Allied attacks around the outskirts, though.”

  “Very interesting. Maybe my old man came through here?” Jack had no idea.

  “A good chance he did. Meanwhile, we’re about to cross the Danube on this famous stone bridge. The French King, Louis the Seventh, used it to cross the river on his way to the Second Crusade.”

  “Yeah, it was built in the twelfth century.” Jack allowed a playful tinge of smugness.

  Sherk turned, looking at him as though he’d dropped from outer space. “How did you know that?”

  “It was printed on the historical marker back there.” Jack grunted. “Just blew my cover.”

  Sherk found a parking place a half block from the bridge. “No cars allowed, so we’ll walk across. People can walk their bikes, but can’t ride them over.”

  They emerged from the car and ambled across the Danube, taking in picturesque scenery of the river. Small cruise ships were docked at rocky banks, people of all ages wandered along snapping photographs.

  After crossing the ancient bridge, they reached Old Town with tall sand-colored stone buildings, arched doorways, and narrow streets filled with strolling tourists. A distant street band played “Take the A Train”. Not Ellington, but a decent enough sound.

  Sherk pointed out an old theater with its ornate balcony and courtyard. A small boy scampered ahead of his mother who pushed a squalling baby in a stroller. Jack glanced away. At times the sight and squeals of children pierced him like a knife, prying open a twelve-year-old wound. Karen and Elizabeth; how he still missed them. He forced his thoughts back to the present.

  After twenty minutes, they returned to the Audi sedan and Sherk soon wound his way through residential areas with homes side by side, nearly touching each other. Several minutes later, he stopped in front of a pale stone house with dark trim. The front yard was mostly garden space subdivided by raised wooden borders, including a covered greenhouse.

  “Ma would go crazy seeing this yard,” Jack looked around.

  “Yeah, that’s Liverwort and small shrubs surrounding white and red anemones. Full bloom this time of year.”

  “Anything beyond your expertise?”

  “Very little, my man. Very little.” He parked the car near the house, and they made their way up the sidewalk. Sherk’s namesake, Karl Scherkenbach, stepped onto the porch, beaming at his guests. He welcomed Jack as if he were family. “Schön, dich zu sehen.”

  The silver-haired man could’ve been anyone’s grandfather. Except most grandfathers hadn’t fought against Stalin’s army and lived to tell about it. But he would never tell. Dapper in a tan turtleneck and cardigan with suede elbow patches, he gazed at Jack with clear blue eyes, looking more like an aging philosophy
professor than a veteran of the Wehrmacht.

  Jack noticed his limp. He already knew the missing leg was forever interred beneath the Russian soil near a city once called Stalingrad.

  His sacrifice for the Fatherland.

  Jack shook the old gent’s hand and stumbled over the greeting Sherk taught him. “Grüss Gott.”

  Herr Scherkenbach chuckled and carried on shaking Jack’s hand, nodding and grinning.

  Sherk’s Oma Ella appeared and bustled everyone inside. Her hazel eyes sparkled behind small framed glasses, her smile like melted butter. She took Jack’s arm, gesturing toward the ivory brocade sofa. “Hinsetzen, hinsetzen.”

  Chattering away in German, Oma Ella fussed over Jack, pointing toward coffee, stollen, and apple pastries tastefully arranged on a long dining table. An aroma of cinnamon floated through the air.

  Sherk gave her a quick hug. “Oma, entspann dich.” He turned to Jack. “I told her to relax.”

  Lost in a forest of guttural sounds, Jack smiled at her. “It’s okay.” He looked around at Sherk’s family mingling in the living room. An attractive woman in her forties walked up to Jack and held out her hand.

  “Hi, Jack. I’m Susi. It’s nice to finally meet you.” Her azure eyes twinkled.

  Jack took her hand, warm in his. “Yes, Sherk’s told me great things about you.” Her skin looked like porcelain, flawlessly blending with her eyes and light reddish hair. Too bad she wasn’t older and single. Sensing Sherk’s disapproving glance, he decided he would stifle his thoughts. The guy was a mind-reader at times.