“I’d say you should focus on birth records for 1945. Narrow down by mother’s first name.”
“Hello, needle, meet haystack,” I said, taking my place at the computer adjacent to his.
“It’s not that bad,” he said. “You can filter by the year of the mother’s birth too.”
“Sure, but all this assumes the baby was born alive, and in Germany.”
“It’s what we have to work with,” he said. “And even if it doesn’t get us anywhere, it will eliminate some possibilities.”
“You’re quite the optimist.”
“I have to be in this business. If I were daunted by the sheer amount of information at my fingertips, I’d never find anything. To use your metaphor, I have learned to accept that some needles are buried in a lot more hay than others.”
“This one seems to be an entire field’s worth,” I retorted.
“Which makes the sorting all the more rewarding, once we find it.”
“Dad wasn’t able to tell me her last name,” I said. “He only knew her as Margarethe. It just doesn’t seem like him to have a relationship and not even know her last name.”
“It was another time,” James said. “We’re lucky to live in uninteresting ones, comparatively.”
“I suppose that’s true. What are you working on?” I asked, looking over his shoulder.
“I scanned in the photo, and I’m going to call in a favor from a friend in DC. I’m hoping his facial recognition software can place her. It’s imperfect tech, though, and we’re dealing with a very old photograph, but it’s worth a shot.”
“Don’t use up favors for me,” I said.
“It’s fine. He lives for this cloak-and-dagger stuff. He’s in the right field.”
“I just don’t want either of you getting in trouble for me.”
“Don’t mention it. Email sent. It’s too late now, anyway.”
“So long as the Feds don’t come knocking down anyone’s doors.”
“The Feds? What is this? A 1920s gangster novel?”
“Ha. Maybe.”
“So, would you be interested in grabbing a coffee sometime?” His eyes never left his computer screen, though it was obvious he wanted to turn his head to assess my reaction to the invitation.
“That’s extremely tempting, James, but I’m very freshly divorced. It just doesn’t feel like the right time.”
“I totally get it,” he said. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It’s OK. Nothing cataclysmic. We just grew apart.” Harmless answer. Close enough to the truth.
“It still sucks. Been there. If you need to talk, just let me know.”
I looked over at his profile, as his eyes were still locked on the screen. I wondered who his ex was and what exactly went wrong. From his subtle hesitance when asking me out, I was guessing the split was fairly recent. He didn’t lack confidence so much as practice. His left ring finger was an even bronze color, but the indent from the ring was still visible. Months, I’d guess.
“Thanks—that’s incredibly sweet of you.”
“What can I say, I’m not just a research ninja, I’m also a good listener with an endless supply of tea.”
“Tea and sympathy, is it? My style has always been more alcohol and sarcasm.”
At this he let out a full-bellied laugh that turned the heads of several of the students nearest our computers. He shot them an apologetic look, but his shoulders still shook.
“That works too,” he said. “I like your style.”
“Thanks,” I said, feeling the color rise in my cheeks a bit.
“Seriously, though, any time. And when you are ready to date, I would really appreciate a phone call, if you’re interested.”
“You’ve got a deal,” I said, offering a hand to firm up the agreement.
I wondered if I’d ever be bold enough to make the call. I’d never been bold before, but perhaps I should have been. I’d seen men in the past to whom I was attracted and assumed that they were out of my league or uninterested in me for one reason or another. What opportunities had I missed out on because I wasn’t willing to show my interest first?
I thought about my mother and her insistence that ladies never initiated a date invitation. She’d married Dad in the late ’40s, when women were not meant to be bold. Of course, other kids didn’t follow their mothers’ advice, but that was something she’d hammered into my psyche. Only the most desperate girls ask boys for dates. If they’re interested, they’ll ask you. She held that tenet to be as ironclad as if it were carved into stone on the mount by Moses himself. Even in a situation like this, where James had already shown his interest, she would have advised me to let him reach out again. I understood her point about not appearing overeager, but I didn’t see much use in making myself completely unapproachable either.
For close to two hours, I waded through dozens of entries in the database, finding nothing of import, but saving the search so I could continue where I left off. James was there most of the time, searching at twice the speed that I was, given his years of practice.
“If it weren’t for the picture, I’d wonder if she existed at all,” I said. “She hasn’t made herself easy to find.”
“No, she hasn’t, but we’re still early in the search,” he said. “I have some other ideas. In the meantime, ask your dad to remember whatever he can. Even the smallest detail might loosen a key part of the knot we’re trying to untie here.”
“Will do,” I said, and left the library. I found myself in the San Diego sunlight on the long concrete path that led through a lush grove of trees. There couldn’t be much resemblance to the forest where Dad fought the Nazis and met the woman who bore his firstborn. If indeed they’d survived. Despite thousands of active students and faculty, the groves of trees always felt peaceful. It was hard to imagine this peace being shattered by the roar of artillery and the rattling of guns as the forests of Germany had been. It could happen here as well as any other place on earth, but for a few moments, I gave thanks for the tranquility these woods enjoyed, and gave a small prayer that they would never know otherwise.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
APPARITION
MAX
March 8, 1945
Near Remagen, Germany
“You’ll never get better if you don’t get up and walk,” I chided. “Come on now, you don’t want to be stuck in a bed for the rest of your life, do you? It’ll make you an old man twenty years before your time. Forty even.”
“It’s no use, Captain. I can’t manage more than two steps without collapsing.” The young private couldn’t have been over twenty-two years old. He’d taken a fair amount of shrapnel to his left thigh, which was bad enough, but he’d also contracted a cold. If he lay in bed with no exertion, it would sure as sunrise lead to pneumonia. He’d beaten the odds—making it to the hospital in time to have the shrapnel removed before infection set in. He’d avoided gangrene once the healing began. To lose him to a common cold would be nothing short of infuriating.