Perfect Payback, page 15
I set the black zippered binder where I kept Hans’s journal on the floor next to my chair and enjoyed a healthy breakfast. Then Laura and I walked a few blocks to the Marienplatz. I carried the journal in my right hand, protecting it as though it were a literary piece. My wife’s enthusiasm had finally caught up to me, giving me a glimmer of hope about what this day could bring.
We passed a woman dressed in a maroon dirndl with a pink apron pushing a flower cart filled with red poppies, light purple roses, and yellow irises. The clean fragrance reminded me of a botanical garden. I could almost see cows grazing on the mountainside pastures.
Besides the usual vacationers wandering the streets, a group of people were preparing for what looked like some sort of race. There must have been at least a hundred participants. Some wore matching shorts and T-shirts. A few men wore Speedos and no shirts. And a couple of the women’s shorts looked like Speedos, and they may as well have had on no shirt.
Laura laughed and put her hand over my eyes. “You’re too young to see such things.”
If only. I chuckled.
Moving her hands away from my face, Laura pointed at a large banner hanging between two light poles over where the runners gathered.
“Bürgermeisterin Linda Schallison’s Annual 10K Run for Mental Illness,” I read.
“Now that is an excellent cause.” She gave me a not-so-gentle nudge. “What does Bürgermeisterin mean?”
“Bürgermeisterin is a female mayor. Linda Schallison is the mayor of Munich.”
The starter pistol went off, and the bunched-up runners slowly moved forward.
I touched Laura on the shoulder. “Let’s head on over to Arnulfstr. It’s not far.” My heartrate doubled, almost bringing me to my knees. What would my cousin look like? Part of me wanted to turn around and go back to the hotel, not wanting to face the disappointment of being let down if he wasn’t our Hans.
As though Laura could read my mind, she grabbed my arm and gave it a squeeze. “It’s okay. We can face this together.” She shook her head. “This day will not be a disappointment.”
Her smile settled me down. I knew she wanted this Hans to be the right Hans too.
As we walked to Arnulfstr 2, Laura pointed out the striking old Gothic architecture with rounded archways and tall spirals on top of the cold, gray stone buildings. She’d done her research preparing for this trip. But that was nothing new for her.
A bell in a tower up ahead clanged straight out of a scene from The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Although the story had taken place in another country, I could almost see the peasants milling around the stately church we were about to pass.
“Munich is famous for its Renaissance cathedrals and opulent royal palaces dating back to the twelfth century,” Laura said.
“I can almost feel Hitler delivering a rousing speech about the Fatherland. The master orator duped most of the German people. Germany was a great country ruled by a maniacal dictator.”
Too taken in by the charm of the old city, Laura didn’t even hear me.
The walk seemed short. Before I knew it, we were in front of Hans’s building. The ultra-modern apartment complex looked totally out of place among the other historic buildings that so characterized Munich.
Laura tapped her forehead with her palm. “I wonder what bird-brained architect put this twentieth-century structure right in the middle of this beautiful town.”
I paused. Not over the garishness of the modern architecture. Over the fact that this was our moment of truth.
Laura had none of my hesitancy. She took my hand, led me through a pair of glass doors across the lobby to the elevator, and pushed the up button.
As the soft, powerful motor lifted us, a hideous, high-pitched beep signaled each floor and made me cringe. Finally, the metal door opened on the third level.
Laura and I looked at each other. Her eyes danced like those of a child about to enter a candy store.
For me, stepping out of that elevator felt like walking into a funeral home. I hoped that wasn’t a bad omen.
Laura pointed to the arrow on the wall indicating 312 would be the hallway to the left. Our steps echoed down the long, empty corridor until we reached the door.
I looked at Laura again. I thought I was going to have to grab her arm to keep her from floating to the ceiling. What was she thinking?
A mass of excitement jumbled with fear ran through my head. The fear of the unknown was the worst. If the door opened, what would I say? How would I react if this Hans was my cousin? How would I react if he wasn’t?
I felt like a belt was strapped around my chest, yanked to the last notch, squeezing all the air out of my lungs. Hans’s journal trembled in my hand. Putting it behind my back, I held tight to the binding to keep from shaking.
Our decision to come was based on a Hans Pepperman living at this address five years ago. What were the chances of him still residing here?
We were about to find out.
Squaring my shoulders, I lifted my fist and knocked twice.
Chapter 34
July 1999
Munich, Germany
After the third unanswered knock at apartment 312, it was evident no one was home. I looked at Laura’s sad eyes. They painted a picture of my disappointment.
“It’s Saturday morning. He probably took a walk or maybe had breakfast out.” Her hopeful words didn’t match her tone.
I nodded. “You’re probably right. Let’s come back in a couple of hours. That’ll give us time to see the Glockenspiel.”
Laura and I played off each other’s emotions trying to be positive. As hard as it had been to take the steps that brought us to this residence, the thought of leaving without knowing was worse. The hallway back to the elevator seemed longer. We returned to the first floor and walked toward the glass exit doors.
Two elderly ladies in saucer-plate sunglasses and huge straw hats entered in sync holding identical shopping bags. The women wore pink-and-green polka dot scarves tied around their necks.
While Laura tried to keep a straight face, I couldn’t help but grin at their quirky attire.
Behind them, a tall man with cropped white hair shuffled through the doors carrying a newspaper. He had dark circles under his eyes. As he got closer, I noticed the deformed knuckle on his right hand—like the knuckle Hans had broken just before the Olympics.
I grabbed Laura’s shoulder to stop her from leaving the building and walked after the man. Warmth swirled in my chest. I had connected the dots. Before I even called out to him, “Mein herr, Bist du Hans Pepperman?” I knew he was my cousin.
Pausing in front of the elevator, he folded the paper, stuck it under his arm, and slowly turned. “Your German is good for an American. How can I help you?” His accent was definitely German, yet his English was perfect.
Face to face with my family’s history, I extended my hand. “I’m Jim Pepperman, Patrick’s son.”
His tired eyes took on a new light. “Wilhelm’s grandson?” He nodded thoughtfully. “How did you recognize me?”
“You look like Grandfather Wilhelm.” I wasn’t quite ready to explain how I knew about the knuckle.
Still grasping my palm, he laid his other hand on my shoulder. “Even though Patrick was only a young boy when I met him, I can see you have your father’s strong jawline. It is a family trait.” Grinning, he stepped back, and continued shaking my hand, like he was in as much shock as I was.
My eyes welled up as I turned toward Laura. “Hans, this is my wife, Laura.”
He finally let go of my hand and reached to give her a hug. “So glad to meet you.” He released her and cupped his fingers over his mouth as though to trap his emotions. He quickly swiped a hand across his eyes and gestured toward the elevator. “Come, we have so much to discuss. So much…”
I pushed the button to open the elevator.
Laura stepped in, then Hans.
I couldn’t help but feel the excitement. It was almost electric. This was Hans. Our Hans. It was as though we’d stepped back in time. While he and Laura exchanged small talk on the way to the third floor, I couldn’t stop staring at him as I recalled what he’d shared in the journal—the Olympics, the first flight he took on an airplane to Augsburg, his initial encounter with Anna in the elevator at the Bauer Hotel. Having read his memoir made me feel as though I’d been part of his life. This visit was going to be good for all of us. It couldn’t be anything less.
The elevator stopped, and Hans walked out first. I swear, his gait was a hundred times better than just a few minutes ago. He unlocked his door, and we followed him inside his apartment.
The impressively upscale modern residence featured floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the heart of the old city. A large spiral chandelier hung in the center of the room. The furniture, however, was antique in style—heavy oak wall units with doors decorated in green and red floral patterns, armchairs with square legs, bookcases richly carved in design.
A painting on the living room wall caught my attention. It was the front view of a BF 109 fighter plane, the type of plane with the engine Hans had helped design. There was no sign of a swastika—which made sense because Hans had not been a member of the Nazi Party—just the plane emerging from a cloud with a bright blue sky in the background.
He sat us at a double pedestal brown dining set with beautiful high-backed cushioned chairs. The tabletop shone so brightly it reflected everything around it. Laura ran her fingers across the shiny surface as he pulled a chair out for her at the head of the table. “Can I get you something to drink?”
I loved the way his English words resonated with his German accent.
Laura looked at him with bright eyes and a big smile in pure admiration. “No, thank you.”
He looked at me.
I shook my head.
He took a chair directly across from me. “Tell me about your father. Through the years I have often thought of him. I was so impressed with his confident manner. I bet he is big like you. Did he ever become a boxer? I remember he had a strong jab for a young boy. He proved it by popping the palm of my hand with his fist. He had eaten a sausage covered in mustard, so I had to wash my hand.” His chest moved in an inward laugh.
“He never boxed in amateur competition. But he was a street fighter and taught me how to fight.” I leaned back in my chair and hesitated. “He died in an oil field accident when I was seventeen. We lived in Texas at the time.”
Hans’s lips parted. The look on his face told me he wished he hadn’t asked. He nodded but said nothing.
This was a good opportunity to change the subject. “I have something for you.” I unzipped the black binder and handed him the journal.
Words couldn’t describe his surprise, and I couldn’t help but smile as he took the book from me. He opened to the first page as carefully as a man diffusing a bomb. “How did you get this?”
“I was hoping you could tell me. It’s a long story, but your journal and trunk ended up in our attic.”
He looked at me. “The trunk. Was my Olympic jacket inside?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
Hans threw his head back and clutched the journal to his chest. “I would be so happy for you to return it to me. Would you do that, Jim?”
I reached across the table and set my hand on his. “It would be my honor. But I must tell you I read your journal. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not.” He looked at me with a soft, caring smile. “Do you remember Hoermann and Keitel’s safe house—the place where my trunk was?”
“Yes.”
“I was told the house burned down and everything inside was lost. The Gestapo was looking for me, and I was on the run.”
“The house must not have burned, or someone removed the trunk. This is confusing. How did the trunk get to America?” Laura said.
Hans leaned in toward me. “There was a letter inside from your grandfather, and his address was on the envelope. Keitel must have opened the trunk, found the letter, and shipped everything to Wilhelm.”
I bit down on my lip and shook my head. “Why would Keitel or anyone ship the trunk to my family? Why didn’t he give it back to you?”
Hans slowly shook his head. “I do not know.”
I couldn’t wait any longer. My heartbeat tripled, and my mouth went dry. “Will you read the last page of your journal and… ?”
“I do not have to read the last page,” Hans said. “You want to know who I saw in the film.”
Chapter 35
July 1999
Munich, Germany
I scooted closer to Laura at Han’s dining table.
“You want to know about the person in the film?” Hans’s expression intense, he tapped the shiny surface of the table. “This is going to take a while.” He pushed out of his chair. “Do you mind if I have some Schnapps? And do you want one?”
“Sure.” I really didn’t but wanted to be sociable.
He looked at Laura.
She tilted her head. “Maybe a glass of red wine?”
Hans gave her a smile and a salute. “Red wine, it is.” He returned with our drinks on a platter, handed me the Schnapps and Laura the wine, and took a sip of his strong liqueur before sitting across from me. The light from the window accented his blue Pepperman eyes and short, silver hair.
This was it. Excitement built from my stomach. All the reading, all the time getting here, I’d thought of very little but the person in the film with Fischer. “So… the film.”
Hans put the glass to his lips, paused, and took another sip.
Before he could stall any longer, I reached across the table and “helped” him set his drink down. “Hans, I have to know. Who was it?”
Taking a deep breath in and out, he exhaled the one name I hadn’t expected. “Anna.”
“What?” I blinked several times, not believing what I’d heard.
Laura’s eyes widened, and she sat a little straighter. “Did you just say Anna?”
He glanced away into the living room, then back at me. “Yes, Anna.” His voice barely audible, it was as though he didn’t even want to speak her name.
“But you wrote in the journal the woman might have been a man in disguise.” Laura’s voice echoed the tension creeping into my neck and shoulders. “You said you couldn’t tell who it was because you couldn’t see the face.”
“I recognized her hat—a red beret with a black-and-white checked bow.” Hans moved his jaw from side to side, his face hardening.
Puzzled by his remark, I shook my head. “Wasn’t the film in black-and-white? How could you tell the beret was red?”
“The film was in black-and-white, but the unusual style and checked bow left little doubt it was her. Then I noticed the shape of her calves. It was Anna. I was absolutely sure.”
“Oh my gosh.” Laura’s tone turned sympathetic “It’s hard to believe Anna was a Russian spy. You obviously felt something for her. And she loved you.”
“There was no love. She used me. Period. She needed me to give up details of the 109 engine.”
Leaning forward, Laura set her hand on Hans’s. “You must have felt—”
“Betrayed? Shocked? Furious?” He turned his head and did an imaginary spit. “Anna shattered me that day. For a long time, I trusted no one. She had no loyalty to me or her country.”
“That sorry.” I wanted to curse but held back what I really thought.
Hans pushed on the chair arms, adjusting his position. “I wanted to leave that night and go to her apartment, the rage inside me so uncontrollable I could have killed her. Hoermann and Keitel had to physically restrain me. Hoermann told me to let the Military Intelligence Service deal with her. He left to report what I’d seen on the film. Keitel stayed at the safe house with me.”
“And Anna?” I asked.
“The next morning when Hoermann returned, I asked if Anna had been arrested. He said no one could find her. She’d disappeared.” Hans rotated his empty glass between his palms, lost in his thoughts as if tormented all over again by his past.
“They never found her?” Laura said.
“Four days later, some hunters discovered her partially nude body in the wooded area north of Augsburg. Her throat had been slashed.”
The room went silent. The whisper of a jet engine somewhere above the city of Munich was the only sound.
This was so surreal. I almost wished I hadn’t found the journal.
“What about Fischer?” Laura twisted her wedding ring.
“In the film, Anna gave Fischer some folded papers. Hoermann had him arrested.” Hans stared at the table and rubbed his eyes. “Espionage cases during the late ’30s had speedy trials. Fischer was found guilty and executed for betraying Germany.”
Laura scooted her chair closer to the table. “May I have more wine?”
Without speaking, Hans got up from the table and headed back to the kitchen.
Laura followed him with her gaze and stopped at a picture on the wall. “Hans, is that a picture of your wife and daughter?”
“The woman in the picture is my wife, Heidi. The same Heidi in my journal.” He disappeared behind a wall.
The world stopped spinning. My chin dropped to the proverbial floor. Laura and I stared at each other for what seemed like minutes until he returned with the wine.
“You married Heidi?” The surprise in Laura’s voice pretty much summed up my thoughts as well.
“Heidi was a godsend for me.” Hans filled Laura’s glass and sat down. “The young girl in the picture is her sister Judy. We never had children. I’m sorry you will miss seeing Heidi. In fact, she is visiting Judy in Dresden.”
I glanced at my watch. 11:30. How my world had changed in the span of two hours.
“I had a hard time dealing with Anna and Fischer’s deaths. I could not come to grips with them betraying our country. As their friend, Heidi found the situation difficult too. We met after work to comfort each other. And before I knew it, we were spending more time together. One thing led to another, and we married in September of 1939.”
