Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
I'd never seen a dead body before. Sure, there'd been dead birds in the yard once or twice, dead cats on the side of the road, kangaroos on the highway, but nothing that mattered. Now, here I was, following a detective down a bare corridor at the Adelaide city morgue, about to be confronted with not one, but two bodies. The bodies of my grandparents.
My heels were loud on the concrete floor, the slow rhythmic clicking the only sound in the passage. I didn't know what had prompted me to wear those shoes, some misguided notion of respect for my grandparents, but I regretted it now.
We came to a door and I followed the detective into a small viewing room no bigger than a large cupboard, with a curtain along one wall. We'd left his colleague in the reception area, and now I understood why. There would be no room for the three of us in there. The detective was tall and bulky and seemed to fill the tiny space. He had a hair on his collar, a steel grey hair clearly visible against his dark jacket. I wanted to pick it off, to tidy him up for my grandparents.
'Take as much time as you need,' he said.
I stared at the hair and his eyes flicked down, but he couldn't see it.
'All right then?'
'Yeah,' I said, but no sound came out, so I nodded.
He turned towards the curtain, found the draw-cord and pulled.
I don't know what I expected. The detectives had filled me in on what would happen, that the bodies would be visible through a window into an adjoining room, that they would be presented one at a time, that they would be covered with a sheet except for their faces. I was to identify them by name, if possible. They'd told me the bodies had been found in my grandparents' home, in their bedroom, with the time of death estimated to be between 1 and 3 am. Who else could it have been?
The curtain swung back and I put a hand on the wall to steady myself. Opa.
He lay on a metal gurney, his eyes closed, his hair combed back exposing his broad forehead. His normally ruddy face was pale, almost grey, the skin imbued with a waxy, papery sheen. He wasn't wearing his glasses. Of course he wasn't. I'd heard people say that their loved ones looked peaceful in death, as if they were asleep. Opa was always restless in sleep, eyes fluttering, mouth twitching, as if his mind couldn't rest even while his body did. Now he just looked lifeless.
'That's him,' I said, turning away. 'Karl Gerhard Weiss.'
'Thank you,' said the detective. I looked up into his face, so full of the life that was absent in my grandfather. I couldn't remember his name, and suddenly it really mattered that I knew.
'Are you all right? Do you want to sit down?'
'No, thank you, Detective ...?'
'Norton. Henry Norton.'
I filed that away. Henry Norton. The man who was with me while viewing my dead grandfather.
The second viewing should have been easier. I thought I was prepared for what I would see, but the sight of Oma on the cold metal sliced through me and burst the bubble of unreality that had enveloped me until then. She was covered only by a thin sheet, a smaller one draped over the side of her head. Instantly, I wondered what it was covering. A gunshot wound? A contusion? Knife wound? The detectives hadn't said, only that the cause of death would be determined by an autopsy.
I crossed my arms, pressing them into my stomach.
'Yeah, that's her.' I couldn't seem to take my eyes off that sheet.
'Name?'
'Margarete Elsbeth Weiss.'
My teeth were clenched. I wanted to break through the glass and shake her back to life. I wanted her to open her eyes and smile her watery smile, ask me to get her a blanket. I wanted the colour to wash back into her cheeks and that damned sheet to magically disappear.
The seconds stretched out and finally I dragged my gaze away.
Detective Norton closed the curtain. 'If you'll accompany me upstairs, we'll need to fill out some paperwork. Unless you need a minute?'
My legs were wobbly. I was cold.
'No, let's get this over with.'
I signed and dated the papers, 'Juliet Dunne, 24 July 2009', officially declaring that the two lifeless bodies now resting in a bank of refrigerated storage drawers were, indeed, my grandparents. My hands shook as I put the pen down and followed the detectives back out to their car.
It was close to peak hour, and the din of the traffic out on the street pounded through my skull. I couldn't stand the silence in the morgue, but I couldn't tolerate the noise outside either. I shrank from it, retreating behind Detective Norton as we exited the building, as if his bulk could protect me.
'Is there somewhere we can drop you, Miss Dunne?' the female detective asked.
I'd forgotten her name too.
'Someone you could be with? It's probably best not to be alone right now.'
'No, there's no one.' Oma and Opa were my only family. Had been my only family since I was ten, when Lily left. 'Just take me home. I'll be fine.'
We arrived at the beachside cottage as dusk was falling. I couldn't remember the drive back to Victor Harbor. We must have made our way through the city, down the expressway and onto the winding road that led south, but the memory of it escaped me. All I could see was Oma lying on the gurney. She'd felt the cold so keenly these past few winters, wrapping herself in wool cardigans and sitting by the gas fire. Having spent her childhood on the edge of the Black Forest, it amused her that she could feel the cold at all in a city where snow never fell.
The last of the daylight was filtering through the kitchen window as I threw my bag onto the table and kicked off the ridiculous shoes, standing barefoot in the fading light, numb, exhausted. There must be something I should be doing. Contacting a funeral parlour, preparing a death notice, finding Lily, or at least trying to. And Mum. How would I ever find Mum? She needed to know that her parents were dead.
I sank onto a chair, staring blindly into the distance as dark closed in. My grandparents had raised me since I was nine; they were like parents to me. They'd been there for me when no one else had been; they had loved me when I'd thought I was unlovable. And now they were gone, their lives snuffed out in a senseless killing. I should be crying. But the tears weren't coming, and I couldn't face thinking about any of the rest of it.
A soft touch on my leg brought me out of my reverie. Bronte rubbed up against me, her purr filling the silence. Picking her up, I buried my nose in her fur until she squirmed to be released, then rose, snapped on the light. The breakfast dishes were still in the sink so I ran the hot water over them, then turned it off before the sink could fill. Leaning on the kitchen bench, I put my head in my hands, images of the day running through my mind. I wished I could remember the name of the female detective. Was it Sally or Sue? Something with an S, I was sure. I rummaged in my bag and found the card they gave me when they dropped me off. Henry Norton, Detective Brevet Sergeant, Major Crime Investigation Unit, with a mobile number and an email address. I flipped it over, but there was nothing else. I could see her face. Youngish, dark hair. A serious face. Then Oma's face appeared, pale and cold and lifeless. And Opa's, so still ... I pushed the images away. I didn't want to think of them. Not like that.
In the lounge room my laptop was open, in sleep mode, concealing the manuscript I'd been working on that morning. It seemed as if days had passed since then. I could hardly remember what I'd been writing. There were two new emails, one from a writer in New York I'd met at a conference last year and one from my editor. She'd be looking for a progress report on the manuscript. I closed it all down, and shut off the computer.
The phone shrilled in the silence, the landline, a remnant from the days when my grandparents used the beach house as the holiday house it was meant to be. I stared at it, then lifted the receiver.
'Juliet? I've been trying to call you.' It was Jason.
A piece of my memory slotted into place. I was supposed to meet him in the city after work. We had tickets to a show. I rubbed my temple where a dull ache pulsed.
'Jason, I'm sorry. I completely forgot.'
'You forgot?' There was a pause on the other end of the line but I couldn't bring myself to give him an explanation. 'Is everything okay?' he said finally.
I took a deep breath. 'No, everything's not okay. Something's happened.' I didn't want to say it. Saying it would make it real. Despite everything that had happened, it all still felt like a dream. The man and the woman I'd seen that afternoon weren't really my grandparents. They hadn't really been murdered. Things like this just didn't happen to me. Couldn't have happened to them. They were the things you read about in the paper, heard about on the news, about other people. Strangers. Faceless, anonymous strangers.
'What? What's happened?' Jason's voice was insistent.
'My grandparents are dead.'
I heard him suck in his breath. 'Oh, Juliet. I'm so sorry.' His voice was deep and husky. 'What happened? Were they in an accident?'
I swallowed. 'No, someone broke into their house. They —' 'Jesus.'
My throat closed over. I couldn't go on.
'It's okay, Juliet. You don't have to say any more. I'm on my way. I'll be there as soon as I can.'
I returned the phone to its cradle as the tears started to flow.
CHAPTER 2
Halle an der Saale, Germany, January 1943
Karl's footsteps rang on the cobblestones as he hurried across the market square under the long-drawn shadow of Marktkirche St Marien. The square was deserted, except for the pastor descending the church steps, the bells silenced and the lights extinguished for the night. A chill wind bit Karl's cheeks, hinting of snow to come. It hadn't been as easy as he'd hoped to extricate himself from the family dinner and the sun was already low on the horizon. Nodding to the pastor, he quickened his pace as he strode past into Grosse Klausstrasse, heading towards the river. Grete would be waiting for him.
His mother had gone to a lot of trouble to make this day special. With food rations as low as they were, she must have been hoarding for weeks to put on a feast such as the one she'd laid out: rouladen, potato dumplings, red cabbage, even apfelkuchen with the coffee, or what substituted for coffee in the current times. She'd been complaining that she hadn't seen apples at the market for weeks. Where she'd managed to find enough for the cake and a suitable cut of beef for the rouladen was a mystery. But if she was nothing else, Karl's mother was resourceful. In all the time since the war started, he'd rarely gone hungry. The fare was monotonous, poor quality at times, supplies erratic and unpredictable, but she always managed to put food on the table, supplementing with vegetables from the small garden she'd scratched out at the back of the bakery, acquiring an extra hock of pork or a bag of onions from a local farmer in one of her many trips out of the city.
'It's not every day my son turns eighteen,' she'd said, when he commented on the abundant fare laid out before him. She'd glanced at Karl's father as she said it, and Karl saw a look of pride and sadness pass between them.
'I'll be all right, Mutter,' Karl said, placing a hand on her arm. 'By all reports, the war is going well. Once Stalingrad is taken, it will be all but over. I'll be home before the end of the year.'
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he regretted them, for Franz had said the same thing three years previously. The war had lasted far longer than anyone thought it would, and taken the lives of too many young men. The empty chair across from Karl was testament to the dangers he would be facing. Karl glanced at his father for support. He smiled tiredly at Karl, but said nothing.
'I can take care of myself.'
'Pffft,' his mother said, pulling her arm from under his hand and fishing a handkerchief out of her apron pocket. 'I will pray to God to protect you. It is in His hands.'
It was with a mixture of regret and impatience that Karl had left them, kissing his mother's cheek in passing. She'd clutched his hand, reluctant to let go, and he'd assured her he wouldn't be long. Time was precious, and he knew they were counting every moment they had with him.
He was, in truth, both fearful and excited about what lay ahead. He'd heard so many stories at the Hitler Youth meetings, stories of courage and bravery, of sacrifice in the face of the enemy, had been told again and again how it was an honour and a duty to fight for the Fatherland. He'd imagined this day since the beginning of the war, watched as first his brother and then his friends had received their marching orders and left for the front. Now it was his turn. He was departing for training camp in the morning and he didn't know quite what to think, or to feel. He wanted to be brave, to defend his country as he knew he should. But deep in his gut was a nugget of fear that wouldn't be denied. When it came to battle, when he was actually faced with firing his rifle, using his bayonet or succumbing to the enemy, would he have what it took?
The river came into view and Karl scanned the opposite bank as he hurried across the bridge, even though he had little hope of spotting Grete in the fading light. She was cautious, and wouldn't stand in full view, if she was even there at all. He was very late, and it was cold. He wouldn't have blamed her if she'd given up waiting for him.
The woods were quiet, the bare branches overhead seeming to insulate the small island from the noise of the city across the river. It was darker here than out in the open, a haze of indistinct shapes and shadows. Patches of dirty snow lay where the sun hadn't been able to apply its cool winter warmth through the trees. Karl moved eagerly along the path, heedless of the slippery footing. As he neared their meeting spot, his heartrate increased, and he found himself almost running in his haste.
He saw her before she saw him, and for a brief mad moment he wondered if the woman he was so rapidly approaching was really her. Her short hair, curling around her face, was almost black in the fading light, although in reality it was a lovely honey brown, with shimmering natural highlights in the sun. Then she looked up and a smile lit her face. It was her. Of course it was her. 'You came.'
'Of course I came,' he said taking her hands in his. They were cold, icy. 'I'm so sorry I kept you waiting. Mutter was —'
'There's no need to explain. I understand.'
Her eyes, almost level with his, were dark and unreadable. Her lips were trembling. No, not trembling. She was shivering.
'Where's your coat?' he asked, finally noticing the short jacket she wore, more suited to autumn than winter. 'You're freezing.'
She tightened her grip on his hands. 'It's Ava's first BDM meeting tonight. She needed it.'
Karl made a noise of impatience in his throat and removed his thick woollen overcoat, wrapping it around Grete and embracing her in its warmth. He held her until the shivering stopped.
'Look at you. So handsome in your Sunday best,' she said when he stepped back.
He held his arms out and twirled around, displaying the new coat and trousers he wore, his brother's suit, cut down and sewed to measure by his mother, a grievous task that he'd watched with disquiet. But it was a good suit and could not be left to waste. When he turned to face Grete again, he saw the fear and worry in her face.
'I don't want you to go,' she said, almost a whisper.
He took her hands in his again, enclosed them in his warm ones. 'I must.'
'I've heard things, Karl. I fear the war is not going as well as we've been led to believe.'
'Who have you been speaking to? Who's spreading these lies?'
'They're not lies, Karl. I heard it with my own ears.' She glanced around, and lowered her voice. 'The English radio. I've been listening —'
Karl caught his breath. 'Grete, you mustn't.'
Her gaze met his. 'But I have. And, Karl ... the things they are saying.'
'You would believe the English over our own Führer?'
She sighed and her shoulders slumped beneath the drape of Karl's coat. 'I don't know what to believe anymore. But it worries me. They say that Stalingrad will not fall, that our soldiers are dying by the hundreds, thousands. Freezing to death, unprepared ...'
Karl pulled her close. 'Shhhhh. You cannot believe everything you hear.'
She struggled out of his arms. 'And neither can you, Karl. War is not all that the Hitler Youth would have you believe. The soldiers who've come back from the front are but shells of themselves. I see them when they get off those trains. Their wounds ... their eyes ... I don't want that to happen to you. Promise me you'll be careful. Don't go out there seeking glory.'
'You know that I won't,' Karl said seriously. 'But you must promise me in return.' He stroked her cheek; it was pink with the cold. 'Promise me you won't do anything foolish. No more English radio. No more sneaking extra food to Frau Bernstein.'
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Inheritance of Secrets"
by .
Copyright © 2020 Sonya Bates.
Excerpted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
