Free Winter Passing by Cindy Martinusen Coloma Page B

hours dreaming of Europe—hours that took more time than adult hours, for they held her hopes along with her dreams? That little girl had planned to explore every nook and cranny. She’d rent a moped and putt around, because at ten years of age, the idea of a driver’s license was more frightening than traveling to Europe. Grandma Celia’s Austrian stories had coincided with Darby’s first viewing of her favorite movie, The Wizard of Oz. Darby would change the few letters in her name to spell “Dorothy” as she imagined herself flying away to the magical land of Oz, the place somewhere over the rainbow where all her dreams would come true. Europe became that magical place with castles beside every alpine lake and kings and queens who would bow to her highness.
    “You aren’t in Kansas anymore, Dorothy,” she told herself. With all the hubbub at the airport, the fright of getting to the hotel, and not being able to speak the language, Darby could almost believe this Oz was the habitation of the Wicked Witch—not of the West, but of the East.
    She walked to the window and opened the shade. Beneath her, a muddy river flowed under a bridge and past tall church spires. The water’s surface was pecked with raindrops. Up the mountain, the Hohensalzburg fortress stared at her as if she were an intruder invading the land. When would she be brave enough to venture beyond the hotel window? Not today. Weariness sank into her bones. Her shoulders ached from hauling her luggage from airport to hotel. A headache formed on the rim of her temples and moved outward. No matter what Clarise said about the jet-lag cure, she needed rest. After all, there were lions, tigers, bears, and witches to face in this land far from home.
    Brant unlocked his door and met the familiar musty scent of his third-story apartment. Late October brought a deeper cold to the corners of every room, forecasting the coming winter even earlier than the leaves on the surrounding mountains donned their autumn coats. Brant awoke each morning to stale air and came home to it every night, even though he’d bought plants that were now dead and several room deodorizers. These mixed scents only made the smell worse. He had promised himself a year ago he’d look for a new place. But with most of his life spent at the office, he hadn’t taken the time.
    Brant tossed his briefcase onto the leather couch and scoped out the refrigerator. Nearly empty racks reminded him, as they had every day that week, that he needed to go grocery shopping. He picked up the end of a salami stick and a lone apple, smelled the cheese in deli wrap, left it there, and headed back for the couch.
    After a day of noise, the stillness of the apartment echoed in his ears. Every other sound—the rustle of leather as he rested his head, the hum of the furnace, the evening sounds of the city behind the single-paned windows—intensified the vacancy of the room. Usually Brant felt unnerved by silence. He’d turn on the TV or some music. But tonight he needed the quiet to think.
    For three years now, he’d juggled double careers. His technology advisory company had helped at least thirty Austrian companies make advancements into the age of technology, enabling them to compete with dominant European markets. And his work with the Austrian Holocaust Survivors’ network had helped numerous families, in many ways—except for the Aldrich fiasco. His work was important; essential—wasn’t it? At the end of the October evening, nothing of his work felt important, let alone essential. The financial world dipped up and down, often crumbling even strong businesses. And the Holocaust survivors—they were at the eve of an ending era. In the near future, not one would remain alive to tell the story. And Brant grieved that his work moved too slowly to help the majority of them.
    But tonight something else added to his musing. Richter and Ingrid. Since Brant had spent the weekend boxing up Gunther’s