Authors: M. J. Rose
Baden, Austria
Tuesday, April 29
th
—5:39 p.m.
T
he terror coursing through her made it almost impossible for Meer to speak. The man holding the gun wore a dark slicker, its hood up. Frantic, she looked around for Sebastian…and then saw him on the ground, unmoving, lying behind the altar beneath the crucifix.
“You’re going to wind up like your friend over there unless you give us what you found up here.” The man whispered the words harshly in a thick German accent but she understood every syllable.
“What did you do to him?”
“Your friends, your father…we can keep going with this game, hurting everyone you know and love until we get what we want.”
“My father? Is he all right?”
“For now, yes. But how he winds up is up to you.”
She didn’t even hesitate. “What you want is there.” She pointed to the cross.
“Get it.”
It was only four steps to the crucifix. Reaching up, feeling between the wooden body of Jesus and the flat surface of the cross, Meer’s fingertips found what felt like the edge of a sheaf of paper. She’d been searching in the wrong place before. It wasn’t buried in the ground. It was up here. She pulled it out.
Insects had eaten through the paper, mold had attacked it. Only a few random marks and the nauseating stench of rot were left. Meer lifted her head up toward the hut’s roof to escape the overwhelming scent. Drops of rain came through the cracks in the two-hundred-year-old structure, hanging for a second and then falling, one and then another splattering her on the forehead and cheeks.
Was she really holding what had once been Beethoven’s score of the memory song, written in his own hand? He’d gone to so much trouble to convince everyone he’d never found these notes. No longer here to protect what little of his work was left, she could do it for him. Moving her hands a half inch, she positioned the score under the rain that dripped through the cracks in the ceiling.
The few still viable marks blurred as the rain fell and the ink ran.
The man in the ski mask grabbed the disintegrating clump out of her hand and looked at it. For one second he wasn’t focused on her and that second was enough for her to run.
Tuesday, April 29
th
—5:56 p.m.
I
n the teeming rain, the forest had become treacherous and it was impossible for Meer to get her bearings or recognize any landmarks as she ran. All she knew was that she had to keep descending, and if she could manage that she’d find her way out of the woods. She had to get Sebastian help.
She tripped on tree roots, vines and twigs but she kept getting up and soldiering on down the mountain all the while listening hard, knowing that just because she couldn’t hear her assailant over the sound of the rain didn’t mean he wasn’t there.
Did the man in the slicker want her or just the papers? Was she actually getting away or did he know the forest so well he was waiting for her up ahead? Was her running putting Sebastian in more danger? If the man had taken off after her, maybe she should double back and help Sebastian?
A burst of lightning illuminated her surroundings for a brief second at the same time her foot hit a patch of mud.
Sliding, she reached out for a root or a rock, but found she was clutching at nothing but air—and was still falling.
Finally, Meer grabbed hold of an exposed root. She lay in the dirt, tasting it, smelling it, for what seemed like a long time. All she knew was that no one stood over her, there was no gun poking her in the side, no one was screaming at her to get up and move. Finally, she accepted that if someone had been following her, they would have found her by now. Her legs, arms, chest and back all ached.
Crawling to the base of a pine tree about five feet away, she used the trunk to stand up. She was in pain but Sebastian needed help.
Except what was the best way to help him? Go back up to him or head down to the town and get the police? She wished she knew how badly he’d been hurt. Unsure with every step that this was the right solution, she started back up toward the hut.
She’d only been moving for a few minutes when she saw the glow of a searchlight through the trees to her right.
The gunman had found her.
Frantically she looked around for someplace to hide and in the semidarkness made out what looked like a large clump of bushes. Was there space to crawl inside them? Could she reach their shelter without making any noise?
Slowly she inched forward through the mud, careful to keep checking the ground for branches lest she come down on them and make any noise that would give her away. And then she heard something—it sounded like someone calling out her name. She stopped moving, listened, peered through the trees.
“Meer?” It was Sebastian with a group of policemen, and they were searching for her.
Once the police ascertained she didn’t need to be taken
to the hospital they offered to escort her to the station so she could answer questions while they secured the scene but she insisted on going with them back up to the hut. Sebastian was adamant about accompanying her.
This was her last chance to search for any remnants of the music she’d been hunting for her whole life, that she’d miraculously found and then lost only minutes later.
As they made their way through the soggy forest, she and Sebastian filled each other in on what had happened. The police suspected he had been chloroformed because all he remembered was coming to, lying in the mud, in the rain. When he was able to get up he started searching for her, finally working his way down to the town and eventually to the police.
“I was afraid that if I kept looking in the woods I’d wind up going in circles and keep missing you,” he said. “Did he get the music?”
“He got a handful of pulp but no music.”
“You have it then?”
“There were only a few musical notations left and not in sequence. They washed away in the rain.”
“But you saw them first, didn’t you? You saw the notes?”
“There was so little left to see. And it happened too fast. I wasn’t thinking straight. But maybe some of the shreds of the paper are still up there. That’s why I have to go back. To see if there’s anything at all left. Once it gets into police custody we might never see it again. Anything I can take back to my father that could be examined and dated might be of use. There must be infrared techniques they can use to pick up vestiges of faded ink.”
Reaching the shelter, the officers cordoned off the hut and the surrounding area. The old chapel with its fading
plaster statues couldn’t just be a dead end. The music couldn’t be gone forever. But she couldn’t even get inside to see if anything was left.
What should she do? Her father had spent his life hunting down hidden Torahs. What would he do if he were here? Once he’d told her that there was always a point when the clues would seem to dry up and he’d feel utterly lost and then he’d rely on faith. In the moments when he wanted to curse, he forced himself to pray, to remember that there was a purpose to everything and in those prayers he always found the strength to keep going.
She’d never prayed before but no one would know that. Neither would they know that she was Jewish and that even if she did pray, she wouldn’t kneel. But now, without asking the police for permission, Meer walked around to the crucifix, knelt down in front of it and bowed her head.
“Miss Logan…” the inspector said softly.
From this vantage point she could look for shreds of paper without appearing to do so.
“Miss Logan…” he said again, but she didn’t lift her head, hoping he would allow her these few moments of devotion.
The stones hurt her knees, which were already sore from the fall, but she remained frozen, her eyes scanning the ground, not thinking about what she’d do if she found anything or how she’d pick it up without anyone noticing. But it didn’t matter. There wasn’t anything left. Not a shred. The paper must have completely disintegrated in the rain and, with it, every last hope for discovering the elusive music that had haunted her for most of her life.
Tuesday, April 29
th
—7:50 p.m.
D
uring the question-and-answer session with the soft-spoken inspector at the police station in town, neither Meer nor Sebastian said anything about the parchment she’d discovered. Sebastian improvised that they’d been in the woods on a Beethoven pilgrimage when they’d been mugged. When the time came, he looked through his wallet and told the policeman the thief had taken over a hundred and fifty euros and a gold signet ring off his right hand.
After an hour the inspector apologized profusely for what had befallen them in his town and said they were free to go. He told them he would be in touch if they found any of the stolen items.
Inside the car, Sebastian locked the doors and sat for a moment as if trying to gather the strength to turn on the ignition. Not until he’d driven out of town did he speak and then it was in a low voice filled with remorse. “I feel responsible for what happened tonight and don’t know what to say other than I am so very sorry. With everything that
has already happened, how could I have been so cavalier? You are in terrible danger, Meer. You have to be careful. We have to be careful.”
“I didn’t take it seriously enough but when we were in town before we walked into the woods, I sensed if someone was watching us.”
“They must have followed us here from Vienna.” He rubbed his temple.
“Are you all right?”
“I suppose I hit my head when I fell.” He waved it off. “What matters is that Beethoven hid the music and you found it. Not by chance or by accident, you knew exactly where it was. You probably know where the flute is too.”
Meer shook her head. “I don’t.”
“Not consciously, but you must.”
She didn’t want that to be true; it was hard to accept that she was unable to remember what she couldn’t forget. The damned conundrum that had shaped her life. “Come on, the flute could be anywhere.”
“Not really. There was a clue to where the music was in the letter, now that we can look back. ‘I have given it to our lord and savior. The same who sanctified and blessed our love.’ It’s clear now. The little chapel in the woods must have been one of Beethoven’s trysting places with Antonie. Beethoven hid the key in the Heart Crypt and left a clue to that in the letter. So it follows that there’s a clue to where the flute is.”
His cell phone rang. Meer couldn’t understand the ensuing conversation but she had no trouble recognizing the anxious tone his voice took on.
“My son isn’t well,” he told her after he hung up. His hands clenched the wheel and the intensity drained the blood from his knuckles. “It’s pneumonia, which can be
dangerous for anyone, but even more so for him because he’s so unresponsive. Let me drop you off and then—”
“Isn’t the hospital on the way back into town? I’ll go with you and get a taxi from there.”
They were traveling over a hundred miles an hour and Meer reminded herself that it was all right to go that fast—until the rain started up again. First it was just a few droplets splashing on the windshield that the wipers took care of, but then the shower intensified. So for a few seconds the road was clear, then it blurred again. Swish. Clear. Blur. Swish. Clear. Blur.
There weren’t any other cars on the road and without ambient lights, Sebastian’s headlights only offered visibility a few yards ahead. He took one sharp turn. The next was more harrowing. It wouldn’t make any difference if she asked him to slow down; he had to get to his child.
Tuesday, April 29
th
—10:50 p.m.
M
eer didn’t need to speak German to know that the hospital orderly was blocking Sebastian from going in and seeing his son. In the ensuing argument, Sebastian never raised his voice above a fierce whisper. Was that in deference to the other people on the floor or was he circling down deeper and deeper into silence the nearer he was to rage? No matter how close Sebastian moved toward the guard, the man remained even-tempered and even-toned. Several times the orderly referred to “Doktor Kutcher” and Meer surmised that Sebastian’s estranged wife had given the order to keep him out. Finally, Sebastian made a move as if to turn around and give up, and then suddenly lurched forward, successfully pulling open the door to his son’s room, leaping inside, disappearing from Meer’s sight.
The guard rushed in after him.
Through the glass panel, Meer watched Sebastian reach his son’s bed and bend down just seconds before the guard approached and put his hand surprisingly gently on Sebas
tian’s shoulder. He tried to shrug it off but the orderly held tight and using his other hand, spun Sebastian around. Meer stepped away as Sebastian emerged from the door, his shoulders rounded in defeat.
“How is he?” Meer asked as they walked toward the elevator.
“Physically? He’s holding his own, which in this case is a positive sign. Thank God. But as you could tell, it seems that I am no longer allowed in to see him. I have been in the process of trying to get an injunction—I think that’s the right word—so Rebecca can’t prevent me from bringing specialists to see Nicolas but it seems she got one first. Now
I
need
her
permission to see Nicolas. Me. His father.”
“Didn’t she call to tell you he was sick, didn’t she expect you’d want to see him?”
“No, she didn’t call me, the nurse did. I don’t know what Rebecca expected. The orderly said that she left instructions I’m not to be let in unless she’s here.”
“Maybe if you called her she’d change her mind.”
For a second there was some hope in his eyes, and he asked her to wait while he returned to the nurses’ station.
Meer sat down in a green leatherette chair, thinking about how many thousands of pained and worried mothers and fathers, husbands and wives, children and relatives and friends had sat there since the early twentieth century when the hospital was first built. And then she remembered what Sebastian had told her about the experiments performed within these walls during the war.
“The nurse called her and she lowered herself to talk to me instead of going through other people. She says she’s had it with the ‘voodoo’ I’m trying out on him and doesn’t trust me to see him anymore if she’s not there,” Sebastian said. He sat down next to her and slumped in the chair.
“Bringing you here over the weekend was the breaking point, it seems. And now that he’s sick, she doesn’t want anyone to impede his recovery. But he’s lost inside, and he can’t fight the pneumonia if he’s not here. Why can’t she understand that?”
Meer put her hand on his arm, and even through his jacket she could feel how tense his body was. “I don’t know the laws here but in America, getting an injunction without just cause is almost impossible. Sex offenders are about the only people who can be stopped from seeing their children. You should call your lawyer.”
He looked at his watch. “Would you mind if I called now? I don’t want to wait till I get home and it’s even later.”
“No, it’s fine, of course, go ahead.”
She walked down to the other end of the hall where there were windows that overlooked the woods where they had walked on Sunday. In the dark there was very little to see but pale moonlight shimming on the pond. Leaning her forehead on the cool glass, she shut her eyes and thought about what a long strange night it had been. A long, strange and sad night.
“There’s nothing he can do about it tonight,” Sebastian said when he returned. “Or even this week. Fighting her injunction will take time. The possibility of filing the papers and being heard in less than two weeks seems to be nonexistent.”
“I’m sorry,” Meer said.
He glanced back at his son’s room where the orderly stood guard. “Give me one more second and then we’ll drive back.”
Meer noticed that this time Sebastian didn’t exhibit any animosity or anger in his body language. The guard wasn’t completely relaxed as he listened, but he did tilt his head
to the side as if he was commiserating. Finally Sebastian reached into his pocket, pulled out a pen and a card, wrote something down and held it out. The guard stared down at it but then took the card and moved to the right, clearing the door and allowing Sebastian a sight line into the room. For a full minute he stood there, immobile, staring at his son through a wire-reinforced glass panel.
As they headed back down the hall toward the elevator again, Meer was aware of how labored Sebastian’s step had become.
“What did you give the guard?”
“My phone number. And a promise to reward him for calling and keeping me informed. Every time I leave here I feel as if I’m abandoning my son to that black forlorn space in his head where he’s living. If it is even living.”
“Certainly Rebecca hasn’t tried to blame you for Nicolas’s state, has she?”
“No. But you believe, even though it’s foolish, that you are a man and that you are strong and that you should be able to protect your child from everything. From
every
thing. And when you don’t, when you can’t, you feel like a failure, consumed with only one thought—there must be something
I
can do.”