Villa Marckwald

Copyright © 2012 by Joseph W. Michels

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Contents

Chapter One

Santa Monica, California

June 1990

Chapter Two

Philipsburg, Pennsylvania

June 1990

Chapter Three

Santa Monica

Late August 1990

Chapter Four

Philipsburg

Late August 1990

Chapter Five

Berlin

Early September 1990

Chapter Six

Berlin

Early September 1990

Chapter Seven

Berlin

Early September 1990

Chapter Eight

Berlin

Early September 1990

Chapter Nine

Santa Monica

Early September 1990

Chapter Ten

Philipsburg

Early March 1991

Chapter Eleven

Santa Monica

Early March 1991

Chapter Twelve

Berlin

Late March 1991

Chapter Thirteen

Berlin

Late March 1991

Chapter Fourteen

Philipsburg

April 1991

Chapter Fifteen

Santa Monica

April 1991

Chapter Sixteen

Sardinia

June 1991

Chapter Seventeen

Sardinia

Friday in June, 1991

Chapter Eighteen

Sardinia

The Weekend in June, 1991

Chapter Nineteen

Sardinia

Until Departure in June 1991

Chapter Twenty

Berlin

September 1991

Chapter Twenty-one

Santa Monica

October 1991

Chapter Twenty-two

Berlin

November 1991

Afterword

This book is dedicated to the memory

of

Gabriele

Chapter One

Santa Monica, California

June 1990

Alice studied the article for a third time, wondering whether it really meant there was a chance and even if there was whether she should pursue it. Claims against East Germany arising from forced confiscation of property during the Nazi and Communist eras were to be honored as part of the planning for the forthcoming reunification of Germany.

She put down her cup, rose from her chair and walked to the edge of the sun-drenched patio behind her home. She looked out onto the small garden, her mind struggling with the possibilities. It was the third week of June and the flower beds lining the patch of lawn beckoned with their profusion of color. She stepped off the patio, letting the cool tickle of the freshly mown grass brush the bottom of her bare feet. At the far end of the yard an ornate concrete bench lay positioned below a pair of Thundercloud Plums. It was where she liked to sit when working through a problem. Somehow, she knew, she would need to make some sense out of the stream of events that were touched upon in the article. Only about seven months had passed since the Berlin Wall was breached and already there were imminent plans for reunification. Now this. She would need to talk with her daughters.

After some minutes she glanced at her watch and realized she needed to get ready for work. Reluctantly, she left the bench and walked back to the house—a three-bedroom, two-bath bungalow she and her husband had bought back at a time when such homes were affordable, even for young married couples.

* * *

Alice was a mathematician at a Santa Monica research institute—had been one ever since she received her master’s degree some thirty-four years ago. It was a pleasant summer day so she chose to walk the eight blocks separating her home on Fifth Street from company headquarters. She was dressed casually but in keeping with her management responsibilities: a denim skirt, tailored shirt and espadrilles. She worked her way over to Ocean Avenue where she could enjoy the view from the bluffs and catch more of the breeze coming off the water. It had been three years since her husband, Gary Whitmore, had died of a heart attack at the age of fifty-nine and only recently had she come to terms with the loneliness and isolation his death had brought on. Now, she found comfort in the solitude of a morning’s walk.

Despite the busy schedule awaiting her Alice let her attention wander freely, drawn first to the vivid coastal landscape then to the tactile presence of the westerly breeze coming off the ocean and finally to the display of wanton energy offered by passing joggers. She frowned as she realized this morning’s distractions were not having the usual effect on her and seemed nothing more than a scarcely concealed subterfuge for blocking out her worries now that the time for action seems to have been thrust upon her. She knew this couldn’t continue, so with fresh determination she crossed Colorado Avenue intent on redirecting her thoughts to the work schedule awaiting her.

* * *

Helen, a good friend, who worked in the office of human resources, was one of only a few who knew enough about her to properly gauge the significance of this morning’s newspaper article. She came into Alice’s office only minutes after Alice’s arrival, anxious to get her reaction.

Did you see this? she asked, holding the clipping for Alice to examine.

Yes, Helen, I did.

What do you think?

Actually, I’m trying not to think about it.

But you’ve always said your family lost so much when the Nazis forced your family to flee.

I know, Helen, but actually it’s a little more complicated than that.

"So what are you going to do?’

Nothing, for now. And perhaps nothing at all.

I don’t understand. Don’t you want to press your claim?

It’s not that simple, Helen. I imagine the whole thing will prove to be quite adversarial—pitting me against the German government. And it’s likely to prove quite costly. Anyway, nothing’s been settled regarding if and when claims will be accepted. The whole thing might simply be a political gesture that comes to nothing once the priorities of the Berlin municipality kick in.

Well, you shouldn’t rule it out.

I don’t suppose my daughters would let me even if I wanted to, said Alice grimly. Now let me get to work.

Okay. See you at lunch, said Helen as she headed out of the office.

* * *

At the end of the workday, Alice took another route home—this one through the core of Santa Monica’s shopping district: the Santa Monica Place Shopping Center and the Third Street Promenade. The stores offered a different form of distraction but one perhaps a little more effective, momentarily letting her put aside thoughts about the newspaper article as she shopped for something to prepare for dinner and as she amused herself looking through the clothing collections of stores catering to a much younger generation.

Eventually she made it back to her palm-lined street, and ultimately to her home with its overgrown shrubbery shielding it from nearby apartment buildings and passing pedestrians. It wasn’t that Alice sought an excessive amount of privacy, only that she’d lost interest in the neighborhood once her husband died. Gary had been an engineer working for a small manufacturing company in Culver City and had always taken special delight in keeping their home and the yard in top shape. It saddened her to think paid strangers now attended to these duties and she wished to keep their intrusive presence to an absolute minimum.

She placed the groceries in the kitchen then went to her bedroom to change. Despite her age, she prided herself on having preserved a youthful figure and gave no hesitation to donning a pair of shorts and a t-shirt as she prepared for an evening by herself. She returned to the kitchen, padding through the house in bare feet.

Her kitchen was not large, but the remodel her husband had undertaken back in the 1970’s was still serviceable, and she enjoyed the feeling of closeness to him that came over her every time she entered the room. Like most evenings, Alice began assembling the ingredients for a salad. Her mind began to wander as she washed the romaine lettuce then spun it dry. She’d need to call her daughters after dinner but wasn’t sure how they’d handle the news. Lois, her younger daughter, probably hadn’t seen the article. With two small children to manage she didn’t have much time for the news. And her husband, Everett, largely confined his reading to the sports section. Elaine, however, certainly would have noticed. She lived in New York City and read the papers religiously every day. She’d be sure to express an opinion, thought Alice as she tore the lettuce into smaller pieces and dropped them into the salad bowl. After adding shredded carrots, cherry tomatoes, sliced avocado, artichoke hearts and crumbled blue cheese she tossed in a handful of croutons then trickled a generous portion of vinaigrette dressing onto the mix. She thoughtfully tossed the salad as she wrestled with the question of how to handle the conversation with Elaine. Still, there wasn’t much point in planning, she knew, since Elaine would take control of the conversation as she always did. With a sigh, Alice went to the fridge and removed the leftover chicken from last night, placed it on her carving board and sliced it into manageable portions. She added the chicken to the salad then brought the bowl over to the small kitchen table where she had prepared a setting for herself. Perhaps Elaine wouldn’t be home, she thought, letting her get away with simply pointing out the article then hanging up. Alice poured herself a glass of wine and sipped it thoughtfully as she weighed the prospects of that happening.

* * *

With the dinner dishes washed and put away, Alice reached for the phone and punched in her elder daughter’s number. She could hear the phone ringing and hoped nobody would answer. After four rings she was beginning to believe her wish might actually be realized. But on the fifth ring Charles, Elaine’s husband, picked up.

Hi mother, said Elaine once Charles had called her to the phone.

Elaine, did you happen to see the article on the possibility Germany might honor property claims in the eastern sector?

Yes. Charles and I talked about it earlier this evening. Are you going to file a claim?

Well, I’ve given it some thought but wanted to get your opinion.

Of course you should. Charles says it’s really going to happen…that there’s even a chance some properties will actually be returned to their original owners.

What would I do with such old properties?

Demand compensation then, said Elaine.

I don’t need the money, and heaven knows I don’t need the aggravation pursuing a claim would entail.

Mother, all of this is beside the point. You know perfectly well grandma and grandpa would want you to…even as a child I remember them going on and on about the life they led in Berlin, about the splendor of their home and the sadness they felt when all of that was lost. Now you have a chance to recover something of that past, or at least a tangible payment that makes up for their loss.

We haven’t even seen the properties. Who knows what state they’re in now? They might be derelict ruins for all we know…or perhaps they no longer exist.

That’s all true, mother, but until we know differently it makes just as much sense to be optimistic.

Well, nothing needs to be done right away in any case.

But there is. You need to pull out grandpa’s files on the properties and begin to assemble whatever supporting documents they contain. The German government isn’t going to just take your word, they’re going to need hard evidence.

How am I going to make sense out of all those legal documents…in German no less!

Nonsense, you handle the language like a native and you know it. Okay, you might not grasp all the legal details but you’ll surely be able to assess whether a document might prove helpful to an attorney handling the claim on your behalf.

I don’t have an attorney in Berlin, Elaine, and no idea how to secure one.

Charles can help with that. He’s a lawyer…he’ll make some inquiries.

Oh, very well. I’ll see what I can find.

Do you want me to come out…give you a hand with the files?

No, sweetheart, that’s not necessary.

You sure?

Yes, but I can’t help feeling such a project would have delighted your father. Even without much facility with the language he would already have had those files scattered across his desk, looking for anything and everything that would support my claim.

I’m sure you’re right, mother. I do miss him.

We all do, sweetheart.

Good night, mother.

Goodnight, child…I love you.

* * *

Alice put the phone down and went into the bedroom she and her husband had converted into an office after the girls had gone off to college. Her father’s files were kept in cartons at the back of the closet in that room. They hadn’t been touched since Gary, her husband, had brought them back here during the removal of her parents possessions from the apartment they’d shared, that was after her mother’s death some twelve years ago.

There hadn’t been much worth keeping, Alice recalled, since her parents had few possessions with them when, accompanied by Alice, they fled to America in 1938. The most valuable items were the two large portraits of Isert Marckwald and of his wife, Wilhelmine, painted in about 1840 to commemorate the family’s move to Berlin from Märkisch Friedland, now part of Poland. Upon arriving the family purchased one of Berlin’s finest mansions. Alice knew the paintings now hanging on her living room wall were originally intended to adorn the front parlor of that splendid building.

What little income her father derived from the business he’d started—importing dental and surgical instruments from Japan—went for supporting the family. Her mother, when she had the time, would help out with the family business. It was only in their later years, after eventually receiving pensions from the West German government, that they began to have some discretionary income. But by then, she recalled, she was no longer living at home and her parents chose to spend the money on visits to Europe rather than on material possessions. So, except for family photos, the ancestor paintings, a modest collection of antique porcelain figurines and other memorabilia, it was father’s files, carefully preserved and organized, that formed the most poignant memento of her parents’ earlier life—a life as privileged Berliners caught up in the glamour of the Weimar Republic.

Alice pushed aside the various items that had accumulated at the bottom of the closet and dragged out the three cartons of legal papers, memorabilia and photo albums. She crouched down and opened the boxes, looking for the one containing the property documents. When she opened the one containing memorabilia she chuckled as she spotted the handful of samples of knitted woolen apparel the family’s Berlin factory had manufactured. She reached in and touched a pair of mittens and a knitted cap then pulled out a tiny pair of knitted girl’s socks, sliding her fingers delicately inside. After several moments of quickening nostalgia she put the socks back in the carton and closed the top flaps. She brought the carton containing the property documents over to the desk, placing it on the floor in easy reach of the desk chair; the other two cartons she shoved back into the closet.

She stared at the opened carton as she rocked gently back and forth in the desk chair. She knew she should make a quick inventory—see what sort of documents might be of use to her in preparing a claim—but her heart wasn’t in it. She bent down and closed the flaps on the box then stood up and walked out of the room.

Chapter Two

Philipsburg, Pennsylvania

June 1990

Professor Adam Bell tried to sustain his interest in the committee’s deliberations but the laughter emanating from the students canoeing on Moshannon Creek kept reminding him of just how pleasant a summer day it was, and how tedious the objections now being raised by Professor Rusk. Did it really matter, he thought, whether the course on biblical archaeology was to be taught at nine o’clock on Monday, Wednesday and Friday, or at the same hour on Tuesday and Thursday. Obviously, it mattered to Rusk but it had nothing to do with him. It was moments like this that made him regret his decision not to undertake fieldwork this summer but to work on his book instead.

He stood up, smiled apologetically and looked at his watch. I’m afraid I’m going to have to leave…I’ve another appointment. Perhaps we should allow Professor Rusk to work out a solution that meets both his and the scheduling committee’s constraints. I’ll be happy to support whatever is decided.

Susan Donaldson, the chairperson of the committee, gave him a conspiratorial glance and urged the other members of the committee to consider Professor Bell’s suggestion. He didn’t wait around to hear their response, just smiled gratefully at Donaldson and left the room.

The meeting had been held in Hardman Hall, the humanities building at Buchannon and W. Spruce. Adam left the building and crossed over to the campus gardens along the creek where he would have a good view of the activity on the water as he made his way over to the faculty club. Summer session was in full swing on the campus of Philipsburg College and a number of students were scattered about on the garden lawns studying or idly basking in the midday sun. But it was the rather boisterous occupants of the half-dozen canoes navigating the still waters of the damned section of the creek that so lifted his spirits.

The faculty club was housed in Simler Hall, a rather modern structure recently built along the creek at the south end of the gardens. The façade facing the campus was done in red brick, with just enough traditional architectural touches to make the building appear compatible with the prevailing Federal-style of the rest of the college. On the creek side, however, the building was all glass—to benefit from the view and to bathe the interior with natural light. At least that’s what was reported to the press at the grand opening of the building back in 1988, Adam recalled. Whatever the reasoning behind its design, Adam liked the building, especially the faculty lounge with its tall ceiling, thick carpeting and remarkably comfortable seating. But today he was here for lunch and headed directly for the dining room at the north end of the building.

Frank Gilbert, president of Philipsburg College, had asked Adam to join himself and the son of the man who had been Adam’s benefactor over the past twenty-eight years. Adam hadn’t met the man’s son in all those years and was curious as to why he chose this moment to make his presence a matter of concern for the college. Adam spotted the two of them sitting at a table in the far corner of the room and walked over.

Professor Bell, I’d like you to meet Mr. Jeffrey Fischer, said Gilbert as both he and Fischer stood up.