"My child! Whatever is the matter?"
The concern in the voice was the end of Herta's control. Her sister hated her for inheriting something that couldn't be shared, or better yet, handed over to the younger woman. The town hated her. And now Turan did, too. It was the last part that hurt the most. It was her own fault. She stood in the side foyer of the church, tears streaming down her cheeks, uncontrolled and uncontrollable.
She was led to a small alcove and pushed down onto a bench. A large handkerchief was pushed into her hands and she was rocked gently until she could gain some measure of control again.
"I am sorry, Father," she finally hiccupped, "I didn't mean to..." She waved the soggy handkerchief, trying to find the right words.
"That's all right, child. Tears don't stain unless they're left inside too long, and by then, they'll never come out."
Herta raised her head and stared into merry blue eyes.
"Come. You must be thirsty." He patted her hand and rose to his feet.
Herta gave one last swipe to her eyes and followed the black-gowned figure. The alcove was tucked into one side of the foyer. To her right was the door she'd come in and another matched it on the left. Tall windows beside the outside door let in the light, warming the stone flooring and dark paneling. It felt safe in here.
In line with the alcove was a long hallway. It was down here that the priest led her. They passed the first couple of doors and entered the third one, a small lounge. He settled Herta in an overstuffed armchair and bustled about making tea.
Herta watched him. Her first impression hadn't been wrong. He bore a striking resemblance to the traditional image of 'Friar Tuck', short, jovial, and round. The only difference was the shock of white hair that appeared to be totally indifferent to the demands of either comb or brush. The sunlight coming in the window made it look like a halo. She somehow didn't think it suited him. She looked down at her hands, twisting the handkerchief he'd loaned her, trying to hide a smile. It widened, though, when she noticed what she held. Unlike Gebhardt's pressed square of linen, this was easily half a meter wide and a bright red paisley print.
The priest came over carrying two cups of tea. With lemon, Herta noticed. Russian, then, not English. She wasn't sure why the knowledge made a difference, but it did.
"I see you have discovered my secret," he observed, after handing Herta her cup and settling himself into a chair opposite. "Some say I should have something less... untraditional." He smiled.
Herta cocked her head. "I don't think so," she ventured. "I don't believe it would suit you. This," she held up the cloth, "does."
His eyes crinkled in amusement. "So. Tell, if you will, what has Turan done to make you cry?"
Herta blew out her breath and sat back. "It's not so much what he did, as my reaction to it. He was kindness itself until I lost my temper over something trivial. I..." She paused and blushed, remembering just what had made her so afraid.
The priest raised both eyebrows. "Turan was his normal charming self and you still lost your temper with him?"
She nodded, shamefaced.
"Well," he said. "That is something." He took a thoughtful sip of his tea.
Herta viewed the priest over her teacup. Something had just registered. "You are Father Edmund and you know precisely who both Turan and I are. I saw you in the cafe earlier, didn't I?" They weren't exactly questions. "May I ask how you know?"
He looked startled for a moment, then laughed. "Oh dear. My manners are deplorable today. Yes, I am Father Edmund. As to how I know you..." He heaved his bulk from the chair and went over to a side table. He returned with a thick manila envelope, a hard cover book, and a framed photograph. He handed them to his guest.
Herta stared at the photograph and then up at Father Edmund.
He sat down. "Remarkable, isn't it?"
"I've got another word for it," she remarked, "but that will do for polite company. Who is she?"
The photo was obviously old. An man was seated in a huge carved armchair, looking like a king on his throne. He appeared to be in his late forties or early fifties. Behind him stood a younger man, his son perhaps. He wore a Nazi uniform and had the same forbidding look on his face as his elder.
It was the woman who held her attention, though. Except for the dress, it could have been Herta sitting there. Even their hairstyles were similar, pulled back in a twist with stray wisps that fell to frame her face. While she only wore a half-smile, there was a teasing glint in her eyes.
"They are your great-grandparents, Hans and Herta Theiner." Herta looked up from the photo and he nodded. "You were named after her. The young man in the background is Gunther, your grandfather."
"But how...?" Herta pointed to the photo. "But this is obviously a family photo. How can...? I mean, does everyone know about it?"
Father Edmund nodded. "It does seem odd, doesn't it? Actually, the book you hold in your hand explains it. And how the lawyers finally managed to track you down. Your grandmother's remarriage had them stymied for a while." He chuckled at Herta's expression. "They'd been looking for your mother for ages. The book is a coffee table piece on the legends of southern Germany. The authors got a copy of the photograph from your distant cousins. You posted a picture of yourself on the Internet, did you not?
Herta frowned, trying to remember. Then it came to her. "Not me, exactly. I know the university posted some pictures of our Hallowe'en party last year, but..." She looked down at the picture again. "I went to the party as Emily Pankhurst. I can see why someone would have thought... The lawyers saw that?"
Father Edmund shook his head. "As I've heard it, someone pointed out the resemblance between you and the picture in the book, to the authors. They, in turn, passed it on to your cousins, who mentioned it to the lawyers."
"Trying to break the entailment," she ventured.
"On the contrary. Trying to enforce it." He grinned. "If the entailment runs the way it has in the past, you don't inherit the bulk of the estate until you've lived in the house for at least twelve months. After the book came out, your cousins didn't seem to think the notoriety would benefit them."
"It's that bad? The family skeleton?"
He gave her a serious look. "It all depends on your viewpoint, I suppose. You hold two versions of it, the book and the letter. You decide if it's that bad."
Herta ran her hand across the envelope. A letter. From a relative she'd never met. Stranger still, a letter from her mother's family. Up until a few months ago, she'd only known her mother's maiden name. While she spoke freely of the legends of the area, Herta's mother rarely mentioned her own family. And her grandmother never mentioned the Theiners at all. There was only one photograph, that she knew of. It was a picture of her grandfather in an SS uniform. There was no name or date on the back.
"Why send me a letter," she asked.
The priest looked astonished. "Why...? Oh dear. I suppose I should have suspected. This makes things much more difficult." He shook his head. "Anika was..."
"My grandmother was a vindictive lunatic? A manipulative old witch?" she supplied helpfully.
Father Edmund sighed.
"I know it's not polite to speak ill of the dead, Father," she apologized, "but politeness has only gotten me more questions and few answers."
He nodded in understanding. "Very well then. The truth as I know it."
He took a sip of tea and began.
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