and she wanted to know if Margaret was okay, if I still heard from her. I told her Margaret had died in February, and Louise seemed devastated. After a while, she gathered herself and asked, ‘Did the German come back before she died?’ I told her no, of course not. It was clear that Louise was still holding on to a grievance that was seventy years old. She just closed her eyes, murmured, ‘I’m so sorry,’ and walked away from my front door. She was dead a week later.” He looked up at me. “Her granddaughter still lives here in Belle Creek, you know. Maybe you should go see her.”
“For what?” I asked. “After all, it sounds like Louise went out of her way to make my grandmother’s life miserable.”
“But she was still your family,” he said. “Besides, maybe her granddaughter knows something I don’t.”
“Sounds like you were much closer to my grandmother than Louise ever was.”
“Yes, of course that’s true.” He paused. “But I’ve always wondered if there was more to the story of Peter Dahler than Margaret and I understood. It’s worth a try, isn’t it?”
I nodded slowly. Of course he was right; as a journalist, I always followed up on every available lead, and this time shouldn’t be any different. “Do you have contact information for the granddaughter?”
He nodded and jotted something down on a piece of paper. “Julie Candless. She’s a little younger than you. She lives over on Harper Road, on the other side of this cane field. It’s the same house your grandma grew up in, as a matter of fact. Might interest you to see it.”
I took the address and number from Jeremiah and then stood to shake his hand. “I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve told me,” I said.
“I owe Margaret far more than this, believe me. But may I ask a favor of you?”
“Of course.”
“The painting you mentioned. The one that arrived with the note. May I see it sometime?”
I pulled out my phone. “I actually took a photo of it this morning. Will this do?” I scrolled through until I found the image. I handed it to him and watched as his eyes widened and then filled with tears.
“It’s her,” he whispered. “It’s exactly how she looked that day.”
“What day?”
He looked up at me. “The day she first met Peter in the fields.”
My heartbeat quickened. It was exactly what my father had said. “Is it possible that he painted this? Was Peter a painter?”
Jeremiah shook his head. “He wasn’t artistic at all, as far as I know. But he had a friend who was always sketching things in the dirt.” He smiled. “The man even used charcoal to draw on the sides of barns whenever the prisoners would be working on farmland. He was quite good.”
“What was the friend’s name? Do you remember?”
He was silent for a moment. “Maus, I think. Something Maus. I can’t recall his first name. I realize it’s not much to go on.”
“Still, maybe I’ll be able to find old POW records. Maybe I can find him.”
“May be a dead end, but it’s worth a try. If there’s anything I can do to help, anything else I can answer for you, feel free to call, Emily.”
I shook his hand again and he walked me to the door. “I really appreciate it, sir.”
He surprised me by pulling me into a hug. “I wouldn’t be here today without your grandmother. I owe her my life.”
He stood in the doorway, waving, until I’d pulled out of his driveway and was headed back across the vast expanse of sugarcane fields.
CHAPTER SIX
----
OCTOBER 1944
T he soft thwacks of the cane knives flowed together in an endless rhythm, reminding Peter of rushing water. He was ankle-deep in muck, sweat pouring from his brow, his deeply tanned skin turning even browner in the beating sun. It was blazingly hot, the same temperature one might find on a sunny July day in Germany. But here, it was October, the month when at home, leaves fell, temperatures dropped, and the people of Munich were just finishing
“For what?” I asked. “After all, it sounds like Louise went out of her way to make my grandmother’s life miserable.”
“But she was still your family,” he said. “Besides, maybe her granddaughter knows something I don’t.”
“Sounds like you were much closer to my grandmother than Louise ever was.”
“Yes, of course that’s true.” He paused. “But I’ve always wondered if there was more to the story of Peter Dahler than Margaret and I understood. It’s worth a try, isn’t it?”
I nodded slowly. Of course he was right; as a journalist, I always followed up on every available lead, and this time shouldn’t be any different. “Do you have contact information for the granddaughter?”
He nodded and jotted something down on a piece of paper. “Julie Candless. She’s a little younger than you. She lives over on Harper Road, on the other side of this cane field. It’s the same house your grandma grew up in, as a matter of fact. Might interest you to see it.”
I took the address and number from Jeremiah and then stood to shake his hand. “I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve told me,” I said.
“I owe Margaret far more than this, believe me. But may I ask a favor of you?”
“Of course.”
“The painting you mentioned. The one that arrived with the note. May I see it sometime?”
I pulled out my phone. “I actually took a photo of it this morning. Will this do?” I scrolled through until I found the image. I handed it to him and watched as his eyes widened and then filled with tears.
“It’s her,” he whispered. “It’s exactly how she looked that day.”
“What day?”
He looked up at me. “The day she first met Peter in the fields.”
My heartbeat quickened. It was exactly what my father had said. “Is it possible that he painted this? Was Peter a painter?”
Jeremiah shook his head. “He wasn’t artistic at all, as far as I know. But he had a friend who was always sketching things in the dirt.” He smiled. “The man even used charcoal to draw on the sides of barns whenever the prisoners would be working on farmland. He was quite good.”
“What was the friend’s name? Do you remember?”
He was silent for a moment. “Maus, I think. Something Maus. I can’t recall his first name. I realize it’s not much to go on.”
“Still, maybe I’ll be able to find old POW records. Maybe I can find him.”
“May be a dead end, but it’s worth a try. If there’s anything I can do to help, anything else I can answer for you, feel free to call, Emily.”
I shook his hand again and he walked me to the door. “I really appreciate it, sir.”
He surprised me by pulling me into a hug. “I wouldn’t be here today without your grandmother. I owe her my life.”
He stood in the doorway, waving, until I’d pulled out of his driveway and was headed back across the vast expanse of sugarcane fields.
CHAPTER SIX
----
OCTOBER 1944
T he soft thwacks of the cane knives flowed together in an endless rhythm, reminding Peter of rushing water. He was ankle-deep in muck, sweat pouring from his brow, his deeply tanned skin turning even browner in the beating sun. It was blazingly hot, the same temperature one might find on a sunny July day in Germany. But here, it was October, the month when at home, leaves fell, temperatures dropped, and the people of Munich were just finishing
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