The Diaries by Driskell Chuck

Author:Driskell, Chuck [Driskell, Chuck]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: thriller, Mystery, Historical
ISBN: 9780988218611
Amazon: B007BTR7PY
Goodreads: 13646765
Publisher: Autobahn Books
Published: 2012-02-24T08:00:00+00:00

***

Monika retrieved the diary from the bag, nestling back into her semi-comfortable sleep spot on the lumpy bed. She was nearing the end of the 1938 entries, reading another passage about Greta’s thoughtful new husband, Heinrich. She turned her eyes beside the bed, to the dinged-up nightstand. On the top sat an old push-button phone, the brown handle marked by years of palm sweat and face oil. Monika rolled over, opening the drawer. A phone book, out of date but still viable for what she wanted. She pulled the thick book to the bed, opening it. Her fingers went to the J’s, but she didn’t find what she was looking for. She checked the H’s, for der Holocaust. No.

She closed her eyes, trying to envision the rows and rows of embassies and consulates just outside of the financial district. In the warmer months, she and Gage had walked by the Center ten times.

The Center!

Something-something-Center. The name of the institute, the center, is named after a man’s name…Isaac something…

Monika tugged on her hair with both hands. “Argh.”

The sign out front listed the cities the center existed in: New York, Amsterdam, Tel Aviv, Warsaw…

Isaac. Isaac what?

She racked her brain for five full minutes, and was just sliding the book back into the drawer when the name hit her—the Isaac Bettelheim Center! New York, Amsterdam, Tel Aviv, Warsaw, and Frankfurt. Monica flipped through the book, finding the number. As the phone rang, she shot a glance at her watch. Five until six.

“Hallo?”

Monika fingered the diary. “Could you please put me through to whoever helps locate displaced people?”

“One moment.” A long period of silence. Click.

“Ja?” A woman.

“I’m hoping you might help me locate someone.”

“Of course.”

“Wonderful! The last name…well…where we would need to start is Heinrich Morgenstern of—”

“Young lady,” the woman said, cutting her off. “Before you get in to all that, you’ll need to bring two forms of identification down here with, of course, a certified consent form or a court order. The consent form can be printed from our website and needs to have a seal from—”

“You can’t help me on the phone?” she asked, interrupting what sounded like a boilerplate rejection speech.

“No, I can’t.” It was nearly six o’clock, and the woman’s tone of voice sounded like it, short and snippy. “And once you get all these items, searches take a minimum of fourteen days.”

Monika let out a loud breath. “And if this call happens to be an emergency?”

“Then call someplace else. I can’t help you.”

“Okay, then,” Monika said. “When do you close?”

“In about one minute.”

“Thanks for being so helpful.”

The woman hung up.

Bitch.

Monica stood and crossed the room. There was a college-style refrigerator in the corner. Prices for the enclosed drinks were boldly labeled on the brown door. She opened the fridge, retrieving a pilsner beer, popping the top with the hanging bottle opener. Monika lit a cigarette and sat on the bed, crossing her legs. She took a mighty swig followed by a luxurious drag of the cigarette. Her gaze drifted to the right.

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