“HER STORY LIVES ON”

“Michael! Why are you pulling me in here!”

“You said we needed outfits for the custom party, so . . .

Jessica interrupted. “It’s not a custom party. It’s a masquerade event, it’s a fund raiser for the . . .”

“Masquerade, costume - whatever you want to call it. This is a great place to find something. Trust me.” 

“Here?”

“Yep. What better place than in a vintage clothing store.”

“I don’t know.” She began to give in to his suggestion when Michael dragged her through the doorway. “Come on,” he said, “What do you have to loose?” She smiled as he took her by the hand and led her into the store.  

Like the cream in an Oreo cookie, the store was set between two other buildings. The other buildings with their multi story frames towered over the smaller vintage clothing store. Ever After Boutique was a two story cream colored building that stood out against the dark facades of it’s neighboring twin buildings. The exterior of Ever After Boutique, with it subtle yellow paint was accented against the antique white gingerbread trim near the roof line and the lilac window shutters which gave the store an old world affect.  

Inside the store where the mixed aroma of steeped Chamomile tea and Sandalwood incense sticks stirred old memories. The scent reminded them of Michael’s grandmother’s house.  It was an enjoyable and pleasant memory. With a smile on their faces, Jessica and Michael drifted past the incense sticks and wandered through the canyon like isles in search of their perfect outfits for the masquerade fundraiser event. The store was divided in half. A narrow center isle separated the male clothes from the female clothes.  Mountains of clothing were piled on top of shelves accompanied by racks of formal wear which stretched the length of the building.  Jessica pulled several 1940’s styled dresses from the racks before she settled on one that created an hourglass silhouette. The black dress shaped with sharp shoulder pads, presented a somewhat military feel to the outfit. It went along great with what Michael was holding in his arms.  

“Look what I found.” He held out his World War Two army combat jacket. It bore Sargents strips and on the upper left arm was the red diamond Thunderbird emblem of the 45th Thunderbird Division.  On the bottom of the sleeves one hashmark was sewn in place. The name ‘Davis’ was sewn above the pocket.

“Look, it fits,” he said as he tried it on. He admired his image in a long mirror at the end of an isle. “What do yo think?”

“Well, it sort of fits. It looks a little tight buttoned.  But if you like it, it will be fine for the event.” 

“Hey, Jess, it even comes with a cap.” He put the cap on and dipped it low over his right eye.  He saluted, “I think it all fits,” he said while admiring himself in the mirror.

Jessica smiled. “Whatever Mike.”  

After paying for their purchase, the clothing was bagged and the couple drove back to their home.  Two days later they attend the masquerade fundraiser event in the Grand Ballroom in the Omni William Penn Hotel in downtown Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.  

Jessica and Michael walked into the Grand Ballroom, a nearly 6,000-square-foot, two-tier room dressed in their 1940’s attire. Over six hundred other people made their way into the ornate ballroom where they mingled among the Baccarat crystal chandeliers and cocktails and dancing. 

Sitting his glass of wine on a round dinner table, Michael dug his hand in a pocket of his World War Two combat jacket.  There he found, not the raffle ticket for the evening’s event, but a small key.  The black key was small. It was smaller than a house key and it seemed bigger than one used for a pad lock. The key had a white knotted string attached to a circular white key tag that had faded through time to a soft yellow hue. One side of the key tag was blank. The other side had the words, “Main - Mellon 4396” written in a faded blue script.  In the dim light of the ballroom it was almost hard to read.   

Monday morning Jessica and Michael walked into the Mellon Bank at 1 Oxford Center on 301 Grant Street. Over the weekend they figured out that the 'Mellon' on the tag represented the name of a bank, Mellon. Mellon Banks were everywhere in the Pittsburgh area. ‘Main’, they figured meant the principal, the prime or the main branch.  After waiting a few minutes in the main lobby, they showed the key with the faded tag to the Assistant Manager, Anthony Grill. Gill wore a black pinstripe suite with a gold silk tie.  A Pittsburgh Steeler pin was attached to his lapel reminding everyone of Sunday’s win over the Cleveland Browns.  Grill led them to his office where he examined the key.  

“This looks like a key to our old safety deposit boxes. The number 4396 designated that this box is on the fourth row, level three. You say you found it in an old jacket?”

“Yes,” Michael said as he pointed to the key. “We bought a World War Two combat jacket at a vintage clothing store a few days ago. I found the key buried in a pocket.”  

Grill rose from behind his desk, “well, lets go have a see.” He led the Robinsons over to the elevator bank, down to the second floor, behind the security counter that lead to the safety deposit boxes.  To the Security Guard at the desk, Grill showed him the key.  He matched the key and the number to another key in a large black box that was bolted to the wall behind his counter. Together, the four of them walked down the corridor behind the counter. Three rows up from the floor was box 4396. Michael placed the two matching keys in the slots, turned the keys and slowly slid the box out from the wall where hundreds of identical twin safety deposit boxes held treasures and sometimes secrets.  Grill and the security guard led Jessica and Michael to a small room where they laid the box on a counter.  

The room was the size of a small closet. It was empty except for the counter in the middle of the room.  With the box placed on the counter, Jessica and Michael looked at each other as they prepared to open it.  

Jessica lifted the lid on the box. Inside the box was a stack of envelopes loosely tied together with yellowed twine.  At the rear of the box was a photograph. It too, even though it was stored in the box, became faded by time. The former white border had yellowed. Michael lifted the picture. He held it up to the ceiling light. The photograph captured a little girl who was dressed in a ragged outfit with an army jacket wrapped around her like a blanket.  Standing beside her, with his arms around her, was a tall American soldier without his combat jacket.  

“Look, the jacket.” Jessica pointed to the 4 x 6 photograph. “Look, the name on the jacket. The jacket in the picture . . . it says, ‘Davis’  That’s the name on your jacket.” A shiver ran down her spine as they looked at the picture. 

“She’s got his jacket!” Staring at photograph his head began to spin. “Jessica, did she have his jacket throughout the war?”

“Michael, look at the picture.”

“I have been.”

“No, I mean, look. The girl. I think she’s in a concentrations camp. The high fence in the back ground. The barbed wire. The flimsy buildings . . .”

“I think you’re right,” he jumped in.  “Yeah, her ragged outfit, it’s got stripes on it.  Those are barracks. That’s a guard tower. She’s in a concentration camp.  But which concentration camp?” 

Jessica searched through the safety deposit box, “Michael, what do you think happened to her?”  She picked up the stack of envelopes when the string, holding them in place, frayed dislodging the envelopes.  Before Jessica could catch them the envelopes flew apart. They fluttered down to the counter before spilling on to the floor creating an ivory colored pile of envelopes.  Gathering up the envelopes, Jessica noticed a name on them: Katarzyna Kranz. Each one was addressed to her.  Some were addressed to Kranz in Budapest, Hungry. Some were addressed to her in Salzburg, Austria. The newest post marked envelopes were addressed to Katarzyna Kranz-Swartz at 6022 Wilkins Ave. Pittsburgh, PA. 15217. 

“Michael, look, she lives in Pittsburgh!” 

“What do you think we should do?”

“I don’t know?”

“We found the key in your coat. This isn’t ours.  Mike,” she paused as she looked at the photograph, “I think we should at least take the key and jacket to her.”

“OK, so we take it to her. And when she asks how did we know where she lives, what are we going to say? Are you going mention that we found the key in the jacket we bought. And we just magically knew that she was the owner?”

“I don’t know. But I know that we need to bring her the key and the jacket. I’m sure it was a mistake to sell the jacket, especially with the key in the pocket.”

“But how are you going to explain how we found her.”

“We’ll think of something.”

“We!”  Michael, shook his head. “I don’t see how we are going to explain how we found her.”

“I don’t know, but we have to give it to her.”

“What if we just lay it on the steps, ring the door bell and run!”

“Michale, Put the box back and lets go and deliver the jacket, with the key.”

“Now?  What about tomorrow. Wouldn’t tomorrow be better?”  Jessica cocked her head and glared at him only the way she could, the way he knew that she meant now without having to say another word. “Come on Jess, how are we going to explain . . .”

“No, you come on. Let’s go,” Jessica interrupted as she carefully placed the picture and envelopes back in the safety deposit box.  Michael picked the box up. He placed it in the open slot, locked it place and took the keys out. He placed ‘his’ key in his pocket and on the way out, he handed the security guard the matching key.  

In their Honda Accord, they placed the key with key tag back in the pocket of the Army combat jacket and laid it on the back seat before heading to Wilkins Avenue in the Squirrel Hill neighborhood of Pittsburgh.  Michael drove while Jessica played navigator directing him across town, through the neighborhood and down the streets. “The house is coming up on the left,” she said. “There it is. And there it goes. You just passed it!”  

“Alright. Up ahead I’ll turn around.” Michael pulled into the parking lot of a synagogue. There he turned around and headed back down Wilkins Avenue until they reached house 6022.  He stopped in front of the two story brick house. A cement sidewalk led past a gas lamp where it ended at a small stoop.  From the car it looked like a short walk. But walking up the sidewalk with the jacket folded under his arm, it seemed like a million mile journey. “So what are we going to say when she answers the door?" 

“Just ring the door bell and we’ll figure it out.”

“Oh sure, Jess.”

Before Michael could ring the bell, the door flung open. 

“We saw you pull up and walk up to the house. What do you want?” The woman, probably in her early sixties was dressed in back slacks with dark gray sweatshirt. Her selves were rolled up to her elbows. With her hands on her hips she demanded an answer with a resolute glare that meant business.   

“We bought this jacket at a vintage clothing store,” 

“Yes,” Michael continued as he held the jacket out towards the woman. The Ever After Boutique in Oakland.”   

“I know the jacket,” the woman said. “Mother must have gotten rid of it when she started thinking about down-sizing.” She paused as she examined the jacket. “Would you like to come in I just made a pot of coffee?” 

In the house, Ruth, brought out a tray of coffee and laid it before them. “Thank you for bringing the jacket,” Ruth said. “It was very important to my mother.” 

Michael smiled, “We’re glad to deliver it to you.” 

“There’s a key in the pocket.” Jesica added.

Ruth opened the pocket and discovered the key. She started to tear up as she held the key. “This is to the safety deposit box.”  She shook her head in disbelief that she had the key back.  “The box holds nothing of monetary value but it held a great treasure for my mother.”

Ruth dried her eyes then took a sip of coffee. “My mother and her family lived in western Poland before the war.  Her father, my grandfather was a mathematics professor.  My grandmother was a musician.  When the Nazis stormed into Poland, she and her family were captured and shipped to Dachau Concentration Camp in Germany. The camp was about ten miles from Munich.”  

She pause to catch her breath. “Every April 29th mother would tell the story of being liberated from the concentration camp.  That day was a day of celebration. Mother would sit in that chair," she pointed to a light blue, high wingback chair that sat near the fireplace.  "She would tell her story about Dachau Concentration Camp to everyone who would listen. Some times there would be a large audience. Just a couple of years ago there was large group of people from our synagogue gathered around her in this room.  Each year mother would explain that there were over 200,000 people from all over Europe imprisoned there.  My mother and her two sisters and brother and parents were six of the prisoners.  Almost 42,000 people were murdered there.  Her family were all executed.  When the camp was liberated by the American Army on April 29, 1945, that’s why on every April 29th she had a special day of remembrance, she was saved.   My mother was the only family member to survive the imprisonment.  Mother used to tell how an American soldiers of 45th Thunderbird Division, came through the gates followed by the red cross who had five trucks loaded with food. She said the American soldiers were shocked and disturbed by what they witnessed in the camp.  Many became angry at what the Nazis did. Some, she said openly weeped. Every year she would tell us that one soldier, Frank Davis, who was a sergeant in the 45th Thunderbird Division saved her. He saw my mother and took compassion on her. He went up to her. He took off his jacket and wrapped her up in it. Someone even took their picture.  

Davis got her some food. He took her to the medics who working out of an army truck.  They examined her and gave her some medicine. Frank Davis never left my mother’s side until the army pulled out and moved on to Munich. For years they communicated writing letters to each other. I think he felt responsible for her.”  

“What happened to him.”  

"A few years back the letters stopped coming. We found out that he died of cancer. He never mentioned that he was sick.” 

Looking around the room, Jessica asked, “How’s your mother?”  

Ruth started to cry.  She rose and picked up a photograph from the fireplace mantle and handed it to the Jessica.  Michael leaned in as Ruth explained that it was taken during a family gathering in the first week of October. “This was the last picture I have of her.”  

Ruth placed the picture back to it’s place of honor. “Mother died at 9:57 a.m. on October 27, 2018. She was in the Tree of Life Synagogue for worship when she and 12 other worshippers were murdered in the sanctuary. She survived Dachau Concentration Camp. And here, in our synagogue during a Shabbat service, she was murdered.”   I missed that service.  I had a sinus infection and stayed home.” She shook her head in disbelief, “you know, it was the only service I missed all year. But now I have her jacket back and her story lives on.”