Because the murder had been kept “secret” for so long, it had taken on mythological proportions. Yet here was the proof, the tangible evidence that it really had happened. In the dead of night, in the privacy of her own home, Rina gingerly slit open the manila envelope postmarked from Munich and, with shaking hands, pulled out the papers within, photocopies of documents dated from the late 1920s. Mama had always said she was ten when it happened, but now it appeared that she’d been even younger. The faded writing would be almost indecipherable even if it had been in English. It was going to take more than her knowledge of Yiddish to make out the text.
The envelope had arrived in the late-afternoon mail. This was her first opportunity to view the pages without the kids or Peter as distractions.
She hadn’t told him. It had happened so spontaneously, during one of Rina’s solo strolls through the Bavarian capital, getting some air while he had been sleeping off jet lag. She had taken the walk to shake off that niggling restlessness plaguing her since the plane had touched down on German soil.
To think that she had chosen Munich for leisure. Then again, she’d had only one week to plan something, so her options had been limited. Mainly, she had given in to laziness. She had been so tired after New York’s ordeal that she was more than willing to leave it up to a third party. And it wasn’t as if she and Peter had any choice. Peter was on the verge of total shutdown. They needed to get away.
