engrossing detail of what I'd find there.
And I was, too, but only for a moment. Only until I recognized the uniforms.
These were combat-ready troops all right-World War II-vintage soldiers circa 1940 or so. But these weren't my old G.I. pals, not by a long shot.
No, Gunter Gebhardt's soldiers were German troops, down to the last tiny, gruesome detail. On each hand- painted, khaki-colored uniform, the awful black-and-white swastika insignias were clearly visible.
7
I'm not sure why it surprised me so, but the shock on my face must have been readily apparent.
'Gunter's father was a piliot in the Luftwaffe,' Else explained. 'He was killed shortly before D-day. Gunter's been making these soldiers for years. It was his way of honoring a father he barely knew.'
I only half heard what Else Gebhardt was saying. I was studying the collection of miniature soldiers in their painstakingly painted Nazi uniforms and thinking about my own father. He died just before D-day as well. Same war. Different side.
Looking around the basement now, I saw it through different eyes and felt as though I had been given a glimpse of not one but two dead men-an unsung war hero, a man who had presumably died honorably while fighting on the wrong side of a lost cause. And his son, who had spent his entire adult life living in a country where his father's wartime exploits would have been anathema to anyone Gunter chose to tell. Rather than discussing his father aloud, he had created this secret basement shrine.
I wondered if Gunter Gebhardt ever knew how lucky he was. He had been fortunate enough to find a wife who had understood and accepted his need to honor his father. I saw Else Gebhardt in a whole new light as well.
'How did your husband happen to come to this country?' Sue Danielson asked.
Else beckoned for us to follow her and led us to a small workbench area where three tall stools were grouped around a waist-high countertop. We each settled on a stool.
'I've never been quite clear on how it happened, but somehow Gunter and his mother ended up in Norway after the war. Her name was Isolde. That's where the name of Gunter's boat came from. She married a Norwegian fisherman named Einar Aarniessen who happened to be my father's second cousin. When Gunter was in his mid- teens, both his mother and stepfather were killed in an automobile accident. When Gunter wanted to come to this country, my father sponsored him.'
'That's how you two met?' I asked.
Else nodded. 'I didn't know it then, but I think it was a put-up deal. My father wanted a son, you see- someone to fish with, someone to leave his business to. And since his only child was a girl-me-the best Daddy could hope for was a suitable son-in-law. As far as that was concerned, Gunter was perfect. He was a hard worker. He didn't smoke or drink.'
Unlike a certain hell-raising boyfriend named Champagne Al Torvoldsen, I thought. I said, 'Gunter didn't smoke, he didn't drink, and he needed a father.'
'That, too,' Else Gebhardt said with a wistful little half-smile that made me wonder if she, too, was comparing those two very different young men as they must have been back then-the wild-haired, happy-go-lucky Alan and the straight-arrow, serious Gunter.
She gave me a searching look. 'I suppose you knew we had to get married?'
I shook my head. What must have seemed like the central tragedy of her teenage years had been invisible to me and probably to most of the other kids at Ballard High as well.
'I mean, I had to marry someone,' she added, 'and Alan was long gone. My father saw to that. Fortunately for me, Gunter stepped in, but then I lost the baby anyway, when I was five months along. Our own daughter-Gunter's and mine-wasn't born until much later, when we were both beginning to believe we would never have a child.'
Else shook her head sadly. 'It's funny, isn't it, the things you think about at a time like this. Gunter and I had a good life together. He was a difficult person to understand at times, but we got along all right. I wasn't in love with him when we got married, but I came to love him eventually.'
She was silent for a moment, looking across the room at the shelves filled with handmade soldiers. It seemed to me that she welcomed the chance to talk, to unburden herself of the secrets she had kept bottled up for years.
'It's strange. My father adored the ground Gunter walked on. My mother liked him all right at first, but later, especially these last few years, it seemed as though she resented every breath he took. Then there's my daughter, Kari. Not just my daughter, she's Gunter's daughter, too. Kari hasn't spoken to him or to me for almost four years now. And that boyfriend of hers wouldn't let me talk to her today, wouldn't even let me give her the news that her father is dead. I don't know if she'll bother to come to his funeral.'
Else Gebhardt stopped speaking and looked bleakly from Sue Danielson to me. 'I'm sorry to go blithering like this. You probably hear these kinds of sordid little tales time and again, don't you? And I don't suppose you stopped by expecting to hear all this ancient history.'
'It helps,' Sue Danielson put in quickly. 'It allows us to form a more complete picture of who-all is involved. Besides you, who can tell us about your husband's associates, his working relationships?'
'If you ask around Fishermen's Terminal or the Norwegian Commercial Club, I'd imagine most people would tell you that Gunter drove a hard bargain, and that's true. He wasn't easy to get along with, but he was a man of his word. And there was no one in the world he was harder on than on Gunter Gebhardt himself.'
'He took over your father's fishing business?' I asked. 'Or did Gunter buy your father out?'
A pained shadow crossed Else's face. 'My father had a heart attack at age fifty-seven. He was totally disabled for five years before he died. If it hadn't been for Gunter, Daddy and Mother would have lost everything-the house, the boat, the cabin on Whidbey Island.'
She shook her head. 'Nobody ever handed Gunter anything on a silver platter. He worked like a dog to hold it all together. And it paid off. We own this house free and clear, BoBo. And the boat as well. We don't owe a dime on it, either. That's why, even these last few years when the fishing openers have been so short and when every man and his dog were out there trying to grab what few fish were left to catch, Gunter was still able to make it and do all right.
'We were lucky. For one thing, when the iron curtain fell, Gunter got in on the ground floor with some of the new joint-venture things coming out of Russia. For another, we didn't owe any money while everyone else was being eaten alive by interest rates.'
Something was starting to bother me. Else Gebhardt was talking a blue streak, telling us all kinds of things we hadn't asked and didn't necessarily need to know. I wondered if we weren't being fed a line of some kind; if the tales Else was telling us were nothing more than a thick smoke screen designed to hide something else-something she didn't want to say.
'What happened last night?' I asked, inserting the question in a place where Else had most likely only paused for breath.
'What do you mean?'
'What was he doing down at the boat in the middle of the night in the middle of the winter?'
A slight flush crept up Else Gebhardt's neck. 'He stayed there sometimes. Overnight.'
'Why?'
'Because he wanted to.'
I don't like boats much. They smell of diesel fuel and grease and dead fish and mold. They're dank and damp and cold.
'Why?' I asked again. 'In the winter, if someone can choose between sleeping in a hard, narrow bunk on a boat or in a nice warm bed in a cozy house like this one, you'd have to be crazy to choose the bunk.'
'We had a fight,' Else said quietly. 'He left the house and said he wasn't coming back.'
'What did you fight about?'
'My mother. She's the one thing we've always fought over. You see, this house belonged to my parents originally. We bought it from them, and Daddy used the money to buy an annuity for Mother, so she'd have some
