While the spirit is still upon us, author Anne Montgomery
shares a spirited story about a New Year’s Eve she will never forget. This essay
is the work of a writer skilled at her craft, and the way we know it is that
she “shows” us rather than “tells” us the story. Enjoy!!! –Linda Lee Greene
Author/Artist
AN UNFORGETTABLE NEW YEAR’S EVE
Every year for decades I have wondered whether the coming New
Year’s Eve celebration could top the one I experienced in 1976. So far,
nothing’s come close. So, in honor of that long ago evening, I will share the
story again.
Vianden Castle is one of scores in Luxembourg, but it would be a castle in nearby France that would be the setting for an unforgettable New Year’s Eve.
Forty-seven years ago, I
faced a young man I had just met.
“Come with me,” he said.
I had arrived in
Luxembourg, that wee country squeezed by Germany, France and Belgium, just two
days earlier, the beginning of a six-month stint abroad at my university’s
branch campus. I had been placed with Kurt and Margareta Schroeder: Swedes, two
of the loveliest people I have ever met. Lennart was their son.
“She’s an old friend,” he
explained about the woman who owned the castle. “Every New Year’s Eve we go
there and celebrate.”
I did not, at that point,
sense there was something he wasn’t telling me. Sweet Margareta, who would,
over the course of my stay, squeeze me orange juice and provide fresh-baked
bread with honey and jam each morning, assured me that the short drive into
France would be fun and that her blond, blue-eyed boy with the mass of unruly
curls would take good care of me.
“Sure, I’ll go. What
should I wear?”
“It’s a drafty, dirty old
castle,” Lennart said. “Just wear jeans.”
Later, we drove past open
fields and woodlands where trees stood naked and lacy, having long ago shed their
leaves. Pewter clouds pressed from above. The chill made me glad to be wrapped
in a turtleneck, heavy sweater, and ski jacket. My straight-legged Levi’s
topped rugged hiking boots. As the countryside raced by, I wondered what a
“dirty, old castle” might look like. I’d spent my life in New Jersey, a place
pretty much devoid of castles of any kind.
Lennart turned onto a
narrow road, like the rest, a quaint blend of forest and rolling pastures.
“This is part of the
estate,” he said. “She inherited two thousand acres from her grandfather.”
A six-foot, white marble sculpture depicting this famous scene of
Washington crossing the Delaware incongruously rested halfway up the castle’s
front stairs.
When he pulled onto the
circular drive, I stared at the massive, two-story stone structure that was
maybe four-hundred years old. As we mounted a wide, white stairway, I
considered the odd placement of a sculpture that appeared to be George
Washington and his men on their fabled crossing of the Delaware. The piece
rested halfway up the staircase. I would soon learn that the statue’s haphazard
placement was a remnant of the castle’s World War II occupation by Nazi
officers who were caught amidst their attempts to steal artwork. The sculpture
was left on the stairs as the soldiers fled an attack by local French citizens
and there it remained.
“The castle has
sixty-four rooms,” Lennart said. “But we only use a few of them. It costs too
much to keep the heat on.”
Marie greeted us in
French and with two kisses, one on each check for Lennart. She eyed me
quizzically. I couldn’t help but notice her modelesque frame squeezed into
impossibly tight jeans. A scarlet, long-sleeved shirt similarly hugged her
curves, revealing a hint of cleavage, and perfectly matching red lipstick
highlighted her lips. Raven hair hung loose down her back. High, black heels clacked
with each step.
My hiking boots suddenly
felt heavy. My cuffed Levi’s a bit too rustic.
Marie chattered on with
Lennart in French, one of five languages he conversed in fluently. “She doesn’t
speak English,” he whispered.
My French was pathetic. I
could read menus and road signs and order wine, if I had to. But I didn’t need
to understand the language to see there was something between them.
Marie led us into a dining room where a long table was set with
linens and crystal. A chandelier sparkled above, throwing shadowed light on 16th century
oil paintings. Over the course of the evening, eight other Parisians would join
us, not one of whom spoke English.
Multiple bottles of wine
and champagne were uncorked. When we were all seated, a silver tray appeared
from the kitchen bearing a massive fish. I wondered if poisson was the
traditional New Year’s Eve repast, as I requested another serving. I didn’t
notice I was the only one asking for seconds.
I was surprised when the
next platter appeared. And even more so when subsequent others arrived. I knew,
without being told, that to decline an offering would be rude. As I needed a
pause before the next course circled the table, I was greatly appreciative when
we ran out of wine and Lennart explained we would have to trek to the cellar
for more. One dark-haired, animated man—who I was told was a popular French
comedian—led us through the castle’s murky halls and stairways. He started
singing Gregorian chants, which seemed both fitting and a bit sacrilegious when
we arrived at the family chapel, replete with alter and pews and cross. More
than a bit tipsy, we joined him, our voices echoing off ancient stone walls.
We wound our way through the dark halls of the castle until we
reached a wine cellar, where some bottles were over
100 years old.
We retrieved myriad dusty
bottles of wine, some over 100 years old. As you might expect, much of the rest
of the evening is a bit of a blur. But sometime later, I woke in a bedroom
shrouded in shadow. I could hear the ticking of a grandfather clock and loud
stomping. Boots hitting the floor over and over. But my wine-addled brain and
warm covers precluded me from investigating.
The next morning, I asked
Lennart if I could see the clock. He translated my request. Marie, tilted her
head.
“The clock was removed
from that room many years ago,” Lennart said.
I wondered if the Nazis
were to blame, but I didn’t ask.
“And the stomping?” I
waited while Lennart spoke with Marie.
“That is the German
soldier,” he translated. “He was caught in the courtyard when the Nazis were
fleeing. He was killed there. Later, Marie’s grandfather took the man’s skull
and placed it in his library. The soldier has been marching around the castle
at night ever since.”
I stared at Marie. Her
shrug told me a stomping Nazi ghost was no big deal in an old French castle.
On the drive back to
Luxembourg, Lennart would confess that he and Marie had dated for years. This
was the first New Year’s Eve celebration they weren’t a couple. He knew she was
seeing someone and didn’t want to go to the castle alone. He did not disuuade
the others when they inquired if we were dating.
Over four-and-a-half
decades of New Year’s Eve celebrations have passed since my trip into the
French countryside, an evening filled with subterfuge, fabulous food, old wine,
a stomping ghost, and an invisble grandfather clock.
I’m pretty sure nothing
will ever top that.
The past and present collide when a tenacious reporter seeks
information on an eleventh century magician…and uncovers more than she
bargained for.
WOLF CATCHER
Anne Montgomery
Historical Fiction/Suspense
TouchPoint Press
February 2, 2022
In 1939, archeologists
uncovered a tomb at the Northern Arizona site called Ridge Ruin. The man,
bedecked in fine turquoise jewelry and intricate bead work, was surrounded by
wooden swords with handles carved into animal hooves and human hands. The Hopi
workers stepped back from the grave, knowing what the Moochiwimi sticks meant.
This man, buried nine hundred years earlier, was a magician.
Former television
journalist Kate Butler hangs on to her investigative reporting career by
writing freelance magazine articles. Her research on The Magician shows he bore
some European facial characteristics and physical qualities that made him
different from the people who buried him. Her quest to discover The Magician’s
origin carries her back to a time when the high desert world was shattered by
the birth of a volcano and into the present-day dangers of archeological
looting where black market sales of antiquities can lead to murder.
REVIEW COPIES OF WOLF CATCHER AVAILABLE UPON REQUEST
Contact: Chelsea Pieper, Publicity Manager, Media Liaison
Review/interview requests: media@touchpointpress.com
Pre-orders available here.
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