A mashed potatoe manuscript

Martin Weiher carefully wrote a response to Schneider. He was vague in his words and didn't write whether he was opposed to the idea or inclined to take it. Marlene walked as he'd just finished. She stared over his shoulder and remarked: "Why didn't you write Heil Hitler at the bottom of the page? And why didn't you use our typewriter?"

"I wasn't quite done yet, love." Martin said gruffly and quickly sketched a 'Heil Hitler!" in the bottom right corner. "And I thought such an important matter could be written by hand."

"Alright. Well, if it's about a job offer please take it. Our savings won't last forever." She smiled at him and put her hand on his shoulder. "I'm sure you'll still have plenty of time to write your books even with a profession. You may even find inspiration!" She kissed his cheek and moved out of the room. But she turned back in the doorway. "Also, I'm feeling much better. Especially in the lower belly. I think I've healed quite splendidly."

Martin just nodded and smiled. He had no idea what she was referring to, and he was too caught up in whether he should retype the letter or leave it in script. He picked up the paper and marveled at the beautiful cursive. Franz Weiher had an arm and a hand for writing. Suddenly his head jerked upwards in a sudden movement. Their newborn was only a few months old, wasn't he? And she'd spoken of her lower belly. 

Martin shot onto his feet and crossed the room hurridly to the cabinet she'd gestured to as she'd spoken of the typewriter. He quickly carried the heavy thing over to the desk and began to type. It took him a few tries to learn how to use the typewriter, and half-typed half-empty papers began to litter the floor around him. He changed the tone of his letter entirely and wrote quite enthusiastically about the offer in Strassburg. The last thing Martin wanted was to start creating thousands of excuses as to why he wouldn't sleep with Marlene, especially since Franz had seemed to be sort of a sex addict and his excuses would have had to be well thought out. 

He licked the top of the envelope and stuck the letter inside. He found an address but after a few minutes of searching the des, jutted it down on the front. He topped it all off with a stamp of the Reichstag and then carried it to the kitchen table where he set it down and asked Marlene to bring it out when she had the time.

***

Martin knew that he needed to find the manuscripts. They had to be somewhere, didn't they? But he hadn't found them in the study. Asking Marlene was out of the question, she'd think he'd gone absolutely mad. He needed to come up with a plan. To somehow ask her something related to the books he'd been writing without raising suspicion. What could he ask? But before he could think it through she jabbed a spoon of what looked like mashed potatoes at his chest.

"Try it." She said. "Does it need more cream?" 

He took the spoon and gingerly tried the potatoes. Martin had never been a fan of any kind of potato that wasn't either distilled into vodka or cut up in thin slices and salted. To his surprise, Marlene's mashed potatoes tasted wonderful. "No, it's perfect, Marlene," he said and dipped the spoon into the mush again, "don't change anything about it." 

"Franz! Don't be so barbaric, at least wash the spoon before you put it back in there!" She shooed him out of the kitchen. He turned to hand her the spoon and leaned down. For the first time, he noticed how much taller he was than Marlene, the top of her head only reached his shoulder.

"Where do I keep the paper I use for my manuscripts, I've forgotten where I put it."

"In the attic, somewhere in one of your cabinets."

"Wonderful, thank you, love, I don't know what I would do without you." She blushed at his words but pushed him out of the kitchen.

He took the stairs up to the attic two at a time. He skimmed through the second floor of their house which was the children's rooms and the nursery, then he climbed up the little ladder in the corner of the upstairs washroom, pushed up the trapdoor, and slipped into the attic. 

It was nothing like the attic his family had in the US. The floor was clear, and all the things they had were neatly stacked on shelves or on the desk that stood near a window, under the slanted room. He strode over to it, having to bend his head to not hit the ceiling, but once he sat down at the desk he saw that he had a wonderful view of their street and the fields beyond. It was the perfect place to write a book, not that he knew too much about anything more than amateur writing, but he could tell that this was a place where great stories could be spun to life. 

At first glance, he'd already found where the manuscripts were. On the desk, there stood a small, locked wooden box. He rummaged in his coat for the keychain he'd noticed in one of his pockets earlier. There were about seven different keys but he managed to find the one that fit on the second try. 

Martin opened the box eagerly.

To his surprise, there were no books or large stacks of papers that were yet to be bound into one. 

The contents of the box were simply letters and a few scarce pages which had been folded together neatly. Where in God's name were the manuscripts?