Where Treasure Hides
Page 1
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Where Treasure Hides
Copyright © 2013 by Johnnie Alexander Donley. All rights reserved.
Cover photographs of woman and London copyright © peter zelei/iStockphoto. All rights reserved.
Cover pattern copyright © manley099/iStockphoto. All rights reserved.
Designed by Kristin Bakken
Edited by Sarah Mason
Published in association with the literary agency of The Steve Laube Agency.
Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version.
Where Treasure Hides is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.
ISBN (e-book) 978-1-4143-8098-8
Build: 2012-12-12 09:06:57
To my mom, Audry Alexander,
for all the books she’s given me.
And to my own treasures,
Bethany, Jill, and Nathaniel.
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Epilogue
About the Author
Discussion Questions
Acknowledgments
Writing is a solitary profession. But God has blessed me with loving family, encouraging friends, and supportive publishing professionals who walk beside me on this journey.
Thank you to the Kindred Heart Writers: Clella Camp, Karen Evans, Laura Groves, and Jeanie Wise. We’ve grown from writing partners to true kindred hearts. Praise God that you all were the answer to my prayer for “someone to eat meals with” as I drove to my first major writers’ conference.
Thank you to Imagine That! Writers: Chandra Smi`th and Rob McClain, and especially Renee Osborne and Pat Trainum. Your critiquing talents are invaluable, and I thank God for each of you.
Thanks to my son-in-law, Justin Jett, who played along when I said, “Pretend you’re a British soldier. What would you do if . . . ?”
Thanks to my dear friends Carol Anne Giaquinto and Mandy Zema for loving an earlier story I wrote so much that they insisted on a sequel. Ian and Alison’s love story would never have been imagined if not for the two of you.
Thank you to my close friend and “first reader” Joy Van Tassel for realizing an important detail I missed. Thanks also to my brother Adam Alexander, David and Linda Jett, Simone Reitzema-van der Burg, Karl Reitzema, and Dick van der Most for answering various questions and sharing photos of Rotterdam.
God answered my prayer for the right agent when Tamela Hancock Murray offered to represent me. Thanks, Tamela, for believing in me and for your insightful advice.
God answered my prayer for the right publisher when Jan Stob acquired this story. Thanks, also, to Sarah Mason for her excellent editorial expertise. It’s great working with you both and the rest of the Tyndale team.
Most of all, thank you to my family. My parents, John and Audry Alexander, encouraged me to read and imagine. My husband, Jeff, created a beautiful scrapbook to celebrate this dream come true. Bethany and Justin and Jillyanne and Jacob gave me the greatest grandkids (more family treasures). And Nate is this mom’s favorite son. I love you all.
CHAPTER ONE
AUGUST 1939
The stringed notes of “Rule, Britannia!” grew louder as the crowd quieted, eyes and ears straining in their search for the violin soloist. The patriotic anthem echoed through Waterloo Station’s concourse, and as the second chorus began, sporadic voices sang the lyrics. Travel-weary Brits stood a little straighter, chins lifted, as the violinist completed the impromptu performance, the last note sounding long after the strings were silenced.
Alison Schuyler gripped her leather bag and threaded her way through the crowd toward the source of the music. As the final note faded inside the hushed terminal, she squeezed between a sailor and his girl, murmuring an apology at forcing them to part, and stepped onto a bench to see over the crowd. A dark-haired boy, no more than seven or eight, held the violin close to his anemic frame. His jacket, made of a finely woven cloth, hung loosely on his thin shoulders. The matching trousers would have slipped down his hips if not for his hand-tooled leather belt.
Either the boy had lost weight or his parents had purposely provided him clothes to grow into. Alison hoped for the latter, though from the rumors she’d heard, her first assumption was all too likely. She stared at the cardboard square, secured by a thick length of twine, that the boy wore as a cheap necklace. The penciled writing on the square numbered the boy as 127.
Other children crowded near the young musician, each one dressed in their fine traveling clothes, each one labeled with cardboard and twine. Germany’s castaways, transported to England for their own safety while their desperate parents paced the floors at home and vainly wished for an end to these troublesome days.
“Now will you allow him to keep his violin?” A man’s voice, pleasant but firm, broke the spell cast over the station. The children fidgeted and a low murmur rumbled through the crowd. The speaker, dressed in the khaki uniform of a British Army officer, ignored them, his gaze intent on the railroad official overseeing the children.
“He better,” said a woman standing near Alison. “Never heard anything so lovely. And the lad not even one of the king’s subjects. I’d take him home myself—yes, I would—if I’d a bed to spare.”
Alison mentally sketched the tableau before her, pinning the details into her memory. The officer’s hand resting on the boy’s shoulder; the official, a whistle around his
neck, restlessly tapping his clipboard with his pencil; the dread and hope in the boy’s eyes as he clutched his prized instrument. The jagged square that tagged his identity.
The travelers at the edge of the children’s irregular circle collectively held their breaths, waiting for the official’s reply. He shifted his glance from the nervous boy to the expectant passengers, reminding Alison of a gopher she had once seen trapped between two growling mongrels. The memory caused her to shudder.
“He might as well. Don’t know what to do with it if he left it behind.” The official waved a plump hand in a dismissive gesture. He certainly hadn’t missed many meals. He blew his whistle, longer than necessary, and Alison flinched at its shriek.
“Get organized now. Numbers one through fifty right here. Fifty-one through a hundred there. The rest of you . . .”
The show over and the hero having won, the onlookers dispersed, their chatter drowning out the official’s instructions to his refugees.
Alison remained standing on the bench, studying the man and the boy. They knelt next to each other, and the boy carefully laid the violin into the dark-blue velvet interior of its case. His slender fingers caressed the polished wood before he shut the lid. The man said something too softly for her to hear, and the boy laughed.
The spark flickered inside her, tingling her fingers, and she knew. This glimpse of a paused moment would haunt her dreams. It rarely occurred so strongly, her overwhelming desire to capture time, to freeze others within movement. She quickly pulled a sketch pad and pencil from her bag. Her fingers flowed lightly over the paper, moving to a rhythm that even she didn’t understand. Tilting her head, she imagined the notes of the violin soaring near the high ceiling, swooping among the arches.
Her pencil danced as she added determination to the man’s jawline and copied the two diamond-shaped stars on his collar. She highlighted the trace of anxiety in the boy’s eyes, so at odds with his endearing smile. What had he left behind? Where he was going? She drew the cardboard square and printed the last detail: 127.
The man clicked shut the brass hinges on the violin case and, taking the boy’s hand, approached the station official. Alison hopped down from the bench and followed behind them, awkwardly balancing the pad, pencil, and her bag.
The brown hair beneath the officer’s military cap had been recently trimmed. A pale sliver, like a chalk line, bordered the inch or so of recently sunburned neck above his crisp collar. Alison guessed he was in his midtwenties, a little older than she. Identifying him, from his bearing and speech, as gentry, she positioned herself near enough to discreetly eavesdrop.
“Where is young Josef here going?” asked the soldier. “Has he been assigned a home?”
The official gave an exaggerated sigh at the interruption. He lifted the cardboard square with his pencil. “Let me see . . . number 127.” He flipped the pages on his clipboard.
“His name is Josef Talbert.”
“Yes, of course, they all have names. I have a name, you have a name, she has a name.” He pointed the eraser end of his pencil, in turn, to himself, to the soldier, and to Alison.
The soldier looked at her, puzzled, and she flushed as their eyes met. Flecks of gold beckoned her into a calm presence, sending a strange shiver along her spine. She turned to leave, but her stylish black pumps seemed to stick to the pavement. She willed her feet to move, to no avail.
When the soldier turned back to the official, Alison thought the spell would break. She needed to go, to forget she had ever felt the pull of his calm determination, to erase those mesmerizing eyes from her memory. But it was too late. The Van Schuyler fate had descended upon her, and she was lost in its clutches. Her heart turned to mush when the soldier spoke.
“My name is Ian Devlin of Kenniston Hall, Somerset. This lad’s name, as I said, is Josef Talbert, recently come from Dresden. That’s in Germany.” He stressed each syllable of the country. “And your name, sir, is . . . ?”
The official scowled and pointed to his badge. “Mr. Randall Hargrove. Just like it says right here.”
Ian nodded in a curt bow and Josef, copying him, did the same. Alison giggled, once more drawing Ian’s attention.
“Miss?”
She flushed again and almost choked as she suppressed the nervous laughter that bubbled within her. “So sorry. My name is Alison Schuyler.”
“You’re an American,” said Ian, more as a statement than a question.
“Born in Chicago.” She bobbed a quick curtsey. “But now living in Rotterdam, as I descend from a long and distinguished line of Dutch Van Schuylers.” Her fake haughtiness elicited an amused smile from Ian.
Mr. Hargrove was not impressed. “Now that we’re all acquainted, I need to get back to sorting out these children.”
Ian’s smile faded. “Mr. Hargrove, please be so kind as to tell me: where are you sending Josef?”
“Says here he’s going to York.” Mr. Hargrove pointed at a line on his sheaf of papers. “He’s got an uncle there who has agreed to take him in.”
Ian knelt beside Josef. “Is that right? You’re going to family?”
“Ja,” Josef said, then switched to English, though he struggled to pronounce the words. “My father’s brother.”
“All right, then.” Ian patted the boy’s shoulder. “Keep tight hold of that violin, okay?”
Josef nodded and threw his arms around Ian’s neck, almost knocking him off balance. “Danke. Tausend dank.”
“You’re welcome,” Ian whispered back.
Alison signed and dated her sketch, then held it out to Josef. “This is for you. If you’d like to have it.”
Josef studied the drawing. “Is this really me?”
“Ja,” Alison said, smiling.
Josef offered the sketch to Ian. “Please. Write your name?”
Ian glanced at Alison, then put his hand on Josef’s shoulder. “I don’t think I should—”
“I don’t mind,” she said.
“You’re sure?”
“For him.” She whispered the words and tilted her head toward Josef.
Borrowing Alison’s pencil, Ian printed his name beside his likeness. He returned the sketch to Josef and tousled the boy’s dark hair. Ian opened his mouth to say something else just as another long blast from the official’s whistle assaulted their ears. They turned toward the sound and the official motioned to Josef.
“Time to board,” he shouted. “Numbers 119 to 133, follow me.” He blew the whistle again as several children separated from the larger group and joined him.
“Go now, Josef,” Ian urged. “May God keep you.”
Josef quickly opened his violin case and laid the sketch on top. He hugged Ian again, hesitated, then hugged Alison. They both watched as he lugged the violin case toward the platform and got in the queue to board the train. He turned around once and waved, then disappeared, one small refugee among too many.
* * *
At just over six feet in height, Ian was used to seeing over most people’s heads. But he couldn’t keep track of little Josef once the boy boarded the train. Watch over him, Father. May his family be good to him.
“I hope he’ll be all right,” said Alison.
“I hope so too.”
“So many of them.” She gestured toward the remaining children who waited their turn to board.
Ian scanned the young faces, wishing he could do something to take away the fear in their anxious eyes. “Their families are doing what they think best.”
“Sending them away from their homes?”
“Removing them from Hitler’s reach.” Ian turned his attention to the American artist. He could detect her Dutch heritage in her features. Neither tall nor slender enough to be called statuesque, she wore her impeccably tailored crimson suit with a quiet and attractive poise.
“It’s called the Kindertransport.”
“I’ve heard of it. Are they all from Germany?”
“A few come from Austria. Or what used to be
Austria before the Anschluss. The lucky ones have relatives here. The rest are placed in foster homes.”
“Jewish children.”
“Most of them.”
While he spoke, he held Alison’s gaze. She reminded him of a summer day at the seashore. Her blonde hair, crowned with a black, narrow-brimmed hat, fell in golden waves below her shoulders. Her pale complexion possessed the translucent quality of a seashell’s pearl interior. The gray-blue of her eyes sparkled like the glint of the sun on the deep waves.
“Josef played beautifully.” Even her voice felt warm and bright. “He’s very talented.”
“So are you. Your sketch was skillfully done.”
“That’s kind of you to say.” A charming smile lit up her face. “At least I’m good enough to know how good I’m not.”
Ian took a moment to puzzle that out and chuckled. “You made me better-looking than I am, and I appreciate that. For Josef’s sake, of course.”
“I assure you, Mr. Devlin, there was no flattery.”
Ian smiled at her American accent and tapped his insignia. “Lieutenant. But please, call me Ian.”
“Ian.” Alison tucked away her pad and pencil. “I suppose I should go now.”
Her words burrowed into Ian’s gut. He couldn’t let her leave, not yet. “To Rotterdam? Or Chicago?”
She glanced at her watch. “Apparently neither. I found myself so inspired by a young boy and his violin that I missed my train.”
Ian felt as if he’d been handed a gift. Or had he? Suddenly aware of an absence, he looked around expectantly. “Are you traveling alone?”
A twinge of her apparent impropriety tensed Alison’s mouth and chin but didn’t dim the sparkle of her clear eyes. “Quite modern of me, don’t you think?”
“Rather foolish,” Ian began, but stopped himself. “Though it’s not for me to say.”
“You’re perfectly right, of course. My great-aunt accompanied me to Paris, but she became ill and I couldn’t stay away any longer. So I left her to recuperate within walking distance of all the best dress shops on the Champs-Élysées, and voila! Here I am. Alone and unchaperoned.”
Ian drew back in surprise and raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Wait a minute. You’re traveling from Paris to Rotterdam via London? Most people take the shortcut through Belgium.”