Where Treasure Hides

by Johnnie Alexander Donley

  “Try this.” Will thrust a wooden spoon, its bowl filled with soup, toward Alison’s mouth.

  She sipped the hot chowder while he held the spoon and waited for her verdict. “Mmm. It’s delicious.”

  With a pleased smile, he stirred the pot and sampled it for himself. “Not as good as Mother’s,” he said wistfully.

  “No one made chowder like she did. But yours is much better than mine.” She shaped the last of the dough into a miniature roll and wiped her hands on her apron. “I’m glad you’re so willing to help with the cooking, Will. We’d be starving otherwise.”

  “I guess being a bachelor all these years has had its benefits.”

  “I’m amazed no one has snapped you up.”

  “They try,” he laughed. “But I’m too slippery for them.”

  “There’s truly no one?”

  “Aren’t you the curious cat?”

  “Don’t tell me, then.”

  “There’s nothing to tell,” he protested, taking bowls out of the cupboard. “I’m still waiting to meet the girl that turns my heart upside down. I won’t settle for less.”

  “Be careful what you wish for, Will. Sometimes an upside-down heart hurts.”

  “You still haven’t heard from him?”

  She pressed her lips together and shook her head, intent on counting out two napkins and placing them just so beside their plates. She still prayed that Ian was among the many Dunkirk evacuees, safe and sound in England. But as the days passed with no word from him, her hope was slipping away.

  “Perhaps you could write his parents.”

  “They may not know anything about me.”

  “You said he had a sister.”

  “In London.”

  “Write to her.”

  Alison met his gaze. “Do you really think I should? That it’s proper?”

  Will chuckled as he wiped flour from her chin. “Etiquette may be one of the first casualties of war. You write the letter, and I’ll figure out a way to mail it.”

  “You can do that?” She pulled the rolls from the oven and, burning her fingers, arranged them in a wicker basket.

  “I may be able to do more than that.”

  Put on her guard by a curious tone in his voice, Alison looked up from the bread basket. His back was to her as he ladled the chowder into bowls.

  “What can you do?”

  He carried the bowls to the table. “Sit down and I’ll tell you.”

  She took her seat, and Will folded his hands to say grace. Following his amen, he buttered a roll. “Remember when you told me about the Kindertransport?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your father wants me to start our own version.”

  “Is that necessary?” Alison thought about the children she knew, the sons and daughters of neighbors and customers. She couldn’t imagine their parents agreeing to such a plan.

  Will shrugged. “He seems to think so. Mostly he wants you out of Holland. He’s asked me to take you to America.”

  “You’re to go with me?” She could hardly believe that’s what Papa planned. “I thought he wanted to leave too.”

  “Obviously he’s changed his mind.”

  “I’m not going.”

  “Perhaps you should consider it. I think we’d all feel better knowing you were safe.”

  “I wouldn’t feel better. If I have to go, we should all go.”

  Will added homemade raspberry jam to his roll with such care that Alison knew he was gathering his thoughts. “There is work to do here. Necessary work, but dangerous. I won’t take you all the way to America, but I can get you to England. You can arrange passage from there.”

  “What is this work?”

  “It takes different forms.”

  “I want to help.”

  “This isn’t a game, Alison.” He stared into her eyes. “And there’s much more at stake than hiding a bunch of old paintings.”

  “They’re not just a bunch of old paintings.” She frowned, irritated at how easily he dismissed the importance of protecting the Masters.

  Will glanced at her scar, and she self-consciously bent her head, hiding it with her hair. He touched her arm and she lifted her eyes to his. “Do you have the courage to risk your life for the children as quickly as you did for that painting?”

  Alison wanted to say yes—of course, yes. But how could she know? She pressed her fingers against her scar. It was there because she had acted without thinking. Courage had nothing to do with it. Courage was deliberate, like when Ian stood up for little Josef. The image of the boy’s sweet smile as he talked to his hero nestled in her memory.

  “Truth be told,” Will said, interrupting her thoughts, “we need you. The Nazis are less suspicious of women.” He looked at her appraisingly, as if he’d never seen her before. “You’re pretty enough to be a distraction.”

  Then he smiled sheepishly. “Please don’t tell your father I said that.”

  “You’ll let me join your work?”

  “I’d like to. But your father will never agree.”

  “It’s not his decision. It’s mine,” she said firmly. “Let me help the children.” Somehow she’d find the courage she needed. For Josef’s sake. And for Ian’s, wherever he might be.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  APRIL 1941

  Freed from solitary confinement, Ian walked ahead of the guard into Major Krueger’s office located on the second floor of the German wing of the castle. At one time, the room had been a library with shelves against three walls. On the fourth wall, tall windows provided a view of the inner courtyard formed by the four wings of the square castle.

  A fireplace, situated between the windows, confined a short stack of burning logs. Standing just inside the door, Ian could barely feel the fire’s meager heat. After twelve days locked in a stone cellar, with only a tattered blanket for warmth, he longed to stretch his chilled limbs before those flames.

  The major sat behind a plain pine table more suited to the kitchens than the archbishop’s fifteenth-century library. He gestured for the guard to leave and shut the door behind him. Leaning back in his wooden chair, the major gave Ian the once-over and waved toward the fireplace. “Warm yourself, Lieutenant. As best you can in this dismal place.”

  Ian crouched before the fireplace, grimacing as his knees creaked. Extending his chapped hands to the heat, he closed his eyes and put his unshaven face as close to the flames as he dared.

  “Why?” asked Krueger.

  “It’s my duty.” Ian tilted his head toward the major and grinned. “And the war isn’t over yet.”

  “For you, it is.”

  “Not if I get home.”

  With an exasperated look, Krueger rose from his chair and straightened the hem of his belted tunic. “Always the same. You disappear. My guards find you and bring you back.” He poured brandy into two glasses and offered one to Ian. “Do you enjoy solitary confinement?”

  “I enjoy freedom.” Ian stood, unconsciously rubbing his shoulder as he turned his back to the fireplace and eyed the brandy snifter.

  “None of us are free.” Krueger pressed the snifter into Ian’s hand. “Drink it, Lieutenant. We won’t be seeing each other again.”

  Ian looked puzzled. “Are you being transferred?”

  “You are.”

  “Why?”

  “Three escape attempts last summer. As soon as spring arrives, you try again. Since you are not content with my hospitality, the Third Reich is sending you to a place from which there is no escape.”

  A cold shiver raced up Ian’s spine, followed immediately by an incomprehensible peace. “Do you mean to kill me?” he asked calmly.

  “Those are not my orders.” Krueger stiffened and thrust out his chin. “Besides, I would not condone such senseless carnage.”

  Since the day Ian arrived at the archbishop’s castle, Krueger had been an enigma. He required precise military discipline from his guards and punished the prisoners in strict accordance with the
Geneva Convention. But he didn’t lord his position over his men or let them mistreat the POWs. Food rations were shared equally among the captors and the captives.

  Ian swirled the brandy, mesmerized for a moment by its amber translucence. He swallowed a mouthful, relishing its warmth in his throat. “How did you end up here, Major?”

  “It’s where I prefer to be.” Krueger clasped his hands behind his back and stared out one of the windows. “There’s no killing here.”

  “There’d be no killing at all if not for your Führer,” Ian said boldly, then tensed as he waited for Krueger’s reaction.

  But the major only stared out the window. After a long moment, he poured more brandy into his glass and glanced at the door. Facing Ian, he spoke in a low, deliberate voice. “I love Germany. I love her art, her music, her literature. But I hate what she has become. Here I do what I can to alleviate the imprisonment of the Führer’s enemies. But they are not my enemies. You are not my enemy.”

  He clinked his snifter against Ian’s. “To your freedom, Lieutenant Devlin. And to mine.”

  “To freedom.”

  Both men emptied their glasses.

  “So.” Ian exhaled. “Where am I going?”

  “An inescapable fortress. Colditz Castle.”

  “A new challenge.”

  “Be careful, Lieutenant. The commander there may have sharper eyes than mine.”

  “Are you saying—?”

  Krueger held up a warning hand. “I could not allow you to get far. You understand?”

  “The next time you take your holiday in England,” Ian said with a grin, “come to Somerset. Kenniston Hall. We’ll go fishing.”

  The corners of Krueger’s lips turned up into a slight smile, but his eyes appeared plaintive. “God go with you, Ian.”

  “And with you, Sebastian.”

  Krueger gave a slight nod, then brusquely returned to his desk. “Enter,” he said loudly. The guard waiting outside opened the door. “Return the prisoner to his quarters. He is to take the transport to Colditz tomorrow at 0700.”

  * * *

  Colditz Castle, sharp-edged and solid except for the rounded clock tower, sprawled atop a stone promontory high above the surrounding town. A dry moat encircled the gray walls and a large sign, Oflag IV-C, hung across the stone arch leading into the ancient fortress. When Ian and the other transferred prisoners passed under the arch into the central courtyard, they were greeted by shouts from other POWs leaning out of the windows high above their heads. Colorful banners fluttered in the slight breeze. The British Union Jack. The French drapeau tricolore. The Dutch red, white, and blue, and the Belgian black, yellow, and red.

  Ian, Captain Mitch Harris, and two other British POWs were processed into Oflag IV-C with impeccable German efficiency. They returned to the courtyard, where the senior officer of the British contingent introduced himself.

  “Everybody around here calls me Dodge,” he said.

  “Is this place as escape-proof as they say?” Ian asked, staring up at the high walls and the watchtowers.

  “Several have tried, but most get caught within a day.” Dodge chomped on the stump of an unlit cigar. “Though two of the Poles made it all the way to Krakow before the goons caught up to them. They returned to our happy little league of nations the day before yesterday.”

  “So it’s not impossible,” said one of the newcomers, a lieutenant who bounced on the balls of his feet like a skittish colt.

  “One of the Frenchies took off last week. We’ll throw him a bash just for trying as soon as he gets back.”

  “Sounds like you want him to get caught,” said the lieutenant.

  “You bet I do.” Dodge spoke around the cigar stump. “We can’t have a Frenchy scoring the first home run, now can we? It’s a matter of honor.”

  The British officers laughed in agreement. To score a home run out of Colditz, to make it all the way back to Britain—that kind of bragging rights would get an escapee a free drink in any pub in England.

  “I volunteer,” Ian said. “The sooner the better.”

  “All in good time, my boy.” Dodge pointed toward a wall extending from the clock tower. “Those are the punishment cells. The prodigal Poles are in there now. Will be for another two or three weeks. Above them—” he pointed—“the French quarters. Near the top, right below the attics, that’s where you boys will be lodging.”

  Gazing upward, Ian inwardly sighed and rubbed his shoulder. He had hoped to escape during the trip, but the guards had been especially vigilant. No wonder, since each of their prisoners had a reputation for disappearing. Now here he was, inside the so-called inescapable fortress. He glanced around the irregular courtyard and the massive walls that met at odd angles. Inside those walls, he guessed, must be more than a hundred rooms, joined together by a maze of hallways, stairs, and alcoves.

  “How mean are the guards?” asked Harris.

  Dodge shrugged. “They’re mostly veterans from the Great War. Or babies too young to fight. Not a bad lot, really. You’ll learn quick enough who’s who and what’s what.”

  Shouts came from across the courtyard, drawing their attention. Two prisoners, dressed in gray, were brushing dirt onto a third while two German guards argued with each other.

  “What’s going on?” Ian asked.

  “A Polish ritual,” answered Dodge. “If a guard even barely touches one of them, his buddies dust him down. None of them will even speak to a German except through a translator.”

  “I can’t say I blame them.”

  “Me either, the way they’re treated.” Dodge removed the cigar stump and stared at it a moment. “The Nazis say that the Geneva Convention only applies to recognized states. Since Poland no longer exists, the Polish officers aren’t protected.”

  Ian shook his head in disgust. “They get away with that?”

  “One of the reasons we’re fighting this war, Lieutenant.”

  * * *

  Ian and Mitch settled into a square room with two wood-framed beds, a wardrobe, and a small desk. From the lone window, Ian could see the thick wall enclosing the dry moat.

  “Found a way out of here yet?” Mitch tested the thin mattress.

  “Sure. All we need are wings.”

  Mitch grinned. “When the time is right, Dev, God will see us home.”

  “You aren’t making plans to leave us already, are you?” Dodge said from the doorway, chomping the cigar stump.

  “Only thinking about it,” said Ian.

  “When you start doing more than just thinking, I’ll want to know about it.”

  “You’re the escape officer?”

  Dodge nodded. “Each nation here has one. We meet together, keep each other apprised of what our boys are doing.”

  Mitch ran his fingers through his hair. “Isn’t that risky?”

  “Not as risky as unintentionally working against each other. Despite what I said in the courtyard, I don’t want to be responsible for messing up anyone’s attempt to get home.” He smiled around the cigar. “Not even a Frenchy’s.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  MAY 1942

  Alison didn’t relax until the train pulled out of the rural station for the three-hour trip to Rotterdam. She untied the paisley scarf and slid it from her hair, twisting it between her fingers to relieve her tension. Two more Jewish children, a twelve-year-old girl and her nine-year-old sister, were now safely hidden from Nazi eyes thanks to the hospitality of a dairy farmer and his wife.

  Besides delivering the sisters to their new home, she had found two additional families willing to open their hearts and homes. God knew the need was dire. In the two years since Germany first invaded Holland, the laws imposed on the Jewish people had become increasingly heinous. Hundreds of German Jews who had fled to Holland before the invasion were already imprisoned in the camp at Westerbork.

  Now Dutch Jews were being systematically rounded up and transported to the northeastern camp. Alison had heard rumors that trains rou
tinely transported prisoners from Westerbork to unknown destinations.

  Prisoners! Since when was being Jewish a crime?

  Closing her eyes, she breathed a short prayer for the safety of the children she had left behind. Finding appropriate homes was becoming more difficult, and a few of the farmers volunteered because they wanted free labor. But Alison had to accept that even those farms were safer for the children than Westerbork.

  Even she, with her vivid imagination, could not envision how horrid that overcrowded camp must be. No more than she could envision the fortress that imprisoned Ian.

  She opened her purse and slipped out the letter from him that had arrived yesterday, just before she had left Rotterdam with the children. The form, printed on glossy paper, had the German word Kriegsgefangenenlager printed on the top left margin. To the right was the word Datum, followed by a line. Ian had written the note, on the seven printed lines, on March 27, almost six weeks before. He was only allowed to write one letter a week, and he also wrote to his parents and sister.

  Her fingers traced his blocky handwriting, taking what comfort she could in touching the graphite from his pencil. He thanked her for the package she had sent and told her about his role in the prisoners’ production of The Importance of Being Earnest. His last line wished her a happy birthday with the hope that they’d be together on her next one. She could tell he hated it there, but she thanked God for his imprisonment. As long as he was at Colditz, he wasn’t in the fighting.

  Resting her head against the train window, she stared at the passing countryside and longed for an end to the war. As the train chugged its way toward home, her eyelids grew heavy and eventually closed. She startled awake when the conductor touched her shoulder.

  “Isn’t this your stop, miss?”

  Alison looked around her warily. “Yes, thank you, it is.” She gathered her bag and waited for the aisle to clear. The conductor’s attention was now on another passenger, but he appeared to be intentionally blocking her way. Her heart pounded as she tried to remember if she had seen him before. Was it possible he recognized her? That he had seen her leave Rotterdam with various children and return without them?