Where Treasure Hides

by Johnnie Alexander Donley

  “No.” Alison narrowed her eyes and frowned, confused by Hannah’s assumption. “Why?”

  “It’s nothing.” Hannah forced a smile. “I am frightened of the future. Especially for the children.”

  “I can find them a home. Away from the city.”

  “Why would you do this for us, Alison?”

  “Because your children are more important than the Mona Lisa.”

  Hannah’s expression was puzzled. “I do not understand.”

  “Perhaps not.” Alison gave an enigmatic smile. “But I do.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Ian slept in fits and starts, his body pressed between the protruding roots of a kingly maple. From Dresden, he had taken the train southwest to Nuremberg without incident. But the number of Gestapo officers patrolling that station had spooked him. Leery of risking another trip in a moving passenger car that offered nowhere to hide, and needing to conserve his meager funds, he set off cross-country toward the Swiss border. While near the city, he “boy-scouted,” walking by night and sleeping by day. But the farther he got from civilization, the more he relaxed.

  A playful shout jarred him fully awake, and he crouched behind the tree, alert to the sounds of rustling footsteps and boyish laughter. Whoever was out there was headed his way.

  He darted as quietly as possible from one tree to another, receding farther into the sprawling woods. Still they followed, closing the gap. Looking up into the canopy of a full-leafed oak, he swung himself into the branches, climbing as high as he dared.

  Peering through the limbs, he saw a group of teenagers dressed in tan uniforms. Hitler-Jugend. Hitler Youth. Each uniform bore a red-and-white diamond patch, the swastika in its center symbolizing their motto: Blut und Ehre. Blood and Honor.

  Ian leaned back into the trunk and inwardly groaned. One of the Dutch prisoners who had escaped the summer before had been found by three Hitler Youth. Eager to show their devotion to Nazi doctrine and to receive the bounty placed on an escapee’s head, they had viciously beaten the Dutchman before tossing his broken body in a cart and delivering him to the Colditz guardhouse. Not even the Kommandant, a German colonel who fought in the Great War, could hide his repulsion at the boys’ brutality.

  The teens, preoccupied with gathering plants and insects, wandered near Ian’s tree. For a long hour, Ian pressed against the rough bark, his legs tucked against his chest. He ignored his cramping muscles as best he could by reminding himself that being stuck in a tree was a thousand times better than stretching out on a bunk in a dank prison.

  As the boys’ voices faded away, Ian stretched his stiff legs and rubbed his aching muscles. He shifted his back, finding a position only slightly more comfortable, and stayed in the tree another hour. Nibbling on a raw turnip he had pulled out of a garden the night before, he dreamed of roast beef, cubed potatoes, and pearl onions. Of Miniver scones and Mrs. Brant’s apple pie. Of Alison.

  With no more sign of the Hitler boys and a prayer that they were no longer a threat, Ian climbed down from the tree and checked his course with his button-sized compass.

  For another three days he walked through the countryside, avoiding towns, wading across streams, climbing fences, and pilfering gardens. He came to a packed-dirt road and, discouraged by his slow progress through fields and woods, decided to follow it for a while. On the morning of the fourth day, he reached the top of a knoll. Pulling out his map and compass, he estimated he was still several days from Switzerland.

  Somehow, he needed to find transportation besides his own legs. Exasperated, he looked out over the valley that spread before him. A small house and a barn were tucked into a corner formed by a wide stream. He shaded his eyes but didn’t see any people. Or any vehicles. Houses were scarce along this isolated road that seemed to have been forgotten by civilization. Hungry and tired, he decided to take a chance on this one.

  Leaving the road, he crossed a field and approached the house from the back, stopping frequently to listen for any sign of danger. But a desolate pall hung over the entire homestead.

  He reached the barn first and cautiously opened the back door. Stepping inside the musty interior, he smiled.

  “Hello, ladies,” he said. Three red-and-white cows swung their heads toward him and batted their large brown eyes. One, in a pen by herself, mooed pitifully. He patted her swollen side and felt the movement of life beneath her hide. Odd that a farmer would leave a cow alone when she was so close to her time.

  “How soon? Hmm?” Ian had often assisted the family’s estate manager when the sheep were birthing. He guessed a newborn calf would be joining the herd before morning.

  Finding an open bag of grain, he poured some in the mangers of the two stalls. The water troughs were nearly empty so he picked up two metal buckets and, blocked from view of the house by the barn, carried water from the stream.

  While the cows drank greedily, their pink tongues slurping the cool water, Ian cracked open the front barn door. It faced the eastern side of the one-story house, where a trio of windows stared blankly back at him. A wide wooden porch faced the road and, at the other end, a back door opened onto a rock slab. At the end of a trodden path stood a stone well in the shelter of a stand of firs. He watched for shadows to cross the windows, for any sign of movement. Nothing.

  Bent over in a running slouch, he darted for the back door and looked in its window. But a heavy curtain prevented his seeing inside the house. He jiggled the handle; it was locked. Cautiously circling the house, he peered through windows into a dim interior, seeing only the shapes of furniture. The front door, as he expected, was also locked.

  From the vantage point of the porch, he scanned the road and the fields beyond it. No cars, no trucks. Not even a horse-drawn wagon.

  Circling the house again, he found a cellar window with a broken latch. He forced it open, muttering an apology when the glass broke. Squeezing through the square opening, he dropped to the dirt floor and immediately flattened himself against a wall. He held his breath, listening for footsteps and squeaky floorboards. But the only sound was a buzzing fly.

  The morning sun barely seeped through the cellar windows. While his eyes adjusted to the poor lighting, he took a deep breath. The smell of dirt and root vegetables permeated the room. Nosing around, he found burlap bags of potatoes and onions. Jars of preserved vegetables and fruits lined wooden shelves. His stomach growled and he selected an apple from a barrel in the corner, biting into its juicy tartness as he climbed rickety wooden steps to an upper door. Saliva filled his mouth in hopes of finding something more appetizing upstairs.

  Slowly turning the knob, he eased open the door into a small kitchen dominated by a stove apparently used for both heating and cooking. A variety of purple, yellow, and white wildflowers drooped in a vase on a table covered with a blue cloth that matched the curtains.

  He explored the rest of the house, a living room and two bedrooms. The furniture was worn but well cared for, the rooms immaculate. A quilt, in various shades of blue and trimmed in ivory, covered the double bed in the front bedroom.

  On the plain wooden dresser, Ian found a leather-bound copy of the Hebrew Scriptures, the Tanak, beside a photograph in a cheap metal frame. He picked up the picture, realizing it had been taken in front of this very house. A young couple stared back at him. The man had one arm around the woman’s waist and cradled an infant in the other. Though their faces were solemn, joy shone in their eyes. When the picture was taken, they were still young enough to believe a golden future awaited them.

  But where were they now?

  He set the photograph down and idly opened the Tanak’s cracked black cover. Inside he found a marriage license, formalizing the union of Hans and Gretchen Steinberg on May 8, 1935. Beneath it were birth certificates, including one for a baby girl, Leiba, born on June 25, 1937.

  The Tanak. Steinberg. That might explain their absence.

  Except that the house didn’t feel deserted. Someone lived here. Someone had picked t
he wildflowers from the stream bank. Perhaps little Leiba.

  But why had her parents left the cows unfed and unwatered?

  He closed the Tanak and peered inside the sparsely furnished second bedroom. A child-size bed, covered in a pink-and-white quilt, took up one corner. A wooden chair and table sat beneath the window.

  Perhaps the couple had taken their daughter someplace special for her birthday. Though he had lost track of the date, June 25 couldn’t be that far away. Maybe a week or so.

  He wiped his forehead on his sleeve and caught a whiff of his rank odor. A wave of nausea passed over him as the adrenaline that had heightened his senses when he broke into the house disappeared.

  His filth disgusted him, hunger gnawed at his stomach, and his eyes burned with exhaustion. First things first. Returning to the kitchen, he found half a loaf of bread and a triangle of cheese. He ate slowly, savoring each bite and stopping before he was full. After cleaning up his crumbs, he went through the house again and rummaged through Hans’s clothes. “Hope you don’t mind, chap.”

  Grabbing a sliver of soap and a rough towel, he followed the stream past the barn to a bend shaded by a weeping willow. Praying that the Steinbergs stayed away awhile longer, he undressed and slipped into the sun-warmed water, ducking his head beneath the surface. In the shadow of the willow, he scrubbed the dirt of Colditz, its stench and its power, from his body.

  After his swim, he dried himself and dressed in Hans’s pants, an undershirt, and a hand-sewn shirt. The pants were a little too short for him, but they felt good against his skin. He hid the laborer’s clothes he had worn for the past week beneath a rock in the stream.

  Back inside the house, he shoved food into a canvas bag and found spare blankets in a closet. He carried his plunder to the barn.

  “Shh.” He placed a warning finger to his lips. “Don’t let anyone know I’m here.”

  The cows blinked at him.

  Climbing into the loft, he spread one of the blankets over the loose hay and stretched out. Feeling more secure than he had since leaving Colditz, he soon fell into a deep and restful sleep.

  When he awoke, the slanting rays of the afternoon sun were shining in an upper window across his face. He groaned and covered his eyes with his forearm, then shot up and peered out the window. A black sedan pulled into the drive leading to the house, its motor intruding on the farm’s tranquility.

  A man, dressed in a military uniform, emerged from the driver’s side and seemed to take in the quietness of the place with an appraising look. The passenger door opened and a woman stepped out. The woman from the photograph. Gretchen.

  But Ian would have bet his last reichsmark that the officer wasn’t Hans.

  The German said something and gestured to the house. The woman hesitated and a little girl emerged from the car. Taking her by the hand, the woman walked toward the house. When she passed the officer, he grabbed her arm. She yanked away, then knelt by the girl.

  Their foreheads almost touching, the woman spoke quietly to her daughter, who shook her head. Gretchen spoke again, gave her a quick embrace, and gestured toward the barn. The girl nodded, then walked toward the barn, her head down and dragging a cloth doll behind her.

  “Run,” the woman called in German. She watched the child, even as the officer grabbed her again and pulled her toward the house, his impatience evident while he waited for her to unlock the door.

  The child ran, short legs pumping. Her hat flew off her head and she stopped to pick it up, then ran again.

  Ian sat back on his heels and breathed a prayer for guidance. But he didn’t need to wait for God’s voice to know what he had to do. Hans wasn’t here to protect his wife and child. So Ian had to do it for him. He slid down the ladder and hid in the shadows behind a wagon as the little girl slipped inside the barn and into an empty stall. He crept toward her, then paused as she sang the words to what he guessed was a lullaby.

  Peering over the fencing of the stall, he saw her scrunched up in a corner, her doll hugged close to her chest. Not wanting to frighten her any more than he had to, he crouched in front of the stall. “Guten tag, Leiba.”

  The girl stared at him with deep brown eyes too large for her pixie face. As she stood up, bits of hay and straw clung to her dress and socks.

  “Papi.” Her face brightened and, dropping the doll, she flung herself into Ian’s arms, almost knocking him off balance.

  “Whoa, there.” He braced himself with one hand and patted her thin back with the other.

  Her arms tightened around his neck. “Papi,” she said in German. “You’ve come home.”

  “Leiba.” He picked her up as he stood. “Who is that man with your mommy?”

  “He’s bad.” Her voice sounded muffled against Ian’s shirt. “Make him go away.”

  Ian took a deep breath. “Look at me, honey.”

  Leiba raised her head from his shoulder and placed her hands on his unshaven cheeks. She stared into his eyes with such trust that Ian almost melted into the floor.

  “Listen to me. You must do what I tell you. Okay?”

  She nodded solemnly. “Yes, Papi.”

  He winced but decided not to correct her. There’d be time for that later. Hopefully.

  “I want you to go into the loft and stay there. Don’t come out until Mommy or I come for you. You can do that, can’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s my girl.” He picked up the doll and handed it to her, then stood her on the ladder and watched her disappear into the loft. Her head popped over the edge, and he motioned her back. “Hide, Leiba. And be very quiet. I’ll come for you soon.”

  He took a couple of deep breaths, then grabbed a nearby hoe and laid the handle across his shoulders, his wrists hooked over each end. Whistling loudly, he headed for the back of the house.

  The curtain covering the kitchen window moved, but Ian pretended he didn’t see the German’s angry face staring at him.

  The officer stepped outside the back door. He no longer wore his jacket. Or his holster. “Who are you?”

  With squinted eyes and a lopsided grin, Ian let the hoe slip into his hand and held it out to the officer. “I work,” he said in German, keeping his words short and guttural. “Chop wood. Clear field.”

  The woman appeared in the doorway, her eyes shimmering with tears. A fresh bruise glowed on her cheek.

  Ian nodded to her. “The cow. It’s time.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked the officer.

  Gretchen, appearing to summon all her courage, lifted her chin. “My cow is calving.” She stepped in front of the officer and looked squarely at Ian. “This is her first time. Will you help her?”

  “You should look.” Ian tilted his head toward the barn. “Come.”

  “Yes, I should.” Without looking at the German, the woman headed toward the barn. Ian smiled dumbly and followed her.

  “Gretchen, come back here,” ordered the German. “The cow doesn’t need you.”

  The woman trembled, though she didn’t slow her pace. Ian couldn’t help but admire her courage. He turned back to the German and shrugged.

  “What is your name?” the German demanded.

  Ian said the first name that came to his mind. “Hans.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Here and there. Here and there.” He glanced toward Gretchen as she disappeared into the barn.

  She was safe, but for how long?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  “Art collecting is the new Nazi sport,” Etienne Duret proclaimed as he dropped a bulging leather pouch on Hendrik’s desk.

  Amused by the Frenchman’s uncharacteristic exuberance, Alison held out her hand. “Anything for me?”

  “The prices they pay!” Caught up in the moment, Monsieur Duret absentmindedly pulled a peppermint out of his pocket and placed it in Alison’s palm.

  She frowned at it, then popped it in her mouth.

  “Outrageous,” he continued, shaking his
head. “But do they know what they are buying? They do not even care.”

  “That is good for us.” Hendrik opened the clasp on the pouch and pulled out a sheaf of paper and a stack of checks and cash. “We don’t want them looking too closely at some of our Masters.”

  “Operation Rembrandt is a success.”

  “A tremendous success,” said Hendrik, sorting through the receipts and the money. He had come up with the name for their clandestine scheme against the Nazi invaders. “Though most of these proceeds appear to be from legitimate commissions.”

  “Our sellers have made a good profit. And so have we.”

  “I wish Papa would let me paint a forgery.” Alison propped her elbows on top of the typewriting table. She had been assisting her grandfather with correspondence when Monsieur Duret rushed into the alcove that was now the gallery’s office.

  Duret’s eyes widened in horror. “You mustn’t say this, cherie. Your father is right to protect you in this way.”

  “I might not be able to paint a Rembrandt, but I’m sure I could forge someone.”

  “No, no, no.” Duret groaned. “Explain it to her, Hendrik.”

  “We don’t doubt your talent, schatje. Or your skill.”

  “Then why can’t I help?”

  “Because to forge a painting,” said Pieter as he and Will joined the others in the alcove, “is to diminish your own light.”

  “But you forge paintings,” Alison said softly.

  Pieter’s eyes darkened, and he worked his jaw. “My light was extinguished a long time ago.”

  “Our clients don’t think so,” Hendrik said gruffly, waving the stack of money. “Though they naturally believe they are purchasing a de Hooch or a van Heemskerk.”

  “A what?” asked Will.

  “Contemporaries of Vermeer,” Alison said, feigning irritation at his ignorance of his Dutch heritage. “You know who Vermeer is, don’t you?”

  “Him, I know. Who wouldn’t, growing up with this family?”

  Alison threw an eraser at him, but Will caught it and tossed it back. She ducked and squealed.