Where Treasure Hides

by Johnnie Alexander Donley

  “I know,” Alison said soothingly. Their little faces tugged at her heart. She quickly exited the car and joined Duret at the boot, where he and two other men talked in quiet voices.

  “You know this gentleman, I believe,” said Duret.

  “Conductor,” she said in surprise. After giving Alison his train schedule, marked with the tiny fish, the conductor had passed Will’s scrutiny. She had traveled with several children under his watchful eye since then, taking them from Rotterdam to safe houses throughout northern Holland.

  “I am honored to conduct you and your young charges on this final trip.” He drew the sign of the fish on the car’s wet boot. “May our God watch over you.”

  “Thank you for helping us.”

  “This is my son.” The conductor gestured toward the younger man, who barely nodded. He wore a boating cap so low over his eyes that Alison found it difficult to make out his features in the dim lighting. “You can call him Skipper. He’s taking you to England.”

  Suddenly overwhelmed by the gravity of the situation, she bit her lip and turned away. Monsieur Duret patted her shoulder, then opened the boot and pulled out a small drawstring bag. “Your father packed this for you weeks ago,” he said, handing it to Alison and pointing to a door. “You can change in there.”

  Alison carried the bag into a cramped office, lit by a single overhead bulb. Closing the door behind her, she set the bundle on a scratched desk that dominated the room. As the finality of what was happening settled upon her, she squeezed the top of the bag so hard that her knuckles turned white. Tears stung her eyes, but she didn’t dare cry. If even one tear fell, she might never stop. She needed to be brave. For the twins’ sake, if not her own.

  Hannah’s words whispered inside her. “I prayed for a deliverer, and you came.”

  “I’m not a deliverer, Father,” Alison whispered. “How can I leave when those I love need me to stay?”

  “Strength and honour.” The phrase from Proverbs 31 rose from her heart. If she ever needed to be strong, it was now.

  “‘Strength and honour are her clothing,’” she recited, her voice barely a whisper. “‘She shall rejoice in time to come.’”

  A promise she had held on to when her father left her in Belgium. A promise she had clung to when she left Ian in the lobby of the Wellington Hotel the day they first met, thinking she would never see him again.

  Fingers trembling, she pulled apart the drawstrings and removed a man’s shirt and pants, heavy socks and workman’s boots, a knit cap. As she changed into the dry clothes, the Scripture resonated within her, as if she were literally clothing herself with the verse. She tied the boots with resolve, finally certain that God was using her to answer Hannah’s prayer and determined to save these two children.

  A rap sounded against the door. “Hurry, cherie.”

  “Coming.” Alison opened the door, tucking her hair beneath the cap as she joined the men. The conductor lifted Anna from the car and handed her to his son. Then he picked up Aaron, and they carried the children to the rear of the warehouse.

  Without saying a word, Duret enveloped Alison in a long embrace. He kissed both her cheeks and embraced her again. Tears welled within her eyes and slipped silently down her face. “Be brave, ma cherie,” Duret said, his voice husky. “Let us know when you are safe.”

  She nodded, unable to speak.

  “Go now. Godspeed.”

  Wiping her eyes on her sleeve, Alison walked away, glancing back only once. Monsieur Duret stood in front of the Bentley, a darker image against dark shadows. The contrast struck her like a slap—how she had left her grandfather in shades of white, how she was leaving Duret in shades of black. Two men who had taught her everything they knew of color and light.

  Her fingers tingled with their desire for a pencil as a vision slammed into her head—a cataclysmic, colorless vision of loss and surrender. In the distance, a crimson spot swirled, an opening rosebud, a promise of hope.

  It would be unlike anything she had ever painted before.

  After a day such as this, she was no longer the same artist.

  She lifted her hand, a farewell wave to the shadow standing by the Bentley, and Monsieur Duret raised his hand in return.

  “‘Strength and honour,’” she breathed, then followed the conductor out of the warehouse into the rain-soaked night.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Ian patted his clean-shaven face with a rough towel and examined his reflection in a mottled mirror. The toll of two years’ imprisonment marked the corners of his eyes, his gaunt cheeks, and the protruding of his ribs. But walking in the sun the past few days had added color to his skin. Or maybe it was the healing air of freedom.

  A wimple-encircled face appeared in the mirror. Sister Regina carried his shirt, laundered while he had bathed and slept. “You clean up handsomely,” she said.

  “Thank you,” he mumbled, his face reddening as he took the shirt, stiff from drying in the sun, and thrust his arms into the sleeves. Its warm, fresh scent reminded him of summer days at the seashore, when he’d put on his sun-soaked clothes after a swim.

  “Don’t be embarrassed.” Sister Regina’s melodic laugh echoed against the stone walls of the cell-like room. “I grew up with six brothers.”

  “Large family.”

  “You’ve yet to tell me your name.”

  “Perhaps it’s best you don’t know.”

  “I thought so at first. But I wish to pray for you. And though God will know whom I mean when I ask Him to bless Libby’s protector, I prefer to call you by name.”

  “Ian Devlin.”

  “You are a British soldier, no?”

  “Lieutenant.”

  “How long have you enjoyed our German hospitality, Lieutenant Devlin?”

  “Only for the past few hours,” he said with a grin. “But I’ve been a prisoner since Dunkirk.”

  “One of my brothers died at Dunkirk.” Her pale eyes momentarily darkened before she blinked and her smile returned. “Supper will be served soon. Will you stay?”

  He shook his head. “The sooner I cross that border the better.”

  “Your guide is ready to leave whenever you are.”

  “I can trust him?”

  She tilted her head, the expression clearly telling him that he had asked a silly question.

  He grinned and put up his hands in mock surrender. “Just wanted to be sure.”

  “Shall we go, then?”

  “First, I need to ask a favor.” He retrieved the Hebrew Tanak and Steinberg family photograph from a bag beneath the cot. “These belong to Libby. She’ll have nothing else to remind her of her parents. Will you keep them for her?”

  Sister Regina accepted the treasured items and studied the photograph. “What were their names?”

  “Hans and Gretchen Steinberg.”

  “It looks like you have similar coloring. No wonder Libby is confused.”

  “I should have told her from the beginning that I wasn’t her papi. But at the time—” he shrugged—“I had more immediate concerns.”

  “The thug.”

  “Yeah.” He rubbed his shoulder, not wanting to revisit the memory of his confrontation with Hauptmann Huber. “Where is she?”

  “Bathed, fed, and helping Sister Agnes in the kitchen garden.”

  “She needs new shoes.”

  “I will do my best to find her a decent pair.”

  “If I make it home, I’ll send her new ones. And a coat for winter.”

  “She’ll be glad of your gifts, that you are remembering her.”

  “What can I send to you?”

  Her eyes widened, settling on him with an expression that left him feeling vulnerable. “You are thoughtful to ask. But sending me a gift will not alleviate your guilt.”

  “Nothing will do that.”

  “All I ask is that you seek God’s guidance for your journey. And for that I will pray.”

  Ian nodded his gratitude and shouldered the pack he�
��d prepared. The bag contained the pistol and ammunition, the remaining apples, and a small canteen Sister Regina had found for him.

  He followed the nun along the corridor past similar cell-like rooms, then outside to a cloistered walk. Laughter drew his attention to several youngsters playing a game of tag in a nearby orchard, darting here and there among the trees. Another group of children circled a nun who held a large book on her lap.

  “Are they all orphans?”

  “Most,” Sister Regina answered cryptically.

  Ian studied a few of the children as they walked toward the kitchen wing. The Jewish heritage of one or two showed in their thin faces. Libby would not be alone here. He took a deep breath, dreading what he had to do. Only a coward would leave without saying good-bye to the little girl, but the temptation to do just that tugged at his elbow.

  A tall hedge marked the boundaries of the kitchen gardens, broken here and there by a metal gate. Ian followed Sister Regina through the nearest one and along a dirt path past rows of beans and mounds of potatoes. Libby squatted beside a row of greens, her doll at her feet. Sister Agnes, kneeling beside her like a cheery-faced garden gnome, showed Libby how to select the greens to add to their basket.

  When Libby saw Ian, she jumped to her feet. “Papi, come see. I’m helping.”

  Ian stood beside her, his hand resting on her head, smoothing her dark hair as she leaned against his leg. “You’re such a good girl, Libby.”

  “I picked radishes, too.” She plucked one from the basket and handed it to him, her brown eyes shining with pride.

  “Thanks, sweetheart.” He brushed most of the dirt off the radish and bit into it. “Best radish I’ve ever tasted.”

  Libby giggled. Lowering himself to the ground, Ian pulled her onto his lap. Sister Regina gestured to Sister Agnes and the two nuns silently glided away.

  Ian picked up the soiled doll and handed her to Libby. “There’s something I need to tell you,” he said. “Something important.”

  “What is it, Papi?” So much trust and love filled her eyes as she gazed at him that Ian’s heart beat against his chest, a hammer ruthlessly pounding stone as he faced the dreaded task.

  “I’m not your papi, Libby. I don’t know where he is or what happened to him. Maybe he’ll come back someday.” The words tasted bitter in his mouth and he despised himself for giving her false hope. But what else could he do? There was no easy way to tell her the truth.

  Libby bent over her doll, twisting its leg, her voice a murmuring whisper. “We can play you’re my papi. That’s a good idea.”

  “I have to go, Libby.” Her back stiffened against his arm. “You get to stay here with Sister Regina and Sister Agnes. They’re going to take care of you.”

  “Until you come back?”

  The easy lie rose to his lips, but he couldn’t tell it. Maybe someday he would come for her. But right now, he couldn’t even be sure of getting himself across the border. He refused to make what his mother called a pie-crust promise—easily made and easily broken.

  “I don’t know,” he said, his voice cracking on the words.

  Libby twisted and flung her arms around his neck. “Don’t leave me, Papi.” Her plea turned to a heart-wrenching sob. “Please don’t leave me.”

  He hugged her as tight as he could, reminding himself that leaving her at the convent was the responsible thing—the best thing—to do. Here she would be safe, taken care of, even loved.

  Kissing her tear-dampened cheek, he stood and tried to loosen her grip around his neck. She held on even tighter as sobs wracked her thin body, and Ian feared she might break a rib. He motioned for the sisters.

  “Libby, honey, please. I need to go.”

  “No!” she screamed. “No, Papi, no.”

  With the nuns’ help, Ian extricated himself from Libby’s grasp. He tried holding her hands as Sister Agnes held her around the waist. Libby kicked and thrashed to get away from the nuns and back into Ian’s arms. Sister Regina’s voice, soothing and calm, was lost beneath Libby’s pleading cries.

  “Go,” said Sister Agnes. “She’ll be all right. She just needs time.”

  Doubt assaulted him. “Maybe—”

  Sister Regina stepped between him and Libby. “Sister Agnes is right,” she said softly. “Prolonging this will only make it worse.” She took his arm. “Come, Lieutenant.”

  “Good-bye, Libby,” he said as Sister Regina pulled him toward the kitchen. “I’ll never forget you.”

  Libby kicked and scratched at Sister Agnes. “Papi, no. Don’t leave me.”

  “Keep walking.” Sister Regina’s voice trembled. “Don’t turn around.”

  They entered a utility room with dried herbs and flowers hung from the ceiling. The thick door shut out Libby’s screams, but Ian could still hear her, knew he would hear the echoes of her cries for a long time to come.

  Sister Regina touched his arm. “You made the only choice you could.”

  “I promised her mother.”

  “You found her a safe place where no one will harm her. Surely that was her mother’s wish.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Do not doubt it,” she said, then led Ian through another door into the large kitchen with its black stoves and long tables. An older man with a fringe of gray hair ringing his head sat at one of the tables. He wiped an already-pristine plate with a crust of bread and stuffed it in his mouth.

  “This is our handyman, Schultz. He will guide you to the border.”

  Ian held out his hand. “I’m—”

  “Don’t need to know your name.” Schultz handed Ian a parcel. “Sister Agnes made this up for you. A bit of something for your stomach.”

  Ian mumbled his thanks and stuck the parcel in his bag.

  “We might as well go. While there’s plenty of light.”

  “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

  Schultz grabbed a flashlight and led Ian and Sister Regina down a flight of stairs into a maze of underground corridors that extended beyond the outer walls of the convent. Ian lost track of the twists and turns, but both Schultz and Sister Regina seemed familiar with their route. After several minutes, they arrived at an iron door.

  “We don’t often come this way.” Sister Regina produced a key from within the wide sleeves of her habit. “If it’s ever necessary, this is where we will hide the children.”

  “Hide the children?”

  “Not all of them have the required documents. Rather than raise questions about their parentage, we’ll bring them here.”

  “You would hide Libby here?”

  “If necessary.”

  She unlocked the door, and Schultz shouldered it open. They entered an old burial chamber with stone ledges holding skeletal remains partially covered in decomposing cloth. Metal coffins rested on wooden platforms in the center of the chamber. The musty air of the cellar gave way to a chilly dampness.

  “Do you believe in ghosts?” Sister Regina asked.

  “I never did. You?”

  “Only when I’m down here.”

  They followed the beam of Schultz’s light through the chamber and a coffin-lined passageway to a second metal door. Sister Regina unlocked it, and Schultz pulled it open. Sister Regina pulled back the tapestry that hung in front of the door, and they entered the back room of a chapel partially built into a hillside.

  The tiny sanctuary held five rows of pews separated by a center aisle. The late-morning sun slanted through stained glass windows on its eastern side, casting prisms of color across the interior.

  “This chapel is only used on rare occasions. The funerals of our elderly sisters, mostly. Few outside our circle even know of its existence.”

  An almost tangible serenity infused the centuries-old sanctuary, as if the presence of all the prayers, worship, and praise ever uttered there lingered within the stone walls. Ian recalled the verse from Psalms that Mitch, his POW buddy at Laufen and Colditz, had prayed over him before his escape: “Thou art my hiding plac
e; thou shalt preserve me from trouble; thou shalt compass me about with songs of deliverance.” In this holy place, Ian believed God’s hand was upon him, to preserve him and deliver him. This war wasn’t over for him yet.

  “I’ll go out first,” said Schultz, clicking off his flashlight and giving it to Sister Regina. “Listen for my whistle.”

  They watched him through a narrow window beside the arched double doors. He sauntered along an overgrown path toward the nearby woods.

  “Thank you. For everything.” Ian swallowed past the lump in his throat. “For Libby.”

  “My prayers go with you, Ian Devlin.”

  He gave her a halfhearted grin. “My friends call me Dev.”

  She smiled, her pale eyes hard to read in the sanctuary’s dim light. “Fare thee well, Dev. May God be with you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Ian lagged behind the others walking along the hedgerow, the Walther stuck in his waistband, and searched the distant evening shadows for any movement. His unease thickened with each step as he sensed an indefinable menace in the air.

  He and Schultz had walked several hours before they stumbled upon a small band of refugees. Schultz knew their guide, a hard-eyed, wiry Swiss who declined to give his name. Ian didn’t want to join the refugees, but Schultz gave him no choice. “Good luck to you,” he had said with a clumsy salute before hightailing it back the way they had come.

  Ian’s value to the Swiss guide appeared to be his obvious military background. The other refugees—a young couple with a baby, a woman and two men in their thirties and forties—appeared exhausted. Whether they were related to each other, or even knew each other, Ian didn’t know. But clearly, none of the men were trained soldiers.

  After the Swiss guide said he was taking them to an abandoned shed where they could spend the night, Ian considered his options. He figured he might as well go to the barn with the others. But he planned to slip away before daylight and find his own path out of Germany.

  The sun descended below the horizon, trailing the last vestiges of daylight. At an inward curve in the hedgerow where the brush was especially thick, the Swiss waited with the others for Ian, bringing up the rear, to catch up. “From here on, there’s a road on the other side of this hedge. We’ll follow it for about ten more minutes, then head across the field to the shed. Watch your feet.”