Where Treasure Hides

by Johnnie Alexander Donley

  The baby whimpered and its mother swayed, whispering softly.

  “Keep that baby quiet,” ordered the guide, turning on his heel and leading the way. The others followed while the mother looked helplessly at her husband. He put his arm around her and stroked the baby’s head.

  They had only taken a few steps when shots rang out ahead of them, followed by shouts. Ian grabbed the father’s arm and herded the young family back to the curve in the hedge where the brush was heaviest. “Get as far in as you can,” Ian whispered urgently.

  The baby fussed as the parents shoved their way into the brush. The others stumbled back to them, and Ian directed them to crawl beneath the branches. They snapped at each other in angry whispers as each sought a hiding place.

  With no more room, the Swiss guide took up a position near the curve, rifle at the ready. Ian ran a few meters back and lay flat on his stomach against the hedge, gun drawn.

  Because of the descending darkness, he couldn’t see the curve or the guide. Hopefully, whoever was shooting wouldn’t be able to see them either. Another gunshot boomed, followed by an eerie quiet that was broken by the baby’s cry. Its whimper ended as abruptly as it began.

  Ian heard running footsteps, a guttural shout, an anguished cry. The flash of gunfire sparked the night, instantly followed by sharp reports. His eyes adjusted to the night, but he could barely make out the shapes moving far out in the field.

  The minutes passed; the shapes moved farther away; the guns didn’t sound quite so near. But the distant hum of an engine grew louder. Not just one, but several. Trucks, cars, even motorcycles rounded the bend on the other side of the hedge.

  Ian controlled his breathing, ignoring the ache in his cramping legs and the chill of the ground that dampened his shirt. And he gave thanks for the moonless night that prevented the enemy from finding the little band of refugees.

  Long after the last engine died away and the final report of a rifle echoed through the night, Ian and the refugees stayed hidden. Adrenaline and the need to guard the others kept him awake. Through the long hours, he focused his eyes on various points of the field, alert to any danger. But his mind wandered as he gazed upward to the North Star. Had Libby seen it before she went to sleep? Did it shine on Alison in her gallery studio?

  What would Alison think of him for leaving Libby at the convent?

  Remembering the little girl’s cries troubled his heart and stung his eyes. He blinked and focused on that part of the field where he thought the shed was located. He suspected others had hidden there for the night. Had hidden there and been found.

  He no longer resented their slow pace when they were walking to the same shelter. That delay had no doubt saved them from an ambush.

  Eventually the night faded, pink and yellow streaks lightening the sky in the east. When it was light enough for him to be sure no Germans lurked nearby, he sat up and rubbed his legs to get the blood circulating. The Swiss guard met his gaze across the distance and nodded an all clear. Ian returned the nod, then headed toward the curve.

  One by one, the refugees emerged, scratched and bleeding, faces covered with dirt that had turned to mud with their tears. The baby’s father crawled out, then reached beneath the brush and pulled out a small, stiff bundle. His wife followed, her eyes vacant and cold.

  “It wouldn’t stop crying,” the father said. “They would have found us.”

  Ian’s stomach lurched, and he shut his eyes against the horrid truth before him. Sour bile rose, and he turned away to spit.

  “They may be back,” said the guide. “We need to hurry.”

  “The baby,” said the father, his voice unnaturally high. “We can’t leave the baby.”

  “Then stay behind.” The guide pointed to the south. “Whoever wants to get across the border needs to get moving.”

  Ian glared at the guide. The other man’s cold eyes glared back.

  “You want to take them across, be my guest. But you don’t know how, do you?” He narrowed his eyes. “Wonder what the Krauts would pay to know your whereabouts. Eh, Brit?”

  “There’ll be a special place in hell for people like you.”

  “Look around you. We’re already in hell.” The Swiss gestured at the others. “Let’s go.”

  “We can’t stay,” the father said to his wife. Her unresponsive eyes stared ahead.

  “Go with the others.” Ian patted his shoulder. “I’ll take care of the baby.”

  The father drew back, then seemed to reconsider. “You’ll do the right thing?”

  “God be with you. Be safe.”

  The young man’s jaw twitched, and he brushed his lips against the tiny forehead before gingerly placing the baby in Ian’s arms.

  “Go,” Ian urged.

  The man took his wife by the hand, and together they followed the guide and the little band.

  Choking back hot tears, Ian covered the baby’s face with the blanket and headed north. This might not be hell, but it was a bleak world when parents shipped their children to foreign countries to keep them safe. When parents killed . . . he couldn’t finish the thought.

  It was too late to protect this little one he carried. But there was a girl who needed him. And come what may, he was taking her home.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Alison blinked against the sudden glare from a lantern when the false wall slid open. She held up her hand while her eyes adjusted to the light.

  “You can come out now,” said the skipper. “We’re in open water.”

  “Are you sure it’s safe?”

  “As sure as I can be. How are the children?”

  “Sleeping.” Her muscles aching, Alison crawled out of the cramped cupboard into the boat’s cabin. Skipper swung the lantern into the enclosed space. The twins, thumbs in their mouths, curled beside each other in the cubbyhole. Alison reached back inside and pulled the blanket more tightly around them.

  “They will sleep for a while. We’ll leave the door open.”

  “It’s still raining.” She could hear the pounding of the downpour outside the cabin.

  “Hasn’t stopped. Makes it a good night for a crossing.” He hooked the lantern from the ceiling and poured her a hot cup of ersatz coffee from a thermos. She sat on a cushioned bench and wrapped her chilled hands around the cup. The cabin windows were covered with blackout cloths.

  “Where are we?”

  “About five kilometers from port.”

  “Have you done this often?”

  “A few times.” His voice sounded eerie, coming from a face hidden in shadows. “Usually for the Engelandvaarders, though. Not women and children.”

  Alison caught the faint resentment in his tone but chose to ignore it. “The ‘England farers.’ I don’t think I’ve heard that term before.”

  “Dutch Underground fighters who join Queen Wilhelmina in her exile. They go to England to fight for the Allies.”

  “I see.” If only Will and Pieter had chosen that patriotic route instead of engaging in sabotage. She sipped the coffee and made a face at its bitter taste.

  “Drink it.” Skipper chuckled, apparently able to see her better than she could see him. “It will keep you warm.”

  “If it doesn’t kill me.”

  He chuckled again, then moved to the door. “Try to sleep. It will be a long night.” He opened the door only wide enough to slip through, but a gust of wind whipped rain through the cabin before he got it shut again.

  Alison shivered against the sudden onslaught and forced herself to take another sip of the bitter drink. What she wouldn’t give for a cup of steaming coffee made with freshly ground beans. Or a big mug of Gerta Brant’s hot cocoa with a dollop of fresh whipped cream melting on the surface.

  She checked on the twins, ensuring that they were as warm as possible. And still breathing. She had been horrified when Skipper showed her the small space where he expected the three of them to hide. But he assured her that the air holes would provide enough oxygen for them. “If
Nazis board us,” he had warned, “you’ll be glad of this place.” He had also given bottles of milk laced with a mild sedative to the twins, to keep them quiet, he’d said.

  Wrapping herself in a blanket, Alison returned to the bench, knowing sleep would be elusive. Skipper had offered her a sedative too, but she refused, wanting to be alert in case there was trouble. She forced herself to gulp the cooled coffee and yawned. Her thoughts became fuzzy and she lay on her side. Perhaps she could close her eyes for just a minute or two.

  * * *

  Ian fell to his knees before the altar in the ancient stone chapel, head bowed in weary reverence, and laid his cherished burden at its base. He rubbed his hands over his face, wiping away sweat and grime, and pressed his palms against his thighs. The arduous trek had dulled his mind and numbed his heart. He closed his eyes and breathed a wordless prayer, seeking respite in the solace of this holy place.

  The flutter of wings drew his gaze to the rafters. A brown wren, barely visible in the shadows, flitted beneath the eaves above the stained glass windows. A tinted beam of light shimmered through the delicate blue of Mary’s veil, the royal purple of the Christ child’s blanket, their amber halos.

  Ian studied the classic design, then followed the beam through the dim interior to the foot of the altar, where it held the tiny bundle in a cradle of light. He exhaled, releasing his burden into hands more powerful than his. The beam weakened and the light faded, but the sanctity of that moment lingered, a healing balm for his troubled soul.

  * * *

  Ian followed the high wall surrounding the convent to the front gate and pulled on the bell rope. A white-clad novice soon appeared.

  He gripped the iron bars of the gate. “Let me in. I must see Sister Regina.”

  “I will find her for you.” The girl, hands tucked in her sleeves, walked away from him with slow, measured steps.

  “Quickly,” he said, with more force than he intended. The girl ran.

  A few moments later, Sister Regina appeared and unclasped the gate. “I prayed for your return.”

  “Where is she?”

  “In the garden. With Sister Agnes.” Sister Regina paused to catch her breath and her eyes glistened. “She hasn’t said a word since you left. Not one word.”

  Ian rubbed his shoulder. “I should never have left her.”

  “Come. I’ll take you to her.”

  “Wait.” He grasped her arm. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

  She looked at him expectantly, but the words didn’t come easily.

  “What is it, Dev?”

  “I brought back a baby.”

  “A baby?” Her eyes darted past the gate. “Where is it?”

  “At the old chapel.” He grimaced. “The baby’s dead.”

  Sister Regina gasped.

  “Schultz left me with these others.” Ian worked his jaw, tamping his rising anger.

  “Yes, I know. He told me.”

  “Tell him from me to stay out of my sight.”

  “What happened?”

  “We had to hide. I’m not sure what was going on, but there was gunfire. The baby cried and . . .” He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to put the tragic deed into words.

  “Oh no.” Sister Regina touched his arm, and he reached for her hand, needing to feel living warmth.

  “Will you take care of the baby?” he asked quietly.

  “Yes,” she said. “Right after I take you to Libby. She needs you. But I wonder if you don’t need her more.”

  “I’m taking her with me.”

  “Of course you are.” She tugged on his arm. “Follow me.”

  Ian saw Libby as soon as he entered through the kitchen garden gate. She sat on the ground, her back against a stone birdbath, and poked at the dirt with a stick. Her cloth doll was sprawled across her lap.

  His heart picked up a beat. “Libby!”

  She looked up, startled. Seeing him, she jumped to her feet and ran to him, leaving her doll in the dirt. He scooped her up and hugged her tight.

  As if she feared he would disappear, she placed her hands on his cheeks and stared into his eyes. “Papi!”

  He hesitated, but the need in her soft brown eyes trumped brutal honesty. “Yes, Libby. It’s me.”

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and placed her head on his shoulder. “Keep me, Papi.”

  “Always, Libby. Always.”

  * * *

  “You drugged me.” Alison stood on deck as the fishing boat bounced across the rough seas. The white-capped waves glinted in the weak sunshine, but dark clouds loomed overhead.

  “You wouldn’t have slept otherwise.” Skipper guided the wheel, idly watching the horizon. “How do you feel?”

  Taken aback by the question, she shrugged. “Fine.”

  “Then why are you complaining?”

  “Just don’t do that again.”

  “Won’t have to.”

  Irritated by his lack of remorse, Alison returned to the cabin. She tidied up by folding her blanket and rolling up the blackout curtains. Squares of sunlight entered the cabin. The twins awoke, wet and hungry. After a meager breakfast, she entertained them with stories she remembered from her childhood. A wave of homesickness for those long-ago days flooded over her.

  Rain fell again, though not nearly as hard as the night before. The sun briefly appeared, and Alison played with the twins on the deck until a cloudburst sent them scurrying back into the cabin. When a ship appeared on the horizon, Skipper shut them inside the dark cubbyhole with a warning to keep the twins quiet. He needn’t have worried. They cuddled close to Alison, clutching her clothes with their little fingers, eyes wide with fright. By the time Skipper opened the door, both were asleep.

  “Land ahoy,” he said, with a wink. He reached for Aaron, leaving Alison to emerge with Anna.

  “We’re here?”

  “Almost. Come up on deck and see.”

  She followed him from the cabin, eager to see land. Shading her eyes against the slanting sun, she looked to the west, where a long shore beckoned. On a southern point, she could barely make out the outlines of buildings and ships. “Where are we?”

  “That’s Harwich.” Skipper pointed to the harbor town.

  “England?” She needed to hear him say it, to make it real. To bring this part of her nightmare to an end.

  “Unless she moved during the night.” He set Aaron in a seat and steered the boat one-handed so that they motored north, parallel to the coastline and away from the port.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Out of sight.” He checked the instrument panel. “After the sun goes down a little more, we’ll go ashore.”

  Alison stared at the receding town, unsure whether her cheeks were damp from the spray or from tears. Placing Anna in the seat with her brother, she stood beside them and wondered how long it would take the sun to go down. The North Sea crossing hadn’t made her seasick, but she longed to step on dry land. Yet she didn’t want to lose her last connection with home.

  “How long will you stay?”

  “Only a few hours.” He shut off the motor, allowing the boat to drift, and tapped Alison’s arm. “Stay here with the children. I’ll be right back.”

  He returned from the cabin with an oilskin pouch and handed it to Alison. “Monsieur Duret said to give you this when we arrived.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “I didn’t look.”

  She opened the pouch and examined the contents. Money, lots of it, in British pounds. Her passport and birth certificate. A few British birth certificates, blank except for the official signatures. Perfect forgeries, created by Pieter just in case. All she had to do was fill in the twins’ names and an appropriate birth date. Biting her lip, she closed the pouch and stuck it in her pants pocket.

  Another day was drawing to a close. What had it held for Hannah? For her father and Will? She didn’t dare dwell on such thoughts. Instead she let her mind drift, like the boat, toward England. The
last time she was here, only two years ago, she had sketched a boy and his champion at Waterloo Station, eaten cherry scones at Minivers, and reluctantly given away her heart.

  Looking back, her anguish over saving Ian from the family fate seemed hopelessly naive. She had thought her heart would break when she told him good-bye. But that heartache, though real, couldn’t compare to the grief she had endured since.

  She had left England, in the summer of 1940, as the pampered granddaughter of a prominent Dutch businessman. Now she returned with nothing, her home destroyed, those she loved most either sick or missing, in prison or dead.

  Knowing what she knew now, she wished she could go back to that day in Waterloo Station. Their days together might have been few before Ian left to fight the Germans in France. But she understood now, as she never quite had before, the senselessness of trying to outwit fate. She fingered Tante Meg’s locket and prayed that God would give her and Ian a second chance.

  She stared westward, at the bands of pale color above the distant land, backlit by the setting sun. The day was ending, and with it her life as she knew it.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Stretching his long legs in front of him, Ian leaned back on a stone bench built into a monument to some obscure saint. From his vantage point, he could see the cloistered walk leading to the cell-like rooms where he and Libby were staying another night. Probably more than one until he could come up with a plan for getting across the border. He pulled out his button-sized compass and peered at the needle, difficult to see in the twilight. Getting his bearings, he stared northwest. Toward home. But not the direction he needed to travel if he hoped to get there.

  “Is she asleep?” Sister Regina’s silken voice slipped into his reverie.

  Ian grunted as he stood. “I couldn’t be out here if she weren’t.”

  “I heard she wouldn’t let you out of her sight.” Sister Regina laughed softly. “Please, sit.”