by Ted Dekker
The Beatles insisted he let it be, let it be. Stephen ejected the tape from his eight-track and threw it on the floor of the passenger seat. Whispered words of wisdom, please. They had no idea.
His next bit of progress was to get into his bedroom unseen. Facing Chaim’s scrutiny at this juncture was as unappealing as chewing quinine tablets.
The plan was simple. He was getting pretty good at sneaking into buildings. If Chaim wasn’t home, he would just walk in the front door, clean up a bit, take the picture, and leave—five minutes max. If the rabbi was home, then Stephen would climb in through his bedroom window, which he was quite sure he’d left open. The trick would be to get in without the neighbors seeing his butt hanging out the window.
He parked the car a block from the house. Chaim’s old Peugeot was in the drive.
Stephen sat in silence for a good minute before stealthily climbing out of the car. He ducked into the backyard and crept as naturally as possible along the wall toward his window. He reconsidered the plan—walking in and explaining himself to the rabbi would be so much simpler. On the other hand, the thought of baring his soul really was unnerving. What was he going to say? Oh, good morning, Rabbi. Yes, well, I look like a vagabond because I’ve decided to become one. To kick things off in the right spirit, I torched a hole in the German’s garage door last night and then spent the night in the dump across the street.
He reached the window, glanced around, and pushed it up. He’d forgotten about the screen, but a hard punch put his hand right through it. A few more, and the mesh sat in tatters. Another quick look, a kind of pull-up dive, and Stephen spilled into his room, no worse off than a bruised hip bone, compliments of the windowsill.
He had to move quickly. The unframed photograph sat on his desk next to several phone messages left in Chaim’s handwriting. He couldn’t read Ruth’s piercing eyes, a mysterious blend of resilience and tenderness. She was perhaps the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
He shoved the photo into his shirt and immediately withdrew it. His sweat would ruin it. Besides, he was going to take a shower. He tiptoed for the bathroom. No. Running water might alert the rabbi. Maybe he should skip the shower. He really didn’t have time anyway.
Stephen stood before the mirror, photograph in hand, and looked at himself. His hair stood on end, and his face was coated with dust. He quickly patted his hair and reached for the faucet, but stopped before twisting the knob. The house had noisy pipes that were known to even groan on occasion.
He really should just walk out into the living room and tell Chaim he was home. He’d gone out with some friends last night, partied until dawn, and come home for a shower. Fun, fun, fun. And the hole in the screen? Well, a bird must have crashed through.
Stephen grunted. This was ridiculous. He had to get out.
Using some water from the tank behind the toilet, he managed to clean his face. He took a stab at fixing his hair and brushed his teeth without using water. Three minutes in the bathroom, and he suddenly felt sure the rabbi would walk in on him at any moment. He wrapped his treasured picture in a towel, stuffed it under his shirt, and climbed back out the window.
“I DON’T know what he’s up to,” Lars said, “but his name is Stephen Friedman, and he is a Realtor. He lives up north with an old Jew.”
“Another Jew,” Roth said.
“Both father and mother dead. Has connections with the DA through a friend. A Jewish girl named Sylvia Potok.”
“Married?”
“Stephen, no. The woman, I don’t know.”
Roth suddenly wanted off the subject. It wasn’t an issue that Lars or the others should concern themselves with.
“He should be easy enough to deal with if he becomes a problem,” Lars said.
Three more men had arrived from Germany this morning to join the deconstruction project. They were carefully removing the plaster from the walls in the kitchen and would work their way through the entire floor. The task would take them a couple of days, coincidentally the term of the Realtor’s suggested lease. If either the journal or the other four Stones were in this house, they would find it.
But Roth had already found what he had come for. Stephen Friedman.
The boy had come home. Exactly as Rachel Spritzer had wanted. The game. The game was on.
Roth had spent the first part of the night in the sunroom, desperate to coax secrets from the pictures. So much pain. But like hope and fear, pain and pleasure yielded the most power when they could be found together.
Afterward he satisfied himself by selecting another Jewish woman, this one from Pasadena. Toruńhad come to Los Angeles. And soon, if the powers of the air were smiling on him, he would take Los Angeles back to Toruń.
“We move on the grave site tonight and the museum tomorrow night,” he said. “How much will the grave cost us?”
“Half a million U.S. dollars to exhume the body, leave us alone with it for an hour, and return the grave to normal by morning. The guards at the museum, on the other hand, can’t be bought.”
He had expected this. “We only want to look at the contents. Surely we can find someone there who will accept a million dollars for a few hours alone with some old trinkets. We don’t want to see the Stone, just her belongings.” He paused. “Offer two million if you have to. If all else fails, we’ll go in with gas.”
Lars didn’t respond.
“I want access to every last item from her estate, every scrap of paper, every photograph, and I want it within the next forty-eight hours. Frankly, I don’t care what it costs.”
“Understood.”
“And the next time Gerhard calls, tell him I’m occupied. I will not speak to him again.”
“Of course.”
Roth was an unusually patient man, but he’d never been in a position quite like this, with such high stakes and on foreign soil. He stood and slowly paced.
In under a week, he would finish what his father should have finished thirty years ago.
The fact that his plans were proceeding exactly as he’d envisioned was almost too much to bear. His success made him feel warm. He wanted to look at the pictures again.
20
Los Angeles
July 21, 1973
Saturday Afternoon
FROM THE STREET, GERIK’S ANTIQUE SHOP LOOKED LIKE NOTHING other than one more flea-infested hole that might sell used clothes, half of which had been soiled and never properly cleaned. But step past the bell that clanged upon entry, and even an amateur would know this shop was unique.
The store ran long and narrow, crowded by hundreds of antiques that sat and hung and leaned and balanced in every conceivable space. The walls could be plastered with mud or coated in gold and no one would know, because there was no wall to see. Instead, there were Queen Anne chairs and ornate mirrors and huge brass plates and myriad paintings. A large cherry four-poster bed purportedly once owned by Thomas Jefferson himself hung from the ceiling.
Stephen stood at the door and peered into the shadows for a glimpse of Gerik Dlugosz, “Gary” to all who frequented his store. A middle-aged woman with a splotchy red face and a blue silk blouse glanced up at him from some silver vases. She was looking at the towel wrapped under his arm, he just knew it. What does that man have under his arm, pray tell? It looks valuable. It looks secretive. I wonder if he’ll show it to me.
Stephen hurried up the left aisle, past long glass cases stuffed with coins and copper figurines and sprawling collections of silverware. If it was old and valuable, it belonged here. The floor creaked with each step. You’d think that with all the money Gerik made, he could invest in a new place.
“Stephen?”
Stephen instinctively gripped his wrapped picture and jerked at the sound of Gerik’s voice.
The thin man walked toward him with an outstretched hand. A scraggly gray beard hung off his chin. “So good to see you again.” He put an inviting hand on Stephen’s shoulder and steered him to the side. “And how are you holdin
g up?”
“Fine. Good.”
“Excellent. Excellent.” The proprietor stopped by a case and ran curious eyes over Stephen. “You’ve been to Rachel’s apartment, then?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“Nothing much. The museum had already been through.”
“Yes, of course. I am very sorry, Stephen. I wish I could help you. You’ve contacted an attorney?”
“No.”
“No. I don’t blame you. You should follow your own heart until things become clear.”
They stood in silence.
“Maybe I could help you in some other way,” Gerik said.
“No, nothing.” Stephen was feeling hot under the neck. It had been a mistake to come. “I just came by for a visit.”
“Is that so?” Gerik smiled softly. “I don’t believe you. But I’m willing to pretend. So then, let’s visit.”
A mistake. Definitely a mistake. The shop had four or five other customers at the moment, and Stephen was sure they were all at least curious about him, if not downright fixated on him. His hair was a mess, his clothes wrinkled and dirty, his face haggard, and he clung to a bundle under his arm as if it were his last worldly possession. He relaxed and leaned on the counter, determined to appear somewhat normal.
“Business good?” he asked.
“Always.”
Stephen looked at an old pocket watch in the case. A handwritten tag hanging off it read 3000. Nothing else. Surely that couldn’t be the price. Twin horse heads graced either side of the silver piece. He dared a glance at one of the other customers and saw that the man wasn’t staring at him after all. But if he knew what Stephen knew, his eyes would be popping out of his skull. Fess up, boy, where are the other four Stones? You have no right to them. They are for a serious collector with millions to spend.
“Three thousand,” Stephen said. “What does that mean?” Question sounded dumb, but he had to say something before making a retreat.
“It means that someone will give me three thousand dollars for a watch I paid five hundred dollars for,” Gerik said.
Stephen looked up, surprised. “Three thousand dollars? It’s worth that much?”
“It’s worth what someone will pay for it. What’s the value of a diamond? Whatever someone is willing to pay for a pretty stone that makes him feel important.”
“And someone will want that old watch enough to pay three thousand dollars? Amazing.”
“They aren’t buying an old watch, my boy. They’re buying an idea. The value of an idea is determined by how appealing the idea is to someone. If you want something desperately, you will pay desperately. Isn’t that true?”
“Yes. Yes, I suppose so.”
“I sell ideas. Actually, if you think about it, everything is really no more than idea. The past is nothing more than a memory, which is one kind of idea. The future is still a hope, another kind of idea. The present is fleeting and becomes a memory before you can put your hands on it. All ideas. I sell ideas.”
“That’s a bit cynical, isn’t it? Am I just an idea?”
“No. But what I think of you is.” Gerik grinned. “And, of course, there’s the greatest of ideas,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes. “Love. You could even say that I sell love. Obsession. A good thing.”
Stephen chuckled nervously and looked at the three-thousand-dollar watch. “Sure—love. I would say that’s stretching things a bit.”
“Is it? Last week, I sold a brass masquerade mask with red feathers to a woman from Hollywood. It is said the mask was worn by a wealthy French nobleman known for his extravagant parties. She’d been seeking that mask for seven years, and I was fortunate enough to track it down for her. I honestly think she might have parted with her husband for it. She loved it as much as she loved anything. Another collector offered me ten thousand dollars for the mask. She paid me twenty-five. What was it worth? Twenty-five.”
“Most people associate love with other people,” Stephen said.
“And I associate it with any object of desire. People who buy from me are in love with what they purchase. Many are obsessed. I’m not sure some wouldn’t risk their lives for a particular obsession. Which isn’t all that crazy—some ideas are actually worth dying for.” Gerik winked. “I think Rachel was such a person.”
Stephen looked at him, taken off guard. He couldn’t think of a response.
“Life is hardly worth living without an obsession. God himself is obsessed.”
Stephen stared on dumbly. What was this man talking about?
“With his creation. With humans. With the love of humans. You think he created with nonchalance? Let’s throw some mud against the sky and see if any of it sticks? Not a chance. We are created for love, for obsession. So we do indeed obsess, though usually not over the right idea.” He hesitated and eyed Stephen’s shirt again.
“I had a rough night.” The words about this obsession business echoed through Stephen’s head. “Is that . . . Judaism?”
“What? That we are created to obsess? Sure, why not? What do you have there?”
Stephen shifted nervously. “This? Nothing. Really. Just some stuff I picked up. Some, you know, personal effects that I picked up from my place and wrapped here. In this towel. For safekeeping. You know.” You babbling fool! He looked around again. “This is a beautiful place, Gerik. A wonderful . . . little place. You should be proud of what you’ve done here in this . . . place.”
“Thank you.” The man was eyeing him without a break now. “Would you like to clean up in the back?”
“Me? Why would I want to clean up? I’m fine. I just picked up some things, and I wanted to stop by and see, you know, all this things.” This things? “I’m fine, really.”
“Fine.”
“Good.”
Stephen felt terribly exposed. As if he were in one of those dream sequences in which he walked out onto a stage, only to realize that he was naked. He was chewing on his fingernail without remembering exactly when he’d lifted his finger to do so.
“Okay, so I’m not completely good,” Stephen finally said. The antiques dealer arched an eyebrow. “Do you mind if I have a word with you?”
“Not at all,” Gerik said.
Stephen glanced around. “Not here.”
Gerik hesitated, then turned and walked deeper into the store, where the furniture hung lower and the shadows were darker. He stopped and turned around.
“This is private?” Stephen asked.
“We might as well be in a vault,” the old man assured him.
“Our voices might carry.”
“No one can hear us.”
“No, but voices can travel.”
“I’ve practically lived in this room for twenty years, and I can assure you—”
“Please, Gerik.”
Stephen looked back at the man browsing thirty feet away and saw that they’d attracted his attention.
“I’m sorry, where are my manners? Please, I’m not thinking clearly. Follow me.”
They walked past the last of the stacked furniture way in the back and stepped into an office cluttered with books and papers. Gerik closed the door, picked up a pipe, and lit it. A blue cloud billowed over his head. Stephen held the wrapped photograph against his chest now.
“You found something at the apartment,” Gerik said.
Stephen didn’t respond.
“May I see it?”
“This?”
“You did want to show me, didn’t you?”
“I guess so, yes.” He began to unwrap the picture, suddenly unsure if he wanted to show it. “I . . . came across this.” The picture of Ruth stared up at him, mesmerizing.
He hadn’t noticed it before, but her hair was swept back so that it exposed her left ear. That would be her right ear if the photo had reversed her image. A nice ear. A stunning ear actually, one that looked as if it had been painted on with a skilled— “And?”
Stephen looked up and blinked.
&
nbsp; “I . . . I found this photograph and thought maybe you could take a look at it.”
Gerik held out his hand. The towel fell to the floor. Stephen gave him the picture. “Her name’s Esther.”
Gerik puffed on the pipe and studied the image. He turned the picture over. “It says her name is Ruth.”
“Right. I mean Ruth.”
“Taken before or during the war.” He read the note on the back. “Stone of David,” he said, and glanced up at Stephen. “Taken before the war. Esther would be your age, if she survived.”
“Exactly,” Stephen said. “That’s exactly my point!”
“It is?”
Was it?
“You found this in her apartment?”
Stephen cleared his throat. “It was with some other pictures of . . . of victims. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken it, but I just . . . it was quite moving.”
“Of course you should have taken it. She would have wanted you to have it. Most of the world wants to forget the Holocaust, you know.”
Gerik knew nothing about the safe; he was speaking from his heart only. He set his pipe down and examined the edges of the photograph with a trained eye.
“Did Rachel tell you anything else? About Ruth.”
“No, nothing,” Gerik said. “She asked about the Stones, of course. Do you know what one Stone of David is worth?”
“Millions.”
“Like I said earlier, it’s worth what someone will pay for it, which means twenty million as of this morning.”
“Someone offered twenty million to the museum?”
“A group of Jewish moguls who insist the relic belongs in Israel. I’m not sure I disagree. But Christians also lay claim to the Stones, as you may know. The seed of Adam to strike Lucifer on the head, in the line of David. Christ. I know of collectors in Rome who would pay well over one hundred million for the collection. Perhaps even two hundred.”