by Ted Dekker
This wasn’t just a few coins she’d relieved him of. The journal could destroy him. Dear God, what was she thinking?
They walked by nineteen times, and each time Martha lost a kilo in sweat. And then they didn’t return. The house grew quiet. A sudden, terrifying thought struck her: What if he meant to take the children tonight?
She jerked upright. He’d said in the morning, but what if he meant by the morning? What if he’d left already to collect David, with the intention of returning for Esther?
Martha threw off the covers and tiptoed up the stairs in her bare feet. Water, if he asked. She was getting a glass of water.
She peeked down the hall and saw his bedroom door closed. A thin line of light ran along the base of the door. She retreated, her bare feet whispering across the concrete. He’d emptied the vault, presumably without noticing anything missing. What kind of good fortune had extended her this grace?
And to what end? She wouldn’t be leaving here with the children, much less the treasure. It was nearly midnight, at least eleven. Her plan would be for nothing if she didn’t get down to David. She had to get to her son. How could she possibly explain this to Rachel?
Martha slipped to her seat and sat in the dark hall, sunk by a terrible hopelessness. What would Ruth do in a situation like this? Ruth would pray. She would cry out to God for his favor and his hope. She would believe that God would preserve the Stones of David. She would believe that God would protect the children without being compelled to explain why he hadn’t protected countless others in this horrifying war.
Martha whispered her prayers to God and then assured herself that he would indeed preserve the true Stones of David. Her tears slowly dried, and her resolve returned. She finally took a deep breath and set about to do what she must.
She pulled out the ammunition boxes, rolled them in a blanket, and ascended the stairs. The light was out beneath the commandant’s door. So then, what was she waiting for? Ruth had given her life for hope; it was time for Martha to risk hers.
She would need a shovel, and although she had an idea where she could get one, she wasn’t sure. This part of the plan she might have to abandon. She had one of the Stones at any rate, stashed in her underclothes. If all else failed, she could call to the children after the war using this one Stone.
Martha took a deep breath and slipped out the back door.
40
Germany
July 27, 1973
Friday
STEPHEN STOOD BY THE VOLKSWAGEN BUS HE’D RENTED IN Hamburg and stared down at the small town of Greifsman. A bird chirped from a grove of trees to his right; the sky was blue and the air was cool. It felt surreal to be here, so far from home, yet so close.
Several children played in the village square; a tall bell tower marked the church around which two or three hundred homes crowded. The village wasn’t unlike any small Russian town, a far cry from the sprawling cities of America. For every minute of the past forty-eight hours, he’d imagined this moment, driving into Greifsman and running into Esther’s arms, two soul mates finally and miraculously reunited. He’d stared at Ruth’s picture for hours, considering every conceivable eventuality.
But the three-dimensional reality dashed his fantasies. If she wasn’t here, he was lost. If she was here but refused to go with him, he was lost. If she was here and agreed to go with him, and Braun was also here, they were both lost. For all he knew, she was already dead. Or alive and happily married with twelve children. Even one child. Spoke no English. A dozen other possibilities.
Stephen had contacted Chaim upon his arrival in Germany. The rabbi had terrified him with new details.
Sylvia was dead.
Dead?
Dead.
The news still seemed impossible.
Chaim had gone looking for her after giving the police a statement on the fire. She never had shown up at work.
He found her bound in her apartment on blood-soaked sheets. Gagged with a red scarf. Lifeless.
Chaim blurted the news through tears, demanding that Stephen return immediately. This changed everything. Stephen couldn’t return, of course. Another woman’s life was at stake.
Esther. Her face was burned into Stephen’s head, begging, dying for his help. His love.
They’d already made contact with the German authorities, but Stephen was right—these things took time.
Now standing over the village called Greifsman, Stephen was suddenly sure that the next hour would turn out badly.
In a moment of overwhelming resolve, however, he ran for the Volkswagen, climbed in, and fired up the van. Lack of sleep had made him emotional. He looked over at the picture of Ruth on the passenger’s seat. This was insane.
He muscled the gearshift forward, released the clutch, and jerked with the bus. The gravel road was steep, and he found himself wondering how they managed in the winter. Maybe there was another road, although the man at the rental agency had assured him this was the only way to Greifsman, if he absolutely insisted on visiting. No one visited Greifsman. It was nothing but a pile of rubble in the middle of nowhere.
Stephen accelerated and shifted into a higher gear. He would blaze into town; he would search; he would find; he would leave.
Honestly, he wasn’t sure he actually wanted to find her. Yes, as odd as that sounded, he really wasn’t too thrilled about the prospect of searching for someone who was likely married or dead. And he wasn’t just telling himself that to keep his hopes from boiling over. Or was he? Either way, he couldn’t race through the streets yelling her name, now, could he? The residents might come out of the houses with pitchforks.
No, it would be a calm, collected affair. A simple question here, a suggestion there. He would compare faces against Ruth’s picture, show it to others. If he wore his collar up, Braun might not even know he was in town.
He glanced at the picture and took a settling breath. “God help me.”
Everyone who saw him drive up the cobblestone street into Greifsman stared. They didn’t run out and clap their hands and dance in the streets as if he were the liberating army; they simply stared at him, as if they’d seen this before. The return of the gunslinger. Maybe the car rental man back in the airport knew a few things.
Stephen parked the van by the square and looked around. A bread shop, a butcher, the distant sound of children singing. School. An old man with a wrinkled face sat on a bench ten yards ahead, watching him with casual interest.
Okay, Stephen. Calm, collected, methodical. You’ve come this far.
He took the photograph, exited the van, and walked straight to the old man.
“Excuse me.”
The man cracked a toothless smile and nodded.
“Excuse me, you speak English?”
“Anglesh,” the man said.
Apparently not. He held up the picture. “Du yu no vwherr I ken fined dis wooman? Estar?” What was he thinking? He cleared his throat and spoke in normal English. “Do you know where I can find this woman?”
“Nein.” The man shook his head and wagged one hand.
“Thank you.” He walked up the street where a group of children watched him, smiling.
He held up the picture. “Esther? Anyone know this girl?”
A girl of eight or nine giggled. The rest ran off, squealing with delight.
He walked on, feeling more self-conscious than he had upon exiting the van. Several women were crossing the street to his left. “Excuse me.” They ignored him and continued. “Excuse me, does anyone speak English? I’m looking for Esther.”
They whispered to each other and moved on without paying him more than a sideways glance. Stephen stopped on the sidewalk, suddenly worried. What if she really wasn’t here? Braun might have purposefully thrown Stephen off. He swallowed and hurried toward the bread shop. A woman with a plaid dress covered by a white apron walked out holding a large bag, gave him a quick glance, and moved away quickly. Not a good prospect. He stepped into the shop.
&n
bsp; He stumbled out thirty seconds later. Not one of the seven people inside seemed to speak English. Not one showed any recognition when he showed them the picture. She wasn’t here! And the people were treating him like a piece of trash that had blown in on the wind.
The calm, collected approach wasn’t working.
Stephen ran to the corner and thrust the picture above his head. “Hey!” he yelled. “English! Who speaks English?” His voice rang out over the street. There were several cars, a dozen bicycles, and at least forty people in his field of vision. The bustle paused with his cry. A hundred eyes turned his way.
He had their attention.
“Please, I’m looking for Esther! The girl in this photograph.” He pointed at the photo. “Can anyone tell me where I can find her?”
The pause lasted two seconds, and then as one they resumed their bustle, as if he didn’t exist here on the corner, bellowing like a fool.
“Hey!”
This time, they ignored him entirely. They were hiding something! Of course! Why would so many people ignore him? Germans were well-known for their friendliness, even more so in the country. If one of them had responded kindly, tried to explain—but no. The whole village was conspiring against him.
The obsession he’d lived with in Los Angeles drove him forward now. Stephen ran down the sidewalk, waving the picture in front of startled villagers. “See her? This is Ruth. Esther’s mother. Tell me where she is. Tell me!”
A middle-aged woman scolded him in high-pitched outrage. The only word he caught with certainty was “idiot.”
He honestly didn’t care whether she thought he was an idiot. If she had any idea what he’d gone through to be here, she would be running around frantically with him.
He showed the picture to at least fifty people, ignoring their blatant denial, gaining steam as he progressed, as much out of anger as hopelessness now. The main street ran for about a hundred yards, and he hurried all the way to its end, begging, yelling, whispering, any and every approach that came to mind. “Show me some respect, for heaven’s sake. Look at the picture!”
Except for the occasional vacant or sympathetic stare and several angry lectures, the villagers continued to ignore him. He was doomed. No, he refused to be doomed.
Stephen pulled up and faced the street, beyond himself. “You lying hoard of insensitive—” He jumped up and beat at the air. “Speak to me!”
“They wouldn’t tell you if they did know,” a voice said behind him. Stephen whirled. A young man leaned against the wall, stroking a black goatee.
“You speak English,” Stephen said.
“So do half the people in this town. The younger ones.”
“Then why—”
“This town is controlled by the . . . what do you call it? Like German Mafia. Do you want these people to be killed? Only a fool would tell you anything, whether they know or not. And only a fool would run around town yelling at them and jumping in the air. You’ll be dead by sunset.”
Stephen stared at him.
The man turned away.
“No, wait.” Stephen stepped up and grabbed his arm. “Do you know her?” he whispered.
The man stopped. “Let go of my arm.”
Stephen did.
“Are you deaf? Do you want a sniper to pop my head like a pumpkin?”
“No.”
“Then don’t ask again.” He walked off. “No, I don’t know her,” he said so Stephen could hear.
No? No? Stephen scanned the roofs of the buildings, half expecting to see the glimmer of a rifle. Snipers in this tiny village? It had to be a figure of speech.
He hurried for a side street, suddenly feeling like a fool. Okay, so maybe calm and collected would have been better after all. But now he had a problem of incalculable proportions. He had to believe Esther lived here, in this village. He really had no alternative. If no one would tell him where to find Esther, then he would have to find her himself.
Stephen stopped and looked back toward the town square. How many people lived in this place? One thousand? Three thousand? Couldn’t be more than three thousand. How long would it take to search thirty streets? He would go door-to-door if he had to. If Esther was here, he would recognize her; he was sure of that.
On the other hand, some of them would surely recognize him from his circus act on Main Street—maybe even report him to the snipers. Half the town had probably seen or heard of him by now. He had to be more discreet. But he also had to hurry; if Braun hadn’t taken her already, he couldn’t be far behind.
He considered retreating to the van, but one glance at the picture and he discarded the thought. He hid the photograph under his shirt, shoved his hands into his pockets, and walked on. He bought a floppy black hat from a street vendor, hoping it might alter his appearance at least some.
He entered a lazy cobblestone street that ran in front of the towering church. Half a dozen people sat or stood outside as many shops. Someone laughed, but he didn’t turn to see if it was directed at him. He glanced as nonchalantly as possible at each face. None of them was Esther. None of them was even a woman.
Another thought struck him. Maybe Esther would find him. If it was true that they were soul mates, wouldn’t she recognize something special in him? Maybe he should be less concerned about being recognized by the Mafia types and more concerned with letting everyone in the village get a good look at him. He would leave the rest in God’s hands, if indeed God was interested.
He glanced up at the church across the street. A woman stood at the side of the building, by the entrance to an alley, arms crossed. She was staring at him.
Stephen stopped. Was . . . was it her?
The same dark hair, the same finely curved cheekbones. Eyes that drilled him with a bright stare. She wore an equally bright blue dress.
He was holding his breath.
He glanced up the street—no one was watching him. Except her. She was still looking at him. His mouth was open, he knew that, but he wasn’t thinking clearly enough to close it. Worse, he couldn’t move his feet. He just stood there, forty yards away, ogling her as if she were an apparition who’d come to sweep him off to heaven.
This didn’t seem to faze her. She continued staring. Or was she glaring?
Stephen regained his composure and headed across the street, straight for her. She let him come. He stopped ten feet from her. This was Esther, the perfect image of Ruth. The same hair, flowing gracefully past smooth cheeks. The same disarming eyes and the same small nose. She was petite, no more than a couple of inches over five feet.
“What are you staring at?” she asked.
“What?”
“You’re staring at me as if you were looking at a ghost. Haven’t you ever seen a woman before?”
“Of course.” His voice cracked, but he didn’t bother to correct it. She was reacting out of shock at finally seeing him. Hiding her own need for him with this charade.
“Then stop staring as if you haven’t,” she said.
He blinked. “You speak English.”
“Obviously.”
“Do you have twelve children?”
It was her turn to blink. “Do I look like I’ve had twelve children?”
“No! Sorry.” His face flushed. “You’re just so beautiful, I had to know . . .”
“If I’ve had twelve children?”
“Are you married?”
“No.”
It was too much for Stephen. He rushed to her and threw his arms around her neck before she could move.
“My name is Stephen. David. I’ve looked everywhere for you!”
She was stiff like a mannequin. He was overwhelming her. Get ahold of yourself, Stephen. She’s a tender twig; you’ll snap her in two. This is no way to introduce yourself.
He started to pull back and was aided by a shove from her.
She stepped away, horrified and angry. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?” she said, eyes darting up the street.
“I�
��m sorry. I don’t know what came over me. You’re . . . you’re Esther, right?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
This couldn’t be! Was she terrified out here on the street? Of course!
“Maybe we should go to the alley,” he said.
She reached out and slapped him. “What do you take me for?”
For the first time, he wondered if he’d made a terrible mistake.
“What do you mean, prancing around the village, making a fool of yourself?” she demanded.
Stephen stepped back. “You saw me?”
“Half the village saw you. If there’s an Esther who lives here, I don’t know her. Now leave, before you get yourself killed.”
She glanced over his shoulder, gave him a parting glare, and walked away.
41
WHO THE MAN WAS, SHE HAD NO IDEA, BUT IF HE CONTINUED with these antics, neither of them would live out the day. She feared as much for him as she did for herself. Perhaps more.
That’s why she’d slapped him.
Yes, that’s why. Hard enough to really hurt. Tears came to her eyes now as she walked briskly from him. How he knew, she couldn’t guess. He’d called her beautiful. She couldn’t remember the last time a man had told her she was beautiful. It wasn’t permitted.
But this bold fool from America named Stephen David didn’t know that. He had maybe seen her somewhere and really thought she was pretty. Now he was coming after her in full daylight. Is this how Americans courted their women?
And yet she found herself undeniably attracted to the tall man with haphazard dark hair. He’d told her she was beautiful. Did he really believe she was beautiful? Was he beautiful? He did not fit her preconceived notion of American men. And yet, he could be missing his ears and she might think him beautiful. He desired her.
“Stop it,” she whispered harshly. “What do you take yourself for? A whore?” Fresh tears filled her eyes. She bit her bottom lip. Some realities in life couldn’t be changed.