Stolen Secrets

by L. B. Schulman

  “I’m just me, Franklin D. Schiller,” he continued. “I talk too much. I like to debate everything, which I know annoys some people, but I don’t care. I stir up trouble because I’m interested in what people will say. Everyone knows all my secrets because I find it impossible to hide anything—”

  I raised a finger to his lips. “That’s what I like best about you.”

  “Which one?”

  “All of them.” I kicked off my heels and stepped onto the tips of his licorice shoes and kissed him without any hesitation at all.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-FOUR

  I FLOATED UP THE STEPS TO OMA’S PORCH AND turned to face the cab. Franklin D. raised his fingers to the window and mouthed good-bye. I waved back, smiling stupidly. When he was gone, I leaned against the door and breathed the cool, damp air into my lungs. The moment of our last kiss washed over me again.

  I stayed like that until I began to shiver, my mind straying to darker thoughts. What had happened with the gift certificate? Could Vickie have planned all along to humiliate me in front of Franklin D.? For reasons I didn’t understand, my existence ruffled her feathers.

  It was cold on the porch, but I didn’t want to go inside, knowing that the night was going to end in a fight. No, I couldn’t let Vickie punch a hole in my happiness. But I also couldn’t risk hypothermia, so I went into the house, kicked off my heels, and took in the odd stillness. The lights were off. Vickie usually left them all on. I padded past Oma’s bedroom, listening to her snore. In the kitchen, I whispered, “Vickie?”

  She wasn’t there. Not in the living room or the library, either. Franklin D. and I had left for the restaurant early. Vickie wouldn’t expect me back yet. She’d taken off. I couldn’t believe it.

  I went to check on Oma, but her door wouldn’t budge. After rattling the knob for a few seconds, I realized the problem. The door wasn’t stuck at all. I stared at the new slide lock installed at the top of the frame. It was one thing for Vickie to leave the house for a few minutes—something else to imprison an old woman in her own bedroom. What if there had been an earthquake or a fire?

  I fumed all the way to Vickie’s apartment and banged on her door. No answer. I pulled out my phone and dialed her number. The call rang several times before going into voice mail. I didn’t bother leaving a message.

  Back in the house, I unlocked Oma’s door and peered into the bedroom. She was sound asleep. I moved in closer, watching the rise and fall of her chest. “Love you, Oma,” I whispered.

  Her eyes popped open and she murmured my name, getting it right, before her lids closed, weighted by sleep.

  The blanket was at the foot of the bed, folded into the square I’d made this morning. I pulled it over her while silently rehearsing the lecture I would give Vickie when she returned. But, really, what was the point? Mom would be back in three days. It wouldn’t be hard to convince Mr. Laramie to let us take care of Oma on our own, without Vickie’s help.

  I marched into the living room, ready to shout into the monitor, “Where are you?” But it wasn’t behind the porcelain cat anymore. The laptop was still on the hearth, though. I considered Vickie’s “private” e-mails, wondering if they might give a clue where she’d gone.

  After typing in her password, I scanned the usual spam until I found an e-mail from Ryan3Gun@google.com—Vickie’s love interest. It was a complaint about how bill collectors wouldn’t leave him alone, and would Vickie mind helping out with this month’s credit card payment? I went back two weeks, but I couldn’t find any others.

  I was about to log out when I noticed the trash folder. I opened it and started the search again. Up popped an e-mail Ryan had sent Vickie two days ago. My pulse quickened as I read.

  We’re on for this Tuesday—stop worrying. You said yourself they won’t be back until 8:45 or later. I’ll call you when they get them. Rex agreed to the terms the first time—probably should’ve asked for more. How does Kauai at New Year’s sound?

  I looked at the clock. It was 7:56. I didn’t understand some of this, but obviously Ryan was in town, and he and Vickie had planned to sneak off while Franklin D. and I were at the restaurant.

  I dialed Vickie’s cell again. The ring echoed in the house. I followed the sound to the kitchen. Vickie had left her phone on the table. I swept a hand across the top, sending it flying behind the ficus tree. What the hell was going on?

  I tried calling Franklin D., but it went directly to voice mail. He probably hadn’t turned his phone back on after the restaurant. I slapped my own phone down on the table, and then startled at a noise coming from another part of the house. Oh, great, now I’d woken up Oma. Maybe if I sat beside her in the dark, I could get her back to sleep.

  I was almost at her door when I heard something else. A curse, from out on the porch. I strode down the hallway, prepared to face Vickie, and probably her loser boyfriend, too. I wondered what the excuse would be this time. But then I heard more male voices. The words weren’t clear, but the agitation couldn’t be missed.

  I raced down the hall and ducked into my bedroom. A second later, the front door crashed into the wall. Oh my God, they were breaking into the house. We were being robbed. I had to find a hiding spot. There was just enough space to wedge myself between the frame of my futon and the wall. I yanked the comforter over my body and reached in my pocket to call the police.

  Oh, no. My phone. I’d left it in the kitchen.

  Another crash. Dishes against a wall. Stay asleep, Oma!

  What was I thinking? I couldn’t hide from robbers. My bedroom was near the front door. And though Oma was being quiet right now, it was only a matter of time until they found her, too.

  Climbing out of my spot, I scanned the room for a makeshift weapon. When they came in, I’d be ready. Then I’d run out the door and holler until someone called the police. Hopefully the robbers would panic and take off.

  From out in the hallway, a single word interrupted my thoughts. No, not a word—a name.

  “Text Vickie,” a voice grumbled. “Tell her we got in, no thanks to that shitty key.”

  Oma had insisted that the Nazis had snuck into the house to steal her jewelry. At least three pieces had gone missing. The gold bracelet, Vickie had found in a Kleenex box. Now I wondered if Vickie had both taken and returned it to shed suspicion. Oma blamed her “lost” jewelry on my mom, but she’d gotten it wrong.

  But why would Vickie go so far as to set up a robbery when she could access Oma’s jewels every day?

  “She thinks it’s in here,” I heard one of them say. Foot stomps came closer, and then the door to the library slammed shut.

  She thinks it’s in here. What did they mean? Not jewelry, or they’d go straight to the bedroom. No, these men weren’t interested in Oma’s jewels. They wanted something else. Something far more important. Something that Vickie knew about, from spying on my conversations with Franklin D. This was a hundred times worse than a robbery. Who were these people? And what would they do to a girl who got in their way?

  “Stop making that infernal racket,” Oma yelled from her room. “Leave my china alone, you Nazis! You break my good plates and I’ll gas you!”

  I stiffened. Stay in your room, Oma. Please, stay in your room!

  Now I wished I’d never unlocked her door. The irony hit me square in the jaw: Maybe Vickie had installed the lock to keep Oma from wandering out. She wanted to keep my grandmother safe, not put her at risk.

  I crept out of my room. Books thudded against the library wall. Drawers crashed to the ground. I hoped it had been enough to hide the journal pages in the couch cushion.

  I tiptoed down the hallway on a mission to retrieve my phone and call the police, but when a chair skidded across the floor, slamming into the interior of the closed kitchen door, I scrambled for Plan B. Maybe I could keep Oma quiet for long enough to sneak her out of the house.

  I found my grandmother in bed, curled on her side like a prodded caterpillar. I put a finger to my lips, hop
ing she’d understand. If I talked, I knew she would.

  “They’ll make us go left and take a shower, because we smell so bad!” she yelled, startling me. “We have to escape, Gretchen. We have to catch the last train out. Hurry, grab your yellow star!”

  “Oma, please,” I whispered. “They’ll hear.”

  Something lodged between my shoulder blades, cutting off my plea. My heart slammed against my chest. I stopped myself from turning around. “Please don’t hurt us,” I said, as calm as I could. “We haven’t seen anything.”

  Ryan’s e-mail came back to me. I’ll call you when they get them. These men were after the entries, and when they couldn’t find them, they’d force me to tell.

  “Don’t turn around,” the man commanded, jamming the gun into my back again as if I needed reminding.

  “I’m too sick,” Oma wailed. “I’ll die on that train without my nurse.”

  My eyes fell on the glowing green light at the bottom of the baby monitor. “There’s a bolt on the outside of the bedroom door. You can lock us in here,” I told the man, speaking clearly so if Vickie was hiding out in her apartment, she’d know where we were. If she wanted a way to “rescue” us once the robbers left, to be a hero in Mr. Laramie’s eyes, I was game. I didn’t care, as long as Oma and I got out of here alive.

  “I’m dreadfully sorry,” Oma cried. “I’ve been so bad! You’re here to punish me, aren’t you?”

  “Tell the bitch to shut up or I’ll make her,” the man said.

  The room was spinning. I squeezed my eyes shut. My lungs contracted into twin bullets. I was slipping into panic mode. Breathe, Livvy. In, out, in, out. I tried focusing my attention on the tick of the clock, not my pounding heart.

  “It’s going to be okay. I promise,” I told Oma.

  You can do this, Liv. You can do this.

  She blinked several times like a sleepy child. “Keep me safe?”

  I started to nod, but the man yanked me back by my hair. “Move it,” he barked. I managed to hook my arm around Oma’s and pull her to her feet. The man shoved us out into the hallway.

  The men were still in the library, pounding on something metal as if they were beating it into submission. The other person had moved from the kitchen to my bedroom. I heard the tinkle of icicle lights, knocked off their chandelier pins, bouncing on the wood floor.

  They had already searched the kitchen. Maybe the man would take us there. By now, I was sure they’d found my phone on the table, but they might’ve missed Vickie’s behind the ficus tree. I’d once heard that emergency operators didn’t need a voice to locate a call, but I had to get my hands on a cell first.

  My hopes came crashing down as the man pushed us in the wrong direction. Oma stumbled over her feet, smacking her head against the door to the dining room. I screamed, catching her before she crumpled to the ground.

  “Be careful!” I shouted at the man, accidentally glimpsing him. He was tall and thin, face obscured by a ski mask. At least I didn’t have to worry about them caring if I saw their faces.

  In the living room, the man threw us down on the settee. Oma whimpered in my arms. Another man walked in, also wearing a mask.

  “It’s not in there,” the new guy said, his voice deep. I stared at the rope in his hand. He tied it around us three times. The fibers dug into my arms, burning my skin. When they seemed convinced we weren’t going anywhere, they took off, leaving us alone.

  “I always knew they’d come for me,” Oma said.

  From out in the hall, someone shouted instructions. Images of sentries in watchtowers, aiming at moving targets, flashed through my head. My back tightened as if the gun was still digging into the knobs of my spine. I tried to lean against Oma to comfort her, but I was tied too tightly.

  “They’re robbers, Oma. They’ll take what they want and leave.” I was trying so hard not to cry that my voice was clogged with tears. “They’re almost done now.”

  Oma’s mouth froze in a lopsided frown. I hoped she wasn’t going into shock.

  “I’ll call the police as soon as they go. They’ll find these men and put them in jail,” I promised her.

  She didn’t say anything. I looked at her more closely. “Adelle?”

  That’s. Not. My. Name. Say it, Oma!

  But she didn’t. Her arm collapsed to her side, fingers curling up like the legs of a dead beetle. She fell against me, and her eyes shut. Oh, God, had she fainted?

  “Oma? Oma, wake up!” When she didn’t open her eyes, I screamed, “Help! Someone help us!”

  The deep-voiced man peered into the room.

  “Something’s wrong with my grandmother. We have to get her to the hospital!” I struggled to free an arm. Oma was a limp weight on my shoulder.

  I pleaded with the man, “Please, she needs a doctor!”

  “Shut up,” he snapped.

  I looked at her, willing her to wake up. Half her body was slack, all the way from her drooping eyelid to her right arm, which hung like an anchor at her side.

  “She might be having a stroke,” I told the man. He looked indifferent. “Please, you don’t understand, the longer the blood flow is cut off from her brain, the worse her chances will be.”

  I couldn’t remember where I’d heard the ominous fact, but it didn’t matter. I was going to throw all my knowledge at him. “She needs to be treated in the first three hours or the damage can’t be reversed. Please, you’ve got to help.”

  “Do you think I care?” he asked.

  I tried to lunge at him, but the rope kept me moored. “If you don’t help us, you could end up in jail for murder.”

  “Where’s the diary?” he said, all business. “We know it’s here. You find it, and Grandma lives to slur her words.”

  If I gave them the entries, they’d leave. I could get Oma the help she needed. But something wouldn’t let me do it. There had to be another way. “What diaries?” I said. Beside me, Oma began to move. She moaned. “Please, we’re wasting time. Just put her on the street and call 9-1-1. They don’t have to know anyone’s inside the house.”

  “Grandma’s going to be a vegetable,” he said slowly, as if time was a game he was playing. “Do what’s right, sweetheart. Be a good granddaughter.”

  “Okay. Untie me, and I’ll get it for you.”

  The man glanced over his shoulder as a third guy entered the room. He had a tuft of red beard showing under his mask. He aimed his switchblade at my throat and then lowered it to the rope. When it sliced through, Oma slumped back into the bloodred curtains. They swallowed her up, leaving only her eyes to peer from the folds of brocade. Blinking, at least. Still alive.

  “I’ll give you the diary if you let me call an ambulance,” I said, rushing through my words as if they could get Oma to the hospital quicker.

  “Get it and we’ll leave,” Deep Voice said.

  I didn’t trust him, but I was out of options. Pressing the blade into my arm, the bearded man led me out of the room, the other one right behind. I didn’t want to leave Oma, but she’d be safer away from them.

  In the library, the cherry bookcase lay tipped onto its side, a lightning-bolt crack running through the third shelf. Both drawers of the file cabinet had been yanked from their sockets and emptied. Old bills carpeted the floor. A painting I’d never paid much attention to—wildflowers in a field—lay on the floor. Someone had stomped a hole through the pastoral scene. My gaze climbed the wall and stopped. Behind the sun-faded imprint where the painting had hung was a metal door that clung to a dented box by a single screw. The safe had been emptied.

  “The goddamn diary,” the guy with the beard said, as if his knife wasn’t enough of a reminder.

  “Give me a second,” I murmured.

  “Ticktock, ticktock, less oxygen to the brain,” said the other one. I heard a crash in Oma’s bedroom. It sounded like a television flung across the room.

  “Do you have scissors?” I asked. One of the guys nodded at the bearded man, who tossed me the knife. I
shrunk back as it speared the floor in front of me. Pulling it free with both hands, I crawled toward the cushion, which was under the desk now. I stabbed it, dragging the blade down the middle.

  “Ah, clever,” the bearded one said.

  I stuck my hand into the slit and routed through foam pellets until I touched the folder containing the papers. I peered inside, pulling out what I wanted. The bearded man was beside me in a second, snatching Franklin D.’s handwritten copies from my shaking hands.

  “They all there?” the deep-voiced one asked.

  The bearded man flipped through them. “Yeah, four.”

  He knew, because Vickie had told him.

  I fixed an outraged look on my face. “Be careful. They’re important. A lot of people will want to see them.”

  I heard the smile in his voice. “Yeah? Well some people will pay a lot of money so no one sees them.”

  So these men—or whoever hired them—didn’t intend to sell the diary. They wanted to destroy the words of the most famous Holocaust witness ever. Franklin D. had been right: Some people wanted only a polished version of history. Goose bumps crawled up my arms. My grandmother had been right to fear the Nazis, but she’d expected Nazis from her day, not mine.

  Deep Voice grabbed the cuff of my dress sleeve, tightening it until my wrist throbbed. “This is a copy. It looks new,” he growled, his breath hot against my ear. “Where’s the original?”

  I had no choice but to stick with invented facts as best I could, in case Vickie had told them the story already. “I took the pages to school and someone spilled milk on them, so I threw them away. I didn’t think it mattered, because the man who translated them had this copy I made.” I pointed to it. “These were his. He gave them back to me.”

  “Did you tell him who wrote this thing?” Deep Voice asked.

  “Of course not,” I said quickly. “I didn’t even figure it out until we got the translation back. I don’t think he had even heard of her.”

  “Who else has a copy?” he asked. “Don’t lie to me.”

  I kept my eyes on his boots, not trusting my voice.