Table of Contents
The Copper Series
Copyright
Copper Star Book 1
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
Copper Fire Book 2
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
About the Author
Acknowledgements
The Copper Series
Suzanne Woods Fisher
Includes the award-winning titles
Copper Star and Copper Fire
Vinspire Publishing
Goose Creek, South Carolina
www.vinspirepublishing.com
Copyright ©2014 Suzanne Woods Fisher
Cover illustration copyright © 2013 Elaina Lee/For the Muse Designs
Formatted by Woven Red Author Services, www.wovenred.ca
All scripture quotations are from the King James Bible unless otherwise notated.
Printed and bound in the United States of America. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system-except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine, newspaper, or on the Web-without permission in writing from the publisher. For information, please contact Vinspire Publishing, LLC, 107 Clearview Circle, Goose Creek, SC 29445.
All characters in this work are purely fictional and have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
PUBLISHED BY VINSPIRE PUBLISHING, LLC
www.vinspirepublishing.com
Copper Star
Book 1
Prologue
On a blazing hot summer day in Copper Springs, Arizona, the four of us stood in the church cemetery, staring solemnly at a headstone, each one of us lost in our memories of the person who lay before us. I was amazed at how powerful the connection had been for each one of us, with that cold body lying beneath the freshly dug grave. Two of us connected to it with a bond of love, two of us with a sense of responsibility.
I had arrived in America only seventeen months ago, and it seemed as if the entire purpose of my coming to Copper Springs pointed to this fateful moment. As if this was why I had been sent here in the first place.
Never, though, in my wildest imagination, could I have imagined the turn of events that occurred, especially in the last few months, which turned this town upside down. Copper Springs would never be the same.
This is the story of how I ended up in a dusty copper mining town in Arizona after a thrilling but dangerous stint with the Resistance Workers in Nazi Germany and how my journey took me to this gravesite.
And to the very heart of a family.
Chapter One
I had lost track of which day it was. I glanced at a newspaper that a passenger left on the seat. Under the February 2, 1943 date, the headline proclaimed boldly: “Germans Surrender at Stalingrad.” A good sign, it seemed, that today of all days was the first big defeat of Hitler’s armies. I smiled. This war couldn’t last much longer.
The conductor gracefully maneuvered down the aisles despite the jerky movement of the train. “Next stop, Tucson, Arizona!” he bellowed. I picked up my small bag and prepared to disembark, wishing I could borrow some of his confidence for what I was about to do.
I stood at the top of the platform steps, looking for a man who resembled the tattered picture I held in my hand. The picture was over ten years old, and Dietrich’s descriptive skills left much to be desired. “He’s sort of tall but not really. Average build. Dark hair, I think. Don’t worry. He’ll find you.”
Dietrich was right. Like always. There was only one man standing at the station, and he looked similar to the man in the photograph. In the picture, though, he was laughing, young and carefree. The man standing on the platform looked serious, hat in hand, waiting to fulfill a promise he had made to his longtime friend from seminary days to sponsor me, a complete stranger, a German refugee on the lam.
I took a deep breath, whispered a silent prayer, and stepped down from the train. My long journey had just come to an abrupt end in this dry, dusty copper mining town in Arizona.
“Reverend Gordon?”
Slowly the man nodded, tilting his head, a puzzled look on his face.
“I’m Louisa. Louisa Schmetterling. I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.”
We shook hands. Then came an awkward pause. “Did you have a pleasant trip?” he asked politely, still looking a little surprised.
“Yes, it was fine,” I lied. Why did he keep looking at me as if he was expecting someone else?
Just as another train came roaring into the station, we pulled away in Reverend Gordon’s 1937 Hudson Custom Eight, a big black box of a car, and headed southeast on the two-lane highway out of Tucson toward Copper Springs. We passed a vast, harsh landscape of cactus, strange looking trees with gnarled trunks and spindly arms, and jutting spires of rusty red rocks. Everywhere were sharp angled rocks. I felt as if I landed on another planet, void of any trace of green.
Still, I should have tried to hide my disappointment. I’ve never been good at masking my feelings. It’s one of my worst faults.
The Reverend noticed the look on my face. Quickly, he pointed out in what I would call a voice of quiet pride, “it may not seem like much, but this state is known for copper; even our state flag has a copper star in the center. Before the turn of the century, these copper mines created boomtowns overnight. During the Depression, they almost turned into ghost towns. Now, though, the War has created a huge demand for copper, and the mines have soared back into production. Mines near here are supplying almost three million pounds of copper a day. It’s a very important commodity to help win the war.”
I nodded at him enthusiastically, as if I understood. The truth was that I knew very little about this place I had just arrived in and even less about the man sitting next to me. All that I knew for certain was that Robert Gordon and Dietrich Bonhoeffer were in seminary together years ago. I tried to recall the few details Dietrich had told me: He said the Reverend had been raised here, that his father had been a minister, and he was married and had a child.
“Reverend Gordon?”
“Robert. Call me Robert.”
I smiled. “Robert, there’s something I need to discuss with you. Something Dietrich wanted you to know. I don’t know how much he might have told you about our...I mean…my…situation.” I had practiced this speech for the last five-hundred miles, yet I was still stymied for words.
“No.” He glanced over at me. “Dietrich only told me he needed a safe place for someone to wait out the war.”
“I didn’t want to
leave Germany, but I didn’t have much choice. I had to flee. The Gestapo—a secret police force in Germany—was closing in on us…on me.” I looked over at him, noticing that now he looked a little stunned.
He cleared his throat. “May I ask why?”
“Well, for quite a few reasons.”
He shot a sideways glance at me that silently broadcasted, “who have I just invited to live in my home?”
Who could blame him?
Where should I begin? At the beginning, I supposed. “First of all, my father was Jewish. The Jewish people are under great duress from Hitler. And it is getting much, much worse for them.”
He nodded, understanding. “A few years ago, I saw Dietrich in New York. He was quite distressed about the deteriorating situation in Germany. That’s when he asked me if I would ever consider sponsoring someone. I’ve heard some reports about what is happening to the Jews in Germany. It’s a terrible thing. You don’t need to explain anything else.”
Oh, but I did. I had never told another living soul what I was about to divulge, but Dietrich, a straightforward and uncompromising man, felt Robert deserved full disclosure, despite my objections. “There is still another reason that I had to flee. We’ve been part of the Resistance against the Nazis.”
Another furtive glance cast in my direction. “We?” he asked. “You said ‘we’.”
“Yes, I did. My involvement has to do with Dietrich. And his brother-in-law, Hans, who is an official in the Abwehr…the German Military Intelligence Organization. They both are working in Hitler’s War Offices.” I could tell this was new knowledge for him, and this was only half of what I needed to say. I felt a little sorry for him, knowing what was to come.
“Go on,” Robert said, listening intently.
“Dietrich has been part of a plot, with a few others, who are working within the German government to assassinate Hitler. Actually, more than one. And I played a role—a small one. But each plot has run aground. Hitler is the luckiest man in the world. It’s as if someone orchestrates his luck.”
Someone evil.
“And the Gestapo is close to arresting those involved. Dietrich insisted I leave Germany immediately. False identification papers had been prepared for me, and, before I knew it, I was heading across the border to Switzerland.”
I paused to gauge Robert’s reaction as he took in this information. “It would be understandable if you have second thoughts about inviting me into your home.” I looked over at him, carefully watching his face, trying to squelch the anxiety churning in my stomach.
We drove along for quite a while in silence. It was obvious he had no idea that Dietrich had been involved in Resistance Work, much less so, assassination plots. To be fair, it was a shocking piece of information. A pastor, a dynamic, deeply devoted man of God, plotting to kill Hitler.
Robert furrowed his brow and bit his lower lip in thoughtful silence. An eternity later, he turned to look at me. “Louisa, why do you think Dietrich asked me to sponsor you?”
“I guess…I guess I don’t really know. He said you were friends in seminary together.”
“Yes, we were. And I think I know why,” he answered decidedly. “I think he trusts me. You are welcome to stay with us as long as you need a home.”
I searched his eyes, finding sincerity. Outwardly, I smiled. Inwardly, I felt the first sense of sheer relief since…well…I couldn’t remember how long it had been. Months, perhaps. The truth was, I really didn’t have a back-up plan of where to go or what to do had this man not extended the invitation to stay at his home.
As we crossed over one more hill, I saw a small town clinging perilously to the side of a mountain, as if defying gravity. The town looked as if it cascaded down a hillside of jumbled rock. Robert parked in front of a wood-framed church building covered with white peeling paint, belfry topping the tapered steeple.
“Here’s the First Presbyterian Church of Copper Springs. That’s my church. And my father’s before me. And over there is the parsonage. Your home, too, for now,” he added. “My office connects the two.”
I turned to see where he was pointing. The house was an old bungalow with steps leading up to a covered porch. It, too, had peeling white paint. The roof of a covered breezeway connected the church and the parsonage with a small room. Through the window I saw bookshelves lining the walls. Robert’s office.
In front of the house was the neglected remnant of a garden. I couldn’t help but think back to the beautiful gardens of Germany. Germans prided themselves on their fine gardens.
Robert held the screen door open for me as we walked inside the house. In the center of one wall was a massive stone fireplace flanked by two large bookcases on each side, filled with thick books bearing important sounding titles. The afternoon sunlight filtered through the trees in front of the large picture window, causing shadows to dance on the wall.
Immediately, I loved this front room. It held a wisp of saintliness.
A tall, plain woman entered the room, wiping her hands on her apron. Her peppered hair was twisted up in a hard little knot held with two wire hairpins. She had a look on her face as if she had just swallowed a teaspoonful of vinegar.
“Louisa, this is my Aunt Martha. My father’s sister. Aunt Martha, this is Louisa. Louisa Schmetterling. Our houseguest.”
It might have been my imagination, but he seemed to announce that to her, as if he was closing the subject. “Hello, Frau Gordon.” I reached my hand out.
With one arched eyebrow, she cautiously returned my handshake. “Miss Gordon, Louise,” she corrected.
“Actually, my name is Louisa. With an ‘a’ on the end.”
Her eyebrow remained arched.
“And there is my son, William. He’s peeking around the corner.”
A small, serious-looking boy poked his head around the door jam to peer at me.
I peered back. “Hello, William. How old are you?”
William stared at me with wordless curiosity.
“He’s four-and-a-half,” volunteered Miss Gordon, as if it was one word.
Robert picked up my suitcase and offered to show me to my room. I followed him up the stairs. He showed me the bedroom that he slept in, a bunkroom for William, and Miss Gordon’s room. There was a bathroom with a claw foot bathtub, a shower curtain circling around it, a toilet and a sink. Down at the end of the hall was the room where I was to stay. It had a small bed, a night stand, desk and chair, and a bureau.
Robert pointed to the window. “The best view from the house is out your window.”
I looked out the window and saw a sheer wall of rusty red rock. The knot in my throat was rather sizable. His words struck me as a metaphor. The end of the road.
* * * *
I slept in the next morning. Well, I didn’t really sleep in. I stayed in bed hours after I woke, because I couldn’t quite figure out what to do with myself. Plus, I was more than a little intimidated by Robert’s aunt. And the bed felt heavenly. It had been weeks since I had last slept in a real bed. Finally, I dressed, went downstairs, and found Miss Gordon in the kitchen.
“I was beginning to think I should send William up to make sure you hadn’t expired in the night,” she said dourly as she handed me a cup of coffee.
“The house is so quiet. Where is everyone?” I asked.
“It’s nearly noon! Robert is a busy man; he went to the church hours ago.”
“Where is William?”
“Right behind you.”
I looked behind me and saw him, crouched on the rug in the parlor, coloring with Crayola crayons on a sheet of paper. I went over to him and asked if I could color with him. He didn’t respond, so I sat down next to him, picked up the purple crayon, and started to draw.
I thought he must resemble his mother, because he didn’t look anything like his father. William had sandy blond hair with a pronounced cowlick in the center of his forehead and big blue eyes with thick blond lashes. Robert’s and William’s eyes were the only obvious rese
mblance they shared. But it wasn’t the color, it was something else. Something behind their eyes.
I wondered about his mother. There was no mention of her last night by Robert or his aunt. There was no evidence that another woman lived in this home. Not even a family photograph.
“Do you like to color, William? I do.”
Miss Gordon whisked back into the kitchen as William and I colored. Ah, relief. The woman made me nervous. She did all of the right things, such as getting me fresh towels for a hot bath last night, but she carried an air of general disapproval.
I offered to help Miss Gordon around the house, but she refused my help. So I invited William to go on a walk with me and show me around.
“He won’t talk to you,” she offered without elaborating.
“William, come show me the town?” I waved to him to come. He cocked his head, looked at me, and jumped up to join me. I took his hand, and we started our tour of Copper Springs.
The streets of Copper Springs were laid out in a haphazard way, wiggling here and there, as if no one had anticipated a town would eventually emerge. Telephone wires criss-crossed the streets, hanging like strings from abandoned kites.
The buildings were just as erratic as the streets. New, stately buildings looked out of place next to small, hastily built and badly sun-worn storefronts. Residences were curiously tucked in between business buildings. And there were staircases, from the street, leading up to teetering cottages on the precarious ledges of the hillsides.
“William, imagine anyone carrying groceries up fifty stair steps to their home!” His blue eyes appeared suddenly larger, as if he was seriously considering the notion.
Only a few buildings looked as if they intended to be around for a while. The red brick bank, an obviously young building, had a Roman temple portico in front. Over the columns there was a bold proclamation: The First National Trust of Copper Springs. “Now there’s a name people can have confidence in,” I said to him.
We passed by one lonely public telephone box. Gazing at the telephone box filled me with a sudden wave of nostalgia. Oh, the many times I had stealthily slipped into a similar box in Berlin, heart hammering, to deliver a message of a plot or to let someone know information had been conveyed. A strange part of me missed the thrill, the excitement, even the danger, of being part of Resistance Work. Now, I thought with an absurd twinge of self-pity, I didn’t even know a soul in America to call.
The Copper Series Page 1
