by Renee Duke
“But that’s…that’s…” words failed Dane.
They didn’t fail Paige. “Vile! Totally vile. If Hani were to get taken away from the Reitzels…Well, we can’t let that happen. We’ve got to do something. Like talk them into leaving the country before that T4 thing gets started.”
“And Nicko’s lot should leave before the Nazis start rounding up the Gypsy population,” said Uncle Trevor. “They persecuted them from the get-go, but it wasn’t until mid-way through nineteen-thirty-eight that incarceration began in earnest. For most, fatal incarceration. As Dane said, a great many Gypsies met their ends in concentration camps, and others in general massacres. Altogether, it’s thought that at least a million and a half Gypsies perished at the hands of the Nazis. But at least the ones that went in the mass shootings went quickly. Pure torment awaited those who died in concentration camps. Used for horrific medical experiments, a lot of them. Especially twins. One sociopathic Auschwitz doctor, Josef Mengele, enjoyed doing things to twins. And small children. He went there in nineteen-forty-two and became known as the Angel of Death.”
“Nicko’s got twin sisters,” said Jack, looking distressed. “Anya and Ava. And a new baby brother. He’s got quite a lot of siblings.”
“Children were—and still are—of great importance to Gypsies. Even if they survived the war, Gypsies who were forcibly sterilized suffered greatly from not being able to have children.
Paige’s eyes narrowed. “They did that, too? Sterilized people?”
“They did. Couldn’t have inferior races breeding. Or anyone with a family history of producing weak or damaged offspring.”
“Well, then, next trip, forget Marta. Hani and the Brases should be our top priority.”
“I agree. Right now, it looks like your dad’s ready to start.”
He was. As Dane had predicted, the children later had studio work and were tied up all day. Before setting out for their evening meeting with Professor Azarian, Uncle Trevor used his laptop to establish a Skype connection with Uncle Edmond, Granddad, and Grantie Etta, who were all at Uncle Edmond’s house.
The first thing he told them was that the children had, as anticipated, ventured into the past and were involved with children living in Nazi Germany.
“Which is not a good place for you to be,” Granddad declared. “Not good at all.”
“And being in places where we were set upon by medieval assassins, stalked by Jack the Ripper, and subject to attacks by a wicked sorcerer was better?” Paige queried.
“Of course not, but that’s exactly my point. Unlike our time trips which, with a few exceptions, were more interesting than perilous, yours have all been perilous. I know, deep down, that you do have to travel back in time and help children from other time periods, just as we all once did. But now that we know there’s a nasty fellow out there bent on stopping this little family tradition, you can’t expect me to be happy about it. Thanks to him, you three have run into mortal danger in every era you’ve visited.”
“He’s not supposed to be able to threaten us much this time round,” said Dane.
“He won’t have to. Nazi Germany poses enough of a threat to you all by itself. One Uncle Edmond and I can appreciate all too well since, during one of those exceptions I referred to, we were up against Nazis.”
Dane frowned, puzzled. “But you guys were born during World War Two. How could you go back to a time you actually lived in?”
“We didn’t,” said Uncle Edmond. “We went to nineteen-forty. We were both born after that. It was actually our first time trip. Grantie gave us the medallion just before we went off to France and Holland with our prep school. Said she thought we might like to ‘ponder its secrets’ during dull moments. Not that there were many of those. Bit hard on us, really, being in countries that had been occupied during a war in which our father, and those of several of our classmates, had been killed. Or had returned from wounded and/or shell-shocked. Mother wasn’t keen for us to go, but the headmaster persuaded her. Told her it would be good for us to see what Britain had been fighting for. Help us realize it hadn’t all been for nought.”
“Did it help you?” Paige wanted to know.
“Not the school trip itself. More what the medallion showed us. Once we figured out the rhyme and were whisked off into the past, we didn’t, at first, realize we had been. We’d only gone back fifteen years, and our clothing wasn’t much different to what was being worn by other boys our age. Short trousers.” He sighed. “I was still a few months off getting the coveted long ones bestowed on boys once they got to thirteen. But even those wouldn’t have blended in with, say, Rembrandt’s time, or something like that. On other trips, to different, more distant, eras, we took care to either procure appropriate attire from a nearby clothesline or have it with us. Like all medallion users, we quickly learned that the time periods we visited tended to tie in with what we were doing in our own time. Such as being in Paris on Bastille Day, which got us plonked down in Revolutionary France.”
“Being prepared for an era doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll go to it,” Grantie Etta grumbled. “Sebastian and I once tried to make a time trip from Plymouth thinking we might get to watch the Golden Hind come in yelling about the Spanish Armanda. Much to our disappointment, the medallion didn’t take us to that. Or to any other period in Plymouth’s history. Looking back, I suspect that was because, regardless of era, the place just didn’t contain any of the ‘lost ones’ Skookaweethp spoke of. We still don’t know quite what she meant by that, but must assume they became lost in, or from, specific times. The medallion knows who, when, and where, they are and transports us accordingly, just as Aurea-Rose said in one of her rhymes.”
In addition to The Little Rose Tree book, the family had a box of cards on which an eighteenth-century diviner had written some enigmatic rhymes and dictums. Most were so faded and hard to read that Uncle Edmond had had to have them professionally restored before he could scan them into his computer and e-mail them to everyone. Studying them for clues and insights, young and old had collectively decided that many referred to events that had already taken place and were no longer relevant. But others seemed to pertain to happenings still to come and had the potential to be helpful—if they could figure out what they meant.
Having memorized all of them, Jack proceeded to quote the one she was referring to.
“‘Some fates are neither here nor there,
And will not Time itself impair.
Others of greater consequence are,
And could indeed the Timeline mar.
To these worthy seekers will be taken,
’Til none remain who were forsaken.’”
“Except that, this time, the ‘worthy seekers’ aren’t quite sure whose fate they’re meant to be working on,” he added.
He described the children they had met, ending his account with, “So we don’t just have to figure out how to help. We have to figure out who to help.”
“That’s right,” said Dane. “At first, we were sort of undecided between Hani and Marta. And still are. But what about Nicko? And Frieda, and Gustav, and Rosa, and all the others? Things could turn out badly for all of them. How are we supposed to know who we’ve actually been ‘taken to’ when they’re all tangled up with each other?”
“I believe there’s another rhyme that deals with kind of dilemma,” said Grantie Etta,
Jack nodded.
“‘If ye find yourselves with no clear trail,
’Tis heads, not hearts, which must prevail.
For you are not responsible for all.
And, sadly, some you’ll meet did fall.
Their paths were not corrupted,
And therefore should not be disrupted.
Others might to their cause commit.
If not, such was the way of it.
A hard choice this will sometimes be,
But only the lost have claims on thee.’”
“I’ve always thought that one a bit callous,” sa
id Paige. “I mean, it pretty much says that if we come across a lot of people in trouble, we can only help certain ones. The others aren’t our concern and we shouldn’t get involved.”
“It might seem callous, but isn’t it really just saying what you said Skookaweethp said back in the mid-time?” Grantie Etta posed. “She warned you that on subsequent trips you might not be able to save everyone you wanted to save.”
“I know she did. But we hadn’t met any of our current kid connections then. Now that we have, I want to save all of them. Except maybe Marta.”
Her brother clucked his tongue. “That’s not very nice, Paige.”
“She’s a Nazi, Dane. A junior version, maybe, but a Nazi. She believes all that Master Race stuff. To her, Nicko and his family are pure scum. If soldiers were to burst into their camp and drag them off to a concentration camp, she’d run alongside cheering them on.”
“I doubt she’d be too bothered if they took her sister, either,” said Uncle Trevor. “I can’t remember when I’ve ever met such an unpleasant child. Even Penelope seems quite sweet by comparison.”
“Don’t you believe it,” Uncle Edmond declared. “I’m sure poor Marta’s just brainwashed, but I’ve made a few inquiries about Penelope. She’s a vindictive little piece, and very possibly mentally unbalanced. You mustn’t let your guard down for a second.”
“We won’t,” Paige assured him. “Especially at the Deutsches Museum. She’s joining us there tomorrow. And, so, apparently, is Cousin Ophelia. She’s been wanting to spend time with us, and even though she doesn’t like Penelope much, she thinks she really might be trying to redeem herself, and says we have to try to respond to her in a positive manner. Well, I’m all for that. I intend to make it positively clear that she’d better not try anything. Doesn’t mean she won’t though, so I think I should wear the medallion again tomorrow. If she tries to make some kind of move on it, I don’t have the same hang-up about hitting a girl that these guys do.”
“That was Dane and Colby,” protested Jack, who had the next turn. “If she hadn’t winded me, I’d have happily hit her back.”
“You’re still a good deal smaller than her, dear,” said Grantie Etta. “It really might be better for Paige to wear it.”
“Or not take it with you at all,” Granddad suggested. “I’m sure Herr Volkmar must have a safe you could put it in.”
“He probably does, but that wouldn’t be a good idea,” said Uncle Trevor. “Bentley’s already been round here once. He must know we don’t trust Penelope, and might think there’s a chance we will leave the medallion with Herr Volkmar tomorrow. If so, he’s perfectly capable of dropping by to see if he can bribe or trick one of the staff into getting it for him.”
Paige and the boys exchanged looks of alarm, suddenly concerned for the other Keeper Pieces, which were still in Paige’s suitcase.
“They should be all right,” Uncle Trevor said when she confessed this. “I doubt the Wolverton-Hernes know we’ve got them. We’ll be taking them with us tonight anyway, and can find a better hiding place before you go to bed. As for Penelope, don’t worry about her, Dad. I intend to go along on that museum trip. She’s not likely to pull anything with me watching.”
“Don’t underestimate her,” his father warned. “If she isn’t already as ruthless and treacherous as Percy it’s only because she hasn’t had as much practice. They’re two of a kind. Her father and grandfather are conniving, mean-spirted, and obnoxious, but they don’t possess the same degree of resolve and coldblooded viciousness as Penelope and Great-Grandpa Percy.”
“We’ll be careful,” Uncle Trevor promised. He looked at this watch. “We should be getting along if we’re to be on time for our meeting with Professor Azarian. Perhaps he’ll be able to tell us something the final seekers will find helpful on future assignments.”
“They have to get through this assignment first,” said Granddad. “Returning to the topic of fates, what about their fates? That’s what concerns me.”
“Aurea-Rose had something to say about that, too,” said Jack.
“‘Those who a watch on their enemies keep,
Can the most hazardous of hurdles leap.’”
“And we’re definitely going to keep watch on our enemies,” said Paige. “Here, and back in the past.”
“See that you do,” Granddad commanded.
Christmas decorations brightened the darkness of the crisp, cold, night as they made their way to the U-Bahn station. Professor Azarian’s hotel was on a quiet street about a five-minute walk from Munich’s main train station and they found it quite easily.
Professor Azarian met them in the lobby. A slender man in his late sixties, his rather sharp features were softened by a friendly smile and patient air.
He took them up to his room and nodded toward a briefcase lying on a small table.
“The documents Edmond asked for are in there,” he told them.
“Are they in Armenian?” Dane inquired.
“Most are. A few are in Latin or Greek. I’ve provided translations, but I expect Edmond will want to do his own.”
“Why, if you already have?”
“Historians are like that. We all interpret things differently. The context in which one of us takes something is not that in which another might take it.”
“What are the documents, exactly?” Uncle Trevor asked.
“Census rolls, household records, and ancient tales that may, or may not, reflect actual events. In view of their fanciful nature, most probably the latter. Some Edmond was aware of. Others escaped both his and my notice until I was commissioned to search more diligently for them. The originals were too fragile to be removed from the museums or academic institutions in which I found them, but I have made copies for you. Be they business accounts or what I consider to be fairy stories, they all concern the story behind the Keeper Pieces. I know one of these—one of the Keeper medallions—has been in your family for generations, and Edmond told me his great aunt has recently acquired more. He hinted that I might even be granted the privilege of viewing them. Do you have them with you?”
The Armenian’s voice was tinged with excitement at the prospect of seeing ancient artefacts from his homeland.
“Right in here,” said Paige, slinging off a small backpack.
“Splendid.”
Professor Azarian moved the briefcase to a chair so she could put the three Keeper Pieces on the little table. She then took off the medallion and placed it beside them.
“How beautiful,” Professor Azarian murmured. “May I handle them?”
“Of course,” said Uncle Trevor.
After an extensive examination, Professor Azarian reluctantly put the treasures back on the table. “The ring, brooch, and medallion I knew of. A bracelet and a belt are also documented, but not the circlet. It is, however, most definitely a Keeper Piece, and must therefore be the mysterious, long-lost, Arcanus Piece. How did you come by it?”
“It was in a forgotten corner of an antique shop in Cairo,” Uncle Trevor lied. “I suppose it could be the Arcanus Piece, but there might have been other Pieces of unknown character, too.”
“Not according to the information I have.” Professor Azarian opened up the briefcase and took out a thick package. “Most notably this, which takes the form of a rhyme.”
The package contained several large envelopes. After selecting one, he pulled a piece of paper from it and put on a pair of glasses before reading aloud a rhyme that sounded eerily like something Aurea-Rose or Rosetta Wolverton might have written.
“‘Trinkets five and medallions three,
Carried far o’er land and sea,
Were from a golden statue made,
To save the one who was betrayed.
The medallions be the cornerstones,
The others, fragments carefully thrown,
Into the world to serve as marks,
For those who on the quest embark.
A quest for which none may apply,
Then the line which holds the key
Shall long-kept secrets begin to see.
That those with wit to find the way
Might heal the shards that went astray.
The key will serve as willing guide
But still some revelations hide.
As these may only be disclosed
To those whose names be of the rose.
Who, in turn, must cautious be,
Lest careless words uproot the tree.’”
“Where did you find that?” asked Jack, who had been the one to realize the family’s diviners all had names pertaining to a rose.
“In a book my father had,” Professor Azarian replied. “A book I only recently discovered contained several references to the Keeper Pieces. Like me, my father was an historian and had a great many books. The one from which this was taken is in English, but he came across it in an antique book shop here in Munich just after the war. It’s eighteenth-century and in very good condition. I made photocopies of all the relevant pages. If you’d like to see the book itself, I have it here.”
He handed the rhyme to Uncle Trevor and reached into the briefcase again. Extracting a small leather-bound book, he said, “The man in the book shop told my father it had originally belonged to a young Englishman who was on his Grand Tour—that illustrious trip around Europe considered so essential to the education of young men from well-to-do families. This particular young man ran into financial difficulties and was forced to sell some of his possessions. His name’s written inside and is still quite legible. Look.”
