Stumble Stones

by Marilyn Baron

Hallelujah pleaded, “L-let’s just call the Carabinieri.”

  “I don’t think you want to involve the police. You’re the one with the diamonds. How will you explain them? I don’t know who we can trust.”

  “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “That’s a chance you’ll have to take.”

  “I highly doubt your name is even Lucca. Who are you really?”

  The man calling himself Lucca rubbed his chin and frowned. “My name is Alexander Stone.”

  “Are you even Italian?”

  “No,” he admitted.

  “That may be the first honest thing you’ve said to me, but I’m not going anywhere with you unless you tell me what this is all about.”

  “It’s a long story. And we’re out of time.” He tugged on her shoulder. “You need to come with me, now,” he declared emphatically.

  “Or what?”

  “It may already be too late.” Alexander put his arm around Hallelujah’s shoulders and steered her toward the nearest exit.

  She stopped in her tracks and turned to Alexander. “What about my bags? I can’t just leave them here. My whole life is in these bags,” she protested. “Or what’s left of it. And my computer is in my carry-on. I can’t go anywhere without it.” Her computer was her connection with the world.

  Alexander lifted her carry-on. “We’ll take the carry-on, but my friend Silvio will bring our luggage to his condo. Then, if we’re not followed, you can just go on your way.”

  The man Alexander called Silvio started loading their luggage onto a cart.

  “Those are my bags!” she shouted. “Be careful with them.”

  “Keep your voice down, Hallelujah,” Alexander ordered. “If you ever want to see your luggage again, you’ll come with me.” He tightened his grip on her arm.

  Hallelujah asked herself, “What would Polly do?” Go for it! That’s what Polly would do. Hallelujah was predictable. Polly was not. In fact, Polly was a bit reckless. Outside, horns honked and traffic whizzed by, and Hallelujah was nearly mowed down by a motorcycle.

  “I can’t believe I’m getting into a car with a complete stranger.”

  “Don’t worry. You’re not getting into a car. Have you ever ridden a motorcycle?”

  Hallelujah’s mouth hung open. “Motorcycles are dangerous.” Parker had once taken a serious spill on a Harley. He’d been in a coma for months. It was touch-and-go there for a while. Polly had been nominated for a Daytime Emmy® for her portrayal of the distraught wife at his bedside. And then, soon after he recovered, Polly was kidnapped by a mysterious man on a motorcycle and they found her in an alley, beaten senseless. She remained in a coma for more than a year. Hallelujah had a bad feeling about motorcycles.

  “Not if you know how to ride them.” Alexander took her hand and walked up to a cherry-red Ducati. “Catch,” he said, tossing her a helmet, after which he stored her carry-on in the motorcycle saddlebag.

  “What do I do?” Hallelujah’s voice rose an octave as Alexander fastened the helmet on her head.

  “Just wrap your arms around my waist and don’t let go. Lean into me on the turns. And close your eyes so you can’t see the road. Italians are notoriously bad drivers.”

  “Is that how you ride, with your eyes closed?”

  “Of course not.”

  “What if I can’t do it?”

  Alexander dismissed her. “It’s just like sex. After you’ve done it once, it all comes back to you.”

  “Then I’m screwed,” Hallelujah whispered, trying to remember the last time she and Lloyd had been together that way. In fact, last month, when she visited a fortune teller, the woman had grasped her palm and read, “I can see that your lotus flower is drying up because it’s not being used.” Was it that obvious?

  “What did you say?” Alexander shouted, fastening his own helmet.

  Hallelujah shook her head and mumbled, “Nothing. Where are we going?”

  “For now, a condo owned by a business associate. We can’t take any chances that they’ll find us. I need to deliver my speech, but by tomorrow afternoon, we can be where no one will think to look.”

  “Where is that?” Hallelujah asked.

  “On the high seas. You, Mrs. Stone, my lovely wife, and I, are going on a romantic Scandinavian cruise.”

  “What do you mean your wife?”

  “I’ve already booked the cabin on a small ship, only nine hundred passengers, and it’s our honeymoon cruise. So they upgraded us to the bridal suite. The travel agent assured me it was very private.”

  “I’m going on your honeymoon?”

  “Yes, these people who are after me are looking for a single man, but now we’ll be a couple. And no one will think to look for us in the middle of the North Sea.”

  “Why aren’t you traveling under an assumed name?”

  “The cruise line requires a passport number, so I have to use my real name.”

  “But you don’t have my passport number.”

  Alexander rendered a sheepish smile and pulled her passport from his pocket.

  “Where did you get that?” she demanded.

  “I borrowed it from you on the plane. I’m going to hold on to it for safekeeping.”

  “I can’t believe you stole my passport.”

  “Borrowed.”

  “You planned this from the beginning,” Hallelujah accused. “You deliberately targeted me, planted the diamonds, and kidnapped me from the airport. I’m not sure I’m okay with this. You’re a virtual stranger.”

  “Well, I suggest we use this evening to rectify that and come to terms with each other.”

  “I hope you’re not suggesting that we, that I—”

  “I think it will be fun. It’s been a while for me, and I’m overdue.”

  Hallelujah’s mouth flew open. “You did not just say that.”

  Alexander smiled wickedly. “I meant it’s been awhile since I’ve had any fun.”

  Hallelujah expelled a breath. “If I agree to this, there have to be some ground rules.”

  “And what might those be?”

  “No hanky-panky.”

  “You’re cute and very easy to tease.”

  “I mean it.”

  “Do you mean, no kissing?” Alexander, now straddling the motorcycle, steadied it with his feet on the ground as he turned around, maneuvered his arm around her shoulder, and kissed the breath out of her.

  “I’ve been dying to do that since I saw you on the plane. And this…” He deliberately grazed the top of her breast with his hand and trailed his fingers further.

  “Stop that.” Hallelujah batted his hand away.

  “Do you really want me to stop? If we’re going to get away with this charade, we have to act like newlyweds.”

  The kiss had sent her reeling, and she wanted him never to stop, but if he knew that, he might think she was a horny slut. Sometimes, Polly was a horny slut. She had played musical beds with most of the eligible bachelors in the fictional town of Milano, even some of the married men, too, and evidently Polly was in the driver’s seat. Or rather, Alexander Stone was in the driver’s seat, and Hallelujah was just along for the ride.

  Feeling the need to return to safer ground, she inquired, “What do you plan to do with the diamonds?”

  “That’s what I hope to figure out. The goal is to return them to their rightful owner, or at least the owner’s family. The problem is I don’t know who the owner is. The trail has gone cold. But we have plenty of time to do research on the ship until we disembark in Stockholm. That is, if you’ll agree to come with me. I can’t force you. But what do you have to lose? It’s only a week, and it will be a first-class vacation for you.”

  “What about my reservations in Florence?”

  “I’ll cancel them,” said Alexander, adding, “I’ll tell you what. If this works out, and we’re still alive at the end of the cruise, I’ll treat you to a week at The Four Seasons in Florence.”

  “My ex-husband is already treating m
e to more than that, only he doesn’t know it yet.” After considering her situation, and wondering what Polly would do, Hallelujah relented. “I think you’re either a very successful cat burglar or a con artist. But I’ll agree to work with you. I’m unpredictable that way. This whole situation is unbelievable. It will make a great story.”

  Alexander turned around, moistened his lips, leaned back to kiss her again, and settled his body back against hers.

  She narrowed her eyes.

  “Just practicing,” he said, before he tightened his helmet.

  Barely able to draw a breath, Hallelujah latched on to Alexander, putting her body into it to show just how well she could play the game. They sped off toward the autostrade, past a vista of crumbling travertine stone, the ancient buildings giving off a glint of pale yellow in the morning sun. Polly, I hope we don’t live to regret this.

  Chapter Three

  Alexander

  Berlin/Dahlem, Germany

  Alexander Stone had lived in Berlin for three years. It had been his choice to move there and accept the job with a German hedge fund so he could get back to his German roots, or rather, his parents’ German roots. The city had a lot to offer. It was vibrant and alive, and spoke to his soul, with interesting cafés and bars and fine art galleries lining cobblestoned streets.

  His German heritage pulsed in his blood, and through his soul, every time he walked around the city; whenever he viewed the fast-flowing River Spree or experienced the leafy tree-lined streets of the Unter den Linden, Berlin’s premiere promenade and the tall trees in the Tiergarten, reforested after being plundered during the war by citizens desperate for firewood. He loved the history and beauty of the place, and its eclectic assortment of architecture, from the gentrified classical buildings to the modern structures that rose like a phoenix from the ashes of conflict, but he was too busy working to take advantage of it.

  His love of the city hadn’t translated to his personal life. He hadn’t even met any eligible Fräuleins. When he passed the houses in his neighborhood, everyone seemed to have a place. Everyone seemed to be cozy and happy. Everyone had someone. Everyone belonged. Everyone except him.

  None of his colleagues had offered to set him up on a date. They were too busy competing with each other. He’d wanted the whole Berlin experience, but so far, it had eluded him. He hadn’t even had much time to travel around Europe, another elusive dream. He had given up his dream to further his career. And now he was rich and successful and, in his estimation, the loneliest man on the planet.

  He discovered that dining by himself was even lonelier in a foreign country than it was in America. Passing by a restaurant, he caught himself looking longingly in the lighted window at all the happy couples. He imagined they were sharing their day, talking about mundane things, what happened at work, just enjoying a meal, enjoying being together. Or maybe they were planning a fabulous future or planning a family.

  Then he had met Sigrid, and his life changed in a heartbeat. She was beautiful, intelligent, and she couldn’t wait to have children. A real old-fashioned girl. His mother would love her. Her fondest wish was that he marry a German girl, but she was euphoric when Alexander announced his engagement to Sigrid, who was Scandinavian, and when Sigrid told him she was pregnant, he considered himself the happiest man in the world. He was starting life with his new family, and the world suddenly became brighter—until she finally admitted the truth: She was pregnant with her ex-husband’s baby, and she was breaking their engagement and remarrying him.

  He felt like he’d been flattened on the U-Bahn tracks. He could hardly get out of bed in the morning. He’d stopped calling his mother because she prefaced all of her conversations with, “When am I going to see my new grandchild?” He didn’t have the heart to tell her the wedding was off, and that in order to get a grandchild you first needed a wife. When he finally told her, she was devastated, but she said, “You just haven’t found the right woman yet.”

  Then she added, “Do you expect your soulmate to fall out of the sky? You have to make an effort.”

  True, after Sigrid broke up with him, he hadn’t made much of an effort to socialize with anyone. His feeling was that if something was meant to be, it would just happen. He might be a number cruncher, but along with his faith in numerical data, he did believe in destiny. And he was hopeful. He couldn’t help but feel that something was coming. The world was open to possibilities.

  In the meantime, he wasn’t interested in dining alone, so most nights he stopped by KaDeWe on Tauentzienstrasse near the center of what used to be West Berlin, to pick up some prepared foods. The sixth and seventh floors were entirely devoted to gourmet food. With 40,000 to 50,000 visitors a day, the department store was usually mobbed, but somehow he felt less alone in a crowd, and every day he went home with a different dinner. With two football fields of food under one roof, that was easy to do.

  Mostly, he walked with his head down, staring at the pavement, to and from the U-Bahn station, from which he was daily whisked to work in Berlin. Which is how he first discovered the stolpersteine, or “stumble stones,” at the entranceway to the Bauhaus-style villa he had just bought in Dahlem, a southwestern borough of Berlin. Dahlem was one of the most affluent areas of the city, and his home, of which he was quite proud, was a white stucco exterior with three stories, nestled in an idyllic, quiet neighborhood.

  The house was a stunner on the outside. It had everything. Everything, that is, but a family. And he was determined to change that. In fact, he had started renovation when Sigrid was still in his life and had almost finished a project he hoped would give the interior of the house a facelift and a nursery, which he now had no need for. He had initiated some changes, changes that might suit Sigrid, or the woman he would eventually share his life with, whoever she turned out to be. It was during the renovation project that workers had unearthed a metal box wedged in a secret compartment under the staircase; inside were the diamonds.

  Alexander noticed the placard announcing a ceremony on the sidewalk in front of his multi-level mansion when he left for the office. He glanced at his watch. The ceremony was starting in a few minutes so, instead of being the first one into the office, as he usually was, he decided he needed to attend. Making a fortune for other people could wait.

  It had started to snow lightly, the flakes kissing his cheek. He tightened the wool scarf around his neck and flexed his fingers to keep the blood flowing under the leather gloves. Despite the frozen precipitation, it was a glorious day. By this time of morning he would typically be in the office with his nose in front of a computer screen, sizing up world markets, oblivious to the weather outside. He lifted his head to the warmth of the sun and felt free, for the first time in a long time. The ceremony was starting. The placard promised music, poetry, and flowers. A man dressed in jeans and a leather jacket, with a broad-brimmed hat, was down on his knees on the pavement.

  Alexander nudged an elderly gentleman next to him whom he recognized as his neighbor. He’d seen the man walking his dog every morning and waved, but they hadn’t officially met. He’d toyed with the idea of getting a dog to keep him company, but it would have been selfish to leave a dog sitting home alone all day.

  “Who is that man down on the ground?” Alexander asked.

  “That is the German artist Gunter Demnig. He makes the stolpersteine, the stumble stones,” the neighbor explained. “Handcrafts each one.”

  “What are stolpersteine?”

  “They are small concrete blocks in the ground, covered by a brass plaque. They are mini memorials to the Jews, and other victims of the Holocaust—socialists, the so-called ‘mentally defective,’ the gypsies.”

  Alexander recalled reading something about the memorial monuments all over Berlin, placed on sidewalks in front of homes or apartment buildings. He’d experienced the proper amount of guilt, as a German-American, for the sins of the fathers, not his father in particular, but for the Nazis and the irreparable damage they did to decency d
uring the war. But he had never seen one of these stones in person.

  Alexander watched with fascination as the artist positioned and anchored each stone in the ground, flush with the sidewalk. Then the man covered each stone with a brass plaque.

  “Every letter on every plaque is hand carved by the artist or one of his apprentices,” noted his neighbor. “Every plaque contains a name, the year of birth, the date the victim was deported, and the place and date of death. We are lucky to have the artist himself here today.”

  Alexander got closer. “Hier wohnte,” he read.

  “Here lived,” translated the neighbor, assuming that Alexander was not fluent in German. “This was the last known home of the person or persons who lived in this house, the house where you’re now living. There are four stones lined up together, representing the family who lived here. Sometimes they place the stones where the victim worked or studied. The artist has placed five thousand of them right here in Berlin and some fifty thousand of them in more than six hundred fifty German towns and cities and even in countries surrounding Germany. He’s made it his life’s work. He’s no longer a young man, as you can see. He is very dedicated.”

  A crowd had gathered to watch the artist work as he mixed the concrete, formed each block, no higher than sidewalk level, and finally affixed the plaque on top of the stone, each letter stamped in the brass.

  Alexander moved through the crowd to get a closer look and noticed the 4x4-inch plaques. He read the names silently. Julian, 1894; Ana, 1901; Hannah, 1928; and Aaron, 1942. And under each birth year: Deportiert Auschwitz 1943 and in Auschwitz ermordet (died) that same year.

  According to his neighbor, someone had paid more than a hundred Euros to fashion each plaque and research the facts of the family’s story.

  “If you want to learn more about the people who are memorialized, you can access the project database,” his neighbor added.

  When the artist was finished, someone spoke. After the ceremony, music played and a group of schoolchildren sang, read poetry, and laid flowers by the stones. Imagine that: a little piece of the past come alive right in front of his house.