Obsessed

by Ted Dekker

  He remembered the first dead Jew he’d seen in the camps twenty-eight years ago. He’d been eating fresh eggs and sausage prepared by one of the Polish servants from the village for breakfast. It was the most delicious breakfast he’d ever tasted. Perhaps leaving his mother in Germany to spend the summer with his father up in Poland would be a good thing after all. He was twelve at the time.

  “Papa?”

  “What?” his father asked, walking toward the window overlooking the concentration camp.

  “Why do Polish eggs taste better than German eggs?”

  His father pulled back the curtain, and Roth saw a woman hanging from the main gate. Gerhard answered him, but Roth didn’t hear the response. The year was 1942, and hers was the first of many dead bodies Roth would see in Poland. But there was something about the first.

  Roth let the memory linger, then returned his mind to the Stones. His father’s eyes glistened with tears; his face wrinkled.

  “The Jew took my soul. She took my soul! I beg you, my son.” Roth felt a terrible pity for him. A single tear broke free and ran down Gerhard’s right cheek.

  “If the Jew is alive, she will be drawn by the Stone,” Roth said.

  “Forget the Jew. I must have the journal. You see that, don’t you? More than anything, I must have it.” He held out a spindly arm laced with bulging veins. “Swear it to me. Swear you’ll bring me what is mine.”

  Roth looked at the large swastika on the gray wall, sickened by Gerhard’s weakness. He would make it right, because the Stones meant far more to him than they could possibly mean to his father.

  “Come here,” Roth said to the nurse.

  Klaus glanced at Gerhard then stepped out from the shadows.

  Roth backed up and stepped off the rug. There was the right way and the wrong way to do this, and the purest in mind knew the difference.

  “Farther, to the middle of the rug,” he said.

  Klaus took another step so that he stood near the center of the rug.

  “I would like to repay you for your care of my father,” Roth said. “Few men could put up with a whining old man the way you do. Is there anything you would like?”

  No response. Of course not.

  “Anything at all?”

  The nurse lowered his head. “No sir.”

  Roth pulled out his gun and shot Klaus through the top of his head while he was still bent over. The slug likely ended up in his throat.

  The man dropped in a pile.

  Roth looked at his father. “You should have sent him out.”

  “You’re working against your own kind,” Gerhard said. “He was pure.”

  “Then I did him a favor by sending him to his grave pure.”

  2

  Los Angeles

  July 18, 1973

  Wednesday Morning

  STEPHEN FRIEDMAN MARCHED ALONG THE SOUTH EDGE OF THE vacant Santa Monica parking lot, mind whirling. This was a primo deal, baby. Definitely, absolutely, one of the most primo deals he had come across in the seven years he’d played the real-estate market.

  His partner on occasion, Dan Stiller, followed closely at Stephen’s heels, black portfolio under his arm.

  Stephen leaped over a chain and kept an energetic pace along the uneven asphalt. Tufts of stubborn brown grass grew among the cracks. The crumbling brick wall across the lot had been decorated by hundreds of white droppings. Seagulls. Someone had scrawled some word art on the wall: BIG DADDY ROCKS. To any ordinary pedestrian, the parking lot would have looked desolate, and perhaps worthless.

  To Stephen, this piece of ground looked like a slice of potential paradise.

  He smiled at Dan, who’d walked around the chain. Prevailing Santa Ana winds slapped at the wide lapels of Dan’s plaid polyester blazer and whipped his hair back. The effect accentuated his sloping forehead and turned his bulbous nose into something that might have fit a Boeing 747. But behind that nose, Dan’s brain was proportionally as large. They made a good team for the odd investment—two young Jews, both immigrants, carving out a new life in this magnificent land of opportunity. Where Dan’s conservatism held them in check, Stephen’s enthusiasm drove them on.

  “It’s a natural,” Stephen said.

  “Like the condo in Pasadena was a natural?” Dan referred to the complex Stephen had insisted they convert to a neighborhood amusement park. But the notes came due before construction could begin.

  “I got us out of that, didn’t I?” Stephen said.

  “Involving a crook like Joel Sparks isn’t exactly my idea of getting us out.”

  “The mob rap is totally hearsay. He’s a businessman; he has money. He bailed us out.”

  “We lost a hundred thousand dollars.”

  “You’ve never lost a hundred thousand before? You win some, you lose some.” Stephen turned to the vacant lot. “Besides, this one’s a winner, guar-an-teed.” He took a long whiff of the air. “I can practically smell it. You smell that, Dan? That’s money you smell.”

  “Actually, that’s exhaust I smell. And it’s the carbon monoxide in the exhaust, the stuff you can’t smell, that worries me.”

  “It may just be me, but I get the distinct impression you have some doubts. You don’t trust my nose?”

  Dan wiped his brow. “I don’t doubt your ability to choose them, Stephen. But, yes, I’m struggling with this particular idea.”

  Stephen had made and lost a million dollars a dozen times already— and they both knew as much. The very same impulsive passion that pushed him to seize opportunity also landed him in trouble from time to time. He made a million dollars easier than most. He also lost it easier than most.

  Never mind. The fact that he now understood this about himself tipped the scales in his favor. He was up at the moment—eight hundred thousand up. Not bad for a thirty-one-year-old immigrant from Russia. Dan, for all his cautiousness, was only liquid to the tune of half that much. Which was why he needed Stephen. The only real issue separating them was what to do with the property.

  Stephen tapped his temple. “You have to imagine it, Daniel. Open your mind!” He scanned the property and spoke with animated gestures. “Americans love entertainment. Cotton candy, ice cream, a roller coaster.” He pointed to the deteriorated brick wall. “Right over there you see gull droppings; I see balloons. This lot is most definitely a coastal amusement park begging to be built.”

  Three teenagers passing by on the sidewalk turned to look at Stephen as his voice grew louder.

  “I’m not saying that it couldn’t happen, but a museum is more reasonable, if not to you, then to the city planners. Stephen, think. We have to submit our intentions with the down payment by next Wednesday. There are two other parties bidding. If the city rejects our plan, we lose the deal. All I’m suggesting is that we go with a more conservative plan.”

  “And I say the people here are secretly crying out for a roller coaster. They’re praying every night for us to put thoughts of museums and office buildings out of our minds, because they want clowns and the sound of laughing children to invade their neighborhood.”

  Dan stared at him.

  Stephen saw an opportunity and seized it. He stepped toward the teenagers and motioned to a boy with long blond hair and a pooka-shell necklace. “Excuse me, Sir Hamlet, there. Could I get your opinion on something?”

  The blond boy glanced at a younger rail-thin girl with large freckles and an embroidered blouse, and a skinny boy who towered over both of them.

  Stephen fished out a ten-dollar bill. “I’ll give you ten bucks for five minutes of your time.”

  “Ten bucks?”

  “Ten bucks.”

  “For what?”

  “Just to act something out for me and my business partner here.”

  Dan objected. “Come on, Stephen.”

  “Act what out?” the blond kid asked.

  “We’re investors, and we’re trying to decide if this parking lot should be an amusement park or a museum.” Stephen pointed to the
freckled girl. “I want you to stand over there”—he pointed, then gestured toward the other two—“and you two over there and there.”

  “Ten bucks for each of us?” the boy asked in a small voice.

  Stephen saw that they were sloppily dressed. Not cool sloppily, but poor sloppily. The girl’s sandals were tied together with string, and the tall skinny kid’s bell-bottoms were ankle-high. For a moment he just stared at them, struck by an odd sense of empathy that he couldn’t place. The city was full of kids like this—why these three suddenly pulled at his heart, he didn’t know.

  No, he did know. At this moment they were him. They were decent, wide-eyed kids mesmerized by the possibility of making a quick ten dollars.

  “What’s your name?” Stephen asked the blond boy.

  “Mike.” If the boy were a smart aleck, Stephen might have changed his mind. But no snot-nosed kid would have answered the question so innocently. Several others on the sidewalk had stopped and were watching.

  “I’ll tell you what, Mike. I’ll give you each twenty dollars if you help me out here. That’s a lot of money for five minutes, but my friend and I are going to make a bundle on this piece of property, so I think it’s fair. What do you say?”

  “You mean it? Twenty dollars?” the small girl asked, eyes wide.

  “I mean it.”

  One last glance at each other, and they scrambled over the chain to their posts.

  “What do we do?”

  “I want you to pretend you’re an amusement park.” He pointed to each in succession. “You’re a Ferris wheel, you’re a merry-go-round, and you’re a roller coaster. Just stick your arms up like this”—he threw his hands up over his head—“or like this”—he waved them out at his sides— “and when I tell you to, pretend you’re machines.”

  “You better not be pulling our legs about the twenty dollars,” the blond boy said.

  “Scout’s honor,” Stephen said.

  The kids adjusted their arms.

  “Perfect!” Stephen faced Dan. “Okay, Dan, now you stand over here—”

  “I’m not doing this, Stephen.”

  “You have to! I need you to do this. You need to stand over there like a statue. How else are we going to compare?”

  “No way.”

  Stephen took his arm, turned him from the kids, and whispered. “Be a good sport, Dan. For their sakes. Look, you need my five hundred grand, right? Just go along with me here.”

  Dan looked at the three kids and then walked to one side.

  “Act like a statue, Dan,” Stephen said.

  “I am like a statue.”

  “Stick an arm up or something, so you look more like a statue.”

  Dan hesitated and then raised an arm and went stiff, like a German soldier saluting.

  The gawking crowd on the sidewalk now included a dozen kids and several adults. Stephen faced them.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re conducting a quick survey here. We have to decide whether we want to build an amusement park or a museum here. You guys are the judges.”

  He spun and faced the three kids like a conductor cuing up his orchestra. “Ready?”

  The freckled girl chuckled. “You’re pretty crazy, mister.”

  “You’d better believe I am. Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  “Okay, make like an amusement park.” He waved his arms.

  The tall skinny kid was the roller coaster. He stuck his arms out like a cross, which wasn’t Stephen’s idea of how to show a coaster, but at least the boy was playing along. The girl turned in a slow circle like a merry-go-round, and the blond boy made a circle with his arms. Ferris wheel. They grinned wide.

  “Sound! Sound!” Stephen called.

  “Sound is an extra five bucks,” the blond boy said.

  “Make it ten,” Stephen said. Shoot, he’d probably give them forty if they wanted it. “Give me some sound!”

  “Vroom, vroom. Whir.” Wasn’t much, but it earned some laughs from the gathering crowd. “Honk honk,” snorted the girl.

  “Excuse me,” Stephen said. “What’s honk honk? If I’m paying ten bucks for a noise, I need to know what it is.”

  “It’s the line of cars waiting to get in,” the girl said.

  Stephen smiled wide, delighted. “There you go, then. Cars waiting to get in to the amusement park!” He faced the crowd. “All in favor of the amusement park, raise your hands.”

  Two dozen hands went up amid chuckles.

  “All those in favor of a museum”—Stephen pointed to Dan—“raise your hands.”

  A middle-aged couple walking by raised their hands and grinned.

  “There you go. Case settled. Thank you for your cooperation. You’re dismissed.” Some loitered, some moved on.

  The kids ran up to him and Stephen handed each thirty dollars.

  “That’s it?” Mike asked. “We’re done?”

  “You’re done. Don’t blow it all at once.”

  They hurried off, looking back over their shoulders.

  Dan shook his head. “Okay, Mr. Hot Shot. So you have a bit of charm with the locals. I can assure you that the bank, which holds the papers on this lot, doesn’t care about your antics. And I guarantee the city will look more favorably on a museum than on a playground. Especially a museum that already has its backers. You know the Jewish Public Affairs Committee has talked about bringing the Holocaust museum under its umbrella and then relocating it. Why not here? If they follow through, we’ll do well. That was the whole idea.”

  “Just because we’re Jewish doesn’t mean everything we do has to promote the Jewish cause,” Stephen said. “This is nothing but business.”

  “Of course. But you are a Jew. A secular Jew without much sentimentality for our history, maybe, but still a Jew. You can’t ignore that. You’re irrevocably tied to the war.”

  Stephen’s morning paled. Dan’s problem was that he knew too much.

  “No, Dan, nothing is irrevocable. Especially not memories of the war. This is the United States of America, not Poland. Just because my great-great-great-great-grandmother dug potatoes in Poland or wherever doesn’t mean I have to build a monument to her here.”

  Stephen had left both Russia and his past at age twenty to find a new life, and for the most part he’d succeeded. Anything that threatened to take him back, even if only in his mind, offended him.

  “You’re being unfair,” Daniel said quietly. “You owe your life to your mother. And you know very well that she probably gave her life in one of the camps. How can you turn your back on that?”

  “Because I don’t know that she died in a camp,” Stephen snapped. “I don’t even know who she was. Why do you bring this up? I’ll give you money for your museum. Just don’t pretend we’re crusaders here. I spent twenty years trying to find my mother and finally came here to give up that search. I don’t have the stamina for that kind of thing.”

  “Seek and you will find—”

  Stephen flung an arm into the air, his irritation flaring to anger. “Don’t patronize me. For all I know, my mother and father were killed in some gas chamber. Whoever brought me into this world obviously suffered enough—is it incumbent on me to suffer too? As far as I’m concerned, it never happened. I don’t have a mother. I’m not even Jewish anymore.”

  He paused, surprised by the emotion shortening his breath.

  “And if there’s a God in heaven who cares that I should seek, then I challenge him to create something . . .” He pinched his thumb and forefinger together. “Even a small morsel of some goodness worth seeking. Anything but the death that turns up everywhere I look.”

  Dan blinked at his outburst. “I’m sorry—”

  “Then leave it. Give me some breathing room. Build your museum, but don’t exploit my conscience.”

  Dan held up both hands.

  For a few seconds that stretched into twenty, they stood in the vacant lot, making a good show of studying it. How they had managed to go from amusement p
arks to prison camps was beyond Stephen. Why, he wasn’t entirely sure, but the subject never failed to resurrect ugly feelings he couldn’t deal with.

  Actually, he could deal with them. By burying them. Burying them deep and letting them lie dead in an unmarked grave. Certainly not by building a monument to them.

  “You know, you may be right,” Dan said. “An amusement park could transform this neighborhood.”

  “Forget it,” Stephen said. “You already have backing for the museum. It’s the safer plan. Though not as much fun, you have to admit.”

  “No, not as much fun. Your call.”

  “Couldn’t we build a museum as part of an amusement park?”

  Dan chuckled. “Now, there’s an idea. I have three hundred thousand. We need eight by Tuesday. Can I count on you for the five?”

  “Yes. And forget the amusement park for the time being. I’ll run some comps and get the money to you by Tuesday.”

  “Okay.” They shook hands.

  “Sorry, huh?” Stephen said. “I can get carried away sometimes.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I shouldn’t have brought it up.” He nodded at Stephen’s blue Chevy Vega. “Go buy yourself a new car; it’ll help you feel better.”

  “What, you don’t like my car?”

  “It’s a bucket of bolts.”

  “It’s my friend. Maybe the only one I have. Other than you and Chaim, of course. And I just installed an eight-track.” He snapped his fingers to a few bars from James Taylor’s “You’ve Got a Friend.”

  They stared at each other. For some strange reason a great sadness crept into Stephen’s chest. He suddenly felt very lonely. He was standing in the middle of a parking lot in Santa Monica, surrounded by pedestrians and cars, contemplating a deal that could make him hundreds of thousands of dollars, and he felt oddly abandoned.

  Like an outcast. Or like a child who couldn’t find his mother. Both.

  Stephen swallowed. Bury it. He grinned and slapped Dan on the back. “Man, you have got to stop being so serious. I’ll see you later.”