by Ted Dekker
Dan smiled back. “Okay.”
3
ROTH BRAUN STOOD ATOP THE GUTTED BUILDING ACROSS THE street from Rachel Spritzer’s apartment. The warm California breeze swept over his face, through his hair, around his arms. He hated America, but he loved the purity of nature, and despite the smell of exhaust, the wind held some of the power that came with that purity. Even those who thought they understood the psychic energy in nature rarely really understood its true unspoiled power.
It was the energy of a million nuclear detonations.
It was the force of a billion dying babies crying out at once.
It was the substance of creation—raw, staggering. A plea to reverse the chaos suffered at the hands of ruined humanity.
Purity. This was the true meaning behind the Nazi swastika.
Roth unbuttoned the top three buttons on his black silk shirt and let the breeze reach inside. The others were waiting in the car with the agent who would show them Rachel Spritzer’s building. Roth had insisted they wait while he scouted out the neighborhood. The Realtor had objected, and Roth wanted to crush his windpipe, but his practiced and generous self-control had allowed him simply to repeat the demand and thereby receive a nod.
The Realtor undoubtedly assumed that Roth was walking around the buildings to get a feel for the value of the adjacent land. Instead, he had climbed the stairs of this abandoned building opposite the Spritzer place and now stood unseen above them all.
Like a god.
Still, they were waiting; otherwise he might have performed a ritual to the spirit of the air, right here on the black tarred roof.
He’d slept less than four hours since shooting the male nurse in Gerhard’s flat, but he felt as though he could go another week without closing his eyes. This time, the success of his mission was within reach.
Roth put his hands on his hips and walked to his right, keeping his eyes on Rachel Spritzer’s apartment.
“Who are you, Rachel Spritzer?” He spoke low. “What secrets do you hold? Hmm? Who will come to find you? Who, who, who? I know who.”
He did not doubt that this rather plain-looking four-story apartment complex held the secret to more power than most of the neighbors who’d lived like rats around it for the last thirty years could imagine. He knew this because he had disciplined his mind to connect with the psychic energy that said it was so.
The Stones had surfaced through the death of yet another Jew. Fitting. There was Gerhard’s fortune to be found, yes. But more. Much more.
Roth lifted his eyes and scanned the city stretching into the haze. He breathed deeply and closed his eyes. In his younger days, before he’d perfected his exquisite self-control, he might have succumbed at a time like this to the compulsion to kill. The discovery of Rachel’s Stone called for a celebration, no doubt about that. But he would wait until the sun was down. What he had in mind here could not be compromised by weak-minded indulgences.
What he had in mind here would make an indiscriminate killing laughable. He would discriminate with utmost care.
Roth exhaled completely, allowed a shiver of eagerness to work its way through his body, and turned to the roof access.
Let the game begin.
4
TWO OR THREE TIMES A WEEK, STEPHEN CAME HOME FOR LUNCH. Today was one of those days, and Chaim Leveler was glad. The boy was clearly troubled by an altercation he’d had with Dan Stiller.
Evidently, Stephen had said a few things he now regretted. For all his ambition, the lad was actually quite sensitive. He tried to cover up the deep wounds of a hapless past, but no spin could change what had happened. Stephen would always be a war child: subject of all worlds, master of none. Lost in the folds of history without a true mother, a true father, or a true home.
Stephen sat at the chrome-rimmed dining-room table, spreading mayonnaise on his bread. “You should spend less time figuring out how to make money and more time thinking about love,” Chaim said, laying a hand on Stephen’s shoulder as he walked to his green vinyl chair. “Look at you. You are smart, good-looking. Although you could use a haircut, never mind what is culturally accepted. Either way, what woman can resist a dimpled smile? You’re thirty-one. You should have three children already.”
“Yes, of course. Sylvia.”
“Now that you mention it . . .” Chaim had always thought Stephen and his bright young niece, as he insisted on calling her, would make a handsome pair.
“Please, Rabbi, I don’t need a matchmaker.”
Chaim wasn’t technically a rabbi, at least not in the eyes of the synagogue. No Messianic Jew could truly be a rabbi. But the retired fire marshal had never been able to suppress his spiritual fervor. Not that he ever tried. He smiled at Stephen’s term of endearment and rounded the table, stroking a full beard. The smell of fresh mint tea and salmon sandwiches whetted his appetite more than he cared to admit. Age had snuck up on him like a wolf on a rabbit; he had to stay fit enough to flee the snapping fangs. He touched his belly.
Chaim had left Russia immediately after the Second World War. Two years in the Sobibor prison camp had exhausted his interest in Europe. His brother, Benadine Leveler, had survived the war fighting with a Polish resistance group. Afterward, Benadine had stayed in Russia and opened the orphanage where Stephen was deposited as a child. At times, Chaim felt guilty for coming to this land of plenty, but how could he feel bad with Stephen at his table? The lad may never have come to America if Chaim hadn’t blazed the trail.
The call from his brother, informing him that Stephen was coming to America, had been one of Chaim’s brightest moments. It had been a pleasure to help Stephen, no longer a child, find his feet. As it turned out, Stephen hardly needed help. He’d completed his studies with honors and entered the lucrative world of real estate at the age of twenty-four. Still, Chaim felt he could take some credit for that.
The boy had elected to live in Chaim’s two-bedroom home all these years despite the alternatives his considerable earnings provided. Even in the best years, Stephen never ran out and bought a new Mercedes or otherwise advertised his wealth. America had a difficult time understanding Stephen. He didn’t run through women, didn’t drive fast cars, didn’t spend half his earnings on parties and clothing. But not because he was too frugal or conservative.
Stephen could walk into a Las Vegas casino and drop a thousand dollars in a game of craps inside of ten minutes. He was as impetuous and bold as they came.
Stephen didn’t flaunt his success for the simple reason that the trappings of American life didn’t appeal to him. At least not the kind of trappings a few million dollars could buy. When Stephen dreamed, he dreamed of owning jets and buying islands. Of obscuring the past and buying himself a new future. He was a tie-dye dreamer; he dreamed big, audacious, colorful dreams that held certain appeal, even if they were absurd fantasies to most.
“What you need, dear Stephen, is some love in your life,” Chaim said again.
“You don’t give up, do you?”
“Why should I? Pass me the mayonnaise, will you?”
Stephen passed the jar.
“It wasn’t so long ago that I was in love, you know,” Chaim said. “Sofia. A beautiful Jewish girl in St. Rothsburg. When she entered my life, the rocks began to smell like chocolates. Nothing became everything overnight.”
Stephen shook his head. “Enough.”
Chaim acquiesced. They made small talk and ate their fish sandwiches. Delicious.
Stephen finally wiped his mouth and stood. “Speaking of love, didn’t you invite Sylvia to supper tonight?”
“Dear me, I had forgotten!” Chaim stood and hurried to the sink. “And I’m cooking, yes?”
“We could order—”
“Nonsense! She loves my cooking. Did I promise her anything in particular?”
“Veal parmesan, wasn’t it? Or was it fondue?”
“You’re not sure?”
“I had more on my mind at the time than the menu.” Stephen lifted his chin, stepped onto the
kitchen floor, and began dancing with an imaginary partner. His lips twisted into that whimsical, dimpled smile. “Love, dear Rabbi. Remember? Love is in the air, and I am caught in its draft.”
“Nonsense. I don’t think you would know love if it smacked you upside the ear. Seriously, Stephen. Was it veal?”
Stephen spun around once. “Love, Rabbi. The food of life itself. Cook us love for dinner.”
“Be serious, boy! I’ve forgotten what I told her!”
“It won’t matter what we eat. Feed us stones, and we’ll think they’re chocolates, Rabbi. You do remember love, don’t you?”
“Ha! I was born for love.” Chaim impulsively stepped around the counter, grabbed the taller man’s upheld hand, and swung into his dance. “Although I doubt I make a suitable partner.”
Stephen didn’t miss a beat. He spun Chaim around and feigned a swoon. “Abandon yourself, Rabbi. Tonight, I will feed on love.”
Chaim dropped Stephen’s hand, suddenly embarrassed. “Oy, what has become of us? What am I going to do about dinner?”
Stephen spun into the living room and abruptly dropped his arms. He walked to the stereo and punched the power button. “Veal sounds wonderful. I’m certain it was veal. In fact, I was sure all along. I just wanted to see your moves.”
“My moves! Please!”
The telephone rang shrilly and Chaim picked it up.
THE RABBI was right, Stephen thought. He really could use a little romance in his life. He spun the radio dial. Stopped on the alto voice of Carly Simon. Stephen returned the mayonnaise to the refrigerator while Chaim spoke into the phone. Of course, it meant finding the right woman to romance or, more to the point, finding a woman who wanted to be romanced by him. He’d had one major love fresh off the boat as a freshman in college. “You gave away the things you loved, and one of them was me,” Carly drawled. A girl named Betsy who had been utterly infatuated with him for two weeks before moving on to some other prey. The experience had left him less than confident. “You’re so vain, you’re so vain.”
“Are you sure?” Chaim’s tone caught Stephen’s attention. “How is it possible?”
“What?” Stephen asked, closing the fridge.
Chaim responded by turning his back.
Something had happened. Stephen walked to the table to clear off the remaining dishes. Perhaps it was Marjorie Stillwater, the old lady from Chaim’s church. She’d died? Or was this Joel Sparks, insisting that Stephen owed him money? What if something had happened to Sylvia?
The suggestions trotted through his mind, but none paused. It was probably nothing.
“Thank you, Gerik.” The rabbi set down the phone.
“Well? What was that about?”
Chaim still didn’t turn.
Alarm spread through Stephen. This wasn’t like Chaim. Not at all.
“What’s going on? For heaven’s sake, tell me.”
When the rabbi turned, the blood had faded from his already pale face—he looked like a ghost. He reached for the newspaper, flipped through the sections, stared at a page for a moment, then showed it to Stephen. “Did you hear about this?”
The page was open to the story about Rachel Spritzer’s death. They had all heard of the reclusive woman, of course, at least of her reputation. Stephen glanced at the paper and shifted his eyes back to Chaim.
“I heard of it, yes. She lived alone in an old, vacant apartment complex off La Brea. The property is worth roughly five hundred thousand dollars, demolition costs factored. Why? You know something I don’t?”
“She had in her possession one of the Stones of David, which she donated to the museum.”
Stephen looked up. “No, I hadn’t heard that.” Surprising. Even stunning. But this information wouldn’t have turned Chaim white. “You’re serious? The Stones of David?” He reached for the paper. It came out of Chaim’s limp hand.
Stephen glanced down the article, settled on the part about the relic, and read. His interest in the Stones of David had been started by his foster father. He glanced up, saw that Chaim was staring at him, and returned his eyes to the paper.
“I knew about the listing,” he said. “But I didn’t know about the Stone. This is proof, then. They do exist.” Stephen quoted from the article: “The Stones are like the lost orphans. They will eventually find each other.”
The rabbi was still quiet. Stephen closed the paper and dropped it on the table. “What gives?”
“She was an emigrant from Hungary,” Chaim finally said. “A very wealthy emigrant who had in her possession one of the Stones of David. Not too many wealthy Jews survived the war.”
“I can read that much for myself.”
“She used to visit Gerik down at his antique shop. She left a note with him to be opened in the event of her death.” Chaim stopped. “Evidently, she’d been sick for some time.”
“And?”
“Do you mind . . . would you mind showing me your scar, Stephen?”
Odd request. He had a scar below his collarbone—a crude half circle with three points inside it, like a half-moon some creature had taken a bite out of. He’d searched for the meaning of the mark. Chaim had asked Gerik about it once, and the old man drew a blank. It was a mark from the war; they guessed that much, but no more.
Stephen pulled down his collar, revealing the scar.
Chaim stared and seemed to shrivel.
Stephen released the shirt. “What? Tell me—what!”
“Stephen, Rachel Spritzer’s note says that she branded her son—who was born in a Nazi labor camp—with the image of half a Stone of David.”
The words made no sense to Stephen. Rachel Spritzer marked her infant son. Half a Stone of David. Surely this wasn’t connected to him.
Tears filled the rabbi’s eyes. “She had been searching for her son since the war, but she had to be very secretive.”
“You’re not saying . . .”
Stephen felt the air slowly vacate his lungs. Heat washed down his neck and back.
“I’m saying that I think you’ve found your mother, Stephen. I think that Rachel Spritzer was your mother.”
The room shifted out of focus. Stephen reached out to steady himself on a chair.
He couldn’t breathe.
5
Poland
April 24, 1944
Early Morning
MARTHA PRESSED HER EYE AGAINST THE THIN CRACK BETWEEN the two boxcar planks for the thousandth time in four days. Outside, dawn colored Poland’s horizon gray. Where in Poland, she didn’t know. Why to Poland, she didn’t know. But she was certain if they didn’t stop soon, some of the women in this car never would know.
How long could a human live in a cramped box without food or water?
There was this gray sky above them, and there was this constant clank, clank, clank of railroad tracks below them, and there were vacant stares inside, and there was enough heartache to have wrung the tears from every one of them days ago, and that was the sum of the matter. Nothing to say, nothing to do, not much even to feel anymore.
Except for the baby. She had to feel for the sake of the baby inside her.
Martha clenched her jaw, turned back to the dark car, and slid to her seat. She hadn’t urinated for two days, but the dull pain was manageable for the time being. There were three waste buckets on the far side, all full after the first day. Having nothing to eat or drink did have its advantages, however small.
The freight car held roughly seventy women, made up of two groups: a motley crew of fifty who’d accompanied her from the prison in Budapest, and another twenty who’d joined them much later, well inside Poland. Late on her second night in the car, the train had pulled into a large plant with huge smoking stacks. Martha had stared through the cracks at hundreds, maybe thousands of men, women, and children. They wore gaunt faces and walked slowly in long lines to the big brick buildings near the train’s caboose. Music floated over the compound—Bach. Something felt horribly wrong with the scene, but she could
n’t put her finger on it.
Soldiers swapped out the buckets, hustled the new prisoners on board, slammed the gate shut, and locked it tight. The boxcar began rolling again about an hour later.
Ruth had been in the second group, which was mostly comprised of Jews from Slovakia. The petite young woman had eyed Martha for a full day before edging past the others to her side. She’d taken Martha’s arm at the elbow and stood in silence.
Martha smiled as best she could and placed her hand on Ruth’s. They remained like that for several hours. No need for talk. Human touch was all the young woman seemed to want, and Martha found it indescribably comforting. Everything will be all right because I can feel you, and you are all right. See, it’s not so bad—your arm is warm.
Ruth had finally stretched up on her toes and whispered into Martha’s ear. “Are you from Hungary?”
Martha nodded. “Yes.”
“I am Ruth Kryszka,” she said in decent Hungarian. “They took my husband a week ago from a farm where we were hiding in Slovakia. I think they may have killed him.” Her voice trembled slightly, but she seemed brave.
Martha drew her closer and felt compelled to kiss her on top of her head.
“Who are you?” Ruth asked.
The question was Martha’s first normal exchange in four weeks, and it made her want to cry.
“I am Martha,” she whispered. “Martha Spieller.” She wasn’t entirely sure why they were whispering. Perhaps because they clung to their own histories as the last bastion of meaning in a world gone mad. Sharing it was like sharing the deepest secret.
“I am from Budapest,” Martha said.
“I studied in Budapest once,” Ruth said. “It’s a beautiful city. They are killing Jews in Hungary?”
Killing Jews? She said it as if she spoke of eating bread.
“Some. Not so much in Budapest, but my father was well-off. The gestapo came with the gendarmes three or four weeks ago. They confiscated our house and my father’s collections. I was taken to the prison outside of Budapest, and now I’m here.”
“Are you married?”
