by Ted Dekker
Mike stared at him for a moment. “You always keep hammers in your jacket pockets?”
“Gosh, no. I don’t know what I was thinking. I was in a hurry.” He pushed his way past the door. “You sticking around?”
“Not a chance. You’re on your own. Don’t forget the door.”
Mike left wearing a puzzled expression. Stephen closed the door and let out a sigh. Not exactly the smoothest of cover-ups. A few white lies. He was going to pound a stake, if he could call the screwdriver a stake. Hadn’t exactly done it yet, but he wouldn’t call it a bold-faced lie. Never mind, this was his mother’s house. Or had been.
He took the stairs to the basement, flipped the light switch, and gazed around. A single caged incandescent bulb cast a yellow hue over the four doors, all closed. Had the German been down here yet? He crossed to the boiler room, stepped in, and lit the room with another switch.
Three fifty-five-gallon drums, large water heater, potbellied boiler. Nothing had changed. The smudge marks where he’d wiped his hand yesterday stood out on the wall behind the boiler. A small hiss from the water heater broke the stillness.
Stephen pulled out the screwdriver and walked to the boiler. The circle in the concrete hadn’t been disturbed. He moved one of the empty drums to gain working space. Settling to one knee, he chipped at the dirt that encrusted the lid. It broke off in small, crusty chunks. At this rate, cleaning the lid would take ten minutes at least.
He paused to listen. Silence. What was he doing? This was nuts. An image ran through his mind—him spilling out of the building, smeared with dirt and sweat. Hello, Mr. Braun. The boiler works just fine, just fine. No need for a plumber. Yeah, that’s what I am, a plumber.
He attacked the lid with determination, needing to be done with this madness. The screwdriver kept catching on the pattern’s small edges. Could be anything. He cleared the edges and saw that the lid was indeed just that, a steel lid set into the concrete.
Questions racked his mind as he worked. Why would anyone put a safe here? Assuming it was a safe, which it probably wasn’t. But then why would anyone put a sewer entrance here? Unless it wasn’t a sewer entrance or a drain or anything of the sort. Unless it was really a safe . . .
He shook his head and used his fingertips to brush the surface clear. The relief appeared to be a single insignia stamped into the metal. Still no keyhole, which meant it probably wasn’t a safe. Not a chance this thing was a—
And then, suddenly, there was a keyhole.
A dime-sized slab of dirt flipped off the lid, revealing a round cylinder and the telltale zigzag of a key slot.
Stephen knelt over the lid and blinked. He ran his eyes around the edges and then refocused on the keyhole. His heart pounded. It had to be a safe!
He stuck the screwdriver into the slot and tried to turn it but gave up immediately. There had to be a key.
So, it was an old floor safe, hidden here behind an ancient boiler. Didn’t mean it held anything but air. On the other hand, what if ? What if there really was something hidden in there? For him. Rachel’s son.
Stephen stood and hurriedly looked around for a key. The wall, the boiler, the furnace. Nothing. He paused to listen. Nothing. How long had he been here? Ten minutes at least.
He took a deep breath and sighed. Now what? He stepped up to the safe. The overhead light bulb glared on it. He’d actually managed to clear most of the grit from the surface. Small dirt chunks now ringed the safe. Anyone setting foot in the room would see it immediately. Here I am; open me and find hidden riches.
The least he could do before leaving was sweep away the dirt and make some attempt at hiding his hack job. He was about to look for a broom when the steel edges of the lid’s pattern suddenly tripped a wire of recognition in his brain. Something familiar. Letters?
Stephen fell to his knees, snatched up the screwdriver, and attacked the dirt with renewed vigor.
The dirt came up in stubborn flakes but slowly revealed letters and then words. He tossed the screwdriver in favor of his fingernails. He clawed at the surface, brushed the dirt off again, and jumped up.
The Stones are like the lost orphans. They will eventually find each other.
Stephen’s heart rose into his throat. A high-pitched ring sounded on the edge of his consciousness. The Stones. At his feet was a hidden safe that made specific reference to the Stones of David. He was a Stone of David. He was David. This meant what?
His breathing sounded loud in the chamber. You’re jumping to conclusions, Stephen. This is where she once kept the single Stone she owned. You’re letting your imagination run wild down here.
A faint hum ran through the walls. Stephen spun. The garage door! It had to be the German. And unless he was blind, he would have noticed the blue Vega parked out front.
Sweat covered Stephen’s face. He instinctively wiped it away and then swore when his hand came away smeared black. He dived for the safe. Landed on his knees hard enough to send pain up his spine.
Using his arms as two brooms, he swept all the loose dirt back over the lid. Never mind the huge smudges that dirtied his blazer; he had to hide what he’d done here. The building might belong to some German named Braun, but as far as he was concerned, this safe belonged to him.
Footsteps sounded faintly above. He jumped to his feet, grabbed one of the empty drums, and drag-rolled it along the wall as quietly as possible, which was far too noisily.
If they barged in on him, what would he say? The plumber thing wouldn’t have a prayer. Maybe he was from the city inspector’s office, checking on compliance issues. A requirement for closing on the property. Cross the t’s and dot the i’s and all that rot. Unfortunately, he’d gotten a tad involved, thus the painted face and smudged arms.
Stephen grunted and maneuvered the drum directly over the floor safe. He stepped back. Looked natural enough, except that now a ring showed on the concrete from where he’d taken the drum. He brushed at it with his feet and managed to at least confuse the issue.
He ran from the room. Doubled back, grabbed his hammer and screwdriver, checked the room one last time, and headed back out. He hung out at the bottom of the stairwell for several minutes, begging a God he didn’t really believe in to make the people upstairs disappear.
They ascended in the elevator. Thank God, thank God. Good enough, then.
Stephen crept up the stairs on his toes, poked his head into the garage, saw no one, took a deep breath, and headed for the front door.
He made it all the way without taking a breath. Unfortunately, he was forced to breathe before he got out. His gasp echoed through the garage. Perfect stealth.
Stephen ran for his car. If the German was to look out the window at the moment, he would see a dirtied man making a break for the blue Vega. Let him draw his own conclusions. At least Stephen was in disguise of sorts.
“Arf!”
He pulled up ten yards from his car. The dog sat by his door, stubby tail wagging furiously.
“Shoo! Shoo!”
Spud did not shoo.
Stephen leaned over him and unlocked the door. He expected the dog to bolt then. Instead, Spud licked his hand.
The dog had bad timing. At any minute someone would begin yelling out the door for Stephen to get back in there and explain what in tarna-tion he’d been doing in the basement.
“Okay, okay, go easy on me. I’m not a salt lick or whatever it is you guys—I mean gals . . .”
The dog jumped into the car, hopped into the passenger’s seat, and looked away.
“Out.” He didn’t want to yell or make a scene. “Get out, dog!” he whispered harshly.
Spud refused to acknowledge him.
“Get out!” he whispered again.
No luck.
Stephen slid in, closed his door, and leaned across to open the passenger door so he could shove the mutt out the other way. Now Spud turned huge, eager eyes on him. The dog licked his hand as Stephen reached for the lock.
Maybe he shoul
d take the dog. Stephen straightened and gripped the steering wheel. Mike planned to call the pound, which meant the cocker spaniel might find a new home. Or an early grave.
Now was not the time to weigh his options.
Spud barked.
“Okay, but just for a day. That’s it.” He fired up the car and pulled into the street.
The dog looked forward, apparently pleased.
“And if you poop in the car, you’re out for good. You got that?”
She whined and lay down on the seat. If Stephen didn’t know better, he would think Spud here could actually read his intentions.
Which were what?
To find out what was in that safe. Rachel’s safe. Mother’s safe.
A tremble in his fingers refused to settle. He studied them. He didn’t think he was prone to shaking.
He fought a sudden desire to wheel the car around, slip back into the apartment, and have at the safe. But he rejected the idea immediately. His eagerness might have landed him a case of the shakes, but he hadn’t lost his mind to this thing. Right?
9
Torun
April 25, 1944
Near Midnight
BE THANKFUL,” GOLDA SAID IN A SOFT, HUSKY VOICE. SHE MUST have heard Martha’s hushed cry. Only one day had passed, and Martha doubted she could survive another.
Moonlight cast gray shadows on the wall opposite the small window. A hundred women crowded Block D, the barracks reserved for Jews. Most of them slept, exhausted from a long day’s work at the soap plant. Martha couldn’t remember ever feeling quite so hopeless, lying here on the planks they called beds. At least in Budapest, she was in a familiar city. Here, she was abandoned and so far from home. Golda was right, she should be thankful, but she couldn’t bring her emotions in line with her reason.
“You’re alive,” the barracks leader said. “Full trains leave Stutthof for Auschwitz all the time. And you came on a train from Auschwitz. There will be no crying in my barracks.”
Martha could not answer. An apology seemed unwarranted, and any defense would be insensitive to the hardship they all faced.
On the bunk opposite Martha’s, Ruth rolled over, rose to her elbows, and faced Golda. “Your body’s alive, but maybe they’ve killed your heart. Who ever heard of such a rule, no crying?”
“In another week, you’ll be begging for a dead heart,” Golda snapped under her breath. “When the war is over, you may cry all you like. In here, you will keep your driveling to yourself. You aren’t the only one trying to survive this madness.”
Ruth didn’t retreat, but she didn’t respond either. Martha could see the whites of her eyes glancing from Golda’s bunk to hers. Maybe she was tempted, as was Martha, to tell the hard woman that pregnant women couldn’t afford to shut down their hearts, for fear it would shut down the child’s heart within them.
Toruń was a labor camp for about five thousand women, mostly Polish dissidents and political prisoners from the Baltic region, but quite a few Jews lately as well. The food, a daily helping of a liquid they had the nerve to call soup and one slice of a white cardboard substance they called bread, was not enough to keep both mother and child alive. Martha had spent her first day at the plant, thinking the problem through until her head throbbed. As long as a woman could work, she was spared death, but between disease and malnutrition, life expectancy was only a few months at best. Between disease, malnutrition, and a growing baby, she couldn’t expect to live more than half as long.
Unless she and Ruth found a way to eat more, neither would likely bear their babies.
Ruth’s eyes returned to Golda. “Don’t think that because we’re new here, we don’t know the meaning of suffering in silence,” she said. “But if you can’t protect your passions in this life, then stepping into the next might be better, don’t you think?” Ruth, the brave one. “What good is surviving if you survive with a dead heart?”
Golda hefted herself to one elbow and studied Ruth. “What, you’re a rabbi? There is no passion in this place! It was the first thing the Nazis stole from us.”
“Not from me. The desire to live and thrive is a drive granted by God. Fine, we will learn not to cry, but you waste your time trying to kill our passions.”
The leader squared off with Ruth in silence.
“She’s right,” a voice said quietly from above Martha. Rachel, another Jew from Hungary who’d been here for a month already, leaned over the bunk. “It’s the most sensible thing I’ve heard since coming here. If we can’t have hope, then why live at all?”
“Animals don’t feel hope,” Golda said.
When no immediate response came, Golda lay back down, satisfied she’d made her point. “We should be thankful for one thing only, and that is that we are alive,” she said. “Braun might be the devil in white skin, but if you play by his rules, you may actually live awhile. Talking of hope and passion will only get you killed.”
“Some things are worth dying for,” Ruth said.
“Not your passions. Trust me, you can’t afford to be passionate.”
“I can’t afford not to be passionate,” Ruth said, soft and sweet, like an angel. “I’m pregnant.”
Martha felt her pulse surge in the sudden vacuum created by Ruth’s statement.
Golda sat up, swung her feet from the bunk, and stared at Ruth.
Rachel slid to the floor. She sat on Ruth’s bed. “You’re with child?” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“I have a child. A three-year-old boy. They took him away in another holding camp.”
Martha could hold her tongue no longer. “I’m pregnant too,” she said.
They turned to her as one.
“Six months,” Martha said. Her voice held a slight tremor.
“Both pregnant?” Rachel asked.
“Yes,” Ruth and Martha said together.
“Do you know what this means?” Golda demanded.
“It means that we both carry joy and passion in our bellies,” Ruth said.
“Don’t be a fool! You’ll likely be dead by tomorrow evening!”
“Don’t be so harsh, Golda!” Rachel said. “You can’t know that.”
“I’m required to report this immediately. You have no idea what this means to the barracks.”
“You have no right—”
“If they are discovered without my reporting it, five of us will be shot for hiding it!”
Martha felt a welcome resolve sweep through her. She could only hide so much without sacrificing her sanity. “Then tell him,” she said. “I can’t hide forever. Report me—”
“Report both of us,” Ruth said. “We’re not afraid, are we, Martha?”
Martha considered the question. “I’m scared to death.”
Ruth stared back, white. “So am I.”
Rachel and Golda did not move and offered no words of comfort. Were they so insensitive? Martha could understand Golda’s dilemma, but the woman’s silence sent a chill through her bones.
“What has the commandant done to others who are with child?” she finally asked.
“He sends some away.” Golda’s voice sounded tempered, perhaps by Ruth and Martha’s display of strength. “He’s allowed only one to have her child. This one finds some twisted pleasure in exercising power over life. Letting one live extends hope. He uses your hope as a weapon, to make the suffering worse for everyone.”
Martha took a deep breath, fighting to hold on to courage. “Even if he does allow us to live, we don’t have enough food to keep the babies alive.”
“We will depend on God’s will,” Ruth said.
“God’s will?” Golda said. “God’s lost his will. I’m not sure God hasn’t lost himself in this war.”
“No, Golda,” Ruth said. “Don’t mistake man’s weakness for God’s.”
She humphed. “Braun will want to see you.” She sighed impatiently. “Whatever you do, don’t slouch or look stupid. Don’t anger him. And don’t try to seduce him. If he tries to s
educe you, resist, but not too much. It’s a dangerous game. He’s not permitted to touch a Jew, but that doesn’t mean he won’t.”
The thought nauseated Martha. “I . . . I couldn’t.”
“Think of the little bundle of passion in your belly, and you can do anything.” Golda faced Ruth. “There’s your sentiment for you.” She swung her legs back onto the bunk and lay still.
“I would pay any price to keep my child,” Rachel said. She paused and looked at her hands. “I marked my son before they took him away.” Her lips began to quiver with emotion, and she lifted her fingers to cover them. She stifled a cry and whispered. “I burned him. What else could I do? He’s too young to remember his name. How will he know I am his mother? I had to mark him so maybe one day I could tell him that mark means he’s my son. I could write letters and search for him that way. I wanted to tattoo him, like they do with all of us, but I didn’t have the ink, and they were going to send me away the next day.”
Martha wondered what could drive a woman to burn a mark on her baby. There must have been a better way. She could never imagine doing anything so painful to her own child. But to question this tormented woman who’d lost her boy felt scurrilous.
Rachel glanced up, anxious, as if realizing how shocking her confession must seem. “It’s not so different from giving a baby a shot, is it? You poke a needle into the child so that he won’t become ill. He screams today, but you’ve saved his life. It’s all I did.”
“Yes,” Ruth said, rubbing Rachel’s back. “It’s exactly what you did, Rachel. And it’s what I would do too. These are not normal times. We must cling to each other—to our children, our families—no matter what the cost. It’s all we have left. This is our hope.”
Martha lay back, empty of the courage she’d felt less than a minute earlier. If only she weren’t pregnant. What had she and Paul thought, even considering bringing a child into this cruel war? It had been her idea. She’d practically begged him, and now look at her! What a fool she had been, thinking that a baby would make her feel alive again.
Martha stared at the pitted bunk boards above her, blinded by bitterness. She hated herself; she hated the war; she hated Golda; she hated the baby.
