Obsessed

by Ted Dekker

  The walls creaked. He jerked up. Wind? Or just the frame expanding with the warming sun? He returned to his search.

  Rachel had left signs of a careful life everywhere. Silver bells and crystal butterflies lined a bookcase, perfectly positioned in small groupings. Intricately designed rugs, woven in rich reds and blues, lay precisely where he would have placed them. A painting of a yellow daisy growing out of a bleak, rocky landscape hung above the couch.

  If the new owners had spent the night here, there was no sign of it. Why?

  Stephen had finished a full round of the apartment and was tiptoeing through the master bedroom when he noticed an odd strip of molding behind the window drapes. He stepped around the bed, drew the curtain back. A door? Here, to the left of the window, was a door. He turned the handle and eased the door open.

  A sunroom. Stephen walked in.

  White curtains were drawn on three windows. A single rocking chair sat beside a doily-covered oak lamp table. Dozens of framed photographs lined the wall, mostly black-and-white. Hundreds. They were pictures of the war. Of concentration camps. Of people, some in prison clothes, others in street clothes.

  It was a sanctuary. Rachel’s special room.

  History charged the air, electric enough to lift the hair on his arms when he moved.

  A photograph to his right showed a mass grave filled with hundreds of emaciated bodies, tangled as they had fallen. The fuzzy image showed a woman, two children, and two men standing in their underwear with their backs to the pit, hugging themselves. One of the children was looking back into the grave. The caption above read, Jews await execution in Belzec.

  Stephen’s vision blurred. He tried to move his foot, but he stood rooted to the carpet. He’d seen similar pictures before but refused to engage them. He’d come to America to start over, not to wallow in this horrible chapter of history. But here . . .

  Here in Rachel’s shrine, this chapter of his mother’s history—of his history—grabbed him by both arms, yanked him in, and would not let go. She was here, one of the faces in these pictures. He might be here.

  His eyes moved to a picture of a young girl, maybe ten, mouth open and toothless. Round, innocent eyes. Legs and arms crossed, preserving her modesty. Hardly more than a skeleton. She was bald and she was naked.

  The picture said she was Greta’s daughter, Susan. Medical labs. He’d heard that the Nazis had conducted experiments on children, but he’d never seen them, not like this. What had they done to this child?

  Stephen lifted both hands to his cheeks, as if that would somehow quell the nausea in his gut. These were Jews. His people. How could any sane human do this to another living person? He wanted to run from the room, but his legs refused to move. Part of him hated Rachel Spritzer for leaving this grotesque monument.

  But no, it was also lovely, a lovely thing. It was a monument to love. By showing this picture of the toothless girl, Rachel was speaking to her through time. I will not forget you, Susan. You are not ugly to me. You are beautiful, and I will cherish you forever.

  And Mother would surely say the same to him. I love you, David. I will cherish you forever. Tears filled his eyes. To think that he’d turned his back on the memories of his mother’s own suffering . . .

  He searched the walls for a picture that resembled the picture from the newspaper. He wanted to cry out, Mommy, Mommy. And the fact that he wanted to cry out brought a fresh flood of tears to his eyes.

  Stephen’s eyes stopped on an eight-by-ten frame that sat beside the lamp on the oak table. The black-and-white photo captured a woman with long black hair. Rachel? He stumbled forward on numb legs and lifted the photograph.

  The woman seemed to stare through him. Round, melancholic eyes. Innocent lips. She was beautiful.

  He turned the photo over and saw that there was no backing. He read the black cursive.

  My dearest Esther, I found this picture in Slovakia after the war. It is your mother, Ruth, one year before your birth.

  Not an hour passes without my begging God that you and David will find each other. I will never forget. You are the true Stones of David.

  Stephen’s heart bolted. You are the true Stones of David? He flipped the picture over. The woman’s name was Ruth. Her daughter was Esther. Esther was also a Stone of David? But the daughter of Ruth, not Rachel Spritzer.

  Esther and David were meant to find each other.

  Stephen sank into the rocker and stared at Ruth’s picture. For a moment he imagined that Ruth was actually Esther. Was Esther alive? A secret bound them all together. Ruth and Rachel and Esther and David. He stared into the eyes of the young Ruth, and he knew with unequivocal certainty that his life had just been irrevocably changed.

  His own destiny stared him in the face. Nothing would ever matter as much as understanding what secrets lay behind these eyes. He vowed it silently.

  The air felt thick. He wiped his eyes and drew long breaths.

  The Stones are like the lost orphans. They will eventually find each other.

  The safe.

  A hum ran through the floorboards. Elevator?

  Hands shaking, he pried the photograph out of the frame with his fingernails, slipped it into his shirt, shoved the empty frame under the end table, and hurried out of the room.

  The key. He hadn’t searched the room for a key.

  Spud scrambled from under Rachel’s bed, went rigid for a moment, and then raced from the room.

  Stephen ran after the dog. “Spud! Get back here.”

  But the dog already stood on guard by the door. She uttered a low growl. “Down, girl!”

  THE ELEVATOR doors slid open. Stephen leaned nonchalantly against the wall and took a settling breath. Two men dressed in dark suits stepped out and stopped at the sight of the dog.

  “Well, it’s about time,” Stephen said. “Don’t mind Spud. She doesn’t bite.”

  They looked up at him, unfazed.

  He unfolded his arms and straightened. “Hope you don’t mind— the door was open, and I was looking for the owner.” He reached out a hand. “Name’s Stephen Friedman. I’m a Realtor. Sit, Spud.”

  The man ignored his hand.

  Spud growled and bared her teeth. “No, Spud. Relax, girl.”

  Amazingly, Spud quieted and backed up.

  “You’re trespassing.” Heavy German accent.

  Stephen lowered his arm. “I’m sorry, maybe you don’t understand. I’m here with an offer. I have a client who is willing to pay a substantially higher price than what you paid for this building. I realize it’s a bit unusual, but—”

  “We really have no interest in selling,” the man said with an amused smirk. “You said the door was open?”

  “Yes. I was looking for a Roth Braun.”

  “I can assure you Mr. Braun has no interest in selling. I apologize for the inconvenience, but you really should leave now. He will be here soon.”

  “Then I’ll wait for him,” Stephen said.

  “You’re not listening. Please leave. Now.”

  “I’m offering—”

  “I don’t care if you’re offering twice what was paid; we’re not interested.”

  Stephen stared at them, taken off guard by their dismissal. “You hear that, Spud? They aren’t interested in the million dollars I was going to offer them.” He had no intention of offering a million dollars, of course. But saying it might make them think twice. “May I ask what Mr. Braun’s interest in the building is?”

  “Actually, no; that would be completely inappropriate,” the dark-haired man said. His friend looked on without expression. He was white enough to be an albino. Blond hair and eyebrows. Pale blue eyes that forced Stephen’s stare away. They obviously weren’t impressed.

  “Is he going to tear it down?” Stephen asked.

  The dark-haired man glanced at the blond, then back to Stephen, apparently amused. “Are all Americans as dense as you?”

  Perhaps the man was more incensed than amused.

 
“I will now give you precisely thirty seconds to vacate the property, or I will personally show you the door,” the German said.

  Stephen lifted both hands in a sign of surrender. “Easy. I’m just a businessman interested in business. It’s a simple matter of money. How could any sane man refuse to double his investment in a day? It makes me wonder what you’re doing here. In America.”

  “That is none of your concern. Now, please”—the man bowed his head in an unsuccessful attempt at graciousness—“leave.”

  He wore thick gold rings on several fingers, one with an onyx carved in the shape of a lion. A heavy gold chain hung on his neck. And under his jacket? Stephen would be surprised if the man didn’t wear a gun.

  “Okay. I’m leaving.” He turned to the stairs, paused, and turned back. “Does the owner have any interest in Rachel Spritzer?”

  The man stepped forward, grabbed Stephen above his elbow, drew him roughly toward the stairs, and shoved him down the first two steps. “Now you’re trying my patience. Get out!”

  Pain flared up Stephen’s arm. “Ouch! I’m going.”

  Spud barked and dodged a swift kick. She ran deftly past them and into the stairwell.

  “I know you’re going. And I’m going with you.”

  Stephen twisted his arm away and hurried down, stunned by their treatment of him. When had he ever been physically removed from a building by a bodyguard? Ouch? Had he actually said “ouch”?

  “This is crazy. You’re actually physically throwing me out of the building?”

  “I’m protecting the interests of my employer. You, on the other hand, are breaking the law.”

  Braun’s bodyguard pushed him across the garage floor, ignoring Spud, who’d found her courage again and was hopping to their left, barking furiously. The man pulled the front door open, swung his foot at Spud, who bolted out in a hasty retreat, and shoved Stephen through.

  “The door was open—”

  “Forgive the confusion. You won’t find it open again.” The door slammed in his face.

  “Uh! You . . . idiot!” Stephen turned to find an elderly lady on the sidewalk watching him.

  He forced a grin and shrugged. “Brothers.”

  She smiled knowingly and went on her way.

  Stephen hurried for his car, trailed by an indignant dog. They climbed in and sat side by side, staring out the front window. He hadn’t actually talked to Braun, but somehow he doubted the treatment would have been any different.

  “What do you think, Spud? Maybe we overdid it a bit?”

  He pulled out Ruth’s picture and stared into her eyes for a long minute.

  “Well, I don’t think we did,” he said. “I’m going to find a way in, Spud. One way or another, I’m going to find out what’s in that basement.”

  The dog whimpered.

  A black limousine drove by, took a left at the stop sign and rounded the apartment. Braun. Stephen slipped the picture between the seats and gripped the wheel with both hands.

  Several thoughts flashed through his mind. His deal with Dan Stiller. The reception tonight. Chaim and Sylvia, whom he’d invited to the reception tonight.

  All were distant distractions from the driving urge to get to the bottom of Rachel Spritzer’s apartment complex. Literally.

  Stephen decided then that he would cancel the rest of his plans for the day and apply his energy to one end and one end only: getting at that safe.

  He started the engine and angled for La Brea.

  A REALTOR named . . .” Claude turned to Lars. “

  “Stephen Friedman,” Lars said.

  “Stephen Friedman. Don’t worry, he won’t be back.”

  “He was inside?”

  “Yes. Up here, in fact. He claimed to have a client willing to pay a million dollars for the property.”

  “How did he get in? I said no one enters. Is that too complicated for you?” Roth wanted to hit one of them. Not because the man had come in, but because Claude and Lars had broken his trust. He immediately set the impulse aside.

  “He said the front door was open,” Claude said. “I can promise you, he won’t be back.”

  On second thought, reprisal of some kind was in order. And the appearance of the Realtor confirmed that the game was in full swing.

  Could it be the Jew?

  He had to play the game perfectly now. One slip and all would be lost.

  “If anyone else enters, kill them. We have too much riding on this to risk exposure.”

  “Killing a Realtor will draw attention,” Lars said.

  “Not the Realtor. Kill anyone else. The Realtor, bring to me.”

  Roth turned away and walked to the living room. He withdrew a white handkerchief and dabbed at the sweat that had gathered on his forehead. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so terrified over the prospect of failure.

  The Stones were here. They called out to him. But also, more than mere fortune. With calculating, deliberate moves, he would finish what Gerhard had started in Toruń.

  “We have to move quickly. Start in the kitchen. I want every drawer emptied of every spoon and fork.” He faced Claude and Lars, who waited with folded arms. “Every word she wrote, no matter how insignificant it seems, comes to me.” He looked around at the remaining artwork and sniffed at the air. “They’re here, I can smell them. Can you smell them?”

  They exchanged glances. Fools, pawns, oblivious to the game. “I can smell Jew,” Claude said, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.

  Roth ignored the bourgeois response and glanced out the window. He’d expected more activity around the building. The wench had possessed one of the Stones of David, for heaven’s sake. He’d half-expected the museum to be out here with a wrecking ball, searching for the others. Their assumption that someone who’d gladly donated her entire estate would not cunningly hide a greater fortune betrayed them for the fools they were. They’d picked through the apartment and removed a number of valuables but conducted no thorough search. Like most men, they were psychically impaired.

  All the better for him.

  He stripped off the black silk jacket. His shirt was also silk. Black silk. He loved the way it felt on his skin, smooth and slick. He draped the jacket over a chair. They would blockade the entry door, bring in only food and what tools they needed, and live on the third floor while they worked.

  “Take off your jackets,” he said.

  Claude and Lars stripped down to white undershirts.

  “Place your guns on the table where we can get to them. Just as a precaution.”

  They did so.

  “What about the sunroom?” Lars asked. The man’s gray eyes had always fascinated Roth. You could look in his eyes and guess that he was ruthless, but at other times those eyes seemed as innocent as a child’s.

  “I will work in the sunroom,” Roth said. Rachel Spritzer’s own private museum had been a delightful surprise. The pictures excited Roth, gave him the unexpected thrill of reliving his formative years.

  He turned and headed for the master bedroom.

  13

  Torun

  May 25, 1944

  EVEN WITH DOUBLE RATIONS OF THE BROTH AND BREAD, MARTHA didn’t know how her baby would survive another two months. She and Ruth had both lost weight in their arms and legs—everywhere but in their bellies, which had grown slowly to show the life curled up within.

  Prisoners came and went, most bearing long expressions of desperation and hopelessness. News of the outside world filtered in with the new arrivals, but separating the rumors from the truth was nearly impossible.

  Warplanes flew high above, presumably on bombing runs to the south. Rumors of the Russians advancing with their allies, advancing to crush the Germans, rippled through the camp but provided little hope. Here in Toruń, such possibilities could not rise above the resignation of five thousand women plodding on dry mud, clinging to a life few were sure they wanted anymore.

  They said the Germans were gathering all the Hungarian Jews i
n the camp at Kistarcsa, outside Budapest, but Martha could hardly remember what her homeland looked like, much less cry over what was happening in the bleak landscape of her distant memory. The exceptions were her sister, Katcha, and Antonette, her mother. She pressed every prisoner from the south for news of the two women, but no one had any. How could they? Trainloads of Jews shuttled here and there, and they were supposed to remember a face or a name among them all?

  Martha stood outside the barracks and stared at the gray sky. Heavy clouds stretched from horizon to horizon, dark like the mud under her feet. To her right, the gate to Toruń, where she’d seen eighteen women hanged with bags over their heads over the past month, stood exposed to the gathering storm. To her left, the commandant’s house rose like a monument painted red with the blood of his victims.

  Rebecca was the first she’d seen hanging from the gate, but always, every two days, or three at most, the camp awoke to another body, swinging like a sack of rocks. It wasn’t enough for Braun to kill the women. He insisted on this inconceivable torture before the slaughter, of dining them and God only knew what else. The wails of some victims cut through the camp at midnight. But the cries would always end abruptly, cut off by the sudden snap of the noose.

  Martha heard movement behind her. She turned to see Ruth walking toward her from the barracks, smiling. No other woman in the compound could smile as much as the young mother-to-be from Slovakia. Unfortunately, her optimism was lost on most of the others. At times even Martha felt a hint of contempt, perhaps a bit of jealousy as well. Ruth’s talk of passion and joy sometimes struck Martha as offensive in this place of death.

  Ruth slipped her arm around Martha’s and pulled her close. “It’s getting warmer,” she said. “Summer will be here soon.”

  On the other hand, Ruth exhibited an unrelenting need for companionship. Since their meeting on the train, she had been more like a sister to Martha than a friend. When they stood side by side like this, as they often did before the evening roll call, Martha felt more alive, and more hopeful, than at any other time during the day.