Obsessed

by Ted Dekker

  SHE HEARD MOANING AND WHISPERS AND THE SOUND OF pattering feet, but these were common fragments in many of Martha’s dreams. But when whispers hissed into her left ear and hands began to jerk her body, she knew this was no dream.

  “Martha! Ruth’s giving birth; wake up! Hurry, hurry, wake up!”

  She bolted up in the darkness, rolled out of bed, and began to run before her feet hit the floor. “Ruth?”

  Three steps along, she realized she was running the wrong way. She spun.

  Ruth lay in her bed, knees bent, moaning softly. Half a dozen women were huddled around her.

  “Water!” Golda stood up and barked the order. “Bring a bucket from the showers!”

  Martha slid up close to Rachel and knelt by Ruth’s head.

  “Give Ruth room,” Golda bossed. “Stand back, some of you. Let her breathe, for heaven’s sake. Who’s getting water?”

  “I am,” someone said. The door banged behind the voice as someone ran to the showers for water.

  “And blankets. Someone else, hurry.”

  “Martha!” Ruth suddenly buckled with a spasm. “The pain . . . Martha!”

  Martha grabbed Ruth’s hand. “It’s okay, dear. I’m right here. Breathe. Breathe.”

  Ruth rolled her eyes and looked at Martha. The early morning moon shone through the windows and gently reflected the sweat glistening on her face.

  “Martha.” She smiled. “Martha.”

  “Shh, shh. Save your strength.” She turned to Golda. “We need more light.”

  Normally, light was prohibited. Golda hesitated, then said, “Get some candles, Rachel.” Rachel ran for three small candles they saved for special occasions. This indeed qualified. Golda shooed the women away from the bunk. “Stand back. You’d think none of you had ever seen a woman give birth before. And keep yourselves quiet, or the guards will hear.”

  “Let the guards hear,” Martha said. “What do they expect, a nice calm Sabbath affair?”

  “No, but they may want to take her to the clinic. Believe me, we don’t want her to give birth in the clinic.”

  Martha hadn’t considered the possibility that the camp doctor would not share the commandant’s feelings about Ruth giving birth. He could easily kill the child and claim it was dead at birth!

  “Okay, then we have to keep quiet,” she said.

  “We are quiet,” Rachel objected. “But she’s in pain; you can’t just muzzle—”

  “Shut up, all of you!” Ruth gasped.

  They stared at her, silenced. The scene was both terrifying and wonderful at the same moment, Martha thought. She herself would soon be in this position, lying on her back begging God for mercy.

  The women went to work like a flock of hens intent on the coop’s only chick. Rachel lit the candles. Golda slid blankets under Ruth. Martha rubbed Ruth’s back and spoke softly in her ear. They set the bucket of water at the foot of the bed.

  Some of the others spoke in hushed tones or watched from a distance. But even the most jaded women could not completely ignore the bustle about Ruth’s bunk.

  A baby was being born. New life was coming into the world.

  Here, perhaps more than any other place on earth, the wonder of it felt monumental. Martha knew that some of the women despised her and Ruth because the commandant had favored them. Or because they intended to bring their babies into this horrible war. Some even murmured that an abortion, however crude, would be better than a delivery.

  For three months, Ruth had talked to them about joy and passion, scolding them for their long faces as she rubbed her belly. She’d upset more than one woman along the way, but she’d lightened the hearts of many others. There was not one woman in the barracks who didn’t have some stake in this baby.

  The women piled up on the nearby bunks and peered at the scene as if it were a theatrical play unfolding before their eyes. An hour later, well after Ruth’s water had saturated the blankets, Martha ran through the barracks for dry ones. She saw that only one woman remained in her bunk at the far end of the barracks—Latvina, a twenty-year-old from Russia who’d been beaten the day before for spilling a bucket of mud in the brick factory.

  “Is she having the baby?” Latvina asked.

  Martha spun back. “Yes!”

  “It’s . . . alive?”

  The simple question frightened her. “I think so. Lie down and get your rest; we’ll bring the baby to you later.” Then she ran for the blankets, suddenly panicked for not being at Ruth’s side. Why hadn’t she let someone else get the blankets?

  “Blankets!” She held them over her head.

  “Let her through!” Golda barked. “Let Martha through!”

  The women parted like the Red Sea, and Martha edged through the narrow aisle, brushing half of them with her own pregnant belly. She gave Rachel the blankets and knelt beside the bed.

  Tears ran down Ruth’s face, and Martha grabbed her elbow in alarm. “Ruth? Ruth, what’s happening?”

  Ruth opened her eyes and smiled through her tears. “I’m having a baby, Martha.” She gripped her belly with both hands and cried it out, an impossible blending of pain and gratitude. “I . . . am having . . . a baby!”

  “A baby.” Martha put her hand on top of Ruth’s and smiled with relief. “Yes, you are having a baby.” She faced the others, flooded with joy. “She is having a baby,” she cried through a sudden burst of laughter.

  Several dozen women stared at her, some smiling wide, others lost in their own thoughts.

  Ruth’s body began to quiver, and Martha turned back. Her friend’s mouth was open in silent agony. And then it wasn’t silent at all. She began to scream, long and loud. Loud enough for the whole camp to hear.

  The final push lasted only thirty seconds, with Golda and Rachel easing the new life into the world, and Ruth wringing Martha’s hands until they were white.

  It happened almost unexpectedly. First there was only Ruth, screaming on the bed. And then there was Ruth and a baby, cradled in Rachel’s arms, covered in fluid.

  The room fell silent under the gaze of a hundred women stretching for a clear view of the birth. Then one question cut through the silence, braved by someone too far away to see. Latvina.

  “Is it alive?”

  As if in answer, the baby’s cry sliced through the room.

  Pandemonium swept the barracks, dozens of voices piled on top of each other.

  “It’s a girl!” Rachel announced, working quickly. She wiped away most of the fluid and handed the child to Martha, who carefully laid her in her mother’s waiting arms.

  Ruth was crying again, this time with loving eyes on the new life in her arms. She held the baby tenderly and began to shake with sobs.

  Martha wept with her, unable to speak. Behind them, the women had quieted to sniffles and soft sobs. The barracks was held captive to the emotion bound up in the miracle of this new life. For a few minutes, no one spoke.

  “Do you have a name?” Rachel asked.

  Ruth caught her breath, wiped her eyes, and drew a finger down the tiny girl’s cheek. “Her name will be Esther. She—”

  The name passed through the room on the lips of the women, covering Ruth’s next words.

  “Hush!” Golda ordered. “Please, have some respect.”

  The women grew quiet.

  “What is it, Ruth?” Golda asked.

  “Let every woman here look at my child and see that there is hope. She is a star in the sky, pointing the way.” She started to cry again, but stopped herself. “What price can you place on this treasure? Esther is the hope of our people. The seed of Israel.”

  A young woman pushed her way through the others. Latvina.

  “May I hold her?”

  Golda held out her hand. “This is no time—”

  “No, it’s okay,” Ruth said.

  Latvina stepped forward and gingerly lifted the child. She smiled, kissed little Esther on the forehead, and began to sing a soft lullaby in Russian. This young woman who perhaps w
ondered if she would ever complete her womanhood by bearing a child held tiny Esther as if she were the mother herself.

  Then another woman, Margaret, wanted to hold her, and Ruth again overturned Golda’s objection. Margaret held the child delicately. She’d lost her two-year-old daughter at Auschwitz before being shipped here to work. A surreal calm settled on the barracks in the dim glow of first light. The candles flickered silently as the six or seven women closest to Ruth took turns holding the baby. Hushed tones of awe and wonder rippled through the onlookers. Quiet tears of hope and love.

  Martha silently questioned the wisdom of exposing the child to so many so soon, but one look at Ruth’s beaming face, and she knew it was the right thing. Allowing these women to hold this moving, breathing hope was life-giving. Its own kind of birth.

  The baby came to Golda, who hesitated at first but then reluctantly took the child. The woman stared into Esther’s tiny, wrinkled face. Her own face slowly knotted, and a tear made its way down her right cheek. “Hope,” she whispered, and kissed the baby on the head. “Ruth’s hope.”

  “Our hope,” Ruth said.

  Golda stepped forward and passed Esther into Martha’s arms. “Israel’s hope.”

  19

  Los Angeles

  July 21, 1973

  Saturday Morning

  STEPHEN AWOKE TO A HOT SHAFT OF SUNLIGHT ON HIS RIGHT cheek. A warm, musty-smelling towel licked his cheek. For a moment, nothing else registered except this most peculiar sensation and the ache in his neck.

  The dog. It had to be the dog.

  He pushed himself to his elbow and stared into the mug of Brandy, who stood over him grinning wide and wagging her tail. Behind the dog stood Melissa, now clad in a halter top and gauchos. Beside her were two men, both dressed in corduroys and army jackets. Hippies.

  “Welcome to the world of the living, Mr. Groovy,” Melissa said.

  The man on her left reminded Stephen of Shaggy from the Scooby Doo cartoon, only with longer hair. The other was squatty with a touch of Asian in his face. All three looked at him as if he were a specimen to be studied, but he doubted this motley crew would threaten a flea.

  “Stephen,” he said. “My name’s Stephen.”

  “Excuse me. Stephen. I thought I told you this building belongs to us.”

  Stephen looked around. He was lying on what had once apparently been carpet, worn thin and so packed with dirt that it now resembled concrete. Portions of an old wall clung to steel supporting posts, but someone had taken an ax or a chain saw to most of the rest. He could see straight through the building to an empty elevator shaft thirty yards away. A pile of twenty or thirty old tires leaned against one wall. The room smelled like mud.

  He stood unsteadily, trying to remember why he hadn’t gone home. Then he remembered. He turned to the window, ignoring the pain in his neck. The morning sunlight bathed Rachel’s building across the street. The night’s events crowded his mind.

  “Hey, dude. Did you hear the lady? We’re not offering a lease on this spot, dig?”

  He turned back and faced Shaggy. “I was just resting.”

  “You running?”

  “No.”

  “He’s interested in Rachel Spritzer’s building,” Melissa said.

  The gangly man looked out the window. “That so?” He walked up and peered across the street. “Why’s that?”

  “I’m a Realtor,” Stephen said.

  “That so? And why would a Realtor sleep in a dump like this, watching a building that’s already sold?”

  “Why would an intelligent man like yourself take leave of his senses and claim to own a building like this?” Stephen asked.

  The man’s eyebrow arched. He grinned. “What makes you think I’m intelligent?”

  Stephen hesitated. “Your choice of jacket?”

  Melissa chuckled.

  The gangly man winked. “We got us a Realtor with spunk, dudes.” He stuck out his hand. “Name’s Sweeney.”

  Stephen shook the hand. “Nice to know you, Sweeney.”

  “You’ve met Melissa, and that’s Brian. And for the record, intelligence can be overrated. I should know. I not only attended UCLA, I graduated with honors. Believe it or not, under this skin I’m really an architect, although I haven’t actually worked as one in the fake world. Melissa’s old man runs a law firm downtown, and Brian’s just hanging with us for the day.”

  He walked back to his friends, crossed his arms, and turned around. “So what are you really doing here?”

  Stephen wasn’t sure he knew. He’d broken into the apartment last night and come out empty-handed. But he had come out. And he knew some things now. He was sure that Braun knew about the Stones of David. Nothing else explained his intense and unreasonable interest in the building. He was also quite sure that Braun didn’t know about the safe.

  And he was sure the safe wasn’t empty.

  “I’m not sure,” he said.

  They held stares.

  “Why are you here?” Stephen asked. “You throw it all away?”

  “No, my man. I’m finding what I couldn’t find in the books. Life, love, and the pursuit of happiness. The second bohemian revolution.”

  “Sounds interesting.” Brandy was sniffing through a pile of wood ten feet away. Stephen suddenly felt tightness in his chest, and he wasn’t sure why. He looked back out the window.

  “It has its downsides,” Sweeney said, “but in the end, we’re all just children chasing after the rainbow.”

  “Maybe that’s why I’m here, then,” Stephen said. “Chasing the rainbow.”

  “Looks like some idiot tried to break into Rachel’s building last night. Cut a hole in the garage. You know anything about that?”

  Stephen blinked. “You’re kidding. Cut a hole?”

  “That’s what it looks like. Cutting torch or something.”

  “How stupid is that?”

  “Definitely not the intelligent way to approach life’s problems. Some druggies will try anything for a fix.”

  “Idiots,” Stephen said.

  “What do you say, kids? Should we let Mr. Groovy hang?”

  Melissa winked at Stephen. “Sure. Why not?”

  Brian just shrugged.

  Sweeney spread his hands. “There you go. You can hang. But don’t tell anyone about this place—it’s quiet and far enough out of the main drag to stay that way. We on?”

  “Sure.”

  “Gotta split.”

  Stephen watched them go. Brandy eyed him cockeyed for a few seconds. “Hey, Brandy,” he whispered.

  The dog trotted over to him and licked his hand eagerly.

  Melissa whistled. “Come on, puppy. Let’s leave him in peace.”

  “No—”

  The dog galloped for the hippies, stopped at the stairs for one last look, and then disappeared.

  Stephen stared at the stairwell until the sound of their footsteps faded. The door slammed far below. Gone. He was alone in the world—even the dog had left him again.

  He sighed and faced the window once more. The image of the tin box with Ruth’s picture, which he was now thinking of as Esther’s picture, loomed in his mind. Like mother, like daughter. The woman he’d been destined for.

  He stared at the sunroom across the street, transfixed by the drawn curtains, wondering what Roth Braun was doing in secret over there.

  Who are you, Esther?

  The perplexing obsession that had taken him out of his game yesterday taunted him again. Now, in retrospect, it felt rather childish. He really had to get back to being normal. The thought of trying to explain why he’d spent the night in an abandoned building made him cringe.

  But with each passing second, Rachel Spritzer’s apartment continued to draw him, like a wraith beckoning a man to his appointed death; like a siren seducing a fool to his destruction.

  Only it wasn’t a wraith or a siren; it was a tin box with a picture of Esther. Stephen sat heavily against the wall.

  That and
the Stones of David, which, incidentally, were worth millions.

  He closed his eyes and swallowed. Maybe he had gone over the edge last night, but he couldn’t just dismiss his connection to the Stones of David.

  His mind drifted. If he was right, no one knew how valuable that safe really was. He was faced with the kind of opportunity that presented itself to one lucky soul maybe once every century. Like stumbling onto a lottery ticket worth ten million dollars. Only this was far more significant. How far to the Spritzer building? Thirty yards. Then straight down about another thirty yards in the corner of the boiler room.

  He should’ve grabbed the tin box last night. Stephen gritted his teeth. No, they would have found it on him. But he could have at least opened the box and stuffed its contents in his pockets, right? No, too risky.

  With any luck, he’d stalled Braun with the bit about the upper floors. How long before the creep made his way into the basement? Then again, even if he did search the basement, there was no guarantee he would find the safe. If Stephen was lucky, he had a couple of days. Maybe three.

  Stephen stood slowly, determined to fight off waves of gloom. He looked around, dazed. The thought of going home to the rabbi made him queasy.

  A thought struck him. The picture of Ruth was still on his desk at Chaim’s house. He really should have brought it with him, really should get it and keep it with him. Besides the note from his mother, it was his only tangible link to his past. And perhaps to his future.

  He would go home, get that picture, and then decide on a reasonable course of action.

  Stephen turned and headed for the stairs. Maybe he could show the picture to Gerik. The old Jew knew everything about everybody from the war. But could he trust Gerik with more than the antique dealer already knew? Not a chance. He couldn’t trust anyone. Even if he could, he didn’t want to. This was solely his business. Besides, you trust one person with your once-in-a-lifetime, and it becomes someone else’s once-in-a-lifetime.

  On the other hand, what if the antique dealer actually knew Ruth? Or Esther? Unlikely, but possible. Stephen stepped up his pace to a jog.

  The Vega sat where he’d parked it. If anyone saw the haggard man climbing in, they might guess he was stealing it. Stephen eased the car into traffic. At least he hadn’t forgotten how to drive. How to comb his hair, perhaps, and how to sleep in his own bed, but out here on the streets he was incognito. On a mission. To do nothing more than retrieve a photograph from his own desk, true enough, but at least he was making progress again.