by Ted Dekker
Her heart hammered. “David?”
“Rachel will stay. So will your son.”
If he’d said that David was going, she might have flown at him. The Russians could break through any week and liberate the camp—surely Braun knew his days as a god were numbered. By the haggard look on his face, he did know.
“Follow me,” he said and turned for the stairs.
Martha checked Esther, saw that she was still sleeping, and hurried up the stairs after the commandant. He stood at the picture window overlooking the winter-locked camp. Long lines of prisoners filed through the windblown snow toward the front gate. The wind chill had to be well below zero.
“How far are they going?” Martha asked.
Braun sighed. “Seventy kilometers. Let’s put it this way: I am extending your life by making you stay.”
The women weren’t dressed for a one-kilometer march through the snow, much less seventy. They walked proudly, as if to their freedom, but half of them didn’t even have coats or proper shoes. Martha doubted that this was Braun’s idea, but it would have fitted his methods perfectly. Give them hope, make them think the day of their deliverance had finally arrived, then march them to their deaths.
The door to her old barracks suddenly opened, and out came a troop of women led by Golda. Golda! Martha stepped closer to the window and searched for Rachel’s face. She would be the one holding a bundle, her little David. Others whom she recognized followed.
“It would have been easier to send them all to Auschwitz last month,” Braun said bitterly. “I told them that. They are too concerned with covering their tracks. Now even Major Hoppe will be leaving. And who stays behind to cover their backsides?”
The last woman spilled from Martha’s old barracks—no Rachel.
“It’s inhuman,” Martha spat. “For such a proud race, don’t the Germans even know how to surrender with honor?” Her words surprised her. It was a bold accusation, something Ruth would say.
Braun only shrugged into his coat and opened the door to a blistering wind. The door slammed shut.
Where would they keep the ones who stayed behind? Maybe the commandant would allow her to see David. Maybe even to care for him!
Martha stared, enraged, at the lines of women marching steadily from the camp. But David was still alive. Esther was sleeping peacefully in the basement. They were her concern. For their sakes and for Ruth’s, she couldn’t allow herself to do anything stupid in her grief over these other women. Grief was useless anyway. Just because she had a warm bed and plenty of food while the rest marched to their deaths didn’t mean she had the power to change any of it. She would put what little power she had into protecting the hope of David and Esther.
She turned from the window, ran down the stairs, and was about to enter her room when she noticed that the padlock to Braun’s vault lay open.
Open? He never left the lock unlatched! She glanced into her room, saw that the baby hadn’t moved, and stood frozen by indecision. Silence filled the house, empty except for her and Esther. Outside, five thousand women blindly marched to their deaths. What kind of courage would it take for her to step into this room and see what the commandant had hidden for so long?
In the distance, a large gun boomed like thunder.
Martha walked quickly to the door, unlatched the lock, and shoved the door open before she could stop herself. The room was dark. If Braun caught her, she would pay a dreadful price.
She found the light switch and eased it up. Twin incandescent bulbs popped to life, baring a sight that made no sense to her at first. She saw the paintings first—a dozen, maybe two—stacked against one wall. Degas, Cézanne, and Renoir—she recognized them from her father’s art books. A fortune. Behind her, the house slept on.
She stepped in and glanced around. To her left stood a writing desk with neat stacks of passports, ledgers, a few books, a typewriter, and a quill pen.
The floor was littered with piles of artifacts. A suit of armor that looked very old, with a large shield and sword, the type she imagined a gladiator might wear. There were piles of china and more paintings and spears and several chests. Shelves lined two of the walls, and on the shelves, carefully sorted relics, gold and silver and bronze. An entire wall of Jewish artifacts.
Museum pieces. Spoils of war! Martha clamped her mouth shut and swallowed. Such wealth! Braun had been busy before his assignment to Toruń.
She stepped up to a shelf and lifted a gold candlestick. If she wasn’t mistaken, this very piece came from a collection she’d seen in Hungary, although she couldn’t remember which. How was that possible? Had he been in Hungary before coming here?
She caught sight of a small, very old mahogany box, perhaps thirty centimeters square, beside the candlestick. She found it familiar but couldn’t say why. She set down the candlestick and lifted the lid. Five golden spheres lay embedded in purple velvet. They varied in size and shape, each a few centimeters in diameter, flat like river-washed stones. Each had a six-pointed star stamped on its surface.
Martha’s heart nearly seized in her chest. She knew these! They were the Stones of David! Her father had known the collector, who had secured these very stones just before the war—he’d taken Martha to see them several years ago. Pure gold gilded to the five stones David had chosen to slay Goliath, they said. Over the course of history they’d gone missing for hundreds of years at a time.
She reached out and picked one of them up between her thumb and forefinger. This one Stone in her hand was worth many millions of forints, pounds, dollars—take your pick. The entire collection was worth more than her father’s entire estate, he’d told her.
What if she were to slip it into her pocket? Not the entire collection, of course, just the one Stone. With all the relics in this room, Braun surely didn’t inspect this box often. He might never notice.
She cupped her left hand around her right to steady it. On the other hand, these five Stones could be the most valuable artifacts in the entire collection. For all she knew, Braun inspected them every day.
She set the stone back in its velvet housing, stepped back, and gazed around, pulse throbbing. A treasure trove worth hundreds of millions. She lifted the lid to one of the trunks. Brilliant jewels. Ancient gold coins. How many museums had he raided for these? And how many of these had been confiscated from Jews? She stared at a diamond necklace with large rubies displayed in a glass case. It alone might be worth several million. And the coins?
Martha took a deep breath and let it out slowly. What do you think you’ll do? Pack all of this in a purse, grab the babies, climb over the fence, and hike to the Baltic Sea?
She closed the box that held the Stones of David.
But one small Stone . . . What if she were to find a way to keep it in Jewish hands? The reward alone could take care of the children for a very long time.
David and Esther were the true Stones of David. Israel. The seed of Abraham. Ironic that one of the most valuable icons in Jewish history should now be in the hands of their enemy.
She was about to turn when she saw a leather book behind the box. She wasn’t sure what made her pick it up and open it. It was a journal, and it contained the names of hundreds of women.
Slowly the meaning of this book came to her. What she held in her hands was a trophy of Gerhard Braun’s serial killings. She wanted to throw up.
This was a record of his red-scarf game. Only it wasn’t a game. It was a ritual, very different from the mass murders at other camps.
Martha replaced the journal, slipped from the vault, set the latch back exactly as she’d found it, and tiptoed to her room.
She decided then that, at the right time, she would take the journal.
And maybe one of the Stones.
33
Torun
February 28, 1945
Night
THE WAR WAS COMING TO AN END. YOUNG ROTH BRAUN KNEW that, even though the radio announcers insisted it wasn’t. He knew it because he’d hear
d father talking about it. The Russians were coming, Gerhard said.
Roth had been to Toruńsix times since he’d first seen the woman hanging from the gate. If his mother had been more cooperative, he would have gone at least ten or twelve times, but she insisted that his spending time at a labor camp, away from her, was too risky. But with bombs falling on Berlin, her perspective changed.
Each visit had lasted a week. Once ten days, when the supply routes had been clogged by a bomb. Before each visit, he’d spend a month dreaming of what his days at the camp would be like. There were no other boys. No games, nothing to do really, except to watch the camp and dream about what Father did to the women.
There was nothing else in the world he wanted more than to serve the power, and thereby gain more power.
The Jew servant, Martha, lived in the basement with the baby, Esther, and Roth was on his third visit when he first began to think about killing the baby.
He grew more powerful every time Father let him drink the blood and chant the oaths late at night. Gerhard spoke until dawn about how many leaders in the Third Reich secretly followed Adolf Hitler in his fascination with the occult. But it was a privileged membership, a secret society, reserved for the superior even among Germans.
Roth decided on his third visit that he would be one of those superior people. He could hardly think of anything else. He was bursting at the seams to reveal his plans to his friends in Berlin, despite his promise not to tell.
He finally broke down one afternoon and told Hanz that he drank the blood of Jews when he visited the labor camp where his father was the commandant. Hanz had laughed and Roth had beaten his face with his fist. When his hand began to hurt, he grabbed a rock and pounded the boy until he stopped moving.
That night, after lying awake for two hours, still exhilarated from beating Hanz, he decided he would definitely kill Martha’s baby. For one thing, she was just a Jew. For another thing, he was sure that there was more to Gerhard’s ritual than drinking blood. His father was actually responsible for killing the women. That was a big part of it.
Every night until he returned to Toruń, Roth tossed and turned, dreaming of how he would sacrifice the baby and drink her blood. The fact that Father had allowed the child to live in his house made no sense to him.
Father had told him how he’d selected Martha and her baby to be hanged, and how Ruth had taken her place. But in Roth’s mind, Martha had been chosen to die. If she lived, she would be the only Jew chosen by Gerhard to actually survive.
The only Jew to outwit his father. To take back all the power that he’d harvested all these years. This one woman and her child could be the undoing of his father. And, by extension, of Roth.
He despised Martha. She was a Jew—even without the scarf, why would Father allow her to live? He had a weak spot for the baby, and Roth thought it was because Gerhard had had a weak spot for her mother— Ruth.
By killing the baby, Roth would gain power and save his father from his own weakness.
On his fourth visit, he plotted and watched and waited for the opportunity. If his father learned of his plans, he would probably forbid it, saying that he was too young. If he just did it, he was sure Gerhard would see the wisdom of it and praise him.
The closest he got to killing the baby on that visit was when he sneaked down the hall late one night and peeked into the Jew’s room. But the servant was asleep with the baby in her arms—he would never be able to take it without waking her. He’d returned to Berlin determined to rethink his strategy.
Three weeks later he returned to Toruń. Three nights had passed and he couldn’t wait any longer. He would either kill the baby tonight or be caught trying. Roth was agitated; Gerhard hadn’t brought a woman up to the house for three nights.
At dinner, he asked his father why.
“Tomorrow night,” Gerhard said. He’d nearly finished a whole bottle of wine. “You have to learn to pace yourself. Control, boy. Control.
Roth thought about that.
“If I wanted to show some of my power, would you let me?”
His father seemed confused by the question. “How?”
“Why can’t I have a servant?”
“Well . . . you can, boy.”
“Then I want Martha,” he said.
“No, not Martha. She has a debt to pay to me.”
“What better way to show her your power than making her obey your son?”
Gerhard laughed. “Well, then, since you asked, Martha can be your servant tomorrow.”
“Tonight,” Roth said.
“Tonight? What can she do for you tonight?”
“Cut some wood. It’s cold, and I would like a fire.”
Gerhard seemed amused. “So tonight it is, then! She’s in the kitchen; call her out.”
“Not now. Later, when she’s already settled for the night. That will show who the boss is.”
His father grinned. “I can see you will make a very good soldier.”
Roth waited two hours. His father had drunk himself into a warm stupor in his bedroom, and the house was quiet. He told Father that he would have his fire now. Gerhard laughed and waved him on.
The stairs creaked as he descended into the basement where Martha had gone to bed for the night. He stopped in front of her room and lifted his fist. Should he knock?
The thrill of what he was about to do shook his body. He knew why, of course. He was feeling the power of true hope. The kind of desire that had made Lucifer denounce God. He had the power of Satan in him because he’d stolen the hope of Father’s Jews with him. It really did work, just as Gerhard had said.
He knocked, because it seemed like the right thing to do.
The door opened a few seconds later, and Martha stared at him, dressed in a dirty night dress.
“I am cold, and I want a fire,” he said. “Go outside and chop some firewood and build me a fire.”
She stared at him, confused.
“You have to obey me. I am your master.”
“You’re just a boy. It’s not very cold. It’s already late.”
“If you question me, then my father will take your baby away from you. I have his authority now.”
She looked too shocked to react, and Roth felt the thrill of his power over her. Martha started to say something but thought better of it. She grabbed the tattered German coat Gerhard had given her, stepped into the hall, and pulled the door closed behind her.
Roth marched up the stairs ahead of her. He didn’t want to give her any ideas. It was bad enough that his hands were shaking like leaves in anticipation already. He put them in his pockets, hoping she hadn’t noticed. The pocketknife he’d sharpened felt cold against his fingers.
As soon as he heard the back door close, Roth tiptoed back down the stairs. He pushed the door to Martha’s room open.
The baby lay on the bed, like a lump of laundry.
He could hear her breathing. He could hear himself breathing. The room was nearly dark. Quiet. Peaceful. In a way he couldn’t explain, he felt sorry for the baby.
Standing there in the doorway, Roth was suddenly horrified. Could he really kill a baby? What kind of power did that require, really?
It didn’t matter. He’d dreamed of this moment and told himself that he’d probably be scared. But it was the power of Lucifer in him that would overpower the weakness he felt.
Roth stepped toward the bed.
He couldn’t hear the sound of wood chopping outside, probably because he was in the basement. But he had to hurry.
He stepped to the bed and pulled the wool cover down. The baby lay on her side, facing the wall, breathing steadily.
Roth pulled out the pocketknife and pried the blade out.
There was great power in this baby’s life. Esther and others like her were the hope of the Jews. And as Gerhard said, the greatest power in the universe is hope. Without it, no one could become like God.
Killing the baby was Satan’s hope.
Saving the
baby was God’s hope.
In the end, hope was the fuel that empowered both sides, and right now Lucifer was winning.
This was the war.
But standing over the child, Roth couldn’t ignore the fact that his heart was hammering with more than hope. What if she cried out? What if he couldn’t cut her skin with the blade? Or what if he became too frightened to actually do it?
Give me strength.
He immediately felt a surge of confidence. Father never should have let the child live in the first place. Gerhard should have killed Ruth and Martha and both of the children. Now Roth would finish the job, or at least this part of the job.
He lifted the baby’s small wrist and turned it so that he could cut the veins. A terrible shaking overtook Roth’s body. He suddenly felt like throwing up.
But he knew that this was only his weakness. It would pass.
He rested the blade against the baby’s wrists and whispered another prayer.
Please give me strength to become like you.
“What are you doing?”
Roth whipped around at the sound of the servant’s voice. Martha stood in the doorway, eyes white in the dim light. Roth’s heart bolted into his throat.
“What are you doing?” Her voice was higher. Louder.
Roth couldn’t move.
Martha saw the knife in his hand. She screamed and flew at him like a ghost. Her voice was so loud, so piercing, that Roth thought she might actually be a ghost.
He jumped to the side at the last moment. Her fist beat on his shoulder, but she turned her attention to the baby and scooped it up in her arms.
Cut them! Cut them both now, while her attention is on the baby!
Roth swung his knife at Martha’s head. It stuck her arm, but he couldn’t tell if he’d cut her. He had to go for her throat. Or the baby’s . . .
“What is this?”
Father loomed in the doorway, scowling. He glanced from Roth, who stood with the knife, ready to strike again, and the Jew, who sheltered the baby.
“What is going on?”
“I’m killing the baby, Father.”
Silence filled the room. The Jew began to sob softly.
